Your legs were locked tight around your man’s waist, heels digging into his lower back while his cock pressed almost cervix-deep inside you with each ruining thrust. His torso was flush to yours, bodies entirely entwined as you moved in a messily erotic rhythm. Michael’s bicep was just beside your face, where he had one arm resting around the silhouette of your upper body on the pillows, so that a hand cradled your dazed out head. Every time you made love, he held you this way.

“Oh Mikey, baby, s’good—” you gasped and whined, tugging at his dark hair as he hit your sweet spot upon thoughtful direction of every single stroke. He’d started off achingly slow, but now you were both reaching your climax, therefore unconsciously Michael had picked up the pace.

“Mama, y’so tight, oh—” he moaned right beside your ear, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head at the pretty sound and the sensations in your nether region at once.

“Michael, they’re gonna hear,” you stressed, although you didn’t do so very quietly, as with the prior moans.

“Don’t care no more—not thinkin’ ‘bout nothin’ but you, baby,” he said through grunts, pounding you with precision as the headboard knocked against the wall in rhythmic force. It had been making that repetitive noise for the last ten minutes, together with the sound of Michael’s childhood bed squeaking and the sound of skin slapping.

Each sound protruding from those four walls, including the pornographic noises elicited from your throat, were contributing together to make a lewd sort of song. For anybody in the house, it was incredibly obvious what Michael was getting up to in his locked bedroom. It was a warm summer evening, and Michael’s brothers had been out playing basketball all afternoon—on one of those days where they all reunited back home—but now they were inside messing around, and there was no way they couldn’t hear the two of you.

Yet despite that knowledge, neither of you could even attempt to slow down or lower the noise. The present moment was much too heavenly to be reduced. And you’d been doing this a lot lately—fucking in his bedroom even though you both knew his mother despised sex out of wedlock. She hadn’t caught you both yet, but the risk was of course always there.

Writhing against the sheets, you mentally praised the otherworldly evidence of how well Michael could use his thick, well-endowed cock, but on top of that, his moans alone were ethereal. When he wasn’t whispering praise in your ear, you relished in the beauty of the desperate mewls he shamelessly spilled out above you, and especially this evening, where the snap of his hips was making him breathless.

“Baby girl, y’ body’s everythin’… so magical,” he murmured, kissing and biting at your neck while fiercely maintaining pace. “So soft ‘n sweet. All mine…”

With each nip to your skin, he let his tongue dart out to taste your scent, in heaven at the indulgence but altogether wishing he could somehow eat your pussy and make love to you at once.

Without meaning to, your moans only grew louder. “Baby, I love you—mm, harder, oh, you’re so deep—”

“Yeah, I got you, mama,” Michael whispered, pressing one hand down on the mattress to get better control of his movements, those skilful thrusts picking up even more pace. Meanwhile, the activator in his Jheri curls was mixing with the constant production of sweat that dripped down his forehead, and together the liquids amalgamated and trickled onto your shoulder and chest. You truly could feel every inch of him everywhere, and you kept attempting to tighten the weight of your legs around him, to tighten the security of your arms around his neck, except there was no getting any closer than your current position.

“How y’feelin, honeybaby? Want me to pull back a little and rub y’ sweet clit?”

Obviously you did want him to use his fingers on you, but at the same time you didn’t like the prospect of his thermal body being detached from yours, even if there was to be a replacement of sensation. Because really, you didn’t necessarily need his slender fingers over your bundle of nerves in order to bring you to orgasm. The cosy weight of his body, the intimacy of your locked-in positional dynamic, too with the feel of his bicep on your shoulder and his tender hand at your head—all those elements accompanied by his girthy cock pistoning in and out of you was more than enough already. You could feel every vein, every ridge, brush against your walls with each stroke, each squelch of your juices coating his shaft.

“No, Mikey, want you just like this, don’t move—oh, don’t stop, honey, you fuck me so good, ’m gonna—oh fuck, baby, yes!”

“Aw, my baby—nnghh—sweet girl… Lemme get you there…” Never slowing the relentless force of his cock, he took one of your hands and gently placed a kiss over the knuckles, and you really could’ve died right there. How perfect was Michael Jackson in bed, that he could fuck you into oblivion while equally being so tender and soft? That oxymoron was your boyfriend summed up in a nutshell.

The two of you were being way too loud now—truthfully you in particular. It was a good thing Katherine and Joseph weren’t home, but as clarified previously, every single brother was. How on earth had they all managed to end up back at Hayvenhurst for a stupid reunion on the night you and Michael desperately needed the most alone time?

Well, that was honestly a silly question, because Michael made love to you like this almost every night, if he wasn’t at your place to do it instead. The brothers weren’t exactly to be blamed. Perhaps you and your man just needed to calm down where sex drive was concerned, but one couldn’t help the nature of their biology. Here were two individuals deeply addicted to each other, and an addiction to that degree was impossible to override.

“Now what in the hell is goin’ on in here?” you suddenly heard Jackie say from outside the door.

You froze, but Michael was unfazed. It was an unexplained phenomenon, but whenever Michael had sex with you, his usual shy, cautious inhibitions would lose their place in his line of focus. All he cared about was you, and making sure you reached your orgasm quickly, while his was very much nearing too.

“Man, you know exactly what they up to,” Marlon chuckled, in response to Jackie. “Can hear that shit from downstairs. Oh, Michael, harder!”

“Mikey, stop,” you said quickly, tapping his shoulder.

Immediately he did as instructed, pulling his head up from your shoulder a little to check you were okay.

“Too much, baby?” he asked, a little out of breath, as he brushed his thumb over your cheek to soothe you.

Outside the door, the boys were still laughing. Randy and Tito had joined them now from downstairs.

“No,” you giggled bashfully, holding the back of his neck and wiping some of the ever-dripping Jheri curl-sweat mixture from his jaw. “Your brothers are literally outside.”

“Huh?” Michael’s face scrunched up in confusion, and in part frustration at the way he’d been made to pause inside your throbbing, weeping cunt all because he’d been cursed with a million bothersome brothers.

“Michael, how the hell did you not hear them?” you chuckled, playing with his damp hair now.

He rolled his eyes. “Go back downstairs!”

“We’re not doin’ nothin’, Mike!” Tito shouted.

“But y’know what I’m doin’, right? And y’ still up here!”

“No? What are you doin’ in there, Michael?” Marlon teased sarcastically.

You were literally squirming at this point, mentally praying that they’d just go away, because you needed Michael to continue.

“You makin’ love?” Jackie sung playfully. “Don’t get her pregnant, lil bro.”

“’m not gonna get her pregnant,” he protested in annoyance. “Will y’ just leave us be?”

“Alright, alright,” a few of them laughed in unison. “Just keep it down—Joseph’s comin’ back in a few minutes.”

“Oh no,” Michael squinted anxiously. Footsteps began, then faded as the boys skipped off downstairs again.

“Baby, it’s fine,” you reassured, stroking his upper back. “We’ll be quick—I’m almost there.”

“Um,” he stammered, rubbing at his eyes. “No, I uh… don’t feel well.”

Slowly and carefully he sat back on his knees and slipped his cock out of you, it now standing flushed up against his stomach, messy white streaks painting up and down the shaft from base to tip, but the flesh was beginning to soften.

“Hey, what do you mean?” You sat up too, expression one of sheer confusion. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m really sorry, I just…” Michael turned, picking up his boxers from the floor and slipping into them, seated on the edge of the bed, facing away from you. “It’s Joseph. I really made him mad this mornin’ and I’ve not seen him since. Until, um—well, he’s comin’ back now.”

Feeling incredibly awkward, Michael then jumped up off the bed, searching for some comfortable clothes to quickly dress into. Meanwhile, you sat anxiously in the messy sheets, your sex still glistening with arousal, but the inner sensations were fading with Michael’s. You didn’t mind that he’d had to stop so abruptly, because you understood. Sometimes he would even projectile vomit at the thought of his father returning unexpectedly. His body went into fight-or-flight mode at the mere mention of the man’s name, and so there was no way he could sustain an erection and enjoy the rest of your lovemaking in that state.

