tw: 18+ mdni, pure smut, thigh riding him when he wears his gold pants, mutual masturbation, p in v, cream pie, overstimulation, use of “mama”
wc: 838
୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧
They were ruined.
Not that you had it in mind to care, nor did he, considering what was happening.
Your fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt, legs trembling as your hips rolled. The smooth fabric of his gold pants providing a maddening sensation as you ground your bare pussy along his thigh. The spot now damp and stained with your arousal as you chased your high.
Whimpering as you did so and cheeks reddened in embarrassment at your own neediness.
“That’s it, baby.” Michael said softly, pupils blown wide as he watched your cunt move, flexing his thigh and loving the way your whole body twitched at the action. Mesmerized by the sight of your clit dragging back and forth, grinding down as hard as you could against him. Desperately seeking out your own pleasure.
He was tired, given he was fresh off the stage. Leaned back on the couch and watching you dotingly. His cock straining against his pants and leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. The large inprint of his erection on display.
His teeth sank into his bottom lip as he finally let himself cave in, one hand dancing down and squeezing himself through his pants for a little relief.
“I wanna see you,” you asked, speech broken apart by a whimper. Your eyes transfixed on his erection.
He smiled, the action lazy as he undid the button and zipper. Loving the way you seemed to have a full body reaction to him, your skin flushing and his thigh getting a bit more wet with your arousal.
Michael’s teeth gritted slightly as he finally took hold of himself, the cool air hitting his tip that was already leaking pre-cum.
He pumped himself once, leaning back again to get a better view of you.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he said quietly, mostly to himself. Loving how completely unraveled you got, unfurling with love and lust and it was all for him.
You loved his gold pants. Although you’d never actually said it out loud, he picked up on it immediately. The way your eyes would linger. Teeth sinking into your lip as you watched him perform from the side of the stage. The way they didn’t hide a thing.
So when he pulled you over his lap and took hold of your hips, dragging you against him, of course you didn’t complain.
In fact, you seemed giddy.
Your eyes were glazed over as you watched him start to drag his hand up and down his cock, right from the base to the tip. His pace quickening with your hips, his head falling back a bit as he groaned.
“Fuck, Mike— I…” Your ground down harder, swirling your hips a bit and he could tell you were close. Your movements growing erratic and his own hips started to thrust up into his hand.
“Keep going, mama. I want you to come all over. I wanna see it.” He bit out, his jaw going a bit slack in pleasure as he felt his own orgasm slowly building.
He fucking loved your body. Every curve and bounce as you moved and your pretty face as your brows scrunched, body starting to twitch as you came. A sticky and glistening liquid coating his thigh as you moaned, your eyes still glued to the sight of him jacking off to you.
Michael bit down hard on his lip, the muscles in his stomach clenching as he tipped over the edge, his fist moving quickly and hips rolling to fuck his own hand as he came. Hot white spurts of his cum shooting out and coating your stomach—
And like a fiend, you crawled up his lap, lips crashing into his and like his dick had a mind of its own, he found himself thrusting into your swollen pussy the moment you hovered of him. Still having a bit of a drive, fucking up into you as he took hold of your hips with one hand as the other buried in your hair. His tongue sliding past yours as he moaned, his tip sensitive from his orgasm and his whole body trembled as he felt your pussy clench around him.
“Fuck,” his head fell into the crook of your neck.
It was too much, his own thighs shaking— “Baby, I can’t.”
“Please, I need it.” You begged, continuing to roll your hips and when his eyes danced down to where he could see his cock sliding in and out of you, a mixture of both your arousals dripping out of your cunt… he whimpered as he came again. This time more violent as he threw his head back, his hips rolling up on their own accord as you joined him. Your walls tightened and taking him for all that he was worth.
His chest was heaving as you melted on top of him, his skin slick with sweat and hair sticking to his forehead, your own breath heavy in his ear.
Michael’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as he tried to get a grip on reality.
context: you discover an early sign of vitiligo on your son.
"You look just like me,"
You whispered into the dark nursery, leaning over the wooden railing to poke his soft thigh. "Don't listen to your father. You have my toes. And my ears. We basically twins, Peanut."
The nursery was quiet at three in the morning, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the baby monitor and the soft, heavy breathing of five-month-old Sean—affectionately dubbed "Peanut" by Paris the very first day he came home from the hospital.
You stood over the crib, your hair wrapped in a silk bonnet, wearing one of Michael’s oversized flannel shirts as a makeshift robe. Peanut was fast asleep on his stomach, his little knees tucked up under his chest, his diapered bottom sticking up in the air. He had a full head of thick, tight, jet-black curls that defied gravity, a tiny button nose, and a pair of chubby, dimpled cheeks that you spend half your days kissing.
"Who are you tryna to convince, applehead?"
A low, raspy whisper came from the doorway. You turned to see Michael leaning against the frame, his frame silhouetted by the dim hallway light. He was wearing black pajama pants and a loose white V-neck, his own hair tied back in a messy, loose bun. He looked exhausted from a long string of meetings with his management team, but the moment his eyes landed on the crib, that soft, incredibly smug fatherly smile broke across his face.
He walked over on quiet tiptoes, the floorboards barely groaning beneath his feet, and slid his arms around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his skin warm against your neck, smelling of lotion and the lavender soap he used before bed.
