risa ⋆˚࿔

michael had you laid out on his bed, but he’d asked you to tilt your head over the edge of the mattress, your eyes tracking him carefully as he rounded the bed and settled himself right in front of your face. your eyes and mouth at level with hips when his thumbs hooked onto the edge of his boxers.

“what…”

“i wanna try something,” his voice was low. a small smile playing at the corners of his lips as he watched your eyes widen when he lowered his boxers, his cock slapping lightly against his naval and a damp spot from his tip glistening in the low light.

“you look so pretty like this. open up.” one of michael’s hands gripped his cock, pumping it a few times while the other cradled your throat. bending your head back as your lips parted for him, your tongue sticking out and taunting him.

his eyes flicked up as he got to fully take in your body, your soft skin wrapped up in his sheets, completely bare and flush for him. groaning as he slid into your mouth, watching as you took as much of him as you could.

teeth sinking into his bottom lip because he could feel himself through your throat from where his hand was resting against your neck.

when he started to fuck your mouth, your whimpers made him briefly shut his eyes. your saliva gathering as you choked on his length. your hands coming up to hold onto his hips and your nails dug crescents into his skin.

“that’s it baby, taking me so well.” he praised, his words being rasped by a moan. his hands reaching out to massage your breasts and the moment his fingers left your throat, he saw it.

his cock dragging in and out of you— your throat constricting around him as he went deeper and you gagged. your thighs rubbing together as you desperately sought out your own relief.

“fuck, mama.” he threw his head back, his pace growing erratic and he knew he was probably going a little too hard but his mind was so wrapped up in how you felt and looked, he didn’t pay your comfort much mind like he usually did.

and when you moaned around his cock, he lost it. tipping over the edge of oblivion as his hips rolled into you. one hand holding your throat while the other dug into his sheets, moaning your name as he came. delighting in the way he could not only feel but see you swallowing his release.

a pathetic sound leaving him when he pulled out, seeing sticky strings of his cum and saliva stretch and break from your tongue and lips.

michael was panting as he fell into the bed beside you, rolling his head to the side to kiss your thigh. “we’re definitely doing that again.”

you laughed, wiping tears from your eyes given the position and how he had practically been suffocating you— absolutely no complaints on your behalf.

“how about you let me catch my breath first?” you teased, watching him as he lifted himself up on an elbow. a contemplative look to him as he hummed.

“i’ll leave your mouth alone for now, but no promises on you being able to breathe.”

your brows furrowed. but before you could even think to ask him to elaborate, michael was lowering his head between your thighs.

michael jackson masterlist

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Usually, you wouldn't have a problem with it. You were friends with all of Michael's brothers, not close necessarily, but cordial enough for you to get used to the Jackson charm that all of his siblings exuded onto you. Plus, Jackie was always friendly. That was just who he was.

Soft-spoken, charming, quick to laugh, quick to touch. And, like you said, you normally didn't mind. But something started to feel off. Maybe it was the way his hand lingered around your waist as he gently pulled you closer to tell you a joke, or the way he said your name — warm and teasing — just enough to make your face warm.

Jackie nudged you playfully, laughing at something you barely heard, and you smiled politely. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing yours. "See? Told ya you'd have a good time hanging with me. You're not as shy as Mike makes you out to be."

His voice was a friendly, teasing murmur, and his hand lingered on your knee. He gave it a light, playful squeeze that lasted a second too long.

“Nah,” you let out a small chuckle. You try to move away, but his grip on you tightens. Any farther and your dress would’ve gone up.

And your dress was rather short. A yellow fitted dress with thigh high boots covering most of the bare skin, except the sliver of your mid thigh. You inhale sharply under his gaze. “I think I’m pretty shy, Sig.”

There was a pause. And his eyes scan you.

"You're real cute, y'know that?"

Your eyes instinctively darted across the room, searching for a familiar silhouette. You found him immediately. Michael was leaning against the doorframe, a glass of water in hand. But he wasn't drinking. The glass had been full since you sat down.

He was perfectly still, his gaze fixed on Jackie's hand on your knee. The relaxed smile he had all evening was now gone, replaced by tight-lipped stillness. Jackie followed your gaze, then chuckled low in his throat. "Ah, don't worry bout him. Big bad Mikey's just protective. Issa brother thing; he’ll be alright."

Jackie's hand slid from your knee to your thigh, and you couldn't help but tense, his touch lingering as he leaned even closer to whisper something in your ear.

But before Jackie could finish his sentence, a shadow fell over the two of you. Michael was suddenly there, having crossed the room faster than you could blink. He stepped between you. "Hey," he said softly, eyes on you. "Come here."

Jackie let out a short, incredulous laugh, leaning back against the cushions. "Man, what? She just chillin'. You jealous or somethin'?"

Michael smacks his teeth. "Ain't nobody worried about you, Jackie." He pointed at you, his voice now sharp with irritation at the thought of repeating himself. "You. Come here."

His hand, warm and firm, closed around your upper arm. It wasn't rough, but it was undeniably firm, leaving no room for argument. Not that you were going to anyway.

He guided you from the sofa through the crowded room. A path seemed to clear for him, the energy of the party dimming slightly in his wake. He led you into the empty, dimly lit kitchen. The sound of the party now became a distant murmur. He finally released your arm, turning to face you.

He ran a hand over his face, the earlier tension still evident in his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to... manhandle you."

He leaned back against the kitchen counter while you stayed still, mindlessly twiddling your thumbs as your gaze stuck to your shoes below. "I just didn't like his hands all up on you like that." His voice was low with frustration. And after a few seconds of tension, he pushed himself off the counter, closing the small distance between you. His fingers gently brushed your hip where Jackie's hand had been.

"You're just not his to touch like that."

The possessive tone in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and the air in the kitchen felt thick. His thumb stroked a slow, soothing circle against your side, his eyes slightly lidded as he gazed into yours. "You understand what I'm saying?"

