sagecat

18 writer

[sgecat]

☀️ sage's smudge tray ☀️

˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚❣⃛☀️☆ﾟ.･｡ﾟ バター ☆ﾟ.･｡ﾟ☀️❣⃛˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡˚

leave your worries in the smoke... ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ she/her, 18, clairvoyant

a girl with a writing obsession. currently taking requests.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ M.LIST

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ RULES

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ LATEST POST

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ STUDIO SOULMATES ~ WATTPAD

do not copy, translate, plagarize, or input any of my work into AI.

sage loves you...

[sgecat]

☀️ STUDIO SOULMATES

pairing: Michael jackson x OC

era: off the wall

summary: growing up next door to the Jacksons wasn’t normal. but to Jade Carter, Michael always felt like home:

content: fluff, childhood friends to lovers, next door neighbors.

a/n: this is a snippet from my prologue of STUDIO SOULMATES on Wattpad! click here to continue reading!

JADE CARTER

15 YEARS OLD

MARCH 16th, 1975

I’ve lived on Hayvenhurst Avenue my whole life.

Long before the gates went up.

Long before tour buses started slowing down in front of the Jacksons' house.

Long before the quiet boy moving in next door was going to be a superstar, along with his brothers.

Back then, it was just a neighborhood. With warm California sidewalks, jacaranda petals stuck to car windshields. I actually had kids to play with. Although they're still here, I've become accustomed to just watching.

Watching as they raced each other on bikes until the street lights came on.

They didn't pay me much mind anymore. I was just the girl with the camera.

A secondhand Pentax, scratches on the body, tape on the strap — but it was mine, and I took pictures of everything. The sky turning pink over the San Fernando Valley was beautiful. The driveway behind our estate was gorgeous, with flowers intertwined with the cracked pavement, the same flowers that my mother's hands braided into my hair on warm spring days like this.

And sometimes, I would take pictures of Michael. But not as the performer in his cute costumes, or the voice I would constantly hear on the radio.

Just the boy who lived behind the tall hedges and the iron gate. He always knocked on my window when he got home from rehearsals at midnight, smelling like sweat and stage lights, and whatever cologne Mrs. Jackson had sprayed on him before he left.

I hated that he was always busy, always leaving, always somewhere else.

Detroit

New York

Las Vegas

Jamaica — God, places I can't even imagine.

But somehow, he always found time for me. Like today.

I was sitting on the curb in front of my house, camera in my lap, waiting for the sun to hit the flower in front of me just right. But then I heard the gate open.

"You gon' break that camera if you stare at it any harder."

I didn't even have to turn around to recognize that voice. I knew it better than my own heartbeat.

"Easy for you to say, applehead. How was your trip?"

Kingston, Jamaica.

I saw him on the television, sharing the stage with Bob Marley and The Wailers. Their performance was amazing. Performing for about an hour and a half before the Wailers came on stage.

"Gosh, I wish you were there, J. It was beautiful. You would've loved the scenery."

He jogged over, his afro bouncing with each step, still in his work clothes. He dropped down beside me like he'd been running around all day — which he probably had. We sat there in silence for a bit, then he tapped the camera in my lap.

"You take any pictures while I was gone?"

I shrugged. "Maybe."

He tilted his head, giving me that soft crooked smile that never failed to warm my chest.

"You gon take one of me?"

"Man," I smack my teeth. "Aren't you tired of cameras in your face all the time? You hate it when people take your picture."

He looked down at his hands, then back at me.

"Not when it's you."

I paused, just a little, but I lifted the camera anyway.

"Alright. Hold still." He didn't. He never did. He laughed, turning his face toward the sun, and I snapped the photo right as the light hit his eyes.

Click.

I didn't know it then, but that picture would become the beginning of everything — the moment I realized I wasn't just documenting my childhood, but him.

The same boy who was always leaving.

The same boy who always came back.

The same boy who turned into the man I would spend the rest of my life with.

CONTINUE READING HERE

[sgecat]

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ PARTITION

pairing: michael jackson x reader

era: BAD

summary: as his girlfriend, you were always michael's date for events like these. it was also no coincidence when you two suspiciously left early during the 63rd Annual Academy Awards.

requested: yes

content: established relationship, teasing, slight exhibitionism, car sex, soft!dom michael, quickie in the limo, breeding kink, lmk if I missed anything, I'm too lazy

masterlist

ai statement

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years of red carpets, all kinds of award shows, lively after-parties. It became a tradition for the two of you to slip out early. A tradition written in stone.

Everyone in the industry knew it by now.

If Michael didn't have the opportunity to give a speech on stage, and he showed up with you on his arm, he'd be gone before the third commercial break.

And tonight was no different.

You felt his hand slide over the small of your back, thumb brushing absentminded circles as he moved you through the crowd of people. Paparazzi called out your name, begging to take photos of you and Michael. You wore a beautiful white gown, faux fur draped over your arms. Your jewelry alone was as expensive as today's rent.

Michael wore a flawless white suit, complementing yours, while also humble enough to prevent stealing your spotlight. You were his star after all. He couldn't dare to take his eyes off you, and he wanted the same applied to everyone else.

You two sat in the front row near the center of the stage, exchanging small smiles with the A-List celebrities who sat next to you. Small talk was never your thing; you were as reserved as Michael, but being in these events long enough helped you practice the meaningless conversation. God, you already wanted to go home, and you were only here for half an hour.

"You know..." he murmured, interrupting your dreadful monologue, leaning in so close his curls brushed your cheek. "I think we've been here long enough."

You snorted softly, as if he read your mind.

"Michael, we've been here for thirty minutes."

He grinned, that wicked grin that still could make your stomach flip. Even after all this time.

"Thirty minutes too long."

You gave him a look. "Baby, we can't leave early every single year. We're staying all the way through."

He raised a brow, chuckling at your statement. "Why not? We've been doin' it for fifteen."

You tried not to smile. "Not this year. They'll start calling you insatiable in the papers."

He gently squeezed your knee, whispering as the engineers prepared for the show. "You're actin' like you don't love it."

You didn't have a response to that, because you did. You loved the thrill of sneaking out just to have alone time with him, as if you two didn't have enough of that already. He leaned back in his seat, stretching his legs out like he owned the entire front row, his hand still warm on your thigh. He didn't even pretend to watch the stage — his eyes were entirely on you, tracing your profile. The way your dress fits you... God, the way the lights caught your skin. You almost didn't make it out of the house.

"You look... stupid beautiful tonight," he said softly.

You laughed, nudging him. "You are something else. You're not tired of me yet? You've been looking at the same face for... forever."

He tilted his head, giving you that slow, deliberate once-over that makes your breath catch. It took everything in you to compose yourself, especially with you two being in the front row. The way he looked at you was enough to get you hot inside, and he knew it. He adored the way you would squirm in your seat just by giving you a glance. "Not even close. Could never get tired of you, sweet thing."

He leaned in again, voice dropping to that low, teasing whisper he loved to use with you. It made you antsy; part of you wanted to push him away to ease your fluster.

"Tell me somethin'," he muttered. "If we left right now... would you miss the show?"

"God, Mike, we just got here." You giggle, finally pushing him away gently by his chest. "You couldn't wait until we got home?"

"That didn't answer my question." He smirked.

You raised a brow. "Would you?"

"Not even a little."

You shook your head, laughing under your breath. "I'm ignoring you."

That didn't stop him anyway. He brushed his nose against your temple, subtly, but softly and intimately in a way the cameras could catch your romance. He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand sliding up slightly to lace his fingers with yours.

He managed to restrain himself for an hour and a half before taking your hand.

That was two hours of constant teasing, subtle touches, and he even went as far as to ghost his hand over the swell of your ass. You could still feel it anyway.

This was one of the first times in fifteen years that he stayed through the entire duration of an award ceremony. The other exception was the infamous 1984 Grammys. But even then, he had no choice after setting the record of winning 8 Grammys in a single night.

The final award of the night was presented, and the closing music began to swell through the auditorium. He stood, pulling you up with him; his hand was firm around yours. He didn't even wait for the crowd to fully disperse, leading you swiftly through the backstage corridors. His pace was urgent.

"Michael — slow down! Jesus—"

He pushed open the door to his private limousine, guiding you inside.

Still a gentleman, I guess.

The door shut, sealing you in the quiet, plush interior. He turns to you, his smile teasing in the dim light. It makes you chuckle.

"Well... did you at least enjoy the show?" You ask, knowingly. Playfully.

"You know damn well I didn't care about the show." He moved closer to you, caging you against the seat, his hands framing your face. "All night. All I could think about was gettin' you out that dress."

His lips crashed into yours with a raw, pent-up need that he's been building up for hours. He broke the kiss, his breath heavy. "You looked so good. Smilin' at the cameras, you knew what you were doin'."

"Smiling??" You question, laughing at his confession. It really didn't take much for him.

He pulled back just enough to speak, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. "Smilin', laughin'. Every time you shifted in your seat when I talked so sweet in your ear," he groaned softly as he exposed the soft plush of your warm thighs. "You know exactly what you do to me, baby."

He leaned in, his lips tracing a hot path along your jawline, his hands beginning to gather the fabric of your dress. "Wait--" you moan softly, holding his shoulders to ease the never-ending attack on your skin. "Driver," you clear your throat. "C-Could you roll up the partition, please?"

The partition glides up silently, sealing you both in complete privacy. Michael lets out a low chuckle as his hands slide the straps of your dress down your shoulders. Your gown is now pooled around your waist as he leans back to look at you. Your panties are now on full display to him, soaked in sweet patterns, evidently from the events teasing.

"So pretty. You like when I talk dirty to you like that? In a room full of people?"

"Shut up," you pant. His hands slide the rest of the dress down, leaving you exposed to the cool air of the limousine. "You know this already."

His fingers trace the line of your white, lace bra, unclasping it with practiced ease, tossing it aside.

He lowers his head, his mouth finding your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he takes it into his mouth with a soft, sucking pull. He groans against your skin as you shudder beneath him, desperately trying to conceal your loud whimpers.

"S-So sensitive, Michael — calm down—"

Your pleas fell on deaf ears as his other hand slid down, slipping past the waistband of your panties. His fingers are warm as they find your clit. He lifts his head from your nipple, his eyes meeting yours. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you've been thinkin' about it too."

You can't help but let out a close-mouthed whine, the sight of Michael below you becoming all too much to bear. It was just so nasty.

He takes his fingers out of your panties, tasting your sweet arousal before kissing you. So deep and passionate, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

His hands are everywhere at once, sliding your panties down your legs and pushing his own slacks past his hips. The tiny space and the dim lighting became familiar between the two of you. There hasn't been one surface in this limousine where you both haven't made love with each other. The honeymoon phase never existed for you.

He positions himself at your entrance, pumping his dick once, twice, three times with a low groan. He could cum from this sight alone.

He chuckles at your small whimpers, slapping the tip on your puffy clit.

"Michael— enough with the teasing already. Please—" Your arousal grew painful, the one person with the ability to give you pleasurable satisfaction so close, yet so agonizingly far.

"You sound so pretty when you beg, baby. Could you do it some more? Just a little.." He leans down, his chest flushed against yours. The fabric of his white shirt rubbed against your hardened nipples as he kissed you ever so gently.

"I want you so bad, Michael, please. M-Miss you so much. I couldn't stop thinking about you, all— fuck— all night—"

He cuts you off by pushing inside of you with one deep stroke, filling you completely. A sharp, shared gasp fills the quiet space. The limousine moves through the city, the world outside a blur of lights, entirely separate from the private universe of skin slapping skin inside.

The limo started to smell entirely of perfume and sex. The shared sensation of each hard thrust made your breath ragged, driving you back against the soft leather seats.

God, he was digging in you the way his rhythm was relentless. Each movement is punctuated by a soft moan falling from his lips.

"Fuck, baby, you feel so good..." He buries his face in your neck, his voice a strained whisper against your cool skin. His hands grip your hips tightly, guiding your movements to match his own frantic pace. The limousine hits a bump, jostling you both and deepening his thrusts, you both let out a sharp, guttural groan.

You can feel the tension coiling in his body, his control fraying as he snakes between you, rubbing your clit as he urges you to chase your own release.

"You look so beautiful like this— Might have to fuck a baby into you. W-Would you like that, sweet thing? S-Shit..!"

You wrap your legs around his waist, giving enough of an answer. He captures your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as his entire body stiffens and he cums inside you with a broken, shuddering cry.

His seed fills your womb completely, but he doesn't let up. His thrusts continue, nice and slow. Building your shared sensitivity as you whimper. You push on his stomach in an effort to get him to slow down.

"Shh, shh. I know it's sensitive. Just gotta make sure you're nice and full, okay?

You're gonna have my pretty babies, sweet thing."

[sgecat]

Something about accusing people who have good grammar and know how to write of using AI is that it feels like it's in direct correlation to the dropping literacy rates. The fact that being functionally literate is enough to be accused of using AI is disheartening and even more so when the accuser is acting completely ignorant and is unwilling to even accept the possibility of them being wrong. The second people started up with the AI accusations and started parroting each post about it, I knew that it was going to turn into a witch hunt. I'm sorry that you ended up being accused like that, I love your work.

ugh thank you, and I wholeheartedly agree. It’s heavily degrading for the artists/writers that actually implement their innovation in their work.

