𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mature!michael jackson x black pregnant!wife!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a sudden late-night craving pulls you out of bed in the quiet hours of a rainy evening, you don't expect your husband to catch you red-handed in the kitchen. what starts as a sleepy midnight snack quickly turns into a tender, romantic interlude as he finds a far sweeter way to satisfy your appetite.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, slight suggestive themes, established relationship, domestic bliss, tease!michael, michael being a sweetheart to his wife (iktr).
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k
𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this came out of my head the other night and i couldn't go to bed until it was written out. for my mature!michael girlies, i hope this is what you need. as always, i've put myself on a schedule to post at least every other day. i am working on requests which is why i'm pretty busy at the moment, but part three of midnight at studio 54 will be coming out soon too! :)
The rain had a way of turning the estate into an island. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, the downpour hit the manicured grounds of Neverland in a low, continuous roar, drumming against the heavy glass and sealing the world off beyond the gates. Inside, the house was draped in soft, heavy shadows, smelling faintly of sweet vanilla candles, expensive cologne, and the crisp, clean scent of damp earth creeping in through the terrace vents.
It was 2:15 in the morning.
On the left side of the massive silk-draped bed, Michael stirred. His sleep was usually light and restless when the weather was like this, but his body had developed a new, hyper-sensitive radar over the last few months. His hand—long-fingered, warm, and instinctively reaching out through the dark—swept across the fitted sheet searching for the familiar heat of your body.
When his palm met only cool, empty silk, his eyes fluttered open.
“Hmm…”
He blinked against the gloom, pushing himself up on one elbow. He was wearing a button-down pajama top, completely unbuttoned at the chest and draped loosely over his frame, paired with comfortable, relaxed dark lounge pants that rested low on his hips. He sat up fully, tossing the heavy duvet aside. His jet-black hair—naturally soft, shoulder length with a few soft, relaxed tendrils tumbling messily into his face shook slightly as he looked toward your side of the bed.
The pillows were still warm, but you were gone.
A tiny line of concern etched itself between his brows. You were firmly into your second trimester now—eighteen weeks, to be exact. The morning sickness that had plagued your first three months had finally passed, replaced by a radiant, glowing energy, a sudden roundness to your hips and belly, and an appetite that seemed to wake up at the most unpredictable hours of the night.
Michael swung his bare feet out of bed, resting his elbows on his knees for a second as he ran a hand over his face. He let out a low, sleepy exhale, a small smile already tugging at the corner of his lips as the realization hit him.
The kitchen.
He didn’t bother grabbing his slippers. He stepped quietly across the plush carpet, pushing open the heavy master bedroom door, and stepped out into the quiet, cavernous hallway.
The house at night was peaceful in a way Michael cherished. The antique clocks ticked softly in the distance, and the soft nightlights along the baseboards guided his path. He padded silently down the grand staircase, his bare feet making no sound against the polished hardwood. As he rounded the corner past the dining hall, a faint, warm glow spilled out onto the floor from the archway of the main kitchen.
Michael slowed his pace, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, taking in the view before you even knew he was there.
You were standing near the island, illuminated by the warm, under-cabinet accent lights. You were wearing a loose, blush-pink silk chemise that draped over the lovely, pronounced curve of your bump, topped with a rich plush robe that hung lazily off one your shoulders. Your dark hair was gathered in a loose, cozy wrap, a few stray curls framing your neck. Your lips pulled into a frown as you stared down at a cutting board with intense, laser-focused concentration, a butter knife in one hand and a jar of chocolate hazelnut spread in the other.
Michael stood there for a long moment, just watching. His heart felt absurdly full, a quiet aching sort of affection swelling in his chest. You looked so soft, so domestic, so utterly his.
He leaned deeper into the woodwork, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice coming out as a low, raspy velvet murmur, heavy with sleep.
“You know… sneaking out of bed without a hall pass is a serious offense around here.”
You gasped, jumping slightly and turning around with the butter knife still mid-air.
Michael couldn’t help the low, breathy chuckle that escaped him—that signature, gentle laugh that bubbled up from deep in his throat. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly glided into the kitchen, his dark, soulful eyes dancing with quiet amusement.
