a/n: all these amazing writers have made me want to come out of retirement…and i can’t stop thinking about dada he’s so unbelievably fine. it’s been so long since i’ve written ff (10 yrs) so i’m starting w/ headcannons first; hope u enjoy! semi-proofread & lowercase intended btw…i am powered by my want for him not ai! about me post coming soon; any feedback is much appreciated and my inbox is always open 𑣲⋆
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𓏲ּ𝄢 mature!michael, who constantly uplifts you with words of affirmation. each morning, you both repeat in unison the phrases written in his careful cursive: “i am so grateful i’m a magnet for miracles.” “i am beautiful.” “i am number one.” on the days you recite with less conviction, he kisses your knuckles softly after each iteration to encourage you — pavlovian conditioning in action.
𓏲ּ𝄢 mature!michael after dark, whose reflection smirks back at you as you arch further into his chest. he rubs your clit in lazy circles, middle and ring fingers curled deep inside you, kissing your cervix. his left forearm is tucked under your breasts as he rolls your right nipple with his thumb and forefinger. making you watch him bring you to ecstasy is better than any orgasm he might have. your eyes screw shut in embarrassment at the sight. “mike…please,” you whine. “you look so beautiful like this, baby. be a good girl — meet my eyes and tell me you know.”
𓏲ּ𝄢 mature!michael, who sees you as his precious babydoll. he quietly studies the fashions and aesthetics you gravitate towards, the size of your wardrobe is almost comparable to his. your sensual nature makes you inclined to silky pajama sets and gauzy lingerie. fashion shows are frequent at your shared home. the latest piece? a sheer nude chemise and matching thong, glittering softly under the warm light. you giggle shyly as michael fixates on your every curve. “do you like it?” you say, turning slowly like a rotisserie chicken. he looks at you as if you are. “i absolutely love it, doll,” michael takes his bottom lip between his teeth. “such impeccable taste.”
𓏲ּ𝄢 such impeccable taste indeed. mature!michael after dark who, shortly after making love to you — courtesy of the sexy chemise — discreetly picks up your discarded thong, encased in your essence from last night. though you’ve been suspicious but can’t confirm, michael has a secret stash of your used panties, saving them for the days or weeks he might spend away from you. sometimes he keeps it in his suit pocket, sneaking away in between meetings to get a quick whiff, as the comfort can quickly teeter towards an insatiable desire. michael drives himself insane in his hotel room with your scent, spending hours smelling, sucking, and releasing into countless pairs of your panties.
𓏲ּ𝄢 mature!michael, who loves to sit you in front of the bathroom mirror after a shower so you can watch him massage your body, placing gentle kisses on your shoulder blades, spine, hip bones, and painted toes as he works you from your head to your soles. if he weren’t a superstar, you think, could he have been a world-renowned masseuse? you close your eyes, head lulling back as you enter ultimate bliss, and michael’s laugh rumbles lowly. “enjoying yourself, sweetheart?” “always…” “that’s what i aim to hear. in fact, that’s what i live for,” stating plainly and smiling up at you lovingly.
𓏲ּ𝄢 mature!michael after dark, who also, after taking the liberty of kneading the expensive oils and butters he gifted you onto your naked, glazed frame, uses both his large hands to spread your ass, one palm for each globe. the arousal sparks deep and low in your womb, folds already threatening to glisten like the rest of your body. your face flames as you automatically attempt to press your thighs together, but michael’s hands firmly keep your position. “don’t get all shy on me angel, just wanna let you see how tantalizing all of you is.” he takes the pad of his middle finger and slides from your pearl, to your pooling entrance, to your perineum, to the tight pucker of your asshole, groaning lowly as he explores you until you’re a needy mess.
𓏲ּ𝄢 mature!michael, who loves to shower you with presents despite your frequent refusals. your past partners made you feel guilty for wanting more thoughtfulness in your relationship. you prayed your next lover would be attentive and spoil you rotten. yet, you never expected it’d be of this magnitude: romantic getaways around the globe, dainty, modest jewelry that cost thousands upon thousands, investments in your personal and creative endeavors…just to name a few. “honey, this is absolutely too much. i don’t know how you can expect me to accept this.” michael surprised you with your very own home library. the room had cherry wood floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with literary classics, fairytales, and personal favorites; couches with cushions like quicksand that threaten an afternoon nap rather than finishing the next chapter in front of you; and matching desks — side by side, of course — so you and michael can work on your respective projects without leaving one another’s sight. “only the best for my lady,” michael croons, his bambi eyes attempting to wink.
𓏲ּ𝄢 mature!michael after dark, who insists on the gift of overstimulation. the filthy expressions your face contorts into and the tremors of your body he so lovingly studies pay off when providing you pleasure. michael knows when you really need to tap out, and pushes the limit every time.
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sorry this was short i’m kinda nervous! should i do a part 2? i have so many more ideas and am happy to expand on any you may have as well 𑣲⋆
Mature! Michael would stay a little longer after you put the kids to bed, just to spend some more quality time with you. Which never ends up going his way, since you always try to kick him out as quickly as possible by making up excuses that'd make him want to leave. "Michael, I'm pretty tired and it's getting pretty late. You should be heading home," while fake yawning to make it more believable. But they never work on him because he always catches on whenever you're lying to him instead it causes him to want to stay longer just to annoy you.
Mature! Michael who always asks you if you and him could get back together for the sake of your kids or rather his sake. You both can be having a good time together with your kids. Then, he would go on to ruin the moment by asking you to be his girl again. "Please, mama come be with me. It'd make our children more than happy to see us back together," with pleading eyes. You couldn't help but feel irritated each time he brought this topic up. Especially, right in front of your kids. "Not right now, Michael."
Mature! Michael will immediately get possessive anytime you bring a man over to your house without notifying him first. The only reason he figures something like that out is because his kids tell him everything. "Y/N, how could you bring a stranger around our kids without letting me know? The fact that my kids had to tell me such information speaks a lot by itself," cornering you near the wall. "I can bring whoever I like into my house Michael, you don't control me," attempting to push him out of your way, which failed miserably, his eyes only darkened. "You're mine y/n. Nobody will ever steal you away from me, remember that," warning you before leaving.
Mature! Michael who would ghost you for weeks if you were to do something he doesn't appreciate. Yes, he's petty and has no shame showing exactly that. He'd randomly show up one day in front of your doorstep, asking to see his kids while talking to you like he hasn't been ghosting you for a weeks straight making you furious. You were spamming him nonstop demanding about his whereabouts and he now wants to reveal his presence after you've almost lost your mind.
Mature! Michael will act as if your house is also his home. Leaving his belongings there any chance he gets, so you'd remember him and know that he's not going anywhere anytime soon. At first, it was by accident leaving a few small things here and there but then he started doing it on purpose just to have a reason to come to your house to see you again. When also trying to make his presence in your life very permanent.
Mature! Michael would come to your house unannounced to surprise both you and your kids. He'd never come empty handed, bringing toys for his kids and flowers for you. You try to act unbothered by such a small gesture but someway, somehow he always makes your heart melt. Turning around to put the flowers in a vase as you widely smile at them with so much joy, he noticed each time.
Mature! Michael who would call you in the middle of the night. Drunk out of his mind to tell you how much he misses you and how bad he messed up, while begging you to forgive him for all the mistakes he has made. Hoping you'd take him back. "Mama…pleaseeeee give me one more chance. I promise I won't disappoint you this time. I can't live without you," hearing this made your heart sink.
Mature! Michael will always try to find a way to get under your skin and it works wonders each time. He absolutely loves seeing you mad, it low-key turns him on a lot. Hearing you yell at him as you crossed your arms, looking at him sternly before leaving the room annoyed out of your mind causing him to apologize. "I'm sorry, ma" attempting to chase you.
Mature! Michael will instantly show interest in you once you finally moved on from him. Suddenly, showing up anytime he can to your house. Telling you he's there to see his children but in reality it's to make sure that your new partner knows that he's very much still involved while touching you more than usual to make your partner know that he won't be replacing him anytime soon.
Mature! Michael who still acts like both of you are in a relationship. Whenever you confront his about it, he tries to act clueless when telling you he's just looking out for his children and how you should stop overthinking things.
hmm thinkin’ about mature!michael and you’re his fiancé, and the two of you share the cutest 5 yr old!
you have a routine of getting up pretty early in the day, it’s takes a while to get your daughter up and ready so the two of you figured the earlier the better; usually michael’s awake anyway.
the atmosphere is homey and warm, the intoxicating smell of breakfast being cooked on the stove and the sight of you cooking it makes michael smile, but then he remembers.
“thought it was my turn to cook breakfast?”
you look over your shoulder to see michael still in his matching pajamas, daughter perched on his hip, and by the looks of his hair he clearly hasn’t done it yet. she has a habit of grabbing michael by the face as a way to anchor herself to him, tiny hands squish at his cheeks to keep herself stabilized.
“you’ve gotta stop clawing at daddy’s face, lovey.” tone leveled and quiet when you unintentionally ignore michael’s question, returning back to the task at hand.
lovey was the nickname you gave your daughter when she was around 2 years old. a heart shaped stuffed animal would become her hyper fixation for months, and for whatever reason she’d call the doll lovey so eventually she became lovey.
“are you mad at daddy, mommy?” her worried voice squeaking, becoming unnecessarily aware that you still hadn’t acknowledged michael. he carefully bends at the waist to place her atop two phone books, the perfect height for her to eat comfortably at the table.
michael dramatically tilts his head in amusement, “mommy loves to ignore me.” he whispers in her ear earning a soft fit of giggles, and she poorly attempts to stifle them with her tiny palm.
with a roll of the eyes and the shake of a head, you tell michael to hush before shifting your attention back to your daughter, “i’m making your favorite, lovey.”
her eyes go wide and the toddler finally realizes what she’d been smelling since she risen from her slumber, “french toast!” yet another squeal but an excited one. you him in agreement, and not long after you can feel michael making his way towards you. he also has his habits but his are annoying.
standing behind you he smacks a kiss against your cheek, but not before slipping his fingers into your waistband and giving your sweatpants a yank. with a playful pat on the butt, he’s reaching over you to take a snag at the bacon you’ve already prepared.
“i could see your butt.” he hurried to explain himself before you get the chance to complain.
“they’re low rise.”
he opens his mouth to give a sarcastic response before he’s cut off by his mini me, “daddy, why’d you hit mommy’s butt?” and you’re immediately turning your head towards the stove so she doesn’t see you laugh. the question was genuine. however michael’s not as subtle, similarly mimicking what lovey did earlier with trying to surpass her giggles but to no success.