[sgecat]

Are you down to write about jaafar Jackson?

omg I’d love to!! I’m actually working on one right now 🤭

[sgecat]

OFF THE RECORD

It has come to my knowledge that there has been speculation of me using AI in my work, and I’m here to address this:

— I spend hours on end on every single oneshot I produce for you guys. With my own ideas, my own imagination, and days of scenario planning/preparation.

— I am 18 years old that has been taking college English classes since my junior year of high school.

I’m planning to attend the top HBCU in the United States to pursue a career as an anesthesiologist. To be considered for admission, I am required to demonstrate advanced proficiency in English, not only at the university level but also within the College of Science and Technology Honors Program, which I recently received an acceptance offer for.

Accusing my work of being “too polished” and “to repetitive” because I use em dashes and Oxford commas is absurd.

— I put my heart and soul into writing. Not because it feels like a chore, but because it has always been my passion.

If you truly know me, you will also know that I absolutely hate Artificial Intelligence with a strong stance of the technology destroying our environment. It breaks my heart to see AI being so normalized everywhere we go. I refuse to interact with any kind of AI with any way possible.

I can’t give you screenshot proof to discredit the accusers speculation, since I write my work on the tumblr platform only. But it still breaks my heart to see my work being thrown in the spotlight in one of the worst ways.

But I digress.

Thank you for listening.

~ sage loves you.

masterlist

[michaeldiary]

𓂃 drag that bitc—

⋮ ⌗ ┆ off the wall era michael.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: it’s genuinely on sight if you catch diana by herself.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ no crazy warnings. female reader, public verbal argument (reader and diana), brief emotional stress and anxiety, romantic jealousy, relationship strain, smoking / cigarette use—pls its the 80’s, mikey in the doghouse.

So.. Michael doesn't think he's ever been this fucking scared in his life.

Which feels deeply unfair considering he’s Michael Jackson. He’s performed in front of thousands of people, he’s danced on national television. And yet somehow none of those experiences prepared him for the sight currently waiting across Studio 54.

His girlfriend is sitting alone in a velvet booth with a drink in front of her, looking so spectacularly deadpan that Michael briefly considers leaving the country. The problem is that she isn’t crying, isn't yelling. She isn’t even causing a scene. She’s ignoring him. Which is infinitely worse. When she gets loud, at least he knows where he stands. When she gets quiet? Oh, baby that’s when God himself starts abandoning his people.

The club pulses around him in flashes of gold and red light, cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air while celebrities and socialites laugh their way through another night they’ll be talking about for years. Meanwhile, Michael is standing near the bar wondering if it’s possible to die from being in trouble with a pretty girl. The worst part is that she has a point, enough of a point that every defense he’d come up with has fallen apart the second he’s tried saying it to himself.

The evening had started perfectly fine. Then Diana arrived. And somehow Michael had spent the next two hours getting continuously pulled into her orbit. One conversation became three. One dance became several. Every time he managed to drift back toward his girlfriend, Diana found a way to pull him somewhere else. A joke. A story. A hand on his arm. A request for “one more” dance. Michael hadn’t noticed how bad it looked at first, but his girlfriend had. The first warning came in the form of a look. The second came as a pointed comment. The third involved her physically appearing beside him while Diana stood entirely too close and entirely too comfortable. And Michael, complete idiot that he was, had smiled. Smiled! Like there wasn’t a bomb actively ticking beside him.

The argument afterward had not gone.. well. Mostly because it stopped being about jealousy almost immediately—that would’ve been easier. Instead it became about disrespect. About spending an entire evening standing in a room full of people while another woman monopolized her boyfriend’s attention. About feeling invisible and like a second choice. About Diana acting like she possessed a claim on Michael that nobody else was supposed to fucking question. Then, Diana made the catastrophic mistake of questioning her right back. Michael doesn’t remember every detail because the second the tension started rising, his survival instincts kicked in and his brain effectively left the building. But he remembers (Name) asking if she could maybe have five uninterrupted minutes with her own boyfriend. He remembers Diana not appreciating the tone. He remembers trying to smooth things over then—the drink in (Name)’s hand found itself splashing in Diana’s face before Michael had to physically pick up and pull her away while another nearby did the same with Diana.

Now Diana is on one side of the club pretending none of it happened. His girlfriend is on the other side pretending he doesn’t exist.

And somehow Michael is the common denominator in both disasters.

After spending nearly fifteen minutes pacing around the bar (like a condemned man awaiting execution), Michael finally orders her favorite drink. Then orders another because his hands are shaking badly enough that he drops the first one. By the time he starts walking toward her booth, he’s rehearsed approximately seventeen? different apologies and forgotten every single one of them. His girlfriend notices him immediately but she simply chooses not to acknowledge it. Michael stops beside the table and waits. Nothing.

“Hi.” Silence. “Hi,” he tries again, somehow sounding even more nervous the second time. Still nothing then carefully, he sets the drink down in front of her.

“..I got this for you, baby..” That finally earns him a reaction: she looks at the glass. Then at him and back at the glass. A smile appears and Michael’s stomach immediately drops to the floor. Because it’s not her happy smile. It’s the smile. The one that means she’s about to make him suffer.

“Oh.” One word as she picks up the drink and studies it thoughtfully before slowly lifting her eyes back to his. The smile widens.

“Oh,” She says again. “Finally remembered who your girlfriend is?” And just like that, every apology Michael spent the last fifteen minutes rehearsing evaporates completely.

Michael just stares at her. Which, unfortunately, is probably the worst possible thing he could be doing right now. He just.. stares. Partially because he's terrified and genuinely, sincerely terrified in a way that feels ridiculous considering he’s a rising star, one would think very little scares him. But he’s staring mostly because she’s angry, and he's never actually seen her like this before. Not really—not directed at him. Usually when she’s upset, there’s still something soft underneath it. Its huffy, pouty, there’s some visible crack where he can see his way back in. Tonight there isn’t. Tonight she’s sitting across from him looking completely unimpressed, completely unaffected by his presence, and somehow so damn beautiful. She’s beautiful everyday, yeah. But right now? Whew. Her eyes seem darker, her posture straighter and there’s a confidence that feels like she owns the entire nightclub and everyone inside it. Michael knows he should be apologizing. Knows he should be speaking. Knows he should be doing literally anything other than staring at her. Instead, his brain completely betrays him by noticing how pretty she looks when she’s mad.

The silence stretches longer than it should and her eyebrow slowly lifts. Michael continues staring.

“Hello?” Nothing. “Michael?”

His brain finally restarts with all the grace of a car refusing to turn over. “Pardon?” The second the word leaves his mouth, she lets out a short laugh and leans back against the booth cushions.

“Oh my God,” she mutters. “You're not even listening to me.”

Michael immediately opens his mouth to argue before deciding against it. Bad idea. Very bad idea. Then she gestures casually across the club toward Diana and smiles in a way that makes every survival instinct in his body activate at once.

“Please go back over there before I drag that old bitch.” Michael’s eyes widen and his gaze instinctively flickers toward Diana before snapping right back to his girlfriend. Huge mistake. She catches it immediately.

“Oh, don't worry,” she says sweetly. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” And suddenly Michael understands that this isn’t really about Diana at all—or at least entirely. It’s about spending an entire evening making his girlfriend feel unwanted while he floated around Studio 54 like he didn’t even have one. The realization settles heavily in his stomach, and for the first time all night, he's no longer scared of her being angry. He’s scared because she has every right to be.

(Name) stares at him for another few seconds before letting out a long sigh and sliding out of the booth. Michael immediately straightens because the fact she's standing up usually means a decision has been made, and Michael has a horrible feeling he isn’t going to like it. She smooths down her outfit, picks up her purse, and points directly at him.

“I’m leaving.” She says and Michael blinks.

“Okay..” He nods.

“You can stay if you want.” His face falls instantly. “But,” She continues holding up a finger, “I’m changing the locks if you do.” The statement confirms he is, in fact, still very much in trouble and (Name) watches the realization happen in real time. His shoulders sink. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Then without a single argument, he simply stands up and follows after her immediately with no hesitation. He’s trailing along a few steps behind like a giant, miserable puppy that knows exactly why it’s being punished.

(Name) makes it approximately ten feet before glancing over her shoulder and finding him still there looking guilty and pathetic. Looking like if she left him alone in Studio 54 for more than twenty minutes he’d probably just stand in the corner thinking about life. The sight nearly breaks her resolve. Nearly.

“That's what I thought,” She says, reaching back and hooking a finger into the collar of his shirt and Michael doesn’t even protest. If anything, he seems relieved to be collected. (Name) rolls her eyes and starts steering him toward the exit while he obediently follows along behind her. They’re halfway across the club when a familiar voice cuts through the crowd.

“Well, look at this.” Quincy appears out of nowhere, drink in hand and a grin already spreading across his face as he takes in the scene before him. (Name) with one hand on Michael’s collar. Michael following behind her with all the dignity of a man being escorted out of kindergarten. Quincy immediately starts laughing.

She brightens instantly. “Hi, Q!” she calls cheerfully, as if she isn’t actively dragging her boyfriend through the middle of Studio 54. “We're leaving!”

Quincy glances at Michael and at the hand attached to his collar. “I can see that, sweetheart.”

She nods enthusiastically. ”Early too!” And behind her, Michael closes his eyes for a brief moment as Quincy nearly doubles over laughing.

“What’d you do, Mike?” Quincy asks.

“I don't wanna talk about it,” Michael mutters.

“He knows what he did,” She answers at the exact same time, giving his collar another tug toward the door and Quincy laughs even harder. Michael wishes the floor would open and swallow him whole.

The walk to the car is painfully embarrassing for Michael but she saves him from the embarrassment of the paparazzi because releases his collar the second they step outside, but somehow that’s worse. At least when she was dragging him around, she was touching him. Now she’s just walking beside him with her purse tucked under her arm and her expression fixed firmly ahead. The night air is cooler than inside the club, carrying away some of the heat and noise of Studio 54, but none of it helps the growing sense of dread sitting in Michael’s stomach. When the car finally pulls up, he nearly lunges for the door handle, rushing ahead to open it for her before she can do it herself. She doesn’t acknowledge the gesture beyond sliding into the seat without a word and Michael follows a moment later, settling beside her as the door shuts and the city begins moving past the windows.

The silence inside the car feels louder than the music had.

(Name) sits with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and one leg thrown over the other, looking out the window because she’s suddenly become fascinated by New York traffic. Michael glances at her once.. then again. Then a third time. Every few seconds his eyes drift back toward her before darting away when she doesn’t react. He lasts maybe five minutes before finally giving up. Slowly and cautiously, he reaches across the seat and rests his hand lightly on her knee.

She just refuses to look at him.

“Lovey..” Michael says quietly. No response.

“I’m sorry.” His thumb moves against her knee. “Will you look at me?” Nothing.

“Please? What can I do?” The worst part is how sincere he sounds. He’s not making excuses or defending himself. He’s just being her Michael. Soft and sweet and looking so genuinely miserable that she can physically feel her resolve beginning to crack down the middle. She hates it. Hates how easy it is when he uses that voice. Hates how his eyes get all sad. Hates that she still wants to forgive him..

So instead she turns her head slowly and narrows her eyes at him. Michael immediately brightens.

Big mistake.

“Don't,” she warns and his smile falters. “You are going to massage my feet until your hands hurt.”

For a moment he stares at her then relief washes across his face so quickly it’s almost embarrassing. “That's it?”

Her eyes narrow further and Michael wisely corrects himself. “I mean.. yes. Absolutely. As long as you want.”

“Good.”

“Okay."

“And I'm still mad at you.”

“I know.”

“Very mad.”

“I know, lovey.”

She turns back toward the window, fighting the smile threatening to appear on her face and a few seconds later, Michael’s hand quietly slips from her knee into her hand.

This time she lets it stay there.

The second she lets his hand stay in hers, Michael immediately gets hopeful in that cutie way he gets when he thinks he might still be forgiven. She doesn’t even have to look at him to feel it. Its the little glances he keeps sneaking at her and the way his thumb moves against her knuckles. She keeps her gaze fixed out the window acting like she hasn’t noticed any of it even though she absolutely has.

The quiet doesn't last long.

“..Can I have a kiss?” Michael asks, voice softer than it already is because he’s testing whether the ground is stable again. (Name) closes her eyes for a second like she’s physically bracing herself, then finally turns her head toward him. The look she gives him is unreadable, but it doesn’t stop her from leaning across the space and pressing a quick kiss to his lips anyway. It’s brief, barely even a second, and the moment it’s over she’s already pulling away and turning back toward the window like nothing happened. Michael goes completely still beside her for a second then lets out a small, disbelieving laugh under his breath.

“I got a kiss,” he says softly, and she immediately groans and hides her face in her hand.

