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Hardcore smut ; (Overly) Large Age gaps ; Incest ; P3d0philia ; Basic weird DNI ; ( Romanticized ) Grooming, Abuse, etc.
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A/N - It's here !! The anticipated part 2 to Sweets For My Teeth . So, so glad you all enjoyed the first part. Enjoy lovelies !! Please feel free to interact and pour in requests !
Word Count: 886
This is a Bad! Michael Jackson x Younger! Reader. Age gap (you are 25, Michael is 31). Bad Michael, 1990 Era. Female reader, established relationship, shameless obsession and parading . A bit spicy 🫣.
Drabble. Head Over Heels Michael, no longer holding back with the press . . Proud to show you off . Successful Actress reader, who doesn't know the meaning of dressing down . . . NO Y/N !
Plot: None ! This is a brief set of imagines on how the world would react to you and Michael Jackson's 'sudden' relationship coming to light . Drama, love , and of course . . rumors.
The beginning . Fearlessness
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Michael wouldn't be scared about your relationship any longer. If anything, he'd make everyone sick of hearing about it.
Every interviewer he'd have throughout his tour wouldn't be done without you. If you weren't by his side at the time— he'd make sure to mention your name as many times as he could.
' Oh you know, that reminds me of the time me and my girl went to Japan last year. God, she was just stunnin' in all those fabrics n'colors . I'm more than happy to be back here . '
.
' What do I look for in a girl ? ' He'd smile, his gloved fingers brushing his lips as a giggle escaped his mouth. ' What an odd question to ask . I don't look for anything in any girl if they aren't the one waiting for me at home . '
Spoiled .
.
If Michael spoiled you before , he's much more keen on doing it now.
No matter how badly the tabloids wanted to picture you negatively, they never could. From head-to-toe, you were a walking darling.
Your hair was never frizzy, tangled— messy . Your skin shone brighter than the silk of your dresses, and the color on your cheeks rivaled every garden of ripe roses you catered to in your shared home.
You glowed with pride ; Michael Jackson's Girlfriend . A Glowing Princess In The King's Life .
That glow was always speculated upon . . had you guys, done some- things ?
Well, that was no one's business but Michaels and your own, of course.
Snap A Shot .
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Photoshoots , photoshoots , PHOTOSHOOTS !!
. . Did I mention photoshoots . . ?
Fashion brands, colognes , perfumes , make-up . Whatever contract Michael signed, your name was written right next to it .
He'd partially do it because, of course, he needed you beside him. He needed your presence— to ground him, to let him know that the stress of being on set is non-existent. He was there to relax, and have fun.
But, at the same time, seeing you in those exclusive jewels and dripping in designer scents— it drove him crazy !
When his hands settled on your hip, and your hands press against his chest as you two pose for the shot . He was reminded time and time again how truly blessed he was to even have the privilege of doing this with you. To know that your painted lips pressing against his cheek would be shown to the entire world .
After photoshoots, he'd beg you to stay in the clothes and make-up. Just for a little longer.
' Please mama ? Just for a bit . . I want my own shots of you to keep . . please ? You're so gorgeous , how do you expect me t'just forget about you lookin' like this ? ' He whispered .
How could you ever say no to something like that ?
Ms. Jackson ; Look Over Here !
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' Ms. Jackson ! Look over here ! '
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' This way Ms. Jackson , lay your eyes on the lenses , please ! '
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The nickname followed you everywhere you went— and you couldn't feel happier .
No matter how many shy smiles you gave, or how many times you covered your face with your delicately painted hands, deep down you could feel your heart swell in your chest .
Ms. Jackson . God, what a name !
The two of you weren't married . But, you knew that the media would do whatever it could to sensationalize whatever, or whoever, is associated with someone like the King of Pop .
Michael wouldn't encourage the nickname— but he wouldn't refute it either. When questioned about if he had any plans for the relationship between the two of you , he'd answer in one of two ways .
' Now why would I ever say it out loud in front of millions of people ? That's a surprise for my lady, and my lady alone . '
If your age was inappropriately brought up, he wouldn't even bother answering at all .
Autonomy .
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Despite the fact you loved that the world knew you were Michael Jackson's only girl ; they took that title and ran a mile with it .
Every tabloid was . .
' Michael Jackson seen with Young Girlfriend At Awards ! '
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' Michael Jackson, King of Pop ; Matches morning, noon, and night with Younger Girlfriend throughout Bad World Tour '
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At first, you could brush off the headings . But the more magazines published articles , the harder it became to ignore .
You had a name . You weren't just Michael Jackson's "Younger" girlfriend . You were an actress . A decorated star who was revolutionizing the cinema industry . You were more than just a man's purse — even if you didn't mind being clutched every so often by the man you loved .
Luckily, you didn't even have to say a word to Michael about the situation for him to know it bothered you .
He immediately changed the way things were done .
He'd stop begging for you to stay with him during his tour . He'd understand that you had auditions , casting , and filming to do . If anything, he'd beg you to go to film instead .
He'd put off rehearsals to attend your screenings , and he'd be the loudest cheerleader among the crowd at your award shows !
Slowly but surely , you earned your identity back — separate from Michael .
You loved the king of pop just like everyone else. But, even if you acted all girly and shy — you weren't going to lose the woman you'd built from the ground up .
No matter how new you were to the game .
.
Elle's Note
Hi lovelies !! This is my first time writing any sort of drabble-esque post . It may not be the best and sorta short , but I hope you guys enjoyed this quick little part two to Sweets For My Teeth <3 ! See you soon, and hopefully the next set of drabbles will be longer . .
Requests Still Open !
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Summary: Three weeks of late nights and directions called through a talkback wire in the studio. You're a session guitarist on Michael's currently untitled follow-up to Thriller, and he's running you ragged; the same lick, over and over, until it's perfect. Turns out that same relentless, consuming attention doesn't stay in the booth. You came here to play guitar. Michael had other ideas.
based loosely on this request. ty anon!
Playlist: you can listen to some of the vibes here
Tags: Thrad michael!, (thriller/bad era) heavy petting, make out session, studio setting, michael is lowkey obsessed with you how you tear up his sheet music on the guitar, possessive! michael, he is such a perfectionist, getting caught, dry humping, hickeys, this boy is a smooth operator,
Word Count: 4959
Author’s Note: this was a request and i genuinely had a lot of fun writing it. had to listen to 'another part of me' like 7 times in a row to try pick out the guitar riffs ahahahha.
trying to do a mix of fluff/heavypetting and smut because i don't want the content to be too same-y for you guys. enjoy!!
The studio smells like cigarette smoke that isn't yours and a thick cloud has formed in the recording booth, the bright overhead spotlights making it look like atmosphere. You've been here since eleven in the morning. It's past midnight now.
The soundboard is lit up like a city seen from a plane, and you can see the light bouncing off the separation glass. Quincy had gone home, and most of the session musicians packed up two hours ago, bar you and a horn player, smoking a cig.
Michael is still here because Michael is always last to leave the session.
You stopped wondering about why he stayed into the small hours of the night, as after having signed onto do guitar work on his next album for the last three weeks, you understood he was a vicious perfectionist. He was kind, but oh so direct with the band members laying down their pieces for him. He had a vision and he followed it closely.
You were excited after having a career mostly in jazz, playing more mellow, traditional swing. The sheet music in front of you was totally different from that, and the departure was a welcome one. A challenge.
Michael often liked to lay down the sounds he heard in his head first, ensuring the percussion, strings and everything was to his liking; that it sounded like the download he had from above. He would only lay down his studio vocal at the end.
The Stratocaster is in your lap. Not plugged in. You've been running the chord progression from track six over and over, not because you're lost in it, but because the motion keeps your hands busy while you watch him through the glass.
He's in the booth with the engineer, rewinding, listening back. He does this thing when he's dissatisfied with a take — stands very still, one hand flat against the side of his headphones, head tilted. He's doing it now. The engineer says something. Michael shakes his head once.
"Elmer, you can go on home now, leave your set up. We are going to revisit in the morning," Michael said, using the autotalk.
He went back to an animated conversation with the sound engineer. Elmer cleared out of the room speedily, clearly eager to get home after a long day. You bit your lip and wondered if he was going to let you go soon.
The untitled track six has been the problem child for weeks. It exists in two versions: the one that got laid down for the Captain EO ride, clean and bright and built for a theme park; and whatever it's supposed to become now. Michael pulled it back into the sessions three weeks ago and hasn't explained why to anyone except in the vaguest terms. It needs something. It needs to move more. It needs to feel like it's going somewhere.
The booth door opens.
"Play me that thing again."
You look up. He's standing in the doorway between the live room and the tracking room, arms loose at his sides, in the white shirt he'd been wearing since early morning, collar wider, unbuttoned, and a black waistcoat. Raybans covered his eyes and the overhead lights caught the bead of sweat on his clavicle. It was extremely stuffy and warm in the studio, you could feel sweat on your back.
"Which run are you talking about?"
"The one you were doing before Quincy left," he trailed off, his mouth pulled to the side like he was biting his inner lip.
You know what he meant.
During a break an hour ago you'd been noodling, not playing anything in particular, just keeping your fingers warm; and you'd landed on something. A short melodic run, five or six notes climbing fast up the neck of the guitar and then driving back down hard with a rhythmic chop at the end. Sort of aggressive; bright but with teeth. You'd played it twice and then someone called you over to look at a lyric sheet and you'd let it go, not thinking much of it. You hadn't realised Michael was listening so closely to his band.
You plug the Strat into the small practice amp in the corner; not the full rig, just enough to be heard, and then play it for him.
Eight seconds of music. The run climbs the scale quick and clean, each note distinct, and then the chop at the bottom lands like a period at the end of a sentence. Your hands are fast, smooth and practised.
Michael watches from the doorway. Then he goes back into the booth, without a word.
The talkback crackles. His voice comes through the monitor speaker, slightly flattened.
"Again," he says, in a demanding way.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes and play it again.
"Faster on the way up."
