Misundersexing
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Synopsis: You have a HUGE misunderstanding
Tags: Confusion, Jealousy, held in emotions, Love, Overstimulation.
TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, and other sexual orientation.
Requested: No/ Yes
Word count: Idk
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We’d been talking for five months.
Not dating.
Not nothing either.
That weird in-between stage—half friendship, half “what are we doing,” full of late-night texts, soft looks across rooms, phone calls that last too long, and moments that feel like they should mean more… but no one says it.
I liked him. A lot more than I meant to.
And maybe that was the problem.
Talking makes you close—but not safe.
Talking makes you want things no one’s promised.
⸻
The night of the gathering was chill. One of Michael’s friends was throwing something low-key—just music, drinks, and a bunch of people who knew each other well enough to pretend they didn’t care who was watching.
Michael picked me up just after seven. He wore this black tee that hugged his shoulders a little too perfectly, curls still a little wet like he’d showered last minute. When he smiled at me through the open car window, my stomach pulled tight in that dumb way it always did.
“Hey, you,” he said.
“Hey, yourself.”
He smelled like cedarwood and mint. He always did.
⸻
At the party, I drifted. Talked to a few people I didn’t expect to talk to—some guy who produced something for somebody famous, a girl who ran a wellness brand I’d actually followed for a while. Michael introduced me around, then got swept up in conversation across the room.
I wasn’t mad. It was his crowd.
After a while, I excused myself to the bathroom. On the way back, I slowed when I caught sight of him in the hallway—smiling, arms wrapped around a girl. She was petite, pretty. He kissed her cheek. She laughed, touching his chest like they’d done that a hundred times before.
And it wasn’t a thing. I knew that.
But it felt like a thing.
I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t ask. Didn’t flinch. Just kept it moving.
⸻
The car ride back to his place was quiet.
Not heavy. Not tense. Just… quiet.
I stared out the window. The rain had started again, light and steady. I watched the water slide down the glass like it had something to say.
Michael didn’t push. He drove with one hand on the wheel, one arm resting out the window. His profile looked calm, but I could feel him glancing over every so often.
When we pulled into his driveway, the sky was dark. The house was quiet. Familiar.
Inside, I sat down on the couch and kicked off my shoes. He dropped his keys on the table and stood there for a second, watching me.
“You alright?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
But I didn’t look at him. And I didn’t smile.
He paused. Then came closer. Quiet footsteps. Then he knelt in front of me, gently, like I might flinch. He sat back on his heels, hands on his knees, looking right at me.
“Okay,” he said, softly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
I stared at the wall for a second. Tried to swallow it. Then looked at him—at those deep brown eyes, at that face I’d memorized too well. Something cracked a little.
“I like you,” I said. “A lot. And I’ve been trying not to say it because we’re not… you know. We’re not anything. But tonight, when I saw you hug that girl… and kiss her cheek… I don’t know. It just made me feel stupid.”
He blinked.
“Kiss her cheek?” he repeated, like I’d told him the sky was green.
“Yeah. In the hallway. You were laughing. You looked happy.”
There was a pause.
And then—he laughed.
Not mean. Not mocking. Just surprised. Soft.
“That was Janet,” he said, sitting up straighter.
I stared at him. “Janet?”
“My sister.”
My whole body went still.
“I—” I blinked. “That was your sister?”
“Yeah. I invited her last minute. She lives nearby.”
I put a hand over my face. “Oh my God.”
Michael grinned. A slow, knowing grin. That perfect white smile. That amused sparkle in his eyes.
“You thought I was—?” he started.
“Don’t,” I groaned, laughing into my palms. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”
“You really thought I’d bring another girl and kiss her in front of you?”
I dropped my hands, cheeks hot. “I don’t know! We’re not together, Michael.”
He tilted his head. “Maybe not officially. But… do you really think I’ve been talking to you every day for five months because I don’t feel something?”
My breath caught.
He leaned in then, slow. His hand came up, fingers resting under my chin, guiding my face to his.
“I like you,” he said. Simple. Sure. No hesitation. “I’ve been trying to be patient. Respect your space. But I like you.”
His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, and then—he kissed me.
Soft at first. Still testing. Still asking.
Then deeper. Warmer. His lips full and careful, like he was trying not to break the moment. One hand stayed under my chin, holding me steady. The other slid behind my neck, his fingers slipping into my hair.
I kissed him back like I’d been waiting five months. Because I had.
And when he pulled back, just barely, he smiled again.
“You still feel stupid?” he asked gently.
I shook my head. “Only a little.”
He laughed and pulled me into his arms.
His arms wrapped around you like it was the easiest thing in the world — like your body fit against his without effort, like he’d done it a hundred times in dreams he never said out loud.
