#juicy couture

[darkang3lxx]

bring back the 2000s😭💖

[m0ney]

couturedoll on flickr ‧₊˚𖦹𓂃౨ৎ˚

[fluttershygirl]

[irlcupcake]

[jeonseoguu]

cunty crusaders

COMMISSIONS OPEN

[boujeegemini]

[thepinkernet]

pink juicy couture double decker tram in hong kong (2007)

[urbanfunkchild]

̩͙ ⠳⠀⠀ .⠀⏜ Juicy

summary ━━ ༯ michael accidentally pulls on your juicy couture sweatpant bottoms getting out of bed in the morning - chaos... ensues.

tags ━━ ༯ porn w plot, smut, overstimulation, kitchen sex, sub! michael, switch!reader, late 90s this is ridiculous idk why i wrote it, quickie, orgasm denial if u squint,

pairing ━━ ༯ history era michael! x wife! reader

a/n ━━ ༯ what can i say i just saw spiderman and had fluttery feelings seeing peter in the juicy sweatpants. i imagined michael... now here we are. this is barely proof read and probably ass cheeks (lol)

w.c: 2.8k

The house was quiet, so quiet it felt like the middle of the night, but alas… it was the morning. 

Grey, textureless light seeped through the kitchen window; the sun hadn’t yet broken through the clouds, and you hadn’t fully awakened.

Your eyes were maybe open all of twenty minutes before you had to bolt up from the bed; the heat of Michael lying beside you became oppressive. 

He was a wall of heat and limbs, all over you during the night—laying diagonally, stealing the duvet, occasionally snorting softly right into your hair. Blissfully unaware of how atrocious he made your sleep.

You padded down stairs and made herbal tea, as you had been loving the ritual—boil, steep, wait—anchoring you in the silence of the morning. The birds chirping and the neighbours dog barking intermittently made your zen slightly less dreamlike.

Your little routine softened the zombie feeling you had each morning after getting very little sleep beside your husband.

The familiar sounds came from upstairs: the groan of the mattress, bare feet on floorboards, soft, irritated mumblings. 

You’d probably woken him clattering around for your favourite mug. Drawers opened and closed with force. He was looking for his glasses. He always lost them.

When he appeared in the doorway, you bit your lip hard to stop yourself from smiling too wide.

Michael stood there squinting, one hand rubbing his temple, so innocently. Shirtless, his torso pale in the weak light from the patio doors. And... he was wearing your sweatpants. 

Your Juicy sweatpants.

You’d kicked them off at the foot of the bed last night to sleep skin-to-skin. He’d whine it wasn’t fair if you weren’t naked with him. Michael got what he wanted. Most of the time.

They were soft, black velvet Juicy Couture pants, with the branding spelled out in diamantes across the ass. 

He must have felt for something on the floor in the dark, his fingers closing on fabric instead of his plain plaid pajama pants.

They fit him all wrong. The waistband strained, sitting too high and folded over, too tight on his hips. The legs ended three inches above his bony ankles. The word ‘JUICY’ was stretched taut, the letters distorted, across the back of his perky bum. 

It was all wrong, yet… he looked good. His prominent happy trail, that black dusting of coily hair that led down under the waistband, stark against his skin. 

You could see the clear line of his dick through the material of the sweatpants, the seam making it protrude more—he at least had a semi.

He always had morning wood. You felt yourself clench at the thought of what it would have been like to wake up in bed together this morning.

His hair was a different story.

It was a dark and very cropped. Beautiful tight, delicate coils, each no longer than your fingertip, packed densely across his scalp. 

It wasn’t his usual style these days—most of the time he'd bare a longer weave, silk-pressed waves, or a curly piece.

But at home, with just you, he kept it natural. 

He’d tried to grow it, but decades of sewn in hair pieces had chafed and pulled, leaving a lingering trauma to the damaged skin beneath.

The tiny curls were soft as fine velvet, with a springy, resilient life.

Despite being patchy in some areas, it looked good; but then again, he always looked good. 

Now, sleep had matted one side, pressing the coils into a soft whorl against his temple.

He shuffled in, movements cautious, sleepy, irritated. “My glasses,” he said, voice gravelly. 

“Can’t find ‘em.”

“Nightstand?”

He grunted and looked at you as if ‘do you think im stupid?’. 

“Obviously not there. Must’ve fallen down the back.”