You play it faster, feeling pent up frustration with him come out. He is certainly a nice guy, but his perfectionism is really troublesome at this time of night. The climb gets sharper, more urgent, and the chop at the end hits harder for it — the contrast between the quick ascent and the sudden stop gives it momentum, like a car braking at speed.
"Again. Please. Punchy, driving progression."
You play it again, even more aggression, but laced with intense passion.
"The last note. Hold it a beat longer before the chop."
The autotalk crackles and you look up at him behind the glass. He looks really handsome, his hair falling in front of his eyes slightly where it had grown out since his last album cycle. You admired him for always being well dressed; he never arrived at the studio looking slouchy. The white shirt and black fitted pants, his iconic white socks and black loafers.
You adjust. The held note creates a half-second of tension before the rhythm comes down, and now the whole thing feels like it's winding up before it releases.
You play it again without being told. Then again. Through the glass you can see him standing at the board, not touching anything on it, just watching. His elbows are on the console, hands loosely clasped under his chin.
His voice through the speaker: "That's it. That's the color it was missing."
You play it once more because your hands want to.
"I want it on the bridge. Track six. It was too soft. Too contained. It needs to push against something."
You think about the track as you know it — smooth and crowd-pleasing and built to be safe. Then you think about the run, the way the climb builds and the chop lands, and you understand immediately what he's hearing. The lick in the bridge would work like a gear change. The whole song would change tonally.
"Play it again," he says. "Recording it now and then Q can listen in the morning."
You sit up. Square your shoulders. Play it.
"One more take."
You play it again, cleaner. Look up back at the window — he still seems like he wants more. His sunglasses have come off.
"Again. Don't rush the top."
You slow the peak of the climb by a fraction, let each note speak before the next one, and the run gets more shape. More intention. Through the glass he nods once.
"Again."
This goes on for twenty minutes. His voice comes through the monitor in a steady rhythm — more attack, less, shift the chop one beat later, try it without the held note, no, go back, that was right before — and you execute every adjustment without complaint, which you can tell surprises him even from the other side of the glass.
Most session musicians push back at the artist, or at least get a little mouthy when they are being worked this late. You've learned that the fastest way to work harmoniously with Michael is just to listen to him, because he's usually right.
The engineer calls through from somewhere behind Michael. Anything else tonight?
A pause. Michael doesn't look away from the glass. "No. Go home and get some rest, Martin."
A crackle. Footsteps. A door somewhere in the building opening and closing.
The talkback is still live. You can hear the faint presence of the booth — the hiss of the monitors, Michael breathing. You are feeling more nervous now, the sweat beading on your forehead.
His voice, quieter now. "Play it again."
You play it, with serious conviction, your legs tensing where you sat on the stool in front of the low mic.
"Again."
You play it again.
"Again."
You stop. Lower the guitar slightly. Look at him through the glass. "Michael. It's good. You know it's good."
Through the glass he's looking back at you. He doesn't answer immediately.
Then, out of the blue: "I like you."
The amp hums as your hands hover over the strings. It feels like the whole world stops.
"What?"
"I like you." His voice is direct through the speaker. "I've been trying to talk myself out of it for three weeks and I can't, so I am telling you."
You look at him through the glass, total shock on your face.
There is something very deliberate about the fact that he's still in there — the pane between you, the monitors, the console. Like he decided that if he was going to say it he was going to say it from a safe distance.
"Why now?" you say.
"Because it's just us and I'm running out of reasons not to."
"That's not what I mean." You set the guitar across your knees. "You've been working with me for weeks. What changed tonight? Is it because it was supposed to be my last session?"
A long pause. You watch him decide something.
"When you feel the music," he says, "when you're really in it — you look insanely beautiful." He clears his throat, clearly nervous. "And sexy. And completely in tune with exactly what I'm calling on, like you're hearing the same thing I'm hearing before I've said it." Another pause, shorter. "I've worked with a lot of musicians."
"Mmm."
"I've never once had the privilege of someone who takes direction so literally, so well."
You don't say anything for a moment. The thing about Michael is that he means what he says with a completeness that most people don't. There is no calculation in it, no angle, which is strange given that being a performer, being very different to his usual self, is most of his professional life.
"You could have said something three weeks ago," you say.
"I know." A beat. "I wasn't ready then. I had to figure you out a lil' more."
"And now? Do you think you have figured me out?"
He doesn't answer intentionally. Instead: "Play it one more time."
You smirk, flip your hair out of your face.
You play the run — the climb, quick and deliberate, each note landing clean, and then the held note at the peak, the tension of it, the half-second where the whole thing is balanced on the edge. Then the chop comes down hard and the last note rings out into the room and fades into amp hiss and silence.
The booth door opens. You startle, not realising he had moved.
He crosses the live room in a few strides and takes the guitar from your hands before you've fully stood up, sets it against the amp stand without looking at it, and then he kisses you hungrily, right in front of the mic with the overhead lights on. They are like a spotlight on the both of you, nowhere to hide now.
It's not soft. It's not a question. His kiss lands exactly like the chop at the end of the lick — like something that has been at pressure for a long time and has finally found where it needs to release.
Your hands go to the front of his shirt. His go to your jaw, your neck, warm and soft, and he kisses you the way he listens, with his entire attention, every point of contact something he is paying attention to separately, the session now at the back of either of your minds.
When he pulls back it's barely an inch. His hands are still on your face.
The laugh that bubbles up in your chest is half-breathless, half-hysterical. He's so close his eyelashes brush your cheek when he blinks.
"Michael," you whisper into the millimeter of space between your lips. "What the hell are we doing?"
"Mm, not sure," he murmurs back, his voice a low, private rumble you've never heard before — not through a microphone, not in conversation. Raw, unprocessed. "I guess we are feeling the music, Y/N."
"Feeling the music," you repeat, dazed. His thumbs are stroking the hinge of your jaw. Your own fingers are curled into the crisp cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin beneath. "What's the operational objective here?"
"Play. I want to play." He kisses you slower this time, but with the same devastating focus. His mouth is soft, insistent, and he tastes like the black tea he'd been drinking all night at the controls and a faint hint of mint.
You make a small, involuntary sound against his lips and you feel him smile, just a tiny curve, before he deepens the kiss again.
One of his hands slides from your jaw, down the column of your throat, his fingers spreading over the rapid pulse there. He breaks the kiss to trail his mouth along that same path, his lips warm and slightly chapped. You tip your head back, granting access, and a shiver runs through you that has nothing to do with the studio's stuffy heat.
"You're sweaty," you mumble, your eyes closed.
"So are you," he says, the words vibrating against your collarbone. "This recording studio is like a sauna. Just with better equipment." He laughs, breathlessly.
"You're making me sweatier."
"Good." He finds a particular spot at the junction of your neck and shoulder and sucks, not gently. The sensation is a bright, sharp shock — possessive, deliberate. Your grip on his shirt tightens. "That's gonna leave a mark," you manage, your voice already sounding wrecked.
"Mmm-hmm." He doesn't stop. He moves to another spot, higher, just below your ear, and repeats the process — the wet heat of his mouth, the slight scrape of his teeth, the firm pressure. It's methodical. He is so incessant, a big difference to the kind and softspoken Michael you had been working with professionally for the last few weeks. It is like he's found a frequency he likes and he's riding the fader. A soft, breathy moan escapes you before you can catch it.
He pulls back to look at his work, his eyes dark and intense, taking in the flushed skin, the beginning of a bruise. He looks utterly fascinated.
"There," he says, softly. "Now you have a souvenir."
"Michael, do not leave anymore marks, I swear to god. If you want me to come in tomorrow I have to look professional to your team."
The protest dies in your throat when he moves again — not away, but forward, crowding you back step by step until your shoulders meet the cool painted concrete of the studio wall. The contrast is startling — the heat of his body against yours, the unyielding chill of the surface behind you.
He pins you there, not with force but with presence, his hips slotting against yours, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in the hair at your nape.
"Professional," he echoes against your lips. "You think I'm thinking about being professional right now?"
He kisses you again, and this one is different — deep, consuming, a total immersion. His tongue sweeps into your mouth and you open for him without thought, a low groan vibrating from his chest into yours. Your hands, which had been fisted in his shirt, slide up to his shoulders, feeling the lean muscle there, the shift and flex as he adjusts his stance to press you more firmly into the wall.
The hand at your neck holds you steady, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind your ear. The other drops to your bum, his grip firm and possessive, pulling you tighter against him. You can feel him, hard and insistent through his levis, and the reality of it — Michael Jackson, the genius, the perfectionist, the icon, wanting you like this — sends a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core.
He breaks the kiss to breathe, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and warm on your face.
"The first day," he murmurs, the words spilling out in a hushed, confessional rush. "When you walked in. You shook my hand. Your fingers were cool and you had calluses right here—" He brings his hand from your hip, takes your right hand, and presses his thumb against the pads of your fingertips. "—and you looked me right in the eye and said, 'I'm all yours, Mr. Jackson.' No nerves. Just readiness."
He brings your hand to his mouth and kisses each fingertip, his lips soft, his gaze locked on yours. The intimacy of it is almost more overwhelming than the kiss.
"I thought, 'This one hears it. This one gets the picture.'" He lets go of your hand to frame your face again. "And then you played. And it was right. But it was more than that. It was alive."
He kisses you again, a brief, searing press. "I'd watch you through the glass," he continues, his voice dropping even lower, a secret for the two of you. "You'd bite your lip when you were thinking. You'd close your eyes on a bend. Your whole body would move with the rhythm, just a little, like the music was a current running through you. And I'd be in there, listening to a take, and all I could think was — I want to be that guitar." He lets out a shaky breath, almost a laugh at his own admission. "I wanted to be the thing you held that close. The thing you made sing."
His confession hangs in the air, thick and real. You are speechless. You'd seen his focus, felt his demanding direction, but you'd never imagined this — this raw wanting, observed and catalogued with the same meticulous attention he gave to his work.
"Michael," you whisper, your voice trembling.
"Shh," he soothes, brushing his nose against yours. "Let me."