“C’mere, baby,” you sighed sadly, outstretching your arms.

When he turned around, he didn’t smile. There were hints of anxiety splayed all over his face, and it broke your heart.

“Michael. Come back to bed—you can just get up again when he knocks.”

Michael took a deep breath, clamping his eyes shut as a signal of the constricting pain he felt in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, a real switch in temperament as opposed to just minutes ago. Now he took the appearance of a sad little boy, the one you knew had never left him.

He climbed into bed beside you, and immediately you pulled him into your chest, letting him nuzzle against your bare breasts.

“There ya go, honey…” you whispered to him, cradling his head. Without the need for instruction, he latched his mouth onto one of your nipples, beginning to suck over the sensitive nerves.

“’m sorry for cuttin’ things short,” he muttered against your skin. “I was close but… I can’t really, y’know, sustain it when I get anxious.”

“No, baby, I understand,” you said back, running your hands through his hair, uncaring how damp the strands were. “Listen to me, angelface,” you kissed his forehead, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Ever. Just wanna take care of you, make you feel safe… That’s everythin’ you deserve.”

Michael nodded, though he didn’t respond, because he never knew what to say to such intimate talk. He couldn’t stop worrying about Joseph, who would come through the door any minute now, and so you spent the remaining minutes with him cuddled up close, whispering sweet nothings and praise in his ear, telling him how he only ever needed to listen to your words, and never Joseph’s jealousy-fuelled ones.

He ended up approaching his father with much less anxiety than he’d initially been feeling, but indeed he was berated, defined as worthless, and hit with an iron cord—all because he had expressed a different opinion that morning.

When Michael slipped back into bed beside you after night had fallen, you kissed over the growing bruises, and again held him to your chest until he fell sound asleep. Oh, how you wished life would be kinder to your sweet angel boy. He hadn’t done a thing wrong in his entire existence.

omg i just started writing a lil drabble and ended up with this >:) also i literally have to end every smut fic with michael being soft because of course?!♥︎

For three months now, you had been dating your best friend. Michael first confessed his love for you on a warm April night by the fountain at Hayvenhurst, and it had taken you a few days to collect yourself at the surprise of the revelation, before realising that beneath the guard you’d had up to conceal your deeper emotions, you too felt the same way. Then, the three months that followed had been a whirlwind—the two of you had fallen hopelessly in love with each other, and it felt strange that it had taken so long to discover how deeply your feelings ran, but all the same it made sense given how avoidant you’d been to any real display of love that truly cherished you. Being in an industry so complete with falsehoods and malicious intent, especially when it came to men, led you down the wrong path romantically, many a time. Michael had waited, as patiently as he could, for the time that he would feel comfortable enough to reveal how much he loved you, how he was completely head over heels for you and had been since you were ten years old and had sung in the recording booth beside him for the first time.

He had never once expected that you’d tell him you felt the same way, and in fact those first few days after the confession, he’d been so certain that you were going to run from him, the friendship ruined now that he’d forced romance between it. But those days were only difficult and isolated for one reason—being that you had to sit with yourself for that period in order to thoroughly digest your reaction to what he had told you. Then once you’d understood—truly understood that his love wasn’t at all unrequited—you rushed to your best friend with open arms.

It took almost an entire month to get used to the change in your dynamic, where for a while every time you kissed it would turn into fits of shy giggles, and where each time Michael held your hand in public you nudged him like a child, bashful because you’d never been touched so gently before. His brothers constantly teased, even more than usual, which had been bothersome enough already. Years they had spent placing bets on how long it would take for the two of you to just admit your feelings and get together, while you both swore up and down that it would never happen, grimacing at the thought of being with each other in that way.

But they never listened to your protests, because the opposing argument was obvious. You had been so close over the years—cuddling like little kittens, sleeping in the same bed, playfighting on the couch, always being each other’s date to the movies—that in many ways you’d essentially already existed as lovers, just without the kisses and the handholding. And the sex. Of course.

But as for that last aspect of a relationship—the biggest of all—you were still without. Three months in, and you hadn’t done anything sexual with Michael past the extremely passionate makeouts he loved to indulge in with you, which did include desperate moans and dry humping, so he was kidding himself if he thought he wasn’t ready to have sex. Your boyfriend was a virgin, you knew that, but you could tell he had quite a high sex drive, one that he continually aimed to repress. One time, he almost came in his pants while with his tongue down your throat, your hips writhing over his, humming in his mouth; and he had to immediately rush off to the bathroom before a mess was made. You wouldn’t have minded of course, but Michael was incredibly shy about those sorts of things. 

The reason he was still a virgin at nineteen wasn’t because he didn’t want sex, or didn’t feel himself ready. Rather, the influence was at the hands of his mother, whereby while every single one of his brothers had lost their virginity quite early on, Michael suffered the most with religious guilt, eagerly submitting to the so-called virtuous rules that ensured he never lost sight of his inhibitions. But in all the admission to such religious morality, he hadn’t thought to question why these rules were so set in stone. Why couldn’t he make love to the girl he’d known for eight entire years, the girl he’d spent the majority of his adolescence with, who meant more to him than anybody else? Sleeping around was a bad idea—casual sex only got a man into trouble, but making sweet love to the girl he had for so long yearned over and now had the precious privilege of calling his own? There wasn’t a thing wrong with that. You just needed to succeed in convincing him.

Before now, Michael hadn’t dated a girl who he could actually envision himself marrying, and of course he didn’t want to scare you away with any allusion toward matrimony, but in his quietest moments he often pictured how ethereal you’d look in your dainty white dress, walking down the aisle to meet his waiting smile at the altar. He always shook his head of the thoughts—much too excessive and far-reaching given the short amount of time you’d been together—but Michael never did anything half-heartedly. Whatever and whomever he loved, he did so with every fibre of his being.

You’d slept with a handful of men before (and Michael didn’t judge you for that—in life he judged only himself), but none of them you ached for more than Michael. Since you’d started dating, it felt like you’d opened your eyes for the first time, as if you had been reborn.

Your best friend was breathtakingly beautiful. You’d told him how handsome he was in the past, long before you’d confronted your romantic feelings, when his father would make abusive comments about his nose or his acne as a teen. But those were more objective comments, factual statements that even a straight man would have to admit the truth of. Now however, you viewed him in a light as though interpreting an angel’s presence. Michael was insanely gorgeous, and your heart skipped a beat sometimes when you laid in his arms, staring into his pretty eyes—so deeply without you even noticing, until he’d suddenly pull away shyly and you’d have to drag him back, pleading with him to just let you admire him properly for once. He’d gladly gaze into your eyes until the world ended, but with that came you gazing back into his, and he disliked such intimate attention. You were determined to make him operate otherwise.

As you fell deeper and deeper in love, you could not stop kissing each other. This early stage of your relationship took the fated honeymoon phase to a whole other level, where of course most couples were attached at the hip in the beginning, but since you and Michael had already been so, you were now even more ridiculously clingy with each other. Any opportunity to make out was taken eagerly and breathlessly, and you were seriously starting to concern Michael’s mother by how often she’d walk in on the two of you tongue-kissing in his bed. Katherine loved you—she always had—but she also read a lot about your nightlife activities in the paper, and couldn’t shake the nagging thought that you might soon corrupt her son. 

Without her even telling you so, you could surmise that those were her thoughts. She was talking to you much less now, and with much less enthusiasm, also seeming a considerable deal stricter where Michael was concerned—despite the fact that he was a grown adult now, and didn’t need his mother instructing him on how to live his life. She always did so gently, as opposed to the relentless abuse from Joseph—who had in fact directed the opposite of his sons, to have as much sex as they wanted with prostitutes and groupies—but all the same, Michael didn’t need any type of governing influence from either parent, gentle or not. The contrast between the two forms of parenting confused his tired mind immensely, so he often succumbed to accepting rules without question, particularly when it came to religion. He would later go on to progress and evolve his mindset as he lived through his twenties, but at this time, as a shy nineteen year old suffering the ramifications of years-long abuse and control, his weary brain didn’t have much choice when it came to making informed decisions himself.