“because i love her.” and he can see a brief face of mischief on her face before its overridden with a wide grin. taking a large leap from her spot at the table, the pads of her feet thump across the kitchen floor. before you get a chance to react her little hands begin to aggressively swat at your rear.
you lurch forward in a fit of laughter, and she looks overly satisfied with herself. it doesn’t take much to make michael laugh, he’s nearly in tears.
again i ponder on pervy thriller! michael && la toya’s bsf!reader walk with me (18+) TW: slight bladder play!!
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — slumber parties are a common ritual between you and la toya, i mean she lives in a huge home why not stay over! and janet doesn’t always wanna do the more traditionally girly things la toya wants to do, and with a house full of men she sick of this overbearing amount of testosterone. lucky for you, michael’s her favorite, so he’s almost like the third part of the party. it’s often the three of you work as a trio, even more often that you always somehow end up primarily with michael.
you could be changing into your pajamas for the night in one of the guest bathrooms and forget to close the door all the way, and he’s desperate to get the slightest glimpse. i mean anything, a thigh, your stomach, the curve of your ass. he’ll take anything, and he’s frantically glancing behind his shoulder in hopes he doesn’t get caught. head bobs around in hopes he can get a better look, bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth in anticipation. little does he know, you can feel him watching. michael’s always had an intense stare, so why not put on a bit of a show??
and later in the evening he thinks he’s in the clear until you, la toya, michael and marlon are watching a movie and marlon leans close to michael’s ear “did you get a good look earlier.” and michael genuinely forgets that he was peeping earlier. with a confused look he asks what marlon is talking about. and his eyes shift towards you on the couch, snuggled up with toya.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — something i had already noticed but was soon emphasized when i was searching for photos/videos, HE’LL KISS ANYBODYYYY. i do think he’d be a victim of being slutted out, but we’ll discuss that another time.
he loves to steal kisses, and pose it as something innocent. whenever he’s greeting you he’ll always press a kiss a little too close to your lips, and the thing about michael is most times he’s so annoyingly obvious. grip low on your hips, and his large palms take up so much space on your back, the hugs always linger a tad bit longer than they should. and of course his siblings notice it, and they just smirk amongst each other observing from afar.
or a brother will dare him to kiss you, knowing the two of you are into each other, and michael does it. i feel like kissing and hand holding are his weak spots in general. it’s truly the smaller things for him.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — he’s a pincher, a grabber, and a tickler. he’s loves to poke and prod at people in general, but especially you. so it’s not uncommon to see the two of you share a tickle fight on his bed or on the living room couch, in this particular moment it’s his bedroom floor.
watching you squirm and wiggle beneath him, hands desperately grabbing at his wrists in a weak attempt to push him off but to no success. he’s feeling so hard and so heavy it’s painful. tears are prickling your eyes, your grin is playful and wide, your thighs jiggle whenever you’re moving them around it an attempt to escape, but his fingers continue to find that sweet spot that makes your stomach tense. you try to get him back but he’s too skilled, suspiciously good at this.
your bladder can’t withstand this continual abuse, aware of your plea of severely needing the restroom, a devious gleam glazes over his widened irises. his eyes instinctively dart towards the swell of your thighs, you’re clenching. a terrible pursue at trying to hold it in.
his tickling hold a heavier hand now, and all of its weight presses directly on your bladder. the new pressure placed against your abdomen makes you mewl, and the eye contact the two of you share after is piercing.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — i’d like to assume like most, michael has a lot of empathy for people, he’s always been someone that feels deeply. he’s the tyler where if someone else is crying, he’ll more than like end up sharing those tears. but, in this specific circumstance—the tears bring him a sense of possessive relief.
michael secretly loves whenever you experience a break up, yes on one hand it’s torturous for him to witness someone he cares for so deeply feel so torn. on the other hand the result of needing to comfort you is something he truly enjoys doing.
you’re overly affectionate and clingy after a heart break, sometimes spending weeks at hayvenhurst. you’re whiny, and distraught, often sporting a puffy, teary eyed face that makes him a lot more excited than he’d openly admit. you’re crying into his lap, slaty tears pool into a wet spot on his pants.
and now you have yet another reason to whine cause you’ve soiled michael’s pants, you mindlessly aim to wipe the stain away with the palm of your hand, but you’re quick to realize how pointless that is. simultaneously michael is battling every muscle in his being not to jerk against you, he squeezes his eyes shut when the weight of your head returns to his lap. his hips are twitching and he’s pathetically trying to control his breath and keep a poker face, praying you haven’t caught wind of the annoyingly obvious lump in his jeans.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — michael loved his sister dearly, but he can’t stand that she’s your friend. she’s always been opinionated and very vocal, and she doesn’t hesitate to call him out whenever he’s caught catching a peek. and she knows he hates being called out or exposed, but that’s what sisters are for right? to push.
you could be having a sleepover or movie night so you’re in a comfortable pair of lounge shorts, and something as subtle as reaching over for a handful of popcorn makes your shorts ride up. it gives michael a perfect view, the round cups of your ass falling beneath the hem of your shorts. and with an instant his eyes are locked on your behind, and la toya takes notice almost immediately. she reaches over you, swatting michael on the shoulder, “i saw that michael!” her voice high pitched and squeaky.
he’s shaking his head with embarrassment and defeat, with a tight lip smile to match. his cheeks feel warm and his heart nearly drops at the screeching sound of her voice breaking through the previous silence the three of you shared. his voice small and quiet, “quit it, toya.”
and you’ve got a handful of popcorn stuffed in your mouth, sharing looks between them with confusion. their siblings so you figured it was normal sibling teasing.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — you always catch him looking at you, typically you pay it no mind. maybe he’s a little awkward, it’s sweet. but other times his staring is super intense, and you can always feel it.
it’s summertime, and the sun is letting you know it. blazing hot when it nearly cooks your skin. so it’s only right to indulge in a sweet treat to cool yourself off. something as innocent as strawberry flavored water ice has michael staring at you with a different type of intensity. his eyes are laced with lust.
long pointy tongue licking long flat stripes against the frozen goodness. you’re trying to act fast, the warm sun not being too forgiving with preserving the previous state of your frozen treat. you’re skillful with your technique, a few bold licks before your wrapping your lip gloss-slick lips around the whole thing with a loud slurp. the slurp innocent in your mind but lewd in his.
hands sticky with the way it’s melting over the plastic cup you hold, knuckles tainted in a sugary liquid. and it’s only a matter of time before you’re nearly deepthroating your index finger with hopes you’ll clear the substance off. he’s nearly panting watching the scene unfold before him, he can feel himself twitch whenever you make another whine or slurp, desperate to lap up any mess you’ve made.
and la toya is looking right at him, look right at you.
once he’s realizes he’s caught, his head is whipping around hoping he can shift his focus towards anything else.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — michael always giving you a task to do, asking you to hand him things he know you can’t reach, or something you have to bend down and get, hoping he can catch a glimpse under your skirt. just to get a little tiny winy peak of your cotton panties. he’s love to have a visual he can keep in the back of his mind for later on in the evening.
and per usual la toya catches him in his schemes, “get it yourself michael!” she again yells at him, before grabbing your arm to stop you from whatever item he ‘so desperately’ needs. and he’s sucking his teeth with the roll of his eyes.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — any excuse to touch your feet.. you could be at an amusement park and you lost your flip flop during a ride, of course michael finds it and he’s on one knee with your sandal handed out.
his hand ‘innocently’ assisting you in fitting your foot in the sandal and he’ll make a quick comment about how he likes your toes, or how you pedicure looks good.
if you’re having a pillow fight and your foot accidentally pushes up against his groin somehow, and he’s fighting for his life not to instinctively hump against it like an animal in heat.
god forbid if you’re playing twister and your foot is just slam in his face. he’s can’t be normal around you, he feels feral around you and it’s literally uncontrollable.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — loves to play with everyone, but you especially. you could be bouncing in a bounce house, or jumping rope, maybe bouncing onna trampoline; his eyes are solely fixated on your chest. heavy flesh bouncing around, feels like their antagonizing him—look at what you can’t have.
they don’t even have to bounce for him to peep. he’ll intentionally buy you long necklaces so he can look at how your breasts swallow the pendant attached to it’s chain, and he doesn’t care enough to fight the grin on his face anytime he notices it.
⟡ ۫ . 🧁 — your time with la toya could be coming to an end and best believe he’s rushing to give you a really good, unnecessarily long hug. wide palms dangerously low on your hips, really pushing his crotch forward, hoping he catch anything, even the slightest of contact. breasts flesh and squishy against his chest, and face tightly nuzzled in the junction between your shoulder and neck, truly breathing you in. he’s wants you so close, wants your scent to stain his clothes so he can relish in it later :3
This is a lil something to keep you tided over til my next fic drop; a lil shitty draft from me drunk in da back of my uber;
get ready for more hehe
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𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚛! Michael rode his horse in the valley like a whimsical cowboy whenever he wasn’t able to write music… it was an unwinding for him. Make believe that would get his creative senses going.
You'd heard him before you saw him. You were standing on a grassy hillside, somewhere in the california hills, with no way of getting home. You could hear your heartbeat in your ears, your hair clinging to the back of your neck with sweat.
A slow, clumpy, rhythm of hooves through dry grass sounded, and then he'd emerge through the tree line — red plaid shirt, big wide brimmed hat, leather cowboy boots; the gold plated detailing catching the afternoon light and twinkling. The horse beneath him the colour of burnt sugar, matching those doe eyes.
He'd pull up a few feet away and look down at you with a bemused look on his face; but one of concentration too. He was all golden honey skin, ringlet curls under the smoosh of the hat and long limbs. Teeth catching his dark pink full lips as he marveled at you in disbelief that he'd even found you.
He was gorgeous, ethereal, like he'd come straight out of a western novel and he was going to declare his undying love for you.
"You lost m’love?"
You'd tell him you were fine. He'd look at the trail behind you, then back at you. And you knew deep down you really weren't fine.
"C'mon." He'd extend a hand down, kindly. “Apples and I can get you to the road."
Getting up would not be graceful for you.
He'd talk you through it anyway — left foot there, grab here, don't think about it too much, just jump— and then you'd be up and the ground would be very far away and before you could decide how you felt about that he'd be pressed behind you, settling into the saddle like he'd done it with you in front of him every time. His body was warm and lean and at first you thought he was reaching around to cuddle you but really his arms had come around either side of you to take the reins.
He smiled faintly like a Shirley temple drink, and real leather. It was intoxicating to have been around him.