He reclaims your mouth, and this time the kiss is all heat and need — messy, off-beat, perfectly imperfect. His teeth catch your lower lip, tugging gently, and you gasp. He swallows the sound, his tongue laving the stinging spot. Your hands are everywhere, in his hair now wonderfully disheveled, down his back, feeling the taut line of his spine through the waistcoat and shirt. You arch against him, seeking friction, and a ragged groan tears from him.
His mouth leaves yours to blaze a trail down your neck, over the marks he's already made, down to the collar of your shirt. His fingers fumble with the top button, his usual dexterity slightly compromised by urgency. He gets it open, then the next, his lips following the path of exposed skin — the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breast above your bra, each press of his mouth a brand.
His hand slides higher, cupping your breast through the lace. His thumb finds your nipple, circles it, presses. A desperate moan is ripped from you and you feel him smile into the kiss, pure satisfaction.
"Oh, you like that," he murmurs.
The wall is cool and solid at your back. He is fire and demand in your arms. The studio has shrunk to this: the space between your bodies, the slide of fabric, the wet sound of your kisses, the ragged symphony of your breathing. The overhead spotlights are merciless, illuminating every flicker of desire on his face, every bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple, the fever-bright flush on your own skin.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving. His hair is a beautiful mess. His shirt is hopelessly wrinkled, half-untucked. He has never looked less like the pristine icon and more like a man.
"Tell me to stop," he says, the words a gravelly challenge, his eyes searching yours not for permission but for the same madness he feels. "Tell me this is a bad idea. Tell me we have to be professional."
You slide your hands from his shoulders down his chest, feeling the rapid heavy beat of his heart beneath your palms. You don't tell him to stop. Instead you curl your fingers into the fabric of his waistcoat and pull him back to you.
"The only thing I want from you right now," you say against his mouth, "is more. Of whatever this is."
A low, approving sound rumbles in his chest. His kiss turns incendiary — like he's trying to memorize the taste of you, like this is the final perfect take and he's giving it everything. His hands map you — your ribs, your waist, the curve of your ass, hauling you up slightly to better align with him. The friction is exquisite, maddening. You wrap a leg around his hip and he groans, the sound raw and unfiltered, a private sound for no microphone but the one in your memory.
The sound of the door opening was like a needle scratch across the record of the moment.
Just the soft click of a latch, the gentle push of the heavy studio door — but in the absolute charged silence you and Michael had created, it might as well have been a thunderclap.
You both froze.
Michael's head, which had been bent to your neck, went perfectly still. Your own fingers, tangled in his hair, stopped. For one suspended second the only sounds were the low hum of electricity and the ragged shared rhythm of your breathing.
Then a shuffling step, and the squeak of a wheeled bucket.
You turned your head just enough to see past Michael's shoulder. Standing in the doorway was an older man in grey coveralls, a janitor's cart beside him, a look of profound shock on his face.
The spell shattered.
Michael moved first. Not a jerk, not panic — a slow, deliberate disentanglement. His hands left your skin with a lingering slide that felt like a final secret caress. He took a single smooth step back, putting a foot of professional distance between your bodies. His expression, which had been open and hungry a heartbeat before, underwent a remarkable transformation — the intensity drained, replaced by a placid, almost serene politeness. The same look he gave interviewers, the same gentle mask he wore in public. Only the faint flush high on his cheekbones and his wonderfully disheveled hair betrayed what had just happened.
"Good evening," Michael said, his voice back to its familiar softspoken tone, utterly calm, as if he'd been caught reviewing a track sheet.
The cleaner blinked, stammering. "I — I'm so sorry, Mr. Jackson. I was told everyone had gone home for the night. I didn't mean to interrupt—"
"It's quite alright," Michael said, offering a small gracious smile. He adjusted the cuff of his white shirt — a gesture so normal, yet he made it look so devastating. "We were just finishing up some last-minute work on the bridge. Lost track of time."
The almost-lie delivered with such effortless conviction you almost believed it yourself. You were still leaning against the wall, your shirt rumpled, your lips swollen, your neck bearing the evidence of his attention. Heat flooded your face — embarrassment and a strange defiant thrill in equal measure.
"Of course, of course," the cleaner mumbled, already backing toward the door, dragging his cart with him. "I'll, uh, I'll start in the hallway. Apologies again."
"Thank you for your hard work," Michael said warmly.
The door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was different. No longer a private bubble, but a space recently violated, the air still vibrating with the echo of the interruption. You looked at Michael. He had turned away, running a hand through his hair, his back to you.
A shaky laugh escaped you. You pressed your fingers to your lips. "Well. That was—"
"Unfortunate timing," he said, not turning around.
"You think?" You pushed off the wall, your legs unsteady. "He's definitely going to talk."
Michael finally turned. "Let him talk." He said it with a quiet certainty that brooked no argument — the king in his castle, secure in his power. Then his gaze dropped to your neck and a flicker of pure satisfaction crossed his features. "Besides," he added, his voice dropping back into that private low register, "we are just working passionately. Music comes to people in all sorts of ways."
You shook your head. But before you could form another thought he closed the distance between you in two quick strides.
"He did interrupt," Michael murmured against your ear. "And we weren't finished."
This time there was no hesitation. His mouth captured yours in a deep claiming kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. You grasped the front of his waistcoat for balance as he walked you backward, through the door and into the studio, his body pressing yours until the back of your legs met the cold leather surface of the couch.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips along your jaw, back to the sensitive marked skin of your neck. He didn't suck this time — just laved the spot with his tongue, a slow caress over the budding bruise, before sealing his mouth over it again, harder.
"This is inspiration for tomorrow," he breathed against your damp skin. "When you come back to lay down that lick with Q."
It wasn't a question.
He kissed you again, slower but no less deep, his tongue stroking yours in a rhythm that was unmistakably carnal. One of his knees nudged between yours and you instinctively wrapped a leg around his hip. The friction was exquisite through the fabric. He hissed, a sharp intake of breath, and rocked against you — once, twice, deliberate — and you cried out.
It was that sound, raw and unfiltered, that seemed to pierce the haze. He stilled, his forehead dropping to yours, breathing in hot short gusts against your lips.
"God," he whispered, his voice shredded. "If we don't stop now—"
He didn't finish. He didn't have to. The unfinished promise hung in the air, more potent than any words.
With what looked like immense physical effort he pushed himself back, his arms trembling slightly where they still caged you. His eyes, black and dilated, searched your face as if memorizing it.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in and pressed one last achingly soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. A kiss of punctuation. Of later.
Then he was up off the couch, turning away, running both hands through his hair. He checked his watch, the movement jerky.
"It's very late," he said, the words sounding scraped raw. He cleared his throat, visibly gathering the scattered pieces of his composure. "You should get home. You need rest for tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? Tonight was my last scheduled session," you echoed, your body still throbbing.
"Final lay-down on track six. Ten AM sharp." He spoke to the console, not looking at you. He picked up the phone beside the controls, his voice strained but firming up — Michael in charge, forcibly reasserting himself. "James? It's Mike. Bring the car around. Back studio entrance. Not for me though — a nice young lady needs a ride home. Thank you."
He hung up and finally turned. The composure was back, but fragile now, hairline cracks showing. He approached you and stopped a respectful distance away.
"A driver will take you home," he said. His gaze swept over your flushed face, your kiss-swollen lips, the vivid mark on your neck. He reached out and with a tenderness that made your chest ache, gently fixed the collar of your shirt, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin. "Get some sleep."
You found your voice, though it was hoarse. "Is that an order?"
A ghost of his earlier smile touched his lips. "A strong recommendation from your manager."
He leaned in. You held your breath. But he just pressed a soft closed-mouth kiss to your cheek — chaste, a cover story. Yet his lips lingered, and you felt the slight involuntary tremor in them before he pulled away.
"See you tomorrow, bright and early," he chirped, the melodic public voice almost convincing. Almost.
You gathered your things on autopilot, every nerve ending still singing. At the door you paused and looked back.
He was standing in the middle of the room, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his sunglasses. He looked composed. But his eyes held yours across the distance, and in them you saw the entire unedited truth — the hunger, the possessive claim, the trembling control, and underneath all of it, a certain tiredness that had nothing to do with the hour.
A slow knowing smirk curved your bruised lips. You held his gaze for one last endless second, then turned and walked out into the hall, where the scent of disinfectant from the cleaner's cart did nothing to erase the scent of him on your skin.
The black sedan was waiting. As you slid into the back seat you let your head fall back and finally exhaled, long and shuddering. You touched the throbbing mark on your neck, then your tender well-kissed lips.
You smiled — slow, secret — and closed your eyes, already counting the minutes until ten AM.
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No matter what, I'll always advocate for more Sylvester Stallone/ Rocky/ Rambo content on here ! Ughhh i love him so much. Truly just everything to me . .
A heavy sigh left his lips, his neck cracking as he turned it both ways to relieve the pressure of the day. Michael strained his ears, trying to hear any sound of you to indicate where you were in the large villa he had rented out to be closer to his work he was being forced to do by his management.
His feet led him to the back door in the luxurious kitchen, which overlooked the huge garden. To the left of the door, he spotted you, laying full out on the cushioned sun lounger, a large glass of iced lemonade beside you.
The door slid open as he took in your appearance. A pink and white striped bikini leaving you scantily dressed, the black clip in your hair allowing you to comfortably rest your head back against the cushions. The white earphones were connected to the pink iPod he had gotten you for your birthday and the large bug eye sunglasses covered the majority of your face.
It had been clear you hadn’t seen him, as you continued to move your toes to the beat of whatever song you were listening to, a small smile gracing your face as you relaxed in the sunlight.
He walked closer to you, trying to stay under the large gazebo to protect his sensitive skin from the harsh sun. Tapping your shoulder, you yelped slightly, ripping the earphones out of your ears as you jumped up.
“Oh my gosh, Michael…You scared the life out of me”, you whined, your polished hand covering your heart.
“Sorry mama. Where did you get this from?”
His finger slid under the strap of your bikini top, already distracted from the amount of beautiful skin you were showing to him.
