ok realistically, how touchy/sexual do we think bad era michael would get with popstar!reader onstage if they did a duet? (husband n wife) i’m gathering ideas for a fic!
ok realistically, how touchy/sexual do we think bad era michael would get with popstar!reader onstage if they did a duet? (husband n wife) i’m gathering ideas for a fic!
(𝟏𝟖+) ──── notes: childhoodbsf!popstar!reader ╱ see 𝒂𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐. heavy breeding kink ⋆ description of sex across multiple days around ovulation ⋆ so much cum ⋆ michael loves to watch his release leak out of you! and he’ll eat it too… oops.
To say that you planned to 'try' for a baby seemed like poor wording for a couple who never needed to deliberately attempt to trigger conception. That risk followed you around almost every time you had sex, and miraculously, you'd so far succeeded in never accidentally getting pregnant. There was that one scare though, which you preferred to pretend didn't happen, because it had led to a very embarrassing ordeal with Katherine Jackson.
So with how often you recklessly had unprotected sex, you most definitely didn't need to plan to make your baby. A few nights of mindless insemination would do the trick, but Michael wanted the night you conceived your child to be very special. Or the multiple nights, rather, because you obviously couldn't be certain which night would be the night.
And so, for the entire week around the time of ovulation that month, Michael treated every night with the same grace and thoughtful purpose. He had finally moved out of Hayvenhurst two months ago when you married, so now you had a huge house all to yourselves. He dimmed the lights, lit up the bed with candles, then made sweet love to you in the most heart-achingly slow way, always having one hand interlaced with yours, and the other cradling your jaw. For that whole week, every single night was spent in the same routine, with your husband rocking into you aside warm candlelight and the mingled scent of flowers and sex. Each of those nights you went at it for hours at a time, between missionary, prone bone, mating press, cow girl and reverse...
But Michael refused to do anything with you that he deemed as on the 'dirtier' side while you were babymaking, because he felt those methods of sexuality didn't align with the evening's intention. He wouldn't give you backshots, nor would he let you give him oral, or do anything on your knees. He wouldn't talk dirty—he'd speak only praise, although that's what he did most of the time anyway. And in cowgirl, he hardly even let you bounce—instead planting his feet on the bed and pounding you from underneath, running his hands all up and down your body.
Michael was masculine in a very specific way. To describe him as a soft dom would be putting it too simply, for he was much more complex with the way he loved on a lady in bed. Since he lost his virginity to you in '78, he grew to believe that making love to his goddess was the single most precious thing in life, that he should give her absolutely everything, put her pleasure above all else, and treasure her until the end of the earth. He was inherently soft-natured and gentle, what one may deem submissive in that sense, but such would be an incorrect statement to make regarding Michael Jackson, because while Michael could definitely lean into submission if he wanted to (often he did so in his post-sex haze), his dominance lay in the mode of admiration he displayed during your sexual encounters. He almost always took the lead, and was so naturally talented with his hips. You never had a single night of dissatisfaction.
Throughout those ovulatory evenings, missionary was your go-to, because it felt the most intimate. Chests pressed against each other, your limbs locked around his torso, and Michael's thrusts were beautifully slow and deep; almost too slow at times, because he was treating your fertile body like a sacred object. He always did, except now he'd taken that sacred care to a whole other level, where you were in the arms of a man who adored you so much that he felt he had to pay close attention to every single aching inch of your walls with each stroke. While you made your very first baby, the most important thing to Michael was that he deeply took in and appreciated your inner angelic ambience. Since he was a boy he'd dreamed of the day he would start making his own family, free of Joseph's constraints, and he never believed it would be with the girl he then went on to spend years 'platonically' cuddling and playfighting with. Now he was here, at the grown age of twenty-two, nestled deep inside that same girl, whispering in her ear everything he loved about her. Tender love and care—that's all you deserved. Michael would happily spend a lifetime in a never-ending process of continual conception, because nothing had ever been more intimate.
The first night you began trying, it had honestly felt like you'd lost your virginity all over again. You giggled like shy teenagers as he first pushed in, smooching all over your face while you tugged at his hair playfully.
"Mikey, I can't believe we're really doin' this..." you sighed in half-nervous, half-excited anticipation.
"I know, I feel like 'm in heaven, baby..." Michael moaned, stroking your face as he bottomed out. You gasped and squeezed his hand that he'd already met with yours.
"But remember," he added, "if you change your mind at any point, 'n decide y' not ready, that's perfectly okay. Just tell me."
You nodded, kissing his nose. "No, I really think I'm ready. Wow," you took a deep breath, "this is really happening."
"It is really happenin', angel." As he said the words aloud, Michael had smiled so wide it made your heart ache.
Sometimes in that week you had to actually plead with him to go faster, because while you were perfectly satisfied with the slow strokes, you didn't always need him to be so gentle with you. And of course you were ovulating—which was the whole point—so you had primal urges that needed to be satiated.
"No, honey, I wanna keep takin' it slow... Need to really feel ya..." Michael hummed into your neck as he sucked there, rolling his hips with precision, tip nudging your sweet spot perfectly each time.
"Sweetheart, we've been at this for two hours already," you laughed. "You've made me cum three times. I think we can say you've treated me with more than enough care tonight—now I just really need you to go faster. Please, baby."
Michael giggled, now pressing wet kisses over your breasts, around your areolas. "Okay, fine."
Every time he came inside you, he'd instruct you to lie on your back for ten minutes, then he'd lay with you and cuddle while his warm seed still explored your walls. He'd suck on your breasts, play with your hair, sing whimsically under his breath, talk to you about the most random topics on his mind—doing enough for the duration of what he believed was enough time passed for his cum to really reach enough depth. You told him that all of that was probably mythological—that there was more likely no ritual that actually aided fertilisation. Luck was all you needed, and the sheer number of times Michael had spilled himself into you that week had to have been enough without the alleged pregnancy hacks in between that he insisted on adhering to. But of course he continued to insist.
"Darlin', if y' lay on your back it gives the sperm an uninterrupted path upward. We don't want any slippin' out."
"Whatever, baby," you'd chuckle, heart racing at how obsessed he was with filling you up now that there were no negative consequences. You'd never seen him act so wild before, and he was unironically treating this process as a full time job. Never had he given such focus toward anything outside of the studio.
