Hi I’m here with a Marlon request. Bc he’s my fav and I hashtag need more fics of him:/
Marlon x shy and reserved!reader
I know when the time comes he can be serious but most of what I’ve seen is him being less serious and more smiley (does this make sense?)
So I thought it’d be sweet to see him try and charm a more introverted person. Or maybe it’s her meeting his family and then asking how Marlon and reader got together? Like i think it’d be sweet to see him in the Jackson 5/Jackson era where he’s at the peak of his fame, and he’s only got eyes for the quietest girl in the room.
MOUSE — MARLON JACKSON
featuring: marlon jackson x shy!reader
synopsis: marlon is fascinated by shy!reader. they start dating and he takes her to meet the fam.
warnings: none, just pure fluff.
a/n: my first marlon fic yay! also i’m trying out those ribbon dividers, lmk if y’all like ‘em because i’m not 100% convinced.
The first thing everyone noticed about Marlon Jackson was his smile.
The second was how impossible it was to ignore him.
He was the type of person who laughed with his whole body, occasionally throwing an arm around his brothers—or whoever was within reach—without thinking. He was the type of person who would smile and greet strangers at the grocery store, the ice cream shop, or even the restroom. He carried this light with him wherever he went, and most people found themselves pulled into his orbit before they even realized it.
You, however, had an amazing talent for staying out of orbit.
You preferred quiet corners to crowded rooms. You would rather have a book in your hand than a conversation with a human being. You were better at listening than speaking, and if someone asked your opinion, you would gladly speak your mind—but only after making sure everyone else had shared theirs first.
Which fascinated Marlon.
It all started at a charity event you had volunteered to help organize for extra credit in one of your classes.
Music filled the big venue while the cameras flashes and reporters chased celebrities from one interview to the next.
He noticed you because you didn't notice him.
While everyone else stole glances at the Jackson brothers whenever they walked past, trying to get their attention, you were too busy trying to organize a stack of programs that had slipped from your hands.. You walked past them not once, not twice, not three times, but four. Yes, Marlon counted.
He had to know who the girl who had no interest in approaching them—not even Michael—was.
"Need help over there?" a voice asked.
You looked up.
The Marlon Jackson was kneeling beside you with an amused smile on his lips as he helped gather the scattered papers.
"Oh, I can get those." You gave him a small smile. "I know." He handed them back, not before making sure they were neatly stacked. "But then I wouldn't have an excuse to talk to you."
"Thank you."
He looked at you with a confused expression.
"That's it?" Now you matched his confused expression. "Was there supposed to be more?" He laughed so hard that another volunteer looked over, her eyes going wide as she noticed who was kneeling beside you. "I like you, pretty girl."
Your cheeks felt hot.
"I don't even know you."
"I know" he smirked. "That's the fun part."
That wasn't the last time you saw Marlon that day. In fact, it wasn't even the last time you saw him that same week. As it turned out, the same charity hosted multiple galas and events throughout the year, and conveniently enough, you had volunteered to help with every single one of them. Who wasn't going to take some easy extra credit?
Somehow, he kept finding reasons to appear, always with that same easy smile that made it seem like running into you was a complete coincidence, it was not.
If you were having coffee, if you were reading backstage, even when you quietly slipped outside to escape the parties, he would somehow already be sitting on the steps, waiting for you.
You finally decided to ask one afternoon.
"Marlon, how do you always know where I am?" He clasped his hands together, as if he was glad you had asked. "I have excellent Mouse instincts." You raised an eyebrow. "Why do you keep calling me mouse?" He shrugged. "Because you remind me of one."
"Why? Because I'm quiet?"
"Because you're gentle, and you carry yourself with that same gentleness." He brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, making your heart beat faster. "And even though you think nobody notices, I do."
Dating Marlon Jackson was easy, and unexpectedly peaceful.
People assumed he'd want someone loud enough to match his outgoing personality. Instead, he liked being the one to fill the silence. He'd ramble about rehearsals, tell stories about his brothers, and even complain about them to you. You never interrupted, you simply listened. Over time, he learned how to read your expressions, so he was never bothered by your lack of words, neither were you by the amount he spoke.
He would still tease you every once in a while.
"You know," he said once as you sat beside him your couch as you finished some homework. "I've probably said three hundred words and you've said maybe like... eight." You laughed. "Last time I checked, I had said eleven."
"Look at you baby girl, getting all chatty on me."
You couldn't stop yourself, and a soft laugh escaped. He pointed triumphantly before getting off the couch and busting a move. You shook your head as you laughed.
"You are ridiculous."
"You love me."
"Unfortunately."
He gasped, clearly offended.
A few weeks later, Marlon suggested that you officially meet his family. When you initially said yes, you didn't think much of it. At the time, it felt simple—just another step to take in the relationship, another evening spent with someone who had slowly become a constant in your life.
But now, standing there and realizing exactly what it meant, the nerves began to settle in. Oh boy, did you feel it now. This wasn't just another gala or another casual introduction. You were meeting his family—the people who knew him best. Suddenly, meeting the Jacksons felt a lot more intimidating than you had expected.
You stayed close to Marlon. Close enough that your sleeve occasionally brushed against his, but still far enough to keep from seeming overly attached.
"You okay, Mouse?" You nodded. "Just a little nervous." He leaned closer to you and pressed a kiss to your temple. "They're gonna love you."
When Katherine opened the door, all your nerves seemed to disappear. You didn't know what it was about that woman, but she had a way of calming your nerves by hugging you and whispering a soft, "Welcome to the family, dear," in your ear.
