This is so hilarious because (yes I'm about to talk about your rp again but I'm so serious when I tell you I have so much fun) I was gone for like three or four hours and when I come back I see a whole damn argument between your rp and ☀️ no please keep going and yes this was tea you're right omg
- 🕴🏽
We made up now but I wanted to beef for a little 😭 iwl men be babies but idk how far I wanted to take it
about your last anon i fear that people don't understand that even if we're not black american, we're still black????? like it doesn't even make sense tbh
So sorry for the late reply
But yes, thank you! Idk why they think it only applies to one group within our community. And calling it drama farming is wild to me iwl
warnings: 18+ minors dni, no plot whatsoever, Michael has a dig bick lmfao lemme stop.
wc: 706
It’s too big, it’s too wide, it’s too strong, it won’t fit, it’s too much, it’s too tough.
The air in the bedroom was thick with anticipation, the soft glow of the lamps casting warm shadows across the sheets. You and Michael had been building up to this moment for a while, and since both of you were experienced lovers, you figured it would be a seamless transition from kissing to fucking. You were confident, eager, and frankly, a little impatient.
Michael, however, was being cautious. He moved with a gentle, deliberate pace, his fingers working slowly to open you up, his eyes searching yours with an expression of pure devotion. He wanted everything to be perfect for you.
"Just a little more, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice a melodic hum against your skin. "I want you to be completely ready. I don't want to hurt you."
You groaned, arching your back and shifting your hips impatiently against his hand. You didn't want the foreplay anymore; you wanted the real thing. "Mike, stop it. I'm wet enough. I don't need all this prep, just get inside me already," you urged, your voice laced with desire.
He hesitated, his doting nature warring with your demand. Eventually, seeing the hunger in your eyes, he caved. He shifted his weight, guiding his dick to your entrance.
The moment he pushed forward, your eyes widened. You had known he was well-endowed, but the reality of his thickness was a shock. He didn't just slide in; he stretched you wide, filling every single millimeter of your space with a blunt, heavy pressure that felt almost overwhelming.
"Oh god... it's too much, papa, fuck!" you gasped, your breath hitching as you felt your walls straining to accommodate him.
Michael paused, his muscles tensing as he tried to ease in, his expression one of concern and tenderness. "Shhh, just breathe for me, love. Just relax," he encouraged softly.
But as he tried to push a bit deeper, the sensation became too intense. You felt like you were being split open by the sheer girth of him. "Uh uh, take some out, Mike, fuck—"
He stopped completely, blinking in surprise. A small, breathless laugh escaped him, though his tone remained sweet. "I'm barely in, girl," he murmured, glancing down at where he was barely past the head of his dick.
Realizing that your impatience had led to a deadlock, Michael didn't push his luck. He slowly slid back out of you, the vacuum of his exit making you whimper. He didn't lecture you; instead, he leaned down to kiss your forehead, his voice soothing. "I'm sorry, my love. Let's do this the right way. I want you to enjoy this."
He spent the next several minutes meticulously prepping you, using his fingers and his tongue to ensure you were as loose and lubricated as possible. He was patient and thorough, ignoring your occasional impatient huffs until he was certain you could handle him.
When he finally lined himself up again, he entered you with a slow, steady pressure. This time, because of the prep, you felt yourself stretching and molding around him. It was still a tight, staggering fit, but as he slowly sank deeper, you felt the incredible sensation of being completely filled. When he finally bottomed out, burying his entire dick deep inside you, you let out a long, shaky moan.
As he began to move, the friction of his thickness against your sensitive walls was almost too much to bear. The depth was staggering. In a reflexive panic, your hands flew up, pushing against his stomach, trying to create distance and run from the overwhelming sensation.
Michael didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned over you, his chest brushing against yours, his eyes locked onto yours with an encouraging, loving gaze. He gently caught your wrists, moving your hands away from his stomach and pinning them softly beside your head.