Whenever you laid on your back after a round, obliging with his orders, he'd rest forward on his elbows and examine your soaked pussy like a damn gynecologist. He'd rub his thumb just slightly over your entrance, noticing the way you hissed at the feeling, but without his usual primary intention of making you feel good—rather, he was just genuinely intrigued, and insanely captivated by his breeding endeavours. For those ten minutes you laid there, he'd rest on your thighs, breathing in the scent of your post-sex core, the mixed flavour of his release and yours. You'd stroke through his curls, always ending up smacking his head lightly whenever he lost sight of what he was doing and accidentally started playing with your overly-sensitive clit.
"Nuh-uh," you scolded, with a playful whack to his head. "Wait."
He'd always roll his eyes in frustration, but do as he was told. "Mama, y' not gonna make me lie here without lettin' me touch."
"Michael, you've been touchin' me nonstop. Take a break, honey. Matter of fact, give my pussy a break."
A heart-warmingly genuine laugh came from his throat.
"And," you continued, so amused, "you're telling me I made you lie here when it's you who told me that I have to?"
Michael ignored that, pressing a kiss to your thigh before sitting up on his knees and crawling up to the top of the bed to be beside you.
Once the remaining minutes were over, he eagerly dipped back down to his favourite place, instructing you to lift your hips so that his pearly, sticky release would drip out. It slowly formed a damp stain on the pillow he'd put beneath you, and he watched in awe as the liquid flowed like a filthy river from your sex.
Using two fingers, he dragged the salty filth up and down your slit, circling around your hole before drenching your sensitive flesh. Despite how vocal he always was, he mostly did this part wordlessly, too focused to say anything; and each time, you watched in complete disbelief at how he never grew tired of enacting this same activity. To Michael, smearing his thick cum all over the part of your body that would give his baby life was the most lewdly precious activity, and in the moments where you weren't way too sensitive, he'd lean in after his examination, licking up the sloppy mixture.
"Just wonderful, honey..." his soft voice would murmur against your swollen bud.
On one night that week, you were both attending an award show, and following the ceremony you skipped the afterparty altogether—to your friends' confusion—because despite how incredibly sexually active you'd already been that week, you both couldn't wait to rush home and make love some more. The outside world was secondary to the inner sanctuary you shared, and especially in the most important week of all. You'd initially suggested to Michael that you could both attend the afterparty but have sex in a bathroom or another locked room—or that you could stay out for a while and then later go home to have sex—but your husband didn't enjoy the prospect of either idea. Yes, it was night four, where you'd already spent hours per night in the bed that despite its luxury was so close to breaking, and yes, he'd hoisted you up against the shower wall that morning and gave it to you twice, but in Michael's eyes, those sessions were no reason to disrupt what he had planned.
During your fertile period, he had firmly decided that the evening into late night was for lovemaking, no matter what outdoor activities were on offer. And you couldn't complain that he was so specific about that self-determined rule. What better excuse to have sex with your man all night long for a week straight than for the purpose of conceiving your first child?
And Michael was so excited to meet his unborn child. Outside of the hours he spent buried inside you, he couldn't stop talking about your future baby—and by extension, the babies plural, that would later follow. You would laugh at him when he'd go too far into the future, reminding him to stay in the present and not get too ahead of himself, but when he said yet again that he wished for eighteen children—almost double the number his parents had produced—you obviously weren't on board in the slightest.
"Michael," you chuckled, laid in the crook of his bare neck as you drew circles just above his nipple. "You better shut the hell up about this eighteen kids thing. 'm serious, don't talk about that shit with me." You were serious, but you continued to laugh because he was just so ridiculous, never looking at life situations logically.
"Honey, 'm sorry, I just want so many." He smiled bashfully, pulling your naked body closer into him.
"Oh, I can see that." You raised your brows in amusement.
"We've got a huge house—I just wanna fill it w' so many beautiful children."
"And that would be amazing, baby, except I don't think my vagina would be very happy."
Suddenly Michael froze at the realisation of his accidental bordering on typical male coercion, although you knew that's not at all what he meant. He just hadn't thought it through properly, lost in the heartwarming image of two football teams' worth of kids running around with him.
"Oh—yeah, that's um, really bad of me, 'm sorry, sweetheart. I wasn't thinkin' of it that way."
"Mikey," you laughed, "I don't think my pussy has been out of your mind for five days straight—and now you're tellin' me you forgot about that part of childbirth altogether?"
He chuckled shyly, shaking his head, then shuffled a little downward to face you properly. You squeezed his cheek and ruffled his hair.
But there was another thing your newly-wed husband couldn't stop obsessing over—and that was the prospect of what you'd grow to look like while pregnant. How your curves would swell, how you'd look fuller in all the places he already cherished most. And the thought of your breasts working through hormonal shifts to create milk for his baby... he felt as though he might go insane at the first sight of that image. He hoped you wouldn't think he was strange for wanting a taste.
And oh, you couldn't have been even slightly prepared for how insatiable he'd be. If you thought your husband was addicted to you now, just wait until you were heavily pregnant, all sexy and swollen with his child...
this is my #1 fave thing to daydream about ugh… i’m having a ball writing out all my thoughts for this blog hehehe. <3
──── tag list: @slickdickwitchbitchh @xyahx @nuhveah @darkgreengrl @savagenctzen @filmedlovee ╱ comment to be added!
i love being on vacation because i have all the time in the world to write. the ideas are flowin, everybody… 🍨 i’m so grateful to not have writer’s block when i have so much free time!
you’re literally such an amazing author, I hope you know that not only the quality of your work but the sheer creativity is fucking nutssss likeeeee your brain is crazyyyyyyy. literally keep doing what ur doin
omg i just woke up to this, thank u!!! <33 i love to receive feedback on my work n this warmed my heart so much wow i love u
(𝟏𝟖+) ♥︎ .𖥔 ݁ makin’ love with 𝒐𝒕𝒘!𝒎𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍 at hayvenhurst, but something disrupts his arousal and causes you to stop mid-sex
──── notes: f!reader ⋆ penetrative sex, interrupted ⋆ teasing from his brothers ⋆ mention of j*seph and domestic abuse ⋆ cuddles ⋆ soft michael as always!
𝐀𝐏𝐑 𝟏𝟕, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟎 .𖥔 ݁ 𝑯𝒂𝒚𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑨𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒖𝒆, 𝑬𝒏𝒄𝒊𝒏𝒐
Your legs were locked tight around your man’s waist, heels digging into his lower back while his cock pressed almost cervix-deep inside you with each ruining thrust. His torso was flush to yours, bodies entirely entwined as you moved in a messily erotic rhythm. Michael’s bicep was just beside your face, where he had one arm resting around the silhouette of your upper body on the pillows, so that a hand cradled your dazed out head. Every time you made love, he held you this way.