On a hot July night in Midtown Manhattan, deep into an hour-long makeout against a plush, velvet-lined wall in a small corner, you and your boyfriend were both thinking about the exact same thing—although on opposite ends of the thought spectrum. While you couldn’t stop thinking about how much you wished he would take you back to your shared hotel room and have sex with you, Michael couldn’t stop worrying about how much he desperately yearned for a timeline where he could do exactly that. 

He was clad in a sleek cream satin shirt unbuttoned at the collar, tucked into high-waisted black flared trousers with a slim belt, while you wore a liquid-gold mini dress with a low open back, paired with platform heels and a dusting of body shimmer over your collarbone. You dazzled under the glittering lights, and Michael couldn’t keep his hands off you, nor could you keep yours off him. 

It always surprised you just how comfortable Michael was with kissing in public, because it wasn’t as if you only kissed meekly and modestly. Most of the time your lips were crashing against each other’s fiercely, tongues swirling aside soft whines and hungry groans, while his hands roamed all over your torso, inching very close to your ass, which he did often end up holding while keeping you pressed up against the wall. He never squeezed—he saved that for private moments, but he definitely had no issue with holding what was his in public. And paparazzi did often make their way around the club, so you weren’t safe from being photographed, but in the Studio’s deepest corners, just a few feet away from rockstars and groupies doing hard drugs, you knew those areas were the most appropriate if one wished to be unseen.

You’d had at least five glasses of wine tonight, and that was obvious in the way you often stumbled in Michael’s hold, the platform height of your heels not helping to assist you in any way. Meanwhile, Michael was your exact opposite where drinks were concerned. He'd been consuming glasses of orange juice all night, as was typical, but through a champagne flute—a request he made to the bartender—so that people would assume it contained alcohol. He always went clubbing sober—another consequence of his religious upbringing—and while many people would probably question how on earth it was possible to have an enjoyable night doing so amongst drunkards and cokeheads, you understood perfectly. Having performed since before the age of ten just like Michael, you too were enamoured with the euphoric sensation that came inherently with music and dance, where even though you liked to get drunk, it was never necessary if you were dancing. Studio 54 was a go-to location for you and your boyfriend whenever you were in New York, because there weren’t many other places in which you felt so free. 

You'd spent tonight dancing just the two of you and with several other celebrities for two hours straight, you’d miraculously dodged breaking your ankle twice, had quite a disagreeable encounter with Diana while Michael sat awkwardly in the corner, and eventually had made it here, to the area you’d self-designated as the perfect makeout spot. It was three o’clock in the morning, and Michael had you hoisted up against the wall, your legs wrapped around his waist, fingers wreathed through his afro as you whined into his mouth. The other huge benefit of this nightclub was that since there were so many other high-profile celebs around, the two of you could blend into the background as the night went on. In the beginning, there were incessant pictures as usual, and so many people—even the A-listers themselves—wanting to talk to you both, but as the night faded into early morning, you could be sure to get some real alone time, albeit still in a very public location. 

You hardly stopped for breath as you kissed, equally with tongue and lips, so wet and messy; not at all what you expected of Michael before you became his. He was the most perfect kisser—you knew of some girls who’d said the same, and in retrospect you realised those anecdotes had actually bothered you at the time, even if you had tried to brush them off. But now that didn’t matter—because you had this heavenly man all to yourself. How on earth was this the same boy you'd spent years watching cartoons with and playing Twister? Indeed, Michael very much was that exact same boy, and you would probably begin tomorrow watching said cartoons. 

“Steady, honey,” Michael murmured into your mouth as you almost slipped out of his hold again. 

“Baby…” you moaned against his lips, not even sparing a thought about the inappropriately erotic look spread across your face.

Michael’s heart fluttered at the pet name. He wondered if he’d ever get used to the way you sounded when you gasped it while in his arms, or how you whispered it into his hair when he laid on your chest.

You wanted to talk to him, but he still couldn’t stop kissing you. The messy, moistened meeting of your mouths continued, hungry squelches and groans seeming to never cease. 

But then Grace Jones was walking past, on her way to the bathroom, and she squinted at the sight of you and Michael bundled up together, having been unaware that you were now more than platonic. Most people did know already, because the press had been obsessed with reporting on your growing relationship over the last couple of months, but it was easy for pop culture news to pass by the busiest celebrities.

“Clearly I’ve skipped a few chapters?” she asked in amusement.

Immediately you both pulled away from each other, laughing in shock as you looked over at Grace. 

“Yeah, we’re… uh, together,” you said bashfully. You were never shy, especially not amongst others in the industry of whom you always connected so well with, but you’d found that since you started dating Michael, whenever that topic arose in public—even if ironically you were confident enough with him to publicly maul his mouth like an animal—shyness overcame your speech.

“Finally,” Grace grinned before walking off, and you turned back to Michael, where you both continued to giggle.

He leaned in to resume the kiss, but you pulled back, holding his head in place with a hand on his cheek so that he’d listen to you.

“Mikey, I need you.”

Those flutters attacked inside his chest again, and he smiled wide. “Y’have me, honey.”

“No, I need you, um…” you began, already realising this conversation would probably be futile, like all the others. “The other way.”

He set you down on the floor and held your hips, but while looking awkwardly to the floor, focusing on the shine of his shoes instead. 

“Uh.”

You waited patiently, although hating to put him in this position. You just truly couldn’t fathom why two adult humans couldn’t get on with doing something so perfectly natural.

Michael continued, but to no avail for your needs. “Baby, you know we can’t—um.”

You sighed, placing a hand on his forearm, caressing up and down lightly. “Who said we can’t, Michael? We can’t have sex but we can stick our tongues down each other’s throats in public?”

He laughed shyly, looking into your eyes for a moment before averting his gaze again. “Well, I guess we really shouldn’t be doin’ that either.”

“No, but look at us—we’re doin’ it anyway.” You cupped his face with a small smile, and he pulled you swiftly by your hips to meet his torso. You giggled, looking up into his eyes, but then you noticed the flash of a camera in your peripheral and rolled your eyes.

“C’mon baby, take me back to the hotel ‘n lemme have you…” you murmured into his neck as you began to kiss along the length of it, just as wet and heavy as the suction to his lips.

Michael laughed, interlacing his fingers with yours, then using the index and middle finger on his free hand to nudge your face upward by your chin. “We’re not allowed.”

“Says who? The owners of The Plaza?”

“Honey…” Michael squinted, his eager smile betraying him.

“Mikey.” You looked up at him with faux-innocence, batting your lashes. Perhaps Katherine was correct in her assumption—you did want to corrupt him, but at the same time, which authority decided unwed lovemaking equalled corruption?

“Stop teasin’ me, mama.”

“’m not! How dare you say that, Michael Jackson!” you grinned, before nestling your head in his chest. On instinct his arms wrapped securely around you, and you felt his warm kiss on your even warmer forehead.

“We’re in New York,” you pointed out. “Far away from your parents, far away from your brothers. We won’t have Jackie spyin’ on us, or Marlon comin’ in every five minutes pretending he’s looking for somethin’.”

Michael chuckled. “Yeah, we could never do anythin’ like that in my room at home. 's a good thing we’ll be married an’ moved out when it happens.”

You sighed again, frustrated but by no means blaming him. You pulled back from his chest and wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying slightly to the now slower-paced tune.

“Baby. May I repeat: we’re in New York. No one’s gonna know what we get up to.”

But he bit his lip, looking downward again. “God’s gonna know.”

“Michael.”

“What?” he asked shyly, his doe eyes refusing to meet yours for more than a moment.

“God said…” You paused to press a heated kiss to his lips, before continuing. “To love thy neighbour.”

His sweet smile returned, and widened as you now held one of his smooth hands, using your other to tug him closer by his belt loop. 

Then you smooched his cheek. “And I’m your neighbour, right?”

Michael laughed, amused by your efforts, but he still felt shy beneath his outward demeanour—that which you knew.

“Listen,” you persisted. “If a God does exist, he clearly invented sex for a reason.”

“Yeah, for marriage and… makin’ babies,” he countered quietly.

“Okay…” You thought of another comeback quickly enough. “Then he wouldn’t have given us all sex drives, made women fertile every single month—like I am right now—”

You cut yourself off with a giggle at the sight of how adorably flushed Michael suddenly became at the mention of ovulation. 