"Relax your hips," he'd murmur, close to your ear. "Roll with it”
He grabbed your hips and tried to get you to roll them.
“Let her trot move you. Don't fight it."
You would try to relax your hips at that breathy remark; it had split you apart.
He'd click his tongue softly and Apples would begin to walk and he'd narrate it quietly as she went — she likes a loose rein, she'll tell you when she's unhappy, she's a good girl she just wants to know you trust her — and his voice would be low and completely unbothered and you'd be holding the horn of the saddle like it was going to save you from falling off… and also stop you from your hands exploring the lean expanse of his beautiful body.
At some point his hand would close briefly over yours to adjust your grip on the rein. Just a second. Warm and certain.
You'd look out at the land rolling gold fields around you; the surprising rainbow of the wildflowers, the bugs in the air falling like shooting stars across the pale blue sky and think: nobody is going to believe this.
When the road appeared he'd slow her easy, drop down first, reach up for you. His hands steady at your waist as your feet found the ground.
He'd look at you, the way he had from up on the horse — and something in his expression would soften just slightly, despite feigning being ‘hard’.
"You were on private property, by the way." A beat. "Mine."
You'd open your mouth. Try to come up with some semblance of an excuse good enough to warrant your presence in front for him… but you couldn’t.
He'd take your hand before you could say anything, lift it, press his mouth to your knuckles; nonchalantly, like this too was the most natural thing, the brim of his hat tilting down just slightly.
"Pleasure getting you unlost."
He'd tip the hat. Turn. Get back on Apples in one easy movement and ride back into his land. He had briefly glanced back at you, shining that toothy smile once more.
You'd stand at the road waiting for your friend to come save you from the country abyss.
The reins still warm in your memory, his voice still close. You’d have to try get ‘lost’ at this spot again soon.
mature!michael headcanons with his controversial younger gf
cw: 18+ minors dni — fingering, bratty!reader, protective!michael, fluff, age gap, (michael is early 40s and reader is mid20s),
authors note: guys i never ever thought ill see the day where i would be writing a mj fic but i couldn’t help myself. this was also highly requested from one of my bestfriends.
so to mel, this one is for you baby!
michael jackson masterlist ༻ navi
mature!michael who makes sure he’s touching a part of your body at all times. whether thats him having his arm wrapped around your waist when you’re on the red carpet, or his hand gripping your thigh, when you’re sitting together during interviews. he will always make sure that he’s touching you.
mature!michael who’s normally very soft spoken, and kind to his fans, suddenly gets very protective when he overhears them saying sly things about you.
“hey michael who’s that?”
“is that your girlfriend?”
“she’s probably using you for money!”
“she’s such a gold digger!”
“hey.” michael snaps, turning around with your hand tightly locked around his. michael points to the person in the crowd who uttered those nasty words about you, making sure that they’re taken out of the venue with quickness.
when it comes to his sweet girl, he doesn’t play.
mature!michael who never saw himself as a man who needed sex all the time until he met you. there’s just something so addicting about the way you smell, the way you taste that makes it almost impossible for him to keep his hands off of you. especially when you guys are out in public.
“mikey!” you giggle, while he’s peppering kisses down your neck. you guys are on your way to an award show, and after michael saw you in that tight fitting black dress. oh boy, he just can’t keep his hands to himself.
“c’mon let me get a taste,” he pleads, his hand trailing down to your legs. you spread your legs without even thinking, his long, slender fingers finding your bare cunt.
michael digs his head in the crook of your neck letting out a groan.
“baby, what’d i tell you about walkin around with no panties on.”
you gasp when you feel a light tap on your pussy.
“i-it was showing through the dress so i thought it’ll be better if i didn’t wear any.” you let out a small moan, when you feel the thickness of a finger pressing inside of you.
“michael.” you whine, grabbing onto his arm. not caring that you’re scrunching up his suit.
michael lifts his head, crashing his lips against yours in a deep, messy kiss, while he continues to pump into you with just one finger.
“more.” you beg, bucking your hips up to create more friction. to get him to slide in another finger or maybe two.
you let out another pitiful whine, when michael removes his finger, and rubs it around your opening like he’s trying to collect more of your nectar before he places his finger in his mouth, groaning at the taste of you on his tongue.
he sits back in his seat, fixing his hard on.
“mikey.” you shriek, looking at him with wide eyes.
he just shrugs, pulling your dress back down, and making sure you look presentable.
“maybe wear your panties next time and then you’ll get to cum.”
mature!michael who’s favourite love language after touch is acts of service. he loves to randomly buy you jewellery, shoes, clothes, just because he can’t help but get turned on seeing you wearing his money.
i think it’s safe to say that mature!michael is one of a kind, and you’re not only grateful but thankful that you both crossed paths.
AN: guys would you believe me if i said that i wrote this while on my work break 🫣
also dw after this, opposites attract will be up next i promise.
SYNOPSIS: Michael decides it’s time for him and reader to go half on a baby. Neverland needs some little Jackson's roaming around.
CONTENT: fluff, needy!Michael, dangerous era!Michael, era 1993, deciding marriage, established relationship, emotional intimacy, discussion of pregnancy, no use of y/n, slightly suggestive at the very end
PART TWO
Now when you thought about it, the signs had been everywhere. You just hadn't recognized them.
The first clue should have been the jewelry store. A month earlier, Michael convinced you to accompany him on what he described as a "quick errand".
Any time Michael went shopping, it was never quick. That should've been your second clue.
He claimed that he needed to get one of his watches sized.
But, 45 minutes later, you found yourself sitting across from a jeweler while an older woman measured your ring finger.
You'd stared at her. Then stared at Michael who had suddenly become fascinated by a display case of necklaces. He really was a terrible actor. And an even worse liar.
"Michael, what are we doing?" you'd asked. Michael hadn't looked up.
The man was studying a diamond bracelet like it contained state secrets.
"Just looking."
"Michael."
"Mm?"
The jeweler smiled.
Michael refused to make eye contact.
He had a terrible poker face, and his emotions were often written all over his expression.
You noticed, immediately. You always did.
Nothing further came of it, at least not then.
Three weeks later came the third clue. And somehow it was stranger.
Looking back, the signs had been everywhere. The baby store should have tipped you off.
You just hadn't recognized then.
The two of you had spent the afternoon wandering through Los Angeles.
A rare luxury these days.
Between recording schedules, appearances, interviews, rehearsals, and whatever else came with being two people trying to maintain a relationship while Michael Jackson belonged to half the planet, uninterrupted time together had become surprisingly difficult to come by.
Which was exactly why Michael had spent most of the afternoon attached to you. Not figuratively, literally.
At one point he'd hooked a finger through one of your belt loops and followed you through an entire department store like an affectionate shadow.
When you'd asked what he was doing, he'd simply shrugged.
"Following you."
As if that explained everything.
Now, several hours later, you found yourself standing inside a baby store. Apparently that was where the day had taken you.
Michael often wandered into stores that fascinated him, so you didn't think much of it.
His hand rested against the small of your back as the two of you wandered between aisles.
The touch wasn't possessive. Just familiar and comforting.
Michael always seemed to know where you were. If you stood beside him, eventually he'd touch your arm or your hand. Sometimes your shoulder. Something.
Years ago you'd asked if he realized how often he did it.
His answer had been immediate.
"No."
A complete lie. The man knew exactly what he was doing.
The realization made you smile to yourself as he guided you around another corner. Then suddenly he stopped, completely. You nearly walked into him.
"What—"
Michael was already staring at a row of cribs.
You watched the exact moment curiosity overtook him. His eyes narrowed slightly and his head tilted. And just like that, you lost him.
"Oh no."
You knew this was going to add a minimum of 20-30 minutes to your time in this store.
Michael didn't hear you though, he was already approaching.
You sighed and followed.
Because experience had taught you that once Michael became interested in something, there was no stopping him. Only waiting.
By the time the store associate approached, Michael had somehow progressed from casually observing cribs to performing what appeared to be a full safety inspection.
The poor woman had no idea what she'd walked into.
"What happens if the baby chews on this?"
She peered at Michael in confusion.
"The paint?"
Michael nodded.
The woman assured him it was non-toxic. Michael accepted this information. For approximately 10 seconds.
"What if they climb?"
The associate again looked confused.
"Climb?"
"Out. The baby."
You bit the inside of your cheek hard.
Michael gently pulled you by your hand in front of him without looking, almost as if to say "come be apart of this".
He wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his chin on top of your head. His thumb gently grazed over your belly, thinking about what it would feel like to shop for their first crib of many.
The gesture was so automatic you barely noticed it.
Michael nodded thoughtfully as the woman spoke to the two of you.
Then he crouched beside the crib. Inspecting the hardware, testing the rails. He even started reading safety labels.
The associate watched with growing amusement.
"You seem very interested."
Michael looked up, completely serious.
"Oh I am, very."
The woman smiled.
"How many children do you have?"
The question caught both of you off guard. For a moment Michael simply blinked. Then he looked at you.
"We don't have any, yet."
The associate looked surprised.
"Oh."
A pause.
Then she said,
"You two seem like parents."
The response arrived before either of you could stop it.
"What?"
You both asked simultaneously.
The associate laughed.
Michael looked genuinely puzzled. Meanwhile, your face felt warm.
The woman gestured vaguely between the two of you.
"I don't know."
She smiled.
"The way you interact. I would have thought you were expecting or something."
Michael looked down at you, then back at her.
And to your horror, he didn't seem bothered by the comparison at all. If anything, he appeared oddly pleased. You could tell from the amused look on his face.
The realization made you narrow your eyes at him immediately.
Michael noticed.
A smile threatened the corner of his mouth. He pressed his lips together and shifted them to one side as he looked away.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
Twenty minutes later, Michael had somehow learned more about crib safety than most first-time parents. And you were beginning to suspect something was up.
That suspicion only grew stronger later that night.
The movie you had been watching together had ended almost an hour ago. Neither of you had bothered turning on another one.
The bedroom remained quiet except for the distant sound of crickets chirping outside.
Michael lay stretched across the mattress beside you and you were reading.
He had one arm tucked beneath his head, the other resting across your shoulders as you rested your head on his chest.
He absentmindedly traced circles through the fabric of your shirt with his fingers. It was a habit he'd developed years ago. You'd long since stopped noticing it, until it stopped. Then you noticed immediately.
For several moments neither of you spoke. You just laid in comfortable silence.
The room glowed softly beneath the bedside lamp.
Michael stared at the ceiling thoughtfully. Dangerously thoughtful.
It was a look that you recognized instantly. Usually, it meant he was about to say something important. Or strange. Sometimes both.