“Oh Mikey, baby, s’good—” you gasped and whined, tugging at his dark hair as he hit your sweet spot upon thoughtful direction of every single stroke. He’d started off achingly slow, but now you were both reaching your climax, therefore unconsciously Michael had picked up the pace.
“Mama, y’so tight, oh—” he moaned right beside your ear, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head at the pretty sound and the sensations in your nether region at once.
“Michael, they’re gonna hear,” you stressed, although you didn’t do so very quietly, as with the prior moans.
“Don’t care no more—not thinkin’ ‘bout nothin’ but you, baby,” he said through grunts, pounding you with precision as the headboard knocked against the wall in rhythmic force. It had been making that repetitive noise for the last ten minutes, together with the sound of Michael’s childhood bed squeaking and the sound of skin slapping.
Each sound protruding from those four walls, including the pornographic noises elicited from your throat, were contributing together to make a lewd sort of song. For anybody in the house, it was incredibly obvious what Michael was getting up to in his locked bedroom. It was a warm spring evening, and Michael’s brothers had been out playing basketball all afternoon—on one of those days where they all reunited back home—but now they were inside messing around, and there was no way they couldn’t hear the two of you.
Yet despite that knowledge, neither of you could even attempt to slow down or lower the noise. The present moment was much too heavenly to be reduced. And you’d been doing this a lot lately—fucking in his bedroom even though you both knew his mother despised sex out of wedlock. She hadn’t caught you both yet, but the risk was of course always there.
Writhing against the sheets, you mentally praised the otherworldly evidence of how well Michael could use his thick, well-endowed cock, but on top of that, his moans alone were ethereal. When he wasn’t whispering praise in your ear, you relished in the beauty of the desperate mewls he shamelessly spilled out above you, and especially this evening, where the snap of his hips was making him breathless.
“Baby girl, y’ body’s everythin’… so magical,” he murmured, kissing and biting at your neck while fiercely maintaining pace. “So soft ‘n sweet. All mine…”
With each nip to your skin, he let his tongue dart out to taste your scent, in heaven at the indulgence but altogether wishing he could somehow eat your pussy and make love to you at once.
Without meaning to, your moans only grew louder. “Baby, I love you—mm, harder, oh, you’re so deep—”
“Yeah, I got you, mama,” Michael whispered, pressing one hand down on the mattress to get better control of his movements, those skilful thrusts picking up even more pace. Meanwhile, the activator in his Jheri curls was mixing with the constant production of sweat that dripped down his forehead, and together the liquids amalgamated and trickled onto your shoulder and chest. You truly could feel every inch of him everywhere, and you kept attempting to tighten the weight of your legs around him, to tighten the security of your arms around his neck, except there was no getting any closer than your current position.
“How y’feelin, honeybaby? Want me to pull back a little and rub y’ sweet clit?”
Obviously you did want him to use his fingers on you, but at the same time you didn’t like the prospect of his thermal body being detached from yours, even if there was to be a replacement of sensation. Because really, you didn’t necessarily need his slender fingers over your bundle of nerves in order to bring you to orgasm. The cosy weight of his body, the intimacy of your locked-in positional dynamic, too with the feel of his bicep on your shoulder and his tender hand at your head—all those elements accompanied by his girthy cock pistoning in and out of you was more than enough already. You could feel every vein, every ridge, brush against your walls with each stroke, each squelch of your juices coating his shaft.
“No, Mikey, want you just like this, don’t move—oh, don’t stop, honey, you fuck me so good, ’m gonna—oh fuck, baby, yes!”
“Aw, my baby—nnghh—sweet girl… Lemme get you there…” Never slowing the relentless force of his cock, he took one of your hands and gently placed a kiss over the knuckles, and you really could’ve died right there. How perfect was Michael Jackson in bed, that he could fuck you into oblivion while equally being so tender and soft? That oxymoron was your boyfriend summed up in a nutshell.
The two of you were being way too loud now—truthfully you in particular. It was a good thing Katherine and Joseph weren’t home, but as clarified previously, every single brother was. How on earth had they all managed to end up back at Hayvenhurst for a stupid reunion on the night you and Michael desperately needed the most alone time?
Well, that was honestly a silly question, because Michael made love to you like this almost every night, if he wasn’t at your place to do it instead. The brothers weren’t exactly to be blamed. Perhaps you and your man just needed to calm down where sex drive was concerned, but one couldn’t help the nature of their biology. Here were two individuals deeply addicted to each other, and an addiction to that degree was impossible to override.
“Now what in the hell is goin’ on in here?” you suddenly heard Jackie say from outside the door.
You froze, yet Michael was unfazed. It was an unexplained phenomenon, but whenever Michael had sex with you, his usual shy, cautious inhibitions would lose their place in his line of focus. All he cared about was you, and making sure you reached your orgasm quickly, while his was very much nearing too.
“Man, you know exactly what they up to,” Marlon chuckled, in response to Jackie. “Can hear that shit from downstairs. Oh, Michael, harder!”
“Mikey, stop,” you said quickly, tapping his shoulder.
Immediately he did as instructed, pulling his head up from your shoulder a little to check you were okay.
“Too much, baby?” he asked, a little out of breath, as he brushed his thumb over your cheek to soothe you.
Outside the door, the boys were still laughing. Randy and Tito had joined them now from downstairs.
“No,” you giggled bashfully, holding the back of his neck and wiping some of the ever-dripping Jheri juice-sweat mixture from his jaw. “Your brothers are literally outside.”
“Huh?” Michael’s face scrunched up in confusion, and in part frustration at the way he’d been made to pause inside your throbbing, weeping cunt all because he’d been cursed with a million bothersome brothers.
“Michael, how the hell did you not hear ‘em?” you chuckled, playing with his damp hair now.
He rolled his eyes. “Go back downstairs!”
“We’re not doin’ nothin’, Mike!” Tito shouted.
“But y’know what I’m doin’, right? And y’ still up here!”
“No? What are you doin’ in there, Michael?” Marlon teased sarcastically.
You were literally squirming at this point, mentally praying that they’d just go away, because you needed Michael to continue.
“You makin’ love?” Jackie sung playfully. “Don’t get her pregnant, lil bro.”
“’m not gonna get her pregnant,” he protested in annoyance. “Will y’ just leave us be?”
“Alright, alright,” a few of them laughed in unison. “Just keep it down—Joseph’s comin’ back in a few minutes.”