"I'm not trying to convince anyone," you sniffed playfully, leaning back into his chest. "I carried this child for nine months, Michael. I endured swollen ankles, heartburn, and a literal midnight delivery. I deserve at least one feature."
Michael let out a breathless, silent laugh against your neck, his chest vibrating against your back. He peered down at the sleeping baby. "Beautiful, you are a vision, and I love you with all my heart, but that boy is a literal carbon copy of me from the Gary days. Look at that lip. Look at those curls. You just provided the penthouse suite for nine months."
"A penthouse suite is crazy." you mumbled, turning in his arms to face him. But you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips.
He wasn't lying. When Peanut had been born five months ago, it had been a whirlwind of emotion. The labor had been fast and furious, hitting you like a freight train in the middle of the night. You remembered Michael panicking, trying to grab the prepackaged hospital bag while simultaneously tripping over Blanket’s toys, while Prince and Paris stood at the top of the stairs in their pajamas, cheering you on like you were running a marathon.
When the doctor had finally handed the baby to you, wrapped in a striped hospital blanket, the room had gone completely still. Michael had wept openly, his hands shaking as he cut the cord, falling to his knees by the bedside to kiss your damp forehead over and over again. And when the rest of the Jackson clan had come to visit the ranch a few weeks later, the agreement had been immediate. Katherine had held the baby close to her chest, her eyes crinkling with tears as she whispered,
“Oh, Mike, he looks just like you did when you were a baby. Exactly like you.” Every single one of Michael's brothers had teased him about having a literal clone running around the house.
Life with a newborn had turned Neverland into a beautiful, chaotic playground.
Prince and Paris had adapted to their roles as big siblings with fierce, almost comical devotion. Prince considered himself the "Head of Security" for the nursery, strictly monitoring who entered and making sure anyone who wanted to hold the baby used a generous pump of hand sanitizer first.
Paris treated Peanut like her live-in doll, constantly picking out his little onesies, singing him off-key lullabies, and insisting on holding his bottle during feeding times. Even little Blanket, who was still the baby of the house himself, would toddle into the nursery just to press his favorite blue blanket against the baby’s tiny feet, making sure his little brother was warm.
By the afternoon, the heat of the California sun had mellowed into a golden, lazy warmth that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main living room.
The house was filled with the comfortable, domestic sounds of a family at peace. Peanut was down on the rug, happily playing inside his large mesh playpen. He was surrounded by a generous assortment of soft plush animals and a bright plastic teething ring that he was currently gnawing on with pure determination. Prince and Blanket were sitting on the hardwood floor right next to the pen, intensely focused on a massive game of ‘who can build the biggest lego tower’.
They were building an elaborate, multi-tiered fortress completely surrounding the playpen, treating their baby brother like a royal king protected inside an impenetrable castle.
"Don't put that block there, Bigi, it's gonna fall on the perimeter," Prince instructed in his serious, older-brother voice, carefully balancing a wooden piece. Blanket just let out a quiet grunt, happily passing Prince another block, his eyes occasionally darting to Peanut to make sure the baby was still smiling.
A few paces away, the open-concept kitchen was separated from the living room by a wide marble island. You and Michael were working together in tandem, preparing a late lunch for the kids. The radio was playing a soft, soulful Motown track in the background. Michael was humming along, his hips swaying slightly to the rhythm as he expertly sliced up red apples and peeling oranges on a wooden cutting board. You were beside him, assembling ham and cheese sandwiches, spreading mayonnaise over the white bread with practiced ease.
"Think we should take them to the movie theater on the property later?" Michael asked softly, tossing a small piece of apple into his mouth. "Prince said he wanted to see that new cartoon again."
"Only if you promise not to let them eat their weight in snacks before dinner," you replied, nudging his hip with yours. "Last time, Paris had a sugar rush that lasted until midnight."
Michael chuckled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, I can't help it if the concession stand has the best—"
The heavy, frantic slap-slap-slap of bare feet sprinting down the long hallway shattered the peaceful atmosphere.
The kitchen doors flew open with a loud thud. Paris stood in the frame, her chest heaving underneath her overalls, her eyes wide with a sudden, absolute panic. Her little hands were gripping the edges of her shirt.
"Mama! Daddy! Come quick!" she gasped out, her voice trembling with an innocent but terrifying urgency. "Peanut's skin is coming off! It’s gone!"
Your heart violently dropped into your stomach like a lead weight. The butter knife slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly against the marble counter. A cold, suffocating wave of pure adrenaline rushed through your veins. "What?!" you shrieked, your maternal instinct instantly flaring into overdrive.
Michael didn't even speak. The apple slice he was holding dropped to the floor as his face went completely pale. He vaulted past the kitchen island, his long legs carrying him down the hallway in a blur of motion. You were right on his heels, your heart hammering against your ribs as a million horrific medical scenarios flashed through your mind—burns, a sudden allergic reaction, an infection, ANYTHING.
Michael burst into the living room, practically sliding on the polished wood floor to reach the playpen. Prince and Blanket looked up, startled by the sudden, dramatic entrance of their parents.
You scrambled in right behind Michael, your hands shaking as you reached into the mesh pen and scooped a confused Peanut up into your arms. You frantically turned him over, inspecting his face, his chubby hands, his neck, his ears. Peanut just blinked his wide, dark eyes up at you, completely unfazed, letting out a wet bubble and waving his arms.