“Don’t start,” she warns, but her voice isn’t nearly as firm as she wants it to be. And Michael, still holding her just leans back in his seat with a smile that makes it very clear he knows exactly what he’s doing to her.

By the time they get back to her apartment (he pays for), the argument has started to lose its intensity. She kicks off her shoes the second she walks in and Michael follows her in without a word, already looking for ways to make things right without overcomplicating it.

A few minutes later she’s settled on the couch with one leg tucked under her, a cigarette resting between her fingers as she leans back into the cushions, watching him move around the room. Michael eventually ends up sitting on the floor in front of her, carefully taking her feet into his hands and he starts massaging slowly, thumbs pressing into her arch. She doesn’t look at him at first, just exhales smoke toward the ceiling, acting like she’s still mad, but her foot relaxes in his grip anyway, betraying her before she can stop it.

Michael glances up at her once, then keeps going when she doesn’t tell him to stop. “Still mad at me?” he asks quietly, like he already knows the answer but needs to hear it from her anyway.

(Name) doesn’t look down at him right away. She just takes another slow drag from her cigarette, considering it for a second longer than necessary, then finally tilts her head slightly in his direction with the faintest trace of a smile pulling at her mouth. And Michael, still on the floor with her feet in his hands, keeps massaging like he’s already accepted whatever verdict she decides to give him.

Michael keeps working his thumbs into her feet and she lounges back into the couch like she’s testing how long she can stay annoyed before it dissolves on its own. She finally speaks without looking at him, voice light but still edged with something he knows better than to fully relax around.

“I dunno,” she says, exhaling another thin stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “Do you think I should still be mad?”

Michael pauses for half a second, hands still resting around her ankle. Then he looks up at her properly, curls a little messy, expression soft and painfully earnest.. that look always makes her anger feel less solid than it should. “Yes,” he says immediately, then corrects himself just as fast, “I mean—no. I mean.. I think you were right to be mad.”

That earns him a look.

So he keeps going, “I was stupid,” he admits, thumbs resuming their slow pressure like he needs the movement to stay grounded. “I should’ve been with you more. I didn’t mean to.. make you feel like that.” His eyes flick up again, searching her face carefully, like he’s trying to read whether he’s losing her in real time. “But I.. also really don’t want you to stay mad at me.”

(Name) watches him for a moment, cigarette still between her fingers, expression unreadable in a way that makes his stomach tighten slightly. Then she tilts her head, studying him like she’s deciding something she hasn’t fully committed to yet. Michael doesn’t move, he just waits there on the floor with her foot in his hands.

Finally, she lets out a small breath through her nose, something almost like a laugh buried in it, and leans her head back against the couch.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” she says, not quite forgiving him but not holding on to the anger either. Michael lets out a relieved breath he clearly didn’t realize he was holding and immediately goes back to massaging.

“But you’re definitely putting that mouth to work tonight.”

© 2026 michaeldiary.

[sgecat]

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ THE LADY IN MY LIFE

pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

era: thriller

summary: when Quincy Jones dares him to beg in one of his songs, Michael has no choice but to invite you into the booth with him… to ease his nerves, of course.

content: (MDNI), smut, makeout, late-night setting, fingering, mutual masturbation, piv, cowgirl, y'all know the drill, not proofread

a/n: I know there have already been some fanfics about this, but I wanted to make my own spin on it. This is also one of my favorite songs, so why not?

I am also getting to your requests, I promise. I just graduated high school 2 days ago, so I've been pretty busy :). love you guys!

masterlist

"Michael, you already got the sensuality in your music. I just think you should try this out. Just once."

He shakes his head shyly, "I, uh, I don't know about this, Q."

You're barely paying attention to the conversation they're having in front of you. Too enamored with your book and the soft playback of his new project playing in the speakers.

"You gotta stop being so shy, Mike. We know damn well you ain't shy with her, right?" Quincy points his finger in your direction, turning the attention directly to you. You bring yourself out of your own head and look up from your book. Michael scratches the back of his neck in contemplation, sighing softly before swiping his nose with his thumb.

"Okay, I'll try it once, but," he hesitates, and he looks towards you again. "I want her in there with me."

"Aight," Quincy signals for you to get up, and you look up in confusion. You were just here to keep Michael company during one of his late-night studio sessions. You finished your album with Quincy a few weeks ago, you just needed to finalize some paperwork with Epic Records, with the approval of being published.

So now that your job was over — temporarily — you and Michael finally got some time to yourselves, and what better way to spend time with each other than with your shared drive for music production? "C'mon, girl," Quincy holds his hand out, helping you off the comfort of the couch. You follow Michael into the booth, the door shutting quietly behind you. The familiar isolated silence is deafening; the only noise is shared breathing and the fumbling of Michael's headphones.

"Could you... maybe close the curtains, please? And dim the lights a little more?" Michael asks Quincy, earning him a quick nod as Q gets up from his chair to close the curtain. "Oh," Michael laughs shyly at the thought of asking too much. "Could you mute the booth for a second, too? If you don't mind. I'll let you know when I'm ready."

Michael's voice trailed off, the last word barely leaving his lips before Quincy nodded and reached for the mute switch. The lights above the booth dimmed, and suddenly the world outside the glass felt miles away.

It really was just you and him now.

The curtains slid shut, swallowing the studio in a low amber glow, and it felt undeniably smaller. It almost felt too intimate for someone as shy as Michael. He adjusted his headphones again, but his hands started to shake a little.

"Um.. would you feel better if I didn't look at you?" You laugh softly as you walk towards the lounge chair inside the booth, snuggled into the corner.

"Uh.. actually no. Could you come here?"

"Here?"

"Yeah, right next to me."

You stood beside him, book now forgotten, and your heart thudding in your chest as the silence settled around you. You'd been in this booth thousands of times before -- recording your own vocals, laughing with Michael when he would visit in between takes, yet it still felt smaller than what you were used to. Part of you blamed the curtain for that.

Michael cleared his throat softly, eyes flicking to you before darting away again.

"Sorry," he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck as he fixes the headphones on his head. "I don't wanna sound silly."

You shake your head gently.

"You don't ever sound silly, Michael."

He huffed out a shy laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. "Well, yeah, but you ain't seen me try this in a song before."

You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your presence, and he looked up at you, curls falling so gracefully across his forehead, expression soft. He shrugged.

"I don't know. Q wants me to beg in this." He stammers, "I didn't wanna do it unless you're here." Your heart flutters, but you keep your breath steady. You smile, and he nods to you. The red light above the mic flickers faintly, waiting. Michael then knocks on the window, signaling that he is ready, and then takes a deep breath.

The instrumental started softly in his headphones, the sound coating his ears like velvet. You could faintly hear it bleeding through, just enough to know where he was during the outro.

Stay with me...

I want you to stay with me...

I need you by my side...

Don't you go nowhere...

He sang with flawless ease, and you started to wonder what the hell the problem was. He was feeling the music perfectly. The nerves that he felt before you stepped into the booth with him vanished entirely, like your presence alone was enough to boost his confidence.

Especially when the lyrics he sang were directed towards you.

You could've sworn you'd heard these lyrics the other day. The same words he whispered in your ear while his soft fingers touched you ever so softly.

Caressing and gripping and probing fingers, touching you just the way you liked it, coaxing more pleasure than any other man ever could. Not that you would want another, anyway. His desire for your pleasure was practically insatiable, believe it or not. He managed to make you cum 4 times in a row that night, and he didn't intend on stopping until you cried from just his fingers and these very words alone.

You stepped closer to him, and he opened his eyes halfway, gaze drifting knowingly towards you. His smile grew wicked, and the sound that followed was different. Much fuller. Desirable. Directed.

Let me feel you, baby...

All over, all over, all over...

When he finished the outro, he took his headphones off and smiled at you, taking in the look on your face. You aren't sure what your expression was, maybe awe. Maybe arousal. Maybe he was just as surprised as you were.

"How was that?"

Before you could answer, Quincy's voice came through the speakers. "Hell yeah, you did that shit," he said, voice warm with approval. "That's exactly what I wanted."

Everyone's gone home, except for the two of you.

It was now reaching 3AM, so you'd figured they were exhausted by the long hours of the night.

But not Michael.

"Gosh, I'm really excited about this new album." He muttered to you with a small smile, his attention directed towards the equilibrium table.

"So excited that you'll stay up until the crack of dawn working on it?" you question, checking your watch, "Because that's where this is headed."

He laughs softly, turning his chair around to look at you, like, really look at you. He pans his eyes over every single inch of you. He loves the way your bell-bottom jeans accentuate your curves, your blouse slightly unbuttoned from your dire need of relaxation. Your denim vest is long discarded and forgotten.

But it doesn't make you look any less enticing.

"Nah, we'll be done soon. I know you're tired, pretty thing." he pauses, "C'mere, sit on my lap."

"Your lap?"

"Mhm," he gestures his two fingers towards you, and you obey with a playful giggle. You straddle his lap with a sigh, relaxing into his touch as he wraps his arms around you.

Michael presses soft kisses along your neck, each one turning more intense than the last. His grip on your waist gets tighter as his reverence on your skin continues.

"You were so good in there." his voice is a low, intimate murmur against your skin, a stark contrast to his shy demeanor in the booth not even an hour ago. His hands slide from your waist down to your hips, gripping you firmly as he grinds you ever so subtly against the hard ridge of his denim-clad erection.

"You weren't like this in the studio." You pant softly as he shifts in the large producer's chair. He adjusts you on his lap so you're fully straddling him. The leather creaks under your combined weight as he captures your mouth in a deep and hungry kiss.

"But I'm always like this with you. I just— I don't know. I don't like doing this when people are watching," His hands slide under your untucked blouse, his warm palms splaying across the bare skin on your back. "But it's just us now. I don't have to hide anything."

"But— Mike—" He cuts off your protest as his hips roll upward, a slow, deliberate grind that presses his hard erection against your clit, still electrifying even through the layers of clothing. The cry that escapes you is louder than you would like it to be, and you look at the door instinctively, afraid of being heard.

He turns your chin gently, forcing your gaze back into his intense, dark eyes. "Shh, it's okay. No one else is here. Just you and me. Always you and me." His hands move to the hem of your blouse, fingers hooking into the fabric.

"You sure? The doors not locked."

"Yeah, baby, leave it. I need to feel you."

He unbuttons your blouse slowly, taking his time; teasing as he drinks in the sight of you. He takes it off you in one smooth motion, tossing it onto a nearby soundboard. His thumbs brush over the lace of your bra, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My lady, so perfect."

He leans forward, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just above your bra line. You can't help but moan at the sight, his gaze fixed on yours as he studies your soft expressions. You looked so cute like this.

His hands work at the button of his own jeans, fumbling slightly at his attempt at concealed urgency. The studio is filled with nothing but smooth jazz and the soft rustle of clothing. He unfastens his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free his hard length, his hand wrapping around himself with a low groan. All while watching you look at him.

"What, you like watching me like this?"

You nod, and he chuckles shyly. It was a warm sound, sending chills down your spine. "Guess who's the shy one now."

His free hand guides your hips, turning the chair around to lean you back against the cool surface of the large sound mixing table. "Don't be shy, now. Not with me at least." His free hand guides your hips, positioning you to lean back.

He pulls off your jeans fervently, exposing the wet spot in your panties. He can't help but smile at the sight of you being so turned on by just a few kisses and sweet nothings whispered in your ear. "Look at you... all for me,"

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. His voice is a soft, pleading whisper. "I want you to touch yourself. Could you do that for me, baby? Show me how you like it."

The silence between you stretches as your eyes widen slightly, yet you comply with his request. Your pretty flower is on full display for him as you move your panties to the side with trembling fingers. You begin to toy with your clit, a soft, circular motion that makes you gasp softly.

He leans back with a sigh, one hand stroking himself slowly as he watches your every move, his expression a mixture of reverence and raw hunger. God, what he would give to have a little taste.

His eyes are locked on your fingers, slowly pushing inside of you when he asks, mesmerized by the rhythm you're setting. His own hand moves in time with yours. He bites his lip, a low groan rumbling in his chest. "You're so beautiful like this." His free hand reaches out, his thumb gently brushing against your inner thigh. "Can I... can I help?"

Once you nod, his fingers join yours, his touch feather-light as he moves your hand to rest on his chest, his palm pressing yours against the frantic beat of his heart. He traces circles around your clit before gently pushing two fingers inside you.

"F-Fuck, Michael. Feels so different when you do it." You stammer, your hand on his chest closing into a fist as his fingers curl your g-spot in effortless, practiced precision. His eyes never leave your face, his thumb taking over the pressure on your clit. Your moans grow whiny, feeling the heat build up in your lower stomach as your orgasm approaches. His breath is ragged as his other hand keeps stroking his dick, teasing his sensitive slit, the combined feeling with you wrapped around his fingers was enough to make him cum.

But he refused, not when he wasn't inside of you yet.

He pulls his fingers out slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. "Mike..."

"I know, sweetheart, I know." He lifts you effortlessly, positioning himself at your entrance. "I just think this will feel so much better."

