miss jackson

𝐦𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐞𝐥 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

pov: you falling in love with michael jackson ♡

pov: you are tired of being michael jackson's best-kept secret ♡

pov: when michael jackson gave you an ultimato ♡

pov: you realized it will never be you • part 2 • part 3

you're michael jackson's soulmate • smut

pov: you're tatiana's substitute • smut | part 2

pov: dating the most famous guy costs so much of yourself ♡

scenario! a single night with the king of pop leaves you pregnant | part 1 • part 2 • part 3

vampire!michael jackson

moodboard michael jackson

moodboard younger gf

michael jackson otw era x reader!disco singer • part 2

you're grieving his loss • heavy angst

michael jackson x fem!rockstar

father figure

you drive him crazy • smut

being michael jackson's favorite camgirl - part 2

during the victory tour, you secretly end up in the hospital. when he finally arrives after the show, he finds you completely loopy from anesthesia. ♡

you discover you're pregnant while michael is on tour. tragically, you suffer a miscarriage. ♡

michael loves teasing you until you're completely losing your mind. ♡

during a solo trip to france, you unexpectedly meet michael jackson in a small record shop. ♡

𝐣𝐚𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐫 𝐣𝐚𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐨𝐧

pov: you are more than a friend to your best friend's boyfriend • part 2 • part 3 • part 4 • part 5

pov: you're jaafar's best friend since childhood

jaafar jackson x ballerina reader

you're thirsty for him.

it genuinely sucks.

and maybe because you're bored and horny, you can't stop drinking. margaritas and mojitos are your favorite drinks.

"baby, c'mon you're already drunk" his low voice emerges out of nowhere behind you.

wasn't he with his siblings until now? the bartender finishes your seventh margarita. when you reach out to grab the glass jaafar is faster than you.

"boy give me my drink" you're annoyed—you can't fuck him and he's still controlling your drink? who does he think he is?

"no ma—" he's saying no but who asked for his opinion. he places his firm hand on your waist to bring you closer to him. and that's it. that's the movement that makes you lose all your control. you start grinding your ass against his bulge.

"what are you doing?" you slowly move your ass. and you can feel his cock growing each time you press yourself on it.

"nothing. i'm just dancing with my sweet boyfriend" your voice is silky, teasing him to make him lose all his control.

"fuck. look at this. you're so drunk that you're acting like a real slut in public"

"should i make a little show for our crowd?" his grip on your waist is almost painful. good. you hit a nerve. when you shift your face to meet his eyes. you see. he clenches his jaw—and pulls you by your hand.

the way to the elevator is torturous. the silence is almost like a signal of what will come. lustful and lascivious. jaafar doesn't say anything until you arrive in your hotel bedroom.

he tightly closes the room’s door.

his brown eyes are all in you now.

he bows in front of you—and takes your high heels off.

"sit on the bed, now" you nod mutely. a thing inside you starts to reverberate. it's filthy. you keep your look away from him, but he isn't hesitant to grab your chin.

his look at you is obscene. oh, and when he says the next words. you unwittingly press your thighs together.

"open your mouth. yeah. like this. good girl"

he spits on your open mouth. gently caressing your cheeks. he unzips his pants. fuck. he's so fucking hard.

you feel your blood buzzing. the roaring in your ears is loud.

"do you wanna suck my cock? huh? do you wanna feel it throbbing in your pretty mouth?"

you nod positively. but that isn't enough for him. jaafar is a man who loves to hear you begging for it.

"say it. i want to hear you saying, alright?"

"please, jaafar…"

"please, what? tell me, angel."

"i wanna suck your cock"

"that's my slut" he leans on you. and take his hard cock out of his grey boxer. his inch pulls in your face, fuck. and you gently swirl your tongue around it. it feels amazing.

jaafar is never good at taking all your teasing. now it isn't any different. your tongue is warm and it's driving him insane. he presses his cock inside your mouth. fucking you.

"f-fuck f-fuck. girl. that's the lil’ show you wanted to do? yeah?" you're swallowing him, he goes deep into your throat. your mouth is so soft, warm. you take care of him so well. a frenetic pace takes over him, and he's fucking you senseless. you're all sloppy and teary-eyed.