“Mikey,” you laughed against his lips as they collided again. “Stop gettin’ all flushed.”

“I can’t help it, honey, when y’ say stuff like that…”

You smiled warmly, still holding his hand. “Y’don’t have to be able to help it when it comes to me, baby, you know that. That’s the whole point.”

Michael didn’t have a clue what to say next. He just stood there, looking at you in the hope that this conversation might change its subject soon, but simultaneously he wanted so badly to just give you what you wanted. It was what he himself craved more than anything, and he hadn’t yet learnt that sexual repression wasn’t healthy. The Bible didn’t care to teach that.

You took a deep inhale, then a slow exhale, deciding what to say next. As a woman, it was disturbing to be pressured into sex—coercion was inexcusable—and you were starting to worry you were unintentionally doing that to your boyfriend now. Of course that wasn’t really the case, and his passion with you had displayed his need enough, but you had to be sure.

“Can we sit down somewhere?” you asked, and he nodded, guiding you to a crescent-shaped burgundy velvet loveseat. The disco reflections flickered across the fabric, and your head was starting to spin.

Michael sat first, then pulled you onto his lap and into his arms, cradling your tipsy body into his warmth. You hummed happily against the crook of his neck, yawning as the alcohol’s earlier energy was now descending into drowsiness.

“Y’wanna go home now, mama?”

“No,” you shook your head. “Soon, yeah, but—just wanted to ask you somethin’ first.”

Naturally, he started to worry, and you could sense it in his slight change of temperament—you always noticed every little switch in him—so you picked up his hand and kissed his palm. 

“Nothin’ bad, baby, I promise. I just wanna know, um… do you feel like I’m… pressuring you to have sex?” You spoke the words while resting into his body, not wanting to be face-to-face while asking him such an awkward question. 

“What?” Michael replied in confusion, shifting in his seat.

“Like… you obviously don’t want to, and on nights like these I get drunk and start trying to convince you to. If you’re not ready or not in the mood, that’s okay, I just… always assumed the only reason was religion. And even if that is the only reason, I guess I shouldn’t try to drive you away from that.”

Michael took a deep breath, hoping the ground would swallow him up, because he hated that you were worrying about how you’d expressed yourself, and it bothered him that he could never really explain himself properly in serious discussions. He also disliked this topic in particular, but at least it gave him the opportunity to clarify himself. And he was just as glad as you that you could have this conversation without looking directly at each other.

“Oh no, honey, you're not makin' me feel pressured. I promise y’, really,” he reassured. “I wanna make love to y' so badly. I can’t stop kissin’ and touchin’ y’—'m goin’ crazy inside.”

Now you pulled your head out of his neck and finally met his eyes again. Stroking the frizz of his afro, you spoke softly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, I just… I mean, I know how much religion means to your mother but… this industry, it’s not exactly very coherent with being a Jehovah’s Witness.”

“I know,” Michael sighed. He wasn’t naïve, nor was he stupid, and slowly but surely, he was beginning to see your point of view more and more.

“I just really want you, Mikey.” You squeezed his hand. “I know I have you like this, in kisses and cuddles and everything else but… I’d love for us to go further. If you really want that too, then…?”

“I understand, honey,” he said quietly, before kissing your nose, his hand moving to your jaw to caress. “Is it okay if I tell y’ I’ll think about it? Like, really think about it this time. Y’ said a few things that make sense.”

You gave a small smile and a nod, cuddling back into his chest again, nuzzling specifically against the sliver of smooth skin exposed. “I don’t mind how much time it takes you to think about it, baby. Just as long as you’re thinkin’. What I don’t like is when your parents’ views override what you wanna do yourself.”

“I get that. But darlin’,” he pecked your forehead again, “please don’t ever worry that you’re pressurin’ me. The pressure’s not comin’ from you, I promise.”

You sighed again, but in content and relief this time. “I really thought I went a little too far.”

“No, you didn’t. 'm serious,” Michael whispered into your hair. “But even if I did decide tonight that I wanted to, I wouldn’t while you’re all drunk ‘n drowsy like this, mama. Wanna make it special.”

A rush of flutters spread through your body upon hearing him say that, also due to the gentle tone in which the words were spoken. His speech, paired with the warm, protective feel of him had your heart dancing in your chest, because you had never been treated so much like a princess before. The guys of your past would’ve taken you in the bathroom right then and there, without a care for your comfort or ability to give true, reliable consent. 

You both kissed some more on the cosy loveseat, between soft murmurs of affection, until Michael noticed your eyes start to droop with sleep, and from then he guided you to stand up with him, holding you carefully against him as you both exited the club. The paparazzi snapped their usual pictures—they were still there waiting at almost 4AM—and the sharp light hit your sensitive, alcohol-infused nervous system, but Michael was there immediately to cover your eyes as you both strode past.

Back in the hotel room, he took your makeup off for you, massaged cocoa butter into your legs, and then you attempted to brush your teeth together like normal people—unable to stop giggling and nudging each other—before you were playfighting under the sheets, the time now almost five in the morning. You’d have a lazy day tomorrow, cuddled as close as can be, and it wouldn’t be too long before Michael had made up his mind. Soon he’d realise what you both needed, and fulfil your proposition.

helloooo i promise at some point i will post a part 2 where you guys have sex for the first time! >u< i just struggle to write smut and prefer writing lil cutie scenes like this

xoxo, 𝓳

The flashing lights were blinding, seeming to hit you much harder now that you had been apart from the chaos for a week. The click of the cameras snapped into your eardrums, the scent of cigarette smoke filling your nostrils as you made your way through the swamped street. Michael was tugging you as close as he could, gripping your jewel-clad hand, before deciding to instead rest his arm around your waist securely.

Shouts of your name and your husband's were hurled at you from men you couldn't even see the faces of, but you were used to this. Sure, a week of pure tranquil bliss had meant that a return to such invasive chaos had shocked your system, but it was a system well-attuned to that chaos all the same.

The part you disliked was having to somehow angle yourself toward every camera in order for each one of the paparazzi to get what they wanted. Whenever you and Michael were anywhere other than a dedicated public appearance, you refused to glance at even one camera—because you'd die on the hill that they had not a single right to follow you around outside of events, given that there were more than enough public appearances for them to catch you at. But on nights like these, you understood it was best to be graceful, to give them a show-stopping smile, to display your sexy elegance with confidence, no matter how tired you felt inside.

Tonight you were consumed by exhaustion due to jet lag, but primarily, your body was engaged with a bone-deep enervation; an urgency to be away from the excessive, overwhelming buzz of media attention, and instead to be where you belonged—at home with your husband, in the master bedroom of your LA mansion.

Los Angeles could be real hell out amongst the ruthless men behind the cameras, but in your home with Michael, the outside world never mattered. Last week, staying in an exclusive 1,400-acre private island in Saint Vincent, you caught a glimpse of what life could be if that indoor bliss could meet an outdoor normality, a silence that would give the two of you complete serenity. Since you were teens, it seemed there was nowhere on earth that you wouldn't be recognised—although you knew that assumption was hyperbolic. You and Michael never had an inflated ego that assumed you were the greatest stars on earth; rather, it was just difficult to believe that there was a location in which you wouldn't be spotted, because everywhere you went you risked getting mobbed.

So, that was why you'd both chosen the island of Mustique as your destination to take a well-deserved break, while Michael’s mother Katherine took care of your three children at Hayvenhurst for the duration. You always scheduled your careers around each other’s so that you could take turns looking after the kids if you couldn’t both be with them at once, refusing to rely primarily on a nanny, but sometimes you’d leave them to Katherine or other family members when you really craved a vacation.

You'd stayed in a private oceanfront cottage, tucked away among lush tropical gardens draped in bougainvillea, right beside the edge of a small crescent beach. Unbelievably, your exact location was cut off from absolutely everybody. It had been just the two of you, and for once it felt like you were semi-reliving your honeymoon in '81. You spent your stay swimming, messing around, singing, skinny-dipping, making sweet love at all hours of the day... Never had you both felt such freedom before. Unfortunately Michael couldn’t be out too long in direct sunlight, due to his lupus and vitiligo, so the hottest hours of the day were spent with him ploughing you into the mattress—or sometimes in the shade of a tree—before you’d enjoy evening walks and night swims later on. It was all so serene.