He guides you down onto him in one slow, deep motion, a groan tearing from his throat as he fills you completely. He was right; it did feel better. So much better, you had to squeeze your eyes shut and pray you didn't cum by just the feeling alone. He sets a slow and grinding rhythm, letting you adjust to his size before his thrusts become more urgent. Your moans and soft sighs were music to his ears; he could help but want more.

"God... Michael, so— so big. It feels so good, I might—"

The sound of skin meeting skin echoes softly in the studio, your whimpers and stumbling sentences only spurring him further to his orgasm. His pace quickens, and his moans become less controlled. "I know, mama, me too. Cum with me, baby, please?" His voice cracks, high and strained as his thrusts become frantic, a desperate pounding rhythm that shakes the sound table.

Moans and curses spill from your lips as your orgasm crashes over you both simultaneously, a wave of pleasure so intense it steals the air from your lungs. A final sharp broken cry escapes him as his cum pulses deep inside you, his body trembling slightly as his face is buried in your neck.

He breathes your name into your skin, his voice hoarse and spent. For a long moment, the only sound is your combined, ragged breathing slowly returning to normal.

"I think... we should record the backup vocals now."

"No, Michael. It's time to go home. You can finish tomorrow."

[spogog]

I can’t be the only one who loves this hair era

more people need to appreciate the Afro liikkkeee

[sgecat]

°❀.ೃ࿔* DISTANT LOVER

pairing: michael jackson x reader

era: off the wall

summary: joseph jackson has always been a problem in your relationship, and michael is starting to contemplate your “interference.”

content: angst, relationship conflict, emotional heartbreak, manipulation, j*seph jackson, sad cliff hanger, not proofread, drabble

masterlist

“We need to talk.”

No one likes to hear that, especially from the man you want to spend the rest of your life with.

But here you are.

You didn’t know how long you sat there on the edge of your bed, staring at him through the blur of your own tears. The room felt too quiet — except for Marvin Gaye’s voice drifting from the record player in the corner.

The song felt cruel now. Ironically foreshadowing the impending arrival of heartbreak you knew was coming your way.

The very thought of it made you physically ill, you could practically throw up.

Michael stood across from you, hands trembling at his sides, eyes shining with a sadness he was trying — and failing — to hide from you. He looked like he wanted to come closer. He looked like he wanted to walk away. He looked like he wanted to take every word back and swallow them whole.

To hold you and chase away every drop of sorrow he’s implemented on you all in the span of 5 minutes.

But he didn’t. He just stood there, breathing unevenly as he watched you slowly fall apart.

You wiped your cheeks quickly, trying to stifle the sob building in your throat. You didn’t want him to see you cry. You didn’t want to make this harder. You didn’t want to give Joseph the satisfaction to experience your pain in the slightest, but nonetheless, your body continued to push the boundaries of betrayal.

A quiet, broken sound slipped out — small, but sharp enough to make Michael flinch like he’d been struck.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Just… please don’t…”

You shook your head, pressing the back of your hand to your mouth as another tear slid down your cheek.

“I’m trying,” you choked out. Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it started to ache.

He took a step forward — then stopped himself, fingers curling into fists at his sides.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice trembling. “'Swear I don’t. But Joseph… he keeps saying that I’m losing focus…and I got uh, a problem.”

Your breath hitched.

“And you believe him? You think I’m a problem?”

Michael’s eyes squeezed shut, and he shook his head, longer than he should, like he was trying to shake the thought out of his skull.

“No, ‘course not. I just — I don’t know what to believe anymore,” he whispered. “I just know he won’t stop. And I’m tired. I’m so tired, baby.”

You stood slowly, legs unsteady, heart pounding so hard it hurt.

You walked toward him until you were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. He didn’t move, didn’t try to reach out for you, or pull away. He just stood there. He couldn’t even look you in the eye, but you could see that they were glossed over, reflecting a mental battle of fighting his own tears from streaming down his warm cheeks.

“Michael,” you whispered, voice breaking, “I love you. Isn’t that enough?” His face contorted, and he swallowed.

“It should be,” he says shakily, “but not for him.”

You reached for his hand — the same hand that had held yours on late‑night drives in the back seat, on Ferris wheels, in the comfort of this very bedroom — but he hesitated.

“I don't know, sweetheart. I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely audible. “I’m scared of losing you… of choosing the wrong thing.”

Your throat tightens, frustration building in your throat.

He was being a coward. Running away from his own dreams and his own conscience. And for the first time, he pissed you off.

“Nah, you’re not choosing wrong, Mike. You’re choosing fear. And you’re trying to find ways to please your father with the excuse of everybody else.”

The truth hurts him more than anything.

“Baby—”

“Michael, you can’t let him take your life away from you. From us."

The pain in his eyes was enough to make your heart fall impossibly further.

“I don’t want him to, I just — I don’t know what to do.”

You nodded, tears falling silently down your cheeks. There's a pause in the air.

“Right,” you said, "then go ahead. If you're considering breaking up with me, at least do it all the way." You look dead into his eyes, trying your absolute hardest to restore your composure, but he can see it.

Your heart feels like it could shrivel up and give out at any given moment, and he sees it. He sees it so clearly that you know you have to turn your back to mask the vulnerability etched into your features.

Then there was silence.

Silence so still, so intense, not even a blade of forgiveness could cut through the heartbreak you were experiencing.

And he did nothing but watch.

He felt so conflicted, so into his own head, he didn't even know how to comfort you. Especially when he was the root of your sorrow. But he reached out hesitantly, stopping himself inches away from your shoulder, fingers trembling.

"I love you," he said, voice shaking. "I love you so much—"

"No. Don't do that shit to me. Just don't." Your words shook through him. His breath caught in his throat. "You don't get to leave me high and dry for weeks on end, then tell me you love me while giving me your ass to kiss."

He swallowed hard, eyes widening with a mix of guilt and devastation. He's never heard you speak like this, let alone to him. You have always been so soft spoken — reserved — just like he was. He couldn't even imagine the way you were looking at him right now. He became a stranger in your world.

A sad stranger who would do anything to please his father at the cost of his dreams.

"I wasn't trying to—" he started, but the words died in his throat. Because you were right. I mean, what could he possibly say to you?

All roads led back to Joseph. Excusing his behavior. Just excuses. All of them.

You wiped your cheeks with your palms, but the tears kept flowing, sliding down your face faster than you could catch them.

"You didn't even call. Not once. Not even to check on me, or to let me know that you were okay. You just vanished." You sniffle, walking to your bed again, sitting on the edge that faced away from him. You couldn't even look at him anymore.

"I wanted to protect you," he says, walking over to you, crouching in between your knees, a desperate plea to look you in the eyes again. "I thought if I stayed away, he'd leave you alone."

You shook your head, a bitter laugh slipping through your tears.

"And all you did was prove him right."

...

"If you're going to continue to follow behind his shadow, then he's right.

We can't do this anymore."

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

To be continued...

[etrnalmuse]

victory day — june 13th, 2005.

[sgecat]

♡ ABSOLUTE PERFECTION

pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader

era: DESTINY/OFF THE WALL (my fav era)

summary: during an interview promoting his debut album with Epic Records, Michael is asked about his ideal woman.

content: mutual affection, nerdy reader, tooth-rotting fluff, idk this is just so cute, you guys know what interview I'm referencing, right?

masterlist

Interviews always made Michael a little restless. He'd sit there with his hands folded neatly in his lap. Foot tapping a quiet rhythm only he could hear. His voice so soft-spoken. No matter how many times the director asked him to speak just a little louder, just enough for the overhead microphone to catch every breath. Nonetheless, the lights were warm, the couch felt comfortable, and the questions were always the same.

Well, usually.

The vibe was a bit unfamiliar this time.

Maybe it was because he knew you were somewhere in the building — tucked away in the dim-lit waiting room outside the small studio, flipping through the stack of comics you brought for him.

Maybe it was because he could still faintly hear your voice as you conversed with the workers conducting the interview, your laugh echoing faintly in his head.

Or maybe it was because he'd been thinking about you more than he meant to lately.

Shit, almost every single song on the album was written about you.

The interviewer leaned forward, smiling as if he knew the ladies would love the next question that he was about to ask. That he — a man in his late thirties with a too-neat mustache and a suit that tried way too hard to keep up with the late 70s trends — would finally get that promotion and the raise that he's been 'working so hard for.'

"So, Michael... what's something that you'd look for in a girl? I mean, we know that — as attractive as you are — you got all the ladies fawning over you. I'm sure they'd like to know your ideal woman."

Michael laughed softly, eyes dropping to his hands, then looked up towards the ceiling. He always did that when he was lost in thought, trying to think of the right words to say — while also not saying too much.

"Well," he said, his voice warm, "I like someone who's like me, I guess."

The interviewer blinked.

"Like you how?"

Michael shrugged, a thoughtful, honest shrug.

"Someone who likes fun things. Like, comics, climbing trees, y'know, things like that, but..." he chuckles, "I don't know — I'd still like someone that's, uh, not too high maintenance. Just natural. Very modest and sweet like, y'know?"

He paused, and for a moment, he didn't feel like he was in the studio anymore.

He was in your backyard, watching you climb one of your old oak trees, the California heat causing your blowout to frizz, but that's what is so beautiful about you.

Then he was in your living room, laughing next to you as you both read the latest The Amazing Spider-Man comic book. Not just admiring the artwork before him, but also the way your features lit up as you read the words on the delicate page.

Then he was at the annual carnival — the one he had to sneak out of late-night rehearsal for — his obviously silly disguise now discarded as he sat on the Ferris wheel with you. You two have been there for a couple of hours now, and those hours flew by faster than you anticipated.

You two had just shared your first kiss, your cheeks both warm in bashful shyness as you confessed your love to each other. He held your hand, soft and warm as he traced his thumb over your bare nails.

"I've never met someone like you.

I want to spend forever like this.

Just us."

He blinked, returning to the present.

"Someone real and authentic. The thing I find most attractive in a woman is their heart."

The interviewer nodded, scribbling notes, completely unaware of the shift in Michael's expression — the softness in his eyes, and the way his smile still lingered moments after he answered the question.

Now, even with all that, you would think that the interviewer knew who he was talking about.

There have been countless rumors in the tabloids about your relationship with Michael Jackson, but none were confirmed or denied. They just lingered and would come up in conversation from time to time as you met with other high-status figures like yourself.

Well, at least everyone else in the room knew exactly who he was talking about. The interviewer grew too busy imagining his own name on the byline of a magazine cover.

"Beautiful answer, Michael," he said, still scribbling. "Your fans are gonna eat that up!"

Michael just laughed and nodded politely, but his mind was already drifting again. Not to his fans, not to his upcoming album, not to the interview itself.

But to you.

He wondered if you coincidentally heard any of that from the room next door. How you'd react once the press put two and two together, or the way you'd smile that shy little smile you always tried to hide behind your hands.

"Alright, that's a wrap," the director called out, clapping his hands. Michael blinked, leaning up from the couch and sitting up straighter as the crew began to move around him. The interviewer stood, smoothing out his too-tight suit jacket, muttering a small 'thank you'. Poor guy was already rehearsing the headline in his head.

Michael thanked everyone — soft, sincere, the way he did since he was a small child — but he didn't linger. He stepped out of the studio, out of the lights, into the hallway.

And into the waiting room next door.

You were exactly where he knew you'd be — your legs curled up next to you on the couch, flipping through a Scooby Doo comic you brought for him to read in between breaks. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly, casting a warm glow over your features.

You looked up the moment you sensed him. "Hey," you smiled. God, his heart fluttered in his chest; he couldn't even hide it anymore.

"Hey," he echoed, voice softer than he meant it to be. You closed the comic and let it rest in your lap.

"How'd the interview go?"

He shrugged, flopping down on the couch next to you, close enough to feel your warmth, but not close enough to be obvious.

"Eh, it was fine," he said. "They asked about the album, the tour with my brothers in a couple o' years. And then," He hesitated, eyes drifting to the floor. "They asked about my type — my ideal girl."

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh? And what'd you say?"

You tilted your head.

"The truth?"

He looked at you then — like, really looked at you — and for a moment, the room felt too small, the couch making the distance too close.

"That she's, um," he trails off, feeling his shyness start to take over. He takes a sharp inhale, averting his gaze. "Someone who doesn't try to be anything she's not — real authentic. Likes the same things I do. Who makes me feel like I can just... be myself."

He continued, voice barely above a whisper.

"Told 'em she's very sweet. Modest, but also really playful. Someone who climbs her favorite oak tree and plays video games and laughs at my stupid jokes." He smiled — still a bit shy, but sure.

"And I told them she has the most beautiful heart I've ever known. My definition of perfection."

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Michael chuckled softly as he watched your reaction, his head shaking in amusement.

"Surely you knew I was talking about you."

You should probably respond now, but you have yet to find the words — any words — to amount to the love you have for him. But no. The room fell silent, but it wasn't awkward or tense. It just felt full of everything he's been holding back, everything you'd been too scared to say since the moment on the Ferris wheel. The growing love and desire that has been accumulating for months.