“Oh no,” Michael squinted anxiously. Footsteps began, then faded as the boys skipped off downstairs again.
“Baby, it’s fine,” you reassured, stroking his upper back. “We’ll be quick—I’m almost there.”
“Um,” he stammered, rubbing at his eyes. “No, I uh… I don’t feel well.”
Slowly and carefully he sat back on his knees and slipped his cock out of you, it now standing flushed up against his stomach, messy white streaks painting up and down the shaft from base to tip, but the flesh was beginning to soften.
“Hey, what do you mean?” You sat up too, expression one of sheer confusion. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I’m really sorry, I just…” Michael turned, picking up his boxers from the floor and slipping into them, seated on the edge of the bed, facing away from you. “It’s Joseph. I really made him mad this mornin’ and I’ve not seen him since. Until, um—well, he’s comin’ back now.”
Feeling incredibly awkward, Michael then jumped up off the bed, searching for some comfortable clothes to quickly dress into. Meanwhile, you sat anxiously in the messy sheets, your sex still glistening with arousal, but the inner sensations were fading with Michael’s. You didn’t mind that he’d had to stop so abruptly, because you understood. Sometimes he would even projectile vomit at the thought of his father returning unexpectedly. His body went into fight-or-flight mode at the mere mention of the man’s name, and so there was no way he could sustain an erection and enjoy the rest of your lovemaking in that state.
“C’mere, baby,” you sighed sadly, outstretching your arms.
When he turned around, he didn’t smile. There were hints of anxiety splayed all over his face, and it broke your heart.
“Michael. Come back to bed—you can just get up again when he knocks.”
Michael took a deep breath, clamping his eyes shut as a signal of the constricting pain he felt in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, a real switch in temperament as opposed to just minutes ago. Now he took the appearance of a sad little boy, the one you knew had never left him.
He climbed into bed beside you, and immediately you pulled him into your chest, letting him nuzzle against your bare breasts.
“There ya go, honey…” you whispered to him, cradling his head. Without the need for instruction, he latched his mouth onto one of your nipples, beginning to suck over the sensitive nerves.
“’m sorry for cuttin’ things short,” he muttered against your skin. “I was close but… I can’t really, y’know, sustain it when I get anxious.”
“No, baby, I understand,” you said back, running your hands through his hair, uncaring how damp the strands were. “Listen to me, angelface,” you kissed his forehead, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Ever. Just wanna take care of you, make you feel safe… That’s everythin’ you deserve.”
Michael nodded, though he didn’t respond, because he never knew what to say to such intimate talk. He couldn’t stop worrying about Joseph, who would come through the door any minute now, and so you spent the remaining minutes with him cuddled up close, whispering sweet nothings and praise in his ear, telling him how he only ever needed to listen to your words, and never Joseph’s jealousy-fuelled ones.
He ended up approaching his father with much less anxiety than he’d initially been feeling, but indeed he was berated, defined as worthless, and hit with an iron cord—all because he had expressed a different opinion that morning.
When Michael slipped back into bed beside you after night had fallen, you kissed over the growing bruises, and again held him to your chest until he fell sound asleep. Oh, how you wished life would be kinder to your sweet angel boy. He hadn’t done a thing wrong in his entire existence.
omg i just started writing a lil drabble and ended up with this >:) also i literally have to end every smut fic with michael being soft because of course?!♥︎
──── tag list: @slickdickwitchbitchh @xyahx @nuhveah @darkgreengrl @savagenctzen ╱ comment to be added!
your husband and kids come to see you on tour ♥︎ .𖥔 ݁ ⠀
──── notes: bad era!michael jackson x childhoodbsf!popstar!reader ╱ see 𝒂𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐. girldad!michael ⋆ all fluff.
Tonight, your twin baby girls were seeing you perform live for the first time. At only two years old, almost three, they’d never attended one of your concerts before, and Michael had been so excited for when they would grow old enough. Your son Brandon—named after Michael’s deceased brother—was seven now, and he’d been to watch both you and Michael live a few times already, but this was the first night where all your three children would stand together with your husband to admire their mother do what she did best.
At the top of the staircase in the centre of the stage, you appeared in a breathtaking blush-pink gown, the skirt billowing around you like a cloud. Your curls were bouncy and voluminous, and diamonds glittered at your ears and throat, throwing sparks into the crowd whenever you turned. Gliding across the stage, you waved at the screaming crowd and the cameras, and the hem of your dress swept behind you akin to a royal train as you moved from one end of the arena to the other. Married to the world's biggest superstar and existing as a phenomenon in your own right, it made sense you were viewed as royalty. You floated beneath the lights like a modern fairytale princess, radiant and divine; and despite the chaos ahead, you felt completely at home before those eighty thousand adoring fans.
Michael and your children were standing in a VIP suite off the side, an elevated private box that allowed for security and comfort. But your babies were of course much too small to see over the railing while standing, so Michael took turns in holding each of them up; including your son, although he was just about tall enough to stand with a good view. All three had the most adorable pink earmuffs resting over their ears, thick foam cushions pressed gently against the sides of their heads. The protective headset was a bit too large for the little girls, which only made the sight even cuter.
One of your girls, Tiana, was bubbly and confident, bouncing excitedly to the music whenever Michael lowered her to the floor, while your other girl Sophia was more on the shy side. She preferred to be in her daddy's arms as she watched you, already feeling a little overwhelmed from the noise even with the earmuffs. And because she was naturally shy, she typically babbled a lot more than Tiana did, formatively seeming the younger of the two.
"There's mama, look at her go, sweetheart," Michael whispered in little Sophie's ear, rocking her in his arms so she could feel as comfortable as possible.
"Mama," she repeated, trying to point in your direction with her chubby finger.
"Yeah, tha's right, isn't she beautiful? Like a magical painting, huh?"
A small smile spread across her sweet cheeks, and she started to giggle. "Daddy," she babbled, turning to Michael and splaying her small hands all over his face.
Michael chuckled in glee. "You go 'n tell your mama how pretty she is when she gets offstage, okay? Say pretty mama."
"Pwetty... mama," Sophia sounded out slowly. "Pretty mama."
"Exactly, baby." Michael kissed her forehead, then turned his attention back to you.
Tiana and Brandon were dancing together, holding hands, before Tiana decided she needed to see you again. She spun around suddenly with a frown.
"Daddy. I wanna see mommy."
"Alright," Michael chuckled, setting Sophia down, where she immediately rushed to be by Brandon's side. She wouldn't dance or jump up and down like her sister had been doing, but she was enjoying the music, swaying a little while her brother held her hand.