But tonight you were back to reality, and the extent of it swarmed around you the moment you'd stepped off your private jet, before the gala had even started.

Now, while you dealt with the exhausted ache running through your limbs and your bloodstream—the ache that told you how desperately you needed to catch up on sleep—another kind of ache ran deeper, pressing at you more insistently. Earlier, sitting by each other's sides at the ceremony, Michael's hand had traced circles up and down your inner thigh beneath the table, and with a few whispered lines back and forth you'd clarified together that tonight you wished to make love until the break of dawn. The kids would still be at Hayvenhurst until tomorrow morning, so you had all the privileges of an empty house. And you’d probably doze off after the first two rounds, because even one earth-shattering orgasm from Michael could send you to sleep as quickly as a lullaby could to a newborn, but the arousal coursing through your veins proved that at least the intention to go at it all night was accurate.

That was all you could think about as you stepped through the crowd, pressed against your lover's side, stiletto heels hitting the sidewalk. You were wearing a metallic olive-gold mini dress, and Michael had intentionally coordinated, where he sported a black suit embroidered with a thin pattern the same shade as your olive. His classic aviators sat on the bridge of his nose, shielding his pretty eyes from the crowd, saving the seraphic sight for only one lady later that night.

Michael was smiling at everybody—a smile much more genuine than yours, although you knew he hated this as much as you did. His approach when it came to addressing paparazzi was that as long as they weren't pushing and shoving, hurling abuse, or getting too close, he had no particular issue. He understood that it was their job, and while he'd rather his public life not have to be this way, reality ensured that unfortunately, there was no other option. Since childhood, you had both lived this anarchic, tumultuous lifestyle together, but it never felt any less oppressive. Michael was just better at staying calm. Moreover, he believed that one had to go through distress and bother to truly experience gratitude for the good; and upon knowing exactly what he would be getting up to with his girl after arriving home, he identified tonight as a great example of that philosophy.

Except, all of that optimism dissipated very suddenly, when a moment occurred that woke up the primal instincts belonging to the man with the soft demeanour and the sweet smile. Because just as you had almost been sure to declare yourself done with the seemingly-never-ending street of paparazzi, you felt a sudden, aggressive squeeze on your behind, followed by a sharp smack.

Immediately, you felt dizzy, the assault shocking your sensory apparatus and inducing a feeling of nausea. It had been a long time since something like this had happened to you—whereby it used to happen a lot in the early days of your career, a young woman constantly the object of disgusting men loving to take advantage—and sustaining that safety streak since had been largely thanks to Michael, who never let go of you wherever you went. When you went out alone, he always made sure you had not only your bodyguard close by, but his too.

A man shouted from somewhere behind you, his tone playful, but in the deliberately dominant, hostile manner that demanded the subjected woman to turn and give him what he wanted. "Hey, honey, why aren't you lookin' at us? We all know you ain’t shy!"

You half-wanted to turn, but you truly thought you were about to throw up, and that the sight of his sneering face might actually trigger regurgitation. At the assault and at the sound of his voice, you grabbed Michael's hand tighter. He felt the squeeze just as he'd registered what the man behind you had said, and immediately he bit the inside of his cheek, jaw flaring. Men often did call out at you that way, and he hated that he had to let it slide for the sake of his positive image. His hold on your waist tightened, and he considered retorting, but the reason he didn't lash out instantly was that he had no idea what the man had done to you physically.

"Almost there now, baby," he leaned over to whisper in your ear, pressing a kiss to your cheek. The press were still shouting the same repetitive intrusive questions that they'd started with upon your exit from the event, therefore it was no wonder that amidst the noise Michael hadn't noticed the vile action that had taken place just moments prior.

Beneath the chaos, you heard a sweet lady's voice—unfamiliar, but it was a nice break from the masculine aggression surrounding you. "Hey, are you okay?! I saw that man touch your—"

And then you heard a teenage girl beside her ask the same thing—although you hadn't a clue how they'd managed to get past all those domineering men.

You faked a smile to respond to their concern, unable to do anything other than conceal your anxiety, because Michael always kept you so protected that in a moment like this you felt incredibly submissive and unable to fight back with anything—not even words. You couldn't fault your husband for being so protective, but it just meant that naturally your nervous system couldn't deal very well with the shock whenever something did happen.

And now, Michael heard exactly what the lady said, as well as what the young girl had reiterated beside her. His heart skipped a beat.

"What are they talkin' about, angel?"

His words were muffled beside you—not in reality, but through your perception, because all you could focus on was how you were still somehow not in sight of Bill's limo yet, and the man who'd groped you was coming closer again.

"Honey," Michael said, his tone raised louder, arm still settled as an anchor around your waist, slender fingers continuing to ground you as much as they could in such an awful moment as this.

You looked at him, and a tear threatened to spill. But even without the liquid's exit from your orbs, Michael knew something was seriously wrong. The emotion hidden behind his aviators was threatening to be veiled no more.

"Did he touch you?" he asked into your ear, anger already lacing through his words because he could already surmise that his assumption was correct.

You bit your lip and nodded, taking a deep breath before looking ahead again, and smiling for a few more photos. God, you hated these people.

Michael kissed your cheek, then cupped your jaw to bring your attention back to him, and again he murmured in your ear. "Which one, baby?"

"I don't know, Mikey, I didn't turn back."

More shouts filled the limited space around you; from ahead, from the sides, and behind. "Sweetheart, we need one more! Give us your best!"

You were no longer in the mood for even the slightest fake smile. You were an object for their own economic and authoritative benefit, where they lived on the assumption that you'd always give them whatever they asked. It bothered you extremely that you had to play into it, and there had been enough obligation on your part for one night. So, now you looked only at Michael, and in your peripheral you finally caught sight of the limo you'd soon take refuge in.

As you focused on your husband, you noticed he was looking around, his expression largely unclear with the obscurity of his eyes, but he looked like he meant business. You realised that he must have been looking for the man who'd assaulted you, while Bill was tapping him on the shoulder incessantly, trying to get his attention about something. In all the disarray, you'd forgotten Michael's bodyguard was even there. All you’d been thinking about was his vehicle you yearned to be whisked away in.

But Michael waved him off. Surely he wouldn’t be able to find the exact man given the fact that neither of you had seen who it was, but what he did encounter was a sleazy guy in a suit, sneering at the two of you as he snapped more pictures. Indeed, it had been him—so very amused by how he'd managed to irk Michael to the point that he'd turned to face his camera head-on, achieving the most valuable shot of them all.

Yet, the man couldn't have predicted what came next of the calm-mannered celebrity before him.

"Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doin'?" Michael shouted, jaw held even tighter than the hold he had on you. "It was you, huh?"

You took another deep, shaky breath. Michael hardly ever got like this, and when you were the focus point of such anger, it was hard to provoke him to snap out of it. For a man that dealt with so much suffering constantly, in all areas of life, it was a surprise that his only weakness was you. The world had never even seen Michael Jackson so much as curse.

"Aw, what was me, Jacko?"

That really got him. Immediately Michael lunged, taking the bait even though he always knew that was exactly what they wanted.

"Michael," Bill warned gravely, taking sharp hold of his wrist to bring him back to earth. Luckily, he'd intervened before the man had been on the receiving end of Michael's fist, or before the camera had been smashed into pieces.

"Don't touch my wife ever again, I swear." Michael's voice had dropped several tones, now partially removed from his soft-spoken nature as he snapped at the man before him, ditching the sweet cadence for one of more assertion and depth. "She's not a piece of meat."

"Sure looks like it, though, right?" The guy continued to snarl, trying to provoke him even more, but while Michael opened his mouth to give in yet again, Bill thrusted him forward with a necessary force.

"You really can't be doing that, you know, Mike," he murmured into his ear.

"Michael," you gasped, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles to try to ground yourself. "I was fine, baby, you didn't need to say anything."