You quickly nodded, your eyes lowering as you traced circles on his clothed chest. "Mike, I didn't mean to —"

"I'm not mad at you, baby. Look at me." His hand moved from your hip to cradle your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You know who you're coming home with, right? Exactly. So what makes you think I'd be jealous of Jackie out of all people?"

Regardless of whether it was rhetorical or not, you stayed silent, shrugging your shoulders. And he couldn't help but laugh; a low chuckle vibrated through his chest and into yours. He pulled you in close, his chin resting on the top of your head. Then pulled back just enough to look down at you, his expression softening into tenderness. His thumb brushed a stray curl from your face, his touch impossibly gentle after the sharp intensity of the last few minutes.

"Come on, sweet girl." His voice was a soft murmur. "I wanna take you home."

──── ⌢ ✦ ⌢ ────

You had no idea what happened from the ride from Encino to your shared estate, but all traces of the softness from the kitchen were gone, and the jealousy had boiled over.

His hands gripped your hips, his fingers dug into your skin, coaxing out your desperate whines as his mouth latched onto your abused clit.

The master suite was dark, lit only by a single lamp that cast long, dramatic shadows over the two of you. The large ornate mirror he'd angled reflected the scene on the bed back at you. His grip on your hips tightened, holding you firmly in place as his tongue fucked you through another orgasm with relentless intensity.

"You see that, mama? You're so pretty. Mine to taste. All of you."

A desperate, broken sound escaped you as you tried to squirm away from the oversensitivity, your hands pushing weakly at his shoulders, but to no avail.

"Michael, please — I can't anymore.. 's too much —"

He pulled back just enough to speak again, his lips glistening with your arousal, his voice dark and low. "Shh, just trying to prove a point, angel."

Before you could reply, his hands flipped you over onto your stomach with a surprising, fluid strength. The cool duvet was a shock against your heated skin as he positioned you on your knees. One hand spread your thighs apart while the other pressed on your spine, deepening your arch. You couldn't even imagine the mirror's visual. Your arousal is on full display for him, giving him two different angles of comparison.

"Fuck, you made a mess, baby. And you're shaking... Did I do that?"

His voice dripped with faux sympathy. You could barely nod; he fucked you so hard with just his tongue that you hardly had the capacity to register his words. But he knew the answer; he did this on purpose. He loved breaking you off just to prove the point that no one could make you feel like this, regardless of who it was. No man could make you come apart in his hands the same way you did with Michael.

Michael altered your chemistry when it came to your sexual pleasure. Everything surrounding the matter only pointed back to him. You'd only imagine him touching you, tasting you, worshiping you to the point where you couldn't even get remotely close if it wasn't Michael himself overwhelming you with the pleasure only he was capable of giving you. And he knew that. He took pride in it.

He shoved his own underwear off with a relieved sigh, his dick pressed so achingly hard against your clit, he was worried you'd cum again just from the pressure. But he didn't wait to find out. He stretched you out deliciously, pushing into you with a single, deep thrust that stole the air from your lungs. His large hands gripped your hips like vices, his pace punishing from the start.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed in the quiet room, punctuated by your choked, muffled moans against the pillow.

Poor you, leaving a wet spot on the pillowcase, coating the fabric with spit and tears that couldn't seem to relent, along with Michael's anguish. He's become so caught up in the feeling of your sweet pussy clenching around him that he hasn't realized that you had already come around him seconds ago. Either that, or he didn't seem to care.

He leaned over your back, his chest pressed against you, his mouth close to your ear. "Here, baby, look in the mirror. Look — fuck... Look at me taking what's mine."

Your eyes, hazy with overwhelming pleasure, met his intense haze in the reflection. His eyes were glossed over, and his head fell back. His moans were music to your ears, growing louder and higher in octave as he felt his first orgasm creep in closer than he anticipated.

His rhythm became even more frantic, driven by lingering possession and desperation. "Tell me who you belong to."

The words were a struggle, forced out between sniffles and ragged breaths. "You... Always will be yours, Michael."

He pulled you upright against his chest, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the other tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to watch the mirror. The change in position made his thrusts deep and jarring, making you see stars. "Such a sweet girl. So damn pretty. Keep your eyes on me. Mhmm, there we go."

He trailed his arm over you, inching down as his middle finger drew circles on your puffy clit, the sensation mingled with his voice in your ear. Your orgasm crashed over you with a violence that left you trembling and limp in his arms. He held you through it, his own release following with a loud moan of your name.

He stayed buried inside of you for a moment, your shared release spilling out of you and onto both of your thighs. His breathing was harsh against your neck, his body trembling with aftershocks of his climax. He slowly lowered you onto the bed, his body still covering yours.

He then rolled onto his side, pulling you with him so you were facing each other. The intensity in his eyes had softened, replaced by a sated warmth.

His thumb traced a line of your jaw, his touch reverent as his lips softly kiss away your tears. "Didn't mean to make you cry, baby."

You shrug, "It's alright. You were trying to prove a point."

He then sits up on his elbow, leaning over you as he tucks a strand of messy hair behind your ear. "You’re right," he muttered. "Y'know what that is?"

“Oh, thank goodness you haven’t left yet!” Your voice bursts through the speaker in a breathless rush. 

“Hey, pretty girl,” He says, plopping down on the edge of the bed, smiling at the sound of your voice. “Y’alright?”

“I’m fine,” you respond. In the background he can hear the typical hospital noise—the clatter of something in the distance, overhead pages, phones ringing urgently—a chaotic soundtrack he’s grown used to hearing whenever you call him from work. “I’m just… held up. Again.”

He can picture you clearly: scrubs wrinkled, hair messily pulled back, your foot tapping as you anxiously fiddle with the phone cord. 

“Let me guess… Your coworker?”