The rest of the introductions went well. Even Joseph seemed to like you, surprising everyone.
Dinner was louder than any meal you had ever experienced, in a good way. Everyone talked over everyone else. Someone laughed every thirty seconds. You mostly smiled quietly, but you didn't feel uncomfortable. For some reason, you felt completely at ease.
"So..." Janet spoke. "How did you two meet?"
"Oh, this is my favorite story." Marlon grinned. "It is not that amusing," you said, looking at him. "Oh, but it is." He rested his elbows on the table. "I walked into this really fancy event..." He pointed in your direction, and you immediately covered your face. "He saw me drop some papers."
"I rescued her."
"You picked up three papers."
"Three very important and heavy papers, you're welcome."
"So strong." You playfully rolled your eyes.
Everyone laughed.
"And then..." He continued, "she barely said two words to me." He sighed like a teenage girl in love. "Wait, did I hear that correctly?" Janet asked. "Yep." He nodded. "That's what got you?" Michael looked confused. "Yep."
"You guys don't get it." He started talking again, his eyes fixed on you now. "It got me because she listened. When you're famous, people talk and talk about you, but they never actually listen." He grabbed your hand. "Mouse did. She does. So I figured that if someone can make me feel normal, I'm keeping her."
"Marlon..." You smiled, clearly embarrassed but very much in love.
"I mean it. I would've picked up just one paper if it meant you'd smile at me."
description: michael’s been trying to win you over for longer than you care to admit. keeping your distance has always been easy—until it isn’t. sometimes, all it takes is one conversation.
content: 18+, SMUT, switch!reader, switch!michael, phone sex, overstimulation, squirting, GUYS THIS ONE IS REALLY NASTY
a/n: ummm… it’s 6k words… i got carried away yall. smut with a hint of plot, i’m willing to write a pt. 2 🙂↕️ (this is a long smut read!) not proofread i’m too damn sleepy!
꒰ྀི১ ໒꒱ིྀ
𐙚🧸ྀི the jackson estate has always felt like a second home to you.
being latoya’s best friend means you know hayven hurst better than most people. you know which rooms stay quiet during the afternoon, which windows are always open when music is playing, and which corners of the property you can escape to when the world starts feeling too loud.
being a few years older never mattered between you and latoya. she had always been mature for her age, and you had always admired how easily she could make anyone feel welcome.
your father owns a successful company, so you’re not unfamiliar with attention or expectations, but you’ve never been someone who chases after it. you prefer keeping things simple. private. predictable.
you were old enough to know exactly who you were, and old enough to know that attention wasn’t the same thing as affection.
you had your own routines, your own goals, and a life outside of the jackson name. you didn’t need to be introduced as anyone’s daughter, anyone’s friend, or anyone’s love interest.
which is probably why michael jackson is such a problem; because michael is everything you usually avoid.
he’s warm when you’re distant. he’s patient when you’re stubborn. and no matter how many times you brush him off, he always finds a way to make you smile.
it’s not that you don’t like him. that’s just the part you refuse to admit.
you like the way he remembers small things about you. you like the way he laughs when you make sarcastic comments. you like how, despite being one of the most recognizable people in the world, he somehow makes conversations with him feel normal.
but you know what comes with him. you know what it means to be close to michael jackson. the attention. the rumors. the constant eyes watching every move, and the idea of having your life connected to someone the entire world feels entitled to.
so you keep your distance. you become the one person who doesn’t immediately fall for his charm, and michael notices.
“you know, i’m starting to think you enjoy turning me down,” he jokes one afternoon, leaning against the doorway while you and latoya sit outside.
you glance over at him, a small smirk forming. ““you’re charming, michael. i’ll give you that. but charm doesn’t make things simple.”
he laughs softly, shaking his head. “that’s cruel.”
“you’ll survive.” but the truth is, you like watching him try.
there’s something amusing about how someone like michael jackson, someone who can have almost anything he wants, seems determined to earn your attention.
a few nights later, latoya has a sleepover.
the room is filled with laughter, music playing quietly in the background, and empty snack wrappers scattered across the floor. everyone is comfortable, talking about everything and nothing at the same time.
until janet gets the idea. “i dare you to sneak downstairs and get more snacks.”
you immediately look up. “seriously?”
latoya grins. “yes, seriously.” you roll your eyes, pretending you’re annoyed, but you’re already getting up. “fine. but only because i’m hungry.”
the halls of hayven hurst are quiet when you step downstairs. the house feels completely different at night. calmer. almost peaceful.
you walk into the kitchen, opening the cabinet doors carefully as you search for something to bring back upstairs.
then you hear a voice. “you know, most people usually ask before taking food.”
you freeze, a chill shooting down your spine.
slowly turning around, you find michael standing there.
his hair is slightly messy, his expression relaxed, and there’s that familiar little smile on his face. “your food?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.
he walks a little closer, amused. “you know what i mean.”
“i thought this was a family kitchen.”
“and i thought you were better than stealing snacks.”
you laugh quietly. “you barely know me.”
“i’m trying to.” the words catch you off guard. normally, you would have a comeback ready. normally, you would tease him and leave before the conversation could become anything more.
but tonight feels different. maybe it’s because it’s late, maybe it’s because there’s no one watching, or maybe it’s because michael isn’t trying to impress you right now.
he’s just standing there, talking to you.
and for once, you let him. you joke back. you laugh at the things he says. you don’t immediately look for a reason to leave.
and when you finally walk back upstairs, you realize something that makes you uncomfortable. which is that you enjoyed it.
days later, while you’re away on a trip, you realize you forgot something at hayven hurst.
it’s a small thing, but it keeps bothering you. you try really hard to ignore it, but eventually you find yourself picking up the phone and dialing their house.
the second someone answers, you almost hang up.