He shook his head. "No, I did need to. Can't let 'em think they can walk all over us, angel. C'mon, we're here now."

Finally, you'd reached the shiny black stretch limousine. Bill opened the door for the two of you, and you both slid into the backseat, Michael ushering for you to go first. Bill then checked on you to make sure you were alright, and ensured to investigate the situation tomorrow.

"Baby, why aren't the windows dimmed?" you asked as you settled into your seat. The cameras were now closing in on the car, housing every inch of the reflective space, and you felt suffocated, still reeling from the effects of what had happened. Not only had you been sexually assaulted, but Michael would be getting even more abuse than usual now, due to his 'inappropriate' response. You tried not to think about it, to calm down instead.

"I don't know, honey," Michael replied softly, his gentle tone having returned so seamlessly. "But we'll pass 'em all soon. C'mere—on my lap, angel."

Without needing to be told twice, you scooted over to your husband, sitting sideways on him, and eagerly snuggling into his warm chest. The beautiful, intimately familiar scent of Bal à Versailles wreathed through your senses, the notes of patchouli, incense and sandalwood intwining with vanilla-musk acting as a literal sedative for your overwhelm and anxiety.

"Hey, mama," Michael whispered, wrapping his arms tight around your waist and rocking you gently in his hold as you clung to him. "You're okay now, beautiful. Safe w'me..."

"Thank you, my love." You kissed a sliver of skin where the suit jacket slightly revealed his chest. "I hate how they treat me like a fucking object."

"I know," he murmured, smothering little kisses all over your face. "There was no way I was gonna let 'm get away with that. You tell me if anything ever happens again, alright? If anyone touches you in any way, talk to me about it, baby."

"Mhm," you hummed into his chest, not wanting to think about the possibility of that sort of thing happening again, even though you knew you were the prime prey for those disgusting men adjacent to the industry, or within it.

"Pretty dove," Michael muttered against the crown of your head, now holding up your chin with two fingers. Then he returned to kissing your warm forehead, warm from the heat of the gala and the stress of the attack. He remembered that you'd both intended to have a night of lovemaking, but now he expected that you were no longer interested, given that you'd just been through sexual violation.

"Y'not in the mood no more, princess? When we get back, we can just go to sleep. Whatever y' want..." He smiled reassuringly, making certain that you understood he didn't at all expect sex from you tonight.

But you were still interested in the plans you'd made. The only way to take your mind off the revolting invasiveness was to replace the memory of that man's touch with the contemporary presence of your own man's sweet, adoring touch instead.

"No, I need a distraction, honey. Need you..." you whispered quietly, and enveloped your fingers in his. As if on instinct, Michael brought your hand up to his lips and warmed the knuckles with his kiss.

"Alright mama, y'just tell me how y'want it. Always want my girl comfortable."

"I'm never uncomfortable with you, Mikey," you smiled, curling up into him even closer. "I love you," you spoke against the fabric of his suit, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"We couldn't ever live without each other," Michael said sincerely, with a small smile as he kissed your nose now. His lips couldn't seem to leave you alone, and you hadn't even made it into the house yet, let alone the bedroom.

The car suddenly dragged over a speed bump, and it triggered your body to knock against him a little. Michael's hand instantly moved to cradle your head, with his arm tightening its grip on you, smoothing his free hand over your bare thigh beneath your mini dress.

"I need to forget about that disgusting freak's hand," you sighed.

Michael rubbed with a little more pressure over your ass and your thigh, up and down to soothe. The environment in the limo was placid, gentle-natured, a sharp distinction from what had just passed.

"This okay?" Michael whispered, referring to the reassuring movement of his fingers on your leg as he rested his head against yours. "No one touches my wife and gets away with it. Such a goddess, baby... Those shitheads can't keep their hands to themselves..."

"Mm, can't wait to be home, Mikey..." You shuffled a little on his lap, heart fluttering at how protective he was over you. He'd been this way since you were both blossoming into adolescence and a guy at school had taken you out for your first date. Michael did not play when it came to you. That was evident even in the way he elicited curse words solely when in defence of you.

Bored of being unable to see his face in the position you were in, you now moved to straddle his hips. Without asking, you pushed his dark sunglasses up onto his head, because even though he did look so sexy in the aviators, you disliked how they covered his beautiful eyes. "Angel face, lemme see you..."

Michael chuckled, his cheeks flushing a little as you pecked his nose, leaning forward to give him a butterfly kiss between your lashes and his. He made a soft noise of appreciation, an adorable sound that made you giggle, and within seconds you'd entered a makeout session, rocking your hips against his in the backseat.

While your tongues wrestled, you felt his bulge harden beneath his slacks, which only provoked you to writhe over him further. The sweet sound of your moans harmonised together against the wet smack of your mouths, and Michael's minty breath was seriously addictive.

But in your arousal-induced desperation, you'd forgotten all about Bill in the driver's seat.

"Hey, you two be careful back there," he said, startling both of you into finally dragging your faces from each other. "And don't go any further than that, please. For my sake."

You laughed against each other's lips. It was safe to say that unfortunately for Bill, he had seen way too much intimacy from you and Michael. The problem was that you were so obsessed with each other that you often forgot there were other people nearby. That was what always happened every time you performed onstage together too, although sexual chemistry in that context was often encouraged.

You turned your head back to respond with a grin. "We'll be good."

Then you were cupping Michael's cheek and kissing him again, but softly and more PG-friendly this time, after Bill's humorous reminder. Michael's grip around your waist was so tight, ensuring you didn't fall off his lap at any other speed bumps.

You leaned forward to rest your chin on his shoulder, no longer facing him but loving the feel of how his head now rested in the crook of your neck.

"My pretty baby... honeypie..." He whispered syrupy words over your chest, into your cocoa-scented skin. Your hands tangled in his shoulder-length curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, careful with his scarring in mind.

"Sweet angel..." you sighed into the air. "Can't wait to be home..."

Michael only continued to kiss at your neck and collarbone, toying with the hem of your dress where your cleavage was appealingly displayed.

Bill rolled his eyes with a knowing sigh.

"Mikey, he can see us, y'know," you giggled.

"I know, and I'll wait," Michael groaned. "But I just wanna have y' all to myself, mama—right now... Y' curves are killin' me..."

You kissed the top of his head and beamed at his words, stomach fluttering at how he loved on you, but you refused to tease any further until you were home.

"Y'sure you're okay for sex, darlin'?" Michael asked quietly. "I don't wanna press y' or anythin'."

"No, Mikey, don't worry, I told you—I just need to forget about what happened."

"Yeah, well, I'm not gonna forget about it. Tomorrow mornin' 'm gettin' my entourage to go over those tapes and the pictures, and we're findin' out the name of the man who did that to you. It won't be hard, considerin' they took about a million photos out there.”

"Thank you, baby," you sighed into his curls, but shuffling on his lap accidentally, and therefore eliciting a groan from his throat.

"You alright there?" you laughed, subtly rocking again—even though you knew you shouldn't.

"I'm great, honey." Michael smirked against your chest, biting his lip, before starting to kiss and suck up and down your neck again. "Gonna take such good care of my lady... soon as we get into our bedroom…”

You hummed airily.

"How'd y'want it, mama? 's your night, tell me..."

In truth, it was always your night where Michael was concerned. Everything he did was with you in mind.

You laughed in his ear. "Can't decide if I want it hard 'n fast or slow 'n deep."

"Well, how about we mix the two together, huh?" He gripped your asscheek with one hand, the other still tight on your waist.

You gasped, reaching your arm down immediately to smack his hand away. "Michael!" Bill's comment really hadn't deterred him at all.

He gently pushed your head backward so that you were now facing him as he looked up at you. "Dollface!" he teased.

You rolled your eyes, unable to do anything but smile. And then swiftly, Michael repositioned you back to resting sideways across his lap, curled into him. You yelped happily, purring against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck like a koala. "Mikey..."

His hands continued to caress all over you, doting on every inch of your body that he could reach. One hand tugged softly at where your dress kept riding up your thighs. You felt so safe in his arms, he your anchor.

Finally, Bill pulled up at your mansion. "Alright, we're here now, lovebirds."