“Oh this? I think I bought it a while ago, I’m not too sure to be honest with you..”
You continued, “why do you like it?”
Dark eyes shot up to meet your own, one eyebrow lifting in almost disbelief.
“Like it? Do I like it? Baby, I love it. You look so precious in this” he smiled at you, leaning down to give you a kiss.
Once the sun hit his face, he gasped.
“How are you sat out here in this? It’s so hot! Are you sure you’re not melting out here?” he exclaimed worriedly.
“It’s lovely out here, Michael! The sun is blessing my entire body right now. I’m so warm!”
He sighed lovingly, watching you get comfy on the sun lounger once again, picking up your earphones.
“I’m going back inside, try not to melt, sun baby”
Hey queen!! Was wondering if you could write a bad/dangerous era Michael x younger reader? Michael is rlly hesitant abt their relationship cuz of the age difference so he’s sometimes rlly distant with reader? Reader kinda puts up with it cuz she’s so in love with him :(( maybe at at award show or dinner reader gets close to a famous actor and Michael gets super jealous? I’ll leave the rest up to u!! Thank you xxxx
۶ৎ ུ Sweets For My Teeth ' Michael Jackson
A/N - This is such a cute idea !! Two posts back to back to make up for my absence. . more to come. Enjoy anon, and all my lovelies as well !! 🎀 Let me know your thoughts and comments . .
Word Count: 3,130
This is a Bad! Michael Jackson x Younger! Reader. Age gap (you are 23 and Michael is 30). Bad Michael, 1989 Era. Female reader, friends to lovers, established relationship. Bad World Tour.
Distant Michael . He's nice, but emotionally detached. . reader is shy, but outspoken . Angst, Jealousy, and comfort. Hidden relationship. Slightly mean Michael, but he makes up for it later . . mostly fluff with light flirting ! Reader wears a lot of Princess Diana's Wardrobe . .
Plot - As a rising actress, it was only natural that you developed a bond with the King of Pop during the height of his career. But, what you thought would be a happy relationship, quickly turns into a pool of insecurity, hidden love, and untold affection . . .
۶ৎ .
Dating Michael Jackson was everything you had hoped. He spoiled you, paraded you around like his precious doll in front of tabloids and paparazzi— it was a dream come true . .
.
. . Is what you wished you could say .
In reality, most times it felt as though you two weren't in a relationship whatsover.
Of course, he still loved you— you never questioned if he did for a second.
But, when it came to work getting in the way, it was as if he didn't put effort into maintaining your bond. The issue became more aggravating now that he was on his Bad World Tour, his album having sold thousands of copies and catapulting him into the global stage.
You showed nothing but love and profound happiness for him— but you couldn't help but feel . . left behind.
.
You were an actress, a renowned one at that. You'd starred in numerous award winning movies, your beautiful smile plastered on countless magazines and newspapers as you held your triple-accolades.
A young, thriving soul is how the media described you.
A blooming flower trapping all the honey-bees between its petals.
And that was precisely the problem for Michael.
Even before the beginning of your relationship with him, he always had something to say about how young you were.
How beautiful you were, and how shocked he was that you were almost a decade younger than him.
You could tell it put him off at first— but the way you handled yourself and the tenderness of your personality was what truly enthralled him. He loved you.
But . . he struggled to show it openly.
.
.
You sat on the wheat-colored couch of your shared upstairs lounging room. Your knees were brought to your chest, watching a replay of Michael's performance in France from last week on the television set.
He'd be home today. Back from the first half of his Bad World Tour to attend a gala he'd been invited to that same weekend.
You felt anxiety well up in your chest— anxious excitement building up within you.
You missed him terribly— you wanted to see him; your lover.
Would he be in a good mood ? Would he bring you a gift ?—
.
Click !
.
". . Babe? I'm here ! Hellooo anybody home? "
His soft voice rang through the hallway downstairs, causing you to perk up from your seat. You rushed towards the TV set, turning it off before scrambling to your feet and rushing down the dark wood stairs.
You beamed a smile, launching yourself into his arms as he caught you just in time. His lips parted to let out a tender laugh, twirling you around effortlessly as he placed a firm kiss on the top of your head.
"Well look who's happy to see me. You didn' miss me too much, did you?" He hummed, the tiredness evident in his voice as he let you go to pick up his bags.
You immediately snatched them right up, quickly placing them aside as you gripped his hand to drag him further into the house.
" 'Course not angel !" You exclaimed, the nickname making him smile as you placed him onto the downstairs couch.
"I was just. . . thinking, a lot about you."
You stared at him as you found your place beside him. He let out a heavy sigh, his fingers working to unbutton the clasps of his coat as he ran a hand through his damp curls.
"Thinkin' ? Hmm . . since when did you that?"
You giggled at his remark, giving him a soft shove as his teeth caught his bottom lip.
". . My gorgeous girl . ." He murmured, pulling you closer as he wrapped a firm hand around your waist.
He urged you to lay on his chest, your nose taking in the familiar scent of his smoky cologne and subtle sweat.
Your delicate fingers rubbed circles against his pec, ear pressed against the center as you heard the rhythmic beating of his heart.
" . . Hey, Mikey?"
He hummed at your call, his fingers gripping your waist just a tad bit tighter to show he's listening.
". . You know how I said I was thinking a lot about you ?"
Another hum.
You absentmindedly chewed on your inner cheek, now resting your chin on his chest as you looked up at him. His own eyes already staring at you.
“ I was. . thinking. That, I could go to the gala with you. . this weekend.”
A small chuckle made its way up his throat, lips curving into a small smile as his fingers traced the outline of your face.
“ What are you talkin’ about? Of course you’re going. You were invited anyways. ”
You stared at him, your own awkward smile enveloping your lips.
“ Ah well, I know that. I just mean— with you. As in, your plus one. Y’know. . since i’m your girlfriend and all. . supposedly. .”
You muttered that last part, but you could tell he heard every word.
His smile slowly faded, a deep sigh leaving his lips as his eyes wandered over your face.
“. . You know how I feel about that. ‘M just not ready to be so public about us. Our relationship. ”
You felt your heart ache at the way he spoke. Despite his careful tone and caring voice— you couldn’t help but feel. . offended, at the way he spoke about what you two had.
“ Why do you say it like that?” You questioned, sitting up from his chest as you brought your legs up towards yourself once more, your voice going up a pitch.
“ You act like you’re ashamed of me. Can’t even hold my pinkie out in public let alone my hand. .”
You averted your gaze to the ground.
Michael felt a soft pang of guilt engulf his chest. He shifted closer to you, tugging on your arm as he wrapped his hand around your own.
“Oh don’t do that angel . .” He said softly, fingers tracing the softness of your palm.
“You know ‘m not ashamed of you. I just—“
His voice halted. He couldn’t find the right words to say— or how to say them.
He wasn’t ashamed— but he also wasn’t comfortable speaking so openly about the both of you. The media was cruel, they'd attack him— you, for how young you were.
He shook his head, letting go of your hand as he attempted to think of a compromise.
“ . . Tell you what? I’ll be right beside you the entire night. No questions, no show. I swear.”
You slowly looked back at him.
You let out a soft sigh, knowing full well that this wasn’t what you were expecting it to be.
He wasn’t going to be how he was with you now. He wouldn’t smile towards you, laugh with you. He wouldn’t do anything that would risk sparking something among the media.
Rumors.
But. . even if you knew— you couldn’t find it within yourself to argue about it.
You nodded your head, forcing yourself to lean against his arm as he wrapped it around you once more.
No matter how deeply your heart ached— you loved him. More than anything.
If he wanted you to just sit beside him and look darling, that’s what you’d do. Even if it meant you’d feel slightly unfulfilled in the end.
.
“. . Okay Michael. I think that’s fine with me. . “ You whispered.
.
.
The gala was even grander than you imagined.
A radiant red carpet with rows of paparazzi, aching to catch an exclusive photo of A-List actors and artists for their tabloids.
Actors such as Robin Williams, and singers such as Whitney Houston, all pouring down the chaotic run-way to make it to the main event.
They dressed in dripping fabrics and vibrant jewels— something you knew how to do all too well.
.
You sat in the white limousine. Your hair styled into its best state, makeup accentuating the beauty of your face as you leaned back against the white leather of the seat.
You wore a custom made, pale - blue chiffon evening gown. It dripped off your shoulders like crystal waterfalls, a pearl choker delicately wrapped around the tender skin of your neck.
Your nails were freshly done, feet wrapped in matching velvet heels as you clutched the pearlescent purse close to your body.
You were a living porcelain doll.
The only issue was . . you were alone.
'So much for being beside me the entire night . .' , you thought to yourself.
But, who were you kidding? Riding a limousine with you? Going out and walking the carpet . . with you?
Michael would never do that.
It's too risky.
Your eyes remained glued to the tulle on your lap, your hands tracing the hand-crafted seams as you dozed off into your wandering thoughts.
Suddenly, you were snapped out of your daze as the door to the limousine was opened. You hadn't even noticed it stopped at all.
You expected to be greeted by an escort— someone to guide you through the carpet.
But instead, you were met with a familiar face . .
Al Pacino?
Your eyes widened, lips parting as a delicate smile made its way to your painted skin as a small, choked laugh bubbled from your chest.
" Mr. Pacino ! How lovely it is to have you here !" You exclaimed above the bustling sounds of chaos.
You'd worked on the Sea Of Love with him as the titular character. You'd come to know him personally— considered him as a sort of . . well, Godfather.
He smiled at you, taking your delicate hand into his own as he helped you out of the car.
" You never fail to stun' the crowds, ay? Always drippin' in crystals ."
You smiled at his words, feigning flattery as you placed your free hand onto your chest. " All you do is speak a bunch of sugar. ." You hummed.
Shockingly enough, he didn't let go of your hand after leading you out.
.
You two had formed an unspoken agreement— that you'd walk down the carpet together, hand- in -hand.
It was clear he didn't have a date, and it was clear that you didn't either . . or, didn't want to mention that your date had simply arrived long before you had.