Tiana rushed over to Michael. "Alright, come on up, angel."
The girl squealed excitedly as her father hoisted her up into his arms, settling her so that she was angled with perfect view of the stage.
"There you go, there's your mama..." Michael hummed into her ear, bouncing her up and down lightly because it always made her giggle.
"Daddy," she beamed, pointing at the stage just as Sophia had done. "Mommy princess."
Michael's heart melted to hear her say that. He adored that your children viewed you in the same precious way he did, and he couldn't believe how much time had passed since that day he had been nineteen, daydreaming alone about what your children might look like in the far future. All these years later, and they were absolutely beautiful—of course they were.
"Yeah, honey, mommy's our very own princess. You like her dress, baby?"
Tiana nodded eagerly. You had in fact chosen to wear this particular dress on purpose tonight, because it did make you look like a Disney princess, and you knew your girls would love it. They'd be transfixed no matter what you wore, but a princess dress was ideal in their presence.
While you sung your more sexual songs, dancing provocatively, Michael sat the kids down on the floor and played with them, distracting them well enough that they surprisingly didn’t complain at being shielded from the princess onstage.
When the concert was over, the four waited for you backstage, their pretty smiles lighting up as soon as they saw you emerge from the wings. You were breathless, worn out from two hours of non-stop performance, smoothing down your second outfit of the night—a glittery teal mini dress with bright pink jewels and pink heels to match.
After catching your breath and downing a glass of ice cold water that someone handed to you, you headed straight for your loved ones.
“Hii, my babies!” you beamed, crouching down and outstretching your arms for them to run into. The three of them rushed forward, squealing as they did, and you tried your best to envelop them all in your hold. Michael watched beside you all, smiling at the beautiful scene before him.
“Did you all enjoy the show?” you asked softly, stroking through Tiana’s thick hair.
“Yes, mommy,” the girls said in unison, while your son nodded his head.
You picked up Sophia, resting her secure in your arms before standing, the other two jumping at your feet.
“Hi sweet girl, it wasn’t too noisy, no?” you whispered in her ear, while she tucked her head into your neck.
“No,” she murmured, shaking her head against your skin.
“That’s good, baby. You had fun?” You smiled, relieved that she hadn’t been too overwhelmed. You squeezed her cheek lightly and kissed her forehead as you rocked her.
Sophia made a sweet noise to signal yes. “Momma pretty. Like princess.”
You gasped, heart melting at her adorable pout paired with her words. “You’re a princess, baby,” you exclaimed, poking her chest playfully. “You’re mama’s princess.”
She giggled happily, and even more so when her daddy walked over, wrapping an arm around your shoulder with several quick kisses to your cheek.
“Hey honey,” Michael said warmly. “Y’were perfect out there.”
“Hi baby,” you hummed, kissing him softly. “Were they alright in the suite?”
“Yeah, everythin’ was fine,” he smiled, maneuvring Sophia into his arms. She babbled against him, yawning into her tiny hands.
“They had a great time watching their pretty mama.”
You grinned bashfully, always melting at your husband’s compliments. “Did you tell Sophie to call me a pretty princess?”
“She would’ve said that anyway,” Michael chuckled. “And Tiana called you a princess too.”
You pouted, feeling overcome with emotion, while Tiana tugged at your leg from down below. Then you leaned forward into Michael’s shoulder to pull him into a hug, a tear shedding onto the fabric of his suit, unable to contain your emotions after so much exertion onstage.
“Wait, I don’t know why I’m crying. Think I’m getting my period,” you laughed through the tears, quickly wiping them into Michael’s neck so that none of the kids saw, but Sophia was already furrowing her brows, trying to work out if her mommy was upset.
“’s okay, angel,” Michael whispered with a soft laugh. He held your waist close, his daughter still held safely. “I love you, pretty baby.”
“I love you,” you said through sniffles, and now Tiana was of course anxiously asking if you were alright. So you pulled away from Michael and Sophia, bringing your other daughter up into your arms and holding Brandon’s hand.
“I can’t believe how blessed we are,” you sighed, patting over your makeup that was now smudged.
Michael hummed in agreement, with another tender kiss to your forehead. “I know. This is all I ever wanted.”
tysm to the anon who requested this! i’d actually never considered this scenario before and when u suggested it i suddenly had a very vivid scene in my mind. hope u love!!<3
xoxo, 𝓳
──── tag list: @slickdickwitchbitchh @xyahx @nuhveah @darkgreengrl ╱ comment to be added!
NEED YOU TONIGHT ╱ JUL 21, 1978
254 west 54th street ࣪࿐making out with 𝒑𝒓𝒆-𝒐𝒕𝒘!𝒎𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍 𝓳𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒔𝒐𝒏 at 𝓈tudio 54. mikey is a virgin, hesitant to give it up
word count: 4.2k
──── notes: childhoodbsf!popstar!reader ╱ see 𝒂𝒖 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒐. suggestive content w/o smut ⋆ messy kisses ⋆ religious context & references ⋆ allusion to religious guilt
For three months now, you had been dating your best friend. Michael first confessed his love for you on a warm April night by the fountain at Hayvenhurst, and it had taken you a few days to collect yourself at the surprise of the revelation, before realising that beneath the guard you’d had up to conceal your deeper emotions, you too felt the same way. Then, the three months that followed had been a whirlwind—the two of you had fallen hopelessly in love with each other, and it felt strange that it had taken so long to discover how deeply your feelings ran, but all the same it made sense given how avoidant you’d been to any real display of love that truly cherished you. Being in an industry so complete with falsehoods and malicious intent, especially when it came to men, led you down the wrong path romantically, many a time. Michael had waited, as patiently as he could, for the time that he would feel comfortable enough to reveal how much he loved you, how he was completely head over heels for you and had been since you were ten years old and had sung in the recording booth beside him for the first time.
He had never once expected that you’d tell him you felt the same way, and in fact those first few days after the confession, he’d been so certain that you were going to run from him, the friendship ruined now that he’d forced romance between it. But those days were only difficult and isolated for one reason—being that you had to sit with yourself for that period in order to thoroughly digest your reaction to what he had told you. Then once you’d understood—truly understood that his love wasn’t at all unrequited—you rushed to your best friend with open arms.
