J. Black!Reader

If I reblog it, I like it.

[sinflowersugar]

Please do not tag me in any fic that contains an 'original character', OC, as the 'reader'.

I'm sure there are plenty of other people who are grateful for your work, but it is not for me.

[apple7ead]

⋮ ♯; ⤷ TWO DAYS TOO LONG .ᐟ

pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader

wc: 4.7k (i got carried away a lil)

summary: two days apart shouldn’t feel like forever but try telling that to your husband. based on this request by @miss-kuki-nz (thank you! i enjoyed writing this)

warnings: none, just pure fluff <3 also, the kids remain unnamed. i wasn’t sure what to do w that so they’re just referred to as “your son” and “your daughter” lol

November 7th, 2001

The crisp November air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped out of the car onto the bustling sidewalks of Manhattan at West 45th. Giant billboards flashed advertisements for Michael’s new album, Invincible, and massive screens on the buildings displayed the different covers in rotation. Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nerves. You adjusted the strap of the diaper bag slung over your shoulder, glancing down at your two little ones. Your son, four years old with his father’s curious eyes and a mop of curls peeking from under a wool beanie, clutched your hand tightly. Your daughter, three and full of energy wrapped in a tiny pink coat, held onto your other hand, her small fingers warm despite the chill.

They’d been asking for their Daddy nonstop for the past two days.

“When is he coming home?” your son had whispered all morning on the plane, his voice small but hopeful.

“Soon, darling,” you’d promised. And now, that soon was here.

Michael had flown out to New York a couple of days earlier for this special signing event at the Virgin Megastore—his first-ever in-store appearance to celebrate Invincible. The album had dropped just over a week ago, and the world was buzzing. But being apart, even for a short time, felt like an eternity. The kids missed their father terribly; bedtime stories without his gentle voice reading them felt incomplete. And you missed your husband.

“Surprise time,” you murmured to the children, kneeling briefly to fix your daughter’s scarf. “We’re going to make Daddy so happy.”

Your son nodded solemnly. “We stay in line and wait for our turn?”

“Exactly,” you confirmed with a smile.

You’d secured the album and special passes through a discreet call to Michael’s team who were in on the secret and coordinated everything so you could blend into the line without drawing attention. Security was tight, but a few trusted people had helped make the surprise possible.

New York was still tender. You’d felt it the moment you landed. Something slower in people’s movements, this kind of gentleness that hadn’t been there before September. And yet here they were, hundreds of fans, standing in the cold to be near something that felt good.

The line stretched further than you’d anticipated. It wound from the entrance of the Virgin Megastore, down the block, and curved around 6th Avenue where a cluster of fans had been gathering since before sunrise, you were told. Hundreds of people, maybe more, bundled in coats and scarves and clutching their copies of Invincible to their chests like something precious.

You found your place in the queue and settled in.

“There are so many people here, mama,” your daughter observed, craning her neck to peer at the line ahead of you. Her breath made small clouds in the cold air.

“There are,” you agreed, shifting the diaper bag higher on your shoulder. “Daddy has a lot of fans. They are here because they love him.”

“More than us?”

You looked down at her upturned face, so earnest you felt your chest squeeze with something warm. “Nobody loves Daddy more than us, sweetheart.”

She seemed to accept this with great satisfaction, hugging her stuffed elephant tighter.

Your son was quieter, like he was thinking hard about something. He stood close to your side, his small hand still wrapped around yours, and watched the crowd with his father’s eyes—the same expression full of wonder, curiosity and attention that Michael had.

“Is he already inside?” he asked.

“He should be getting ready to come out soon, yes.”

“And he doesn’t know we’re here?”

“Not yet.”

A slow smile spread across his face. He liked surprises. He’d gotten that from his father too.

The wait was long, and you’d come prepared.

You’d packed juice boxes and little foil-wrapped crackers, a small activity book that your son quickly lost interest in, and a travel-sized container of animal crackers that your daughter rationed with the seriousness of a tiny accountant, counting each one before eating it. You’d brought an extra pair of mittens for each of them, which proved necessary when your son declared his hands were frozen approximately forty minutes into the wait.

Around you, fans speculated about what he might be wearing, whether he’d speak much, whether he’d sing anything. A group of teenagers near you had been practicing what they wanted to say to him, coaching each other, dissolving into nervous giggles every few minutes. You listened to them with quiet fondness. You understood that feeling. Even now, after everything, Michael still gave you that flutter. Maybe more so, because now you knew him. The whole of him, not just the image and somehow that made it more, not less.

Your daughter tugged your sleeve. “Mama. I’m cold.”

You crouched down and pulled her close, rubbing her arms briskly through her coat. “Better?”

She leaned into you, resting her chin on your shoulder, and sighed the contented sigh of a child who had decided warmth was satisfactory. “Can Daddy come home after this?”

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

“Good.” She patted your cheek once with her mittened hand. “I miss him, mama.”

“I know, baby. He misses you too.”

You thought of the phone call from last night, after the kids were asleep. Michael’s voice low and a little tired, the way it got when he’d been performing or working for too long and needed to just be himself for a minute. I miss you. I miss the kids. Tell me something normal. Tell me what you had for dinner. And you’d laughed and told him about the pasta your son had refused to eat and the way your daughter had spilled orange juice on the dog, and he’d laughed too, and for a little while it had been like he was right there.

“He said he couldn’t wait to see you,” you told her.

She smiled and tucked her face against your neck.

A ripple moved through the line—a surge of murmuring and you straightened up, your pulse jumping. Through the glass front of the store you could see movement, figures in dark clothing, the deliberate organized energy of a security detail coordinating itself.

“Mama,” your son said quietly, moving closer to you. “Is it time?”

“Almost,” you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

You watched through the glass, trying to catch a glimpse. The staff inside were moving with more purpose now. Someone adjusted a display. A woman with a headset spoke into it with focused urgency. And then;

There he was.

Even from this distance, even through the glass and the crowd and the slight distortion of the window, you knew him instantly. He emerged from a back area wearing a royal blue silk shirt with matching pants, his dark hair falling past his jaw. He was speaking to someone beside him, nodding, and even from here you could see the quiet tension in his shoulders that meant he was preparing himself for the scale of it all.

Your son made a small sound which was not quite a word and you felt his grip tighten on your hand.

“Not yet,” you murmured. “We wait for our turn. Remember?”

He nodded, pressing his lips together, practically vibrating with eagerness.

The line began to move in earnest. Groups of fans filtered through the entrance, spent their moment at the table, emerged back through a side door with teary eyes and trembling hands. You heard various noises from inside; applause, squeals, the sustained low roar of excitement. Every few minutes the queue shuffled forward.

You were maybe thirty people back when your daughter started flagging.

She’d been a trooper, genuinely, more patient than you had any right to expect from a three-year-old in the cold for over an hour. But the warmth you’d maintained with crackers and cuddles along with the distraction of the glittery star stickers was wearing thin, and she was beginning to list against your leg with the boneless weight of a child approaching the edge of her reserves.

“Up?” she asked, lifting her arms.

You settled her on your hip and felt her immediately go limp with relief, her head dropping to your shoulder. It was going to be difficult for you to carry her comfortably for long, but you decided to go for as long as you could. Your son pressed close to your other side, alert again now that the end was visible, his earlier quiet replaced by a barely-contained energy.

Twenty people. Then fifteen.

You could hear Michael’s voice now, just barely, filtering through the sounds of the crowd, brief exchanges, warm and low. You couldn’t make out words, only tone. You knew that tone.

Ten people. Eight.

Your daughter had fallen into a light doze against your shoulder, which you took as both a mercy and a complication. You pressed a kiss to her temple and kept her steady.

Five people.

Your son looked up at you. His eyes were bright, serious, his father’s eyes in his father’s expression with the look of concentrated emotion, too big to fully contain, being held carefully.

“Mama,” he whispered.

“I know, darling. We’re almost there,” you whispered back.

Three people. Two.

One.

And then it was your turn.

A staff member held back the small velvet divider and smiled at you knowingly. “Right this way, Mrs. Jackson.” He took the diaper bag off your shoulder and passed it on to another staff member, signaling them to place it somewhere safe.

You took a breath and walked forward.

The table was set up near the center of the floor, with displays of the album on all with all five covers. The overhead lights were bright, and there was a backdrop behind the table, and there were cameras, staff members positioned at intervals, and a whole organized infrastructure of the thing. You took it all in in a peripheral, secondary way because the primary thing was him.

Michael sat at the table with a Sharpie in his hand and his attention on the album being placed in front of him, saying something to the previous person that was wrapping up.

He hadn’t looked up yet.

The previous fan moved away and a staff member reached for your album to place it on the table, and you shifted your sleeping daughter on your hip, and took the last step forward, and Michael looked up—

And stopped.

The Sharpie hovering above the album cover, his eyes landing on you and then widening like something cracked open in his face, all the careful measured grace of the public version of him dissolving instantly and completely.

He stared at you for one second, two—

“Surprise!” you said softly.

Your son, who had been managing himself with admirable restraint for nearly two hours, completely abandoned any further effort at restraint. “Daddy!”

And Michael was already moving.

