nana ִֶָ🪽་༘

and he feels bad! trust and believe he does! just particularly not when he has the skimpy material of your panties wrapped around the head of his dick. of course making sure that the gusset is perfectly pressed against his leaking tip, the mere idea that they've been worn by you makes michael burn from the inside out.

he should feel like the worst person ever getting off to his bestfriend, you've been nothing but sweet and kind to him. being his endless light when he had nothing else to look forward to. and this is how he repays you? by stealing you panties, wrapping them around his length till the opaque material turns translucent from his arousal, until he's left nothing less than a mess. chest heaving, eyes screwed shut, and fist pumping at such a pace the squelching doesn't even make him embarrassed.

it's only when he opens his eyes and looks down at his hand wrapped around the base of his cock, that he begins to feel a little guilty at the sight of your panties (that he can only imagine you're rummaging through every corner of your room looking for) covered in his spent. the true guilt of his sinful act only burdens him when he's balling up your panties and stuffing them down beneath all the trash in his bathroom, praying that no goes searching through it.

michael always has to take a shower after he touches himself, simply washing his hands and himself up won't work. so, when he's met with the reflection of himself in the mirror, expecting to be met with remorsefulness. he'd go and tell you everything, about how your panties haven't just vanished out of thin air, but how it's been him, and he'd beg and beg on his knees for you to forgive him . . . but alas, he's meet with his mirrored reflection with riddled thoughts that tell him he must sneak another pair.

"i'll be jus' a minute, mikey!" you shout from across the hall as you enter the bathroom. you're getting changed into you pajamas since this movie night is being held at your house. it's been something you've been looking forward to all week, preparing snacks for you and michael as you curated the perfect movies to watch tonight.

and the only thing michael can mutter out is a meek "okay," his eyes trained on your dirty laundry hamper since the moment the two of you walked up those stairs and he plopped himself on his bed. swallowing the lump in his throat as he adjusted himself below his flannel pajama pants, cursing himself because he doesn't want this movie night to go the same as the last before it, or the one before that one. where his poor dick would be so strained against the confines of his briefs and flannel pants, so much so that you where questioning him on why he's so tense, not knowing that you soft touches on his arm would make him bolt from the sofa and make a beeline to the bathroom.

it doesn't take michael long to ditch all efforts of self control by digging his dull nails into the fuzzy material of his pajama pants. standing up from your bed and making quick strides to your dirty laundry hamper in the corner of your room.

he couldn't tell from where he sat on your bed, but he can clearly tell now from where he stands. the little pink slip of material peeking past the opening of the hamper that caught his eye wasn't the normal cotton material of your panties, but instead was made of delicate lacy designs. blood rushing to his pants as a large hand reached to take (steal) the intimate. calloused fingers wearily brushing against the material of the panties just in case it poofs away right before him. but when those same fingers hook around the waistband of the panties and pull them from before trapped underneath your hamper's top, michael lets out a huff.

peaking over his shoulder and out into the hallway to make sure you're still in the bathroom and bill and your mom are still in their bedroom. turning back to inspect your pantie in his grasp when the coast is clear.

and what other way inspect the garment than for him to bring it up to his nose and inhale? the eyes you compliment just about every single chance you get flutter shut at the sweet scent of you, a muffled groan escaping its way past michael's lips.

it's wrong.

used to repeat in his mind when he first started stealing you panties, but at some point he started questioning if it was so wrong, why did it feel so right?

maybe it's sick of him, selfish even. especially when you come to him as your best friend, genders put aside, about the odd phenomenon of various pairs of your panties going missing. of course the best friend he is he consuls you, telling you maybe you guys need to get your dryer checked out since he does remember a few years ago pieces from each of the jackson family members going missing, all for it to be found in the crevices or behind the dryer. he'd even go as far as to tease that that there's a stealing ghost haunting your home. laughing when you swat at him as you slump further into your bed, pouting about your favorite pair of panties, the pale pink one with tiny strawberries all over it, going missing. except unbeknownst to you, michael goes quiet, reminiscing over messing that pair up with his spent.

the only thing that really matters in his mind right now is when you've bought these lacy panties, and if you have more, and who you bought them for. flashes of green and envy at the thought that one of those college boys you've been talking to got to see you all pretty in this pair before he ever got to.

he tries not to worry himself with thoughts like that often, especially not as he stuff the panties in his pajama pants pockets and waltz over to sit back down on your bed.

and especially not when he's the one who ruins all your panties for other men.

“Are you sure?”