"nghhhh-that’s it. take it all. nghhhhh. fuck. fuck. you're my good girl, you like that don't you? such a slut, my slut.

you're babbling in his cock, and boy your mouth is not enough for him anymore. he lets out a gasp, before pulling you by your hair and deeply kissing you.

he has already done this so many times. but it's never enough. he slides your panties to the side, without even taking your dress off. you're a mess. a real mess. he slips his cock inside your pussy. and pulls your titties out of the dress.

"lemme fuck this pussy-nhgghh-girl you're so wet. you like that shit? you like when i treat you like a slut?"

"j-jaafar-nhhhgnh. y-yes i like it. nhghhh. nghh. i’m your slut, please please nhgnnnn"

your pussy is clenching around him, you're soaking wet. sobbing every time he hits that sweet spot. it's the fucking heaven. your cunt is his heaven. you're trembling in his arms, it's too good to be true. he gasps when you swallow him, when he feels that spongy place he fucks you even harder. you're so tight, so warm.

you're whimpering when he presses your hard nipples with his thumb, it's overwhelming. all of it. his touch in your body. his kisses in your lips, neck, collarbone. he's everywhere. the wet slap of skin is consuming you.

"j-jaafar-nhhhgnhhh im g-gonna cum"

slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap. slap.

"cum, princess. that's it. swallow my cock"

when he feels you creaming all over him, the white line around his cock. the shivers go down all over his body. he's kissing you, his tongue is searching for yours. it's a wet kiss. it's a deep mix of you and him. the slick sound when he gives one more thrust is insane. he makes a strangled noise and then he cums inside you.

"fuck, baby. you're a mess"

"i don't think i'm drunk anymore"

"wait lemme—"

"don't pull it out"

"no? huh?"

"i want to sleep with you inside me"

"fine. fine. i love you, alright?"

"i'm already planning the next time that i'm getting drunk—"

"oh shut up"

you hold him even tighter. just thinking about spending more time with his family—you’ll definitely need more drinking.

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“amor, this possibility doesn't exist. look, we're going to win—”

“but if it doesn't?” oh boy. he's playing with fire. you don't answer him, your attention is all in the game happening in front of you. the 2nd half is almost ending—you feel the growing anxiety in your chest.

you look at your boyfriend calmly watching you. as if the most important thing isn't happening out there. you sit on the chair at his side, biting your nails.

“don't do that, princess. i'm sorry. i was joking. brazil is gonna win” he grabs your hand, and your eyes soften as he kisses your manicured hand.

“i love you, mike”

“eu te amo mais” he winks at you. oh, you shouldn't have taught him the 'i love you more' thing.

you feel better.

the 2nd half is over.

the game is going to penalties.

“fuck. fuck. porra. look at this, mike, i'm going to have a heart attack. i can't take it. i'm not going to look”

“baby, trust me, there's no 'if'. brazil is gonna win”

“how sweet of you to change your opinion right now”

“girl….”

italy finishes the penalties. they score 2 goals. it's brazil's turn now. somehow the private box seems suffocating, your grip on his hand tightens.

“i don't wanna see it. what if we lose”

“look at it. we're gonna win, baby.” he's right behind you. his voice is soft and full of confidence. he has this gift of making you feel good just with words.

and when the seleção scores 3 goals.

you scream and jump of happiness.

brazil is officially the tetra champion of the world cup.

“baby! i can't believe we won!” you pull on his lap and he smiles with your happiness, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“so, can we start our own football team now?”

“which team are they going to play for, mr. jackson?”

“i think there is a lot of time to decide that…”

you feel his smile across your hair. and maybe if you really have eighteen kids with mike they can play half in each team. yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

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it's not like you don't want to see him.

well, you can go home. you'll call him saying you suddenly caught a nasty cold—and he won't ask any questions. it's a good excuse. you're staring at the door as if you could see through it.

thinking. thinking and thinking. when did you become so avoidant?

you don't have the time to answer. he opens the door before you can finish your thought. he seems tired. his eyes are weary. but when he sees you, a brilliant glance sparkles in his face.

for a single moment it is just you and him. he's wearing a red sweater and blue jeans.

you open your mouth to say anything to fill the silence. but he's faster than you. his voice is low and warm. it gives you goosebumps.

"i thought you weren't coming anymore." he grabs your wrist and pulls you to the studio while closing the door behind him.