“Michael! You scared me,” you breathed, putting a hand over your chest, though a guilty smile was already breaking across your face. “I was trying to be quiet.”
“Quiet?” He came to a stop right in front of you, his hands resting lightly on his hips over his low-slung pajama pants. He shook his head, a soft, teasing pout on his lips. “Applehead… you practically stripped the duvet off me when you left. I woke up, and my favorite part of the bed was completely freezing.”
He reached out, his long fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your neck. His touch was light, his thumb lingering against the smooth skin. His dark hair frame brushed against his shoulders as he leaned in slightly.
“What are we doing down here at two in the morning, huh?” he asked softly, his eyes dropping down to look at the cutting board, then sliding lower to the gentle, rounded swell of your stomach beneath the silk. “Is the baby bossing you around again?”
“It’s not my fault,” you defended warmly, holding up the jar of hazelnut spread like exhibit A. “Your child demanded chocolate. And strawberries. And… maybe a slice of that vanilla pound cake that your mother brought sitting in the breadbox. I tried to ignore it, Mike, I really did. But they were very persistent.”
Michael’s eyes lit up, a brilliant, wide smile breaking across his features. He let out another soft hee-hee under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you until the heat of his chest was wrapping around yours.
“Oh, so now it’s my child when they want late-night snacks?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, playful register. “I see how it is. Blame it on the baby.”
“Well, who else gave them this insane sweet tooth?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t use to raid the pantry at midnight before I met you.”
“Hey…” he put his hands up in mock defense, his dark eyes sparkling under the dim kitchen lights. “Don’t bring my reputation into this. I am a victim of circumstance. I just happen to appreciate the finer things in life… like sugar. And you.”
Before you could reply, he stepped fully into your personal space. He didn’t hesitate; his long, warm arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, long inhale of your scent—a delicious blend of warm cocoa butter, lavender, and the natural heat of your skin.
“Mmm…” he hummed against your collarbone, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. “You smell so good. s’warm.”
His hands slid down from your waist, smoothing over the plush fabric of your robe until his warm palms rested directly over the curve of your stomach. He held you there, cradling your bump with an absolute, reverent gentleness.
For a second, the playful banter faded into a quiet, profound stillness. The only sound in the vast kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic pour of the rain outside.
Michael shifted his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, beneath your ear, his warm breath fanning across your skin.
“How are you feeling tonight, sweet face?” he whispered, his tone shifting into that deeply gentle, protective cadence he only ever used with you. “No nausea? No cramping? The baby’s quiet?”
"No nausea," you answered softly, leaning back into his solid chest, resting your head against his shoulder. "Just hungry. And tired, but my mind was racing. They’ve been fluttering around all evening."
As if on cue, a tiny, faint sensation—like a little air bubble popping or a butterfly brushing its wings—fluttered against the right side of your lower stomach.
Michael went completely still.
"Did you feel that?" you asked gently.
Michael didn't answer with words right away. He slowly stepped around you, dropping down onto his knees right there on the hard, dark wood floor. He didn't care about the chill of the floorboards or his dark silk lounge pants dragging. He leaned forward, his hair spilling over his forehead as he pressed his cheek directly against your bump, his hands holding you securely at the hips.
"Hey there, little one," Michael murmured, his voice cracking slightly with a quiet, raw emotion. He pressed a warm, soft kiss straight through the silk of your chemise onto your bare skin. "What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be sleeping, helping your mommy rest."
He paused, waiting motionless. A second later, another soft kick struck right against his cheek.
Michael gasped softly, a high, breathless sound of pure joy. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his dark eyes wide, shining, and utterly luminous under the low light.
“They kicked me,” he whispered, a wondrous, boyish grin taking over his entire face. “Applehead, did you feel that? That was a strong one! Oh, my goodness…”
He leaned back in, pressing a rapid succession of sweet, lingering kisses all over your stomach—left, right, top center—making you bubble over with soft, melodic laughter.
“Michael, stop, that tickles!” you giggled, running your fingers through his thick, soft locks, feeling the familiar texture between your fingertips.