"I want a big family."
He said finally.
And there it was.
You smiled without looking up from your book.
"Mhm."
You encouraged him to continue, signaling that you were listening.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
For a moment it was silent.
Then he said:
"Like... a really big family."
That made you laugh. Finally you looked over.
"And what does that mean?"
Michael thought about it. He pondered deeply for a moment.
"Five."
His answer came pointedly, it was certain.
You stared.
"Five what?"
"Maybe six. Children of course."
"Michael."
"What?"
The offense in his voice was immediate. As though six children were the most reasonable thing in the world.
You laughed and he smiled sheepishly.
Then the teasing disappeared. It was replaced by something more reflective.
For a moment his gaze drifted toward the ceiling again. Lost somewhere else. Somewhere years away.
"You know..."
His voice grew quieter.
"When I was little..."
He paused.
"I always had somebody."
The words made you look up. Michael's expression had changed. The playful energy was gone.
Now he looked genuinely nostalgic.
"If I got scared..."
He smiled faintly.
"I had somebody."
A pause.
"If I got in trouble."
The smile widened, like he was remembering being mischievous with his brothers.
"Definitely had somebody."
You laughed softly.
Michael smiled too.
"If I was happy."
Another pause.
"I had somebody then too."
His gaze drifted toward the window.
Toward memories only he could see.
"My brothers... my sisters. There was always somebody around."
The room grew quieter. Suddenly you got the feeling that this wasn't about children. Not really. It was about family. Connection, belonging.
Michael looked back at you. His expression was open. Honest.
The kind of expression that appeared when he stopped guarding his thoughts.
"I want my kids to have that."
The confession settled gently between you.
"I want them to have each other."
His voice softened.
"I want them to know they're never alone."
The pieces suddenly clicked into place for you. Beneath all the fame and success, beneath the moniker Michael Jackson.
There was still a little boy who loved his family and missed them. They were all so busy these days, life had taken them in different directions though they were still close.
But Michael remembered what it felt like to grow up surrounded by people who belonged to him. People who knew him. People who stayed.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
Then Michael looked over.
His lips twitched with amusement, as though he'd just thought of something dangerous.
"I think you'd be a good mother."
The words caught you completely off guard.
And judging by the way his breath hitched as he waited for you to process his words, they had surprised him too.
Before you could respond, Michael shifted you closer. He gently grabbed your thigh, draping your leg across his waist. He nuzzled his face into the top of your head like he suddenly needed to be touching you. Like he needed reassurance.
You happily settled against him before teasing,
"You're awfully clingy tonight."
"I'm not clingy. Just wanna feel you."
The response came immediately and honestly.
You chuckled, unable to hide your amusement. Michael only tightened his arm around you. Which proved your point entirely.
"You brought me into a jewelry store."
Silence.
"You interrogated a woman about cribs."
More silence.
"Now you're talking about six children."
Michael stared at the ceiling, he was refusing to take the bait.
A slow smile spread across your face.
"Oh my God."
He closed his eyes, immediately. And just like that, you knew. He was up to something
The realization hit you like a freight train.
"Michael."
No response.
"Michael Joseph Jackson."
His eyes remained closed.
"Hm?" He hummed, still stroking your leg.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
And for the first time all day, you realized exactly why that store associate thought you looked like parents.
Michael wasn't imagining a future anymore, he was planning one.
The realization hit you so hard that you sat upright.
Michael cracked one eye open. Then the other. His expression cautious.
Like a man who had just heard something dangerous rustling in the bushes.
"What?"
You stared. Michael stared back.
Slowly, he pushed himself up onto one elbow.
"What is it?"
You pointed at him.
"You've been acting weird."
His eyebrows shot upward.
"Weird?"
"Yes."
"No I haven't."
The denial came entirely too fast, Michael couldn't even convince himself the statement was true. His voice had that upward inflection on the end, like when someone is caught in a lie.
You laughed and Michael looked offended immediately.
"I haven't."
"You took me to a jewelry store."
Silence. Michael looked away. Danger sign number one.
"You had my ring size measured, even though you pretended we were there for your watch."
More silence. Danger sign number two.
"You spent forty-five minutes interrogating a woman about crib safety."
Michael rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Danger sign number three.
The realization made your eyes widen.
"Oh my God."
"Michael."
His head fell back dramatically against the headboard.
A deep groan escaped him. The kind of groan that said he'd been hoping you wouldn't figure it out yet.
But you weren't stupid. The room fell quiet.
Neither of you spoke for several moments.
Michael gazed toward the ceiling.
You continued to stare at him, refusing to let up. Finally, he sighed.
Long. Slow. Resigned.
"I've been thinking."
He started hesitantly.
You couldn't help but giggle at his bashfulness.
"Clearly."
Michael pointed at you.
"Hey, I'm serious."
"I know."
The smile on your face softened.
Because despite the teasing, you knew this mattered. You knew Michael.
And when Michael started thinking about something, really thinking about it, it consumed him.
The same way songs did. His choreography. The way performances did.
He didn't think or move halfway, he'd always dive headfirst.
Michael's gaze drifted toward the lamp on the nightstand thoughtfully.
"I'll be thirty-five in a few weeks."
You blinked slowly, confused by his statement. Mostly because Michael almost never talked about his age.
Just a few weeks ago, you watched it in real time.
An interviewer said to Michael "We're getting close to your 35th birthday, how is the way you feel about music-"
Michael had quickly interrupted, not allowing the man to finish his sentence.
"I did not circle that question"
Behind the scenes, you nearly doubled over from laughing.
Michael had bit back a smile, ignoring you and smiling politely at the interviewer.
He was getting older, and it was not something he wanted to openly discuss. He would always say he wanted to be young forever.
In the present, he continued.
"Everybody always talks about the music."
A pause.
"The tours."
Another.
"The records."
His fingers absentmindedly found yours, intertwining your fingers with his.
Like he needed something to anchor himself while he spoke. Or maybe to give himself the confidence to say what he said next.
"But lately..."
His thumb brushed across your knuckles.
"I've been thinking about what comes after."
The room couldn't have been quieter. You squeezed his hand, encouragingly.
Michael smiled softly, not looking at you. Still somewhere else mentally.
Somewhere years away. Nostalgia had captured him.
"I know what I want."
The certainty in his voice caught your attention quickly.
Michael finally looked straight at you. And suddenly he looked shy. Genuinely shy.
Which was ridiculous.
The man could perform in front of seventy thousand people. Yet somehow this conversation made him nervous.
"I want a wife. Somebody just for me."
The words came quietly and earnestly.
No theatrics. No charm, no place to hide. Just honesty.
Michael swallowed.
Then continued.
"I want children."
A pause.
"A home."
Another.
"I want Christmases."
You smiled despite yourself. Michael smiled too. The smile growing as he spoke.
"I want birthdays."
Another pause.
"Those are things I didn't have when I was little."
He trailed off sadly.
"I wanna be somebody's dad."
Something warm settled in your chest. Because you knew he meant it.
Every word. You could hear it. See it. Feel it.
Michael looked down at your joined hands. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"And..."
His voice softened.
"I want it to be with you."
The room went still and your heart skipped.
You forgot how to use words in the moment, flattered but unsure of how to respond.
Michael immediately became interested in the blanket.
He was embarrassed.
He bit down on his bottom lip like he wasn't sure what to say next. And he wasn't. So he waited.
Which somehow made the confession even sweeter.
You stared at him, the realization settling slowly.
He wasn't hinting anymore or testing the waters. It became clear to you that he wasn't imagining possibilities.
Michael Jackson was sitting in front of you and very plainly telling you that he wanted to marry you.
The thought made your stomach flip.
"Michael."
He looked up, immediately. He was hopeful, and terrified. Vulnerable in a way you really hadn't seen him before.
The expression made your chest ache.
Before you could stop yourself, your hand found his cheek.
Michael melted into your touch instantly, leaning into your palm. The way he always did.
Like affection was sunlight and he'd spent too long in the shade.
"You know I'd say yes, right?"
The question escaped quietly.
Michael froze completely.
Then his entire face changed.
For one brief moment he looked younger. Almost boyish.
"Yeah?"
The word came out embarrassingly fast.
You laughed. Michael laughed too. Suddenly he felt relieved.
The tension left his shoulders. He felt silly in the moment for thinking you'd reject him.
"Yeah." You confirmed.
His smile widened slowly and uncontrollably.
The kind of smile that started in his eyes.
You loved that smile.
Michael looked down at his fingers that had been fumbling with the trim of the blanket..
He looked back up at you bashfully then down again.
Trying and failing to hide how happy he was.
And that was when he ruined everything. Completely by accident.
"Well..."
He smiled.
Still looking pleased with himself.
"I mean, Debbie offered too."
You nearly twisted your neck with how fast you looked at him.
"Debbie who?" you asked, crooking your neck.
The tension that filled the room could have been sliced with a knife.
It was instant and absolute.
Michael felt the change in temperature immediately. The same way animals sensed incoming storms.
Slowly... Very slowly...
He looked over. You were staring at him expressionlessly, daring him to answer.
Honestly, his remark had caught you off guard and you weren't sure what else to say.
Michael swallowed. There it is. The warning sign.
"Rowe."
You nodded once, never breaking eye contact. Which was both calm and dangerous Michael had come to learn.
"Debbie." you said to yourself bitterly, like she was suddenly an arch nemesis.
The room became very quiet. Michael suddenly wished he'd phrased that differently. Not because he'd said anything wrong. Well, maybe he had.
But because he was beginning to understand how it sounded.
"You mean to tell me..." You sat upright slowly.
"...that we've spent all day discussing marriage."
Michael closed his eyes, here we go.
"...children."
A pause.
"...future plans."
"...and your nurse apparently submitted an application?"
Michael buried his face in his hands immediately. He now understood how his statement sounded when it came out. He had never been very good at explaining himself.
You crossed your arms. You were offended. Deeply so. Sincerely offended.
"Michael, stop playing with me."
A laugh escaped him. It was tiny and accidental. He tried to hide it.
And failed spectacularly.
"Don't laugh."
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm not."
His shoulders were shaking as he bit back a smile.
You pointed at him.
"You're laughing."
"I'm trying not to."
That somehow made it worse.
"Debbie?"
Michael finally looked up.
Still smiling and entirely all too amused. The sight only irritated you further.
"If anybody's having your babies, it gonna be me. Period."
You pointed toward yourself, crossing your arms with finality.
The declaration filled the room. It was firm and confident.
And oh, so sexy to Michael.
You had decided that the matter was entirely non-negotiable.