“Yes,” you groan. “The same one. Late, again! I swear she lives in a different time zone.”

Michael chuckles under his breath, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in his chest at the thought of your long-awaited plans being delayed. He didn’t want to make you feel even worse. “I was about to head downstairs for Bill.”

”I know, I know, and I’m sorry, baby.” You say quickly. “But listen—I still want you to come over. Just head over to my place. Use your key.”

The key. Even after months of having it, the reminder of it still makes something flutter in his chest. His palm lands softly on his front pocket, where the small silver key sits on its own ring. You had tried to be nonchalant as you handed it to him, but he hadn’t missed the way you blushed and stumbled over your words when offering it—still nervous and giddy around one another despite nearly two years together.

”You sure?” He asks, now having taken the key out of his pocket, fiddling with the cold metal between his fingers.

“Positive.” You assure him. “I’ll only be an hour… or two. Tops.”

Your voice lowers. “And before you say anything—I bought groceries this time.”

He blinks, chuckling at your declaration. “You did?”

“Yes, Michael. Real groceries. My refrigerator now contains more than stale bread and expired milk.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything!” He laughs again, warm and bright. 

“You absolutely were!” You counter. “But you can’t, because I stocked up on your favorites.”

That gets him. He feels it—the soft, quiet bloom of warmth in the center of his chest at the feeling of being considered. You’re tired, juggling a dozen things at once, and still, you thought of him.

”Alright,” he says, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stands up to zip his jacket the rest of the way. “I’ll head over now.”

”Good.” You say, a smile in your voice. “Make yourself at home, okay?”

He bites his lip shyly; smiling at nothing, at everything. “I always do.”

There’s a small pause—the kind that only happens when neither of you wants to be the first to hang up.

“I love you,” you say softly.

His smile deepens, that feeling in his chest growing even warmer. “I love you too, baby. See you soon.”

You both linger for a beat before the line finally goes quiet. By the time Michael arrives at your apartment, the sun has dipped low enough to paint the sky in soft pinks and golds. He thanks Bill, throws his bag over his shoulder, and exits the vehicle with a quiet, eager energy he hasn’t felt in weeks. 

It’s been too long—too many late nights for him in the studio, too many early mornings for you at the hospital, too many missed calls and ‘sorry baby, I just got home,’ messages, and he misses you. He misses this—the simple act of spending the weekend with his girlfriend.

He reaches your door, pulling out his key and slipping it into the lock. He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click, shrugging off his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. He toes off his loafers with a relieved sigh, nudging them aside neatly with a soft scrape against the floor. He exhales, shoulders finally relaxing as he takes in the space. 

He loves your apartment, he always has; each and every corner a reminder and reflection of you. Photos line the walls—some crooked, some perfectly straight—more stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. Knickknacks and trinkets cover every shelf and surface; mismatched decor, tiny animal figurines from your childhood, little gifts he’s given you over the years. Your books and record collection are neatly arranged, meanwhile a heap of mail is stacked in a slightly chaotic pile on the counter. A few dishes from breakfast sit in the sink. Your diplomas hang proudly on the wall outside of your bedroom. Below, a small mountain of laundry waits patiently on the floor.

It’s lived-in. It’s warm. Clean, despite the clutter. It smells like you—familiar and comforting.

He smiles to himself, wandering further into the kitchen. When he opens the fridge, he actually laughs out loud. You really did buy groceries. An unopened gallon of orange juice sits front and center: a blue post-it with your handwriting pasted to the front of the jug: “for angel face <3”

He blushes, shaking his head at your shameless flirting, and is about to close the door when something on the fridge catches his eye—a photo tucked under a magnet shaped like a strawberry.

A photo of him.

It was taken the night of the Off The Wall release party in 1979. He’s smiling wide, laughing at something or someone outside of the frame. He has a hand in the pocket of his blue jacket and he balances on roller skates. 

He remembers the night vividly—but not because of the party.  Because of you. 

Michael’s smile softens as the memory pulls him in—

The rink was buzzing that night—music loud, neon lights spinning, people laughing as they wobbled around on skates. 

You were working part-time at the roller rink—juggling shifts between nursing school classes and study groups. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. You were behind the rental counter that evening, exhausted and burnt out, but still smiling at everyone who came your way.

Then Michael walked in with his friends and family, and the whole atmosphere of the room shifted.

Of course, you had recognized him—all of them, actually—instantly. Aside from being a fan, you knew the group was coming, your manager having told the whole crew in advance about the party being held in honor of Michael Jackson releasing his new solo album, Off The Wall. You were all under strict instructions not to make a scene—or swoon—when they arrived.  The same could not be said for Michael himself, though.

He had walked into the room excited and proud, ready to finally celebrate the album he had worked so hard on with some of his favorite people, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in his tracks. Completely. 

You were laughing at something a coworker said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he felt it—a sudden, ridiculous flutter in his chest. 

“Mike,” Jackie nudged him. “You good?”

He didn’t answer. He was too busy staring.

“Earth to Michael,” Tito added, waving a hand in front of his face.

Nothing. He was hopelessly, helplessly smitten at the sight of you in your cute little uniform, totally oblivious to his swooning just ten feet away.

When he finally approached the counter to collect his skates (or was he shoved?), you looked up at him with that bright, open smile—the one he would eventually come to love more than anything—and he was speechless. Utterly speechless. As in, literally unable to form words. 

“What size?” You had asked, pen poised over the rental sheet.

He didn’t respond. He simply stared at you—openly, hopelessly—essentially forgetting the whole reason he was there the second he laid eyes on you. 

”Um… what size skates do you need?” You repeated, blushing.

He blinked, snapping out of it. “Oh—sorry! Uh, size… nine? Yeah, nine. Please.”

You handed him the skates, trying not to be too obvious as you stared into his pretty brown eyes. “Happy birthday,” you had said, shy but sincere as you recalled the date.