Once the path had opened up, you two made your way onto it.
Safe to say, paparazzi completely devoured the display.
You two were completely blinded by flashes, voices urging you both to look towards a certain direction or face a specific camera.
Your pearly whites shone brightly, eyes pulled into beautiful crescent moons as your soft hand gripped the palm of the much more seasoned, much older one.
A lot, older.
You were stopped by a host not too far from the entrance of the ballroom, the interviewer asking you both questions.
.
'Al Pacino! Your performance in the Sea of Love was nothin' short of outstanding ! Especially with your absolutely beautiful co-star here ! So, you two decided to seal off the night by comin' as dates ?'
.
He scoffed at the remark, jokingly rolling his eyes as he shook his head.
" Listen, as much of a beauty this young lady is ova' here, I'm no stickler. We were providing each other a common curtesy ."
Part of you felt relieved that he had clarified this was a friendly gesture, and nothing more. You nodded in agreement, a tender laugh escaping your lips as you held your purse tightly.
" Definitely. Al is nice n' all, but he's far from my type. "
Your small comment earned a sincere chuckle from both of the men, causing your own to bubble up in your chest as you gave a soft push to his arm.
In the midst of your soft playing, though, you hadn't realized that you were being watched by someone a lot more familiar.
.
.
After that whole charade, you'd found yourself completely alone once more.
You thanked Al for walking you down the carpet, the both of you going your own separate ways once inside the magnificent ballroom.
You'd expected to see Michael talking to people, dancing . . maybe even saving a table for you to sit at.
Eerily enough, you realized you hadn't seen him . . at all.
You knew he was here. This ball was organized to congratulate him on his tour, after all.
After what seemed like ages of you feigning a smile and giving brief hello's, you felt your arm being tugged.
You let out a soft gasp as you found yourself in a much quieter, much more secluded hallway of the ballroom. Nothing around you but a grand chandelier above your head, and lounge chairs on either side of the velvet walls.
.
" . . Michael ?" Your eyes widened, an authentic shock building in your chest.
" God, angel , I've been lookin' everywhere for you . ." He said, his soft voice soothing the adrenaline in your heart.
His hair was in its wet-dry curly mullet, his iconic silver top and black bottoms—he practically looked ready to perform.
His taped fingers caressed your arms, his eyes wandering over you as a small smile made its way to his lips. One you didn't reciprocate.
"You look gorgeous. I saw you walkin' the carpet, you were glistening. ." His voice trailed off.
You saw the corners of his smile twitch, letting you know that he wasn't being entirely truthful with the tone of his words.
You let out a soft sigh, your gaze averting from his as you braced yourself for the words that you were expecting.
". . I didn't expect the Godfather to walk you down the carpet. You worked on that movie with him, right? What was it . . er - Sea of Love ?"
You could tell he was trying to keep the mood between you two lighthearted. But, the fact that the only reason he was even talking to you was because you were away from the mass soured his efforts.
" Oh, don't start Michael . ." You murmured.
You softly tugged his hands away from you, your hands clasping together against your stomach as you felt your lips quiver.
He noticed it.
He felt his heart ache, his smile dulling as he let out a nervous chuckle.
". . What-? Why are you—"
You shook your head, cutting him off as his eyebrows rose.
" I said, don't start. " You reiterated.
" Yes, Al Pacino, my co-star who is almost twice your age, walked me down the red carpet. Holding my hand. "
You turned to look back at him, the hurt evident in your eyes.
"Doesn't that sound . . wrong, to you? You're jealous, right? "
His silence answered.
" Right. But, you shouldn't be jealous. Why? Because it was your choice to avoid me for half the night. To leave me alone out there. Oh, but you had the basic decency to order the limousine for me, right? All while leaving me like some doll on a high shelf !"
Your yell echoed through the walls, your voice cracking at the seams as you felt your vision blur with tears.
" A man who is more than a decade older than you was more willing to be seen publicly with me, than my own boyfriend who isn't even ten years older than me! Doesn't that sound insane to you Michael ? Why is it that I'm the one who has to suffer because of your fear of the press— the media? I. . I can't . ."
Your voice trailed off. Sobs consumed your throat as you pressed your delicate fingers to your lips.
You took a step back, and overwhelming sense of embarrassment welling up within you as you desperately tried to put yourself together.
.
Wordlessly, Michael immediately pulled you into a firm embrace.
That simple gesture was all it took for you to come undone.
You gripped the silver material of his top, every desperate sob that left you muffling into the loose material as you melted into him.
You were never angry, upset. You were desperate.
You wanted the world to know that Michael Jackson loved you—adored you. That his hatred for tabloids and the press would never cut him down to the point of hiding who he loved.
That was all you had wanted.
.
His fingers traced the back of your neck. He remained silent, staying completely still until he knew you had calmed down.
He pulled you back, his palms cupping your cheeks as his tapped thumb wiped the crystal trails off the apples of your cheeks.
He looked hurt. His lips pursed into a straight line as his eyebrows furrowed upwards.
He leaned forward, the coolness of his breath fanning over your nose as he placed a tender kiss onto the tip of it.
" . . Angel. I'm—I'm sorry. " He whispered, the ache in his voice seeping through his words.
"God, I can't believe I allowed myself to be controlled by a bunch 'a cameras . . people. What could they ever do to hurt me, except rip you away from me?" He murmured.
You stared at him, his words soothing your soul as you felt yourself take in a deep, shaky breath.
The corners of his lips turned upwards, his eyes wandering over your flushed lips as he leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to the glossy surface.
You immediately leaned into it, gripping his shirt tightly as you stood on the tips of your heels. The feeling of the tip of his tongue brushing your bottom lip sent a ticklish feeling through your jaw, causing you to pull away as you gave his arm a soft shove
You patted away any remaining tears, taking in a deep breath as you finally reciprocated his smile.
" You goof . . don't do that in here . ."
He laughed, gripping your hand as he wrapped your arms around his own.
.
" Alright then. How about out there, hm? " He said, leading you back out towards the main crowd.
You two maneuvered your way through people, only this time his arm remained firmly wrapped around your shoulder. He laughed, caressed your skin, and even kissed your cheek.
.
The sweetness of your satisfied giggles being enough to lighten up the room.
.
Elle's Notes
Ugh writing the angst for this was gut-wrenching. WE all know Michael is the sweetest apple on the tree !! Thank you so much for reading, I'll see you lovelies during the next one <3
Requests Still Open !
⤷ ˊ˗tag list - @lotuspetalss ۶ৎ @starryeyedmoonlight ۶ৎ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Hey queen!! Was wondering if you could write a bad/dangerous era Michael x younger reader? Michael is rlly hesitant abt their relationship cuz of the age difference so he’s sometimes rlly distant with reader? Reader kinda puts up with it cuz she’s so in love with him :(( maybe at at award show or dinner reader gets close to a famous actor and Michael gets super jealous? I’ll leave the rest up to u!! Thank you xxxx
۶ৎ ུ Sweets For My Teeth ' Michael Jackson
A/N - This is such a cute idea !! Two posts back to back to make up for my absence. . more to come. Enjoy anon, and all my lovelies as well !! 🎀 Let me know your thoughts and comments . .
۶ৎ . Part 2 - Sweet Tooth
Word Count: 3,130
This is a Bad! Michael Jackson x Younger! Reader. Age gap (you are 23 and Michael is 30). Bad Michael, 1989 Era. Female reader, friends to lovers, established relationship. Bad World Tour.
Distant Michael . He's nice, but emotionally detached. . reader is shy, but outspoken . Angst, Jealousy, and comfort. Hidden relationship. Slightly mean Michael, but he makes up for it later . . mostly fluff with light flirting ! Reader wears a lot of Princess Diana's Wardrobe . .
Plot - As a rising actress, it was only natural that you developed a bond with the King of Pop during the height of his career. But, what you thought would be a happy relationship, quickly turns into a pool of insecurity, hidden love, and untold affection . . .
۶ৎ .
Dating Michael Jackson was everything you had hoped. He spoiled you, paraded you around like his precious doll in front of tabloids and paparazzi— it was a dream come true . .
.
. . Is what you wished you could say .
In reality, most times it felt as though you two weren't in a relationship whatsover.
Of course, he still loved you— you never questioned if he did for a second.
But, when it came to work getting in the way, it was as if he didn't put effort into maintaining your bond. The issue became more aggravating now that he was on his Bad World Tour, his album having sold thousands of copies and catapulting him into the global stage.
You showed nothing but love and profound happiness for him— but you couldn't help but feel . . left behind.
.
You were an actress, a renowned one at that. You'd starred in numerous award winning movies, your beautiful smile plastered on countless magazines and newspapers as you held your triple-accolades.
A young, thriving soul is how the media described you.
A blooming flower trapping all the honey-bees between its petals.
And that was precisely the problem for Michael.
Even before the beginning of your relationship with him, he always had something to say about how young you were.
How beautiful you were, and how shocked he was that you were almost a decade younger than him.
You could tell it put him off at first— but the way you handled yourself and the tenderness of your personality was what truly enthralled him. He loved you.
But . . he struggled to show it openly.
.
.
You sat on the wheat-colored couch of your shared upstairs lounging room. Your knees were brought to your chest, watching a replay of Michael's performance in France from last week on the television set.
He'd be home today. Back from the first half of his Bad World Tour to attend a gala he'd been invited to that same weekend.
You felt anxiety well up in your chest— anxious excitement building up within you.
You missed him terribly— you wanted to see him; your lover.
Would he be in a good mood ? Would he bring you a gift ?—
.
Click !
.
". . Babe? I'm here ! Hellooo anybody home? "
His soft voice rang through the hallway downstairs, causing you to perk up from your seat. You rushed towards the TV set, turning it off before scrambling to your feet and rushing down the dark wood stairs.
You beamed a smile, launching yourself into his arms as he caught you just in time. His lips parted to let out a tender laugh, twirling you around effortlessly as he placed a firm kiss on the top of your head.