For a moment Michael simply stared. He was enamored with how quickly you became possessive. He felt guilty for enjoying the subtle rage you were actively trying to smother.
Because beneath all of it, he'd heard the thing he'd secretly wanted to hear.
You were picturing a future too.
The realization made something warm settle in his chest.
He reached over to you, settling his palm against your hip and squeezing gently.
"Yes ma'am. I'm all yours, if you'll have me.""
He smirked at you, holding your gaze in a way that made your stomach flutter.
You narrowed your eyes.
"Oh?"
Michael nodded, a grin spreading across his face.
It was slow and dangerous.
The same smile that made women pass out at his shows night after night.
"I guess you're gonna be a mommy." He teased, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours, kissing you repeatedly
You jokingly pushed him away, knowing he'd gotten his way.
Michael dissolved into laughter. The loud kind that comes out when you're genuinely tickled.
A second later he grabbed your wrist and pulled you into his arms.
He ignored your protests entirely.
"Michael."
"Just let it happen."
He sighed playfully as he squeezed you to his chest.
"Michael."
"Nope."
You tried to stay annoyed. Really. You did.
That was until Michael's hand drifted up your thigh mischievously.
Which made remaining angry significantly more difficult.
"I love you."
The words felt automatic. Like breathing, like truth.
Your annoyance lasted approximately three more seconds. Then you sighed. Defeated.
Michael smiled against your shoulder victoriously.
He was entirely too pleased with himself.
He trailed his fingers down your back, toying with the hem of your panties.
"So when are we getting started?" He asked softly, suddenly day dreaming of his first of many infants growing up within the halls of Neverland.
pairing: thriller era!michael x reader
specifically 1983 michael but you can picture him however you want
summary: michael's brothers - including jermaine - love to flirt. michael is jealous. that's it. that's the plot.
word count: 978
author's note: my last post got more than one like and I am nothing if not a woman of my word so here I am
(yes I wrote this because I want to be in a Jackie + Marlon sandwich okay)
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You were sandwiched in between Jackie and Marlon on the couch when Michael came home. That was your first mistake.
Your second mistake was laughing yourself nearly to tears while Randy demonstrated how he and Michael had learned to play the bongos, with a pencil stabbed between two containers of Quaker Oats.
“You have to take the oatmeal out first, you dimwit.” Tito rolled his eyes, watching his youngest brother make a mess on the carpet from his perch on an armchair. “Your mama is gonna kill you.”
That sent you, Jackie, and Marlon into another laughing fit.
“She’s your mama too, Tito!” Randy pointed out unhelpfully, banging on the lids of the oatmeal containers like a little kid. Like he didn’t have a house full of expensive music equipment at his disposal. Like he wasn’t a Jackson.
“What’s happenin’ in here?” Jermaine poked his head in the living room, his slightly annoyed expression morphing into a charming grin when he saw you.
“Well, helllooo. Didn’t realize we were entertaining a pretty lady.”
You rolled your eyes playfully. That was classic Jermaine. He’d flirted with you blatantly since the first time Michael brought you home. You personally found it hilarious. Michael? Not so much.
“Hey, Jackie. There’s a phone call for you.” Jermaine strode over to the couch, gesturing back towards the kitchen with his thumb.
“There ain’t no phone call for him. You just want to get in on this.” Marlon called him out, wiggling his eyebrows as he nudged you with his shoulder.
“No, I swear, I heard it ring!” Jermaine insisted. Jackie gave him a deadpan look and pointed towards the phone on the table next to him, which most definitely had not rang.
“Aw, man, come on! It’s my turn. Let me sit there.” Jermaine didn’t give up, which unfortunately, just made you giggle harder. Especially when he tried to shove his way into Jackie’s spot, and the three brothers on the couch started wrestling over you.
This was the scene Michael walked in on—three of his brothers fighting (literally) over his girlfriend, one of them trying to impress her by blasting dry oatmeal all over the living room, and one sitting unbothered on an armchair, lazily tuning his guitar like the chaos around him was totally normal.
Honestly, that was one of your favorite things about visiting Michael at Hayvenhurst. The chaos. You were an only child, and you loved any chance you got to be around his big family. The constant noise, the play fighting, the buzzing energy… all of it. They’d made you feel comfortable and at home from the first day you’d walked through the door.
Even the shameless flirting was endearing to you. But when Michael stepped into the living room, he looked anything but endeared.
It was Randy who saw him first. He stopped playing his makeshift bongos, one hand frozen in midair and an oh shit look taking over his face. Tito was the next to notice him. Then Jackie, who quickly sobered up. Last of all were Marlon and Jermaine, who had managed to wrestle each other to the ground. “She’s mine!” Marlon was insisting, while Jermaine elbowed him in the ribs. “No, mine!”
“Actually, she’s mine.”
Michael’s voice, quiet as ever, stopped the wrestling match in an instant. His older brothers scrambled apart, and Marlon at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed about it.
“Man, you shouldn’t have left such a pretty girl alone if you didn’t want us to fight over her.” Jermaine flashed you another one of his signature grins, and you had to cover your mouth to stifle your laugh, because poor Michael was not amused.
“I thought I could leave you alone for twenty minutes without the five of you actin’ like wild animals.” Michael muttered crossly, immediately crossing the room and offering his hand to you.
“Maybe she likes ‘em a little wild, Mike! Ever think of that?” Marlon—always more amused with himself than anyone else—started to cackle again.
That earned him a glare that had the potential to freeze hell over.
“Uh-oh. He’s mad now.” Jermaine was still wearing a shit-eating grin, but Jackie, Randy, and Tito looked nervous. Like maybe this was the thing that was going to send their sweetest, most mild-mannered brother over the edge.
Michael’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond to Jermaine; he just looked at you. “Come on.” He took your hand and pulled you off the couch, away from Jermaine and Jackie, who had sat back down, and Marlon, who was still on the floor laughing at his own joke.
“They weren’t bothering me, Michael.” You tried to reassure him, but he wasn’t having it.
“Come on.” His tone was impatient, but you knew it wasn’t directed at you. He was embarrassed; it was written all over his face, as plain as day. So you got up, mouthing a silent goodbye to the brothers, and let Michael lead you out of the room.
As soon as they thought you were out of earshot, the boys (minus Tito) began to argue again, but your attention was focused on Michael. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him look this jealous before.
“Hey, you okay?” You tilted your head, trying to catch his eye.
“I’m fine. I just don’t like them messin’ with you like that.” He grumbled, looking at the floor.
“I told you they weren’t bothering me.” You reached out and put a hand beneath his chin, tilting it up and forcing him to look at you. “And you have nothing to be jealous about. I’ve only got eyes for you.”
“‘m not jealous.” He muttered, and you smiled. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”
“I’m not!”
You kissed his cheek, then took his hand again and pulled him towards the front door. “Whatever you say, angelface. Now come on. Let’s go feed Louie.”
Authors Note: this is a request! I hope you all enjoy this - i rarely see any maestro au fics, so hopefully this can fill a void. not sure if this is exactly in mikey's voice that i have worked on building but i suppose it is a character he plays.. or an alter ego.
Pairing: Maestro! Michael Jackson X fem! paranormal investigator reader
Summary: The Maestro has been alone for twenty years with a question he cannot answer by himself. You trespassed on his property and now you will pay for your actions - not on the way you think though. You will leave this encounter… enlightened.
Word Count: 5096
Tags: smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving) michael as maestro from the music video ghosts, so... ghost sex?, haunted, 90s,
update: I wrote this all through the night on a red eye flight so if there are any continuity issues,,,, I be sorry lol
18+ minors dnu!!!
You walked through the hallways, that were startlingly still.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath, a thick, dusty silence that swallowed the sound of your own footsteps on the worn parquet. Your flashlight beam cut a wavering path through the gloom, illuminating motes of dust that danced like agitated spirits. The dictaphone in your other hand felt both absurd and necessary, a tiny, plastic tether to the rational world you’d left beyond the iron gates.
“Log entry… seven,” you whispered, your voice hushed not just for recording but out of a deep, instinctive reverence. The house demanded quiet. “Time, approximately 10:47 PM. I’ve entered the main hall of the property known colloquially as the abandoned L’Estaque Manor. Initial impressions… the decay is theatrical.
Deliberate.
It feels less like neglect and more like a stage set waiting for its principal actor.”
You panned the light upwards. A grand staircase swept into darkness, its banister adorned with intricate, cobwebbed carvings. The wallpaper, once a rich burgundy damask, peeled in long, languid strips, revealing the skeletal lath beneath. It was cold, a damp chill that seeped through your jacket and settled in your bones. Yet, there was no malevolence in it. Not yet. It was the cold of emptiness, of a vast space long devoid of warmth.
“No standard paranormal signatures yet,” you continued, moving slowly toward a pair of towering oak doors. “No EMF spikes, no temperature fluctuations beyond the ambient chill. But the atmosphere… it’s heavy. It isn’t threat, maybe expectation?.”
You pushed open the doors to what must have been a music room. A sheet-draped grand piano dominated the space, a hulking white ghost in the center. Tarnished candelabras sat on the mantle.
Your light glinted off the glass of a large, gold-framed portrait above the fireplace, but the face within was too shadowed to make out. You stepped inside, your boots whispering on the Persian rug, its patterns faded into vague, blood-like smudges.
“This room,” you murmured into the recorder. “There’s a… resonance here. Auditory? Maybe. A memory of sound. If I listen…”
You stopped. You closed your eyes, letting the silence press in. And then, beneath the sound of your own nervous system, you heard it.
Or felt it. It wasn’t quite a melody, but the echo of one. The faint, phantom vibration of a piano chord—a minor, unresolved, hanging in the air like a question. Your eyes snapped open. The sheet over the piano was perfectly still. No dust had been disturbed.
“Did you hear that?” you asked the empty room, the dictaphone catching your quickened breath. “A chord. C minor, perhaps moving to… no. It’s gone.”
But it wasn’t.
As you moved back into the hall, it followed you. It wasn’t only just a sound, but a presence. The back of your neck prickled. The air, once uniformly cold, now seemed to stir with a faint, impossible current.
You entered a long gallery, portraits lining the walls, their subjects’ eyes seeming to track your progress from faces blurred by time and shadow.
Then you felt it. A breath. Not on your neck, but inside your ear. A cool, gentle exhalation that carried with it the faintest sound—a wordless, melancholic fragment of tune, the same one that had haunted the piano chord. It was intimate, paralyzing. You froze, your blood turning to ice water.
“Who’s there?” you breathed, not daring to turn. The dictaphone, still recording, captured the tremor in your voice.