“hello?” you recognize his voice immediately. no one’s voice had ever sounded so soft and relaxing before.
“michael?”
then there was a pause followed by a quiet laugh. “i was wondering when you were going to call me.”
you smile despite yourself. “don’t make it weird. i just forgot something.” you sigh, rolling over in your cozy comforter. your room scented of linen and coconut from a candle that was lit across the room.
“right,” he says, clearly amused. “that’s the only reason?”
it’s almost like you can hear the amused smirk on his face just by his words. you shake your head, even though he can’t see you. “you’re impossible.”
“and yet you’re still on the phone.”
you should have a response…you usually do.
but instead, you just laugh. and somehow, the conversation keeps going.
you talk about random things. he tells you stories. you tease him. he makes you laugh more than you expect.
for once, you aren’t thinking about the cameras or the fame or the world that comes with his name. you’re just talking to michael.
the phone call is supposed to be short.
at least, that’s what you tell yourself.
you’re sitting on your bedroom floor now, your back against the side of your bed, the phone cord wrapped loosely around your fingers as you stare out the window. the house is quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens late at night when everyone else has already gone to sleep.
you’re about to say goodbye when michael speaks again. “so…”
you smile slightly. “so?” and of course, there is another pause. michael frantically thinking of something to say, under the pressure of your presence.
you can almost picture him on the other end, probably sitting in his room trying to figure out what to say. “nothing,” he finally says.
you laugh softly. “you’re terrible at that by the way.” your fingers fiddling with the phone chord.
“at what?” michael questions. “pretending you don’t have something to say.” you respond softly, a small smile meeting your lips.
another quiet laugh comes through the phone. “maybe i just like hearing your voice.”
you freeze for a second. not because it’s some dramatic confession, but because michael says it so simply. like he doesn’t even realize how much it affects you.
“that was smooth,” you tease.
“was it?” he says, a hint of hope in his voice. you could imagine a satisfied grin on his face right then and there.
“no.” you say blankly.
he laughs, and you can hear the embarrassment in his voice. “i was trying.” “you were trying?” you giggle at his efforts. you both stay quiet for a moment, listening to the faint sounds of each other breathing through the phone.
you're sitting quietly on your bed, listening to michael's soft breathing on the other end. the silence between you two isn't awkward—it's comfortable, but something feels different. you break the quiet with a soft murmur. "you know, i never realized you were this funny."
“is that so?" he smirks softly, running his hand through his curls. “maybe i’m just funny when i’m with you." the line goes silent for a moment, filled with just their soft breaths.
you chuckle lowly. “well technically, you aren’t with me. we’re on the phone.” you can’t help but smile to yourself, as you readjust the phone to your ear comfortably.
"right, right, we're not actually together," he laughs softly, but then suddenly he's standing up, moving quietly to his bedroom window. “but your house is right there, though." he pulls back the curtain gently, looking at the dark windows next door.
“are you looking at me?" you ask softly, moving to your own window. you pull back the curtains slowly, peeking out. you live in a quiet neighborhood where everyone knows each other, so you're not surprised when you see him standing there, phone still pressed to his ear, smiling softly.
"i am now." he pulls up a chair, sitting down comfortably, his elbows resting on the windowsill as he looks out at your window. the street lamps cast a soft glow over everything, making the moment feel almost dreamlike. come sit by your window.
you hear him chuckle softly on the other end of the line as you struggle to move your large, plush chair over to the window. the static and thumping sounds coming through the phone make it clear what's happening. "you’re really having to drag that thing over, huh?" he laughs lightly, enjoying the silly moment.
he hears you laugh and then the sudden quiet, followed by a soft thud and your muted "oof." michael notices your chair slipping from your grip once more onto the floor.
seeing you bend over, trying to pick up the chair you dropped, and his eyes immediately travel to the overwhelming sight of your round ass and thick thighs, displayed as your shirt rode up. he swallows hard, nearly choking.
you finally get the chair positioned right by the window, panting slightly from the effort. you settle into the plush seat, smoothing down your oversized sleep shirt that had ridden up when you bent over. you have no idea what michael just witnessed. "finally," you huff out, trying to catch your breath. "that chair is heavier than it looks."
"um— yeah, looks good," he stammers, still distracted, eyes drinking you in through the window. he's struggling to sound casual but keeps replaying that image of you bent over.
"i didn't expect you to be so..." he pauses, searching for the right word, his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles softly. he’s leaning against his windowsill, one hand gripping the frame, the other resting casually by his side.
"amazing? i know." you joke, tilting your head, noticing how his cheeks are slightly pinked. you have no idea what's coming next. "i didn’t expect you to be so shy." you say softly, pulling your knees up to your chest in the chair, wrapping your arms around them.