“I can’t help it,” he grumbled playfully against your skin, blowing a soft breath against your belly before standing up. “Our baby is talking to me. I have to answer.”
He rose back up to his full height, looking down at you with an expression so intense, so dripping with adoration, that it made your breath catch in your throat. He looked at you the way he always did—like you were the only person in the universe—but lately, with your body changing and carrying his child, that gaze had acquired a deep, possessive warmth that set your blood on fire.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, returning to that smooth, silky tone. “Let’s take care of this midnight craving properly. You shouldn’t be standing on your feet on these cold floors anyway.”
“Michael, I’m perfectly fine standing—”
“Shh,” he cut you off gently, putting a finger to his own lips. “No arguing with the boss.”
Before you could protest, Michael reached out and placed his large hands firmly on either side of your waist. He didn’t give you a second to brace yourself; with effortless ease, he lifted you up off the ground and set you right down on the edge of the smooth, polished granite countertop.
You let out a small gasp, reflexively wrapping your legs around his hips to stabilize yourself. The action pulled you flush against his unbuttoned shirt, your chest resting against his, your eyes now completely level with his smoldering gaze.
His hands didn't leave your waist. He stepped directly into the space between your parted knees, closing every inch of distance between you.
"There," he murmured, his hands smoothing up your thighs, over the silk of your robe, resting warmly on the upper part of your legs. "Much better. Now you’re at my height."
The shift in the room was instant. The cozy domesticity of the kitchen raid suddenly melted into something far more magnetic, laced with a slow, simmering heat.
"Michael..." you whispered, your voice suddenly sounding small in the quiet space.
"Hmm?" He tilted his head, a faint, dangerous little smidgen of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He reached over with one hand, grabbing the bowl of freshly washed strawberries you had laid out, along with the jar of chocolate spread. He picked up a large, ripe berry, dipping it generously into the rich chocolate.
He held it up to your lips, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your mouth.
"Open up, sweet face," he instructed softly. "Let me feed you."
You complied, opening your mouth and taking a bite of the strawberry. The combination of sweet fruit and rich chocolate was incredible, but it was hard to focus on the taste when Michael was staring at you like you were the dessert.
A tiny drop of chocolate caught at the very corner of your lower lip.
Michael’s eyes tracked it instantly. His breath hitched softly.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice raspy, trailing off. "Making a mess..."
He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Michael leaned in slowly. His hand reached up to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling into your hair wrap, gently tilting your head back. He brought his thumb up, slowly smoothing away the drop of chocolate from your lip.
Then, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he slowly brought his thumb to his own mouth, licking it clean.
Your heart did a violent, fluttering backflip against your ribs.
"Michael..." you breathed out, your hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, feeling the smooth black silk of his open pajama top under your fingers.
"You have no idea," Michael whispered, his voice vibrating right against your skin as he leaned in closer, his nose grazing along the shell of your ear, "how beautiful you are right now. How breathtaking you look carrying my baby."
He slid his hands under the edges of your plush robe, slowly, deliberately pushing the thick material off your shoulders. The robe fell away, pooling around your elbows and down onto the cold granite counter, leaving you exposed in just the delicate blush-pink silk chemise.
The cool air of the kitchen hit your shoulders, but you barely noticed it because Michael’s hands were immediately there to replace the cold with intense, radiating heat. His large, calloused palms mapped the line of your collarbones, sliding down to gently cup the sides of your breasts—fuller now, sensitive and warm—before tracing the curve of your waist and settling back over your bump.
"Mike..." a soft, helpless sigh escaped your lips.
"I mean it," he murmured against your throat. He pressed his lips to the spot right beneath your jawline, holding the kiss there, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse against his mouth. "You glow. Every single day, you just get more gorgeous. I can't keep my hands off you. It’s driving me crazy."
He shifted his mouth, trailing a line of slow, wet, velvet kisses down the column of your neck. His hands on your hips squeezed gently, pulling your lower body even closer to his chest.
Your fingers tightened in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. "You're supposed to be feeding me..." you teased weakly, though your breath was hitching with every touch of his lips.