There was no answer. Only the returning, absolute silence, now feeling like a held secret.
You forced your legs to move, driven by a compulsion that was equal parts terror and desperate curiosity.
The master bedroom was your goal. In these old houses, it was often the epicenter of residual energy.
You found the door ajar. Pushing it open, you were met with a spectacle that stole what little breath you had left.
The room was vast, dominated by a canopy bed whose curtains hung in tattered shreds. But it was the far wall that commanded attention.
The enormous windows were naked, their curtains ripped away or decayed.
They were thrown wide open to the night, and the wind poured through in a silent, powerful river.
The moon, nearly full, cast a slab of pewter light across the floorboards, illuminating the dust swirling in the turbulent air. The curtains that remained on the sides billowed and snapped like the sails of a ghost ship, soundless in the vacuum of the room.
The night itself seemed to be invading, a cool, black ink flooding into the tomb of the house.
You stepped into the lunar wash, drawn to the windows, to the view of the overgrown gardens and the skeletal trees. The wind played with your hair, kissed your feverish skin. This was it. The heart of the strange stillness. You raised your dictaphone.
“The master bedroom. The windows are open. There’s a… a violent peace here. The wind, but no sound. The moon, is so creepy. I feel…”
You felt watched.
The sensation was so intense it was a physical weight between your shoulder blades. You slowly, so slowly, turned from the mesmerizing night.
He stood in the doorway.
You hadn’t heard a thing; footfall or rustle of cloth. He was simply there, having coalesced from the very shadows of the hall. Your mind, trained to document and analyze, short-circuited, overwhelmed by sheer aesthetic shock.
He was beautiful. It wasn’t in a modern way, but like a painting by a Romantic master who believed in the tragic allure of the sublime. Tall and imperially slender, he was dressed in an anachronism of elegant decay: a white poet’s shirt of fine linen, its ruffles at the chest and cuffs pristine, the top buttons carelessly open to reveal a expanse of pale, smooth skin that gleamed like marble in the low light.
It was tucked into tailored black trousers that emphasized his long legs, and over it all, a sweeping black velvet cloak rested on his shoulders, not quite touching the floor. His hair was a cascade of raven-black waves, stirred by a wind that didn’t touch you, framing a face of heartbreaking symmetry—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that seemed carved from something both soft and cruel.
His eyes were the most alive thing about him, a burning, intelligent dark brown, with a glimmer of mischief in them.
And he was opaque, but only just. You could see, faintly, the outline of the doorframe behind him, the subtle suggestion of moonlight passing through the solidity of his wrist where he held the doorjamb. A ghost. A spectacular, gorgeous ghost.
Your legs gave out. The dictaphone clattered to the floor, but you didn’t hear it. The world tunneled into those dark benevolent eyes, and then into black velvet nothingness.
Consciousness returned without a jolt, but as a slow, cold seep. You were on the floor, but not on the hard wood.
You were cradled in an impossible chill, a sensation like being held by a statue carved from winter moonlight. Your head rested against the crisp linen of his ruffled shirt, and through the thin fabric, you registered a profound, deep cold, the utter absence of living heat.
“Open your eyes.” The voice was a melody all its own, low, cultured, vibrating with an old-world accent and a current of simmering anger. “I did not grant you the courtesy of my solitude only for you to escape into unconsciousness.”
Your eyelids fluttered open. His face was above yours, inches away. Up close, his beauty was even more devastating, and more unnerving. His skin had a faint, pearlescent sheen, and the cool air around him smelled of old books, dried lavender, and something metallic, like distant ozone.
“You…” you croaked.
“I,” he agreed, his tone icy. With a grace that was both effortless and unsettling, he shifted you, helping you to sit up. His hands on your shoulders were like brands of ice, a shock that cleared the last cobwebs from your mind. He didn’t release you. He knelt before you, his stormy eyes pinning you in place.
“Now. You will explain. Why do you trespass in my home? Why do you shuffle through my halls with your little machine, speaking to the silence as if it owes you answers?”
He was furious. It was not the rage of a monster, but a deep, personal offense of a scholar whose library has been invaded and ripped up by a vandal.
“I… I’m a paranormal investigator,” you stammered, your professional pride flickering weakly.
“This house… it’s famous. I thought it was empty.”
“Thought it was empty?” He released you as if burned, rising to his full height in a fluid motion. The white ruffled shirt he wore, flapped in the wind.
“You thought. Or you assumed? And on that assumption, you violate my peace? For twenty years I have curated this silence. Twenty years of moonlit rooms and echoing chords, and you believe you can simply… walk in?” He turned his back to you, a gesture of supreme disdain, looking out at his billowing curtains.
“Your world is so loud. So bright. It forgets what lurks beyond it. It bulldozes. And now it sends its curious little children to poke at what it has forgotten.”
You scrambled to your feet, your legs still unsteady. The dictaphone lay at your feet, its red recording light a tiny, accusing eye. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just… trying to understand.”
He turned his head, his profile a sharp cut against the moonlit window. “Understanding is not yours to take. It is mine to bestow. And I am not inclined to be generous.” He faced you fully again, his anger seeming to settle into a colder, more calculating resolve.
“However. You are here. You have seen me. That… complicates things.”
A new kind of chill, one of primal fear, trickled down your spine. “What are you going to do to me?”
A ghost of a smile, bitter and beautiful, touched his lips. “The traditional tropes? Frighten you to death? Haunt your dreams? How pedestrian.” He drifted closer, his movement so smooth on the rotten floorboards. The cold around him intensified.
“I am a man of intellect. Of passion. Trapped. For two decades, I have been a curator of memories, a prisoner of sensation I can only recall. The taste of wine. The warmth of a fire.” His eyes raked over you, not with lust, but with a desperate, hungry curiosity.
“The touch of a living hand.”
He stopped an arm’s length away. You were captivated, utterly. The fear was still there, deep in your veins, but it was subsumed by a terrifying fascination. He was a masterpiece of sorrow and anger.
“I will let you go,” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that seemed to reverberate in your very bones.
“I will unlock the doors and watch you flee back to your noisy, bright world, and I will return to my melodic silence. But you will have given me something in return. A… experiment.”
“An experiment?” you whispered.
“A confirmation,” he corrected, his gaze holding yours.
“A sensory recollection,” he added, with a whimsical tone.
“I have wondered, in my long solitude, if the memory of pleasure is a lie the mind tells the soul. If the mechanics of passion are lost to a form such as mine.” He lifted a hand, and his fingers, pale and slightly translucent, hovered just beside your cheek.
You felt the chill, a thrilling ache.
“I wish to know if, after twenty years, I can still… feel. In the most primal sense. I wish to know if I can still make a living woman sigh, and in doing so, remember what it was to be a mere mortal man.”
The meaning crashed over you, not in a wave of horror, but in a surge of electric, reckless understanding. He wasn’t asking for your life. He was asking for your body. As a test. As a sacrament. Your mouth was dry. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You should run. You should scream.
You looked into his eyes, saw the centuries of loneliness, the artistic fury, the haunting, fragile hope.
You saw the pale column of his throat above the open ruffles, the elegant line of his shoulders under the worn white shirt. His hair fell shoulder length, and was beautiful - an almost blue hue shone off of it in the moonlight.
He was the most beautiful, terrible thing you had ever seen.
“Yes,” you heard yourself say, the word leaving your lips on a cloud of breath in the cold air.
His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then a dark, triumphant fire. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
The word hung between you, a pact sealed. The anger in him seemed to transmute, melting into a fierce, focused intensity.
He closed the distance. Where his body met yours, there was no solid impact, but a gradual, chilling immersion, as if you were stepping into the shadow of a glacier.
His hands came up to frame your face, and the cold was piercing, exquisite. He leaned in, and his lips met yours.
They were soft, and colder than anything you could imagine, but not inert. They moved with a practiced, desperate skill, and a strange thing began to happen.
As the kiss deepened, a sensation bloomed within the cold—a memory of warmth, a phantom heat that seemed to generate from the very friction of your living spirit against his spectral one.
A low, shuddering sigh escaped him, a sound that was half moan, half sob, and it vibrated into your mouth.
The dictaphone was forgotten. The investigation was forgotten. There was only the Maestro and his experiment.
He pushed you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours, until suddenly he was gone. All that was left was a whisper of the feeling of him on your lips. You brought your fingers up to your lips immediately, missing the touch there.
All of a sudden he appeared behind you, as if by magic and grabbed your other hand and pulled you onto the bed.
With unseen force, the tattered remnants of the bed curtains fell away completely. He laid you down on the cold, silken coverlet, following you down, his form settling over yours with a weight that was more pressure than mass. His cloak enveloped you both, a dark tent against the moonlit room.
“Tell me you can feel that,” he murmured against your throat, his lips trailing icy fire down your pulse point. His fingers, deft and chilling, worked at the buttons of your jacket, then your shirt. “Tell me I am not just a dream touching you.”
“I feel it,” you gasped, arching into the shocking cold of his hands on your bare skin. It was a paradoxical feeling—the cold was so intense it burned, and within that burn, pleasure sparked, sharp and shocking.
“You’re real.”
You nearly yelped at the force in which he pulled off your jeans.
He made a sound, a raw, hungry thing, and his own clothing seemed to dissolve into mist and shadow at his will; revealing the pale, sculpted plane of his chest, the elegant taper of his waist. He was slender, graceful, beautifully made, and glowing with that faint inner luminescence.
His skin, when it met yours fully, was a shock—a deep, penetrating cold that made every nerve ending sing a desperate, alert song.
He explored you, focused, like a connoisseur rediscovering a lost art. His mouth, a brand of ice, traced the lines of your collarbones, the curve of your breast, his tongue swirling in a pattern that left behind a trail of goosebumps and fire.
Your voice gave out, the sound swallowed by the billowing curtains and the silent night. Your hands clutched at his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under skin that was smooth and cold as polished alabaster.
You could fully feel him now, the reality of his form, even as your fingers sometimes seemed to sink into him a fraction too deeply, meeting a core of thrilling, empty cold.
“I crave the warmth between those legs,” he breathed, his voice ragged with wonder. He was between your legs now, his storm-cloud eyes holding yours, his dark hair cascading around his face, stirred by his own spectral energy.
“You are... A delicious, living thing. Something I have not been close to as of late. Let me… let me remember this.”
He prepared himself by using his index finger to rub the precum on his cock, and then entered you in one slow, relentless glide.
The sensation was beyond anything you could have conceived. It wasnt the friction of flesh, but something stranger, more profound. It was a bone chilling cold, a possession that reached into the very marrow of your bones and clawed up to your heart from below.