"Where, Paris? Where is it?!" you breathed, your voice cracking as you scanned his skin.
Paris rushed over, pointing a trembling finger at the baby's left side, right under his arm. "Right there! I saw it when he rolled over to grab his toys! His skin is rubbing off!"
You didn't hesitate. With trembling fingers, you gently gathered the hem of the baby's soft cotton onesie and unsnapped it, pulling the fabric up to expose his chubby little torso and ribcage. You carefully turned him toward the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, your eyes scanning the rich, beautiful brown complexion of his skin.
And then, you saw it.
Right near his ribs, just below his tiny armpit, there was a small, irregular patch of skin about the size of a dime. It wasn't bleeding. It wasn't raw, or peeling, or inflamed. It wasn't a rash.
It was simply a patch of skin that was completely devoid of its pigment—a stark, milky-white contrast against the rest of his smooth, dark skin.
You let out a long, ragged breath, the immediate terror of a physical injury or a chemical burn leaving your body. You ran a gentle, soothing thumb over the spot. It felt perfectly smooth. Exactly like the rest of him. "It's... it's just a light spot, Paris," you whispered, trying to calm your own racing pulse. "Maybe a new birthmark. He's okay."
You turned your head to look at Michael, expecting him to give a sigh of relief.
The words caught completely in your throat.
Michael hadn't moved. He was frozen on his knees beside the playpen, his gaze locked entirely on the nickel-sized white patch on his son's torso. Every single drop of color had drained from his face, leaving him a ghostly, fragile shade of pale. His jaw was slightly slack, his lips parted, and his dark eyes were wide, glassy, and completely unblinking.
He didn't cry. He didn't make a sound. But the sheer, agonizing weight of a silent realization hung over him like a suffocating shroud.
He knew exactly what it was.
It was vitiligo.
It was the very same autoimmune disease that had ravaged his own body, turned his teenage years into a nightmare, and transformed his adulthood into a cruel media circus. It was the disease that had physically altered him, causing him decades of physical pain in the sun and unimaginable emotional scarring from a world that refused to believe he was sick.
And now, it was appearing on his innocent, five-month-old baby boy—years, decades earlier than it had ever appeared on him.
"Baby?" you murmured softly, your voice dropping into a cautious, protective register. The kids were watching, and the sudden, heavy silence in the room was making them uneasy.
Michael didn't look up. He couldn't. His hands, usually so expressive and steady, were visibly trembling as he slowly reached out. His index finger hovered just a millimeter above the white patch on Peanut's skin. He looked like he wanted to touch it, to wish it away, but he was too terrified that his touch would somehow make it real.
Prince looked between you and his father, his brow furrowing with that quiet, intuitive maturity he often showed. "Dad? Is Peanut sick?"
The sound of his oldest son's voice seemed to snap a cord inside Michael. He closed his eyes for a brief second, swallowing hard, forcing the raw panic down into the deepest recesses of his chest. When he opened his eyes, he forced a weak, incredibly gentle smile onto his face, though his eyes remained entirely hollow.
"No, Prince. Peanut isn't sick. He's perfectly healthy," Michael whispered, his voice remarkably controlled, though it carried a fragile, paper-thin edge. He looked at Paris, reaching out to tousle her hair. "You did a good job watching your brother, Paris. Thank you for telling us."
He cleared his throat, standing up with a deliberate, slow movement. "Prince, why don't you take Paris and Blanket back to the kitchen? Go ahead and start on the fruit slices. Mama and I will be right there in just a minute. We're just going to change Peanut's diaper."
Prince searched his father's face for a moment, then nodded solemnly. He took Paris and Blanket by their hands, leading them quietly out of the living room. The wooden doors of the kitchen swung shut behind them, leaving the room entirely silent.
The moment the kids were out of sight, the mask completely fell away.
Michael didn't cry, but he looked entirely, completely drained, as if the physical energy required to hold himself together had aged him ten years in a span of ten seconds. He sank back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, his breathing shallow and ragged.
You didn't say a word. You carefully tucked Peanut back into his onesie, snapping it shut, and carried him over to the couch. You sat down right next to Michael, placing the baby gently in the space between you. Peanut, completely unaware of the heavy gravity in the room, immediately rolled onto his side and began to happily pull at the fabric of Michael's pajama pants.
You wrapped your arm around Michael’s shoulders, pulling his rigid, trembling frame against your side. "Michael," you murmured, your voice a steady, grounding anchor in the dark. "Honey, talk to me. Look at me, baby."
Slowly, Michael dropped his hands from his face. His eyes were bloodshot, staring blankly ahead at the wall.
"I passed it to him," he whispered, his voice entirely devoid of its usual melodic warmth. It was a flat, broken sound. "I prayed so hard. Every single night since you told me you were pregnant... I begged God to let him have your skin. To let him be safe from this."
He turned his head to look at you, and the sheer, raw vulnerability in his eyes broke your heart.
"Before I met you... my ex-partners, they... they didn't want to have children with me because of it," Michael confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, painful whisper, sharing a piece of trauma he had kept locked away for years. "They were terrified. One of them told me straight to my face that she didn't want to risk having a child who would get the vitiligo, or a child who would be too dark, or a child who would look like... like a freak to the world. They were scared of my genetics. They were scared of me."