"i would call you if this was the case. so, what are you doing mike?" the studio is a total mess—notes all over the wall. michael has been preparing his new album. the only song you heard so far was thriller. and it was exceptional in many ways.

he's sitting in front of the mixing desk. but he's not looking at it. instead he's looking at you. "i wanna show you this new song"

"do you already have a name for it?"

"i'm thinking about calling it the lady in my life" he drops the name carefully. he observes your reaction. you asked because you're genuinely curious about it. you obviously weren't expecting his answer to be that. the lady in my life.

"is there a lady in your life, mike?" the hint of jealousy in your voice is hidden behind your wide smile. actually, you don't want to know the answer to your question. you want to take your words back.

"it's just a song." it doesn't seem like it is just a song for you. michael presses the play button. he walks in your direction, sitting by your side on the brown couch.

this routine isn't new for you nor for him. going to the harveydurst late at night, spending hours talking with michael, hearing his voice. but your heart beating a bit fast because of him is something new.

he's so close to you now. you inhale his woody fragrance, his big hands are pressed on his thigh. and then, you catch yourself staring at him.

michael has always known how pretty you are. you're looking at him with your fascinating eyes—he swears that he could drown himself into them. he would be lying if he said he doesn't think about you in this way. because the problem is that he does.

you drift your gaze to his mouth. there is something in the air that makes you lean into him. suddenly, you're out of breath when he grips your waist. his hand is like a blaze on your body. you're so near him. it's scary but at the same time you want more. do his lips taste as good as they seem? does he feel the same as you?

(lay back in my tenderness) lay back with me

(you are the lady in my life) let me touch you, girl.

(rock me with your sweet caress) lay back with me

(always the lady in my life) all over, all over, all over

(ooh, girl, let me keep you warm) all over, all over, all over

the song is over. but you are still in the same position. he moistens his lips—and takes his hand away from your body. it's suddenly cold. he's not looking at you anymore. and you realize what is happening.

he's going to pretend nothing happened. he's going to put you in the best friend box. and you don't want to see this happening. not now.

"do you like the song?"

"yes, i did. it was pretty good, mike" your voice sounds tired.

"huh, i wanted to show you another demo—"

"look, i think i should go now. i'm pretty tired" he raises one eyebrow. he doesn't believe any word that you have said. he clenches his jaw without even realizing it and says:

"don't go."

two words.

only two words.

and you know you're already surrounded.

"no?"

"it's too late. we can watch a movie and it has been a while since you saw bubbles. bill can take you home tomorrow morning."

"well, since you insist. i want strawberry ice cream, alright?"

"everything for you."

only if he meant it.

the movie is singing in the rain—the ice cream tastes better than ever. but you still can feel the bittersweet rejection, you're still thinking about his hands on you. you're michael jackson's best friend and that is the only title you will ever have in his life. you suppress all the feelings inside of you. they will be locked in your heart. you can do it—he smiles at you when gene kelly holds on to the pole.

i'm only his friend. i'm only his best friend—that sentence is like a mantra to you. the connection you felt hours ago was your mind playing games with you.

he doesn't see you in any different way. but you swear that sometimes…you can see a glimpse…of something you know very well: love.

bill takes you home at 5am.

you don't say goodbye to him.

you stop appearing late at night in harveydurst, but you never cut his friendship off. late night at harveydurst became late-night phone calls. it was a double-edged sword. you couldn't turn back to your usual friendship with him—and you could not stop yourself from keeping an emotional attachment to him.

but he was still yours. your best friend. the person you have known for such a long time. you're the one he would vent to. you're the one he would chase comfort from.

maybe it was selfish of you to want to hold a special place. even if it was not romantic in his heart. you just didn't want to be forgotten—you couldn't let him go.

the next time you see him is a week after the grammys. he made it. he won 8 grammys. you called him on the same night. that's the reason you weren't expecting to see him at your door a week later. saying that he wanted to celebrate with you.

he's standing against the kitchen island while observing you peeling the oranges. you cut them in the middle. and finally squeeze them into the glass.

"i missed your orange juice"

"did you?"

"yes, i did. they don't make orange juice like you"

"yeah, i doubt that"

"i missed you. you stopped appearing there"

"what are you saying, mike? you still talk with me almost every day"

"but it's different, you know. i feel that you're avoiding me. girl, i need to know why." he reaches to grab the glass. however, he leans into you.