"i’m not that shy," he says, his voice steadying as he gains a bit more confidence. he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the windowsill. "there’s a lot of things you wouldn’t expect from me."
you smile softly to yourself, holding the phone up to your ear, as you gaze at him through the windows. “oh yeah? like what?” you challenge.
or maybe you wouldn't expect me to be so... adventurous," he adds, his gaze trailing over your form before quickly flicking back to your face. "i’m a very open-minded person when it comes to... certain activities." he clears his throat, trying to sound casual, but his voice is a bit strained. “just something to think about."
you tilt your head, studying him curiously. a slow, knowing smile spreads across your face as you process his words. your heart drops as you suddenly realize there's a whole side of michael that you've never seen before—one that's confident, flirtatious, and maybe even a bit sexual. “is that so?"
he nods, his smirk growing wider at your response. he pushes off from the windowsill and leans back against his chair, manspreading. his voice dropping even lower. "mmhm. there are things i like... things i want to try." his eyes flick down briefly before meeting yours again intensely.
"and what exactly are these things you want to try?" you lean forward, resting your chin on your hand, matching his intensity. the conversation is getting dangerously close to some very interesting territory, but you keep your tone casual, like you're just talking about hobbies. "just curious." your fingers tap against the windowsill, mirroring his earlier movements.
michael swallows hard, his eyes locked with yours as he leans forward, mirroring your position. the air between you feels charged, electric. he pauses for a moment before speaking, his voice barely above a whisper. "well... for starters, i’ve always wondered what it would be like if we…”
"if we what, michael?" you prompt, your heart rate slightly elevated. you have a pretty good idea of where this is going, but you want him to say it. your fingers drum more rapidly against the windowsill, betraying your growing anticipation.
"if we you know—kissed...” he finally says, his face flushing slightly but his gaze remaining steady. the admission hangs between you, heavy and charged. his hand moves unconsciously, resting on his thigh, fingertips pressing into the fabric of his pajama pants. he watches your reaction through the windows intently, his own breath hitching slightly. “i mean, we've never actually—"
"it’s not something you just guess at," you say, watching him with a casual smirk. you’re only two years older than him, but you find his shyness almost amusing. your voice drops lower. a real kiss... it's not just putting your lips together, you know." you pause, letting your words hang in the air.
"what’s it like, then?" michael asks quietly through the line, his eyes fixed on yours. he’s genuinely curious, and there's a hint of vulnerability in his voice that makes your heart soften slightly. he’s so innocent compared to you—no real kissing experience under his belt yet.
"the hands roam... they touch faces, they tangle in hair, they pull bodies closer." your voice is thicker now, more commanding. you’re teasing him mercilessly, painting a picture of passion and desire that he can barely comprehend. “and the lips... they part slightly, tongue slipping—“
"i really wanna do that to you," michael interrupts, his voice thick and strained. the words tumble out before he can stop them—honest and desperate. he’s imagining your lips parting, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer until there's no space left between you. he exhales shakily, his knuckles whitening where they grip the armrest of his chair.
as you continue your sensual teasing, michael’s cheeks flush deeper, his eyes darkening with barely contained desire. you see the effect you're having on him, and it only encourages you to continue. your voice becomes even softer, more inviting. “is that all you wanna do to me, michael?"
"no..." michael whispers, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. he’s definitely getting hard—his pajama pants doing little to hide his growing erection. his voice is shaky, clearly affected by the mental images you're putting in his head. “i’d…i’d want to do other things too."
“mhm," you murmur, your voice low and teasing. you watch him squirm, his hands fidgeting on the chair arms. you need more details—you want to hear the dirty thoughts running through his head. your voice drops even lower. “michael, honey... be specific."
"i... i want to touch you," michael stammers out, his voice breaking. he’s needy now, helplessly falling apart under the weight of his arousal. his hands curl into fists, his nails digging into his palms. “everywhere... i want to touch you everywhere."
“mmm” you hum out in satisfaction at his desirable truth. you quickly trap the phone in between your jaw and shoulder, allowing your free hands to teasingly slide up your body—gently pulling the fabric of your night shirt. now you were softly cupping and caressing your tits. “you mean right here baby? this where you wanna touch me?” you whisper.
"yes... right there," michael hisses, his eyes stuck to your hands as they cup your breasts teasingly. he’s completely hard now, his pajama pants tenting prominently. the fact that you're in separate houses only adds to the taboo nature of the conversation, making it even more exciting. “is that all?” you questioned.
"no-no... not just there," michael sputters, his eyes glued to the way you're gently playing with your hard nipple. he’s practically panting now, his needy gaze bouncing between your hands and your face. he licks his dry lips, struggling to form coherent thoughts. i…i want to touch you everywhere."
you softly reply in a confused manner. “hmm, everywhere… where could that be? over here?” you say as your hands move down to your inner thighs while slowly spreading your legs. your core aching to be touched.
michael breath catches in his throat as you spread your legs slightly, his mind immediately jumping to dirty places. he can almost feel his heart pounding out of his chest, his voice desperate and shaky. y-yes... there... right there." he shifts uncomfortably in his seat.
“tell me how you wanna touch me michael.” your voice travels through the phone line. making michael shudder. you were now fed up with this night shirt, bringing your legs up to your chest, using the shirt to cover up your aching heat teasingly.
"i want to..." michael’s voice cracks, his knuckles white against the chair arms. he’s practically spilling out of his pajama pants now, unable to hide how turned on he is. his eyes are locked on yours through the window, the distance between your bedrooms feeling agonizingly vast. "i want to slide my hands up your thighs... cup you through your panties..."