It took almost an entire month to get used to the change in your dynamic, where for a while every time you kissed it would turn into fits of shy giggles, and where each time Michael held your hand in public you nudged him like a child, bashful because you’d never been touched so gently before. His brothers constantly teased, even more than usual, which had been bothersome enough already. Years they had spent placing bets on how long it would take for the two of you to just admit your feelings and get together, while you both swore up and down that it would never happen, grimacing at the thought of being with each other in that way.
But they never listened to your protests, because the opposing argument was obvious. You had been so close over the years—cuddling like little kittens, sleeping in the same bed, playfighting on the couch, always being each other’s date to the movies—that in many ways you’d essentially already existed as lovers, just without the kisses and the handholding. And the sex. Of course.
But as for that last aspect of a relationship—the biggest of all—you were still without. Three months in, and you hadn’t done anything sexual with Michael past the extremely passionate makeouts he loved to indulge in with you, which did include desperate moans and dry humping, so he was kidding himself if he thought he wasn’t ready to have sex. Your boyfriend was a virgin, you knew that, but you could tell he had quite a high sex drive, one that he continually aimed to repress. One time, he almost came in his pants while with his tongue down your throat, your hips writhing over his, humming in his mouth; and he had to immediately rush off to the bathroom before a mess was made. You wouldn’t have minded of course, but Michael was incredibly shy about those sorts of things.
The reason he was still a virgin at nineteen wasn’t because he didn’t want sex, or didn’t feel himself ready. Rather, the influence was at the hands of his mother, whereby while every single one of his brothers had lost their virginity quite early on, Michael suffered the most with religious guilt, eagerly submitting to the so-called virtuous rules that ensured he never lost sight of his inhibitions. But in all the admission to such religious morality, he hadn’t thought to question why these rules were so set in stone. Why couldn’t he make love to the girl he’d known for eight entire years, the girl he’d spent the majority of his adolescence with, who meant more to him than anybody else? Sleeping around was a bad idea—casual sex only got a man into trouble, but making sweet love to the girl he had for so long yearned over and now had the precious privilege of calling his own? There wasn’t a thing wrong with that. You just needed to succeed in convincing him.
Before now, Michael hadn’t dated a girl who he could actually envision himself marrying, and of course he didn’t want to scare you away with any allusion toward matrimony, but in his quietest moments he often pictured how ethereal you’d look in your dainty white dress, walking down the aisle to meet his waiting smile at the altar. He always shook his head of the thoughts—much too excessive and far-reaching given the short amount of time you’d been together—but Michael never did anything half-heartedly. Whatever and whomever he loved, he did so with every fibre of his being.
You’d slept with a handful of men before (and Michael didn’t judge you for that—in life he judged only himself), but none of them you ached for more than Michael. Since you’d started dating, it felt like you’d opened your eyes for the first time, as if you had been reborn.
Your best friend was breathtakingly beautiful. You’d told him how handsome he was in the past, long before you’d confronted your romantic feelings, when his father would make abusive comments about his nose or his acne as a teen. But those were more objective comments, factual statements that even a straight man would have to admit the truth of. Now however, you viewed him in a light as though interpreting an angel’s presence. Michael was insanely gorgeous, and your heart skipped a beat sometimes when you laid in his arms, staring into his pretty eyes—so deeply without you even noticing, until he’d suddenly pull away shyly and you’d have to drag him back, pleading with him to just let you admire him properly for once. He’d gladly gaze into your eyes until the world ended, but with that came you gazing back into his, and he disliked such intimate attention. You were determined to make him operate otherwise.
As you fell deeper and deeper in love, you could not stop kissing each other. This early stage of your relationship took the fated honeymoon phase to a whole other level, where of course most couples were attached at the hip in the beginning, but since you and Michael had already been so, you were now even more ridiculously clingy with each other. Any opportunity to make out was taken eagerly and breathlessly, and you were seriously starting to concern Michael’s mother by how often she’d walk in on the two of you tongue-kissing in his bed. Katherine loved you—she always had—but she also read a lot about your nightlife activities in the paper, and couldn’t shake the nagging thought that you might soon corrupt her son.
Without her even telling you so, you could surmise that those were her thoughts. She was talking to you much less now, and with much less enthusiasm, also seeming a considerable deal stricter where Michael was concerned—despite the fact that he was a grown adult now, and didn’t need his mother instructing him on how to live his life. She always did so gently, as opposed to the relentless abuse from Joseph—who had in fact directed the opposite of his sons, to have as much sex as they wanted with prostitutes and groupies—but all the same, Michael didn’t need any type of governing influence from either parent, gentle or not. The contrast between the two forms of parenting confused his tired mind immensely, so he often succumbed to accepting rules without question, particularly when it came to religion. He would later go on to progress and evolve his mindset as he lived through his twenties, but at this time, as a shy nineteen year old suffering the ramifications of years-long abuse and control, his weary brain didn’t have much choice when it came to making informed decisions himself.
On a hot July night in Midtown Manhattan, deep into an hour-long makeout against a plush, velvet-lined wall in a small corner, you and your boyfriend were both thinking about the exact same thing—although on opposite ends of the thought spectrum. While you couldn’t stop thinking about how much you wished he would take you back to your shared hotel room and have sex with you, Michael couldn’t stop worrying about how much he desperately yearned for a timeline where he could do exactly that.
He was clad in a sleek cream satin shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tucked into high-waisted black flared trousers with a slim belt, while you wore a liquid-gold mini dress with a low open back, paired with platform heels and a dusting of body shimmer over your collarbone. You dazzled under the glittering lights, and Michael couldn’t keep his hands off you, nor could you keep yours off him.
It always surprised you just how comfortable Michael was with kissing in public, because it wasn’t as if you only kissed meekly and modestly. Most of the time your lips were crashing against each other’s fiercely, tongues swirling aside soft whines and hungry groans, while his hands roamed all over your torso, inching very close to your ass, which he did often end up holding while keeping you pressed up against the wall. He never squeezed—he saved that for private moments, but he definitely had no issue with holding what was his in public. And paparazzi did often make their way around the club, so you weren’t safe from being photographed, but in the Studio’s deepest corners, just a few feet away from rockstars and groupies doing hard drugs, you knew those areas were the most appropriate if one wished to be unseen.
You’d had at least five glasses of wine tonight, and that was obvious in the way you often stumbled in Michael’s hold, the platform height of your heels not helping to assist you in any way. Meanwhile, Michael was your exact opposite where drinks were concerned. He'd been consuming glasses of orange juice all night, as was typical, but through a champagne flute—a request he made to the bartender—so that people would assume it contained alcohol. He always went clubbing sober—another consequence of his religious upbringing—and while many people would probably question how on earth it was possible to have an enjoyable night doing so amongst drunkards and cokeheads, you understood perfectly. Having performed since before the age of ten just like Michael, you too were enamoured with the euphoric sensation that came inherently with music and dance, where even though you liked to get drunk, it was never necessary if you were dancing. Studio 54 was a go-to location for you and your boyfriend whenever you were in New York, because there weren’t many other places in which you felt so free.