He fumbled in the bread bin, pulled out two slices of wheat bread, movements precise despite his faux blindness.

He got them into the toaster, pushed the lever down, and stood there, arms crossed, waiting. 

The pose made the sweatpants stretch even more, his ass subconsciously cocked out. 

‘JUICY’ glimmered in the grey light.

You set your mug down with a silent giggle and looked for your camera. You’d left it on the counter a few nights prior after being out with friends; it was your old Konica film point-and-shoot. 

You picked it up, framed him in the viewfinder: the slope of his bare back, the sharp shoulder blades, the ridiculous curve of diamante script.

You pressed the shutter. A soft snick-whirr.

He turned his head, frowning. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

You walked up behind him and you heard him sigh, a tired exhale. He was always so exhausted these days, from the press, the tours, the work schedule these executives had him operating under. It was sad.

You placed your hands on his hips to ground him, the fabric was thin and warm under your delicate touch. He eased up immediately at your touch.

“Your pants are too small, Mikey.”

“Mmm, yeah, tight,” he agreed, tone flat with annoyance. “And short. Shrank in the dryer probably.”

“They didn’t shrink, you idiot” Your thumbs hooked into the waistband above the ‘J’ and pulled him closer to your chest. 

“They’re not yours.” You whispered up at him; he was much taller.

There was a long silence as his brain did some computing.

You felt the realization move through him; irritation shifting to mild embarrassment, then understanding.

He uncrossed his arms and his hands subconsciously found yours where they were wrapped around him and he grabbed them tight and gave a little squeeze of acknowledgement before going back to the food. He always did that, acknowledged how much your touch meant to him.

The cuddling was so domestic and so far from the normal routine. The hardcore rehearsals and stress would be the reality soon enough when the next album cycle started again.

“They’re not mine?”

“No.”

“God- I'll have ruined th-”

you cut him off, trying to be unserious;

“Yeah, stretched them ‘cause your ass is so… Juicy.”

A soft huff of air—almost a laugh. 

“Oh, m’lord. It’s not the Juicy Couture ones you were wearin’ last night, is it?” He looked incredulous.

“In all their glory.” You backed off of him and leaned against the island counter.

He twisted awkwardly, trying to see his own ass. When he saw it, he chuckled lightly 

The toaster popped and whilst still laughing slightly, he turned and pulled the slices out, the smell of burnt wheat faint. He did a bit of spreading before then taking a bit of one of the slices, chewing thoughtfully as he turned back to you, the jam—raspberry, you knew—glistening. 

“So that’s what that little noise was. You took a picture?”

“Yes. Just to keep. Only for me.”

“Y/N, that better not be on page 6 by tomorrow. i mean it when i say keep it safe when you develop it,” He took another bite of the bread.

“its a momento. Just for me, baby. M'gonna keep it safe!”

You were laughing now, wholeheartedly, at how funny and cute the whole situation was.

He feigned some annoyance, moving slowly towards you all menacing, still chewing his breakfast.

Once he was close enough to be able to see you, his eyes, even unfocused, found yours so intently. 

Sleep-softness was gone, replaced by simmering intensity of both horniness and playfulness.

Morning breath, now laced with the sweet-rot scent of jam, hung between you.

He reached behind, hands finding the counter’s edge, caging you. “You think this is funny?”

“Uhhhh, yeah. Really funny. Juicy, if you will.”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours and gave you a peck on the lips. 

You felt the hard line of his dick against your thigh as he'd moved closer. 

“All that laughin’,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, gritty register. 

“Makin’ fun of your husband. Maybe I oughta to do something about it?”

“Oh Mike, whatever will you do to me?” you feinged fear right into his face, and he raised his dark eyebrows expectantly.

“Ohhh I don’t know. Fuck you, so that you stop laughing at me? See how funny you think it is when you can’t even form a sentence?”

It was a challenge, a promise of obliterating pleasure that shot straight to your ovaries. 

Your laughter died in your throat, replaced by a sharp intake of breath.

His hands slid to your backside, gripping you through your sleep shorts, pulling you firmly against the hard ridge of his dick. 

“Well, jokes on you, because I’d like that,” you managed, your voice already losing its steadiness. “Your juicy ass and your dick.”

A slow, dark chuckle after realising your reference came from him

“Greedy girl.” 

His hands went to the waistband of your sleep shorts and the panties beneath. 