You exhaled slowly, moving closer to him on the couch as the comic in your lap slipped away.

"Michael..." you whispered.

"You don't have to say anything," he murmured. "I just wanted you to know."

You didn't exactly say anything. But you didn't mean to move either.

It just kinda happened. The way the air got heavy, and his gorgeous eyes looking at you the way they did, then the confession he just made. Your hand lifted before you could second-guess yourself, fingers brushing his cheek in a touch so gentle it made him inhale sharply.

Then you kissed him again. A soft press of your lips to his, and you suddenly felt like this kiss was an enough answer.

Michael froze for half a second before melting into it, his hand coming up to cradle the side of your face like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held you any tighter. When you finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and a little dazed.

"You don't have to wonder about anything, Michael," you whispered. "I feel the same way about you, too. Felt that way for a very long time."

He could help but chuckle, the relief in his expression almost humorously boyish.

"You're the most amazing person I've ever known... You already have me if you want me."

[sgecat]

⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢 THE GIRL IS MINE

pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader

era: THRILLER

summary: When you stop by the studio to drop off your father's lunch, the friendly duet turns into an ironically realistic competition.

content: playful rivalry, light teasing, flirting, harmless tension, mild jealousy, studio setting, (you guys know the song lol)

a/n: sorry for the short one, guys, just a bit of a requested drabble as I prepare a longer oneshot for you (and possibly a story on wattpad ~ @sgecat 👀)

masterlist

You only came to the studio because your dad forgot his lunch — for the 3rd time in a row. You started to think he was doing this on purpose. Quincy barely looks up when you walk in, entirely focused on the mixing board.

"Daddy?" You step closer to him, setting the brown paper bag on the mixing table, earning a playful glare from him.

"Now what'd I say about food on the mixing table, girl? This equipment is expensive."

"Well, we wouldn't be having this conversation if you didn't leave the lunch I made at home."

He chuckles before turning in his chair, giving you a peck on the cheek and a small, "Thank you, baby girl."

You look up to see Michael and Paul sitting in the chairs, distant from the two of you, now staring at the interaction. You know better than being rude, so you wave and say hello.

Paul knew that Americans loved small talk, but for some reason, he was more than happy to engage in the meaningless conversation with you.

Your soft-spoken voice became music to his ears — more than any tune could satisfy. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, giving you his full attention as you talked about your own studio projects, your father was helping you with.

Michael, on the other hand, didn't speak. You can feel his eyes on you as he listens. Granted, you two have met numerous times beforehand and have even hung out countless times afterward. Especially since you two were closer in age than you and Paul.

Nonetheless, you invite Michael into the conversation anyway.

"Yeah, I've been enjoying the songs I've made so far. Michael has heard a few of them. Surely, he'll tell you. Right, Michael?"

His posture straightens, and for a second, he looks almost shy, caught between wanting to impress you and not wanting to sound like he’s bragging too much. Michael clears his throat softly. “Yeah… I’ve heard them,” he says, voice warm. “They’re really good. She’s got her own sound. Style.”

"Style?" Paul repeats.

"Yeah."

Your father hums in agreement, not looking up from the board, playing with the volume of certain adlibs previously recorded.

Paul smiles at you, but there’s a flicker of something competitive in his eyes now — like he suddenly realizes Michael has a head start he didn’t know about.

“Oh? And how come I haven’t heard any of these masterpieces he speaks of?” Paul asks, leaning back in his chair.

You shrug lightly. “Because Michael actually shows up when he says he will.”

Michael tries not to smile at your comment, while Paul’s jaw drops dramatically.

You snort. “Don’t start, you’re late to everything. You work on black people time more than we do.”

Michael finally lets the smile slip, eyes flicking to you like he’s grateful you're finally on his side.

Paul recovers quickly, leaning back into the chair. “Well then,” he says, pointing between you and Michael, “I suppose I’ve got some catching up to do.”

"Eh, probably not. She's been a bit busy helping me. She may not have the time."

"Surely, she has some free time."

"She doesn't."

Part of you wanted to curse them both out for speaking for you, instead of asking what you wanted, but Michael was right. Not about being busy, though, but you knew what he implied.

Given what you two have said during your hangouts, Michael knew that you wouldn't be interested.

You inhale slowly, trying not to roll your eyes at either of them.

"Actually," you say, leaning against the soft acoustic form on the wall behind you. "I can speak for myself."

Both men look at you immediately, a bit guilty, but also waiting patiently for your final verdict.

"I'm not always busy. I just don't say yes to everything." You flicker your eyes to Michael, as if it was directed towards him.

Paul grins, leaning back as if he's already won you over, "And what does it take to get a yes from you?"

But before you could think of a response, you could see Michael shift, not talking over you, or interrupting, or assuming, just giving you a look.

You don't say yes to everything. You also don't owe him an explanation.

And that's exactly why you'd never be interested in Paul.

Well, one of the reasons aside from the fact that he was 15 years older than you.

You shrug lightly, still trying to be polite. "It depends on the person."

Paul opens his mouth, ready to attempt to charm his way into another question, but your father cuts him short.

"Alright, enough... socializing — whatever the hell this is," he says, spinning in his chair as he takes a bite out of his sandwich. "If y'all are done circling my daughter, we gotta finish this song by tomorrow."

Paul laughs as Michael stands and steps inside the booth, a smile on his face.

But the atmosphere has visibly changed, the increasingly frequent glances you and Michael share. The moment you decide to stay a bit longer to "help Michael," when everyone decides to go home for the night. It's now known that any kind of playful rivalry that once existed is now completely meaningless and unmistakably pointed.

Paul may not know it yet, but Michael does.

[sgecat]

500 FOLLOWERS OMG??? THANK YOU SO MUCH 🥹

[sgecat]

TOUR SECRET

pairing: michael jackson x reader

summary: while you're away at New York Fashion Week, Michael Jackson has been tirelessly active on tour, lonely and...studying.

era: BAD

content: (MDNI), smut, established relationship, soft!dom michael, sub reader, praise kink, the man is yearning, overstimulation, confession kink, fluff, this shit is a lil nastyyy

requested by: @cinnamoncunt

w/c: 2.1k

a/n: I had so much fun writing this! sorry I haven't posted in a few days. I recently finished high school, but I'll be as active as I can. love you guys!

masterlist

He'd been fine for the first few months. The stress and overwhelming pressure of giving his all to his fans during every show did distract him. But when the tour bus was quiet, he couldn't help but acknowledge the lack of warmth from your presence. The silence was hollow. But the show must go on.

He knew you were busy yourself; he's been caught up with all the media as they raved about this year's New York Fashion Week. He loved the way your stylist put you in timeless, extraordinary outfits. You were practically a goddess in his eyes. Sure, he's told you that plenty of times already, but he'd tell you a million times over if it meant making you feel special. He always loved making you feel good, any chance he got.

Speaking of making you feel good...

His mind drifted back to a hushed conversation he'd overheard between Jackie and Marlon in the studio lot weeks ago. They were leaning against the car; voices low, almost conspiratorial.

"Man, no — nah, you gotta like, know the spots, y'know? The real spots. It's not just the button anymore," Jackie had said, a somewhat knowing grin on his face.

Marlon had chuckled, "I know what you mean, the uh, that one place, right near the..."

Michael had pretended to be engrossed in his sheet music, but his ear burned. And the thought had festered. A new underlying anxiety started to engrain into the back of his skull. What if there were ways to please you that he hadn't even considered, or even talked to you about? What if he was missing something entirely? Did you know, and just kept your mouth shut so you didn't hurt his feelings?

That's when the secret mission began. A discreetly, almost awkwardly worded request to his more trusted assistant. A plain, unmarked brown package was delivered to his dressing room when absolutely no one was looking.

The books sat beside him on the bus, their covers bland and unsuspectable, concealing his new world of intimate knowledge that made his heart race and his palms sweat. He opened the top book, his slender fingers carefully tracing a detailed, clinical diagram.

He read passages about concentrated nerve endings, about heightened sensitivity, specifically about the exact place his brothers talked about.

The perineum:

The small, sensitive patch of skin between the genitals and the anus.

An often overlooked erogenous zone, rich with nerve endings — similar to the clitoris — a place where gentle, rhythmic pressure could amplify pleasure to an almost unbearable degree.

At least that's what the book said.

He read the definition again, discreetly practicing the motion in the air under the small dining table, his touch feather-light, imagining the exact spot. As a perfectionist, he wanted his technique to be absolutely perfect, but the more he studied, the more the diagrams blurred.

The clinical terms had faded after the first few chapters, now replaced with a sharp aching need to experiment with the person he was researching for.

The loneliness was a physical weight in his chest. He missed the sound of your voice, the way your back arched off the mattress. He missed you so much.

He sighed, leaning his head back against the cool window of the bus. The city lights streaked by, anonymous and fleeting. He just had to hold on a little longer. A few more shows. Then he could show you everything he'd learned, could worship every single inch of you until you forgot your own name, and only knew his.

He imagined your surprised gasps, the way your eyes would widen, then flutter shut. He imagined your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

The fantasy was so vivid it was painful. He adjusted his position on the smooth leather seat, a low groan escaping him. This waiting was its own kind of torture.

He closed his eyes, trying to will the time to pass faster.

Just a few more shows.

The key turned in the lock, a sound that he's been waiting weeks to hear.

Michael looked up from the couch at the sudden noise, hearing your voice from the distant corridor.

"Baby? You home?"

You stepped into the living room, your gaze fixed on the watch at your wrist, fiddling with it before taking it off and setting it on the distant table. You looked so effortlessly beautiful. Your hair was still styled from the afternoon's shoot, but you'd changed into soft, comfortable clothes.

You were home.

He stood up, his heart hammering against his ribs, "You're finally home."

He crossed the room in a few quick strides, stopping just inches from you. The carefully rehearsed confession he'd planned evaporated from his mind. Instead, his hands cradled your gentle face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "I missed you so much."

He leaned in, capturing your mouth in a kiss, less of a way of saying, "hello", and more of a desperate and much-needed reunion.

“You just saw me this morning,” You can't help but giggle against his lips, the sound muffled by the intensity of his kiss. His eagerness was endearing, overwhelming. He pulled back just enough to speak, a smile creeping on his own features. "Don't laugh. I'm serious."

His hands slid from your face, down your arms, coming to rest on your hips. His grip was gentle, yet firm.

"I've been thinking."

"Thinking? You do that?"

"Shut up," he chuckles, his contemplated expression now a bit playful, a great way to ease his nerves about his idea. But the thought was still present. He took a shaky breath, his eyes searching yours.

"Um, I did some reading — research — while we were gone. I wanted... I wanted to be better for you."

"What do you mean? You're already amazing as is. That isn't even the word for it."

He shakes his head, looking away for a moment, then back, his gaze intense. "There's something I want to try. With you. If you'll let me."

The admission hung in the air between you, fragile and honest. His usual charm was stripped away, leaving only a hopeless, hopeful anticipation. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening slightly on your hips as he pulled you in closer. "I just... I don't know. I want to make you feel so good. Better than anyone ever has." He leaned in again, his lips brushing against yours, softer this time.

"Can I show you? Please?"

"Yes.. Wait, r-right now?" You stammer.

He didn't exactly give you a verbalized answer as he guided you back gently towards the large couch, his movements tender yet insistent. He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your calves.

"It'll feel good. Trust me."

His touch was reverent as he settled back against the cushions. His eyes were dark, full of a focused intensity you'd only ever seen him reserve for the stage. He took a deep, steadying breath as he drank you in, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your inner thighs. He laughs softly in slight embarrassment as he wanders in thought. Trying to figure out what to say without being awkward.

"I've been practicing. In my head. Every night."

"Practicing what?" You pant, lifting your hips as he taps your thigh twice, signaling you to slide down your sweatpants. Again, no verbal response. He just looked up at you, his expression a mixture of playful hope and determination.

His fingers trailed slowly up your skin, his senses still catching up to the familiarity of your body heat against his.

His breath hitched as his fingertips brushed against the damp fabric of your cloth panties. He hooked his fingers into the waistband, sliding them down your legs with a slow, deliberate motion. His eyes never left yours.

His index finger traces a slow, teasing circle around your entrance, a small huff of satisfaction leaving him as he watches you relax against his touch. His finger pushes inside of you slowly, growing reaccustomed to the sound of your soft moans and the feeling of your walls sucking him in.

He continued his slow, deliberate rhythm with his finger, then added another, his breathing becoming more ragged as he watched your reactions. You looked so good like this. He loved how your face contorted in pleasure as your head fell back against the back of the couch. Especially now, when he used his thumb to circle your clit.

"Fuck," he mutters, almost inaudible. He couldn't take it anymore. He loved giving you what you were used to, so much that he almost forgot about his motive in the first place.

After a few moments, as he remembered his studies, he adjusted his hand. His pinky finger strayed lower, pressing ever so softly against your perineum.

He applied a gentle rhythmic pressure with the tip of his pinky, his other fingers still moving inside of you. His eyes went wide as your entire body jolted. A sharp, surprised gasp escaped your lips, your back arching off the couch cushions.