He was on his feet before the word had fully left your son’s mouth, already coming around the table, the Sharpie forgotten, the album forgotten, everything forgotten except the small boy who had broken into a run toward him. He dropped to his knees right there on the floor of the Virgin Megastore and caught him, and your son hit him with the full momentum of several days of missing his father, both small arms wrapping around Michael’s neck, and Michael wrapped around him just as completely, one hand cradling the back of his head.

There was a murmur through the crowd of staff and waiting onlookers.

Michael’s eyes were closed. His jaw worked. He held your son like he was checking something, making sure something was still true, and then he pressed his face into your son’s hair and you heard him exhale, a slow, shuddering breath.

“Hey, buddy,” he managed. His voice was rough. “Hey. I got you.”

The four-year old said something muffled into Michael’s shoulder. You couldn’t hear it. After a long moment, he finally lifted his head and looked at you.

In all the years you’d known him, in all the ways you’d seen him look at you with love, with gratitude, with the tender warmth he reserved for you alone, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him look at you quite like this. Like you’d done something he hadn’t known how to ask for.

His eyes were wet.

“Hey,” you said.

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Hi.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “What are you—how did you—“

“We took a plane, daddy!” your son informed him, pulling back to look at his father’s face.

Michael laughed as he pressed his forehead to your son’s briefly before standing, keeping one arm around him and turning to you.

He reached out and touched your face with his free hand—fingertips only, brushing your cheekbone gently.

“You brought them all the way here,” he said.

“They were going crazy without their daddy. I was going crazy without you.”

“You could have called. I would have set everything up—”

“Absolutely not.” You shifted your daughter on your hip, and she stirred faintly at the movement, grumbling without waking. “We stood in line like respectable fans. We wanted the element of surprise.”

“You stood in line?”

“Yes.”

His expression was something close to disbelief. “Baby. It’s so cold outside, I don’t want you guys getting sick.”

“We had crackers while we waited,” your son offered helpfully. “And she got glittery star stickers.”

Michael looked at the star sticker on his daughter’s coat, now slightly crumpled from being carried. He reached out carefully and touched the sticker, then looked up at you.

“How long has she been knocked out for?”

“She almost made it the whole way from departure but crashed right before the event started.”

He was already reaching for her, his hands going to her with the practiced ease of a father who had spent countless hours with his baby draped over him. You transferred her carefully, and she shifted in the transition—made a small complaining sound and then her head found Michael’s shoulder and she settled immediately. Her tiny head fit perfectly in the space between Michael’s shoulder and neck.

He tucked her close and looked at you over her head.

“You must be so tired, baby,” he said.

“Not really, I am not the one signing albums.”

There was a brief disruption while the team figured out what to do with the four of you. Michael’s manager appeared at his elbow, murmuring something into his ear, he listened and nodded while keeping one arm around your son and holding your daughter with the other. He looked down at the boy while he listened and made a face—a silly face meant only for his son—which always earns him a laugh.

Some rearrangement happened. A small area was cleared slightly to the side of the main table. A staff member brought over a chair. The signing would continue—Michael had insisted on that but you and the kids would be nearby rather than shuffled off to a waiting room somewhere, and a couple of additional security team members were repositioned to keep the immediate area clear.

It was handled with the efficiency of people who were practiced at managing extraordinary circumstances, and within a few minutes it had simply become the new arrangement, absorbed into the event without further disruption.

You sat down with your daughter, who had finally surfaced into drowsy wakefulness and was now sitting in your lap looking around the store with an unbothered expression of someone still partially in a dream. Your son had stationed himself right beside Michael’s chair and was watching everything with wide, attentive eyes—the fans as they approached, the albums being signed, his father’s steady and gracious presence through it all.

“I wanna sign albums too, daddy!” he insisted.

“Oh, do you now?”

The little boy nodded enthusiastically.

“Here, let me see your autograph first.” Michael pulled a spare piece of paper toward him and handed him a Sharpie.

Scribbling an unintelligible mess, he handed the paper back to his father.

Michael examined the scribbles with exaggerated seriousness, turning it sideways as though he were evaluating a priceless work of art.

“This is actually much better than my autograph.”

“It is?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He tapped the paper. “Look at this confidence. Look at these bold artistic choices.”

The four-year old beamed. Michael leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“I think I’ll have to let you sign an album just for Daddy.”

“Really?!”

“Mm-hm.” Michael glanced toward the line of waiting fans. “The fans aren’t ready for this level of talent yet.”

A few people nearby burst out laughing.

The last fan came through and the staff began the gentle, organized process of winding down the event. Adjusting displays, speaking into headsets, beginning the conclusion of the event. Michael signed the final album, spoke the final kind words, and the person left with the same shining eyes as everyone before them.

Then the table was just a table.

Michael set down the Sharpie and turned, and for the first time in the past hour or so he wasn’t in the middle of something. He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders once, and you recognized that particular exhale—that he was really tired but still gave his all to the fans.

Your daughter held up her stuffed elephant. “Daddy. Look.”

He crossed the few steps between you and crouched down in front of her. “I’m looking.”

“His name is Peanut.”

“I remember Peanut,” Michael smiled.

“He came on the plane.”

“That was very brave of him. He’s as brave as my princess.”

She considered this, then held the elephant out toward him. Michael accepted it with appropriate gravity, examined it, and handed it back. She tucked it under her arm, satisfied, and then reached out and patted his cheek with one small hand, the same gesture she’d given you in the cold outside.

He gathered her up and stood, settling her on his hip, and turned to find your son already close, leaning against his side in that particular way kids had of simply annexing a parent’s space. Michael put a hand on the back of his head, ruffling his curls gently.

“You both waited in line,” Michael said. He was talking to both of them, but his eyes found yours over their heads. “I hope you did not trouble mama too much.”

“Mama said we had to be patient,” your son told him.

“She was correct.” His voice was dry but warm. “She always is.”

“I know,” the boy said, with an earnestness so complete it almost sounded like a medical fact.

You stood up and looked at Michael.

In his arms, your daughter was braiding a section of his hair with focused concentration. At his side, your son was speaking a mile a minute about the plane and the clouds and his unsuccessful mission to find their house from the sky. And Michael listened to all of it, and at the same time he was looking at you.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

You took a step closer. “For what?”

“For doing this.” He shifted the girl slightly, freeing one hand, and reached out to touch your face again, fingertips at your cheekbone, like he was still checking. “For standing in the cold for I don’t even know how long. For bringing them. For—” He stopped. His jaw tightened briefly. “I needed this. I didn’t say so, but—”

“I know,” you said.

“You always know.” A faint, quiet smile. “That’s why I’m thanking you.”

You closed the remaining distance and leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw, brief and soft. He turned his head into it slightly, like a reflex.

“We’re in public,” you murmured.

“So?” he said, his voice low.

“So behave,”

“God forbid a husband missed his beautiful wife and wants to kiss her.”

“You’ll survive,” you laughed, and your daughter looked up at the sound of it with bright interested eyes. Your son stopped talking about the plane ride long enough to look at both of you with the mildly suspicious expression of a child who knew something was happening that was for grownups.

His staff had arranged cars. That was the other thing about Michael’s staff, the logistics that had an invisible coordination that moved things from one arrangement to another. You’d half expected some debate about hotels, about whether you’d all head to a restaurant first, about the details of the evening. Instead, there was simply a car waiting when you emerged from the side entrance of the store, and a small security presence around it, and a team member who smiled at your children and told them both they’d been very patient today.

Michael settled both kids in the car, buckling them securely.

“Hotel’s not far,” he looked at you.

“Good. Somebody’s going to be fully asleep in about eight minutes.”

He glanced at your daughter already leaning heavily against her brother. A small smile. His hand found the small of your back briefly.

“Come on,” he said.

She was asleep in six. Your son made it to the hotel lobby before his eyes started losing the fight, and by the time you’d gotten upstairs and through the door of the suite and managed the brief logistics of pajamas, he was moving on autopilot, responding to instruction with the half-conscious compliance of a child running on fumes.

Michael took over without discussion and that was something you’d loved about him from early on. How fatherhood came to him naturally. You caught fragments from the bathroom where you were washing your face, removing the makeup of the day: the beginning of a bedtime story and the specific register he used only with them.

By the time you came back into the room, both children were in the hotel bed, and Michael was just rising from where he’d been sitting at the edge of it, his voice trailing off from wherever the story had left them.

He stood up and looked at them for a long moment.

“She’s got a new thing she does,” you said quietly. “With her hands when she’s falling asleep.”

Michael glanced back at your daughter.

“Braiding things. She was doing it to my hair earlier.” He said immediately. “She started about three weeks ago.”

Your gaze drifted to the little girl. Even now, her tiny fingers were absentmindedly twisting the edge of her blanket as sleep pulled her under.

You hadn't even realized when the habit had started but Michael did.

“And he’s taller.”

“What?” You snorted.

“I’m serious.”

“Michael, you’ve been gone two days. That’s not how growing works.”

“Time zones. California’s three hours behind New York. That’s three whole extra hours of growing.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and shook your head, fighting a laugh. “Michael…”

He put his arm around you, and you leaned into him, as you both stood there for a moment in the soft dim hotel room. Your children sleeping, the city a distant murmur outside.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

“I’m glad we came too.”