"Uh uh, move your hand," he whispered, his voice a warm caress. "You can take it, mama. Just let it happen. I've got you."
With your hands secured and his voice anchoring you, you stopped fighting. You gripped the sheets instead, your voice returning to its loud cadence as you felt him start to drive into you with a slow, rhythmic thrust, filling you completely.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: invincible era!michael jackson x black!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: seated undercover in the vip section for his historic 30th anniversary special at madison square garden, you catch the secret glances and coded stage cues michael sends your way mid-performance to keep your eight-month relationship hidden from the press. driven by stage adrenaline and months of secrecy, he ditches the official after-party to whisk you back to his penthouse, where the king of pop armor drops for a night of raw, unfiltered passion.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: secret lovers, mature!michael, established relationship, little bit of plot whole lotta smut, cunnilingus (f.receiving), fingering (if you squint), softdom!michael, he likes to praise you, unprotected p in v (wrap it up!), aftercare, a lil bit of sweetness in the end.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.7k
𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was something that me and @muddyloserlia talked about and honestly, there isn't a lot of fics based off of the 30th anniversary special. this special means a lot to me simply because when i was young, i used to own it on vhs (yeah, your girl is grown grown) and watched it every single day. so, i figured, why not post a double tonight for the invincible era girls?
The rain falling over Manhattan had turned the asphalt of Eighth Avenue into a slick, mirror-like expanse, reflecting the harsh glare of marquee lights and flashing red tail lights. Inside Madison Square Garden, the air was thick with suffocating heat, twenty-thousand screaming voices, and the heavy, physical baseline of live brass and synth echoing through the concrete floorboards.
It was September 2001, and the world outside was practically holding its breath for this two-night spectacle. But from your seat—positioning just four rows back from the extended runway, nestled right alongside high-society executives and Hollywood royalty—the entire world had shrunk down to a single point of light on the main stage.
You adjusted the thin strap of your dress, a deep emerald silk gown that clung to your curves like a liquid second skin. The rich green fabric complemented your deep brown skin beautifully, hugging the swell of your hips and spilling down to the floor in an elegant train. Resting against the exposed expanse of your chest, catching the overhead spotlights with a subtle, fiery sparkle, was a diamond and emerald pendant.
Two hours ago, that exact pendant had been delivered to your suite at The Carlyle in a matte-black velvet box. Tucked beneath the satin lining was a card written in his familiar, loopy cursive:
Wear this tonight.
Look for me during ‘You Rock My World’
I’ll be looking for you.
Around you, people were standing on their chairs, screaming until their voices gave out as the opening chords of his signature tracks reverberated through the arena. He was a force of nature up there—an impossible bur of silver-embroidered black silk, sharp fedora angles, and effortless, superhuman grace. To the thousands in the stands, he was the untouchable icon, a living legend returning to claim his crown after years away from the spotlight.
To you, he was the man who spent three hours on the phone with you last Tuesday complaining about how itchy his formal jackets were, who ate buttered popcorn in bed while watching old cartoons, and who traced the warm, rich brown expanse of your skin late into the night until you both fell asleep tangled in Egyptian cotton.
As the heavy drumbeat transition for You Rock My World kicked in, the stage lights shifted from brilliant white to a deep, sultry crimson and amber.
Michael moved down the catwalk with that razor-sharp precision, his silhouette cutting cleanly through the hazy stage smoke. He hit a lightning-fast turn, brought his gloved hand up to adjust the brim of his black fedora, and then slowly—deliberately—let his dark eyes sweep across the VIP section.
When his gaze locked onto yours, the shift was subtle, but to you, it was electric.
The sharp, theatrical scowl he held for the performance melted at the very edges into a slow, knowing smirk. His dark eyes glinted under the brim. As he hit a flawless, gravelly vocal turn into his headset, his gloved hand swept down, his index finger extending directly toward your seat—a split-second gesture that the crowd interpreted as general showmanship, but one that made your core pulse with a sudden, heavy wave of heat.