You rolled your eyes from the bed, “yes, I’m sure. I’m only five weeks. It’ll be perfectly fine.”

Michael bit at the inside of his cheek as he adjusted his belt, looking over at you through the mirror.

Ever since you had told him you were pregnant it was like the entire world was all the sudden out to get you. Everything was dangerous to him. You appreciated his precaution, it was endearing.

“If anyone tries grabbing at you, I’m gonna have bad headlines in the press tomorrow.”

Standing up, you walked over to him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your head against his back to hear his heart beat.

“It’ll be okay.”

You felt him sigh before he turned around in your arms, cupping your face with his hands and not a moment later his mouth was on yours.

Smiling into the kiss, your arms came up and wrapped around his neck. Laughing a bit as his hands danced down and started to lift up your dress.

He was always like this. He could never get enough of you, but ever since you got pregnant his sex drive only seemed to double. If possible.

“Honey, we don’t have time.”

“We’ll make time.” He muttered, fingers already searching for your zipper.

Lights flashed in a blinding crescendo the moment the car door opened. You squinted against the light and suddenly grew envious of your husband's choice to wear sunglasses.

Like always, he got out first and offered his hand. Your heels settled on the ground and not a moment later his arm was around your waist and his lips dipping low towards your ear.

“You okay?”

Patting him on the chest as a yes, the two of you were ushered towards the entrance of the red carpet. Waving and smiling at the cameras and fans as you went and every time someone shouted your name, you felt Michael’s grip tighten around you.

The whole time you walked in increments down the carpet, he wouldn’t take his eyes off you. Ignoring the shouts from the press to look over. His hand reached up to move some hair out of your eyes and he seemed to ask you for the hundredth time if you were doing okay and if you needed to sit down.

As the two of you navigated the crowd to find your seats, he acted like a human shield. His hand holding tightly onto yours as he practically pushed through the crowd, muttering excuse me as he went and shooting daggers at people who didn’t move over enough. Dismissing anyone who tried to stop him for a talk and when someone grabbed your arm he looked like he was about to punch someone.

You couldn’t help it as you laughed behind your hand, finally finding your seats by the stage for the night.

“What?” He asked, oblivious as he knelt to adjust your dress after you sat down.

“You’re absolutely ridiculous.”

He raised a brow at you but didn’t bother to refute that statement as he leant forward and placed a kiss to your exposed knee from where it peeked out from the slit in your dress. Your cheeks immediately heating up at the display of affection.

He sat down next to you, ever so subtly adjusting himself as he did so and he leaned over, voice a whisper. “You look beautiful tonight. You’re glowing.” He kissed your shoulder then, “I wish we were back at the room.”

“Stop it, I probably look like a tomato.” You smacked him lightly but he easily caught your hand and brought it up to his lips.

Quincy finally joined them, sending them a wink as he sat down. “Hey, lovebirds.”

“Hi, Q.” You smiled and leaned over to talk but before you could utter a word, Michael was kissing you. You were expecting a peck at most since you were in public but became acutely aware of his tongue tracing the inside of your mouth.

Like always, you just about melted but also felt on fire with the fact people were around.

He pulled back, his smile devilish and his thumb tugged on your bottom lip. “You need to fix your lipstick.”

With each Grammy he won, he’d squeeze your thigh before getting up, bending down to kiss you before he went up on stage. The lipstick marks building up as the night went on and God, he was glowing up on that stage and your hands itched from all the clapping you had been doing.

“First, I’d like to thank God for all the wonderful gifts He’s given me and of course my beautiful wife, Mrs Jackson.”

Eight Grammy’s later, you could tell he was on an adrenaline high. Holding as many awards in one arm as he could while the other was wrapped around your waist. He had been smiling so hard you were sure his face went numb.

You were so caught up in the rush of it all you barely noticed he was leading you back to the car.

“What about the after party?”

“We’re not going to that.”

“What? Mike, you broke the record. You have to—“

He turned around, tugging you close and it was only then you took note of how blown his pupils were.

“Baby, if we’re not back in that hotel room in the next hour, I’m gonna pop a fuse.”

You bit your lip, enjoying the way his eyes flicked down to your mouth far too much.

“Okay.”

“Good, now get your ass in the car.”

You were giddy and nodded without another thought, on your own high when he slapped your butt as you bent down to get in the car.

The ride there was anything but tame. The second the car started to move, he rolled up the partition and was on you.

His hands were everywhere, immediately messing up the meticulous updo you had going on with your hair and his mouth ruining your makeup for the hundredth time that night.