“The line, though.” He shook his head slightly. “You didn’t have to. The kids must be so tired and cold. And you had them all by yourself.”

“We wanted to. We wanted to be in the line with everybody else.” You tilted your head up to look at him. “I wanted to see your reaction when you didn’t know we were coming.”

A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.

"You got me."

"I know."

"And they were very well behaved," you continued.

Michael's eyebrows rose.

“You should've called me."

"And said what?" You laughed. "'Michael, come rescue me from the line you're currently signing for’?”

"Yes. Would have dropped everything to be with my family.”

You turned toward him and he kissed you softly. His hand found your waist as he leaned in, pressing his lips briefly against yours before resting his forehead against yours for a moment.

When he pulled back you rested your head against his chest and listened to the steady, reliable sound of his heartbeat.

“Take me home tomorrow?” you murmured.

His arms tightened around you. “First flight.”

[sinflowersugar]

😭

[sinflowersugar]

I am considering redownloading Wattpad.

[vampir3x-444]

can someone go deep into my mind and write the fic i want exactly

[itzdollysblog]

~Hidden Kisses~

A/n: so likeeee, I saw this part in the Oprah interview and I just KNEW I had to write this. Plus this moment was too funny and I was HOLLERING. anyways love you guys enjoyyyy

Summary: Private, not a secret. Fluff. Uncontrollable laughing. Sweetness galore. Bodyguard x pop star. Sunshine x moon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Being a bodyguard to the King of Pop was one thing. Seeing a world you had never seen before. Lights. Cameras. Crazy fans. Stadiums packed to the brim. It was chaos.

Being his lover? That was another. It was bliss. Gifts overload. Adoration. The most wanted man, on his knees for you.

So when he decided to give an all interview, the conversation of the relationship came up.

“If you don’t want to go public, i understand that. I don’t want you to go through scrutiny from the media. They can be terrible.” He sighed, watching her as she fixed up his collar. Making sure he looked perfect.

She shook her head a small smile on her face. Her heart softened at his concern. All he wanted to do was protect her. Even when her job was to protect him.

“Love, I don’t mind them knowing you’re in a relationship. We’re private, not a secret.”

He smiled up at her. Of course, she was always so willing to be open. She never hid anything from him. Not even being able too if she tried.

A few hours later, the interview was in full swing. Some questions that were asked made her want to end the interview right there. Others made her heart sink by his answer. But of course, she had to remain professional.

“Do you date?” Oprah asked, her tone wasn’t rude. But rather intrigued.

Michael sighed, a small smile appearing on his face, “Yes.”

“Who do you date?”

He couldn’t help himself, his eyes wondered over towards her. She was just beyond the camera. Leaning against a speaker. Having a hand holding up her head, she looked at him. Curious as to what he would really say. Either way, she didn’t mind if he decided to keep her private.

She had him in ways no one else could.

He took a big breath, preparing his answer.

“Well, there is this gorgeous woman. We’ve known each other since we were young. Shes been with me through a lot. I don’t know how she puts up with me.” He chuckled at the end, a blush coming out from his face.

Oprah smiled, loving the reaction this mysterious woman seemed to have on him.

“May we know who she is?”

He slowly shook his head, “I would much rather she be ready, to come out on her own. That’s if she ever decides too. I don’t want to push her into the public, because, we’ve all seen what the media can do. And I’d hate for that to happen to her. I love her too much.”

Her heart jumped in her chest, a small smile formed on her face. Pride. Joy.

Private. Not a secret.

Oprah kept asking questions, and of course Michael answered them. Until eventually they got to a question about more rumors.

“There, this was another one of those rumors. That you had proposed to Elizabeth Taylor?”

She snickered off camera, not in a mean way. She adored Elizabeth. In all honestly, she was very surprised how that woman stayed so warm and kind after all these years in Hollywood.

Michael chuckled, humored by the question. And more than willing to set the record straight.

“Elizabeth Taylor is gorgeous. Beautiful. And she still is today. And I’m crazy about her.”

“But did you propose to her?”

He thought for a moment, and answered honestly. “I would liked to have.” He smiled like a child, so innocent and kind.

This did not bother her, as she was very secure in their relationship. But also, she definitely didn’t blame him. Elizabeth had treated her with nothing but warmth. Kindness. Such a sweetheart when the first met. Stealing her away from Michael to talk alone. Braiding her hair. In a way, she would never have minded if it ever happened. Michael would’ve been in great hands.

“Well, Elizabeth Taylor is actually here.”

Michael eyes went wide, a look of shock on his face. As though a child, who had their mother hear something they definitely weren’t supposed to.

She couldn’t help herself, she laughed. Quietly of course. But she laughed, hard. The whole situation was hilarious. Walking over to Bill, she leaned on his shoulder. Attempting to control herself. And yet she couldn’t. It was very hard to stay professional.

As they went through the segment, she did her best to stop laughing. And eventually she did. But a smile stayed on her face. One of amusement.

The two locked eyes. And it was immediate that she would tease him about it later.

Soon, the segment ended. And she couldn’t help it. Laughing hard in bills shoulder once more. She could replay the moment over and over again if she could.

And she would.

“What’s so funny?” Michael said, walking up to them. She tried to contain herself once more. But joy radiated her face. Standing fully up, she placed her hands behind her back. As though she got caught.

“No reason. No reason.”

He narrowed his eyes at her playfully, “liar.”

They had a few minutes before commercial break was over, and they needed to move onto the next segment.

He walked away slightly, beckoning her to follow him. As though he needed help with something.

She followed with no objections. Looking up at bill with an innocent look on her face as she left.

Everyone could feel the tension. But no one really said anything. And it was apparent who the mysterious woman was. No one judged them. Instead, some of them smiled and chuckled. Going back to what they were doing.

The two went to a hallway, private.

“Yes Mr. Jackson?” She asked, pretending as though it was strictly professional.

Once he knew they were really out of sight. He turned around. A smirk on his face, placing his hands on her waist. He gripped her, not hard. But enough to signal that he wanted just a moment of her time.

“Don’t Mr. Jackson me. You laughing at me out there?” He chuckled, pushing her up against the wall. Her hands immediately came up to his chest. Moving them up and down. A way to soothe his nerves.

“Only teasing baby. Harmless really.” She chuckled, playing dumb.

“Oh yeah?” He beckoned, she nodded, giving him an innocent look in her eyes.

“Then what was so funny?” He asked again, his smirk formed into a smile. What a beautiful smile it was.

She softened as well, moving her hands to his arms. “Oh I’m crazy about Elizabeth. I would have liked to have proposed to her.” She teased, using his words against him. Her voice was soft, yet low. A subtle meaning in it.

“You jealous?” He asked, softening even more under her touch.

She pretended to think for a moment. Then answered, “No, because I have you now. That’s all that matters.”

He couldn’t help himself. Immediately, he leaned in. Closing the gap between them. His lips softly touched hers. A slow dance between the two. Every time the kissed, it seemed as though it was the first time.

He guided her arms, placing them around his neck. And she willingly did so. Her hands finding their way into his hair. Softly tugging.

He led his lips down her jaw, to her neck slightly. She leaned her head against his, sighing. Letting herself have this.

How bold he was.

He placed soft kisses, then stopped. Letting himself rest on her neck. Inhaling her scent.

This was more than Intimate. Emotional. Safe. Two souls just allowing themselves to vulnerable with each other.

Just the two of them. It felt as though time had stood still.

But of course, time never still for no one.

She slightly checked her watch, and saw that it was getting close to when he had to be back.

“Michael, you need to head over there.”

“No.” His voice muffled from her shoulder.

“No? Excuse me?” She laughed, looking down at him. “You’ve already been gone long enough. You have a few more segments to do.”

“I want to stay here.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Michael!” She whispered shouted through a laugh, pushing him up. Grabbing his face with both of her hands. Making him look at her.

One look, and she immediately wanted to change her mind.

But she couldn’t. ONE of them had to be responsible.

“Come on, only a few more segments and you’ll be done.”

“I don’t want to do it anymore. Let’s go get some ice cream. Watch a movie.” He offered instead.

She shook her head, smiling at him. “You finish this, and we’ll have a whole movie night. I’ll even sleep over. Deal?”

“Girl you already live here on the ranch!”

“Well yeah, but this time I’ll sleep in your house. Unless you’d rather I go back to my cabin?”

“No absolutely not.”

“Okay then,” leaning up, she pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. Then pulled back, before he got smooth again, “Let’s go, you can dance in front of millions. You can do an interview.”

He chuckled, pulling back from her grip. Just looking over her.

How did he get so lucky?

“I love you.”

“I love you too, now go!” She whispered at him, pushing him forward to start walking.

“I pick the movie this time.” He said, leaning back to tell her.

“Okay, but I’m objecting to IT, I don’t want nightmares.”

“Oh come on, it’s good!”

“Michael Joesph!”

He laughed, it filling the hallway as they walked. “Okay! Okay! Don’t leave me please.”

“Not in a million years Applehead.”

[gh0ulxxc]

𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝒻𝒶𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃ℊ 𝒾𝓃 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ ‎ꫂ᭪݁ 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝗅 𝗃. ⸝⸝

𝗁𝖾 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖿𝗂𝗇𝖽𝗌 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗌𝖾𝖾𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗍.