Exactly how he imagined.

He hums at the sight, increasing the pressure, more confidently this time. "Feels good? Told you I've been practicing."

"What the hell is that?" You whimper, the pleasure increasing as the combined sensation of his fingers inside of you and the rhythmic pleasure of somewhere you didn't even know existed. An involuntary moan rumbled in your chest, your hips lifting slightly to meet the pleasure. It became an entirely new, addictive feeling for you, and you had no idea if it was too much or not enough.

"Something I learned from a few sources." His voice was laced with pride and sheer need. "I just... I had to know for sure. For you."

He leans in closer, his breath is hot against your skin, and you aren't sure if you're going to last much longer. Your legs are trembling. Shaking so sweetly, it's almost amusing for him.

"You have no idea how long I've thought about this. How many nights I stayed awake... If I knew you'd be shaking by just my fingers, I would've done this sooner."

His voice is ragged, tumbling out between his own labored breaths. The control he's been clinging to is starting to fray at the edges. His movements start to become more frantic, so intense that you squirt all over his forearm and the couch below you. Your keens and mewls are so loud, part of you is afraid of noise complaints from your neighbors, or perhaps any side glances from the animals outside in the morning.

But he didn't care. His fingers stilled, pressing deep, sighing in relief at the mess you've made all over him.

"Sweetheart, I can't," he's practically moaning by now, his own boner in his pants growing more painful by the minute. "I can't wait anymore."

He pulls his hand away, leaving you throbbing and empty as he licks his fingers clean, a low groan tearing from his throat at your sweet taste.

He fumbles with his own pants, his hands shaking, then leans down to kiss you. You taste yourself on his lips as he positions himself at your slick entrance, practically soaking with arousal and sensitivity.

He pushes inside with one swift, deep motion, and you clench around him like nobody's business — well, yeah, it's not, but you get my point. The feeling of being inside of you after months apart is overwhelming for both of you.

He buries his face in your neck, his hips beginning a frantic, shallow rhythm.

"Oh god... oh god I've missed this. Missed you. S-so much." His voice cracks, higher in pitch when it just becomes too much. Too little. Is he about to cum already?

All is forgotten and blank when he's united with you. Who can blame him? He's just a man. A man lost in the sensation of being with the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

His lover. His best friend. His rock. And a damn good sex partner, he will die before giving to someone else to enjoy.

His thrusts become harder, less controlled. "F-fu— I love you so much. My sweet girl— Fuck—" He clings to you, his body trembling with the force of your shared release, your orgasm crashing through you with no warning.

A high, broken whimper escapes his throat as he collapses against you, both of you spent on your velvet couch. He lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his lips curving against your skin.

"I guess this means I need to do more homework."

‿̩͙‿੭　∔⠀ৎ‿̩͙‿

[yourleogf]

cam cade coded 👀👀?

educational incentives ❥ tyriq withers

PAIRING: tyriq withers as “cameron ‘cam’ cade” from “him (2025)” x black!fem!reader

SUMMARY: in which your grades unintentionally start to slip, so Cameron prohibits you from any kind of sexual act until you fix them, which motivates you to put forth more effort than you did before. so the moment your final grades get released, you waste no showing them to him so you can get what you need. 🩷

TAGLIST (click here to be added!): @darkseidex @plan3tch1ld @cozygirljay @mooki3-bear @houseofathenaa @h3avenlyglory @isthattyra @pinkhoodi @k0niiii-blog @vanillaiceyhot @hismainchic @bamb1ss @numberoneszafan @freshbonggwater @saltygoldengirl @mxnijuana @camesgf @snowseasonmademe @chaotuics @fifi-asco @the1miscief @theesexyyaquariuss @evimmarvel @sativadivastuff @myhobari @n0r4sarchive @mamasturn @neighbourscat @thatonecarebear @hiitsmebbygrl16 @thatssokarii @hotgirlgenniesblog @kyomionline @arithescorpio @irunfadesoverkenny @watamotee33 @tenacioustestamentambush @koyadagreat @ynniksslirg @goldenelixer-24 @moneymeeeeeeeee 🩷

you didn’t mean for it to happen, but once the damage was done, you knew you’d be in trouble.

you may or may not have goofed around with your friends for the first month and a half of the semester, unknowingly prioritizing fun over your academics. sure, your attendance was on point and you never missed an assignment, but when you started going out to frat parties almost every weekend with your homegirls, your grades unfortunately started to slip.

it all happened so fast — the parties, the drinking, the Friday night outings, the reckless fun that practically took over your life — but it all stopped as quick as it started once your midterm grades got released. Cs and below stared threateningly at you, and you swore you felt your heart drop straight to your ass at the sight.

you didn’t know how it happened. you had always been an A and B student, so the sight of multiple grades below those made you sick to your stomach. but when Cameron found out? you felt like you could’ve vomited right in his face.

Cameron wasn’t the type to really fuss at you or even be strict on you, but when he found out what your grades were, he practically turned into your father. he got on you about your grades firmer than you expected, but the moment he told you that he’d stop fucking you and touching you sexually until you got your grades up was when you went rigid.

granted, you weren’t mad at him for taking away those privileges — you shouldn’t have even let your grades slip this bad anyway — but you knew your sexual frustration would eat away at you until the semester ended and final grades were released.

so what did you do? you worked your ass off for the rest of the semester to fix your grades.

no more parties, no more drinking, no more Friday night outings — nothing. when the weekend came, you had completely sheltered yourself in your room with nothing but your laptop and notebooks as you completed assignments and studied for upcoming exams.

you were determined to get your grades back up, but you were even more determined to be rewarded by Cameron for getting your grades back up.

once the semester came to an end and final exams wrapped up, you were practically ecstatic. you had a good feeling that you brought up your grades, but you knew you couldn’t say anything to Cameron about them because he’d ask for proof, so you waited until you were notified that final grades had been released — which came quicker than you expected.

you wasted no time logging into your Banner account and clicking through it to see your grades, your eyes lighting up at the sight of As and Bs staring back at you. satisfaction and relief coursed deeply through you as the realization settled in — you recovered rather quickly from what could’ve been a horrible blow to your GPA.

you didn’t bother celebrating on your own, though. the moment you saw your grades, you were already in the driver’s seat of your car. you drove to Cameron’s apartment with nothing but intense excitement and suppressed sexual desire inside you — though your excitement seemingly overpowered everything else because when you arrived at his apartment, you practically bursted through his door.

“Cameroooon!” you called out excitedly as you quickly pushed open his door and unintentionally slammed it behind you, swiftly locking it before taking off through his apartment, “baby! where you at?!”

Cameron jumped at the sudden sound of your appearance and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion mixed with amusement as he sat up on the couch and watched you practically pace through his humble abode to find him, “i’m in the living room. why you screamin’, you good?”

a squeal flew from your mouth before you could catch it at the sound of his voice and you ran into the living room as you threw yourself at him and into his lap, making him grunt before laughing at you while his arms instinctively wrapped around your body to steady you.

“what’s goin’ on with you, ma? why you runnin’ around here like somebody after you or some shit?” Cameron laughed as both of his eyebrows raised and he leaned back against the couch to properly look at you, his arms loosening around you and his hands moving to hold your waist.

“look!” you practically shoved your phone into his chest, but his reflexes kicked in and one of his hands caught it before it could actually come in contact with him, “i did it, Cam!”

Cameron let out a soft snort at your frantic joy and he adjusted his grip on your phone as he lifted it and his eyes averted to the screen, an understanding smile crossing his face once it clicked in his mind why you were so excited.

“see, that’s what i’m talking ‘bout. congrats, baby, i knew you could do it.” Cameron smiled, looking up at you, as you smiled back, yours wider than his, and you leaned down to him, peppering kisses across his face before moving your mouth to his and pecking his lips multiple times.

“okay, now eat my pussy,” you mumbled between pecks as Cameron laughed lowly and sat your phone aside, his hand on your waist sliding around to rest against your back while his other gently grabbed the back of your neck and slightly pulled you back from his mouth, “Cameron, come on— i haven’t felt any part of you in so long, i need this.”

“that ain’t how you ask, pretty,” Cameron teased, a small smirk creeping onto his face, as you groaned softly and rested your hands against his shoulders, a pout absentmindedly forming on your face at his denial, “ask for it properly.”

“can you please eat my pussy, baby?” you asked sweetly, batting your eyelashes at him, as your thumbs traced small circles against his shoulders and Cameron’s smirk slightly widened, “i need you, Cam, you know that.”

Cameron looked at you silently for a moment, letting the weight of your words settle into the atmosphere, before he suddenly wrapped his arms around you and flipped you over, eliciting an abrupt squeal from you while he laid you on your back.

“well… since you asked nicely,” Cameron paused and gently pecked your lips before slowly maneuvering down your body, “and you brought your grades up like i wanted you to,” he paused again and hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants as he teasingly tugged at them before pulling them down and throwing them aside, “i should reward you for that, huh?”

“yeah,” your voice was softer than before — a bit breathy as well — and you raised your hips as you helped him remove the last barrier of clothing that covered your lower body, “you should.”

“i got you, mama.” Cameron’s arms wrapped around your legs and he spread them wide as he dipped his head between your thighs and pressed soft kisses against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, gently nipping at them before sticking out his tongue and slowly licking a long stripe of your pussy.

your body shuddered from the familiar yet forgotten feeling and you whimpered as your hands came down to cradle the back of Cameron’s head, your fingertips running over his buzzed hair and slightly grazing the stapled scar by his hairline.

Cameron groaned under his breath, though he didn’t know if it was coaxed out of him by your taste or touch, and his fingers slightly tightened against your thighs as he began eating your pussy like a man who hadn’t eaten in years, a small furrow forming between his eyebrows while he buried his face into your cunt.

your head fell back against the couch cushions and a high-pitched moan fell from your mouth as your eyes rolled back and your jaw went slack, a yelp erupting from you at feeling Cameron’s mouth lock around your clit.

“oh, fuuuck, baby— C-Cam!” you cried out, your eyebrows furrowing, as your back started to arch up from the couch but you suddenly felt his palm press into your stomach to hold you down, a whine falling from your mouth while one of your hands slid down to hold onto the back of Cameron’s neck, “uuugh, shiiiit! mmh, don’t s-stop!”

Cameron’s long fingers splayed across your stomach and kept you from running away as his other hand slid between your legs and he dragged his middle finger through your folds, collecting your arousal before he eased it inside of you.

“fuck!” a broken whimper fell from your mouth and your legs jerked as your head raised and you looked down at Cameron, pleasure displayed across your pretty face and mixing with a hint of bewilderment.

you had been so wound up for the past few months from Cameron’s “no sex or head” rule, but it seemed like you weren’t the only one affected by it. Cameron had always been skilled at eating pussy, but the way he was feasting on you today felt different — as if he was practically starving for another taste of you.

Cameron’s eyes found yours and you watched the corners of his mouth slightly lift in what you assumed to be a smirk, the sight of shock mixed with pure bliss in your expression telling him more than you even needed to.

pulling his mouth off of your clit, Cameron rolled and wiggled his tongue against it as he pushed his ring finger inside you and slightly scissored them to stretch you further open, eliciting a desperate mewl from you while you watch him torment you with his mouth and fingers.

“you gon’ cum for me, ma? hm?” Cameron murmured against your clit, flicking his tongue against it, as he slightly pulled back and spit on your clit before replacing his mouth with his thumb, rubbing it in quick circles while his fingers thrusted deeply inside you, “you gon’ let me taste how much you been missin’ me, pretty girl?”

“y-yes!” you whined, your head falling back for a second time, as you gasped sharply and your legs jerked again, your eyes rolling back and your eyebrows furrowing deeply while a small scrunch formed in the bridge of your nose, “ohhh, my G— C-Cameroooon! shiiiit, baby, i-i’m—”

“uh-huh, i know. i know, baby. keep soakin’ my fingers just like that. gimme’ all that good shit.”

[actlikeyoudontknowthekid-deacti]

can u maybe write about mj (any era) catching us touching ourselves and then helping her

Pleasure

A/N: OF COURSE. Keep these requests coming u guysssss

Warning: masturbation, getting caught, wait nvm it’s actually cute, smut ofc

December 31, 1980

The bass thrummed through your chest, vibrating the floorboards. It was the soundtrack of your youth, the soundtrack of your dreams. Michael Jackson’s “Rock With You” pulsed from the living room speakers, filling your apartment with a warmth that was more than just the heater’s output. It was him. He was here.

December 31, 1980.

New Year’s Eve.

You’d been friends for years, a connection forged through shared love for his art and a shy, mutual understanding. He wasn’t the global icon in your living room tonight; he was Michael, the guy who laughed at your bad jokes, who insisted on making the popcorn himself, who danced with an effortless grace that made your heart stutter just watching him move across the carpet. His presence was electric, but tonight it felt… different. More intimate. The world outside was celebrating, but here, in your cozy space, it was just the two of you.