Your grip tightened around his shoulder, your fingers digging into his shirt as a fierce, protective anger surged through you on his behalf.
"And I started to believe them," Michael continued, a bitter, hollow smile touching his lips. "I started to think that maybe I shouldn't have any more kids. Because look what I did to him. He's only five months old, and it's already starting. The world is going to tear him apart, Baby. They're going to accuse him of trying to change, they're going to call him names, they're going to look at his skin like it's a mistake. He looks just like me, and now he's going to have to suffer just like me."
"Michael, look at me," you commanded gently, reaching up with your free hand to firmly cup his jaw, forcing his eyes to lock onto yours. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone. "Listen to me very carefully."
Michael blinked, his breath hitching as he looked into your eyes.
"Those women were blind, and they didn't deserve a single piece of the beautiful man you are," you said, your voice fierce, steady, and filled with an absolute, unwavering certainty. "You did not curse our son. You gave him life. You gave him those big beautiful eyes, that sweet smile, and a soul that is going to be just as kind and brilliant as his father's."
You leaned down, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to his forehead, then to his lips, letting him feel the entire weight of your love.
"And you listen to me," you continued, sliding your hand down to rest over his heart. "The world is different now. He is not going to go through what you went through alone. Do you know why?"
Michael swallowed hard, his dark eyes searching yours. "Why?"
"Because when you were a kid going through this, you didn't have anyone who understood," you whispered, a tear of your own finally slipping down your cheek. "But Peanut has you. He has a father who knows exactly how it feels, who can teach him how to be strong, how to hold his head high, and how to love himself. And he has a mother who will tear this entire industry apart before she lets anyone make her baby feel any less than perfect."
You shifted slightly, picking up Peanut and placing him directly into Michael’s lap. The baby immediately let out a happy coo, his tiny, chubby hands reaching up to blindly grab at the silver buttons on Michael's shirt.
"Look at him, Mikey," you murmured softly. "He doesn't care about a spot on his skin. He just wants his daddy."
Michael looked down at his son. He watched as Peanut's little fingers tangled in his shirt, his big, round eyes full of absolute, unconditional adoration for the man holding him.
Slowly, the heavy, suffocating tension began to melt out of Michael's shoulders. He let out a long, shaky breath—not a sob of defeat, but a release of the agonizing fear he had carried alone for decades. He wrapped his long, slender arms around the baby, pulling Peanut close against his chest, burying his face into the baby’s sweet, lotion-scented curls.
He reached out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around your waist and pulling you into the tight, fiercely protective circle.
"Thank you," Michael whispered against the baby's hair, his voice thick but finally steady, anchored by the strength you had poured into him. "Thank you, Mama. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"You'll never have to find out," you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder as the three of you sat together in the soft sunlight. "We're a team."
i keep seeing posts and comments of people shitting on writers for the pet name "mama". my response to that is, "okay and? don't read it." i don't like the way white writers write michael, so i don't read their writing. simple. i'm not bashing them for it. there are plenty michael fics that do not include "mama". there are even writers that put in their "content" or "warnings" section that the name is in the fic. they don't have to do this; they're just being courteous because they are aware there are people who do not like that name being used.
the internet has done a great job these past few years at making people more self-centered. not everything is for you, and that's okay. find the things that are for you. when writers write, unless they're fulfilling a request, they are writing for themselves. that's how it should be. when artists do things because they like it and because it pleases them, they and their audience get more fulfillment out of it. when artists think too much of what other people think, they get burned out and discouraged.
also, we do not know who michael jackson is. point, blank, period. we will never truly know this man. everyone is writing an idealized and fantastical version of him. i'm pretty sure i've only read one or two fics that characterize him accurately based on what he's shown to the public and what the people who've known him have said about him. you cannot say, "michael wouldn't say that," because you don't even know whether he would say it or not. there are only a few confirmed nicknames michael called other people and none of them are sexy.
this has to be born out of cultural disconnect because majority of the people i see complaining about this are white, non-hispanic. "mama" and "mami" are very common terms of endearment for african-americans, afro-caribbeans, and caribbean latinos. i've been called this by friends and by my boyfriend. i've called friends this. i've heard parents call their daughters this.
if you don't like it, don't read it. no one's forcing you.
content ! 18+, unprotected p in v, praise, sweet sex, pet names (baby, honey)
"fuck!" you cry, throwing your head back and letting your jaw go slack. michael is pistoning his hips against yours relentlessly, the only sounds in the room being the lewd skin slapping and the heavy panting and moans emitting from both of you.
"i know, honey" he coos, trying his best to be sweet verbally despite how rough he's being with you physically. "m'sorry babygirl" he tries.
the stretch was borderline excruciating. he was just too big. the funny part is he doesn't even know he's that big! or atleast he didn't know it until you started screaming complaining about it.
"s'too big, michael!" you mewl, squirming under him, but you can't help but arch into him. it's almost instinctive.
"just breathe, baby... breathe" maybe he should take his own advice, because he's barely able to take in a full breath with just how tight your gummy walls are squeezing and fluttering around him.
"i- can't-" the pleasure becomes overwhelming when michael reaches in between the both of you to aimlessly rub at your clit, anything to get you to stop whining. he immediately notices your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. "s'that better honey?" he asks, "that feel a little better?" you nod frantically, barely able to compute his sweet words as you feel yourself growing closer and closer to coming undone. the sniveling and the cries coming from you morph into delighted moans as the stretch becomes euphoric, his praises egging you on impossibly.