"and then... then i’d want to pull your panties aside and feel you up directly," michael admits, his face flushed red with embarrassment and lust. he’s never been so dirty with anyone before, let alone over a phone call while looking at each other through windows.
hearing michael’s velvety—yet needy voice through the line drove you insane. “like this?” you question, a small smirk creeping onto your face as your manicured hand stooped inside your lace panties gently.
michael’s eyes widen as he watches your hand disappear under your panties, his breath hitching loudly. he can't believe what he's seeing, his own hand instinctively reaching down to grip himself through his pants. "y-yes... just like that," he pants, "let me see..."
you throw your head back in sheer pleasure, losing your mind and self respect. now you were on full display, propped up for michael to see and hear.
michael’s eyes are riveted to the sight of you pushing your legs up and spreading yourself open for him. he can see your fingers sliding in and out of you through the thin fabric of your panties, the wetness seeping through and glistening in the moonlight streaming through your window.
“is that all you want, michael?” you moan as you start to slowly circle your clit with your fingers, moaning softly as the sensation shoots through your body. your legs are pushed up high, giving michael a perfect view of your wet panties stretched tight over your pussy. you arch your back, pressing your hips forward, inviting him to watch. your soft moans echoing through the telephone line. “i see how hard you are.
"n-no fair," michael stammers out, his face flushing an even deeper red as you point out his obvious hard-on. he’s squirming in his seat, his hand still gripping himself through his pants. "i... i wanna do more than touch you," he admits, his voice barely a whisper. "i wanna..."
"i know what you wanna do, baby." you tease him gently, not taking your hand out of your panties. you can see how desperately he wants to touch himself properly. “you wanna jerk off while watching me, don't you?"
"damn..." michael groans, his hand moving faster, rubbing himself through the fabric of his pajama pants. he can see your fingers moving on your clit, the wetness glistening between your legs. he’s practically falling apart, his cock straining painfully against his waistband. “you’re so... why are you doing that? just to make me..."
“you love seeing me touch myself like this, don’t you michael?” you question. sliding two fingers inside yourself, moaning louder this time. your legs are shaking slightly as you finger yourself right in front of him. he can see every detail—the way your panties stretch around your fingers,the wet sounds, and how red and swollen you're getting.
"pull your panties aside," michael pleads, his voice trembling with need. he’s completely unhinged now, his hand moving frantically inside his pants as he watches you touch yourself through your soaked underwear. the moonlight illuminating your spread legs is driving him absolutely wild “i need to see..."
you slowly hook your fingers into the side of your panties, pulling the fabric aside to reveal your slick, swollen pussy to michael’s desperate gaze. your fingers immediately return to their previous position, sliding easily in and out of your entrance as you finger yourself slowly. "like this?" you tease, your voice breathy with pleasure.
michael lets out an actual whimper at the sight of your bare pussy being fingered right there in front of him. his pajama pants are completely tented now, his boxers soaked through with pre-cum as he furiously jacking himself off through them. "spread yourself wider.”
you use your free hand to spread your pussy lips open, giving michael an unobstructed view of your fingers pumping in and out of your hole. the wet sounds of your self-fucking fill the air, along with Michael's frantic pants and muffled grunts as he jerks himself off furiously through his pants.
"you know, michael," you moan softly, watching your fingers disappear inside yourself repeatedly, "you look so good jerking off like that." your voice drips with encouragement, watching his desperate hand move faster and faster inside his pajama pants. the sight of his hard cock straining against the fabric makes you curl your fingers inside yourself. “such a good boy... fucking yourself while watching me..."
"fuck, fuck, fuck..." michael chants under his breath, his hand moving so fast it's a blur inside his pants. your dirty words are pushing him to the edge of insanity. "you like seeing me jerk off? you like knowing i’m getting off on watching you finger yourself?"
"i’ve never seen anyone jerk off while watching me before," you admit breathlessly, your fingers picking up speed as you fuck yourself slowly but deeply. michael’s eyes are locked on your hand buried in your pussy, his own movements becoming more frantic and sloppy inside his pants.
suddenly, at your words, confidence overcame michael. "i wanna pull my cock out and jerk off right in front of you," michael confesses, his voice breaking with desperation, “i wanna come all over your pussy while you finger yourself. i wanna push your legs back and fuck you so hard..."
"i wanna spread your legs wide open and eat your pussy while you touch yourself," he continues, his hand moving even faster inside his pants. "i wanna suck on your fingers that are inside you right now. i wanna fucking taste you..."
"holy shit," you whisper, your fingers freezing inside your pussy as michael’s dirty confessions keep spilling out. you’ve never heard him like this before—so utterly unhinged and specific in his dirty talk. it turns you on so much that you actually praise him for it.
"you like that i’m getting specific, huh?" michael pants, his face contorting with lust as he realizes you're enjoying his dirty talk. he decides to keep pushing your buttons, getting even more explicit. "you wanna know what else i wanna do to you? really specific stuff?"
"tell me..." you bite your lip, your fingers starting to move again slowly inside yourself as you encourage michael to keep talking "tell me all the really specific things you wanna do to me right now." your voice is soft but demanding, wanting him to lose even more control.
"i wanna lick your clit in slow circles," michael begins, his voice dripping with saliva at the thought. "i wanna suck it into my mouth and flick it rapidly with my tongue. i wanna push two fingers inside you while eating you out - curling them upwards to hit that special spot inside."
"holy fuck..." you gasp, your fingers curling inside yourself as michael describes eating you out in such a detailed and skilled manner. you’re shocked that he knows so much about pleasuring a woman, but at the same time, you're getting incredibly close to coming just from listening to him.
"i wanna add a third finger and scissor them inside you," michael continues, his hand a blur inside his pants as he describes fingering you expertly. i wanna push my tongue deep inside your pussy and lick upwards, hitting your g-spot over and over again. and when you're right on the edge, i wanna..."