"Well look who's happy to see me. You didn' miss me too much, did you?" He hummed, the tiredness evident in his voice as he let you go to pick up his bags.
You immediately snatched them right up, quickly placing them aside as you gripped his hand to drag him further into the house.
" 'Course not angel !" You exclaimed, the nickname making him smile as you placed him onto the downstairs couch.
"I was just. . . thinking, a lot about you."
You stared at him as you found your place beside him. He let out a heavy sigh, his fingers working to unbutton the clasps of his coat as he ran a hand through his damp curls.
"Thinkin' ? Hmm . . since when did you do that?"
You giggled at his remark, giving him a soft shove as his teeth caught his bottom lip.
". . My gorgeous girl . ." He murmured, pulling you closer as he wrapped a firm hand around your waist.
He urged you to lay on his chest, your nose taking in the familiar scent of his smoky cologne and subtle sweat.
Your delicate fingers rubbed circles against his pec, ear pressed against the center as you heard the rhythmic beating of his heart.
" . . Hey, Mikey?"
He hummed at your call, his fingers gripping your waist just a tad bit tighter to show he's listening.
". . You know how I said I was thinking a lot about you ?"
Another hum.
You absentmindedly chewed on your inner cheek, now resting your chin on his chest as you looked up at him. His own eyes already staring at you.
“ I was. . thinking. That, I could go to the gala with you. . this weekend.”
A small chuckle made its way up his throat, lips curving into a small smile as his fingers traced the outline of your face.
“ What are you talkin’ about? Of course you’re going. You were invited anyways. ”
You stared at him, your own awkward smile enveloping your lips.
“ Ah well, I know that. I just mean— with you. As in, your plus one. Y’know. . since i’m your girlfriend and all. . supposedly. .”
You muttered that last part, but you could tell he heard every word.
His smile slowly faded, a deep sigh leaving his lips as his eyes wandered over your face.
“. . You know how I feel about that. ‘M just not ready to be so public about us. Our relationship. ”
You felt your heart ache at the way he spoke. Despite his careful tone and caring voice— you couldn’t help but feel. . offended, at the way he spoke about what you two had.
“ Why do you say it like that?” You questioned, sitting up from his chest as you brought your legs up towards yourself once more, your voice going up a pitch.
“ You act like you’re ashamed of me. Can’t even hold my pinkie out in public let alone my hand. .”
You averted your gaze to the ground.
Michael felt a soft pang of guilt engulf his chest. He shifted closer to you, tugging on your arm as he wrapped his hand around your own.
“Oh don’t do that angel . .” He said softly, fingers tracing the softness of your palm.
“You know ‘m not ashamed of you. I just—“
His voice halted. He couldn’t find the right words to say— or how to say them.
He wasn’t ashamed— but he also wasn’t comfortable speaking so openly about the both of you. The media was cruel, they'd attack him— you, for how young you were.
He shook his head, letting go of your hand as he attempted to think of a compromise.
“ . . Tell you what? I’ll be right beside you the entire night. No questions, no show. I swear.”
You slowly looked back at him.
You let out a soft sigh, knowing full well that this wasn’t what you were expecting it to be.
He wasn’t going to be how he was with you now. He wouldn’t smile towards you, laugh with you. He wouldn’t do anything that would risk sparking something among the media.
Rumors.
But. . even if you knew— you couldn’t find it within yourself to argue about it.
You nodded your head, forcing yourself to lean against his arm as he wrapped it around you once more.
No matter how deeply your heart ached— you loved him. More than anything.
If he wanted you to just sit beside him and look darling, that’s what you’d do. Even if it meant you’d feel slightly unfulfilled in the end.
.
“. . Okay Michael. I think that’s fine with me. . “ You whispered.
.
.
The gala was even grander than you imagined.
A radiant red carpet with rows of paparazzi, aching to catch an exclusive photo of A-List actors and artists for their tabloids.
Actors such as Robin Williams, and singers such as Whitney Houston, all pouring down the chaotic run-way to make it to the main event.
They dressed in dripping fabrics and vibrant jewels— something you knew how to do all too well.
.
You sat in the white limousine. Your hair styled into its best state, makeup accentuating the beauty of your face as you leaned back against the white leather of the seat.
You wore a custom made, pale - blue chiffon evening gown. It dripped off your shoulders like crystal waterfalls, a pearl choker delicately wrapped around the tender skin of your neck.
Your nails were freshly done, feet wrapped in matching velvet heels as you clutched the pearlescent purse close to your body.
You were a living porcelain doll.
The only issue was . . you were alone.
'So much for being beside me the entire night . .' , you thought to yourself.
But, who were you kidding? Riding a limousine with you? Going out and walking the carpet . . with you?
Michael would never do that.
It's too risky.
Your eyes remained glued to the tulle on your lap, your hands tracing the hand-crafted seams as you dozed off into your wandering thoughts.
Suddenly, you were snapped out of your daze as the door to the limousine was opened. You hadn't even noticed it stopped at all.
You expected to be greeted by an escort— someone to guide you through the carpet.
But instead, you were met with a familiar face . .
Al Pacino?
Your eyes widened, lips parting as a delicate smile made its way to your painted skin as a small, choked laugh bubbled from your chest.
" Mr. Pacino ! How lovely it is to have you here !" You exclaimed above the bustling sounds of chaos.
You'd worked on the Sea Of Love with him as the titular character. You'd come to know him personally— considered him as a sort of . . well, Godfather.
He smiled at you, taking your delicate hand into his own as he helped you out of the car.
" You never fail to stun' the crowds, ay? Always drippin' in crystals ."
You smiled at his words, feigning flattery as you placed your free hand onto your chest. " All you do is speak a bunch of sugar. ." You hummed.
Shockingly enough, he didn't let go of your hand after leading you out.
.
You two had formed an unspoken agreement— that you'd walk down the carpet together, hand- in -hand.
It was clear he didn't have a date, and it was clear that you didn't either . . or, didn't want to mention that your date had simply arrived long before you had.
Once the path had opened up, you two made your way onto it.
Safe to say, paparazzi completely devoured the display.
You two were completely blinded by flashes, voices urging you both to look towards a certain direction or face a specific camera.
Your pearly whites shone brightly, eyes pulled into beautiful crescent moons as your soft hand gripped the palm of the much more seasoned, much older one.
A lot, older.
You were stopped by a host not too far from the entrance of the ballroom, the interviewer asking you both questions.
.
'Al Pacino! Your performance in the Sea of Love was nothin' short of outstanding ! Especially with your absolutely beautiful co-star here ! So, you two decided to seal off the night by comin' as dates ?'
.
He scoffed at the remark, jokingly rolling his eyes as he shook his head.
" Listen, as much of a beauty this young lady is ova' here, I'm no stickler. We were providing each other a common curtesy ."
Part of you felt relieved that he had clarified this was a friendly gesture, and nothing more. You nodded in agreement, a tender laugh escaping your lips as you held your purse tightly.
" Definitely. Al is nice n' all, but he's far from my type. "
Your small comment earned a sincere chuckle from both of the men, causing your own to bubble up in your chest as you gave a soft push to his arm.
In the midst of your soft playing, though, you hadn't realized that you were being watched by someone a lot more familiar.
.
.
After that whole charade, you'd found yourself completely alone once more.
You thanked Al for walking you down the carpet, the both of you going your own separate ways once inside the magnificent ballroom.
You'd expected to see Michael talking to people, dancing . . maybe even saving a table for you to sit at.
Eerily enough, you realized you hadn't seen him . . at all.
You knew he was here. This ball was organized to congratulate him on his tour, after all.
After what seemed like ages of you feigning a smile and giving brief hello's, you felt your arm being tugged.
You let out a soft gasp as you found yourself in a much quieter, much more secluded hallway of the ballroom. Nothing around you but a grand chandelier above your head, and lounge chairs on either side of the velvet walls.
.
" . . Michael ?" Your eyes widened, an authentic shock building in your chest.
" God, angel , I've been lookin' everywhere for you . ." He said, his soft voice soothing the adrenaline in your heart.
His hair was in its wet-dry curly mullet, his iconic silver top and black bottoms—he practically looked ready to perform.
His taped fingers caressed your arms, his eyes wandering over you as a small smile made its way to his lips. One you didn't reciprocate.
"You look gorgeous. I saw you walkin' the carpet, you were glistening. ." His voice trailed off.
You saw the corners of his smile twitch, letting you know that he wasn't being entirely truthful with the tone of his words.
You let out a soft sigh, your gaze averting from his as you braced yourself for the words that you were expecting.
". . I didn't expect the Godfather to walk you down the carpet. You worked on that movie with him, right? What was it . . er - Sea of Love ?"
You could tell he was trying to keep the mood between you two lighthearted. But, the fact that the only reason he was even talking to you was because you were away from the mass soured his efforts.
" Oh, don't start Michael . ." You murmured.
You softly tugged his hands away from you, your hands clasping together against your stomach as you felt your lips quiver.
He noticed it.
He felt his heart ache, his smile dulling as he let out a nervous chuckle.
". . What-? Why are you—"
You shook your head, cutting him off as his eyebrows rose.
" I said, don't start. " You reiterated.
" Yes, Al Pacino, my co-star who is almost twice your age, walked me down the red carpet. Holding my hand. "
You turned to look back at him, the hurt evident in your eyes.
"Doesn't that sound . . wrong, to you? You're jealous, right? "
His silence answered.
" Right. But, you shouldn't be jealous. Why? Because it was your choice to avoid me for half the night. To leave me alone out there. Oh, but you had the basic decency to order the limousine for me, right? All while leaving me like some doll on a high shelf !"
Your yell echoed through the walls, your voice cracking at the seams as you felt your vision blur with tears.
" A man who is more than a decade older than you was more willing to be seen publicly with me, than my own boyfriend who isn't even ten years older than me! Doesn't that sound insane to you Michael ? Why is it that I'm the one who has to suffer because of your fear of the press— the media? I. . I can't . ."
Your voice trailed off. Sobs consumed your throat as you pressed your delicate fingers to your lips.