He smiled, but shook his head. “Thank you, but… we’re actually here to celebrate the release of my new album. Would you like a copy?”

He gestured to the box his team had brought with them—signed copies of the album to give to the staff as a ‘thank you’ for hosting the party.

“Oh! I would but I… kinda already have one.”

He blinked. “You do?”

You nodded, a blush rising to your cheeks. “I stood in line for hours at the record store this morning. I’m…kind of a big fan.”

His heart did a full somersault at that, his smile turning boyish and shy. “Well, then… you should have a signed one too.”

Before you could protest out of sheer politeness, he reached into the box and handed one to you, trying not to become flustered as your hands accidentally brushed. He giggled nervously as you thanked him, quickly disappearing into the crowd in hopes of not embarrassing himself further. 

He tried to act normal the remainder of the night, he really did, but he failed. Miserably.  Every few minutes, he’d drift dangerously close to the wall because he was craning his neck to catch another glimpse of you. At one point, he’d nearly collided with a group of kids doing tricks, almost wiping out himself.

His brothers noticed—because of course they did— and didn’t hesitate to tease him mercilessly.

“Mikey…” Marlon sing-songed. “You’re starin’ again.”

”I’m not!” Michael protested, while actively staring.

”Uh-huh,” Tito adds. “Our little Mikey’s in love.”

“Shut up Tito!” He hisses under his breath, cheeks becoming hotter by the minute. 

”Just go talk to her!” Jackie urged.

“I did talk to her,” Michael shoots back, his cheeks turning more and more red the further they taunt him.

”Yeah,” Marlon said. “And you stared at her like a lovesick fool. Go ask for her number, you pathetic schmuck.”

By the end of the night, after watching him sneak glances and make a fool of himself for hours, the entire group had had enough. Marlon himself eventually grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and physically shoved him toward the rental counter.

”Go. Now. Before I do it for you.”

”Marlon!” Michael hisses, mortified, heart hammering in his chest as he stumbled toward you. If he were being truthful, the only thing worse than him making a move and being rejected was the thought of Marlon making a move and getting your number instead.

He set the pair of skates on the counter—harsher than intended—and immediately began rambling. “Uh—hi. I mean—hello. Again. I just, uh, wanted to return these. The skates. Obviously. And also I—well—I was wondering if maybe, if it’s not too forward or anything—if I could, um…have your number? Your… phone number?”

You froze, jaw falling open in shock as he babbled, totally unconvinced that you weren’t simply daydreaming.

Taking your silence as rejection, Michael immediately began to regret all of his life decisions and had opened his mouth to backtrack when you began to scramble wildly for anything to write on—a receipt, a napkin, a scrap of paper, anything. 

You finally settle on a crumpled up candy wrapper and scribble your number down with shaky hands, and hand it to him, your fingers brushing once again, sparks igniting at the brief contact.

You both pretend not to hear his brothers hooting and cheering in the background. - Michael closes the refrigerator door gently, continuing to smile fondly at the photo. The memory continues to unfold—not just that night, but everything that followed.

The truth was, you never expected him to actually call. You were flattered of course, dizzy with disbelief. You had practically floated home that night, clutching the signed album to your chest as if it were made of gold. 

But you knew who he was: famous, busy, traveling the world and performing for millions of people. And you were just… well, you: an ordinary girl working part-time at a roller rink trying to survive college.

But he did call. The very next day, actually.

You were in the middle of studying for an exam when the phone rang. Then you heard his voice—soft and shy—and you nearly dropped the receiver. “It’s Michael. Remember? From the roller rink…?” He had said. You had to hold back a giggle at his introduction—acting as if he were just some random guy who had asked for your number, and not Michael Jackson himself. You didn’t get any more studying done that night, the call lasting hours. He called the next day too. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Even when he was on the road, even when you were drowning in exams and clinical rotations, you talked. Somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, the two of you always made time for each other—sometimes five minutes, sometimes hours, and sometimes just enough to say “I miss you.”

You had clicked instantly. Not simply as a crush, but as friends—real friends. The kind who could talk about everything and nothing without ever running out of things to say.  The kind who laughed until your stomachs hurt, the kind who felt strangely familiar from the very beginning—saying things to one another that you had never said out loud to another soul.

It wasn’t long before he asked you on a date, and it took even less time for him to ask you to be his girlfriend. His first girlfriend. His first everything. And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

You had fit into his world with an ease that surprised everyone around you. His sisters adored you. His mother welcomed you with open arms, always insisting you stay for dinner or come by whenever you had time. Even Joseph tolerated your presence… well, somewhat—which was about as high of a compliment as you could get from that man, so Michael took it as a win. His brothers teased the both of you relentlessly, flirting with you shamelessly simply to get under Michael’s skin. You never missed a beat, though, effortlessly putting them in their place with a quick comeback or humbling retort—and they loved you for it. Michael loved you even more for it.

He loved the way you held your own with his family, the way you made him laugh, the way you treated him like a person rather than a superstar. He loved the way you made everything feel lighter on even the heaviest days.

It wasn’t until your third date—a quiet dinner with the two of you sitting close enough that your knees brushed beneath the table—that you finally admitted to him that the night at the roller rink hadn’t actually been the first time you met.  Months earlier, you and a friend had won a radio contest—front row tickets to The Jacksons’ Destiny Tour that included a meet and greet with the group.

When you told him, he was absolutely devastated. ‘You were there? And I didn’t remember you?’ His voice had gone soft, quivering slightly as if he had failed you somehow.

You reached across the table, grasping his hand. ‘Michael, don’t be silly. You were exhausted. And it was so quick, you probably met hundreds of fans that day.’

Still, he was crushed. In his mind, he was mourning the extra months he could have had with you. You, on the other hand, seemed… relieved? “Honestly…I’m kind of glad you don’t remember.”