"...i wanna suck your clit hard until you scream and come all over my face," michael gets out his words, his voice ragged and desperate. your body trembles at his dirty knowledge, your walls clenching around your fingers at his explicit descriptions. you’re getting so close, your orgasm hovering just out of reach as he continues to talk dirty through your window. and when you come..."
"you know what?" you interrupt michael, trying to regain some control over the situation despite being so turned on. your fingers continue moving inside yourself, but your tone becomes more commanding. "you talk a big game for someone who's just jerking off through his pants."
"i’ve done my research," michael pants, not slowing down his frantic hand movements for a second. "i’ve watched videos, read stories, practiced on myself... i know exactly how to make a girl squirt, how to make her see stars." he’s being so unapologetically lewd and knowledgeable that it's clear he's thought about this extensively.
"i know where to put my fingers, how deep to go," michael continues, his voice low and confident. "i know how to eat pussy until a girl's legs shake. i know all the spots—the clit, the g-spot, even that little spot inside that makes girls scream."
"you sound like an expert, michael," you tease, a slow smirk forming on your lips despite the heat building in your body. “but you're all talk right now. still jerking off through your pants like a desperate virgin." you watch him carefully, trying to hide the way your own walls are clenching at his lewd confidence.
"all those videos, those stories, that research... i did it all because of you," michael voice breaks with vulnerability, his earlier confidence completely shattered. “i watched them imagining it was you moaning. i practiced techniques on my own body, thinking about how good it would feel to make YOU feel good." he looks completely broken open now, emotionally naked.
your breath catches in your throat, your fingers stuttering inside you at his confession. your walls clench hard around your digits as his words hit you - he's been fantasizing about your pussy, your moans, and you squirting. the tension builds dangerously low in your belly, your clit throbbing hard as he keeps talking. “every technique, every spot..."
every fucking thing i know is for YOU." just as he finishes his confession, your body finally gives in. you moan "michael!" loudly as you climax, your fingers buried deep inside you. the phone slips from your shaking hand, clattering to the chair as muffled moans escape your lips.
"oh my god, are you... are you coming?" michael’s voice is shocked and amazed as he hears your muffled moans and the sound of the phone dropping. his own hand starts moving faster inside his pants at the realization that his dirty talk just made you cum. “fuck, wait..."
as he stands up, his pants drop to the floor, revealing his large, hard cock standing at attention. it’s big—long and thick, pre-cum glistening at the tip as he starts to stroke himself rapidly. "k-keep going, i need you to cum with me."
despite having just reached orgasm, your body trembles violently. your hand unconsciously moves back to your clit, your fingers working through the aftershocks as you try to stay composed. but you're too deep in sensation. your face is flushed, your lips parted as you try to swallow your moans. "f-fuck, michael..." your lips form the word silently.
"you don't stop, do you?" michael groans, stroking his thick cock faster as he watches you through the window with hungry eyes. "look at you, touching yourself right after coming... good girl." his voice drops low, commanding. “don’t you dare stop—keep fingering yourself while stroke myself, mama.”
“it feels too damn good baby.” you moan out, facial expression displaying ecstasy as your head was thrown back against the chair. “since you know it all… tell me how to squirt.” you demanded, biting your lip at the intense pleasure coursing through your body.
"first, you gotta relax," michael explains, his cock twitching at the anticipation. "stop fighting it. let yourself feel everything." his voice grows deeper, more authoritative. "second, you need to put your fingers inside yourself... and not just the first few—get deeper." his hand starts moving again. “you feel that spot on your front wall?"
you nod your head at his words, doing exactly what he says. "yeah, the one that makes you feel like you gotta pee—don't worry, that's your g-spot." michael’s breathing grows heavier as he imagines your fingers pressing against that sensitive spot. “now, curl your fingers like you're making a 'come here' motion."
you follow his instructions, your fingers sliding deep inside yourself. you curl them up, pressing against that spot that makes your eyes roll back slightly. a soft moan escapes your lips as you start to move them in and out slowly. “m-michael... it feels weird..." you whisper into the phone.
"perfect, keep doing that," michael praises, his own hand flying over his length as he watches your silhouette through the window. “now, add some pressure with your palm against your clit. rub it in circles while you finger your g-spot." his voice is strained with desire.
as you add pressure to your clit, a jolt of pleasure shoots through your body. your legs start to shake slightly as you continue to finger yourself deeply. "oh my god... michael, something's happening..." you whimper into the phone, your breaths growing quicker.
"you’re doing so good... keep going... your fingers are hitting that spot perfectly..." michael’s voice is a mix of instructions and his own moans. he’s close, his hand moving faster as he watches you. "spread your legs wider... yeah like that... now fuck yourself deeper on those fingers."
"ahh... it feels like... like i might... wet myself..." your face contorts with effort and intense pleasure as you follow his instructions perfectly. "m-michael... what's happening?" your body tenses, the sensation building rapidly toward a peak unlike anything you've felt before.
"feel that building pressure? like your bladder's about to burst?" michael whimpers, his cock throbbing hard as he watches your legs spread wider. "don’t fight it—that's the squirt building. keep rubbing your clit... faster... harder... and curl those fingers harder on that spot." he moans loudly, his hips jerking forward.
"i’m... i’m almost there, michael—" your moans get louder, needier, your body shaking violently as you curl your fingers against that spongy spot while your palm grinds your clit. "it’s building so much... i can't... i can't hold it back..." your walls clench around your fingers, your thighs pressing together with desperate tension.