『late 70s michael』 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈 ── .✦ 𝗐.𝖼. 4,000+

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

The argument starts before midnight.

You hear it through the phone first.

Not words exactly—just shouting. Muffled and sharp. A door slamming hard enough to make the line crackle.

“Michael?” you ask quietly, sitting upright in bed.

For a second there’s only breathing on the other end. Uneven. Angry. Hurt.

Then his voice comes out strained and shaking.

“I gotta go.”

The line clicks dead.

You stare at the receiver for a moment, your stomach twisting.

Something about his tone makes your chest ache.

You’ve known Michael Jackson long enough to recognize when he’s pretending to be okay. He does it constantly—onstage, in interviews, around fans, around his brothers.

But not with you.

Never with you.

Rain taps softly against your bedroom window as you throw on a robe and walk downstairs. The house is dark except for the kitchen light you left on earlier.

You don’t know why you suddenly feel restless.

Maybe because you know exactly who the shouting had belonged to.

Joe Jackson.

And if Joe had gotten angry enough to yell like that…

You don’t even want to imagine what he said.

Twenty minutes later, headlights sweep across your driveway.

Your breath catches.

You hurry to the front door and pull it open before the car fully stops.

The familiar Cadillac sits idling in the rain.

Bill Bray steps out first, umbrella already open.

Then Michael climbs out from the backseat.

And your heart nearly breaks.

His curls are damp from rain. His eyes are red. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dark jacket like he’s trying to hold himself together physically.

Bill gives you a small nod.

“He just needed somewhere safe tonight.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Michael won’t look at you.

Bill squeezes Michael’s shoulder once before returning to the car.

The second the Cadillac disappears down the street, Michael finally lifts his eyes to yours.

You’ve never seen him look this shattered before.

“Hey,” you say softly.

That’s all it takes.

His face crumples instantly.

Michael crosses the porch in two quick steps and wraps his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

You feel him shaking.

Actually shaking.

“Oh, baby…” you whisper.

He buries his face into your shoulder.

And then he starts crying.

Not quietly either.

The kind of crying that comes from holding too much pain inside for too long.

You guide him into the house carefully, shutting the door behind you while he clings to you like letting go might destroy him.

His tears soak into your robe.

“I got you,” you murmur, rubbing his back slowly. “I got you.”

Michael can barely speak.

“He—” his voice cracks badly. “He said I ain’t nothin’ without him.”

Your chest tightens.

You pull back just enough to cup his face.

“Don’t.”

“He said I’m selfish now… said I think I’m bigger than the family because of the album…”

His lips tremble violently.

“And then he said nobody would even care about me if I wasn’t a Jackson.”

You stare at him in disbelief.

Anger burns hot in your chest.

“How could he say that to you?”

Michael laughs bitterly, tears still slipping down his face.

“That’s not even the worst part.”

You guide him toward the couch.

He sits beside you heavily, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.

“He kept sayin’ I wasn’t tough enough,” Michael mutters. “Said I’m too sensitive. Too soft.”

You gently pull his hands away from his face.

“Michael Jackson,” you say firmly, “look at me.”

His glossy brown eyes meet yours.

“You are one of the most talented, loving, beautiful men I’ve ever known.”

His expression breaks all over again.

“You hear me?”

He swallows hard.

“But what if he’s right?”

“He’s not.”

“But—”

“He’s not.”

You brush your thumb beneath his eye carefully.

“Your father doesn’t get to decide your worth.”

Michael’s breathing turns shaky again.

“He’s been tellin’ me things like this since I was little,” he whispers. “Sometimes I start believin’ him.”

You lean forward and kiss his forehead tenderly.

“Then let me remind you who you really are.”

His eyes close instantly.

Like he’s exhausted.

Like he’s been waiting for someone to say that his entire life.

“You’re kind,” you whisper against his skin. “You’re brilliant. You work harder than anybody I know. You care about people even when they hurt you.”

Another tear slips down his cheek.

“And you are so loved.”

Michael finally looks at you again.

The vulnerability in his expression nearly undoes you.

“You really think that?”

“I know it.”

His lips part slightly.

Then he kisses you.

Sudden.

Desperate.

Like he needs affection as badly as oxygen.

You kiss him back immediately, your fingers sliding into his curls while he grips your waist tightly.

He tastes like rain and tears.

The kiss grows deeper within seconds.

Michael makes a soft broken sound against your mouth that nearly destroys your self-control.

“You always make me feel safe,” he whispers shakily.

Your hands cradle his face.

“That’s because you are safe here.”

His eyes flutter closed again.

Then he leans forward and presses his forehead against yours.

For a long moment neither of you speak.

The rain outside grows heavier.

The room feels warm and quiet compared to the storm in his head.

You brush your fingers through his curls slowly.

“Do you wanna talk about it more?”

Michael shakes his head immediately.

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I just wanna stay with you.”

Your heart melts.

“Then stay.”

He exhales shakily.

And suddenly you realize how exhausted he looks.

Dark circles sit beneath his eyes.

His shoulders are tense.

He’s still trembling slightly.

“You eaten anything tonight?” you ask.

Michael gives a tiny shrug.

“Don’t remember.”

You narrow your eyes.

“That means no.”

A faint smile finally tugs at his mouth.

“There’s my girl.”

You stand and hold out your hand.

“Come on.”

He takes it instantly.

You make him tea first.

Then toast.

Simple things.

Michael sits at the kitchen counter watching you quietly the entire time.

Like he’s trying to ground himself just by looking at you.

When you place the plate in front of him, he murmurs a soft thank you.

You move between his knees, resting your hands on his shoulders.

“You okay?”

He leans into your touch automatically.

“Better now.”

You smile gently.

“Good.”

Michael’s hands slide around your waist slowly.

Then he presses his face against your stomach.

The affection is so soft it makes your chest ache.

“Nobody talks to me the way you do,” he whispers.

You stroke his curls carefully.

“They should.”

He looks up at you.

The sadness is still there.

But softer now.

More manageable.

His fingers trace lazily along the fabric of your robe.

“You think I’m weak?” he asks quietly.

Your expression immediately softens.

“Michael… no.”

“But I cry too much.”

“That doesn’t make you weak.”

“My brothers don’t—”

“You are not your brothers.”

He goes silent.

You tilt his chin upward gently.

“Feeling things deeply isn’t weakness.”

Michael studies your face carefully like he’s searching for any sign of dishonesty.

He doesn’t find any.

And you watch his walls slowly start crumbling.

“I hate disappointing people,” he whispers.

“You disappoint yourself more than anybody else ever could.”

That earns a tiny laugh from him.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Probably true.”

You smile softly.

“There he is.”

His eyes linger on your lips.

Then he kisses you again.

This time slower.

Softer.

The kind of kiss filled with aching tenderness.

Your fingers slide beneath the collar of his shirt while his hands settle on your hips possessively.

Michael deepens the kiss carefully, almost shy despite the desperation underneath it.

You can feel how badly he needs closeness tonight.

Needs reassurance.

Needs love.

When you climb onto his lap, he exhales sharply against your mouth.

“Baby…” he whispers.

You kiss along his jaw slowly.

“You’re okay.”

His grip tightens instantly.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Michael hides his face against your neck.

And suddenly he’s emotional again.

Not crying this time.

Just overwhelmed.

You hold him quietly while his breathing steadies.

Then he whispers against your skin:

“Can I stay in your room tonight?”

You smile softly.

“You even gotta ask?”

His cheeks flush faintly.

You take his hand and lead him upstairs.

The second you enter your bedroom, Michael visibly relaxes.

Like the entire world exists outside those walls and nowhere else.

You sit him down on the edge of the bed.

Then stand between his knees.

His hands immediately find your waist again.

“You know somethin’?” you murmur.

“What?”

“You’re beautiful when you blush.”

Michael groans softly and hides his face in your stomach again.

“Don’t start.”

You laugh quietly.

“It’s true.”

He peeks up at you through thick lashes.

“You always say things like that.”

“Because they’re true.”

Michael’s expression turns unbearably soft.

Then he slowly unties the belt of your robe.

His touch is careful.

Reverent.

Like he’s asking permission without words.

You lean down and kiss him gently.

“Yes,” you whisper against his lips.

His breathing immediately changes.

Warmer.

Heavier.

Michael slides the robe from your shoulders slowly, eyes drinking you in with quiet awe.

“You’re so pretty,” he murmurs.

The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flutter.

You push his jacket from his shoulders next, then his shirt.

His skin feels warm beneath your fingertips.

You kiss across his collarbone gently.

Michael shivers.

“You always know how to calm me down,” he whispers.

“That’s because I know you.”

His hands slide up your thighs carefully before pulling you closer against him.

Then he kisses you deeply again.

This time there’s hunger behind it.

Months of tension.

Need.

His mouth moves against yours with growing urgency while your fingers tangle in his curls.

Michael groans softly when you tug them.

“God…”

You kiss along his neck slowly, feeling his pulse racing beneath your lips.

His head falls back immediately.

“Baby…”

You love how responsive he is.

How honest.

Every sound he makes goes straight through you.

His hands wander across your body carefully at first, then more confidently when you melt against him.

“You’re so good to me,” he whispers breathlessly.

You cup his face.