Your face rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, warm. You felt the rise and fall of his breath in your hair. Slow. Safe. Close.
You didn’t want to move.
Didn’t want to lose the quiet electricity between you.
But his hands were moving. Soft, slow. Not rushed — just familiar. One hand skimmed the curve of your back. The other settled on your hip, then slid lower. It wasn’t a demand. Just presence. Weight. A quiet claim.
You shifted, just enough to see his face.
His lips brushed your forehead.
Then your cheek.
Then hovered just near the corner of your mouth.
“Still thinking?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
You swallowed. “Trying not to.”
He smiled — that quiet, knowing smile that always made your stomach flip — and leaned in again. This time, the kiss was deeper. Warm, parted lips and slow breath. You melted into it.
His hand slid along your thigh, fingers grazing just beneath the hem of your dress. Not groping. Just… asking. Waiting.
Your breath caught.
You kissed him again, and your hands moved on instinct — under his shirt, across smooth skin, tracing the lean muscle he always kept hidden beneath quiet clothes and quiet control. He inhaled sharply when your fingertips brushed his ribs, and the small sound from him made something pulse between your legs.
Five months of holding back unraveled, one heartbeat at a time.
He pulled you gently into his lap. His grip on your hips was strong, sure. You straddled him, breath heavy, dress slipping higher, exposing soft skin beneath. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, then paused — not pushing, just holding. His eyes were half-lidded, dark with something he wasn’t hiding anymore.
He kissed you harder.
Your bodies pressed flush, heat rising between you.
You gasped into his mouth, and he stilled.
“You sure?” he asked, voice rough now.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
That was all he needed.
He lifted you effortlessly — like carrying you was second nature — and walked you to the bedroom. You clung to him, fingers in his curls, heart thudding as he laid you back against the sheets.
His eyes searched yours one last time.
Then he kissed you. Again and again.
His hands slid up your thighs, under your dress, then eased it over your head. You didn’t resist. You wanted him to see. All of you.
His eyes roamed slowly — not greedy, but deliberate. Admiring.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice low and reverent.
You gave him a half-smile. “You’re just now figuring that out?”
“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he admitted, leaning down to kiss your collarbone. “Trying too hard.”
His mouth moved lower — to your chest, the soft curve of your stomach, every kiss slower than the last. He traced your skin like a map he didn’t want to rush. Your back arched. You couldn’t stay still.
You undressed him, too — peeled away his shirt, ran your hands across his chest, down his abdomen. His skin was hot under your touch. Firm, but not rigid. Real. Alive.
He didn’t say much.
He didn’t have to.
You opened your legs for him and he settled between them like it was the only place he belonged. His mouth met you there, soft tongue tracing slow circles around your clit, his fingers parting you, exploring you, then easing inside — deep, curling just right.
He took his time.
Listened to the way you gasped, adjusted when your hips twitched, stayed there until your thighs trembled and your voice broke into a desperate, helpless cry.
He kissed up your body again, and you reached for him, panting. “Please…”
He didn’t tease.
Didn’t hesitate.
You felt him press against you — thick and hard — and your legs wrapped around his hips automatically. The first thrust was slow. Careful. Deep.
You both exhaled.
“God,” you whispered.
He didn’t rush. He set a rhythm. Smooth, rocking, so deep you swore he was in your chest. His hands held your hips, guided your body, his mouth brushing yours with every breath.
You felt every inch.
Every pulse.
Every quiet gasp against your skin.
When you moaned his name, it broke something in him. He moved faster — not frantic, just needier, more raw. He kissed your throat, your cheek, your mouth again like he needed to feel every part of you from the inside out.
You clenched around him, breath hitching.
“I’m close,” you choked out.
He didn’t let go.
Didn’t change a thing.
“Let it happen,” he whispered. “I got you. I’m right here.”
And you fell apart — body tightening, back arching, breath caught in your throat as wave after wave hit you, loud and messy and real.
He followed seconds after, groaning your name, burying his face in your neck as he spilled inside you — deep, full, no barrier, no hesitation. It was raw. Intimate. Final.
He didn’t move right away.
Didn’t say anything.
Just held you.
Your bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, skin buzzing. His hand ran slowly up your side. Your fingers stayed in his curls.
After a while, he spoke — voice hoarse and soft.
“You really thought I’d kiss someone else in front of you?”
You groaned. “Let me have my meltdown in peace.”
He laughed — chest shaking, lips brushing your cheek. “Next time, just talk to me.”
You looked at him, still half breathless.
“Next time?”
His gaze held yours.
“Oh, there’s gonna be a next time.”
And the way he kissed you again?
You believed him.