“Why?” He blinked.

“I mean…” You shrugged, cheeks growing hot as you tried to deflect. “I was so excited to meet you all. I probably embarrassed myself.” 

He was sure that wasn’t true—you were always perfect in his eyes. You insisted though, so he let it go and he accepted your reassurance, despite his disappointment.

Michael finally shakes himself from the memory, feeling hopelessly lovesick as he tears himself away from the photo. You couldn’t get home soon enough. 

A half hour slips by before Michael grows restless. He tries to be patient—really, he does.

The first ten minutes pass easily enough. He puts on one of your records, something he knows you like, letting the music fill the quiet of your apartment. He sits on the couch for a while, stretching out and tapping his fingers against his knees, humming along to the soft tunes. 

Another ten minutes pass. He checks the clock. Then checks it again two minutes later. 

He even considers taking a nap, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. But the stillness of the apartment, the soft hum of the record spinning and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air all make him restless in a way he can’t quite shake.

Then, his curiosity wins out. It always does. 

He tells himself he’s not snooping. He’s just… looking around. Appreciating the space. He really tries to believe it, but after a few minutes of wandering around the living room with his hands in his pockets, he sighs and admits it to himself: Alright. He’s snooping.

It’s a terrible habit—one he’s had since he was a little boy. He’s always been endearingly curious, poking around drawers and closets he had no business opening. His mother used to scold him for it constantly, telling him it was bad manners and just plain rude.

He should know better by now, he really should—but he can’t help it. He loves your space—loves the little pieces of you tucked into every corner, and he never gets tired of learning things about you that you never think to mention. It makes him feel closer to you, even when you're not there. And, frankly, you should have known better than to leave him unattended and bored. 

He starts with the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of your novels and old nursing school textbooks. At the end, a few cookbooks. 

He snorts softly. You own cookbooks. You, who barely has time to buy groceries, let alone cook. He shakes his head in amusement, imagining you optimistically buying them and then promptly forgetting they exist. He pulls one out and quickly leafs through it—finding not a single page dog-eared, nor one stain or smudge. He snickers under his breath before sliding it back into place.

And that’s when he spots it—a thick, slightly worn high school yearbook wedged in at the end.

He pulls it out carefully, glancing nervously toward the door like you’re about to walk in at that exact moment, then settles onto the couch with it resting on his lap. He examines the pages slowly—scanning the class photos and candid shots of students laughing in hallways. It takes him less than a minute to find you.

He spots your photo and immediately breaks into a grin that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. You look younger, of course—softer around the edges and hair styled differently, but still undeniably you. He giggles under his breath, tracing the edge of the photo with his thumb. He reads the messages your classmates wrote to you in the margins—grinning at the inside jokes he doesn’t understand and the sweet notes from friends he’s never met.

He wonders, not for the first time, how differently things would have turned out if the two of you had gone to school together—if he’d seen you in the hallways, or sat behind you in class, or watched you laugh with your friends at lunch. Would you have gone to prom together? Went to football games hand-in-hand? The thought makes him smile, then laugh softly at himself. 

Who was he kidding? He was nearly too shy to talk to you when he met you at age twenty-one. If he had met you as a teenager, he probably would have tripped over his own feet trying to say hello. 

He allows himself another moment of reminiscing before putting the yearbook away where he found it. 

He continues exploring. On the bottom shelf of your TV stand, he finds an old shoebox with a lid that doesn’t quite close all the way. He hesitates for barely a second before picking it up and lifting the lid. 

Inside is a jumble of old memories—some new, some old: friendship bracelets, faded movie tickets, a few Polaroids, some photo negatives, a folded note or two. He smiles as he sifts through them, careful not to bend or misplace anything. It feels like flipping through a scrapbook of your life before he knew you.

Then, he finds something else tucked near the bottom of the box—a bundle of photos with a rubber band holding them together. He pulls them out gently. 

On top is a ticket stub—The Jacksons’ Destiny World Tour. 1979.

Jackpot. He thinks to himself, immediately sliding the rubber band off and beginning to look through the photos—grainy, slightly overexposed shots of the stage. The crowd. Him and his brothers mid-dance. 

Then he finds one that makes his heart skip a beat: a photo of him—he’s mid-spin, completely unaware that somewhere in the crowd, a girl he hadn’t met yet was watching him with a camera in her hands. The girl he would fall in love with. The girl he would marry someday—he’s sure of it.

He continues flipping through the stack of photos, settling deeper into the couch. He recognizes some of the photos, you had shown them to him before, back when you first told him about the concert you attended. He had to coax you into letting him see them at all—he recalls how shy you were, insisting they were so embarrassing. Michael disagreed.

He flips to a photo of you and your friend outside of the venue, both of you pointing excitedly at the billboard advertising the tour. You’re both grinning so wide it looks painful. You both wear white t-shirts: “The Jacksons” and “Destiny Tour 1979” spelled out in bright lettering across the front, the design clearly homemade. He had tried to tease you about the DIY project when you originally showed him the photos, but he’d barely gotten a sentence out before you smacked his arm playfully and told him to hush.  “We were broke college students! We had to make our own merch!”

He remembers laughing—he had never seen someone look so adorably proud in a t-shirt they had designed themselves with a pack of fabric markers.

He moves onto the next photo, another shot of the two of you outside the venue, this time with your arms thrown around each other mid-laugh, the crowd buzzing behind you. He can feel the energy radiating from the photo—the anticipation, the excitement, the electricity.

Then, he reaches the first photo from the meet-and-greet. He’s seen his photo before too, but for some reason, it hits him differently this time. Maybe it’s because he’s sitting in your apartment, surrounded by your things, thinking about your history all afternoon.

There he is—right in the middle, where he was always positioned. You’re sandwiched between him and Marlon, and your friend stands on the opposite side between him and Randy.