“Because you deserve it.”

Michael looks wrecked by those words alone.

He kisses you harder.

His emotions pour into every touch.

Every shaky breath.

Every desperate pull of his hands.

When you push him gently back onto the bed, he looks up at you with flushed cheeks and blown pupils.

Beautiful.

Absolutely beautiful.

You climb over him slowly, kissing him until neither of you can breathe properly.

The storm outside fades into background noise.

Everything becomes warmth.

Skin.

Soft sounds.

The ache of being wanted.

Michael touches you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

And when things finally deepen completely between you, it’s emotional as much as physical.

Slow.

Tender.

Needy.

He hides his face against your neck halfway through, overwhelmed again.

“I love you,” he blurts suddenly.

The words surprise both of you.

Michael freezes instantly afterward.

Your heart skips.

He pulls back slightly, panic flickering across his face.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

You kiss him hard enough to stop the sentence.

“I love you too.”

Michael stares at you like the world just stopped spinning.

Then he kisses you with enough emotion to nearly make you cry.

Afterward, you lie tangled together beneath the blankets while rain continues tapping softly outside.

Michael rests against your chest, tracing lazy patterns along your skin.

He seems calmer now.

Safe.

“You still think I’m amazing?” he asks sleepily.

You smile and kiss the top of his curls.

“I think you’re extraordinary.”

He hums softly.

“Even when I’m a mess?”

“Especially then.”

Michael finally laughs quietly.

The sound is small and tired and real.

You hold him closer.

And for the first time all night, he finally falls asleep peacefully in your arms.

˖᯽ ݁˖

a/n : still mad over the fact that joe outlived michael like just overlyyy irritating 😒 michael in the last 70s was honestly one of his best eras like that afro looks sooo adorable i just wanna pinch his cheeks 🥺🥺 hoped yall enjoyed this onee i lowk wanna make more similar to this and the other one i made a couple days ago !!

[devochkanextdoor]

imagine telling !mature era michael to keep his glasses on while he fucks you,

Michael absolutely hated the way his glasses looked on him, said they make him look old. You'd walk in on him reading something in private with his glasses on & as soon as he'd see you, he'd take them off.

You'd always tell him how sexy he looked with them, attempting to put them back on his face as he'd try to pry them off again.

"Makes me feel like you're dating a grandpa, I don't like it." He'd complain.

But of course, anything you begged or pleaded for him to do, he'd do in a heartbeat. So when you told him you wanted him to keep them on while he fucked you, he had no choice but to go along with it, anything for you — he was a gentleman after all.

He'd be gripping onto your fleshy hips a little rougher than usual as he fucked into you on his king sized mattress, having you on all fours. His frustration with your request showed through the way he handled you. You felt the shift, he's never usually this rough.

Yet you weren't complaining, you were in pure ecstatic joy. Your eyes would slowly roll back to your head as you mewled & cried like a slut. You'd try look back at him through forceful thrusts, your eyes half lidded n' your lips pouty as you tried to get a glimpse of how he looked, the reason you're here in the first place. His glasses seated neatly on his nose, his hair down & damp, sticking to his temples. He looked as if he was trying to appear angry, yet little did he know his own guttural groans would betray him.

He'd lean over you, cupping one of your breasts as he'd drop his head on your shoulder, drowning in his own pleasure as he'd continued to abuse your pussy from behind. His glasses would start to slip down his nose more & more with each searing thrust.

You'd push them back up, giving him a little light kiss on the lips.

"Grandpa's don't fuck you like this, baby."

𑣲⋆

[sinflowersugar]

Why would you put this in my head?

[prettyangeliczz]

it’s canon to me that jaafar will either intertwine your hand with his or hold you real close when you’re making love 🫠🫠

then anytime you squeeze his hand because he’s thrusting deeper, he then starts kissing your neck to hear you moan louder. he’ll probably let go of one hand so you can grip his biceps or touch his pecs, maybe scratch his scalp. your other hand will always be intertwined with his, he needs to feel you, needs to know you’re real.

[sinflowersugar]

[piecredheart]

Family Halloween Costumes

Summary: You, Michael, And The Children Are Getting Ready For Halloween.

Warning(s): Fluff

A/N: I Know It’s May But I Thought This Was Cute. Something Small And Simple. Please Follow, Like, Reblog. My Request Are Open.

Michael and the kids had been excited for Halloween ever since October started. Every year, you all watched Halloween specials together, and every dinner somehow turned into a family debate about costumes.

“Why not knights and princesses?” one of the kids suggested. “Didn’t we do that last year?” you laughed. “Clowns!” “We did that two Halloweens ago, remember?”

Even after the kids were tucked into bed, Michael would still lie beside you, throwing out ideas. “We could all be cowboys.” “Yeah? So me and you are actual cowboys while the kids are dressed as cows?” Michael burst out laughing. “Okay, wait—that actually sounds adorable.” “It does,” you admitted, “but I don’t know.”

You all sat on the idea for a while until one afternoon when you, Michael, and the kids were curled up on the couch watching Peter Pan again. Halfway through the movie, inspiration suddenly hit you. “Why don’t we dress up as characters from Peter Pan?”

And that was how Halloween plans were finally decided. By the time Halloween night arrived, the house was full of excitement as everyone got ready for trick-or-treating. You helped the kids into their costumes while Michael followed them around with a camera, laughing the entire time.

Prince was dressed as Smee, Paris proudly wore a Captain Hook costume, and your youngest, Blanket, waddled around in a Tick-Tock Croc costume Katherine had made.

Michael could barely stop taking pictures. Then he finally looked over at you in your Wendy costume and smiled instantly. “Baby, you look amazing.” “Really?” you asked softly. “I didn’t think I would.” You looked up to see Michael, dressed as Peter Pan, walking over to your vanity. He leaned down and kissed your cheek.

“Baby, you look amazing tonight—just like you do every night.” You laughed, pulling him in for a quick kiss on the lips. “Thank you, sweetie.” Before either of you could say anything else, Prince yelled for Michael from down the hall. The two of you laughed.

“Guess it’s time to go,” you said. Michael grinned before raising his voice dramatically. “Alright! Are you kids ready to go trick-or-treating?”The kids cheered loudly, Michael included, as everyone headed out the door together.

By the end of the night, the kids were sprawled across the living room floor, dumping candy into piles and trading favorites with each other while you and Michael checked everything over.

Later, after everyone was finally tucked into bed, you narrowed your eyes at Michael suspiciously. “Michael… how much candy did you take from the kids?” “Only one Butterfinger,” he defended immediately “Michael.”

He held up a Hershey bar with a guilty smile. “I got you this, though.” You laughed, shaking your head as you took it from him. “Oh, so you do know how to get me on your side.”Michael grinned proudly, wrapping his arms around you as the house finally settled into a peaceful quiet. And that was how Halloween ended for all of you that year.

[michaelsbm]

OHHH YEAHHHH, writing this immediately and it’s dropping TOMORROW 👀👀👀🫰🏽🫰🏽🫰🏽

[sinflowersugar]

Me listening to this

Damn right you gon make it right

[gh0ulxxc]

𝑜ℎ 𝑚𝑦 𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙 ‎ꫂ᭪݁ ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ᴊ. ⸝⸝

𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗈𝗐 𝖻𝖾𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗂𝖿𝗎𝗅 𝗁𝖾 𝗂𝗌. ⌗

『𝗈𝖿𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖾𝗋𝖺』 𝗑 𝖿𝖾𝗆!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ 𓈈 ── .✦ 𝗐.𝖼. 1800+

𓍯𓂃𓏧♡

The dressing room at smelled like hairspray, expensive cologne, and the faint heat of stage lights bleeding through the walls. Outside, the crowd screamed loud enough to shake the mirrors, but inside, everything felt strangely quiet.

Especially Michael.

You sat cross-legged on the velvet couch, watching him pace the room in glittering black slacks and a half-unbuttoned silk shirt. His curls were still damp from the shower he’d rushed through after rehearsal, little droplets catching at the slope of his neck. Every few seconds, he glanced into the mirror—and every single time, his expression dimmed.

You noticed it immediately.

“You’re doing it again,” you said softly.

He stopped pacing. “Doing what?”

“That thing where you stare at yourself like you’ve done something wrong.”

Michael looked away almost instantly. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

He gave you a small shrug, pretending to fuss with the cuffs of his shirt. “I just…” His voice trailed off. “I dunno.”

You stood and crossed the room slowly, careful with him the way one handled fragile glass. Fame had made people think he was untouchable, but you knew better. You knew the nervous habits hidden beneath the sequins and applause. The way he tugged his sleeves down when he got insecure. The way compliments made him blush so hard his ears turned pink.

Most of all, you knew he hated mirrors.

You reached him gently. “Talk to me.”

Michael sighed quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. “Joe used to say my nose was too big.” He laughed once, bitter and embarrassed. “Said my skin was bad. Said I looked weird.”

Your chest tightened.

Even now, years later, those words still lived inside him.

“Michael…”

“And people always compare me to my brothers,” he continued, voice smaller now. “Jackie’s the handsome one. Jermaine’s smooth. Tito’s cool.” He swallowed hard. “I just look… awkward.”

You stared at him for a long moment before lifting your hands to cup his face.