"there she is" he purrs, a small, knowing smirk playing on his face.
"there's my girl" he litters your face with small kisses in an effort to calm you down as he continues his thrusts, growing closer to the edge himself.
"g-gosh- baby," he groans, his big fingers still working at your clit.
"feels s'good michael!" you moan, right at the edge. "yeah?" he moans right back at you. "that feels good, huh?" he speeds up his thrusts, making you squeal. "feel me so deep, yeah?" he looks down and sees himself poking through your lower belly. he reaches down and presses on the bulge, making you wince at the tightness. the bulge is disappearing and reappearing with every thrust. "shi-shoot, honey" he mutters.
you feel the white hot band in your tummy snap, pleasure shooting through your body as you cry out his name. that alone is enough to push him over the edge as well. he cums deep inside you, fucking into you a few last times. you both lay there, panting. he's heavy on top of you, laying sweaty on top of you (not that you mind). and of course, michael is quick to comfort you.
he pushes some of the hair out of your face, off of your damp, flushed skin. "you did so good, baby... m'sorry i was so rough" he speaks gently, kissing your forehead.
𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: established relationship, somnophilia elements, cnc (? idkkk), dom mike, sub reader, implied chubby/curvy reader, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, lotssss of dirty talk
𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 𝟒.𝟏𝓀
𝓁𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓈: navigation | masterlist
𝒯he roar of the crowd was a physical weight, a tidal wave of screams and frantic energy that surged against the stage.
But for Michael, the noise was nothing but a distant hum.
As he spun, his body a blur of precision and practiced grace, his mind was miles away from the stadium lights and the sea of reaching hands. It was anchored firmly in the memory of the night before, the taste of your skin, the way your hips arched to meet his, and the intoxicating, heavy scent of your arousal as he’d buried himself deep inside you.
Every time he hit a sharp, staccato movement or a deep hip thrust during The Way You Make Me Feel, a jolt of pure, unadulterated heat shot straight to his groin. He was performing for tens of thousands, but he was dancing for you.
As the bass dropped into a heavy, rhythmic thrum, the memory surged up so violently, it almost knocked the wind out of him.
He wasn't on a stage anymore; he was back in the dark, the air thick and humid with the scent of your bodies. He could feel the weight of his own body pinning you down in that deep, heavy mating press, his chest crushed against yours so there wasn't a single inch of space left between you. He remembered the way he’d leaned all his weight into you, forcing you deep into the mattress, making sure you felt every bit of him.
He remembered the way he’d looked down at you, his eyes dark and predatory, watching you squirm under his command. "Oh, my pretty baby..." he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to settle right in your bones.
He had leaned down, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, before his hand slid into your panties. He’d smeared your gushing, sweet nectar across your clit with his thumb, a slow, deliberate motion that made you whine. "Could give it t'ya all the time, everywhere... Ohhhh just feel how soaked she is f'me."
You nodded quickly, your breath coming in short, frantic hitches, humming in response as his fingers worked you.
"Yeah you'd like that, don't you?," Michael had muttered against your skin, his breath hot and smelling of desire. "'Just pullin' your panties to the side, all slick 'n ready for me, 'nd just slide in this sweet lil pussy"
The memory of him casually smacking the head of his cock over your throbbing clit made the Michael on stage stumble for a micro second, his hips twitching in time with the phantom sensation. He remembered the way you had trembled in his arms, the way you'd gasped, "Oh!—"
Then, the sensation of his heavy cock stretching you out and pushing in in one heated, relentless thrust, nearly knocking the wind out of your lungs. He remembered the way your delicious walls clamped around him, the way your feminine essence covered his dick.
"That good, baby?" he had whispered, stilling just for a moment to kiss your cheek, his fingers digging deep into the soft meat of your thighs to keep you pinned. He had felt so fucking full, feeling the way your body tried to swallow him whole.
"Mhm, Mikey, pleasee..." you had whined back, your hands finding his his face, pulling his face back to kiss him deep.
"Don't beg, sweet baby, imma give it t'you..," he had hummed, a dark, satisfied sound.
The memory turned frantic, just like the music currently playing in the stadium. He remembered the harsh, speedy thrusts, his hips snapping with a raw, animalistic force to drive his flushed tip directly against your sweet spot with every single stroke.
"Love this pussy, baby... all wet and drippin' for me..." he had groaned into your ear, his teeth grazing your lobe. "Gonna make 'er remember me when I ain't there to please my lil' angel"
"Ohh yes, right there—!"
The sound of it the wet, rhythmic slapping of skin on skin, the way your moans had echoed through the room, the way the very furniture seemed to shake that you thought the damn thing would give out every second now with the force of his stamina. It was all playing on a loop in his brain.
He remembered the way he’d relentlessly ploughed into you, his face scrunched in pure, unadulterated pleasure as his huge, veiny cock was driving you into the bed until you were nothing but a babbling, incoherent mess.
It was a dangerous game to play. He was running, jumping, and sliding across the stage with the intensity of a man possessed, all while managing a stubborn, pulsing half erection that strained painfully against the fabric of his black trousers.
Every heavy beat of the bass felt like a rhythmic reminder of how much he needed to be back in your bed, feeling the lush, soft weight of your body beneath him once more. He was wired, his adrenaline spiking not just from the choreography, but from the sheer, desperate hunger to get the hell out of the spotlight and back into your arms and into your delicious cunt.