“This one’s my favorite,” he said softly, nodding towards the stereo as the smooth synth of “Off the Wall” began. He was leaning against your bookshelf, his silhouette framed by the lamplight. The iconic red leather jacket from the tour was hanging on a chair, leaving him in a simple, soft black sweater and jeans. He looked comfortable. He looked real.

You’d watched The Empire Strikes Back, then The Shining, the latter making him clutch your arm during the scary parts, his laughter nervous and genuine afterwards. The space between you on the sofa had gradually vanished, until his thigh was pressed against yours, the warmth seeping through your own jeans. Every brush of his arm, every shared glance felt loaded with a tension you hadn’t dared name.

It was a crush. A deep, aching, years-long crush that had morphed into something more visceral tonight. The way his lips moved when he spoke, the flash of his eyes when he smiled, the subtle scent of his cologne—it all coiled inside you, a tight, needy knot in your lower belly. You were turned on. Simple as that. Aroused by your friend, by the proximity, by the sheer impossibility of it.

Your mind raced. You needed a moment. A private moment to deal with this sudden, overwhelming surge.

“I think I left my… my watch in my bedroom,” you stammered, standing up abruptly. “I’ll go grab it.”

Michael glanced at you, his dark eyes soft. “Sure. Don’t be long, the next movie’s starting.”

You hurried down the short hallway, your pulse hammering in your ears. The bedroom door clicked shut behind you, sealing you in the quiet, familiar darkness of your room. The faint music still drifted in, a sensual backdrop to your turmoil.

You couldn’t hold it. The image of him—his slender hands, the curve of his neck, the whisper of his voice—flooded your mind. Your breath came in short gasps as you sank onto the edge of your bed. This was madness. He was Michael Jackson. Your friend. But the desire was a physical thing now, a throbbing ache between your legs that demanded attention.

Your hands trembled as you unzipped your jeans, pushing them down your hips along with your underwear. The cool air of the room hit your skin, but it did nothing to calm the heat radiating from your core. You leaned back against the pillows, your legs parting almost instinctively.

You let your fingers trail down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, until they finally brushed against your own wetness. A sharp, quiet gasp escaped you. This was for him. Every thought was of him. You imagined it was his touch, not yours. His elegant, famous fingers tracing these same paths. You closed your eyes, losing yourself in the fantasy.

You began to touch yourself, slowly at first, circling your clit with a building pressure. The sensations were immediate and intense, a direct feedback loop to the mental image of Michael. You pictured him kneeling beside the bed, watching you with those intense, curious eyes. You imagined his voice, gentle and encouraging. Your movements became more deliberate, more urgent. Two fingers slipped inside yourself, and you arched off the bed, a moan caught in your throat. You worked yourself, pumping your fingers, rubbing your clit with your thumb, lost in a private, desperate rhythm fueled entirely by your forbidden longing for the man in your living room.

You were so lost in it, so consumed by the building peak, that you didn’t hear the soft footsteps. You didn’t hear the door hinge sigh.

The fantasy was vivid—he was praising you, calling you beautiful, leaning closer—when a real voice, soft and stunned, cut through the illusion.

“Oh…”

Your eyes flew open.

He was there. Michael. Standing in your bedroom doorway, the hall light casting a long shadow behind him. His expression was one of pure surprise, his eyes wide, fixed on where your hand moved between your legs. You froze, your whole body seizing with instant, mortifying embarrassment. You yanked your hand away, scrambling to pull the covers over yourself, but it was too late. He’d seen. He’d seen everything.

“I—I’m so sorry,” you blurted, your voice shaking. “I didn’t… I just…”

He didn’t move away. He didn’t laugh or look disgusted. He just stood there, his surprise slowly melting into something else—something thoughtful, something understanding. He took a step into the room, his movements quiet and deliberate.

“Don’t be sorry,” he said, his voice lower than usual, a rich, soothing tone. “It’s… it’s normal. Everyone does it. I do it.”

The confession, so simple and frank, stunned you more than his presence. You stared at him, your embarrassment still hot on your face, but now mixed with a shock of vulnerability.

He came closer, sitting gently on the edge of your bed, near your feet. He looked at you, not at your exposed body, but at your eyes. “You were thinking about something,” he murmured. “Something that made you feel good.”

You couldn’t lie. The truth was too palpable. You nodded slowly, a tear of shame and relief welling in your eye. “Yeah.”

A gentle smile touched his lips. It wasn’t mocking. It was… kind. “Can I… can I see?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “Can I help?”

Your mind screamed a dozen warnings, but your body, your aching, wanting body, answered for you. You nodded again, a tiny, helpless movement.

He shifted closer. His presence was overwhelming now, not just famous, but male, intimate, focused on you. He reached out, his hand—the hand you’d idolized, the hand that created magic—hovered for a moment before it gently replaced yours. His fingertips brushed over your lower stomach, a touch so light it felt like a whisper. Then they dipped lower, tracing through your wetness, exploring you with a tender, curious precision.

You gasped, your back pressing into the mattress. His touch was different. It was assured, intentional. It wasn’t the frantic, selfish touch of your own need; it was an exploration, a gift.

“You’re so beautiful here,” he murmured, his eyes studying his own movements. He spread your folds gently with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit and applying a perfect, circling pressure. “So soft. So warm.”

Every word, every touch, sent bolts of pleasure through you. This wasn’t a fantasy anymore. It was real. Michael Jackson, the shy superstar, was touching you, making you feel things you’d never dreamed possible. His other hand came up to rest on your thigh, his grip firm and reassuring.

He leaned in closer, his face now just inches from your core. His breath was warm against your sensitive skin. “Let me make it better for you,” he whispered, and then he lowered his head.

His lips pressed against you, a soft, closed-mouth kiss that made your entire body jolt. Then he opened his mouth, and his tongue touched you. It was a slow, languid stroke from the bottom of your slit all the way up to your clit. You cried out, a sharp, unfiltered sound of pleasure. He didn’t stop. He began to eat you out with a dedication that was almost artistic. His tongue licked, probed, circled. He used the flat of it to press against your entire sensitive area, then the tip to flick rapidly at your clit. His movements were rhythmic, building a steady, incredible pressure.

You were panting now, your hands fisting the sheets beside you. You watched, through a haze of pleasure, his beautiful face buried between your legs, his eyes closed in concentration. He was lost in it, too. Giving you pleasure was his pleasure. He hummed softly against you, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. One of his hands slid up your body, under your shirt, to cup your breast. His thumb rubbed over your nipple through the fabric, matching the rhythm of his tongue.

The dual sensations were overwhelming. Your hips began to move, rocking against his mouth, seeking more of that perfect friction. He responded, his tongue moving faster, his suction becoming stronger. He was drinking from you, consuming you, and you felt yourself unraveling.

“Michael… I’m…” you moaned, warning him.

He just intensified his efforts. His tongue became a relentless, pinpoint instrument on your clit, while his fingers, now slick with your moisture, pushed inside you again, two then three, filling you, stretching you in a way that made you see stars. The combination was exquisite—the internal pressure of his fingers, the external, focused assault of his tongue.

Your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. It wasn’t a slow build; it was a sudden, seismic rupture of pleasure that started deep in your belly and exploded outward. You screamed, your body convulsing, arching off the bed so violently he had to hold you down. Colors flashed behind your eyelids. The world narrowed to the point where his mouth met your body. You bucked against him, your release soaking his chin, his lips, as he continued to work you through it, gentler now, licking and soothing until the last tremor faded from your limbs.

You collapsed back onto the mattress, breathless, utterly spent. He finally lifted his head, his face glistening with your essence. He looked at you, his eyes dark with satisfaction and something else—desire. His own desire.

He didn’t speak. He just crawled up the bed, his body aligning with yours. He kissed you, deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. It was intimate, primal. His hand went to his own jeans, unzipping them. He pushed them down, along with his underwear, and his erection sprang free, hard and urgent against your thigh.

You looked at it, then at him. The need to reciprocate was immediate, overwhelming. You wanted to give him the same pleasure he’d just given you.

You pushed him gently so he was lying beside you, then you slid down the bed, positioning yourself between his legs. You took him in your hand first, feeling the smooth, hot skin of his shaft. He was perfectly formed, elegant like the rest of him. You leaned down and, without hesitation, took him into your mouth.

He gasped, a sharp, musical sound. His hips twitched. You began to move, using your tongue along the underside of his shaft, circling the head, taking him deep. You worshipped him with your mouth, with the same focused intensity he had shown you. You listened to his breathing, to the soft moans that escaped him, and you adjusted your rhythm—slower, then faster, adding suction, using your hand to stroke what your mouth couldn’t cover.

He was soon trembling, his hands gripping your hair gently, not guiding, just holding. “That’s… so good,” he choked out. “You’re so good.”

You felt him swell, tighten. You knew he was close. You redoubled your efforts, sucking him firmly, your tongue dancing over the most sensitive spot. With a cry that was half-sung, half-moan, he came. His release flooded your mouth, warm and abundant. You swallowed, taking all of him, not stopping until he was soft and spent in your mouth.

You crawled back up to lie beside him, both of you breathless, naked, entangled in the aftermath. The silence was thick, but it wasn’t awkward. It was full.

You turned to look at him, his profile serene against your pillow. The confession, the one you’d held for years, bubbled up now, unstoppable. “Michael,” you whispered. “I… I have feelings for you. More than friendship. I’ve had them for a long time.”

He turned his head, his eyes meeting yours. He didn’t look surprised. He looked… relieved. A soft smile broke on his lips. “I know,” he said quietly. “I have them for you, too. I’ve just… been scared to say it.”

He reached out, his fingers tracing your cheek. “But tonight… tonight wasn’t scary. It was beautiful.”

You kissed him again, slowly, a kiss that sealed the confession, that turned a secret crush into a shared, explicit truth. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close in the dim light of your bedroom, the distant pulse of his music still the only sound in the world.

————-

The silence in your bedroom is warm. It’s a thick, comfortable silence, filled with the memory of shared breath and the scent of each other’s skin. You lie tangled together, the blanket pulled haphazardly over your legs, his arm draped across your waist. His heartbeat is a slow, steady drum against your back.

You can feel the shift in the air as morning begins to creep through the window. The deep, intimate night is giving way to something else—something lighter, clearer. And with it comes a flicker of shyness.

It starts as a flutter in your stomach. The raw, unbridled passion of the hours before—his mouth on you, your mouth on him, the whispered confessions—was a world unto itself, a bubble where normal rules didn’t apply. But now, the real world is pushing its way back in. You are lying naked with Michael Jackson. Not the fantasy Michael, the poster on your wall, but the man. The man whose shy smile you know, whose laugh you love, whose body you just explored with a hunger that left you both trembling.

A sudden, sharp sense of exposure washes over you. You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, pressing your cheek into the pillow. Did we really do all that? The thought is exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

You feel him stir beside you. His arm tightens a little around you, a reflexive, sleepy gesture. Then he shifts, turning his head to look at you. His dark eyes are soft, still a little blurred with sleep and satisfaction. He smiles, a small, private smile that makes your heart clench.

“Morning,” he murmurs. His voice is sleep-rough, deeper than usual.

“Morning,” you whisper back. Your voice feels fragile.

The shyness blooms fully now, a hot flush rising up your neck to your cheeks. You look away, focusing on the pattern of light on the ceiling. You want to pull the blanket tighter, to hide yourself a little, but you don’t. You stay still, letting him see you.

He sees it, of course. He sees everything. His fingers trace a slow, gentle line up your spine. “You’re thinking,” he says softly.

“A little,” you admit.

“About last night?”

You nod, still not looking at him. “About… what it means.”

His hand stops its tracing. He takes a slow breath, the air moving against your shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about that too,” he says. His tone is careful, thoughtful. “Since the moment you kissed me back.”

That makes you turn to face him. His expression is open, vulnerable. There’s no superstar mask here. It’s just Michael, looking a little unsure, a little hopeful. “We should talk,” he says. “Not here. It’s too… intense here. Let’s get dressed. Go to the living room. Sit on the sofa like we did before the movies started.”

The idea is a relief. The bed feels like a confessional booth, a place of pure physical truth. The sofa feels like a neutral ground, a place for words. You nod again, more firmly this time. “Okay.”

He slips out of bed first, his movements graceful even in this simple act. His body is slim and beautiful in the morning light, a sculpture of smooth, caramel skin and gentle curves. You watch him, the shyness mixing with a fresh, low ache of desire. He finds his jeans and sweater, pulling them on with a quiet efficiency. He doesn’t look at you while he dresses, giving you a moment of privacy.

You get up, feeling a slight soreness between your legs—a pleasant, lingering reminder of his attention. You find your own clothes, the jeans and sweater from yesterday, and put them on. The fabric feels strange against your skin, a barrier between you and the memory of his touch.

You walk into the living room together. The space is still dim, the curtains drawn against the New Year’s Day morning. The stereo is silent now. His red leather jacket is still on the chair. The empty popcorn bowl sits on the coffee table. It feels like a museum of the night before.

He sits on the sofa first, in the same spot he occupied last night. You sit beside him, but you leave a small gap between you. Not the pressing closeness of before, but a space for breathing, for talking.