"stop worrying about nothing. everything is fine"

his eyes search for every trace of the truth in your face, it's suffocating—you have never been good at hiding anything from him.

"do you promise me?"

"mike……"

"baby—i just…. it sucks being away from you."

you swallow hard.

he never called you baby. maybe it's because of the way he's staring at your lips—or maybe it's because he is too close. you don't know what it is, but when you feel his nose brushing yours, you kiss him.

it's not gentle. it's hungry. you're devouring his lips. you're searching for his tongue. he firmly grabs your waist, stroking your back—causing a fire inside you. you're shamelessly drowning in his arms. when you feel yourself running out of breath—you touch his chest.

your lips are now barely touching, and you're breathing each other's air. you're aroused by it. he kisses you again, but this time he swirls his tongue against yours. you're addicted. you want more. more and more.

your sloppy lips are proof of what happened. he's resting his forehead against yours. and you give a slight smile. the thought of you being in his arms today never crossed your mind. but there you are.

maybe you're too dizzy, but when you say the next words it isn't surprising for you. because it's the truth.

"i love you, mike." your voice is soft and careful.

you say it like it's something easy. because loving him was always so easy to you. he doesn't answer. he takes a step back, bites his lip, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

you have seen these actions so many times.

at this moment you know what is happening.

your worst nightmare is happening.

he can't stare at you anymore. he finds something more interesting on the floor. his voice is hesitant and full of something else. it's the dreadful guilt.

"i'm sorry, i didn't mean that"

you don't answer. you can't answer. because the embarrassment is taking over you.

he's out of your view now. when you hear the sound of the door closing, you know that he's really leaving you behind.

he leaves your home as easily as he came in.

his unfinished juice is on the table. you grab it and throw it on the floor. the pieces of broken glass are portraits of your own soul now.

it's shattering. all of it. you feel your eyes filled with tears. and they drop. one by one. until you sob like a lunatic. for a moment, you thought it would be real. not for a moment, for 10 minutes. you and he were real. because there is no explanation for the way he holds you. daydreaming. illusion. it was all of it mixed with hope. you had hope that you finally would be chosen. you thought you had more value. your foolish heart was living in a fairy tale.

you spent weeks crying. trying to find a valid reason for his reaction. and you came to the simple conclusion. he just wasn't in love with you. you were his best friend and nothing more. you were on a friendship shelf. that was your label. his feelings for you weren't mutual. unrequited love. that was it.

you stop crying. because it doesn't matter if he doesn't love you. he is still the same guy who made sure to fill his freezer with your favorite ice cream. or the same guy who would show you his lyrics. the same guy who would share a bit of his dream with you.

you took your time. you finally could breathe without being a ghost of your own feelings. you will call him. because you need closure. you need an ending—not of your friendship with him. but you need to get rid of this longing affection.

everything will be back to its own place.

you thought so.

you dial the harveydurst phone number without any effort. you remember this number as your own.

you took a breath before pressing the call button. the phone line rings three times. then, you're finally answered.

the other voice doesn't talk first—but you recognize his breathing. and something in your chest hurts—the memories. your not-so-hidden feelings. for the first time you're scared. but you don't hang up. you go on.

"mike, it's me. can we talk?"

"i don't think it's a good idea—"

"are we still friends?" that's all you want to know. you don't need his love. you just need his friendship.

"....i have to turn it off now"

you don't wait for him to turn it off. you turn it off first. his lack of answer is everything you need to know, and it haunts you. because for some reason, you think it is your fault. it's crushing. it's painful. all that you ever know is erased from your soul. because that means….he never saw your friendship as something as important as you did. all the moments you shared with him—it was all not that important to him. you have no reaction—besides lying in your bed and crying. because if only you never had kissed him—he would still be by your side.

two months later is when you finally stop crying for him. it felt like a loss. you were mourning a friendship. first you stop watching every channel on television. he was everywhere. second you got rid of his records. including the jackson ones. third you stopped listening to your favorite radio station.

you almost became an eremite.

the hardest thing was to not call him. you wanted to beg him for a proper answer. you wanted to hear his voice trembling. but you didn't.

you stood it by yourself.

you moved on—you didn't care about seeing him on the tv anymore. you listened to his songs on the radio. he became michael jackson—the legend. the king of pop. an unknown for you. a total stranger for your heart and soul.

he became a memory buried alive in your core.

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