The final notes of Man in the Mirror echoed through the stadium, but they were almost immediately swallowed by the deafening roar of thousands of screaming fans. Their cheers followed him like a wave, growing louder and louder as the lights brightened.
Michael barely acknowledged any of it.
He offered one last quick wave toward the crowd before disappearing into the wings, moving at such a pace that several crew members had to step out of his way. His pulse thundered in his ears, his chest rising and falling with every hurried breath as he all but rushed down the narrow backstage corridors. Sweat still clung to his skin from the performance, dampening the curls at the nape of his neck, but he hardly noticed.
Normally, after a show, he'd stop to thank the dancers, exchange a few words with the band, or greet members of his crew. Tonight, none of that crossed his mind. He had somewhere else he wanted to be.
Every minute he'd spent on stage had only made the anticipation worse, and now that the concert was finally over, he could think of nothing except getting to you.
All he could think about was the faint, floral scent of your perfume that always seemed to linger on his skin long after he’d left you and a fragrance he'd come to associate with comfort. And the way you looked when you were lost in sleep.
He needed to see you. He needed to touch you. He needed to feel your heat again.
As he reached the door to the suite, his heartbeat still hadn't settled. It pounded against his ribs from the performance, though by now it had little to do with the concert and more with the thought that he'd be finally reunited with his pretty angel again.
His breathing came in uneven pulls as he fished the keycard from his pocket, his fingers clumsier than usual as he tried to slide it through the lock. The plastic clicked once... then again before the reader finally flashed green.
A heavy click echoed through the quiet hallway.
Michael let out a slow breath he'd been holding and pushed the door open. The suite greeted him with warm amber light spilling from a lamp in the corner, the rest of the room bathed in soft shadows.
After the deafening chaos of the stadium, the silence felt almost surreal. It was calm. Still. The kind of quiet that settled deep in his bones.
The silence of the room wrapped around him like a velvet shroud, a stark, jarring contrast to the loud crowd he had just escaped. It was heavy, thick with the quiet intimacy of the night. As he entered your shared bedroom, is eyes immediately swept the room until they landed on the massive bed.
There you were. The clock on the bedside table read 11:00 PM. You were sound asleep, lost in a deep, peaceful slumber that. It seemed that you had fallen asleep while waiting for him.
You were a soft silhouette against the silk sheets, the covers having slipped halfway down your frame in your sleep. He stood there, frozen in the doorway, his eyes raking over you.
You were wearing a soft pink baby doll nightgown. The lace was thin and delicate, hugging the curves of your body closely, and the neckline was low enough that your pretty tits were practically spilling out, the soft swell of them catching the dim light, making him groan inwardly in anticipation.
The hem had ridden up in your sleep, bunching high on your thighs and leaving just enough exposed to show the edge of your pretty panties peeking out from underneath. It was a sight that made his throat go dry, the sheer, effortless beauty of you making his pulse hammer against his ribs.
The sight of you, so soft and unbothered, sent a fresh, violent surge of lust straight to his core. His trousers felt impossibly tight, the fabric chafing painfully against his hardening dick as he stared.
He didn't move at first. He just stood there in the shadows, his chest heaving, eyes dark with a hunger that was borderline feral. He wanted to wake you up with a kiss, but he also wanted to just watch you for a second, to see the way the moonlight hit the curve of your plush hip, the swell of your ass and the lace of of that damn nightgown.
Without saying a word, he started shrugging off his clothes. His jacket landed on the floor first, followed by his shirt, both tossed aside without much thought.
He made his way toward the bed slowly, his eyes never leaving you. Being this close, he could finally catch your scent—a mix of warm skin and the lingering comfort of sleep—and it went straight to his head.
He reached the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking slightly beneath his weight as he climbed onto it. Every movement was slow and deliberate, careful enough not to disturb the slumber.
He stopped above you, his larger frame casting a shadow over yours, the warmth radiating from his body instantly closing the distance between you. For a moment, he simply looked at you, his gaze lingering as though he were committing every detail to memory.
Then he leaned down, stopping just beside your ear. His lips hovered only a breath away from your skin, and if you were awake, you would have felt the warmth of his uneven breathing against your neck.
"Hey, baby..." he rasped to himself, his voice low and unpolished, stripped of all the stage presence and replaced with pure, raw need.
He let out a shaky, heavy breath, his eyes dropping to where the pink lace met your skin. "God, you look so good, you got no idea how much I've been thinkin' 'bout gettin' back to this..." he whispered, barely audible.
He didn't wake you. He didn't want to break the spell, at least not yet; he wanted to savor the way you looked, completely vulnerable and blissfully unaware. Completely trusting him.
Slowly, tentatively, he slid a hand beneath the hem of that pink nightgown. His skin was hot, still buzzing from the stage lights and the sweat of the performance, and as his fingers brushed against the soft skin of your thigh, he let out a tiny, jagged exhale.
You didn't stir, only let out a soft, sleepy hum that made his cock twitch violently in his trousers.
"Yeah, just keep sleepin', sweet girl..." he whispered, his voice a dark, rough caress in the quiet room. "Just stay right there for me..."