He held your eye for three full beats before spinning away, his body moving to the syncopated rhythm, but the mark was made. You leaned back in your seat, your fingers tracing the cool emerald at your collarbone, your breath catching in your throat as the sheer thrill of the secret burned beneath your skin.
The final curtain call was a blur of golden confetti, thunderous standing ovations, and blinding flashbulbs. While the house lights came up and the VIPs began filing out toward the main atrium for the official after-parties, a burly, sharp-suited security guard you recognized as Bill stepped quietly up to your row.
“Ma’am,” Bill murmured, leaning down close so his voice didn’t carry over the chatter of executives nearby. “If you’ll follow me, please.”
You stood, smoothing down the front of your silk dress, and slipped into the shadowy side aisle behind him. He guided you through a heavy steel door, down a quiet, fluorescent-lit concrete stairwell, and deep into the cavernous underground loading bays beneath the arena.
The chaos of the crowd died away almost instantly, replaced by the hum of idling tour buses and distant radio chatter from security personnel. Standing by the far bay door was a sleek, blacked-out executive SUV, its engine purring softly in the cool underground air.
Bill opened the rear door and stepped back, offering a respectful nod. “He’s waiting for you.”
You gathered the train of your dress and stepped inside. The heavy door closed with a quiet, sealing thud, cutting off the outside world entirely.
The interior of the SUV was dark, wrapped in plush leather and climate-controlled cooled air. Sitting in the far leather captain’s chair was Michael.
The heavy silver-embroidered performance jacket was gone, tossed onto the empty seat beside him. He was down to his black silk button-down shirt, unbuttoned three notches at the collar to reveal the gleam of his chest and the sheen of sweat still coating his neck and jaw. His long, dark locks were damp, framing his face in soft, unruly tendrils.
The moment he saw you, the tense, electric high of the stage performance seemed to break, giving way to something raw, hungry, and deeply relief-filled.
“Come here,” he rasped. His voice was low, gravelly, and thoroughly wrecked from two hours of live singing.
You barely had time to slide across the leather seat before his long arms wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you directly into his lap. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, his chest heaving as he let out a long, shuddering exhale against your skin.
“God, you smell s’good,” he murmured against your collarbone, his lips warm and damp against your pulse point. His hands, large and calloused from decades of dancing and holding microphones, gripped your hips tightly, digging into the silk of your dress. “I couldn’t focus. The whole second half of the show, all I could think about was you sitting out there in this dress.”
You smiled, wrapping your arms around his neck, running your fingers through the soft, damp curls at the nape of his neck. “You looked incredible up there, Michael. You completely took the roof off the place.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes wide and shining in the dim interior light of the car. He reached up, his long, delicate fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, then sliding down to lift the emerald pendant resting over your chest.
“You wore it,” he whispered, a soft, boyish grin breaking across his features before his gaze dropped to your lips. “It looks beautiful on you. Better than I imagined.”
“It’s gorgeous,” you said softly, leaning into his hand. “And that gesture during You Rock My World? You’re playing a dangerous game, Mr. Jackson.”
Michael chuckled, a low melodic sound that vibrated right against your chest. “I wanted you to know. I wanted everyone to see me looking at you, even if they didn’t have a clue.” He slid his hand from the pendant up to the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin beneath your ear. “They were all screamin’ for the performer. But I was only perform’ for you.”
His mouth covered yours before you could answer.
The kiss was deep, demanding, and slick with the remaining adrenaline of the night. He pulled you flush against his chest, his tongue sliding effortless past your lips to taste you, hot and insistent. You let out a soft sigh into his mouth, tilting your head to give him better access, your fingers tangling in his hair.
He groaned softly, a deep sound in the back of his throat, his hand sliding down from your hips to cup the lush curve of your rear through the silk dress, lifting you slightly so you were straddling his thigh. You could feel the rigid length of him through his dark trousers, already hard and pressing firm against your heat through the thin silk of your gown.