Michael hummed against your collarbone, a low vibration of satisfaction. "I am feeding you," he whispered playfully, his lips moving up to graze your jawline again. "I'm feeding your soul, baby."
You let out a soft laugh, but it was cut short when Michael finally brought his lips to yours.
The kiss wasn't rushed; it was deep, unhurried, and intoxicatingly sweet. He tasted like vanilla and dark chocolate, his lips soft and full, pressing against yours with an effortless, practiced passion that made your head spin. His tongue swiped gently against your lower lip, asking for permission, and when you opened to him, he took his time exploring, turning the simple midnight encounter into a slow, electric fire.
His hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers spreading wide across your back, pulling you flush against his chest so that there was no air left between you. You could feel the steady, heavy thump of his heart beating against your own ribs—wild, fast, and completely out of rhythm.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming in shallow, heavy hitches in the dim light.
"Mmm..." He breathed out, a soft, dazed smile touching his lips. He ran his thumb gently across your bottom lip, which was now plump and flush from the kiss. "God, you're sweet."
You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the smooth rise and fall of his breathing. "Michael... we came down here for a snack."
"I know," he chuckled softly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that irresistible, mischievous warmth. "And I got one."
He nudged your nose with his, giving you a quick, playful peck on the tip of your nose before turning his attention back to the counter. He picked up a slice of the vanilla pound cake, breaking off a small, soft piece with his fingers.
"Here," he said gently, his voice returning to that tender, loving cadence. "Eat some cake. I don't want my two favorite people getting hungry."
You smiled, taking a bite from his fingers. He watched you chew with a look of unadulterated devotion, resting one hand over your bump while the other absentmindedly stroked your thigh. You spent the next fifteen minutes sitting on that counter, sharing bites of cake and fruit in the dim light, talking in hushed, soft whispers about the nursery, about names you were secretly considering, and about how much life was going to change in just a few short months.
Every few minutes, Michael would lean in just to steal another soft kiss, or to whisper some low, sweet nonsense into your ear that made you blush like a teenager.
Finally, when the plate was cleared and your appetite was thoroughly satisfied, you let out a long, heavy yawn, your eyelids growing heavy.
"Alright," he said softly, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Time to get you back to bed."
"I can walk, Mike," you murmured, though you were already leaning your head against his shoulder.
"I didn't ask if you could walk," he teased gently.
He pulled your robe back up over your shoulders, wrapping it securely around you to keep the night air off your skin. Then, with smooth, practiced care, he slid one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, lifting you cleanly off the granite counter and pulling you into his arms.
You let out a soft sound of surprise, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into the warmth of his chest.
"Michael, I'm heavy now," you murmured quietly as he began walking out of the kitchen.
Michael paused in the middle of the hallway, looking down at you with a mock look of sternness.
"Don't ever say that," he scolded softly, his dark eyes brimming with tenderness. "You are carrying my world in there. You're light as a feather to me, sweet face. Always."
He carried you down the quiet corridor, his bare feet padding softly against the floors, up the grand staircase, and back into the dark sanctuary of the master bedroom. The rain outside was still steady, creating a cozy cocoon of sound against the glass.
He laid you down on the silk sheets with absolute precision, making sure the pillows were stacked comfortably behind your back and side to support your bump. He pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking the edges in like he was preserving a priceless treasure.
Then, he climbed into bed beside you.
He didn't stay on his side. He slid immediately over, pulling you back against his chest so that you were spooned flush against him. He wrapped his long arm over your waist, his hand coming to rest firmly, possessively over your lower stomach, holding both you and the baby close.
He buried his face into the nape of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin.
"Goodnight, my beautiful girl," Michael whispered into the dark, his voice a low, raspy velvet murmur that washed over you like a warm blanket. "Goodnight, baby..."
You rested your hand over his, lacing your fingers with his long ones over your stomach. As you drifted back to sleep, wrapped in his heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against your back, you felt another soft flutter from the baby right beneath Michael’s palm.
Michael felt it too. He squeezed your hand gently in the dark, letting out a soft, contented sigh, and held you tight until the rain lulled you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.
© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱
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