You took a step back, and overwhelming sense of embarrassment welling up within you as you desperately tried to put yourself together.
.
Wordlessly, Michael immediately pulled you into a firm embrace.
That simple gesture was all it took for you to come undone.
You gripped the silver material of his top, every desperate sob that left you muffling into the loose material as you melted into him.
You were never angry, upset. You were desperate.
You wanted the world to know that Michael Jackson loved you—adored you. That his hatred for tabloids and the press would never cut him down to the point of hiding who he loved.
That was all you had wanted.
.
His fingers traced the back of your neck. He remained silent, staying completely still until he knew you had calmed down.
He pulled you back, his palms cupping your cheeks as his tapped thumb wiped the crystal trails off the apples of your cheeks.
He looked hurt. His lips pursed into a straight line as his eyebrows furrowed upwards.
He leaned forward, the coolness of his breath fanning over your nose as he placed a tender kiss onto the tip of it.
" . . Angel. I'm—I'm sorry. " He whispered, the ache in his voice seeping through his words.
"God, I can't believe I allowed myself to be controlled by a bunch 'a cameras . . people. What could they ever do to hurt me, except rip you away from me?" He murmured.
You stared at him, his words soothing your soul as you felt yourself take in a deep, shaky breath.
The corners of his lips turned upwards, his eyes wandering over your flushed lips as he leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to the glossy surface.
You immediately leaned into it, gripping his shirt tightly as you stood on the tips of your heels. The feeling of the tip of his tongue brushing your bottom lip sent a ticklish feeling through your jaw, causing you to pull away as you gave his arm a soft shove
You patted away any remaining tears, taking in a deep breath as you finally reciprocated his smile.
" You goof . . don't do that in here . ."
He laughed, gripping your hand as he wrapped your arms around his own.
.
" Alright then. How about out there, hm? " He said, leading you back out towards the main crowd.
You two maneuvered your way through people, only this time his arm remained firmly wrapped around your shoulder. He laughed, caressed your skin, and even kissed your cheek.
.
The sweetness of your satisfied giggles being enough to lighten up the room.
.
Elle's Notes
Ugh writing the angst for this was gut-wrenching. WE all know Michael is the sweetest apple on the tree !! Thank you so much for reading, I'll see you lovelies during the next one <3
Requests Still Open !
⤷ ˊ˗tag list - @lotuspetalss ۶ৎ @starryeyedmoonlight ۶ৎ
Heyyy! I love your work they're so beautiful omg. I was maybe wondering if you could do one of mature era Michael but as a vampire and the reader as a normal human. The reader was captured by him because he wanted to drink her blood to harness more energy, but he ended up falling for her and couldn't do it. he's so intense and feels strong emotions for the reader, like he desires her, well they both want each other. So one day when they're together, she's ask him to drink her blood but that's ends up with him losing control... Iykyk
. 🗡Fear Stricken ' Michael Jackson
A/N - Your mind . . 💋 chefs kiss . Was already planning a Vamp/Goth! Michael, but this is my excuse . . enjoy lovelies !! Let me know your thoughts . .
Word Count: 3,829 .
This is a Mature/Vamp! Michael Jackson x Reader. Light gothic romance, No established Relationship. This is supposed to be for fun and it is FICTION! Nothing is canon ! Obsessed! Mature Michael, my weakness. . Female Reader. Slightly spicy near the end . . NO Y/N.
Emotional themes, stark symbolism, highly based off Ghost from Blood On The Dance Floor . . Gothic Michael, Vampiric Themes (blood, biting, etc.) Slight Angst. Obsessed, Emotional Michael.
Plot: You find yourself inside a strange manor after being lost in the middle of a storm. Your savior ? The ghastly, mysterious Michael Jackson, who's purpose for keeping you is far beyond your realm of understanding . . .
𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝕀 .
Your lips parted. Pale skin sucking in the air around you as your eyes shot open.
Your body sat up, back straightening as your chest heaved.
. . Where were you ?
Shaky fingers drifted up towards your face, feeling the wet skin as if you couldn't believe you were alive.
You were cold, so cold.
You could feel your heart palpitating in your chest, mind racing with thoughts scrambled in different directions.
You were trying hard to figure out where you were, what happened, and how you possibly got into a place like this.
The soft thunder that shook the room helped you recollect bits and pieces . .
.
' Don't go out tonight, dear ! The rain will be unforgiving—vile. Stay inside. '
.
That was what your mother had told you. To stay inside. Clearly, you did anything but. That alone was enough to tell you the mess you'd gotten yourself into.
You took in deep breaths, exhaling slowly to calm the unrelenting ache in your chest. As your eyes wandered around the room, you realized how bizarre the circumstances were.
It was grand, and encased in a horrific darkness. The mattress you sat on was moderately comfortable, silk sheets kissing your skin as you caressed the fabric. It was nice, apart from the fact it smelled unused. Dusty.
A lace canopy shielded your eyes from being able to picture the rest clearly, but the roses that were embroidered onto it made you feel. . comfortable.
A feminine detail— perhaps this was a woman's house? If you could even call it that. From the sheer size of the room, this seemed more like a manor.
.
After debating your options— to either stay on the mattress or wander around—you threw your legs over the edge of the bed.
Your bare feet touched the firm carpet below, noticing the details at its edges in wonderment.
Was everything in this place as detailed as this room? You were eager to figure that out.
You walked past the bed and over to the dark wooden doors. You had stopped briefly in front of a golden rimmed mirror, taking in the damage to your appearance.
Your skin looked deathly pale, hair undone from it's style. You were in what you had left in— a measly white night gown. Oddly enough, despite how wet and damp your skin was, your clothes were completely dry.
Your feet bare, clean.
You didn't want to think too deeply about the implications of why those two things struck you so deeply. Dry clothes, and clean feet.
You turned away from the mirror, your fingers wrapping firmly around the golden handles as you pulled the grand doors towards yourself.
The creaking that echoed through the halls made you cringe, knowing for sure that whatever, or whoever, was in here . . knew you were too.
.
.
𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝕀𝕀 .
Your neck craned up as you took a step out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind you.
The roof was high, chandeliers lighting the length of it going either way.
Numerous paintings littered the dark velvety walls. Some seemed old, others new. As if they had recently been hung up.
Your eyes wandered back down, looking both to your left and to your right.
Your left seemed to be endless— hallway stretching farther than your eye could see. Meanwhile, your right stopped at an archway.
You instinctively followed the open space, quickly making your way through it as you found yourself at the top of a grand staircase.
Your eyes widened at the intimidating length of it, a ruby carpet draped over each step as it ended at the sweeping doors. They were imposing; two large blockades with stained windows on either side.
That was it— the exit.
You ran down the stairs, your hands close to your heart to steady the anxiety welling up within you.
You were getting out of here. Alive.
No matter how intricate this place was, you didn't want to stay long to figure out who was behind it all.
.
You tugged on the door handles, hoping that God would spare you and let you through easily.
Of course, the path to the gates of heaven would've never been an easy one.
You let out a soft, frustrated sigh. You took a few steps back, hoping to size up the height of the doors to deduce how harshly you'd have to push to get them to budge.
But instead of being met with a clear path, you felt your back press against a firm chest.
A cold chest.
You felt your shoulders tense, breath hitching as your eyes remained glued to the carved curves of the handles. Your hands stayed firmly against your chest, clutching the collar of your nightgown as if your life depended on it.
" . . What ? Did I scare you?"
The soft voice rang through your ears, echoing against the walls as a speck of lightning flickered from the foggy windows, thunder following a few seconds afterwards.
Your lips parted as you felt your heart soothe, blood warm in your veins as your shoulders relaxed.
A smooth chuckle broke your state of relaxation, firm hands gripping your wrists as they pulled your hands away from your chest.
The hands were pale, seasoned with age as they cradled your own.
They were big, Cold skin tracing the outline of your palm in a soothing manner. Your eyes watched the oddly intimate display, a lump clogging whatever words you could've even thought to say.
" . . Who are you?" You managed to say.
You could feel the atmosphere shift, picturing a sinister smile decorating the face of whoever was behind you. You refused to turn around and look for yourself, frightened at the consequences that could follow.
"Who do you think I am?" He retorted.
He was toying with you. The implication of you being tossed around like a mouse aggravated you, causing you to turn around and tug away from his grip.
Your eyes widened, neck craning up slightly as your eyes landed on a face you hadn't expected.
His skin was brighter than the moon that shone through. His hair looked softer than willow, midnight strands glistening under the silver light as pieces swirled against his brow. His eyes— dark and unknown.
His pale lips curved into a smile, pearly whites catching the glint of the light as the tips of sharp fangs threatened you. Enticed you.
The face of an angel.
You took a step back, and he took a step forward.
You continued this cycle until your back pressed uncomfortably against the surface of the door. He kept his distance, though you could feel the tips of his black leather shoes against your feet.
". . Why have you kept me here? In your home?"
He stared at you, his eyes lidded as he brought his hand up towards your face.
You turned your head to the side, and he stopped. His nail left a delicate scratch down the side of your face, leaving a ticklish trail against your jaw.
". . You were caught in the storm. I saved you. I couldn't just, leave you out there like that." He said quietly.
"But . . I'm no one to you, and you to me. You don't know the beginnings of me— my name, my home."
"Oh but you do. ."'
His words were breathy, his feet taking a firm step forward as his hands grasped your own. Your eyes widened, watching as he limited the space between the both of you.
He closed his eyes as he pressed your palm against the coldness of his cheek. No matter how warm you were, it never seemed to appease the iciness coursing through him.
"You know who I am. You're frightened of me. . . and yet, I had the incentive to save you. "
Your lips thinned in response. He'd caught you in a lie. You did know who he was.
Michael Jackson.
And you are frightened of him.
"You're nothing but a blood sucking beast. Your name is nothing but a curse to be silenced— please, let me out of your home !" You pleaded.
You ripped your palm away from his grasp, pushing past him as you clutched the cold skin of your hand.
You backed away towards the grand staircase, the sound of sputtering rain slamming against the glass of the tall windows echoing around you.