Him and his brothers look exhausted—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to their foreheads—but they’re smiling, bright and genuine, still riding the adrenaline high from the performance. Always excited and grateful to meet fans. 

Michael can’t stop looking at you in the photo; so young, so excited and unbelievably cute. It still drives him crazy that he can’t remember you. He knows he shouldn’t feel bad— he’s told himself that a million times. It was after a show, he was exhausted. You were one face in a sea of faces. But still.

He wishes he remembered you, that he had noticed you that day, that he had looked up and seen the girl who would someday become the most important person in his life.

He flips through the rest of the photos with a quiet fondness, taking his time with each one as the stack gets smaller and smaller. 

Then he reaches the last photo and freezes, nearly dropping the whole pile in surprise. He’s never seen this one, he’s sure of it. He would have remembered.

It's another shot taken in front of the venue, but this one was taken from behind—you and your friend standing with your backs to the camera, hips popped out dramatically, each of you pointing your thumbs toward writing on the backs of your DIY t-shirts, the lettering bold and bright.

Written on the back of your friend’s shirt:  ‘Randy’s #1 Girl’

On yours? ‘Marlon’s #1 Girl’

Michael’s jaw drops. 

Then, he bursts out laughing. It's loud, sudden and completely unrestrained—the sound surprising even himself. He doubles forward, hand flying over his mouth, shoulders shaking. His cheeks flush, partly from amusement, and partly from the sheer irony of it all. 

“Oh… oh lord…” He wheezes, wiping at his eyes.

He should be jealous, he thinks. And a year or two ago, he probably would have spiraled—making up all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in his head, convincing himself you would have preferred someone else, letting his insecurities gnaw at him until he was sick.

Maybe he is a little jealous, just a tiny bit. But more than that? He’s delighted. Absolutely thrilled.

Because this—this—is leverage. Real leverage. The kind he never gets with you.

You almost always have the upper hand when it comes to teasing. You’re quick, clever, merciless in the most affectionate way. You know exactly how to fluster him, exactly how to make him blush, exactly how to get him sputtering and defensive.

He tosses the rest of the stack to the side and holds the photo up, grinning like he just discovered buried treasure. “Girl… you are never living this down.” He murmurs to himself.

Admittedly, if it were anyone else, perhaps he would have been jealous, but it's not anyone else. It’s Marlon.

You and Marlon bicker like you were siblings yourselves—loud, dramatic, ridiculous, and completely harmless. Michael has never once felt threatened by your relationship with any of his brothers. Even if he does get irritated at times, he knows their natural flirtiness is just part of who they are, and you’ve always handled it with humor and a scathing comeback. 

Besides, it was Marlon himself who gave him the final shove toward you at the roller rink. A fact that his older brother likes to bring up constantly, essentially crediting your entire relationship to his self-proclaimed matchmaking genius.

Michael leans back into the couch, snickering to himself. He cannot wait for you to walk through that door.

-

You finally pull into your driveway, turning off the engine and letting your head fall back against the seat for a moment, closing your eyes and letting out the kind of long, heavy sigh that only comes after a shift that lasted far too long. 

What was supposed to be a normal twelve-hour shift had stretched into fifteen—cutting into your perfect evening with Michael—all because your stupid coworker was late. Again. You’d spent the last few hours trying not to fall asleep on your feet, counting down the minutes until you could go home and fall into his arms. 

You’re exhausted in that bone-deep way that only healthcare workers understand. All you want to do is to peel everything off and stand under a hot shower until the day melts off of your skin. Preferably with your very pretty boyfriend in there with you. 

Despite the exhaustion, though, a spark of energy remains humming beneath your ribs—the excitement that’s been building for days.

Because the rest of the night belongs only to you and Michael—movies, snacks, and a whole weekend with no interruptions, no opposite schedules, and no rushed phone calls squeezed in between responsibilities. Just the two of you, finally in the same place at the same time.

It had been too long—truly too long. 

You’re so incredibly proud of him—of the work he’s pouring into Thriller, of the long nights and early mornings he spends in his studio, of the way he talks about his music like it’s alive—an entity of itself. 

You can’t wait to hear the final record. You have no doubt that the sneak-peeks and demos he sometimes lets you hear do no justice to the finished project. But more than anything, you can’t wait to have him to yourself for a little while.

The thought of coming home to him tonight makes your heart flutter in a way you try not to think too hard about—especially when it’s quickly followed by the thought of coming home to him everyday.  The idea of moving in together has crossed your mind more than once—slipping in between late-night phone calls and early mornings when you’re half-awake and missing him more than anything. You wouldn’t have to worry about going weeks without seeing each other if you shared the same bed every night and woke up next to each other every morning. Maybe soon. Maybe once the album is out. Maybe when life slows down just enough for the two of you to breathe at the same time.

You gather your things—your bag, your change of shoes, the lunch you never had time to eat—and step out of your car into the cool evening air. 

Your body aches, your feet hurt, and you’re dog-tired, but none of that matters because Michael—your Michael—is inside waiting for you, and suddenly the day doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. 

The moment you push open your apartment door, the familiar warmth of home wraps around you like a blanket—the soft lamplight, a hint of vanilla from a candle Michael must have lit while waiting for you, soft hum of a record spinning in the background, and a whiff of his cologne coming from his jacket draped over the chair closest to the door. 

You barely step one foot inside the threshold when you hear it—the unmistakable sound of footsteps hurriedly making their way toward you. 

Then Michael appears—or rather, launches himself into the room—skidding around the corner. He couldn’t possibly look more goofy as his socked-feet slide a little on the hardwood and he catches himself on the wall. He straightens himself quickly, like he meant to do that, and hadn’t just sprinted toward you like a puppy greeting its owner. He tries to look casual, lifting his chin as he leans nonchalantly against the doorway—but the bright, boyish excitement in his eyes gives him away instantly.