"you’re gonna squirt, baby... just keep doing what you're doing." michael’s voice is hoarse with lust as he watches your body tense up. his own body is shaking with the need to cum as he jerks himself off faster. "put more pressure on your clit..."
"fuck!" you whimper as your body suddenly gives in, hot liquid gushing out of you as you squirt hard, soaking your hand and the chair. at the exact same moment, michael groans loudly, his cock exploding as he cums hard, cum splattering everywhere. the synchronization is perfect—your climax and his orgasm hitting at the same time. “shit!"
"no no no, keep going! don’t stop!" michael nearly demands through the phone, his hand still moving furiously over his cum-covered cock as he watches your body convulse with pleasure. “keep squirting, mama! keep those fingers inside you and keep that beautiful wetness flowing!”
"you got more in you, i know you do—i can see you still twitching, still squirting a little bit..." michael whines, stroking himself through the cum, his voice desperate. "don’t stop now, you just got started—keep rubbing that clit, keep curling those fingers. let it all out, mama, every fucking drop."
another powerful orgasm hits her, this one even more intense than the first. she covers her mouth to stifle the scream, her body arching back as she squirts again, the liquid soaking into her clothes and running down her legs. tears stream down her face from the overwhelming pleasure.
"shh, shh, easy now... you did so good..." michaels voice softens as he watches you break down in intense pleasure, his own hand slowing to gentle strokes as he catches his breath. "just breathe through it, mama... let the aftershocks run their course."
michael watches through the window as your body shudders uncontrollably, your fingers still moving in slow circles on your sensitive clit. your whole body trembles with aftershocks, tears streaming down your flushed cheeks as soft whimpers escape your lips. "that’s it, keep rubbing gently... don't stop now, you're still twitching so pretty for me..."
michael hand moves in slow, deliberate strokes as he watches you fall apart beautifully. his voice is a soothing murmur. "look at you, shaking like that... you took it so well, mama. just keep those fingers moving nice and slow now. feel every little bit, baby.
"m-michael... it's so... so sensitive..." your voice is shaky as you speak through your tears, your fingers slowing to gentle brushes against your clit. “i can still feel it pulsing... oh god, it's like it's never gonna stop..."
"you asked for it, mama... you wanted me to make you squirt like this... and fuck, look at you—you're doing it again." michael’s voice drops lower as he watches another small squirting orgasm hit you unexpectedly. "keep talking, keep rubbing..."
"just let go, baby... feel it all over your sensitive little pussy... and then squeeze those fingers together and squirt all over your chair for me... while i fucking cum all over myself just watching you." michael’s voice is thick with desire as he watches you squirm and whimper.
your body arches sharply as another powerful squirt hits you, liquid gushing out and soaking your chair once more. at the exact same moment, michael’s legs go weak, falling back in his seat, arching his back, a loud groan escaping him as he cums again, thick ropes of cum shooting out onto his stomach.
"...you... fuck..." michael breathes heavily into the phone, his chest heaving as he tries to recover from the intense orgasm. he can hear your heavy breathing on the other end, knowing you're equally exhausted and sensitive. "...did i break you, mama?"
"mm... i think you did..." your voice is weak and breathless, your fingers finally still but still resting against your dripping, sensitive pussy. your whole body feels like jelly, every nerve ending singing with aftershocks. "michael... i.. i just... squirted so much...i’m completely soaked..." you whimper softly.
"yeah... me too... i’m a fucking mess right now..." michael’s voice is hoarse, trying to regain some semblance of normal conversation. "we’re both covered... i’m covered in... well... you know." he pauses, struggling to find words. “may—maybe we should both go get cleaned up."
you chuckle softly, your voice tired but playful. “goodnight, michael... i think i’ll be sleeping very peacefully tonight... thanks for... helping me out with that." you pause, then add with a small smile, “yeah... maybe i’ll call you by accident more often."
michael smiles to himself, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the filthy things that just happened. "yeah... maybe you will." he pauses, his voice softening. “sweet dreams, mama. sleep well... you earned it tonight." your voice is barely a whisper. "goodnight, michael." you hear him exhale before the line goes dead.
i automatically assume the reader has a silk press or box braids when y'all are describing hair in these stories. LMFAOOOOOO, you will NOT rain on my parade. i'll picture michael x reader being about a black girl every single time
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”
please consider writing to Prarieland defendants Autumn Hill and Meagan Morris, they are both trans lesbians incarcerated in men's prisons for protesting an ICE facility
prosecution established affiliation by way of defendants having fucking anarchist zines, the kind of shit you see in a punk house. this is what they want and are willing to pursue for all of us who aren't willing to lay down and die, imprisonment and torture and the absolute stripping of our dignity (the govt gleefully included their deadnames in a press release yesterday; Morris' public defender has consistently deadnamed and misgendered her despite her legal name change)
there is no one who will protect us except us, and if our sisters are lost to us and forgotten as soon as they are grabbed by the prison system (ie if the system is allowed to work as intended) then we are failing, and we are woefully unprepared for a world where they start taking more of us
Autumn is a loving wife and is interested in religious history and mythology. Write to her at FMC Fort Worth.