You'd spent tonight dancing just the two of you and with several other celebrities for two hours straight, you’d miraculously dodged breaking your ankle twice, had quite a disagreeable encounter with Diana while Michael sat awkwardly in the corner, and eventually had made it here, to the area you’d self-designated as the perfect makeout spot. It was three o’clock in the morning, and Michael had you hoisted up against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers wreathed through his afro as you whined into his mouth. The other huge benefit of this nightclub was that since there were so many other high-profile celebs around, the two of you could blend into the background as the night went on. In the beginning, there were incessant pictures as usual, and so many people—even the A-listers themselves—wanting to talk to you both, but as the night faded into early morning, you could be sure to get some real alone time, albeit still in a very public location.
You hardly stopped for breath as you kissed, equally with tongue and lips, so wet and messy; not at all what you expected of Michael before you became his. He was the most perfect kisser—you knew of some girls who’d said the same, and in retrospect you realised those anecdotes had actually bothered you at the time, even if you had tried to brush them off. But now that didn’t matter—because you had this heavenly man all to yourself. How on earth was this the same boy you'd spent years watching cartoons with and playing Twister? Indeed, Michael very much was that exact same boy, and you would probably begin tomorrow watching said cartoons.
“Steady, honey,” Michael murmured into your mouth as you almost slipped out of his hold again.
“Baby…” you moaned against his lips, not even sparing a thought about the inappropriately erotic look spread across your face.
Michael’s heart fluttered at the pet name. He wondered if he’d ever get used to the way you sounded when you gasped it while in his arms, or how you whispered it into his hair when he laid on your chest.
You wanted to talk to him, but he still couldn’t stop kissing you. The messy, moistened meeting of your mouths continued, hungry squelches and groans seeming to never cease.
But then Grace Jones was walking past, on her way to the bathroom, and she squinted at the sight of you and Michael bundled up together, having been unaware that you were now more than platonic. Most people did know already, because the press had been obsessed with reporting on your growing relationship over the last couple of months, but it was easy for pop culture news to pass by the busiest celebrities.
“Clearly I’ve skipped a few chapters?” she asked in amusement.
Immediately you both pulled away from each other, laughing in shock as you looked over at Grace.
“Yeah, we’re… uh, together,” you said bashfully. You were never shy, especially not amongst others in the industry of whom you always connected so well with, but you’d found that since you started dating Michael, whenever that topic arose in public—even if ironically you were confident enough with him to publicly maul his mouth like an animal—shyness overcame your speech.
“Finally,” Grace grinned before walking off, and you turned back to Michael, where you both continued to giggle.
He leaned in to resume the kiss, but you pulled back, holding his head in place with a hand on his cheek so that he’d listen to you.
“Mikey, I need you.”
Those flutters attacked inside his chest again, and he smiled wide. “Y’have me, honey.”
“No, I need you, um…” you began, already realising this conversation would probably be futile, like all the others. “The other way.”
He set you down on the floor and held your hips, but while looking awkwardly to the floor, focusing on the shine of his shoes instead.
“Uh.”
You waited patiently, although hating to put him in this position. You just truly couldn’t fathom why two adult humans couldn’t get on with doing something so perfectly natural.
Michael continued, but to no avail for your needs. “Baby, you know we can’t—um.”
You sighed, placing a hand on his forearm, caressing up and down lightly. “Who said we can’t, Michael? We can’t have sex but we can stick our tongues down each other’s throats in public?”
He laughed shyly, looking into your eyes for a moment before averting his gaze again. “Well, I guess we really shouldn’t be doin’ that either.”
“No, but look at us—we’re doin’ it anyway.” You cupped his face with a small smile, and he pulled you swiftly by your hips to meet his torso. You giggled, looking up into his eyes, but then you noticed the flash of a camera in your peripheral and rolled your eyes.
“C’mon baby, take me back to the hotel ‘n lemme have you…” you murmured into his neck as you began to kiss along the length of it, just as wet and heavy as the suction to his lips.
Michael laughed, interlacing his fingers with yours, then using the index and middle finger on his free hand to nudge your face upward by your chin. “We’re not allowed.”
“Says who? The owners of The Plaza?”
“Honey…” Michael squinted, his eager smile betraying him.
“Mikey.” You looked up at him with faux-innocence, batting your lashes. Perhaps Katherine was correct in her assumption—you did want to corrupt him, but at the same time, which authority decided unwed lovemaking equalled corruption?
“Stop teasin’ me, mama.”
“’m not! How dare you say that, Michael Jackson!” you grinned, before nestling your head in his chest. On instinct his arms wrapped securely around you, and you felt his warm kiss on your even warmer forehead.
“We’re in New York,” you pointed out. “Far away from your parents, far away from your brothers. We won’t have Jackie spyin’ on us, or Marlon comin’ in every five minutes pretending he’s looking for somethin’.”
Michael chuckled. “Yeah, we could never do anythin’ like that in my room at home. 's a good thing we’ll be married an’ moved out when it happens.”
You sighed again, frustrated but by no means blaming him. You pulled back from his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying slightly to the now slower-paced tune.
“Baby. May I repeat: we’re in New York. No one’s gonna know what we get up to.”
But he bit his lip, looking downward again. “God’s gonna know.”
“Michael.”
“What?” he asked shyly, his doe eyes refusing to meet yours for more than a moment.
“God said…” You paused to press a heated kiss to his lips, before continuing. “To love thy neighbour.”
His sweet smile returned, and widened as you now held one of his smooth hands, using your other to tug him closer by his belt loop.
Then you smooched his cheek. “And I’m your neighbour, right?”
Michael laughed, amused by your efforts, but he still felt shy beneath his outward demeanour—that which you knew.
“Listen,” you persisted. “If a God does exist, he clearly invented sex for a reason.”
“Yeah, for marriage and… makin’ babies,” he countered quietly.
“Okay…” You thought of another comeback quickly enough. “Then he wouldn’t have given us all sex drives, made women fertile every single month—like I am right now—”
You cut yourself off with a giggle at the sight of how adorably flushed Michael suddenly became at the mention of ovulation.