You, meanwhile, don’t even pretend to play it cool.  You drop your things to the floor in a completely ungraceful heap, and you’re in his arms before either of you can say a word. 

He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your middle with a kind of desperation that makes you want to melt into him and resurface. He squeezes you tight, lifting you just slightly off the ground before setting you back down, but not letting go yet.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply. He smells like home—the scent hitting you so hard that you almost do melt—right then and there. 

He hums a soft sound—something between a laugh and a relieved sigh—and presses his cheek against the top of your head. You can feel him smile against your hair, his arms tightening even more. “Hi.”

You pull back just enough to get another look at his handsome face—and you lean in and kiss him. He sinks into it, his warm hands gliding up your back simply for the opportunity to hold you a little closer.

“I hope you didn’t get too bored waiting for me,” you say, finally breaking away for air, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

Before he can respond, the dam breaks—the exhaustion and frustration of your very long day comes rushing back all at once, and you start shedding layers as you talk—your coat first, then your scrub top, the long sleeved undershirt getting tangled along with it as you pull the fabric over your head and throw it aside. You kick off your shoes haphazardly, causing them to land messily next to Michael's neatly-placed loafers. You ramble on without taking a breath, words spilling out in a rush as you stand there in your bra in front of him, long past any shyness or decorum.

”You would not believe the day I had—fifteen hours, Michael, fifteen! I swear if my coworker is late one more time I’m going to lose my mind. I’m starving, I’m exhausted, I feel gross. I just want to shower for an hour and then order pizza and put on a Disney movie and—”

You stop when you realize he’s staring at you. Not in a worried or confused way, or in a ‘my girlfriend is standing in front of me half-naked’ kind of way—but in a way that is so foreign it makes your stomach flip and your brows knit together.

He’s trying—very poorly—to suppress a smirk, and he’s holding one hand behind his back.

You narrow your eyes. “What are you doing?”

”Nothing,” he says, far too quickly.

“Michael Jackson.” You say sternly, crossing your arms at his evasion.

”Nothing!” He giggles—actually giggles—the sound bubbling out like he just can’t help it. “I just missed you.”

You squint at him, suspicious. “Then why are you looking at me like that?"

He shrugs, all innocence, though the corners of his mouth twitch. “Just looking at my girl.”

You soften a little at that, and begin to turn away to gather your dirty clothes off the floor—until he adds with a casualness so deliberate it was practically glowing:

“My #1 girl.”

You freeze. Oh no. Oh no, no no.

Your entire body goes still—his words hitting you like a jolt of electricity. You spin around on your heel so fast you nearly lose your balance, because you know exactly what he’s referencing—that exact phrasing.

And he knows you know. He stands there, trying—and failing—to hide the cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, hand still tucked behind his back like he’s holding an explosive.

You stare at him with a wild, startled look. Your pulse jumps as your eyes dart around the room, and then you see it: the source of his smugness. 

Your memory box, wide open—sitting on the coffee table in the background like a glowing neon sign that reads: you fucked up!

Your soul briefly leaves your body as you look back up at him to see what he’s holding. 

The photo. That photo. The one you probably should have burned. 

He pinches it between two fingers, dangling it in the air like bait—a victorious expression spread across his stupidly pretty face. You let out a horrified, choked sound—and immediately lunge for it. 

But he’s faster.

He lifts his arm effortlessly, holding the photo high above your head. Damn your height. Damn his height. Damn the universe for giving him such long arms. 

“Michael!” You whine, standing up on your tip-toes, fingers brushing uselessly at the air.

He giggles again, stepping back just enough to keep the photo out of your reach. 

“Or…” he says, drawing the word out torturously, eyes sparkling with mischief. ”Is it Marlon’s #1 girl?”

You gasp, making another grab for the photo. He lifts it even higher. “Michael Joseph Jackson! You nosy little—“

You jump again, uselessly—your fingertips missing the photo by a good four or five inches. You can only imagine how pathetic the scene would look to anyone watching—you, dressed only in a bra and wrinkled scrub pants, leaping like a frantic gremlin while your boyfriend stands there laughing at you. 

”You weren’t supposed to find that!” You whine, continuing to stretch your arm as far as it will go. You briefly consider getting a stepstool.

You stop jumping, finally admitting defeat. Your shoulders slump as you let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping your head until your forehead lands against his chest. Michael simply stands there, smug and delighted. He looks so pleased with himself—too pleased, really, for your taste—and you know there’s absolutely no recovering from this.

You should have known better. You did know better. Leaving your sweet, curious boyfriend alone in your apartment with nothing but time and his lifelong, incurable nosiness to keep him company? That was on you.

”Baby?” You mumble against his chest, your cheeks warm.

“Hm?” 

“Are you mad?” You ask, suddenly feeling a little guilty and ashamed for hiding the photo from him at all.

The question hangs in the air—soft, genuine, vulnerable—and for the first time since he flashed that stupid smirk, his expression changes. The teasing fades just a little, replaced by something else entirely. Your chest tightens. 

He lowers the photo a fraction, dark bambi-eyes softening as he looks down at you, then back at the photograph. 

His expression shifts into something thoughtful, humming softly—the sound low in his throat, and says, almost to himself, “I mean… I probably should be mad.”

You look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching his face for any sign of real hurt or insecurity. He doesn’t give you one, and the uncertainty makes your breath catch. You would almost rather die than hurt his feelings, intentionally or not.

“I really should,” he continues, nodding solemnly while keeping his eyes on the photo. His tone is slow, deliberate and downright torturous, each word landing heavier than the last.

”I mean…my girlfriend, my sweet, beautiful girl…” He pauses, tilting his head slightly. “…swooning over another man. Right in front of me.”

He lifts the photo a little higher, examining it like evidence. Your face burns even hotter. “And over my own brother, no less.”