“Michael…” you gasped as he pulled back, his lips trailed a line of hot, wet kisses down your jawline, over your throat, down to the exposed swell of your breasts above your neckline.
“I don’t want to go to the party,” he growled softly against your skin, his teeth gently nipping at your collarbone, making you shiver. “I don’t want to see another executive, I don’t wanna make another toast. I just want to take you back to the hotel and spend the rest of the night inside of you.”
He knocked twice on the partition behind his head. The driver instantly put the SUV in gear, the heavy vehicle smoothly rolling out of the underground bay and into the rainy Manhattan night, heading uptown toward The Carlyle.
Throughout the twenty-minute drive, Michael refused to let you go. He kept you anchored in his lap, one hand buried in your hair while the other slid down beneath the hem of your gown, his long fingers trailing up your inner thigh. He stroked the smooth, warm skin of your legs, coaxing them apart until his fingers brushed against the damp gusset of your lace panties. He parted the fabric just enough to stroke your swollen lips, listening with dark satisfaction as your breath hitched in the darkened car.
“Look at how wet you are f’me already,” he whispered into your ear, his breath hot and uneven. “Just from me lookin’ at you on stage.”
“Michael… the driver—”
“Partition is up, baby. It’s just you and me.” His thumb pressed firmly against your clit over the silk, rubbing in a slow, agonized circle until you had to bite your lip to keep from crying out. “I’m gonna make you scream so loud when we get to the suite.”
The penthouse suite was silent, save for the muffled pitter-patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Dim amber light from the city skyline filtered into the room, casting long, dramatic shadows across the king-sized bed.
The moment the suite door clicked shut behind you, Michael’s restraint vanished entirely.
He pushed you gently but firmly back against the dark mahogany wood of the door, his hands immediately cupping your face as he kissed you with a sudden, breathless ferocity. His body pressed yours fully against the solid wood—his chest, his hips, his thick thigh sliding firmly between yours to apply a slow pressure right where you needed it most.
You arched into him, a soft whimper slipping from your throat as his hips rolled forward once, testing the friction.
“Michael, wait—” you gasped out, breathless, your hands pressing against his broad shoulders.
“No more waitin’,” he rasped, his dark eyes heavy with pure, unadulterated desire as he looked down at you. “I’ve been waitin’ all night. I watched you sittin’ there lookin’ like an absolute dream while I was stuck on that stage.”
His hands moved down to the hidden zipper at the back of your gown. With a smooth, practiced pull, the metal track parted, and the emerald silk fell away from your shoulders, pooling around your waist before sliding down your hips to the floor.
You stood before him in only a lace thong and your heels, your rich brown skin glowing like polished amber in the dim light of the room.
Michael stood still for a long moment, his chest rising and falling heavily, his gaze trailing slowly down your neck, over the full, heavy curve of your breasts, down to your flat stomach, and over the lush sweep of your hips. His expression was reverent, almost overwhelmed, his dark pupils dilated so wide they turned his nearly pitch-black.
“My God…” he breathed, his voice barely a whisper. He reached out, his long fingers trembling slightly as his knuckles lightly brushed over the side of your breast, the contrast of his pale skin against your rich brown complexion striking in the dim light. Your nipple hardened instantly under his touch. “You are so… damn beautiful. Look at you.”
He dropped down to his knees right in front of you.
"Michael—"
Before you could finish your sentence, his hands came up to grip the soft meat of your thighs, spreading them wide. He didn't hesitate; he buried his face straight between your thighs, breathing in the sweet, musk-and-perfume mixture of your pussy through the damp lace of your thong.
You gasped, throwing your head back against the wooden door as his tongue stroked right through the fabric, hitting your sensitive clit with a broad, hot lap.
"Ah! Michael!"
"You're soaking wet f’me," he hummed against your skin, the vibration sending a sharp wave of pleasure shooting straight to your pussy. His long fingers hooked into the thin straps of your lace thong, pulling them down your legs until you could step out of them.