"Yay," you giggled against Michael, trying to prevent a yawn from slipping out, because then he'd instruct you to sleep instead. You only half-managed to prevent it, but he didn't notice, too busy angling your figure, preparing to bring you inside in a bridal carry.

It always felt heavenly when he carried you, for it was so easy to get lost in his touch, that touch which inherently possessed the safety he provided just for you.

"Thanks, Bill! G’night!" Michael called back as he headed to the front door, swaying your pretty body in his arms while you smiled.

"Yeah, bye, Bill!" you sung too, trying to crane your neck to see him, but you were nestled perfectly into Michael's chest.

You had almost forgotten entirely about what happened earlier, but of course the weight of the assault still lingered in your mind, and you knew that tonight Michael would do his utmost to truly distract you. He also wouldn't stop at mere distraction—he had to ensure you felt entirely comfortable, that you wouldn't be going to sleep that night with any anxiety.

Entering the door and into the lounge, Michael set you down on the floor, watching as you bent over for him, pretending to look for a piece of jewellery. You laughed, syrupy sweet, arching your back as you hiked your dress up to your hips, revealing a lace black thong.

Michael stood there stunned, lip between his teeth, wondering if he should just take you then and there. He loved to have sex while standing, and you looked so fucking pretty in your tight mini that had you half-naked now.

"Come get me, baby," you grinned, slowly pulling down the straps from your shoulders so that they hung loosely. "Don't just stop and stare."

Michael didn't wait a moment more to step forward. He stood behind you, his aching cock pressed up against your ass through his slacks, hands squeezing the supple skin of your lower curves.

"Want me to come get ya, huh?"

"Mmhmm," you whined, even more in the mood now. You reached one hand back to stroke his clothed shaft, gripping sensually. "Mikey, you're so hard for me..."

"Yeah, can you blame me, sweetheart?"

"Nope," you laughed, knowing exactly how sexy you were—especially in that dress. The colour complimented you so much, and the tightness of the fabric accentuated every perfect feature of your body.

You spun around, and Michael hooked his arms beneath your thighs, picking you up again so that your arms and legs wrapped around his strong physique. You didn't even get a chance to look at each other properly before your lips collided, amalgamating into a messy smash of saliva, tongues dancing. You whined in his mouth as he groaned into yours, now rushing up the staircase with you held tightly against the warmth of him.

You kicked your heels off while in his arms, the sound a loud clatter against the marble, and it was a good thing none of his entourage were here tonight, like they were whenever you stayed in hotels. It was always a loud night between the two of you, and during your vacation you hadn't had anyone to disturb. Now life was back to normal, and when your husband would continue the Bad world tour next week, unfortunately working for Michael Jackson meant hearing every devoted noise of passion as he made love to his wife each night they had the privilege of being together. Your careers and lives as parents meant that sometimes weeks or months would go by where you couldn't achieve a perfect night, so when you did get an opportunity, you used the hell out of it.

The master bedroom sprawled across nearly half a floor, more private penthouse than sleeping quarters. Cream-coloured marble gleamed beneath pools of warm lamplight, combining with the gold accents scattered through the room. A massive platform bed dominated the centre, draped in ivory silk sheets and crowned by a towering padded headboard upholstered in champagne suede. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around one side of the suite, exposing a glittering ocean of stars beyond.

Michael dropped you onto the bed with desperate force, though still with a gentleness somehow. You turned on all fours and arched your back for him, displaying the divine curves of your ass, olive-gold material decorating your torso and ending at your hips. You moaned softly as you arched, intending to tease.

"Aw, honey... You wan' it like this, yeah?" Michael asked, assuming you were initiating backshots.

You shook your head. "No, I'm just teasing ya, Mikey... Want you on top of me."

So you crawled up to the top of the huge bed, tugging down your panties, the soaked fabric almost fully clinging to your puffy folds. With a smirk, you threw the panties in his direction, where he now kneeled in front of you, and immediately they went in the pocket of his slacks.

"Such a perv, baby," you teased, spreading your legs wide and reaching down to rub your aching clit. Your breasts were literally spilling out of your tiny dress, the material virtually useless now, but you knew Michael enjoyed it when you looked as slutty as possible. He had countless polaroids and tapes of you half-naked, cleavage accentuated, head thrown back in pleasure—in some ways it aroused him more than seeing you fully nude.

Michael shook his head with a chuckle, in disbelief at how lucky he was to have you. And then before you knew it, he was settled between your legs, arms hooked around your thighs as he gazed at his pretty prize.

"Aw, mama..." he moaned, prodding at your entrance with his thumb, before beginning to rub it up and down your dripping slit. "Perfect pussy, baby. All for me, no one else..."

"Need your mouth, handsome," you sighed, one hand moving to wreathe your fingers through his thick hair as you shut your eyes, ready to embrace the pleasure.

"Be patient, angel," Michael whispered against your skin, before pressing his tongue flat against your cunt, dragging it upward in one clean swipe.

"Oh—"

"Yeah, I know, baby love, I know…” He continued to lap at your centre, smothering your pussy in his licks and kisses as he moaned and grunted.

“Michael—fingers, please—fuck, oh—” you gasped and moaned as you writhed over the sheets, the wetness of his tongue providing you the most perfect sensation.

The wet squelching sounds that filled the large room were filthy, while he ate you like a man starved. And then he slipped in two fingers, slowly, and your eyes clamped shut, toes curling as he hit your spot with ease. Onstage you’d watch from the sidelines as he would make thrusting motions with his fingers, and you knew it was how he felt the music, but it never failed to make you insanely horny. And what made things even better was that you knew how much those sort of movements had girls all over the world going crazy, while really their idol only had eyes for you. It was only you who would experience the talent of those beautiful hands.

“Yeah, like this, mama?” Michael murmured against your clit as he sucked the sensitive nerves into his passionate mouth, doing so while continuing to hit your spot with every thrust of his two digits.

“Mhm, just like that, baby…” you sighed, gripping the strands of his curls but again being careful not to do so over where he’d been scarred. “Oh, I love you, honey…”

“I love y’ too, baby girl… my beautiful wife,” he said into your folds, licking side to side against the soft flesh, fingers plunging into your walls. Michael was so incredibly talented in the bedroom—no man could possibly compare. Every little action of his was perfection. Oh, how grateful you were to have the privilege of calling him your husband.

It wasn’t long before you reached your first orgasm, followed by Michael kissing all over your thighs, continuing to press suctioned licks to your cunt as you came down from your high. Michael adored foreplay—he’d happily live in it forever, but at the same time he yearned to be inside you, to feel your tight walls squeeze and overwhelm his thick cock that was pulsing with need. He had incredible stamina, so you could go all night whenever you wished.

After viewing the beautiful sight of your man shedding his clothes, he pushed into you so slowly, caging your body with his to make you feel his utmost protection. One hand cradled your face, the warmth adding to the stimulation of down below, and the other hand kneaded your breast that he pulled out of your dress as he began to thrust.

“Baby, you’re so big—” you whined, always finding it difficult to initially adjust to the stretch of his girth, and the fat head of his cock pressing insistently within you.

“I know, pretty angel, but you’re takin’ me so well, like y’always do,” Michael whispered, rubbing one thumb over your cheek and his other over your extremely sensitive nipple, making you cry out. “Yeah, that feels good, sweet girl?”

“So good, baby…”

Michael’s pretty curls were splayed everywhere now, sexy strands dipping into his eyes and adorning the side of his face. You cupped his cheek too, staring into his eyes as he delivered the most passionate, achingly slow thrusts.

“Wanna give it to y’ slow 'n deep tonight, mama, is that okay? Need t’ make love to my baby all night… Don’t wanna stop ‘til the sun comes up…”

“Mhm, yes Mikey, don’t stop—this is perfect, baby…” You locked your legs around his torso, attempting to provoke his cock to nudge deeper into your womb.

“Don’t stop ‘til you get enough,” he laughed, and you smacked his arm playfully, a giggle protruding from your throat with another moan.

“Oh, you’d never get enough.”

“No way,” he shook his head with a grin, before leaning his head onto yours, gazing deeply into your eyes. “Y’so beautiful, my angel girl… Love feelin’ y’ squeeze me.”