His hand traveled higher, his long fingers tracing the delicate lace of your panties. He could feel the heat radiating from you, a delicious warmth that made his head swim. He reached the edge of the fabric, his thumb grazing the damp, swollen center of you through the thin material. You were already slick, already warm, and the mere sensation of him made your breath hitch just a fraction.
"God, y'so soft..." he muttered, his eyes hooded and dark as he watched his own hand move against you. He worked his fingers under the lace, sliding them deep into the heat of your panties, finding you slick and ready even in your sleep. "Been thinkin' 'bout you all night... every time the bass hit, all I could think about was how much I wanted t'be right here... sinkin' into you..."
He began to move his fingers in slow, rhythmic circles, his touch light but purposeful, teasing the sensitive nub of your clit through the silk. He watched your face, mesmerized by the way your features softened with pleasure even as you remained lost in dreams.
"Look at you..." he breathed, a low, hungry sound vibrating in his chest. "Just a sweet little doll, layin' here waitin' f'me. My sweet, beautiful doll..."
He slid two fingers deeper, stretching you slightly, feeling the incredible, velvet grip of your walls. He let out a low, guttural groan, the sound muffled as he pressed his forehead against the mattress near your hip.
"So fucking wet for me..." he rasped, voice thick with his arousal. "Drippin' just thinkin' 'bout how much you missed me. You got no idea, baby... how much I been starving for this delicious little cunt of yours. Just wantin' to bury myself so deep in you that we both forget where the bed ends and we begin..."
He increased the pressure slightly, his thumb working the clit with a steady, relentless rhythm, his eyes fixed on the way your hips gave a tiny, involuntary tilt toward his hand. He was practically vibrating with the effort of staying controlled, of not just stripping off the rest of his clothes and shoving himself into you right then and there.
"Almost there, baby..." he whispered, his voice dropping to a pitch so low it was almost a growl. "Just a little more... let me see how much of a mess you can make for me while you're dreamin'..."
The rhythmic friction of his thumb and the deep, steady pulse of his fingers finally pushed you over the edge. A soft, broken gasp escaped your lips as your body tightened, a wave of warmth rolling through you that pulled you upward from the depths of sleep. Your hips gave a small, instinctive twitch against his hand, searching for more of that incredible pressure.
Your eyes fluttered open, heavy and clouded with sleep, trying to make sense of the dark silhouette looming over you and the delicious, aching sensation between your thighs.
"Mikey...?" you murmured, your voice thick and honey slow, completely dazed. You reached out blindly, your hand brushing against the warm, bare skin of his chest.
"Just me, baby... just me," he rasped, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, heated kiss to your temple. "Go back to sleep, sweet girl. You looked so damn pretty layin' here... just waitin' for me. Just let me love on you all night..."
He didn't give you a chance to fully wake up before he was moving, his lean frame sliding close behind you in the dark. He settled in, molding his body to the curve of your back, his warmth seeping into you.
"Just relax, baby..." he whispered, his breath a warm, steady caress against the shell of your ear. "Go back t'sleep. Just stay right there 'n your dreams. Imma make you feel real good..."
Before he moved to push his heavy cock into your waiting pussy, he reached down, his arm sliding under your thigh. He lifted your leg, guiding it forward and hitching it up toward your chest so he could settle deeper against you. The movement opened you up, leaving you feeling beautifully exposed to him in the quiet of the room. You let out a soft gasp at the angle.
"There... just like that," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble. "Perfect."
With your leg pulled forward, he slid your panties to the side and positioned himself at your entrance. He didn't rush; he wanted to savor the feeling of you. You felt the blunt, heavy tip pressing against your slickness, teasing your soaking hole before he finally began to slide in slowly.
He moved in an agonizingly controlled rhythm, guiding himself in one long, seamless stroke that filled you so completely it made your and his breath hitch at the same time.
"Mm, so warm..." he breathed, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he buried himself inside you, big hands gripping your sides. "You feel so good, sweet baby. So wet..."
He began to move, but he kept the pace heavy and deliberate, the friction of his skin sliding against yours creating a delicious, rhythmic heat. He stayed tucked close behind you, his chest a constant, warm pressure against your back. His hands were never still; one stayed anchored firmly on your hip to steady you, while the other roamed feverishly up and down your side, his palm hot against your skin.
He reached down, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you wide to make sure every single inch of him was buried deep within you.
"Just stay sleepy for me, sweet girl," he whispered, his voice a dark, hungry caress. "Just let me take care of you. Feels so good when I'm deep inside you like this, don't it?"
You let out a shaky, broken moan, your head lulling back against his shoulder. "Mikey..." you whimpered, your voice thick and heavy with arousal and sleep. "Feels so good..."
"I know, baby," he murmured, his lips brushing against your skin as he drove into you again, a little deeper this time. "Just let me hold you like this."
He never let up the rhythm, his hips continuing that heavy, deep grind that had you melting into the mattress. As he drove his cock into you, he reached around to the front, his fingers hooking into the neckline of your pink baby doll top.
He pulled the soft fabric down, exposing your tits to the cool air, and his eyes darkened as he saw your tits swaying with every thrust of his dick.
"Fuck yeahh..." he breathed, his voice a low, worshipful rumble. He reached up, his hand cupping one of your heavy breasts, his fingers kneading the soft flesh. "You got the prettiest tits, baby. Every time I slide back in, they just bounce so sweet f'me..."
