𓊆ྀིI LOVE YOU𓊇ྀི - MICHAEL J
michael jackson x blackfem!reader (with vitiligo)
warning: smut, some sadness but reassurance, mentions of j0€, both virgins
a/n: I couldn’t wait to make this!!!!
The year was 1984, and the world was firmly in the grip of "Thriller." For Michael, the peak of his career felt less like a triumph and more like a gilded cage.
While the public saw a global superstar, Michael felt like a fraud, hiding behind layers of heavy pancake makeup and long sleeves to mask the creeping white patches of vitiligo that were claiming more of his skin every day.
He had always been shy, but the changes in his complexion had turned that shyness into a deep-seated anxiety. He felt fragmented, as if his own body were betraying him.
The only person who truly saw him, not as the King of Pop, but just as Michael, was you.
You had grown up together, two singing prodigies bound by a bond that transcended fame.
You also had vitiligo, but unlike Michael, you wore yours like a badge of honor.
You didn't hide the splashes of white across your skin, you embraced them, telling him since you were children that these patterns were like maps of the stars, making him unique and beautiful.
You were his anchor, the one person who could make him laugh when the pressure of the world felt like it was crushing his chest.
With the Grammy Awards approaching, Michael's stress had reached a breaking point.
The makeup was becoming a nightmare; it felt thick and suffocating, and he lived in constant terror that it would smudge under the hot stage lights.
He was particularly paranoid about his hands, terrified that a single touch or a bead of sweat would reveal the patches beneath, exposing his "secret" to millions.
To make matters worse, the tension with his father, Joe, had escalated. Joe's relentless demands for perfection and his harsh critiques of Michael's appearance had left Michael feeling small and broken.
Your phone rang at 2:47 in the morning, dragging you from a deep, dreamless sleep.
You fumbled for the receiver, your voice thick with sleep. "Hello?"
For a long moment, there was only silence on the other end. Then a shaky breath, a sniffle, and a voice you'd know anywhere, trembling with barely contained tears.
"Hey... it's me. I'm sorry for callin' so late. I just—I didn't know who else to call."
You sat up instantly, the fog of sleep evaporating. "Michael? What's wrong? What happened?"
He couldn't even get the words out at first, just gasping breaths and heartbroken whimpers.
"I can't do it... I can't go out there," he choked out. "The makeup... it's not working anymore, and Joe... he just keeps telling me I'm not enough."
"Michael, honey, breathe," you whispered, your heart aching. "I'm coming over. Right now. Don't move, just stay right there."
The drive to Hayvenhurst was a blur of streetlights and anxious thoughts.
The gates opened when you announced yourself, and you pulled up to the main house, your heart pounding.
The door swung open before you could knock, and there he stood Michael, in sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, his face blotchy from crying, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen.
He looked small and vulnerable. Like the little boy you'd met all those years ago.
"Hey," you said softly.
He didn't say anything. He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair.
You held him tight, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles on his back.
"I got you," you murmured. "I'm here."
He pulled back after a long moment, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess."
"You're my mess." You took his hand, leading him inside. "Come on. Let's sit down and talk."
You both settled on the couch in his living room, the lights dim, the house quiet around you.
"Look at me, Michael," you commanded gently, pulling his hand back and kissing the knuckles.
"I don't care about the makeup. I don't care about the patches. You are the most beautiful man I have ever known, inside and out. Those marks? They aren't flaws. They're part of you, and I love every single inch of you."
Michael looked at you, his gaze searching your eyes for any sign of lie. Finding only pure, unconditional love, he let out a long, shuddering breath.
You spent the next hour talking him through his fears, reminding him of his talent and the joy he brought to people.
You made him laugh by mimicking some of the stuffy industry executives, and slowly, the tension left his shoulders.
"You really think everything will be okay?" he whispered, his voice small.
"I know it will," you replied, leaning in close. "Because you're Michael. And you're not alone."
The atmosphere shifted. The emotional vulnerability of the night had stripped away the barriers between you.
Michael looked at your lips, then back to your eyes, his breath hitching.
He leaned in slowly, tentatively, as if asking for permission. When you met him halfway, the kiss was soft at first, a tentative exploration of a feeling that had been simmering between you for years.
But as the kiss deepened, the desperation and longing took over.
Michael groaned into your mouth, his hands sliding up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over the patches of vitiligo on your cheeks.
He wasn't thinking about makeup anymore, he was thinking about the warmth of your skin.
The kiss grew hungrier, more urgent. You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in his curls.
The transition from the sofa to the bedroom was a blur of frantic touches and whispered admissions of love.
The kiss deepened, slow and searching, like he was tasting you for the first time all over again and committing every detail to memory.
His lips were impossibly soft, moving against yours with a tenderness that made your chest ache.
His hands, those hands that had made millions dance, trembled as they cradled your face, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones like you were made of glass.
"I love the way you kiss me," you breathed against his lips.
"Yeah?" His voice was barely a whisper, shy and hopeful.
"Yeah."
He kissed you again, more confident this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, exploratory dance.
One of his hands slid down from your face, trailing along your collarbone, your sternum, coming to rest at the swell of your breast.