Each line was punctuated with a deep thrust, the perfect slow strokes sending your eyes rolling into the back of your head each time he delivered another.

“Mm, thank you for tonight, baby,” you murmured, kissing his nose. His hips continued to snap into you, pounding your sweet spot with every slow drag. “Y’take such good care of me.”

“Always, princess,” he hummed under his breath, before speaking with clear sincerity, never letting up the sensual thrust of his hips. “You’re my lady. My precious goddess—you’re the most special thing that exists in my life.”

“Oh, angel…” you cried out, feeling your second orgasm approaching already. “Faster, please, baby…”

So Michael sped up, hitting your core with slightly more aggression now, born of the overwhelming emotions of passion felt within. Accompanying these faster strokes, he continued to talk to you.

“You’re always safe w’me, babydoll. Always in my arms, in our bed at the end of the night…”

You gripped at his shoulders, switching between that and raking your nails along the plane of his upper back.

“Grabbing at me like an animal, honey… Feels that good, huh?”

You nodded, but he didn’t see because his head was pressed against yours.

“Hm? Tell me, pretty baby.”

“Can’t—Mikey, 'm gonna—nnghh—cum—” you whined loudly, literally unable to form a coherent sentence because the pleasure was just too much.

Michael chuckled in your ear, a deep, warm sound, and it almost sent you over the edge. “Love makin’ you cum, mama, wanna do it over and over again… Put all my babies in you…”

“Angelface,” you smiled amidst another throaty moan.

“Don’t call me that,” he giggled shyly, trying to stay in control as his hips thrusted even harder. “You’re the one who came from heaven, honey.”

“Shh, Mikey, maybe we came down together,” you whispered, caressing the soft skin of his cheek. “Whatever helps you to listen to me. Mm—thank you for always taking care of me… Oh, baby, I’m gonna—”

“That’s alright, princess,” Michael cooed in your ear, speeding up his pace to meet what you craved. “I’ll get ya there. Oh, mama, y’so tight, 'm not gonna last much longer…”

And then your climax hit you, overwhelmingly so.

“Michael, oh!”

It was too much all at once—his honeyed voice, each deep thrust of his cock, his hand cradling your face and your breasts… The coil in your abdomen came undone, pleasure coursing through your veins as you shuddered through your orgasm.

“Shhh, that’s it…” Michael talked you through it, pounding you as hard as ever now. He’d ended up giving it to you both slow and fast as he’d intended to earlier, and it was the most perfect feeling. No matter the pace, Michael gave you his all.

“Oh, sweetheart, fuck, 'm gonna cu—oh—”

Another thing about your man was that he was incredibly vocal, exactly as he was onstage. In fact, the performance of his hips mirrored his onstage skill too, so in all respects he was a true performer in the bedroom.

As he writhed through his orgasm, torso pressed to yours, your bloodstream seemed to be infused with ecstasy. Those pretty sounds that spilled from his lips, the sweat from his forehead dripping into your hair, the erratic thrusts as he came down, the feel of his hot seed shooting in messy spurts directly into your womb… Sex with your husband had to be the single most beautiful thing on earth.

You weren’t even on the pill currently, but that didn’t matter, because since the seventies Michael had wanted eighteen children, and while that number was certifiably insane, you would give him as many as your body could handle, once your careers mellowed. He was never forceful about breeding you—he just adored you so much and loved to watch you carry and bear his kids. And of course, he was also insanely enamoured by the feeling and the sight of filling you up with his fertility. He loved to see your pretty cunt dripping with his pearly-white cum.

That same desire was how you’d ended up with three, despite being in the busiest decade of your lives. And if the two of you hadn’t been world-famous popstars, you truly would’ve had an entire football team of kids by now. Three was a tiny number compared to what Michael dreamed of, but it was all you could manage given that you were both in the prime of your careers.

Despite how confident Michael was sexually, he always grew so shy afterward, burying his head into your neck and interlacing his fingers with yours if they weren’t already; all the while refusing to look at you. Although, he couldn’t have been that modest, because his softening cock still filled you to the brim.

You stroked his hair soothingly, breathing in his gorgeous scent as he pressed kisses all over your neck and the side of your face.

When he lifted his head to kiss your earlobe, you squeezed his cheeks in one hand and dragged his face to yours. “Look at me, handsome. Stop hiding away like you’re shy or somethin’. You always do this.”

Michael flushed, grinning bashfully. “Wha’s that perfume you got on, baby?”

“It’s Poison,” you giggled. “By Dior.”

He nodded, taking a deep breath and settling a little downward to lay into your neck and chest, inhaling the rich scent of plum, tuberose and spice clinging to the dress that you were still scarcely clad in, below where your breasts had been dragged out of the fabric by him earlier.

“Suits y’, honey. Just magical…” His voice trailed off as he hummed the words into your skin, his usual post-sex whimsicality breaking through the persona he reserved for the stage and the bedroom. “Y’wanna watch some cartoons?”

“Of course, baby,” you chuckled, kissing his pretty head. His stamina was amazing, but there were often times like tonight where he grew so sleepy and soft after lovemaking, especially when he was worn out to begin with. And you really needed to catch up on sleep—you both did—but if your sweetheart wanted to stay up watching cartoons after giving you two orgasms in a row, you would accompany him happily.

Now he smiled with glee, nipping at your neck and your breasts. “Not done yet though, my love… Still need t’ make love t’ you some more… 'til dawn breaks through these windows…”

Speaking of those floor-to-ceiling windows, if anyone had been looking, they’d have seen pretty much everything. It was lucky you lived in a secluded area in Beverly Hills, but that still didn’t stop you from risking becoming accidental exhibitionists.

“Mikey, I love you, pretty boy…”

You knew how much he cherished being spoken to in that way when he was at his softest, essentially asking to be babied in your arms. Earlier he had been the dominant one, but moments of beautiful vulnerability like these were a huge part of your relationship too. Not only did Michael crave the feeling of being cared for so gently, but you thoroughly believed it was what he deserved.

He suffered through so much, never experiencing any real peace when not with you—and even with you sometimes the outside world made it difficult—so in your quietest alone time you made sure that boy felt so loved. Of course you would stay up until dawn with him to watch cartoons and make love, because you knew that even while he wouldn’t burden you by admitting so, he struggled terribly with sleep and suffered with chronic stress—especially as tour was about to begin again.

“You want me to put on Mickey or somethin’?” you asked him, combing your manicured nails through his mass of curls.

“Yeah,” he hummed. “Uh, the Disney LaserDisc. Mickey and the Beanstalk.”

You laughed quietly, cradling his soft, defined jaw. “You’re asking me to go over there and turn on a Disney cartoon while I’m dressed like a slut? Honey, y’haven’t even pulled out of me yet.”

“You’re not a slut—don’t call yourself that,” Michael murmured against one of your breasts.

“I didn’t say I was one. I said I’m dressed like one,” you corrected playfully, scratching lightly up and down his bare back.

A few moments of silence passed, and you thought Michael might’ve dozed off, but no—he was still wide awake, enjoying the innate peace exuding from your body.

“Michael.”

“Yeah?”

“Are you gonna pull out, or…?”

“I thought y’liked me to stay like this,” he muttered drowsily, so adorable pressed into your chest.

“I do, baby. But you’re asking me to turn on a cartoon and I can’t exactly do that from here.”

“Okay, whatever. Forget Mickey, 'm stayin’ just like this…”

You chuckled, sighing in content. He was all over you, body caging yours; genitalia intwined, cum drilled deep and seeping out onto the sheets in slow drops. You’d love another round, but if your beautiful boy could fall asleep on you right here, completely merged with you, you’d feel more glad than ever. All you could do now was attempt to send him off to sleep, cuddling him so close and whispering sweet words the way he always did to you. That’s what made your marriage work so well, even in the face of the inevitable setbacks—because you each knew when the other needed to be loved on, and you also knew exactly what was necessary to fulfil such a need. The last two hours had been the most admirable example of that dynamic.

hiii! this is my first michael fic within my series. feedback is appreciated, mwah ♥︎