The second you did, his breath caught.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, his eyes met yours. Dark brown. Soft. Nervous.

Beautiful.

“You are the prettiest man I’ve ever seen,” you whispered.

Michael immediately ducked his head with a shy laugh. “Stop.”

“No.” You smiled. “I’m serious.”

His cheeks pinked instantly.

You brushed your thumbs beneath his eyes. “Those big eyes? Pretty. Those curls? Pretty. That smile?” You leaned closer. “Deadly.”

He groaned softly, embarrassed. “You always say stuff like that.”

“Because it’s true, angel face.”

The nickname hit him like it always did.

Michael physically froze.

Then the blush spread all the way down his neck.

“Oh my God,” he muttered, covering his face with one hand while laughing nervously. “Don’t call me that.”

“You love it.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

His shoulders shook with bashful laughter, and finally—finally—the tension eased from his body.

There he was.

Your Michael.

You slipped your fingers through his, pulling his hand away from his face. “There you are.”

He looked at you carefully. Vulnerably.

“You really think I’m pretty?”

Your heart nearly broke.

You leaned up and kissed him before answering.

Slowly.

Tenderly.

Michael melted the second your lips touched his. He always did. One hand instinctively slid around your waist while the other trembled lightly against your cheek.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Until his shy little sighs filled the room.

When you pulled back, he looked dazed already.

“See?” you murmured against his mouth. “Pretty boys get kissed like this.”

Michael laughed breathlessly. “You’re crazy.”

“About you? Absolutely.”

That earned you another blush.

He turned his head slightly, trying to hide it, but you caught his chin and kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then beneath his ear.

Michael sucked in a sharp breath.

You felt his fingers tighten at your waist.

“Baby…” he whispered weakly.

“Hm?”

“You can’t do that before I go onstage.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” He broke off with a flustered sound as you kissed his neck again. “Because I’ll mess up.”

You grinned against his skin. “Michael Jackson? Mess up? Impossible.”

He buried his face in your shoulder with a groan. “Angel face was already bad enough. Now you’re teasing me.”

“You’re cute when you blush.”

“I’m not cute.”

“You’re adorable.”

He whined quietly, which only made you laugh harder.

Then suddenly he pulled back just enough to look at you properly.

And the softness in his eyes nearly destroyed you.

“No one’s ever talked to me like you do,” he admitted.

The playfulness faded from your expression.

You stroked his cheek gently. “They should’ve.”

Michael stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with kindness.

Then he kissed you first this time.

Harder.

Needier.

His mouth moved against yours with a desperation that made your knees weak instantly. Like he was trying to absorb every sweet thing you’d ever said to him before the world could take it away.

You kissed him back just as fiercely.

His hands slid to your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the shiver that ran through his body when you sighed into his mouth.

“God,” he whispered between kisses. “You make me feel crazy.”

“Good crazy?”

“The worst kind.”

You laughed softly before kissing him again, slower this time. Michael hummed happily against your lips, completely gone now, completely soft for you.

You loved this version of him.

Not the superstar.

Not the icon.

Just Michael.

Shy, affectionate Michael who blushed every time you called him pretty.

Your fingers drifted through his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, and he practically melted against you.

“There’s my angel face,” you teased quietly.

“Oh my God…”

His face turned crimson again.

You giggled while he hid against your neck. “You’re so easy.”

“You’re mean to me.”

“But you like it.”

A pause.

“…Maybe.”

You laughed loud enough that he started laughing too.

Then there was a knock at the dressing room door.

“Five minutes, Michael!”

His entire body jolted.

“Shoot.”

You smiled. “Nervous?”

“Always.”

You took his hands again. “You know what I see when you walk onstage?”

“What?”

“A man so beautiful people can’t look away.”

Michael stared at you.

Then blinked rapidly like he might actually get emotional.

“You’re really trying to ruin my makeup now,” he muttered.

You softened immediately, brushing your nose against his. “You deserve to hear nice things.”

His gaze dropped to your lips.

“So do you.”

Before you could answer, he kissed you again.

Deep and lingering.

The kind of kiss that felt less like lust and more like devotion.

Still, the heat between you sparked instantly.

Michael’s hands slid lower along your back, pulling you against him with a soft sound in his throat. You felt him smile slightly when you kissed him harder in return.

“That’s dangerous,” he whispered.

“You started it.”

“You looked too pretty sitting over there.” He paused. “Couldn’t help myself.”

Now it was your turn to blush.

Michael grinned triumphantly. “See? I can do it too.”

“You’re learning.”

He leaned in again, kissing you slower this time, savoring it. His lips were unbelievably soft, every movement affectionate and careful until you deepened the kiss and felt him lose composure immediately.

A shaky breath escaped him.

Your fingers slipped beneath the open collar of his shirt, tracing the warm skin of his chest, and Michael nearly melted on the spot.

“Baby…” he breathed.

“Hm?”

“You keep touching me like that and I’m never going onstage.”

You smirked. “Tempting.”

He laughed quietly before kissing you again, more desperate now. You could feel years of insecurity in the way he held you—as though he still couldn’t believe someone wanted him this much.

So you showed him.

Again.

And again.

You kissed every inch of his face until he was blushing so hard he couldn’t even look at you properly anymore.

His forehead.

His cheeks.

The tip of his nose.

“Stop hiding from me,” you murmured between kisses.

“I’m trying,” he laughed weakly.

“You’re beautiful.”

Another blush.

“Angel face.”

“Please…”

You grinned. “Never.”

He shook his head, smiling helplessly now. “You really got me wrapped around your finger.”

“And you love it.”

“…Yeah.”

The honesty in his voice made your chest ache.

Michael rested his forehead against yours, breathing softly.

“You know,” he said quietly, “when I was little, I used to pray I’d wake up looking different.”

Your heart dropped.

“But now?”

He looked at you carefully.

“When you look at me…” He swallowed. “I don’t hate myself as much.”

Emotion tightened your throat instantly.

You kissed him softly, pouring everything you couldn’t say into it.

When you pulled away, you whispered, “You shouldn’t hate yourself at all.”

Michael smiled faintly.

“I’m trying not to.”

You touched his cheek. “Good.”

Another knock interrupted you both.

“Michael! Seriously!”

He groaned dramatically into your shoulder. “I don’t wanna go.”

“You’re a global superstar. You have responsibilities.”

“But I wanna stay here kissing you.”

Your grin widened. “You’re needy tonight.”

“Your fault.”

“Probably.”

He stole one more kiss before reluctantly pulling away. Still, he kept holding your hand like he physically couldn’t stop touching you.

At the door, he hesitated.

Then turned back suddenly.

“What?”

Michael walked straight toward you again, grabbed your waist, and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.

When he finally pulled away, his cheeks were pink again.

“There,” he said proudly.

You blinked. “What was that for?”

“So I can think about you onstage.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Michael Jackson,” you whispered dramatically. “Are you flirting with me?”

He laughed shyly. “Maybe a little.”

“Dangerous man.”

“Only for you.”

Then he started toward the door again before pausing one last time.

“Hey?”

“Yeah?”

He smiled softly.

“Call me angel face again after the show?”

Your entire expression melted.

“Every day if you want.”

That blush returned instantly.

Michael ducked his head with a laugh before finally disappearing out the door toward the screaming crowd waiting for him.

And just before it closed completely, you heard him mumble under his breath—

“Angel face… Lord have mercy.”

₊˚ෆ

a/n : changing my whole aesthetic that i had so yea !! i can’t believe this man was every even insecure bc he is like the most majestic person evaaa

[sinflowersugar]

You don't understand, that's my baby.

[devochkanextdoor]

the thought of !thriller era michael being overly obsessed with going down on you ever since you let him,

Ever since you let michael go down on you, it’s all he’s wanted to do. In the studio while producing music, after a hard day, even on the phone.

He’d be on the line to his mother, filling her in with information about work, tours etc. All the while he’d have your legs spread wide open on his king size bed, phone propped between his shoulder & ear as he let his feet hang in the air giving your cunt all the love & attention it needs as he strokes your inner thighs. You’d always tell him to stop that, saying it’s disrespectful — he never listened to you.

He’d give you one straight lick up your slit, lapping & sucking on your clit, eyes shut in pure bliss — right where he wanted to be, absolutely pussy drunk.

You’d let out little whimpers n’ squeals as he’d rub your clit occasionally.

“Shh,” he’d hiss, covering the phone with his hand.

“Michael? What’s that noise?”

“Just bubbles, mother.”

𑣲⋆

a/n: im ovulating I dont makes the rules

[sinflowersugar]

This is...

Clutching my pearls as I watch this play out in my head.

[crueldiors]

being fed all these michael jackson and jaafar jackson fics and edits wow i love everyone

[michaeldiary]

𓂃 the way you make him feel.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ thriller era michael.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ summary: gentlemen can still get their dicks sucked. michael thinks he’s exempt because you’re too pretty. AHNT! wrong.

⋮ ⌗ ┆ smut, oral sex (male receiving), a very shy and flustered michael because I genuinely don’t think he’d be any way else at this age, female reader. wrote this with the “it’s wonderful day!” interview in mind.

Michael isn't sure how he got in this predicament.