He squeezed you gently, his thumb rolling over your nipple, teasing the peak until you let out a sharp, needy gasp.
While his hand stayed busy worshiping your tits, his other hand slid down, snaking past your waist and disappearing beneath the hem of your nightgown. His long fingers found your heat again, sliding straight back to that swollen, sensitive nub of your clit. He began to rub you with a steady, relentless pressure, his touch a perfect contrast to the heavy, blunt sensation of his cock filling your cunt.
"Mm, so messy f'me, girl," he murmured, his voice thick with affection as he felt your pussy clenching around him. "Pussy's just drippin' f'me... so slick 'nd ready for my dick."
The combination was overwhelming. The feeling of him stretching you open from behind, while his fingers worked your clit into a frenzy, had you arching your back, your hips searching for more of that friction.
"Just stay right there, my sweet baby," he urged, his pace picking up, his thrusts becoming more demanding as he felt you getting closer. "Just let me take care of you..."
You let out a broken, desperate sound, your voice barely a whisper as you fought to stay in that hazy, pleasurable state. "Mikey..." you whimpered, your head lulling back against his shoulder. He pressed a sweet kiss against your cheek. "It feels so good..."
"It is so good," he agreed, his voice a soft, gravelly caress as he drove into you again, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside your cunt. "So delicious, my angel. Just a sweet, beautiful girl, lettin' me fill you up like this..."
The tension in your body was coiling tighter and tighter, a frantic, beautiful pressure building deep in your belly. The sound of his heavy, ragged breathing was right against your ear, punctuating every deep, sliding thrust of his cock.
"Mmm, god, baby..." he groaned, the sound low and vibrating through your entire body, voice breaking as he felt the heat of your pussy clenching around him. "So perfect... my sweet girl.. you're so fucking— mmm..."
He trailed off into a long, low moan as he drove himself into you with a sudden, deep surge, his hips hitting yours with a soft, wet thud. His hand on your breast squeezed firmly, his fingers trembling slightly as he kneaded your soft flesh.
His fingers at your clit were relentless, a steady, rhythmic friction that felt like it was setting your entire lower half on fire. Every time his cock hit that deep, sweet spot, he let out a sharp, breathy moan, his head lulling against your shoulder as he fought to keep his rhythm.
He whimpered against your neck, a sound so pretty it made your heart race. "Jus' wanna hold you forever..."
He was losing his grip on that controlled, slow pace. His thrusts were becoming heavier, more desperate, driven by the sheer sensation of your slick cunt wrapping around his dick. He was huffing, his chest heaving against your back, his skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat.
"Almost there...baby" he groaned, his voice a wrecked, beautiful mess of affection and hunger. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin as he let out a long, shuddering moan. "Give it t'me, lemme feel you come all over me, girl..."
You were right there, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps that mirrored his own. "Oh fuck—"
"Yeahh, juuust like that," he breathed, his voice barely a whisper as he felt the first tremors of your orgasm begin to ripple through your pussy, his own moans growing louder, more primal, as he felt you tighten around his cock.
The tremor hit you like a wave, a sudden, violent clench of your pussy that caught him completely off guard. You let out a high, broken cry, your back arching as the pleasure became too much, radiating outward in hot, pulsing ripples.
Michael let out a wrecked, guttural whine, his entire body tensing as he felt your cunt milking him, the rhythmic contractions of your walls squeezing his dick so tightly it felt like you were trying to pull him deeper .
The sensation was too much for him. As your orgasm peaked, he gave one final, deep thrust, burying his cock as far as it could possibly go, his hips pinning you firmly to the mattress.
He let out a long, shuddering groan that seemed to vibrate from his chest into your spine as he finally broke. You felt the hot, thick pulses of him filling you, his seed flooding your pussy in heavy, rhythmic bursts that made your toes curl and your head spin.
"Oh, god, s'good baby..." he gasped, his voice a broken, breathless wreck. He stayed buried inside you, his entire frame trembling with the aftershocks of his own release. He was huffing, his chest heaving against your back in the quiet room, the only sound the frantic, synchronized thudding of your two hearts.
Slowly, the tension bled out of both of you. He didn't pull away; he just stayed there, heavy and warm, his lean body a comforting weight that anchored you to the bed. He let his forehead rest against the back of your neck, his breathing gradually slowing from ragged gasps to long, heavy sighs.
He reached around one last time, his hand sliding up from your hip to tenderly brush a stray lock of hair away from your face. He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your cheek, his lips warm and damp.
"You're perfect baby..." he murmured, his voice barely a thread of sound, thick with sleep and adoration. "My sweet girl..."
He waited for a response, a sleepy mumble or a soft sigh, but as he watched the steady rise and fall of your shoulders, a small, tender smile touched his lips as he realized you had already drifted back into the darkness of sleep, lulled by the warmth of his body and the sweet, heavy satisfaction of the night.
A small, tender smile touched his lips as he watched you sleep. He leaned in one last time, his lips brushing the skin of your cheek in a ghost of a kiss.
i seen a lot of people on tiktok comment about mj fanfiction and how much they fucking hate it for some reason but my thing is, would they have the same energy about mj fanfiction if he was alive rn??? and it really makes me sit with the question on if fanfiction on a celebrity should no longer be created if the person is no longer with us or should it not matter bc at the end of the day it’s fan fucking FICTION