He just shoved them down roughly, just enough, the elastic stretching tight around your thighs, creating a frustrating, thrilling barrier. 

He fumbled with the strained waistband of the Juicy pants, shoving them down his hips just enough to free himself. 

The glittering ‘JUICY’ now sat crumpled around his upper thighs. 

He was half-dressed, you were half-undressed, and it was dirtier, more urgent - the kitchen windows easy for people to see through if they had so wished it.

He was already slick at the tip and probably had been for a while considering he woke up already fairly hard.

he used that wetness to rub himself against you, the pressure was delightful.

He kept pushing himself through your folds and hitting your clit; each direct hit making you close your eyes, at each burst of pleasure.

“A quickie to start your day, m'lady?”

You nodded, wordless, your hips pushing against his hand.

“Didn’t hear you,” he growled, leaning in. His breath was hot and jam-sweet against your ear.

“Yes,” you whispered.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I want that.”

“What’s the magic word?” he teased, but there was a dark heat in it. He was done talking.

“Please, Michael. Please fuck me.”

That was all he needed. He hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you forward off of the counter just enough, and with a rough, unceremonious push, he was inside you. 

Far from a slow invasion; he filled you in one blunt, deep stroke, the stretch sudden and breathtaking.

You held in your moan, your eyes rolling back into your head from how good it felt to be filled to the brim.

The angle on the counter somehow making him feel deeper than ever before. 

The cold granite of the counter bit into your backside. He was looking intently at you, his eyes black and focused, observing your face as he began to move.

It was fast and deep from the start, a hard, driving rhythm meant to overwhelm you. He was playing games. 

“That’s it,” he panted, his voice raw. “Dirty girl takin’ it good on the kitchen counter f’me”

It was incredibly effective. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs. 

You could only cling to his shoulders, your head thrown back, every sound pulled from you a choked gasp or moan. 

He was making good on his promise—fucking you into speechlessness.

But then his rhythm faltered. A grimace twisted his features. He tried to adjust his angle, but the counter was too high, his stance awkward.

“Damn it,” he gritted out, his thrusts becoming shallow, strained. “My back…”

He pulled out of you abruptly, the loss hollow and shocking and pulled up the pants. This brought out another laugh from you.

Before you could protest, his arms were under you, lifting you completely off the counter.

He held you against his chest, your legs around his waist, your panties and shorts still tangled around your thighs. 

“Bed,” he mumbled, as if to himself. 

“Should’ve started there.”

He carried you out of the kitchen, through the living room, and awkwardly found his way up the stairs, juicy pants low on his hips. 

Each step jostled you, his still-hard cock under the sweatpants rubbing against your wet, sensitive flesh with every movement. 

It was a torturous, overstimulating tease.

You were already so close from the counter sex, and this constant, rhythmic friction was pushing you toward the edge without any relief. 

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“Sensitive, my baby?” he murmured, a note of smug understanding in his voice. He took the stairs slowly, deliberately, making sure you felt every bounce.

He was really having a field day today - usually it was you doing the teasing. 

He shouldered into the bedroom and deposited you onto the bed, following you down without breaking contact. 

This time, he took a moment to properly kick the ridiculous sweatpants off his ankles and push your sleep shorts and panties the rest of the way off your legs. 

He settled between your legs and started pumping his swollen and hard dick, the tip so flushed and almost purple from lack of attention.

The energy from the kitchen had banked into something hotter, slower, more deliberate and duller; but not less exciting.

He sank into you again, this time with a long, deep groan of relief. 

“Better,” he sighed against your lips, beginning a slow, grinding rhythm. “So much better.”

After a few more deep thrusts and his thumb playing expertly with your clit, you could feel your own climax coming. He really didn't have to do much and you were there.

But you didn’t want it to end. You wanted this—him, like this—to last.

It wasn’t really that often you had a whole day off together and you wanted this to be good.

When you felt his pace start to quicken, his breaths becoming more ragged, you knew he was getting close, too.

You put your hands on his hips, stilling him. “Wait,” you breathed.

He froze, looking down at you, confusion and desperate need in his eyes. “Baby…shit.. I was so close to comin',”

“Not yet,” you said, your voice taking on a new authority.

You shifted beneath him, gently rolling him onto his back. He went willingly, a soft, surprised sigh leaving him. 