One second she'd been curled against him on the bed, tracing lazy shapes against his chest while the television hummed quietly somewhere in the background. The next, her lips were brushing against his ear, soft and plush and devastatingly warm, whispering something sweet as melted honey that made his stomach flip straight into his ribs.

He didn't even fully process the words, only the feeling of all the blood from his head rushing straight to his pants.

A featherlight breath against his skin.

A little kiss tucked just beneath his ear.

The way her voice wrapped around him slow and warm, making him melt before he even realized he was melting. And somehow after that, she was on her knees between his legs.

Michael sat frozen at the edge of the mattress, staring down at her with wide brown eyes while she looked up at him like he'd hung the stars himself. The lamp beside the bed washed everything amber gold, catching in the blush already flooding his cheeks and the nervous shine of his bitten lips.

She looked downright lovesick.

The kind of gaze that made his pulse scramble like frightened birds in a cathedral. Her pupils looked enormous beneath her lashes, soft and syrupy and practically heart shaped with how fond she seemed of him. It made him duck his head immediately, one hand flying up to cover his face as a helpless laugh escaped through his trembling fingers.

“Baby..” he laughed weakly, voice embarrassingly breathless. “Don't look at me like that...”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause...” He peeked at her through his fingers only to instantly regret it when she smiled. “You know why.”

Her hands settled on his thighs then, thumbs smoothing absent little circles against the fabric of his jeans while his knees twitched under her touch. Michael inhaled sharply, shoulders pulling inward with shy tension as she started inching upward, slow enough for him to want to instinctively close his thighs as his stomach tightened when her fingers brushed his belt.

“Can I taste what's in here, angel face?” she spoke softly, tilting her head.

Michael made the tiniest strangled sound. Immediately his head tipped back with embarrassment, curls tumbling across his forehead. “Don't say things like that..”

“Like what?” she asked, all faux innocence and sparkling eyes.

“Those cute names when you're being..” He swallowed hard. “..dirty.”

A grin tugged at her lips. “I think you like it.”

Michael shook his head too fast to be believable. “N-no! I’m a gentleman.”

“Liar.” Her fingers hooked lightly into his belt loops now, teasing without actually pulling. The anticipation alone had him squirming beneath her touch, one leg bouncing nervously while he tried very hard to avoid looking directly at her.

It didn't help that she looked beautiful like this.

Too beautiful, and the thought escaped before he could stop it.

“You're too pretty to be down there..” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “Messin' with something so.. perverted.”

She blinked up at him, trying not to laugh. “Perverted?”

Michael groaned softly and buried his entire face in both hands this time. “Please don't make me repeat stuff.. I’m really shy..”

The sound of her laughter was gentle, fond. She leaned forward just enough for her cheek to brush against his knee affectionately, and Michael nearly folded in on himself from the sheer tenderness of it.

“You’re shaking, Mikey..” Her hands left his belt slowly.

For a second Michael thought maybe she'd noticed how overwhelmed he was getting. The poor boy could barely breathe correctly anymore, all flushed cheeks and twitching thighs and nervous little laughs muffled behind his hands.

But then she reached for one of them.

Michael peeked through his fingers just in time to see her guiding his larger hand into her lap, her own looking impossibly small wrapped around it. Long fingers. Elegant fingers. The kind that belonged behind piano keys beneath stage lights.

“Mama..” he whispered, already embarrassed again.

She ignored him completely and instead, she turned his hand over gently and pressed a kiss to the tip of his thumb and Michael visibly melted.

Another kiss landed against his index finger.

Then his middle.

Then the next.

Slow little kisses. Unhurried and affectionate enough to make his pants feel unbearably tight. Michael stared down at her in stunned silence, lips parted slightly while heat crawled all the way down his neck. This was almost worse than the teasing because it was too sweet. Way too sweet.

His thighs shifted restlessly beneath her as she kissed the tip of his pinky last, eyes never leaving his face once— she was watching every single reaction bloom across him in real time.

Michael tried to hide again instinctively, but she still had his hand still holding him there. Her gaze dropped briefly and she took his longest finger gently between her lips, and Michael forgot how to breathe for a solid three seconds because all he could focus on was her mouth.

The softness of it. The shine of it. The way her plush lips looked wrapped around his finger while she looked back up at him through her lashes. She started sucking, bobbing her head up and down on the digit as her tongue swirled a little too good around the flesh.

Michael sucked in a shaky breath so suddenly it almost sounded painful. His free hand immediately covered his face again, utterly overwhelmed.

“Hoh, God..” he laughed weakly into his palm, voice trembling around the edges. His thighs tried to cave inward again, only stopping because she was still between them.

And she looked entirely too pleased about that fact.

This time her hand slid upward, fingers disappearing into the curls at the nape of his neck gentle and possessive in the softest way possible. She tugged him downward carefully, and Michael followed without resistance, folding toward her like he was helpless against gravity whenever she touched him like this. One of his hands caught against the mattress beside her head to steady himself.

He looked unbearably pretty up close with his flushed cheeks, heavy lashes and hips parted slightly from nervous breathing.

And still shy. Still hiding little fragments of his face from her whenever she looked at him too lovingly for too long. Her thumb brushed along his jaw and Michael's eyes fluttered shut the second her lips met his.

When she pulled back barely an inch, his eyes opened slowly. Dazed. She smiled at him so fondly it nearly finished him off right there. “Can I make you feel good, my angel?” she asked softly.

He ducked his head immediately, forehead nearly falling against her shoulder while a breathless giggle escaped him in pure embarrassment. “You already are..” he mumbled shyly.

Moments of movement and shuffling pass before Michael's breathing is completely uneven now.

Every inhale came sharp through parted lips, every exhale trembling back out because he couldn't quite steady himself anymore. His face stayed turned away half the time, curls falling over his eyes while little helpless sounds kept slipping from him no matter how hard he tried to swallow them down.

“Mm.. mm—baby.. baby—” The words barely even sounded intentional. More instinct than speech as his fingers flexed uselessly against the sheets beside him before curling tight enough to wrinkle the fabric. A second later they were in his hair instead, tugging lightly at the curls near his temple while he whines under his breath in disbelief. A completely overwhelmed sound, genuinely not able process how good this felt.

Her tongue swirls around the sensitive head of his pretty mauve flushed brown tip, the wet warmth of her mouth enveloping him completely. Her small hands grip his base firmly, matching the rhythm of her mouth’s movements.

Michael squeezed his eyes shut again, brows pulling together while another soft moan escaped him, quieter this time. Almost ashamed of itself with pink flooding across his cheeks, lips parted helplessly and chest rising too fast beneath the open collar of his shirt.

Every little reaction crossed his face openly before he could hide it. And god, he kept trying to hide it. Every time a sound slipped out, he’d duck his head immediately afterward, one hand covering his mouth like maybe he could physically stop himself from making another. It never worked.

“Please..” he whispered at one point, though it didn't even sound like protest. More like he was overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of being wanted this way.

Her mouth is filled with the prettiest cock she’s ever had— slender but long, with a graceful curve that hits the back of her throat perfectly. And such a precious shade of cooked honey, the head thick and smooth. His pelvic area is impossibly smooth, completely hairless and perfectly groomed. She can see every detail of his erection without obstruction; the way his shaft rises from the clean shaven pelvis as her hands run over his smooth pubic bone, feeling how soft the skin is stretched tight over the area.

Another broken little moan caught in his throat.

Michael swallowed hard afterward, eyes glassy when they fluttered open again. He looked almost distraught from pleasure alone now.

“This is so..” He exhaled shakily, unable to finish the sentence.

Dirty.

Dirty and deply intimate in a way that made his stomach twist itself into knots. Michael looked almost painfully pretty like this. Completely unraveled by tenderness and desire all at once. Every soft sound leaving him admittedly was very pathetic and he couldn't understand how he’d ended up here at all. With a beautiful girlfriend who likes, no—loves him enough to put his.. thing in her pretty mouth. They’ve been intimate before this, but he’s still so shy when they do fool around he’s just like this every time. He hasn’t even seen what in between her legs looks like yet but he’s felt it before with his fingers.

A particularly shaky moan slipped out of him then, and he immediately groaned afterward biting the knuckle of his pointer finger. “I can't hold it.. I can't hold it..” he mumbled weakly against his skin, mortified. But even then his thighs trembled.

Michael’s breath stutters as his entire body tightens for a brief, helpless second before he loses whatever shaky control he’d been holding onto. He sits up almost involuntarily, pulled by instinct more than thought and immediately folds forward over her, shoulders hunched, curls falling around his face as he cradles her head with both hands. He’s cumming.

“Lord—have mercy..”

His fingers press gently into her hair, careful not to mess it up too bad while his forehead dips close. He tries to steady himself against her, a soft broken sound caught in his throat, as he stays there feeling her tongue roll against the underside of his dick. He.. doesn’t quite know how to come back down from the intensity except by holding on.

And that’s what he does until he bashfully lets her pull away, a big flirty smile on her face as she wipes the corner of her mouth.

“What? Don’t look at me like that..” His little accent is thicker now.

“We’ve been dating for months and you’re still so precious! Come hereeeee~! ♪ ” She chirps going in to tickle him, to which he preemptively starts screaming.

© 2026 michaeldiary.

[sinflowersugar]

It was indeed a wonderful day.