Meagan Elizabeth Morris is loved by her wife housemates, and dogs. Her name was legally changed in 2007, but the federal complaint used her
(For those not in the know, @castformbignaturals is alluding to the fact Memphis is a majority Black city that stands to have its congressional representation entirely wiped out by redistricting led by the Republican governor of Tennessee who has, of course, welcomed the ICE occupation with open arms. Again, the project of MAGA is to reintroduce Jim Crow)
a/n: thinking abt gyomei with a midsize!wife!reader who he loves so so much and can't help but go crazy for in the bedroom. this is short but wtv.
୨ৎ contains: established relationship; penetrative sex & missionary
gyomei himejima x midsize!wife!reader - enjoying his wife is all he lives for
The wet sound of Gyomei sliding back into you with an inexplicable amount of force drew out another moan from your throat, a soft, pleasurable noise that caused your husband to pause in his minstrations.
Clutching the soft fat of your thighs, he had you strained in the common position of missionary—his personal favorite because he could enjoy leaning over your body and having easy access to your wet pussy.
"You're okay, my love?" he asked softly, bowing to press his forehead against yours. A soft peck graced your lips.
The lower half of your body was off the edge of the bed, supported by the pillow under your waist and Gyomei's hands that held your hips up. Your ankles were hooked over his shoulders, and each time he pushed into you your toes curled as the mere size of his cock.
"Y-yes... Fuu— Gyo, please keep going," you whispered.
He shushed you and gave you a proper full kiss, his tongue sliding over your lips and collecting some of your saliva. A string of spit webbed between your bodies when he pulled back, hovering over your fucked-out face.
"Let me cherish you," he said. "The feel of you is all I wish to remember when I'm away from my wife. I need to take my time with you, or the memory will be sour when my memory returns to this moment."
One hand still supporting you, he used his other hand to roam over your body. Gently he pressed against your plush stomach, squeezed your supple ass, traced the gentle curve of your round face—all of which made you whine.
"Hush." Without pulling out of you, he straightened up and exhaled. "You're perfection. I was blessed when you came to me, love, and I plan to show you just how much I appreciate the divine woman that you are."
a/n: thinking abt gyomei with a midsize!wife!reader who he loves so so much and can't help but go crazy for in the bedroom. this is short but wtv.
୨ৎ contains: established relationship; penetrative sex & missionary
gyomei himejima x midsize!wife!reader - enjoying his wife is all he lives for
The wet sound of Gyomei sliding back into you with an inexplicable amount of force drew out another moan from your throat, a soft, pleasurable noise that caused your husband to pause in his minstrations.
Clutching the soft fat of your thighs, he had you strained in the common position of missionary—his personal favorite because he could enjoy leaning over your body and having easy access to your wet pussy.
"You're okay, my love?" he asked softly, bowing to press his forehead against yours. A soft peck graced your lips.
The lower half of your body was off the edge of the bed, supported by the pillow under your waist and Gyomei's hands that held your hips up. Your ankles were hooked over his shoulders, and each time he pushed into you your toes curled as the mere size of his cock.
"Y-yes... Fuu— Gyo, please keep going," you whispered.
He shushed you and gave you a proper full kiss, his tongue sliding over your lips and collecting some of your saliva. A string of spit webbed between your bodies when he pulled back, hovering over your fucked-out face.
"Let me cherish you," he said. "The feel of you is all I wish to remember when I'm away from my wife. I need to take my time with you, or the memory will be sour when my memory returns to this moment."
One hand still supporting you, he used his other hand to roam over your body. Gently he pressed against your plush stomach, squeezed your supple ass, traced the gentle curve of your round face—all of which made you whine.
"Hush." Without pulling out of you, he straightened up and exhaled. "You're perfection. I was blessed when you came to me, love, and I plan to show you just how much I appreciate the divine woman that you are."
☆-bondage, gags, featuring GYOMEI♡, overstim, size k!nk (i cant help myself), manhandling
seen the new episodes of demon slayer and seen Gyomei?
the way his ghostly eyes gaze at your sweat ridden back as he pistons his fat dick into your soft cunt. one thing led to another, a few sentences led to Gyomei tying your calves to your thighs and your arms behind your back with a tightness that is constant. his knots with the dark rope just dug into your skin deliciously. with the way he tied your legs, moving or even running from his dick just wasn't possible.
'face down, ass up' they say.
'face down, ass up' if you want your guts completely rearranged and fucked up and your ass tore up
'face down, ass up' but your legs are fucking tied together, your arms are stretched out behind you and are fucking tied together. and it turns out he doesn't want his prayers interrupted, so he stuck a ball-shaped gag between your delicate teeth. forcing your tongue back into your mouth, slightly choking on it as drool to escape.
you cried and moaned out incoherently as your back arched even deeper for more. more of his thick inches, more of his calloused hands to ghostly touch over your hot skin. just more of the big man in general.
he kneeled behind you, his hips taking root to your ass and straight into your cervix, bruising it, smashing it with every forceful thrusts. he fucked you like you were going to leave tomorrow. he fucked you like you need to be. like you wanted to be weak in the hips tomorrow, like you wanted not to be able to walk straight and upright tomorrow.
his large hands were stationed on your hips, pulling your complete body weight into himself while pushing you off him the next second, just to pull you back on his dick, bruising your cervix.
every thrust brung gurgled whimpers from your pretty throat. you moaned off his dick. the way your slick made a wet sound when his hips crashed into yours made your head dizzy with lust. drool dripped steadily from your plump lips, wetting the sheets. your whines and sobs are so so loud, you just couldnt take it:(
but, his chants and his prayers are louder, they drown out your pretty cries and your lustful sobs. he just continues to pray as he fucks you a new brain.
jacobvanloon
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