His tongue was searing as his mouth trailed down from yours to your neck, lower to the exposed cleavage of your chest and you were half expecting him to rip your dress off just to get at more skin.

Your heart caught in your throat as you watched him slide down to the floor of the car, throwing your exposed leg over his shoulder as he kissed up the inside of your thigh.

His eyes caught yours in the low light, the city passing by in a blur and casting shadows across his face. You suppressed a shiver and he pushed your other knee out, exposing your underwear to the air. You were already wet, something you probably would’ve been embarrassed by but maybe it was the pregnancy hormones.

Michael sighed, sounding blissful. “Look at you. Perfect.”

Then his mouth was on you through the thin cotton and you couldn’t help it as your hips bucked up, hand coming down to hold the back of his head as your own was thrown back against the seat.

The sounds leaving your mouth were lewd and filled the air, not caring if the driver heard you and when you felt Michael pull your underwear aside and sink two fingers in you felt delirious.

His mouth was hot and wet against you as he worked you with his fingers, his gloved hand holding your thigh securely over his shoulder as he ate you out. His tongue was like a weapon, drawing circles over your clit before flatting it.

When he added a third finger you were pretty sure you started to cry.

“Michael! I’m… fuck.”

“That’s it,” he whispered against you and once you came he didn’t bother stopping. Apparently in his own frenzy and it was only then you noticed he was gripping himself through his slacks.

The door to the hotel room shut and his hands were back on you, fumbling for the zipper and he just about ripped through the fabric in his haste. His mouth latching onto your neck from behind and hands clawing at your hips to grind into you, guiding you through the room blindly before falling onto the bed.

You watched with a ringing in your ears as his teeth caught on his glove and pulled it off, tossing it carelessly behind him and shrugging off his jacket.

Eyes flicking down, you could see him clearly through his pants and your mouth went a little dry as you watched him undo his belt.

“Do you know how difficult it was trying not to make this obvious the whole night?” He kicked his pants off and was left in his boxers, taking hold of himself through the fabric and he shut his eyes briefly as he squeezed.

You watched the way the veins in his hands popped as he did so in a lust induced haze.

“Sorry,” you muttered. Slowly beginning to lie backward into the bed as he approached, his thumbs hooking onto the band of his boxers as he began to lower them.

“No, you’re not.”

You shook your head and hummed as he crawled over you, his knees pushing your legs open as he did so.

“Not at all.”

His lips crashed down on yours, one hand winding in your hair as the other hiked one of your legs up and you felt him brush against your entrance.

He tugged lightly, still careful with you as your neck bent back and his mouth trailed down, sucking and biting as went and a groan left him when he finally thrusted into you.

“Eight times,” he said between bites and you were sure marks would be littered all over you tomorrow.

“What?” You barely managed to get out, your own hands in his hair and he fucked you with little restraint. The sound of skin slapping against each other was enough to send your nerves tingling but then he took hold of your jaw, making you look at him.

“I’m gonna make you come for each award I won and you’re gonna take it because I know you can.”

Before you could even think to reply to that statement, his hand danced down and started to circle your clit and he looked beyond pleased to see your back arch off the bed.

It was rough and you loved it. He always started off pretty sweet, gentle. But as time ticked away he always got lost in it, his mind slipping somewhere else and you were sure it was heaven.

One hand took hold of your hips as he started to yank you down onto his cock, the pace brutal and your nails sunk into his back as you let out a cry. The way he had one of your legs up and around him made the angle he was hitting feel like you were being struck by a tuning fork hitting a star.

“Michael—“

“Come for me, baby.” His voice was low in your ear and worked like magic as you did as told.

And you started again.

The next was you bent over with your face pressed into the mattress. He made you finish twice that way.

Then with you on top but you were hardly in control of the situation as he thrusted up into you.

You were a complete wreck with no sense of direction when his head was back between your thighs.

“I can’t—“ but then you did and you were crying and he was drinking up the sight.

Barely giving you any grace when he carried you to the shower, though he was slower to give you a little breathing room, his fingers found their way back to fucking you eventually.

Lucky number eight he didn’t even have to touch you.

His hands were wrapped in your hair and he thrusted into your mouth and the sight of him with his head thrown back as he came down your throat was enough to send you over the edge.

The air smelt like sex and sweat and you were half conscious as his hands rubbed circles into your back.

“I think I got a little carried away,” he said up to the ceiling before peeking down at you. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head, half way into slumber and held onto him tighter.

“I loved it.”

The last thing you remembered before falling asleep was him kissing the top of your head.

michael jackson masterlist