Now, your entire body feels like it's on fire. With every teasing word, your embarrassment grows. You want to disappear into the floor. Or snatch the photo and run. Or both.

”Michael…” You whisper, fully mortified.

Michael looks at you fully now, biting his lip, and finally lowers the photo, extending it toward you. You snatch it back gently but urgently, gripping it with both hands and holding it protectively against your chest, effectively hiding it from the world. 

Your cheeks burn, the heat blooming all the way to your ears. You can barely look at him in the eye, your embarrassment so intense it borders on dizzying.

Before you can open your mouth to defend yourself—or scold him some more, you haven’t decided—he leans down and kisses you. Not a quick, teasing peck, but a deep, steady kiss that anchors you right where you stand, immediately silencing every frantic thought swirling around in your head. 

His hands cradle your face for a moment, warm and steady, before one pinches your cheek gently, affectionately, causing you to let out a surprised squeak.

His hands trail down your sides and land on your bottom with a soft, mischievous squeeze. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze intense. “I’m not threatened by anyone,” he says quietly, but firmly. “Especially not Marlon.”

You let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, shoulders finally relaxing. “Good,” you murmur, still clutching the photo that has begun to crumple slightly in your grip. “Because I love Marlon, but as a brother. As a friend. There were never any sparks. Ever.”

You pause at that, and add with a groan, “And he can never find out about this photo. If he does, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Michael laughs at that, clearly imagining exactly how unbearable Marlon—and the rest of his brothers, really—would be with this information.

You roll your eyes and continue, “Besides, my other friend—you remember Kayla? From middle school?—had already claimed you as her favorite member. I couldn’t break girl code like that. So naturally I had to pick someone else.”

Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as soon the words leave your mouth. Good god, you sound like a 16 year old. 

Michael simply laughs again, shaking his head. He pinches your cheek again. “I’ve been in this industry for a very long time, sweet girl. I am very familiar with fangirl logic. It’s very cute.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, your embarrassment finally giving way to amusement. “Well, if it makes you feel better, my favorite has definitely changed.”

He nods, eyes sparkling with mischief again. “Good. Because we are going to the store first thing in the morning to pick up fabric markers so you can make yourself a new shirt.”

You groan, burying your face in his chest again. He giggles again, wrapping his arms around you again. He pulls away slightly, studying you for a moment—your flushed cheeks and embarrassed little frown, the way you’re still clutching the photo like it might leap out of your hands and betray you for a second time—and he kisses you again.

You melt into him without thinking, the tension of your day dissolving with the warmth of his mouth against yours.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn’t go far. Instead, he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then the other. Then the tip of your nose. Your forehead.

You start to giggle helplessly as he continues—kissing all over your face with exaggerated affection, each one softer than the last. He trails down your jaw, your chin, the crook of your neck, beginning to nip and bite at your collar bones. He continues until you’re laughing openly, half-heartedly pushing at his shoulders.

”Michael—!” You squeal, half-laughing, half-pleading as he continues his assault.

He grins against your skin, clearly delighted by your reaction. His hands glide down your waist, fingers curling gently as he delivers a playful tickle against your bare skin—just enough to make you squirm and laugh harder. 

“Stop, stop!” You shout breathlessly, attempting to twist out of his grip. He finally relents, pulling back to take another look at you—cheeks flushed, eyes bright, breath unsteady from laughing. He smiles, impossibly in love.

He turns you by your hips, pushing you gently towards your bedroom, delivering a light, affectionate swat against your backside to send you on your way. “Go on, get in the shower and change into something comfy f’me.”

You watch as he begins walking in the opposite direction with a little bounce in his step. “And what are you doing?”

“Ordering us a pizza!” He calls over his shoulder.

You bite your lip, shaking your head as you start down the hallway toward the washroom. Your heart is impossibly full—still fluttering from his kisses, cheeks warm from his teasing, ribs aching from how hard he made you laugh. 

You can hear him humming—something soft and unfamiliar—and you can’t help but smile. Then, you realize you’re still holding the photo and another thought hits you. 

You stop dead in your tracks, spinning around so fast your hair whips in front of your face. You clear your throat loudly, and he freezes mid-stride, turning to look at you with confusion.

You narrow your eyes, lifting a finger to point at him with all the authority you can muster for a person who was just kissed breathless. “Don’t you dare get into anything else while I’m gone. I mean it, Michael. Not one drawer. Not a single cabinet. Not one.”

He blinks innocently, lips twitching as he tries to think of a retort. You continue, “Because if you do, I swear to god my new shirt is going to say ‘Jermaine’s #1 Girl.’”

His jaw drops in faux-outrage, clutching his chest as if he were mortally wounded. “…You wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t I?”

“Now you’re just playin’ dirty.” He shoots back, hands landing on his hips.

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. Clearly, it was time to show him exactly what ‘playin’ dirty’ actually looked like. You casually reach behind your back and unclip your bra. “Try me.”

He watches as it falls to the floor. He chuckles slowly, taking a single step toward you. “You better run, girl. You’re in for it now.”

You let out a yelp as you bolt down the hallway, laughter spilling out as he chases after you. 

Pizza and movies would have to wait. You have a long and eventful night ahead of you. It’s good to be home.

a/n: thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this far. this is my first time writing for michael, please enjoy and be kind! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.

you ignored the urge to close your legs as a hard slap against your pussy turned into gentle rubbing again. the way he forced them apart and kept you wide open was so unfair !! you were beyond overstimulated from his hand against your clit, and yet he showed you very little sympathy.

"what's wrong? you wanted this, didn't you?" there's a hint of a giggle in his voice and it makes you pout. "stop complaining when i give you what you ask for." he mumbles into your ear. "i'm sorry, sir." you respond, quietly. your head is still all fuzzy and your heart is racing so fast it's going to leap out of your chest any minute now. you didn't even know if you wanted him to stop or keep going anymore.