It was like being touched from the inside out by a icy winter river, shocking and pure and terrifyingly intimate.
Another choked and wordless sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure came from you; your back bowing off the bed, crazily, as if you were possessed. Maybe you were.
He stilled, his face a mask of agonized ecstasy. “Ah… it is… better than I remember….the memory is true. It is… worth the waiting.”
He began to move, and each movement was a study in contradiction—the solid, rhythmic pressure of him, coupled with the eerie, chilling diffusion of his essence spreading through you.
The feel of him became a drug, a stimulant. It sharpened every sensation, made every nerve raw, every pleasure point on the edge of falling apart.
You felt everything with a hyper-clarity: the silken slide of the coverlet beneath you, the rush of the moonlit wind over your heated skin, the exact, perfect angle of his hips as he drove into you, seeking his own forgotten culmination. His rhythm was diabolically good, you did not know that these feelings could overcome your body.
He was not silent within this endeavour. He whispered in a mix of broken words and song, fragments of poetry, curses, prayers. You couldn’t tell what was which - your brain unable to concentrate for the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.
“Warm — you are so extraordinarily warm — I had forgotten — god, the scent of your skin alone is enough to have me—" He stopped. The sentence didn't finish. For the first time since you had met him, the Maestro had run out of words.
His hands were everywhere, icy points of contact that ignited wildfires under your skin. The juxtaposition of this feeling in your brain was hard to comprehend.
One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his marauding, freezing kisses.
The other gripped your hip, his fingers pressing in with a desperate strength that should have bruised, but only left a thrilling ache. You were unraveling, your own moans and pleas becoming a constant, ragged soundtrack to the act unfolding in this old gothic home.
The pleasure built not in a warm wave, but in a cryptic crescendo, a pinnacle of sensation so sharp and cold and brilliant it felt like nothing you’d experienced before..
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural, his form seeming to flicker with a stronger inner light. “Look at me when you fall from the precipice.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his. They were no longer just stormy, but lit from within by lightning, wide with a shock of feeling so long denied.
The sight of his beautiful, haunted face, hovering over you in the throes of a passion both otherworldly and devastatingly real, was the final trigger.
The world dissolved into a ridiculous gothic black and white film. You felt like you’d fallen through the bed and into a whole other dimension - your body experiencing such extreme sensation it had never felt before.
Your climax was not a release of heat, but a vacuum of sensation, a pulling inward of all the cold and the pleasure into a single, singular point of absolute zero ecstasy. You convulsed around him, a wordless scream trapped in your throat.
It triggered his own orgasm. He threw his head back, the veins of his pale neck standing out in stark relief.
His climax was silent, a seismic event contained within the shimmering outline of his form. He grunted mercilessly at first.
A visible shudder wracked through him, a wave of distortion that made the moonlight behind him bend and warp.
His head still thrown back, his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pure, unadulterated release, and for a moment, he became almost fully transparent, a mere sketch of a man lost in feeling.
Then he solidified again, collapsing forward, his weightless form half-covering you, his face buried in the tattered pillow beside your head.
You both lay there, entangled in the wreckage of pure sensation.
You could feel the echo of him inside you, a fading, delicious chill. His skin, where it touched yours, was no longer just cold; it was thrumming with a low, resonant vibration, like a plucked cello string.
He was the first to stir. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. The storm in his eyes had calmed to a dazed wonder. He looked… younger. The lines of ancient despair had softened.
“The hypothesis,” he whispered, his voice scraped raw, “was correct. I’m still able to make a woman come undone.”
A breathless, hysterical laugh bubbled in your chest. “Glad I could be of service… for your research.”
The ghost of a real smile, less bitter now, touched his lips. He traced one icy finger from your sternum down to your navel, making you shiver.
“Service implies a transaction completed. I find myself slightly… unsatisfied. The experiment had a singular parameter. Intercourse. It was a blunt instrument.”
His gaze drifted lower, down the trembling plane of your stomach. “I wish to get closer.”
The air, still crackling with the aftermath, grew thick with a new, focused tension. “Closer?” You asked.
“I want to taste you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate, bone-resonating register. “I felt your heat before. A glorious, enveloping feeling. But I was a clumsy guest, storming the gates.” He began to move, sliding down your body with a serpentine grace that left a trail of gooseflesh.
The silken coverlet whispered beneath you. “I wish to map the source. To taste the joys of your pleasure. To see if I can elicit the same symphony with my tongue as I did with… other means.”
He settled between your thighs, at the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders pushing your legs further apart. The moon cast him in stark relief—the fall of his dark hair, the elegant line of his back, the pale curve of his buttocks.
“I wish to break you open, in your pleasure. Make you question everything you have ever known about your sensory receptors in your body. It needs to be precise”
He was kneeling on the floor, and as he did, you saw his hand move. He took himself in hand, his length already stirring again, impossibly, from the aftermath.
It was graceful like the rest of him, and he gave himself a slow, thoughtful stroke, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs with the concentration of an artist contemplating a fresh canvas.
“You are watching me?” he said, without looking up. His thumb swept over the head of his cock, a slow, circular motion.
He sniggered at your lack of response.
“Good, I suppose. This is part of the process. The anticipation. The visual study.” He stroked himself again, a long, languid pull, his breath hitching with a soft, frosty sigh.
“I am reminded that women of this day like to watch solo performances…. However, you’ll be so overcome you won’t even remember I am touching myself too.”
The sight was mesmerizingly obscene. This beautiful, beyond the living man, kneeling in worship between your legs, casually pleasuring himself as he prepared to devour you. It shattered any last pretense of a normal encounter. This was a ritual. Unlike any intimate moment you had shared with a partner before - it was as if they never even existed outwith this moment.
He leaned forward then, and his breath washed over you first—a cold, damp gust that made you jolt and gasp. He didn’t touch you with his mouth yet. He nuzzled, his cheek and the bridge of his nose sliding through your curls, inhaling deeply.
“Extraordinary,” he breathed, the words a vibration against your wet cunt.
“The scent… alive. Musk, salt, sunlight trapped in flesh. I have missed this more than wine, more than music.” He finally looked up, his black thunder-cloud eyes glinting in the dark.
“Tell me to stop if you are frightened?”
You couldn’t. Your voice was gone, stolen by the spectacle of him. You could only manage a frantic shake of your head.
A dark, pleased hum escaped him. “Then we continue.”
His tongue was not like a living man’s. It was cooler, smoother, and yet impossibly deft. He didn’t attack; he was calm and slow when he devoured you.
A long, slow, flattened stroke from bottom to top of your centre, soaking in the feel and taste of you. You cried out, your hands flying to your mouth to cover the obscene sounds coming from you.
“Such a pretty and shy girl,” he murmured against you, the words almost indistinct, felt more than heard.
“Let me hear you,”
He continued to just marvel at your sex; you looked down at him, bewildered that this could even be really happening.
“The texture… the give… the heat is not a wall, it is a tide. And it welcomes me.”
He began to work in earnest, and it was clear he was, as he said, a maestro. His tongue was a precision instrument, tracing lazy circles around your clit before focusing on it with a pinpoint, icy pressure that made you see what felt like the expansion of the universe.
He alternated—broad, lapping strokes that cooled your entire core, then sharp, flickering assaults on that one hypersensitive node. His pace was deliberate, experimental, listening to every hitch of your breath, every twitch of your thighs.
And all the while, his right hand moved on himself. You could hear the soft, slick sound of it, a counter-rhythm to the wet, hungry sounds his mouth was making. He stroked himself in time with the flicks of his tongue, a slow, consistent pumping motion, his own pleasure feeding back into the attention he lavished on you.
It was a feedback loop of sensation, a closed circuit where his cold arousal and your burning need amplified each other.
“You taste of the world,” he groaned, lifting his head for a moment. His lips glistened. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face flushed with a phantom of color. His hand never stopped moving on his cock.
“You taste of summer grass and night rain and… and life. It is an addiction.” He dove back in, his hunger less controlled now, more ravenous. He added his fingers, one, then two, sliding into you with that same shocking, perfect cold, curling upwards as his tongue lashed at your clit.
You felt obsencely overestimulated, the deep, filling chill of his fingers, the maddening, icy pinpoint of his tongue, and the visual, audible proof of his own mounting pleasure as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, frosty pants against your skin.
You were babbling, pleading, pulling his hair, your hips rolling uncontrollably against his face.
The cold was no longer just a sensation; it was the fuel, the catalyst that made every nerve scream twice as loud.
“Is this the way?” he asked, his voice muffled, desperate for confirmation. “Tell me, my living beauty… does this path lead to the same peak?”
“Yes—God—yes, please, don’t stop doing whatever you’re doing, please—” you sobbed. “I am so close”
He redoubled his efforts. His tongue became a blur of cold, relentless motion. His fingers pumped, crooking just so, and his thumb pressed hard, circling your clit. His other hand was a piston on his own length, the rhythm frantic now, the soft slapping sounds filling the air. He was chasing it, chasing your climax with desperation; starving for proof of his own existence.
The build was different this time. Not a shatter or a falling apart that you’d have been used to, but a slow, inexorable melt. The cold he was pumping into you seemed to meet the core of your heat and create a thermal reaction, a swirling vortex of sensation that pulled everything you were into its center.
Your muscles locked. Your breath stopped. The world narrowed to the freezing, brilliant point between your legs and the sight of his beautiful, obsessed face buried there, pleasuring himself as he drove you mad.
It broke silently, a vast, wave-like submersion. Your climax washed over you profoundly, a drowning release, a slow-motion unfurling of every tense wire in your body.
You pulsed around his fingers, a long, shuddering series of contractions, a silent scream locked in your throat.
He felt it. He let out a choked, triumphant cry against you and his own rhythm stuttered, then broke. His back arched, a perfect, taut bow, and he spilled over his own fist with a ragged, gasping groan, his release pearlescent and faintly glowing in the moonlight, striping his own pale stomach and the dark coverlet beneath him.
He trembled violently through it, his mouth still pressed against you, drinking in the final aftershocks of your pleasure as his own wracked him.
Slowly, he pulled away. He looked wrecked, glorious. His hair was wild, his lips swollen and slick. His eyes, when they met yours, held a look of stunned, satiated reverence.
He looked down at the evidence of his own pleasure on his hand and stomach, then back at you, as if he couldn't quite believe either.
"The data," he whispered, his voice utterly spent. "Is... overwhelming. The hypothesis is not only confirmed... it is expanded upon. The variables are infinite."