You straddled his hips, sinking down onto him slowly, taking back control. “I’m not done with you.”

The position changed everything. 

You set the pace, a slow, deep, rolling grind that had him biting his lip, his hands fluttering to your thighs and then up to your tits. 

“Oh… oh, that’s… hnmngg, you’re so wet and slippery” he babbled.

“You were gonna come, weren’t you?” you whispered, leaning forward to speak against his mouth. 

“I could feel it. But I want more.” You lifted yourself up almost all the way off him, until just the tip remained, and paused.

He whined, a high, helpless sound. His hips canted up, seeking. 

“Y/N… please…”

“Please what?” You sank down an inch, then rose again. Teasing. Easing him back from the edge, only to stoke the fire higher. “Use your words, Michael”

“Please, I need… I need you to move. Please, just use me, I need it… I need you” He whined. 

His words were a desperate stream. He was writhing beneath you, not trying to take over, just lost in the sensation you were meting out. 

His hands gripped the sheets, his beautiful face a mask of tortured pleasure. The dominant act from the kitchen was completely forgotten. He was putty, begging, whining and aching for you to tell him what to do.

You gave him what he asked for, but on your terms. 

A fast, hard pace that made him shout, then slowing to a near-stop when you felt him tense. 

You were edging him, drawing out every second of his pleasure, making it last. His begging became incoherent, a mix of your name, whimpers, and promises that he’d do anything for you… if you’d just let him come inside you.

“You look so good whimpering for me like that, angelface” you murmured, watching him come completely undone at his favourite pet name. 

“So perfect. Gonna make you feel so good, but you have to wait for me.”

You could feel your own orgasm building, a slow, deep wave this time. 

When you finally let yourself tip over the edge, crying out as you clenched around him, it was the signal he’d been waiting for. 

“Mhm can i come inside, baby?” he asked you, his whole body tensed under you as you rocked on top of him. 

You couldn’t even speak, you just nodded, your eyebrows furrowed and your lip almost bloody from how much you were biting it, holding in your further groans from riding it out.

With a sobbing gasp of relief, his own control shattered. 

His release was massive, a deep, pulsing flood inside you that seemed to go on and on, his body arching off the bed, a continuous, broken groan torn from his chest.

When he came around, he pulled you into him, a sweaty, trembling heap. 

He held you tightly, his arms like vices, his whole body shuddering through the aftershocks. His breath sobbed in your ear.

“To think I was teasin’ you and you’ve only gone and switched out on me,” he said breathlessly into your hair. 

You didn’t even reply, still in shock from the level of pleasure you had just experienced.

Eventually, his grip loosened. One hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers gently stroking your hair. You both stayed like that for what felt like 10 minutes, his dick still inside you, soft now.

His voice, when it came, was quiet.

“You…” he breathed, the word shaky. 

“You own me. Body and soul.” He turned, lips finding your temple in a trembling kiss. 

“not just my heart, but every damn part of me is yours. You know that?”

You nodded against his sweat-salted chest.

He let out a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from his bones. A moment later, a soft, breathless laugh shook his chest.

“Sorry about stealin’ your sweatpants and probably ruinin’ them, m'a bit blinder than I thought I was.”

You laughed too, weak and sated. You hugged him a little tighter, not wanting to let this cute moment end. His smile was basically audible. 

“Worth it.” you said.

Wanna read more? - MASTERLIST

tags:

@vxrmillion @babyimhis-mj @vincrichc @bigassapplehead @skywriter777 @sugarplumskiies @michaeljacksonbutheadcanons @ladyofmjslife @marley-n-me @saysaysay29 @t-o-pswifey @misscowboyhat @bowoah @bonesxinnyiwantushesoheavy @vntgamericana @wannabestartinsmth @impatientlynocturnalthorn @youkeepdreamin @auriuex @nyctogeny @raxxxxxxxxxxxx @kisssmethrudaphone @riiiiaaz @artflooo @loveposiie @nxctivaaa @ashmariet @nata-de-coconuts @marigoldmourning96 @sugrcookiiee @cass0419 @cherubae111 @izluvsyou @lovingyeet @sadieisagoodgirl @tinyvagrantorb @babyimhis-mj @vinylang3l @j-nae @trizixi1 @triviroko @jazzycurls @matcha-nicolas @glitterqueen123 @amnesia-sc @d3adlyclassrat @ssstarburst @literarycoquette