He turns to you, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. “So,” he begins, his voice quiet. “Last night… was incredible. For me. I hope it was for you too.”

“It was,” you say quickly, the words rushing out. “It was… beyond anything I’ve ever felt.”

He smiles, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “Good.” He pauses, looking down at his hands. “I’ve… I’ve never done that with someone I really cared about. Not like this. Not where it felt… real. Most of the time, it’s just… performance. For the other person. Or for the cameras, even if they’re not there.” He looks up at you. “But with you… it wasn’t a performance. It was just me. Wanting you. Wanting to make you feel good.”

The honesty of it hits you like a physical touch. You reach out, placing your hand over his clasped ones. “It felt real,” you assure him. “It felt like you.”

He nods, relaxing a little under your touch. “The thing is…” he continues, his gaze steady on yours. “I have feelings for you. You know that now. I said it. And you have them for me. But… my life isn’t normal. It’s not a life where I can just… date someone. Go to the movies and hold hands in public. It’s a life where every move is watched, every connection is analyzed.” He swallows. “If we… if we try to have something… it would have to be a secret. A really, really big secret. For a long time. Maybe forever.”

You’ve known this, of course. You’ve known it abstractly for years. But hearing it now, in the context of his mouth on your skin, his release in your mouth, makes it concrete and heavy. It’s not just a theoretical problem. It’s the wall you’d have to live behind.

“I understand,” you say softly. Your hand tightens on his. “But… do you want to try? Despite all that?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes,” he says, the word firm and clear. “I want to try. I want you. More than I’ve wanted anything outside of my music. I’m… tired of being alone. Tired of the fantasy being only on stage. I want a real one. With you.”

The admission is so raw, so stripped of his usual poetic veneer, that it brings tears to your eyes. You lean forward, closing the gap between you on the sofa. You kiss him, not with the hungry passion of last night, but with a tender, affirming sweetness. His lips respond, soft and welcoming.

When you pull back, you’re both breathing a little faster. The talking has opened the door again, not to shyness, but to the desire that lurks just beneath it. The physical truth of last night is still in your bodies, a live wire waiting to be touched.

You look at him, at his beautiful face, his expressive eyes now dark with a renewed want. The shyness is melting away, burned off by the heat of his confession and the memory of his touch. You want to feel him again. You want to show him, not just with words, but with your body, that you accept the secret, that you choose him despite it.

Your hand, still resting on his, moves. You slide it up his arm, over the soft fabric of his sweater, until your fingers reach the side of his neck. You trace the line of his jaw, feeling the smooth skin beneath your touch.

He watches you, his eyes tracking your movements. His breath catches when your thumb brushes his lower lip.

“We talked,” you whisper, your voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register. “Now… I want to feel again.”

A slow smile spreads across his face, a smile of understanding and anticipation. “I want to feel too,” he murmurs.

You don’t move to undress him. Not yet. The clothed intimacy feels important now—a bridge between the raw nakedness of last night and the complicated world outside. You want to touch him through the barriers, to find the heat beneath the fabric.

You lean in closer, your body pressing against his side on the sofa. Your other hand comes up, joining the first, and you begin to explore him with a deliberate, slow curiosity. Your palms glide over the black sweater, feeling the contours of his chest, the slim shape of his torso. You can feel the warmth of his body radiating through the wool, the slight rise of his muscles as he tenses under your touch.

He closes his eyes, letting you explore. His head tilts back against the sofa cushion, a silent surrender.

You move your hands lower, over his stomach, the flat plane of his abdomen. Then you slide them down to his thighs, still clad in the soft denim of his jeans. You squeeze gently, feeling the firm muscle beneath. Your touch is possessive, admiring. You’re rediscovering his body, but this time with the knowledge of what lies beneath, with the memory of his taste and his hardness.

Your fingers find the button of his jeans. You don’t open it. You just rest your hand there, over the bulge that is already forming. You feel him swell under your touch, a responsive thickening against your palm.

He opens his eyes, looking at you with a heated focus. “You don’t have to be shy anymore,” he says, his voice a husky whisper. “You can touch me anywhere. Any way you want.”

The permission, given so explicitly, sends a surge of boldness through you. You lean forward and kiss him again, this time with more pressure, more hunger. Your tongue slips into his mouth, tasting the familiar sweetness mixed with a hint of sleep. He responds instantly, his mouth opening wider, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, sensual dance.

As you kiss him, your hand finally works the button of his jeans. You pop it open, then slide your hand inside, under the waistband of his underwear. Your fingers find him immediately—hard, hot, and already slick at the tip. You wrap your hand around his shaft, feeling the smooth, velvety skin, the solid weight of his arousal.

He groans into your mouth, a deep, vibrating sound. His hips shift, pressing himself more firmly into your grip.

You break the kiss, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your hand starts to move, a slow, steady stroke up and down his length. You watch his face as you do it, studying the changes—the flutter of his eyelids, the tightening of his jaw, the way his lips part as his breath quickens.

“You like that,” you murmur, your own voice thick with desire.

“I love it,” he gasps. “Your hand… it’s perfect.”

You increase the pace, your strokes becoming more rhythmic, more demanding. Your thumb brushes over the head of his cock each time you reach the top, spreading the moisture that’s gathered there. He is fully erect now, a beautiful, rigid curve against your palm.

The sight of him, so responsive, so vulnerable to your touch, ignites a deep, aching need in your own body. The soreness between your legs is gone, replaced by a fresh, throbbing emptiness that wants to be filled. You want him inside you. Not just in your mouth, but in the deepest part of you.

But you don’t rush. You savor this. You keep stroking him, your hand moving with a practiced ease that surprises you. You’ve never done this with such confidence, such ownership.

He reaches for you then, his own hands moving to your body. They slide under your sweater, finding the bare skin of your waist. His touch is electric, his fingers tracing the sensitive dip just above your hip bone. Then his hands move upward, cupping your breasts through your bra. He squeezes gently, his thumbs finding your nipples and rubbing them until they pebble into hard points against the fabric.

You arch into his touch, a moan escaping you. The dual stimulation—your hand on him, his hands on you—is overwhelming. You’re both fully clothed, but the sex is happening anyway, vivid and intense beneath the layers.

His breathing is ragged now. “I want to see you,” he says, his voice strained. “Take this off.”

He pulls at your sweater, helping you to lift it over your head. Your bra follows, discarded onto the floor beside the sofa. Your breasts are bare now, exposed to the cool room air and to his hungry gaze.

He looks at you, his eyes wide and appreciative. “So beautiful,” he breathes. He leans forward, his mouth finding one of your nipples. He doesn’t just kiss it; he sucks, drawing the sensitive flesh into his mouth with a gentle, persistent pressure. His tongue circles the tip, flicking it rapidly.

You cry out, your hand on his cock tightening reflexively. The sensation is sharp and exquisite, radiating from your nipple down to your core. You’re wet again, soaking through your jeans, a desperate dampness that you can feel against the fabric.

He switches to your other breast, giving it the same devoted attention. You can feel his cock pulsing in your hand, responding to the sounds you’re making, to the way your body is writhing against his mouth.

After a few minutes of this, he pulls back, his lips glistening. “Now you,” he says, his hands going to his sweater. He pulls it off, revealing his own bare chest. His torso is slender, his skin smooth and taut over a subtle musculature. You’ve seen it before, in photos, in videos, but seeing it now, in this private context, is breathtaking.

You lean in and kiss his chest, your mouth moving over his skin. You taste the salt of him, the unique scent that is Michael. Your lips find one of his nipples, and you mimic what he did to you, sucking and licking until he shudders under your touch.

Your hand never stops moving on his cock. It’s a constant, rhythmic stimulation, keeping him on the edge. You can feel the tension building in his body, the way his stomach muscles contract, the way his thighs tremble.

He pushes you back gently, his eyes blazing. “I need to touch you,” he says, his voice urgent. “Properly.”

He unbuttons your jeans, his fingers working quickly. He pulls them down your legs, along with your underwear, leaving you completely naked on the sofa. The cool air hits your skin, but his gaze is hotter.

He kneels on the floor before you, his position reverent, like last night in the bedroom. He looks up at you, his eyes traveling over your body—your breasts, your stomach, the thatch of hair between your legs. “You’re incredible,” he whispers.

Then he leans forward, his hands spreading your thighs wider. He doesn’t use his mouth this time. Instead, his fingers find your entrance, dipping inside with an easy, knowing motion. He pushes two fingers into you, deep, until they’re fully embedded. You gasp, your hips lifting off the sofa cushions.

He starts to move them, pumping slowly, his thumb once again finding your clit and applying a perfect, circling pressure. It’s the same magic as last night, but now you’re watching him, watching the focused intensity on his face as he pleasures you.

“You’re so tight,” he murmurs, his fingers twisting inside you. “So warm. I can feel you pulsing around my fingers.”

The words, combined with the action, push you closer to the edge. You’re panting, your head thrown back, your hands gripping the sofa behind you. His fingers are a delicious invasion, filling you exactly where you need to be filled.

He adds a third finger, stretching you further. The sensation is intense, a sweet burn that makes you cry out. He uses his other hand to press against your lower stomach, adding external pressure that makes the internal stimulation even more profound.

You’re bucking against his hand now, your body moving in a frantic rhythm. The orgasm is building, a tight coil of pleasure in your belly that’s ready to snap.

“Michael… please…” you moan, not knowing what you’re asking for.

He understands. He withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving you empty and aching. Then he stands up, his own jeans now open, his cock fully exposed and throbbing. He looks at you, his expression fierce with desire.

“I want to be inside you,” he says, the statement simple and direct. “I want to feel you around me.”

You nod, your voice gone. You want that too. More than anything.

He climbs onto the sofa, positioning himself between your legs. He leans down, kissing you deeply as he aligns his body with yours. His cock presses against your entrance, the head nudging against your wet, sensitive flesh.

He doesn’t push in immediately. He teases, rubbing himself against you, letting you feel the full length of him against your slit. The friction is maddening, a delicious promise of what’s to come.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. “Now,” you plead. “Please, now.”

He nods, his eyes locked with yours. Then he pushes forward, slowly, steadily.

The feeling of him entering you is transcendent. It’s a fullness that goes beyond physical sensation; it’s emotional, a completion. He slides into you, inch by inch, until he’s fully buried inside you. You can feel every part of him—the heat, the hardness, the slight curve of his shaft. He fits you perfectly, as if your body was made for him.

He stops when he’s all the way in, his hips flush against yours. He lets out a long, shaky breath. “Oh… wow,” he whispers. “You feel… incredible.”

You feel the same. You’re stretched, filled, connected to him in the most fundamental way. You look up at him, seeing the awe in his face. This is new for him too. This level of intimacy, this deep joining.

He begins to move. His first thrust is gentle, a slow withdrawal and a careful return. You gasp, your body adjusting to the rhythm. Then he picks up pace, his hips moving with a natural, graceful motion. Each thrust sends a shockwave of pleasure through you. Each time he pulls back, you feel a desperate emptiness that is instantly filled again by his forward push.

His thrusts are deep, reaching places his fingers couldn’t. You can feel him hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

He doesn’t mind. He’s lost in the sensation too. His eyes are closed now, his face a mask of pure concentration and pleasure. His breathing is ragged, his muscles working as he drives into you.

The sofa cushions are soft beneath you, but the force of his movements is pushing you into them, creating a friction against your back that adds to the intensity. The room is filled with the sounds of your coupling—the soft slap of skin, your moans, his groans, the creak of the sofa frame.

He changes his angle slightly, tilting your hips upward. The new position sends his cock rubbing directly against your clit with each thrust. The dual stimulation—internal and external—is overwhelming. You’re climbing fast, the peak approaching with a dizzying speed.

“I’m close,” you pant, your voice breaking. “Michael, I’m so close…”

He nods, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. He’s chasing his own peak now, driven by your tightness, by your wetness, by the sounds you’re making. “Come with me,” he grunts, his voice strained. “Let’s come together.”

You try to hold on, to match his rhythm, but your body is surrendering. The orgasm erupts, a brilliant, white-hot explosion that starts in your core and radiates outward to every limb. You scream, your body convulsing around him, clamping down on his cock with a powerful, rhythmic pulse.

He feels it, and it triggers his own release. With a final, deep thrust, he buries himself inside you and lets go. His orgasm is a flood of heat, a pulsing release that you feel deep within you. He cries out, a sound that is half-moan, half-song, his body shuddering against yours.

He collapses onto you, his weight a welcome, solid pressure. He stays inside you, both of you still connected, as the aftershocks tremble through your bodies. His breath is hot against your neck, his heart hammering against your chest.

After a long moment, he slowly pulls out, the sensation making you both sigh. He rolls to lie beside you on the sofa, both of you naked, spent, and tangled together in the aftermath.

You look at him, at his face flushed with exertion, his eyes soft with satisfaction. The shyness is gone, burned away by the fire of this joining. You reach out, tracing his cheek with your finger.

He smiles, a lazy, contented smile. “So,” he says, his voice low and rough. “That’s what it means.”