“Mikey,” you laughed against his lips as they collided again. “Stop gettin’ all flushed.”
“I can’t help it, honey, when y’ say stuff like that…”
You smiled warmly, still holding his hand. “Y’don’t have to be able to help it when it comes to me, baby, you know that. That’s the whole point.”
Michael didn’t have a clue what to say next. He just stood there, looking at you in the hope that this conversation might change its subject soon, but simultaneously he wanted so badly to just give you what you wanted. It was what he himself craved more than anything, and he hadn’t yet learnt that sexual repression wasn’t healthy. The Bible didn’t care to teach that.
You took a deep inhale, then a slow exhale, deciding what to say next. As a woman, it was disturbing to be pressured into sex—coercion was inexcusable—and you were starting to worry you were unintentionally doing that to your boyfriend now. Of course that wasn’t really the case, and his passion with you had displayed his need enough, but you had to be sure.
“Can we sit down somewhere?” you asked, and he nodded, guiding you to a crescent-shaped burgundy velvet loveseat. The disco reflections flickered across the fabric, and your head was starting to spin.
Michael sat first, then pulled you onto his lap and into his arms, cradling your tipsy body into his warmth. You hummed happily against the crook of his neck, yawning as the alcohol’s earlier energy was now descending into drowsiness.
“Y’wanna go home now, mama?”
“No,” you shook your head. “Soon, yeah, but—just wanted to ask you somethin’ first.”
Naturally, he started to worry, and you could sense it in his slight change of temperament—you always noticed every little switch in him—so you picked up his hand and kissed his palm.
“Nothin’ bad, baby, I promise. I just wanna know, um… do you feel like I’m… pressuring you to have sex?” You spoke the words while resting into his body, not wanting to be face-to-face while asking him such an awkward question.
“What?” Michael replied in confusion, shifting in his seat.
“Like… you obviously don’t want to, and on nights like these I get drunk and start trying to convince you to. If you’re not ready or not in the mood, that’s okay, I just… always assumed the only reason was religion. And even if that is the only reason, I guess I shouldn’t try to drive you away from that.”
Michael took a deep breath, hoping the ground would swallow him up, because he hated that you were worrying about how you’d expressed yourself, and it bothered him that he could never really explain himself properly in serious discussions. He also disliked this topic in particular, but at least it gave him the opportunity to clarify himself. And he was just as glad as you that you could have this conversation without looking directly at each other.
“Oh no, honey, you're not makin' me feel pressured. I promise y’, really,” he reassured. “I wanna make love to y' so badly. I can’t stop kissin’ and touchin’ y’—'m goin’ crazy inside.”
Now you pulled your head out of his neck and finally met his eyes again. Stroking the frizz of his afro, you spoke softly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, I just… I mean, I know how much religion means to your mother but… this industry, it’s not exactly very coherent with being a Jehovah’s Witness.”
“I know,” Michael sighed. He wasn’t naïve, nor was he stupid, and slowly but surely, he was beginning to see your point of view more and more.
“I just really want you, Mikey.” You squeezed his hand. “I know I have you like this, in kisses and cuddles and everything else but… I’d love for us to go further. If you really want that too, then…?”
“I understand, honey,” he said quietly, before kissing your nose, his hand moving to your jaw to caress. “Is it okay if I tell y’ I’ll think about it? Like, really think about it this time. Y’ said a few things that make sense.”
You gave a small smile and a nod, cuddling back into his chest again, nuzzling specifically against the sliver of smooth skin exposed. “I don’t mind how much time it takes you to think about it, baby. Just as long as you’re thinkin’. What I don’t like is when your parents’ views override what you wanna do yourself.”
“I get that. But darlin’,” he pecked your forehead again, “please don’t ever worry that you’re pressurin’ me. The pressure’s not comin’ from you, I promise.”
You sighed again, but in content and relief this time. “I really thought I went a little too far.”
“No, you didn’t. 'm serious,” Michael whispered into your hair. “But even if I did decide tonight that I wanted to, I wouldn’t while you’re all drunk ‘n drowsy like this, mama. Wanna make it special.”
A rush of flutters spread through your body upon hearing him say that, also due to the gentle tone in which the words were spoken. His speech, paired with the warm, protective feel of him had your heart dancing in your chest, because you had never been treated so much like a princess before. The guys of your past would’ve taken you in the bathroom right then and there, without a care for your comfort or ability to give true, reliable consent.
You both kissed some more on the cosy loveseat, between soft murmurs of affection, until Michael noticed your eyes start to droop with sleep, and from then he guided you to stand up with him, holding you carefully against him as you both exited the club. The paparazzi snapped their usual pictures—they were still there waiting at almost 4AM—and the sharp light hit your sensitive, alcohol-infused nervous system, but Michael was there immediately to cover your eyes as you both strode past.
Back in the hotel room, he took your makeup off for you, massaged cocoa butter into your legs, and then you attempted to brush your teeth together like normal people—unable to stop giggling and nudging each other—before you were playfighting under the sheets, the time now almost five in the morning. You’d have a lazy day tomorrow, cuddled as close as can be, and it wouldn’t be too long before Michael had made up his mind. Soon he’d realise what you both needed, and fulfil your proposition.
helloooo i promise at some point i will post a part 2 where you guys have sex for the first time! >u< i just struggle to write smut and prefer writing lil cutie scenes like this
xoxo, 𝓳
──── tag list: @slickdickwitchbitchh @xyahx @nuhveah @darkgreengrl ╱ comment to be added!
omg… I literally daydream about the childhood bsf!popstar!reader concept like everyday. you’re making my dream come true by writing it 😭😭😭😭😭😭
I feel like we see a lot of fics where reader & the kids attend michael’s concert, so maybe for a req, u can do smth abt them attending reader’s concert? idk, ty ty 💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗💗
omg yes i’m so happy to hear that!!! i’ve been daydreaming about it too and personally i really enjoy writing within only one specific au because that’s just how my brain works, so i decided to dedicate this blog to the au on my mind rn >:)
& as for your req… thank u so so much because you’ve just triggered the most adorable scene in my mind. it’s coming hehehe <3
hi hi hi hi quick request because you decided to just show up on my tumblr and i love your writing! i was wondering if you could do a little drabble or fic where the reader comforts an insecure michael after a sort of lecture from his father and his father called him ugly and stuff but he believed it?
yes helloooo i love this so much! u wrote a similar fic that i adored!!
i will definitely write this soon. my drafts are drowning in michael fluff currently, i can’t get enough >u<
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