He gripped your thighs tighter, his thumbs digging into your soft flesh, holding you steady as he parted your slick folds with his fingers and pressed his mouth directly against your clit.
His tongue moved with the same rhythmic, hypnotic precision he brought to his music—slow, deep laps that built into fast, flickering licks right on the head of your sensitive bundle of nerves. He groaned against you, tasting your slickness, his breath hot and fast against your raw skin.
He didn't just use his tongue; he brought his lips around your clit, sucking softly, making your knees shake violently. You felt his hot breath coat your sensitive folds every time he parted his lips to draw you back in. His nose dragged through your slickness, thoroughly worshipping you, devouring you like a starving man.
Your fingers frantically gripped his shoulder, tangling into his long, dark curls as your legs threatened to buckle under the intensity of his mouth. "Michael… oh God, Michael, please…"
"I got you," he rasped out, pausing for just a second to look up at you through his thick dark lashes, his lips slick and shining with your slick. "Don't hold back, baby. Let me have you."
He went back to work with a renewed fever, inserting two long fingers deep inside your gummy walls. He curved them slightly, sweeping upward against your front wall while his thumb worked your clit in steady, relentless circles. The feeling of him stretching you open with his fingers while his tongue devoured you had you squirming, your hips involuntarily rolling forward into his face.
"That's it," he murmured, his voice muffled against your wet skin, his fingers curling inside you in a steady, punishing rhythm. "Give it to me… come for me, baby."
The orgasm hits you like a sudden, cresting wave. Your thighs trembled violently as your walls clamped tightly around his fingers, a high, breathless cry escaping your lips as the pleasure tore through you. Michael didn't stop; he drank you in, sucking your clit gently into his mouth to ride out the crest of your release, catching every drop of your slick until you were weak, breathless, and clinging to his shoulders for support.
He stood up smoothly, his face flushed, his chest heaving. Without a word, he gathered you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing, and carried you over to the massive bed.
He laid you back against the crisp white sheets, then reached up to strip off his own clothes with frantic efficiency. He unbuttoned his silk shirt and threw it aside, revealing his lean, sculpted torso and defined chest. He kicked off his shoes, unbuckled his belt, and pushed his slacks down, freeing his thick, fully erect dick.
He climbed onto the bed, crawling over you like a predator, his dark eyes never leaving yours.
The heat radiating off his body was immense. He settled his body between your parted legs, the tip of his dick aligning right against your slick entrance, teasing you with a slow, agonizing slide up and down your wet folds, coating himself in your lingering release.
You reached up, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling his head down until your lips were inches apart. "Stop teasing me, Michael. I need you inside."
A dangerous, sultry smile stretched across his lips. "Is that what you want?" he whispered, his hips nudging forward just an inch, the thick head of his dick nudging past your tight lips, stretching your entrance open. "Tell me how much you want it."
"I want you," you gasped, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. "I need you inside me right now."
"Say my name," he commanded softly, his voice dropping into a dark, possessive register that made your skin prickle with goosebumps.
"Michael… please, Michael."
He didn't make you ask again.
With one slow, powerful thrust, he buried himself deep inside you, driving all the way in until his hips flushed flush against yours.
Both of you let out a simultaneous, vocal gasp. The feeling of him—so thick, so hot, stretching you to your absolute limit—made your eyes roll back in your head. His hands slid beneath your lower back, lifting your hips slightly to deepen the angle, and he began to move.
His rhythm was slow and heavy at first, a long, agonizing slide all the way out until only the tip remained, followed by a hard, deep plunge that hit your sweet spot with brutal accuracy.
"Ah… God," Michael groaned, burying his face in the pillow beside your head, his back arching as he set the pace. "You feel… s’damn good. s’tight, baby…"
"Michael, yes," you cried out, your legs wrapping around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back to pull him even deeper into you. Every time his hips hit yours, the friction was overwhelming, sending sharp jolts of electricity straight up your spine.