He hesitated, his fingers hovering, and you could feel the question in his touch.
"It's okay," you whispered. "You can touch me." You pull your top off over you head and you weren't wearing a bra.
He let out a shaky breath, and his palm cupped your soft breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple in a tentative stroke.
You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips, and the sound seemed to embolden him.
He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to the curve of your neck, then lower, his lips trailing down your chest until he reached your breast.
He took your nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling the sensitive peak, and your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there.
"Michael," you gasped.
He looked up at you, his eyes dark with desire, and the sight of him, this man who commanded stadiums, who made the world move to his rhythm looking at you like you were something sacred, something precious, it undid you.
He switched to your other breast, giving it the same attention, his hand sliding down your stomach, your hip, your thigh.
His fingers traced the patches of lighter skin on your leg, gentle and reverent, and when he looked up at you again, there were tears in his eyes.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered. "Every part of you."
As you both stripped away the rest of your clothes, Michael paused, his eyes scanning your body and then his own.
For the first time, he didn't feel the urge to hide. Seeing your confident, beautiful skin made him feel brave.
It was also the first time for both of you, there was a clumsy, sweet tenderness to it.
There were a few awkward moments, a misplaced knee, a nervous giggle, but it only made the experience more intimate.
"You're so wet for me," he murmured, almost to himself.
"Only for you."
He slipped a finger inside you, slow and careful, and you gasped at the sensation.
He watched your face, studying every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made your hips buck against his hand.
He added a second finger, curling them just so, and your back arched off the bed.
"Like that?" he asked, his voice rough.
"Yes—right there—don't stop—"
He didn't. He worked you with his fingers, his thumb finding your clit in a rhythm that was clumsy but earnest, driven by nothing but his desire to please you.
You could feel yourself building, the pressure coiling tight in your belly, and you reached for him, pulling him up for a kiss.
"I want you inside me," you said against his lips. "I want to feel you."
He pulled his fingers out slowly, bringing them to his mouth, tasting you.
He positioned himself between your thighs, the tip pressing against your entrance, and he paused, looking at you with wide, vulnerable eyes.
"I'm scared I'm gonna hurt you," he admitted.
"You won't. Just go slow."
He nodded, and then he was pushing inside you, inch by agonizing inch.
The stretch was intense, a sharp pressure that bordered on pain, and you gripped his shoulders, your breath hitching.
He stopped immediately, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Okay? You okay?"
"Yeah," you managed. "Keep going."
He pushed deeper, and you felt the resistance of your virginity give way, a brief sting that made you wince.
He froze, his eyes searching yours, concern etched into every line of his face.
"It's okay," you said, your voice strained but steady. "I'm okay. Keep moving."
He began to move, slow and shallow at first, letting your body adjust to him.
Each thrust was careful, measured, his eyes never leaving yours.
The pain faded, replaced by a growing fullness, a deep, stretching pleasure that built with each movement.
"You feel so good," he breathed, his voice wrecked. "So tight—so perfect—"
"Faster," you whispered.
He obeyed, his rhythm quickening, his hips finding a natural pace. The sound of your bodies coming together filled the quiet room.
He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin, his moans muffled against your shoulder.
"You feel so good," he said, his voice strained. "I feel something coming." (Literally)
"Don't hold back."
He lifted his head, looking at you with an expression of raw, unguarded need.
He reached between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he thrust into you. He learned this moved from overhearing his brothers talking about their first time with their girlfriends.
The dual sensation was overwhelming, the pressure building faster and faster until you shattered, your cry echoing off the walls as your body clenched around him.
The feeling of you coming undone around him was his undoing.
He drove into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was spilling inside you, a broken moan tearing from his throat as he rode out his release, his body shuddering against yours.
Afterward, he collapsed on top of you, both of you slick with sweat, breathing hard.
He lifted his head after a long moment, looking down at you with an expression of pure, disbelieving wonder.
"That was..." He trailed off, searching for words.
"Perfect," you finished.
He smiled, soft and shy, and pressed a kiss to your lips. "Yeah. Perfect."
He pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you, and you lay together in the quiet, your heartbeats slowly syncing.
Michael held you tight, his head resting in the crook of your neck, refusing to let go.
He felt a peace he hadn't known in years. After a long while, he spoke, his voice hesitant.
"Please don't leave," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Stay with me. Please."
"I'm not going anywhere, Michael," you whispered, kissing his forehead.
He pulled back slightly, looking at you with a hopeful, nervous expression.
He took both of your hands in his, ignoring the smeared makeup on his palms.
"I have... I have two questions," he said, his voice regaining some of its strength.
"First... would you do me the honor of being my date to the Grammys? I don't want to go with anyone else. I want the world to see me with the woman who makes me feel brave."
You beamed, a tear of happiness escaping. "Yes, Michael. Of course."
He smiled, a genuine, dazzling smile that reached his eyes. "And... second... will you be my girlfriend?"
You laughed softly and pulled him down for another kiss. "I thought you'd never ask. Yes, I'll be your girlfriend."
Michael pulled you back into his arms, holding you as if you were the most precious thing in the world. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't afraid of the lights, the cameras, or the mirrors. He had you, and that was all the beauty he ever needed.