He moved then, fluid and weary, coming to lie beside you. He didn't pull you into the full, chilling embrace of before, but he slid an arm beneath your neck, his body a line of cool pressure against your side. He was still stroking your hair with his other hand, his touch now almost gentle.
"You have," he said to the canopy above, "given a ghost a memory that does not hurt to hold. That is a rare gift, little trespasser."
You turned your head on his arm. The dictaphone was still on the floor, its red light a steady, distant pulse. The investigation was over. Something else had begun.
"What now?" you asked, your voice hoarse.
He was silent for a moment, watching the curtains dance with the night. "Now," he said finally, a new, contemplative note in his voice, "we discuss the parameters of further... experimentation. And you tell me your name. One should know the name of a beautiful, living creation, should one not?"
Summary: The night after losing his virginity, Michael Jackson finds he can't control his body or his obsession. What begins as a tense ride home from the AMAs erupts into a raw, relentless claiming in the one place he was always meant to be innocent: his childhood bedroom. (established relationship)
Word Count: 4530
Tags: off the wall era, smut, porn with plot, oral sex (f receiving), prone bone, sexual awakening, sort of romantic smut?, michael is pussy drunk y'all, slight praise kink, marking, unprotected sex, creampie (oop) overstimulation,
Authors Note: this was a request. people want more otw mike! and another anon requested pussy drunk michael otw era as well, so NATURALLY this was born. im so sorry if this is not what either of you had in mind lmao. rarely see smut or much at all in this era tbh (ITS HIS BEST??? ARGUE W THE (off the) WALL -- hAH get it?)
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18+ minors dnu!!!
The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.
Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety.
He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.
And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.
You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself.
You’d borne witness to it all.
The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.
It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.
Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”
He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”
It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.
You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.
The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.
“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.
Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.
He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.
The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.
His childhood bedroom.
It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter.
Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.
You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.
He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.
The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache.
In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.
You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.
“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.
His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”
“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”
A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”
“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”
He turned then.
His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.
“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”
You closed the final distance.
You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.
He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.
“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.
His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.
A choked, ragged sound escaped him.
“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”
“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”
He was shaking now.
You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.
He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.
He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.
“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.
“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”
He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.
“Mmmhh—!”
The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot.
He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.
“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”
He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.
His eyes fluttered closed.
“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.”
He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.
“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”
He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.
The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.
He didn’t ask before diving in at you.
He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.
He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.
“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary.
“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”
He pushed in.
It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.
“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”
He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.
“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”
But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful.
He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.
“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”
He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.
He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.
“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths.
“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”
His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being.
He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale.
You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.
He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter.
His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours.
You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.
“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”
You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.
“Ah—ah—!”
“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure.
“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.
His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.
Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.
You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably.
A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”
you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.
He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.
“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”
But he didn’t stop after your come down.
He couldn’t.
The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger.
His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.
“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”
He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments.
His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.
“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.
He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.
“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”
His own end took him by storm.
His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.
You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.
He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.
When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.
“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”
"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"
He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.
He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.
“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade.
The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys.
Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks.
Then, a shift in the energy beside you.
He lowered his arm.
In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.
"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing.
He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush.
"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"
The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.
You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."
He turned his head too.
His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity.
"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."
He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality.
The decision was made.
He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.
He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.
“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”
His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.
He began to part you.
It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”
He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.
"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.
“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.
"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"
He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes.
The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.
You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"
He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."
It was a desperate, worshipful plea.
He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.
Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.
His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place.
There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.
He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.
You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.
You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.
His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender.
Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button.
The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.
The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.
You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.
"Wha—?"
You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…
You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed.
You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.
A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.
For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected.
You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.
Then you began to move.
You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length.
His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips.
"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"
But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.
The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.
His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.
"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual.
He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath.
" harder. Take what you want. Use me."
He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.
"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure.
"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"
His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse.
You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.
He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.
With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.
"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips.
His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.
He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices.
He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.
"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs.
"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"
His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible.
He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.
His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.
“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”
pairing: old man mike x reader and her first generation iphone mature era!michael x reader
summary: michael is old and doesn’t understand phones. that’s it. that’s the plot.
word count: 332
author’s note: this was written in like five minutes, i just had to get it off my chest okay?
(tell me y'all have seen this)
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
“What are you doing over there?” Michael peered at you over the top of the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.
You didn’t answer, nearly doubled over with silent, hysterical laughter.
He had been sitting in his chair reading a book while you sat on the couch, absorbed in a video on your iPhone. The volume was too low for Michael to hear, but apparently, it was hilarious.
“C’mon. I like to laugh.” Michael closed the book and put it down on the coffee table.
“‘s nothing.” You giggled without looking up.
He frowned, getting up and walking towards the couch, holding out his hand like he expected you to give him the phone.
“No way.” You shook your head, holding it tight to your chest so he couldn’t see what was on the screen, like a kid who’d been caught watching something they shouldn’t.
“Let me see.” He was getting whiny, which only tickled you more.
From your phone, a small, familiar voice kept talking: “Go on, sit down!”
Michael’s eyes widened first in recognition, then his brows furrowed in confusion. “Is that me?”
When you didn’t answer, he finally snatched the phone from you, revealing the video you had been watching. “The Jackson Five Interview, 1970.”
On the screen, little Michael was sitting in a yellow chair almost the exact same color as his shirt, cup of orange juice next to him, flipping through a Playboy magazine.
“Michael, they filming you!” One of his brothers called from the background, and little Michael sheepishly snapped the magazine shut. In front of you, the look on grown-up Michael’s face sent you from silent laughter into a full blown cackle.
“How did you get this?!” He looked so flabbergasted that tears started to form in the corners of your eyes. “YouTube, Michael.”
“What is Youtube?”
You reached for your phone and grabbed it back, straightening up on the couch and patting the spot next to you.
𝔂ou were wearing a dark-wash jean skirt, a white tank top, and a denim jacket you stole from michael.
it was a plain outfit that you didn’t put much thought into. you grabbed the first few items hanging up in your closet and made them work together.
however, that wasn’t how michael saw it. he kept thinking about how short your skirt was—how he’d be able to catch a glimpse of your panties if you did so much as bend over. how your skirt was so short, yet it kept your backside completely covered.
you had invited him over a few days prior with the promise of “nobody will be home.” that was more than enough to get him to come over. you knew he’d have no other obligations on a friday evening, so it was the optimal day for him to visit you.
michael’s adorned in a white wife-beater and dark-wash jeans when he shows up to your house. you lean against the doorframe, eyes raking up and down his figure before letting him in.
“hey, mikey,” you greeted him as you open your door wider, an invitation for him to come in.
“hey, baby.”
the next hour is spent catching up, indulging in meaningless conversation, and making plans for the next time you’d see each other. time moves without you realizing.
however, michael does notice you. specifically, your skirt.
“you look good, mama.”
“thanks, mikey.”
you don’t notice his eyes ogling your legs, especially where your skirt ends. even if you do, you don’t acknowledge it.
his wife-beater and your jean skirt were now on the floor.
michael was pushing your legs open, his palms on your inner thighs. he was kneeling between them, low. his tongue ran a tentative strip up your clit.
he was slow, but certain. he didn’t stop when you squirmed or when you tried to close your legs from where he was holding them open.
“mikey—want more,” you pleaded, and he didn’t respond for a long moment. instead, he looks at you, eyes foggy as if he knows he should be listening to you.
“yeah, baby?”
“‘s not enough, mikey,” you whine.
both of his hands tighten around your thighs. then, it’s the flat of his tongue against you. the tip circles you—a small movement, but it’s enough to have you moaning into the open room.
his hands push your thighs even further apart. his tongue was dipping in and out of you, circling and lapping with his nose brushing against your skin. you felt incredible. otherworldly, actually.
you’re both sweating, but you don’t bother to wipe it off because you’ll both be a mess of fluids by the time michael’s done.
mature!michael finds out that he loves to be called daddy
cw: 18+ minors dni — fem!reader, mating press, creampie, guys this one is just smut smut smuttt
michael jackson masterlist ༻ navi
“nghh— fuck!” you moan, feeling the thickness of michael’s tip hit your cervix over and over again.
you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his lips to yours in a messy kiss.
“it feel so good, godddd. faster, please.” you whine, your lips brushing his with every word.
“oh yeah?” michael says, starting to quicken the pace of his thrusts. the movement of his hips were lethal before, but now that they’re plummeting into you with such speed, you can’t help the way that your legs are shaking while they’re wrapped around his waist.
“oh yes. yes, yessss!” you scream in pleasure. you honestly won’t be surprised if the whole city heard you.
“you gon cum for me baby.” michael whispers in your ear, filling you with the whole length of his cock. you gasp when he stays there, his pelvis grinding into you like he’s trying to puncture your lungs.
it damn sure feels like it.
your mouth opens in a silent scream at the sudden pressure and all you can manage is a weak nod.
“use your words.”
you feel the sudden emptiness when michael pulls out until just the thick head of his mushroom tip is at your entrance and you whine, bucking your hips so you can try and slide him back inside of you.
“please…please i wanna cum. i wanna cum so bad daddy!” your mouth was running at a hundred miles per second that you didn’t even realise what you just called him. and you’re so horny and desperate to cum that you didn’t notice the way michael just completely froze above you, his eyes darkening.
your eyes widen when michael grabs onto the back of your thighs and pushes down on them, practically folding you in half. without a single warning, he plunges back inside of you with quick, hard thrusts.
“fuckkk. you can’t say that baby.” michael let’s a groan, pushing his whole body weight on top of you so your ankles are near enough touching your ears.
“what— ahhh!” you moan immediately after the words spill out your mouth. “fuckkkk, im gonna cum!” you yell, when michael reaches his hand down between your bodies to rub tight circles on your swollen clit.
“yeah do it. cum on daddy’s cock baby.” you don’t even hear his words because all you hear is ringing in your eyes and dark spots start to cloud your vision at the force of your orgasm.
and you definitely don’t hear the guttural groans in your ear and the feeling of michaels cum flooding your insides.
that’s probably the hardest you’ve came in your entire life.
you let out a small whine when michael pulls out, and lays down beside you.
“c’mere.” he coos, pulling you into his chest and placing a kiss on your forehead.
“that was so… good.” you pant.
“you’re something else you know that right.” michael smirks, looking down at you.
“what?” you can’t help but smile at the look on his face.
“calling me daddy?” he raises a brow.
“oh.” you laugh, hiding your face in his chest. he gives your forehead another kiss before getting up and running a shower for you both.
if he fucks you like that… then you’ll be calling him daddy a lot more!