He lifted his head, looking down at you as he began to pick up the speed. His dark locks fell forward, framing his sharp jawline and the intense, hungry expression on his face. He slapped his palm down against the mattress beside your head, leverage allowing him to stroke into you with faster, harder, more relentless thrusts.
The sound of his skin slapping against yours, combined with the wet squelch of your combined slickness, filled the silent room.
He set a punishing, rhythmic pace, driving into you over and over, his chest slick with sweat pressing against your heavy breasts. Every time he bottomed out, he let out a low, breathless growl right against your ear, his lips brushing your lobe.
"Look at me," Michael panted, his breath coming in ragged hitches. His hand moved down between your bodies, his long fingers finding your swollen clit once again, pressing down and rubbing it in fast, slick circles right as he thrust deep inside you. "Look at me while I take you."
You opened your eyes, meeting his burning gaze. Seeing the absolute intensity in his eyes—the raw, uninhibited passion of the man behind the global phenomenon—pushed you right back over the edge.
"I'm… I'm close, Michael! I'm going to cum again!" you gasped, your fingers clutching the sheets, your back arching off the bed as your walls began to quiver around him.
"Cum for me," he rasped out, his thrusts becoming short, fast, and desperate, his hips slamming into yours with unfiltered power. "Do it… take it all, baby… yes!"
Your second orgasm struck with incredible force, your internal muscles rippling and gripping his dick in a series of violent, ecstatic spasms. The tight, pulsing suction of your pussy was the final straw for Michael.
He let out a loud, high-pitched groan, his head throwing back as his whole body went rigid. He buried himself as deep as he could possibly go, holding himself pinned inside you as he spilled himself within your pussy, his hips pulsing again and again as he rode out his own intense, heavy orgasm.
He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows to avoid crushing you, his face buried in the crook of your neck as both of your chests heaved in the quiet room.
The quiet that followed was soft, heavy, and profound. The rain outside continued to tap against the glass, masking the faint sounds of Manhattan traffic far below.
Michael stayed inside you for a long time, his body heavy and completely relaxed over yours, breathing in the scent of your neck while his pulse gradually slowed. When he finally pulled out, a soft gasp escaped your lips at the sudden emptiness.
He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so that your back was pressed flush against his chest. He hooked one long leg over yours, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you tight against his warm, bare skin. His thumb traced idle, lazy patterns over the soft flesh of your hip.
"You're unbelievable," he whispered against your ear, his voice soft, affectionate, and thoroughly exhausted. He pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder blade.
You smiled, leaning back into his warmth, your hand resting over his on your stomach. "You weren't so bad yourself, Mr. Jackson."
He let out a quiet chuckle, the rumble vibrating through your back. "I mean it. I spent all night surrounded by people who only see what I can do for them. But here… with you… I don't have to be anything else."
He pulled the heavy duvet up over both of your shoulders, shielding you both from the cool air of the room. He buried his face in your dark curls, holding you tightly as if letting go would make the quiet moment vanish.
"Stay with me," he murmured, his breath slowing as sleep began to tug at him. "Don't go anywhere tomorrow. Just stay right here with me."
"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered back, intertwining your fingers with his.
Long after his breathing turned slow and rhythmic, signaling he had finally drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep, you lay awake in the dark room, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your back—knowing that no matter how bright the spotlights shone on him tomorrow, tonight, he belonged entirely to you.
hiii i love you sooo much your work genuinely makes my day. i was wondering if you could write a vampire!mature era michael x reader (smut?? if you want to)
i dint really hv something specific apart from the vampire part i’m sorry🙁
Hi! Thank you so so much for enjoying my work. I’m so grateful for this comment. 🥲❤️
If course! I’m working on a few fics this month (plus exams and work) but you’re totally on the list for the next fics i write after the June queue. And don’t worry about specifics! I’ll figure something out. Thank you so much requesting!