[moonlitjane]

WANNA BE STARTIN’ SOMETHIN’

Michael Jackson x female reader

SUMMARY: An innocent movie night takes a turn when Michael becomes a little too distracted by your touch.

CONTENT: 18+, ???, sexual themes, kinda smutty I guess but nothing beyond a sloppy makeout sesh and heavy petting, very much puppy love vibes, inexperienced thriller era! Michael, subby michael I don’t make the rules, dry humping, he might be shy but that boy can’t keep his mouth shut! he’s a moaning mess

AUTHOR’S NOTE: @hcwait said something about michael being so shy he’d cover his mouth or bite his finger to keep from making noise and I said SAY LESS.

You didn’t even realize you were doing it— tracing gentle patterns into the denim right above Michael’s knee.

You were sat next to each other watching a movie with your limbs intertwined, and it’s like you didn’t even notice your thumb aimlessly rubbing against his leg— gliding across the rough surface of his jeans as your eyes stayed trained on the tv in front of you.

But he noticed. He noticed right away.

The second your hand fell on his knee his whole body froze.

It was motionless at first, just your palm resting gently on his leg. Then the stroking started. Your thumb moving in tender motions— back and forth— teetering dangerously toward the inside of his thigh.

It was so innocent, just a simple swipe of your fingers against his skin, not even his skin— his jeans. Only a sweet display of affection over clothing, yet it made him feel so excited.

He looked over at you— once, twice— checking to see if there was any slight change in your facial expression, any little shift in your body language that could lead him to think you were doing it on purpose. That maybe— just maybe—you were teasing him, just as hungry for more as he was.

His eyes fell down to his leg, your hand still resting above his knee, thumb still eroding away at the dark denim adorning his skin.

He wanted more. Needed more.

Without letting himself think about it, he placed a hand on your leg, allowing his palm to rest there, melting into the warmth of your thigh. He rubbed his thumb back and forth mimicking your movements.

It caught your attention immediately. It wasn’t like Michael to do something so bold.

The two of you had been taking things slow— really slow— respecting each other’s boundaries and getting to know one another in other, less physical, ways. You’d been patient, waiting for his signals, following his lead. Waiting for him to make all the first moves. His hand bravely perched on your thigh felt like some kind of long awaited approval. Like an invitation.

When you turned your head in his direction you expected to see him looking at you— waiting for your reaction. Instead, you were met with his side profile, his eyes fixed on the screen across the room, his hand still making gentle motions on your leg. He seemed calm, cool, collected.

But you could hear it— his quick shallow breaths— the way each exhale trembled as it left his lips.

He was nervous.

It was sweet.

You inched your hand up his leg ever so slightly, continuing to draw circles into his jeans.

Gently squeezing, you let your thumb slide lower toward the inside of his thigh. His body tensed. His chest filling with a single deep inhale as you watched him stare at your hand traveling recklessly close to his crotch.

His eyes shot up to meet yours, his flustered gaze hiding between the careful, slow blinks of his lashes.

Neither of you said a word. Neither of you looked away.

Your bodies were already so close together— his arm around your shoulder, your thighs smushed against each other— it made it impossibly easy to shift your weight until you were straddling his lap with each of your legs coming to rest on the sunken cushions beneath you.

A groan began to bubble from Michael’s chest at the sudden change of position. But the sound didn’t make it far, dissipating at the feeling of your body hovering over his.

You melted against him, hips colliding, causing him to choke on a whine as soon as he felt the friction.

“This ok?” The words left you in a whisper as you pressed your forehead against his.

As your hands found the curls at the nape of his neck, he nodded to your question before closing the gap between your lips.

His kiss was fueled by deliberation and impulse as his mouth moved with yours. His usual timid demeanor began to slip further away as your fingers tangled deeper into his curls, eliciting a soft whimper from his lips. Your hips moved against him at the sweet vibration of his moans on your tongue.

You kept the motion of your hips tame— just barely moving back in forth with the rhythm of the kiss, but your fingers moved wildly in Michael’s hair. Each gentle tug threatened a soft gasp from the man beneath you.

His hands stayed at his sides, fingertips scratching against his jeans— aching to hold you— to feel you.

You pulled away from his mouth long enough to utter a breathless invitation, “Michael. You can touch me.”

Meeting his lips again, you smiled into the kiss as you felt his hands come to rest on your body. His hold was tight on your hips, fingers pressing into your sides as he guided your body over his.

With both of you moving in tandem desperation for friction, you trailed your lips toward his jaw. Your mouth against his skin was wild and messy, mirroring the movement of your hips. Your lips were busy on his neck, kissing and sucking, and then-

The filthiest, most pathetic groan you’d ever heard slipped out of Michael’s mouth.

It was as if all the little noises he’d been fighting back were no match for the way your lips met that sensitive spot just under his jaw.

The sound only encouraged you, sending you on a desperate pursuit for more, but you noticed one of his hands leave your hips. It traveled up to his face, stopping at his mouth, acting as a muffle for the unruly sounds of pleasure seeping from his throat.

Your hips gyrated, the friction causing you both to grip and grab. Your fingers tangled into his hair and you could swear he was biting his palm to keep from groaning.

“You sound so pretty Michael.”

Your praise melted into his skin, each word fluttering against his neck, and as soon as it left your lips his hand was back on you, pulling at your hips.

A symphony of soft moans and instinctive whines filled the room as he let your flattery feed his liberation. No longer caring about keeping his cool or staying quiet, he set every noise free as he guided your body to grind onto his.

Your lips continued their descent on his neck, following a path to his collarbone. Meanwhile, his hands found their way to the hem of your t-shirt, gently pushing the material up just enough to feel the bare skin of your back. His touch was heavy yet tender, like he was starving but willing to wait an eternity just for a taste.

They traveled up your spine, savoring every inch of your soft skin under his fingers until-

The distant sound of a car door closing outside made you both jump.

His hands instinctively flew back to your hips as you pried your lips from his neck— both of your chests heaving and heads buzzing while you listened to the cackles of his brothers in the driveway.

So caught up in the heat of the moment, you’d forgotten all about his family and the fact that your time alone was limited.

The front door flew open, as voices traveled into the living room. You barely rolled off of michael, keeping a leg slung over his lap and a hand still in his hair as Tito and Marlon laughed their way into the kitchen.

“We could go upstairs…” Michael’s voice was quiet, each word soft and breathless, his chest still rising and falling at an ungodly pace.

“You don’t want to finish the movie?” Your question oozed with sarcasm as you watched Michael’s head dip in a giggle.

“C’mon.”

He was pulling you off the couch with a quick tug of your hand, both of you a mess of smitten glances and flustered chuckles as you practically raced each other up the stairs.

[sinflowersugar]

[humannatures]

sfw / fem reader, fluff )        imagine sitting on michael jackson’s lap while he admires all of your features. even in the midst of touring, he finds time to dote on his darling. his lithe, athletic body is relaxed, his back pressed against the backrest of some couch or chair, one hand firmly holding onto your waist while the other moves about your body, tapping and caressing every area he speaks about.

“i love your nose,” he starts, tracing the shape from the top of your nose bridge down to the tip, “perfect for poking.” his index finger meets your nose, his touch as gentle as his voice. michael goes on, letting his thumb trace your bottom lip, “and your lips… who could ever dislike lips like these?” he pulls lightly, exposing your teeth in a playful manner. “and the pearly whites behind them, of course.”

when you get embarrassed or flustered, turning your head away, michael just laughs that bright and melodic laugh of his before taking hold of your jaw and urging you to face him again. it’s not forceful; michael’s not a forceful man by any means. instead, it’s warm and encouraging. “no, no, don’t go hiding from me,” he coos, “aw, c’mon. let me see that gorgeous face. please? for me?”

of course, you oblige. who can say no to the sweet and charming lilt in his voice? the adoring look in his eyes is enough to make you melt when you work up the courage to look at him again. he’s always been full of love, but it’s not until he met you that he had somewhere to really put it. the hand at your waist pats twice, a quiet bid for attention that brings you out of your thoughts.

“as i was saying before i was interrupted,” he murmurs, letting go of your face to trace your eyebrows with his thumb, “eyebrows, unlike any other. and eyelashes, too. and that’s just your face.” he presses a quick kiss to your forehead, then pulls back to look you in the eye again. “you’ll probably get all embarrassed again if i continue to your body… but i want to, anyways. i want you to hear it, everything i love about you, right from my lips. that way, when you’re thinking those pesky thoughts… you know the ones… you can remember my voice instead. and i know how you just love my voice.”

a chuckle escapes your lips before you can help it, his playfulness finally rubbing off on you. “i can’t get enough of it, michael.”

carefully, he pulls you closer, kissing your cheek. “i know you can’t, baby,” he says, low and soft into your hair. “now, onto your body…”

author’s note )        tbh i imagine this as black!reader but i left it kind of open. love MJ fluff, he’s so sweet and loving. i feel like my tiger theming for this post might be childish but i rlly do think it’s so cute & i love tigers </3

[amilliongoodfish]

i automatically assume the reader has a silk press or box braids when y'all are describing hair in these stories. LMFAOOOOOO, you will NOTTT rain on my parade. i'll picture any michael x reader being about a black girl every single time