He turned to you, following you as he ignored your plea for freedom.
You examined his face as he approached you again, searching for any sign of malice.
All you found was pain.
Pain at your words.
Pain at your need to get away. . .
. . From him.
You almost felt sympathy. As if you'd been too harsh or too quick to jump to conclusions about your savior. He did give you shelter, save you from the unforgiving rain during a moment of recklessness.
You were so overwhelmed by the situation around you. The lack of planning, the lack answers. You barely knew what to say.
". . Why did you save me?" You finally said.
That question caught him off guard.
". . You were still warm. Full of life. Something as precious as that doesn't deserve to be lost to something as harsh as rain."
You felt an uncanny sensation of comfort at his reassurance. You averted your gaze, falling silent as your thoughts failed you.
During your period of silence, you hadn't noticed how close he'd gotten to you again.
You felt his arms wrap around you, embracing you in a hug devoid of warmth as you felt shivers crawl up your spine.
You stood on the tips of your toes as his grip tightened, your arms tucked at your sides as your eyes were blinded by the soft strands of his hair.
You inhaled, taking in the strange aroma of what seemed to be . . cologne. Bitter, but smoky. Like firewood and sugar being burned.
". . Stay. Stay with me. ." He whispered, the coolness of his breath brushing the edge of your ear.
". . You'll see that, I'm not as beastly as you think I am. I'm more than that. . more than the name you give me. ."
His words stung your heart, whatever fear that had once consumed you seeping right out of you.
You knew it was reckless— to stay here, when you should be begging for your freedom or simply finding your own way out.
But, something about the patience he had with you. .
It encouraged you to go against your instincts.
You didn't respond, instead leaning into his embrace. You rested your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes as you pushed yourself to get used to the frigidity of it.
His breath seemed to hitch at your unexpected compliance. Something within him . . snapped.
He trailed his hands up your back, fingers wrapping around the strands of your delicate hair as he moved it to the side. You felt his breath fan against the curvature of your skin, your fingers gripping the white cloth of his shirt instinctively.
You knew what was coming.
You knew what he wanted, and it all became so clear to you.
But, you'd come to know too late.
You closed your eyes tightly, bracing yourself for what you assumed to be horrific pain as you felt the prickly edges of his fangs explore the surface of your warmth, searching for where your blood coursed the most.
You felt your shoulders tense, a soft gasp escaping your lip as you felt him begin to bite down. .
But, the pain never came.
The frightened gasp was enough to snap him out of his urge.
He buried it, locked it away as he opted to fully embrace you silently instead.
You let out a breath you didn't know you held, your grip on his shirt relaxing as you felt your chest heave in relief.
Instead, he basked in the tenderness of your forgiveness.
.
.
𝔸𝕔𝕥 𝕀𝕀𝕀
That was how you found yourself here, in the manor of a man you had been conditioned to fear and loathe.
Michael.
It's not as if you were trapped. He didn't control you.
He let you leave whenever you wanted, and always told you that if you didn't come back— he would never question why.
He never frightened you, unless he was teasingly waiting around a dark corner or sitting on an odd chair in the shadows. He never made you feel as though you were too weak to confront him, too naive to realize things for yourself.
He provided what he could— clothes, sustenance, entertainment.
Whatever you asked for and mentioned, he made sure it appeared within your room or somewhere in the manor within a fortnight.
You'd grown . . attached.
He was handsome. Handsome in a way that you knew few could appreciate. You'd begun to call him angel face, a name he pretended to grow embarrassed of.
In reality, it drove him mad.
For you.
.
You'd sit with your clothed legs over his, a worn book in your lap as your fingers traced the smooth strands of his hair. It was raining, as it always seemed to be around here.
The night was high, the moon peaking through the lace curtains of the bedroom you'd been gifted; the one you'd been in since your first encounter with him here.
He was entranced by you, watching the way your eyes scanned over the words on the pages below you. The warm candle light wrapped around you, encasing the edges of your figure in a soft halo.
He tilted his head towards your swirling fingers, enjoying the soft tugging of his hair.
". . I'm surprised you haven't left. Permanently. "
His soft voice interrupted your reading. You looked up, pulling your hand away from his hair as you slowly closed the book you had, setting it aside.
"I haven't felt like I've needed to. I've liked life here, with you."
You felt your lips curl into a smile, one that he reciprocated.
"I'm glad. ." His voice trailed off, his gaze shifting to look out at the silver moon. Her light casted upon him, contrasting with the orange gleam of the candles that capsulated you.
You stared at him, watching the way his Adams apple bobbed with a thick swallow.
" . . Michael . ." You whispered, watching the way his smile faded as his fingers traced over your bare ankle. A gesture he did when you two found yourself in this position.
"You're not saying somethin' . . What's wrong . .?"
Your words dug deep into his chest, clawing at his non-beating heart. He felt a pain so profound, so deep, that he almost tightened his grip around your skin.
" . . You know what I am, don't you? How I stay alive?"
You paused, slowly nodding your head as you hummed.
He turned his head to look at you, strands of his hair falling over his brow.
"I haven't— I haven't eaten in months. I can't—"
Your eyes widened. No wonder he's seemed so frail, weak.
"Michael !" You cut him off, throwing yourself forward as you quickly sat on your knees. "What? Why would you do something like that ? Are you mad !?"
Your words were silent to him, as a smile made its way back onto his pale lips. His teeth hugged his bottom lip, his hand making its way up to the side of your face as his fingers traced your increasingly warm skin.
The gesture silenced you immedieately.
"Oh I am mad. Mad because of you."
You paused, heat pooling in your stomach that swirled with confusion.
". . Me?"
"You. I stopped eating for you. I swore I'd make you see me differently than what I am. Make you see me. I had to stop feeding, because I couldn't fathom knowing you were frightened of it . . of me."
His voice wavered, his brows furrowing as his hand trailed down to your jaw. It caressed the curvature of it, moving down to settle in the space between your shoulder and neck.
Shivers crawled up your spine, a piercing knife of guilt lodging itself right into your heart. All the moments where you enjoyed the luxury he provided, basked in the warmth he gave— and he hadn't even given himself what he needed to live.
He saw the guilt written on your face, panic consuming him as he cupped your face with his hands. His thumbs brushed against the inner corner of your eyes, hushing the tears before they even spilled.
"No, no angel . . don't do that . ." He whispered, dark eyes staring into yours with a profound tenderness . . love.
It made a shaky breath escape your lips, your eyes closing as the precious crystal's rolled down your cheeks.
"Michael . . I've been nothing but a leech. I've enjoyed the fineries you've given me; someone who is no one. And yet, all I've done is harm you . . "
His gaze softened, his fingers pressed firmly against your skin, shaking his head as he completely denied your claims.
"Don't you dare blame yourself. This was my choice— what I wanted to do—"
"But you'll grow weaker if you don't eat !" You yelled, cutting him off with a grip to his wrist.
He hushed you. "Strength means nothing to me if you're not the one I'm presenting it to. I'd starve myself for centuries if it meant you'd live your lifetime without fearing me . I was supposed to consume you when I first saw you, don't you understand? But you— but you, you . ."
He grimaced as if the thought pained him, his head shaking.
"You . . fully entranced me. I couldn't . I never touched anything again after you took my heart into your warmth, and made it beat again. Made it live again ."
Thunder rang through the room, the moon light drowning you both in it's cold spotlight.
Your eyes were wide, twinkling with tears at the earnestness of his words. You couldn't believe what he had told you. Every syllable, every sharp twist of his tongue— it was as honest as the gospel itself.
You softly gripped his wrists, prying the cold hands away from your face. The gesture made his chest ache— but he didn't dare refute it.
You traced your hands up your chest, your fingers wrapping around the silk bow tying your collar. You tugged on a strand, unraveling the intricate detail that Michael had done for you hours earlier.
The delicate lace covering your skin loosened, falling down until it landed on your lap. Your collarbone, all the way up to your jaw— was now fully exposed.
His eyes widened, staring at the clean canvas of your skin as the silver light shone down upon it. He swallowed thickly, having to pry his attention away and up towards your eyes.
You stared back at him, your face unreadable as your smooth lips parted.
" . . Feed on me."
He covered his mouth with both of his hand, one in front of the other as he felt the months-long restrain slip from his control.
"I'm not asking you, Michael. I'm telling you to do it." You said softly.
His name coming from your mouth suddenly seemed like heaven to him. He stared down at your bare skin, his mouth watering at the meal being presented to him with open arms. You.
"I. . I can't— " He stuttered. "No . . please . ."
You grabbed his hands, ripping them away from his mouth as you pulled him closer.
"Do it. I want you to . I've wanted you for so long . Believe me, I want this. ."
If his mind was clearer, he would've absorbed your words more carefully. He would've basked in the fact you had admitted to wanting him.
But he was far too gone to muster any coherent answer.
He launched himself at you, your back landing on the soft mattress below as you held your hands to your chest.
His shadow shrouded over you, caging you in an inescapable hold as he leaned down. Instead of going straight for your neck, like his instincts begged him to, he placed a firm kiss to your lips.
The gesture caught you off guard, but you wasted no time in returning the fervor.
Your hands trailed up his chest, while his own trailed down yours. His lips moved in a rhythm that clouded your thoughts, tongue brushing against the smoothness of your own in a delicate waltz.
You let out a small gasp as you felt him trail wet kisses down your jaw, his large palms pressing against your back to bring you off the bed and closer to his chest.
Your head leaned back, your eyes closing as you felt him trace his fangs over the exposed skin. He was searching.
Looking for where your blood coursed the most.
His fingers clutched the fabric of your dress behind your back, feeling your skin heat up underneath the pricking of his teeth. His brows furrowed in concentration, hair falling over you as he settled himself firmly between your legs.
Suddenly, your eyes shot wide.
Your lips parted as a cry escaped your lips, tears of pain rolling up towards your brow. Your cheeks flushed, knuckles white as your grip on his shirt took every ounce of strength from you.
You felt his fangs pierce your skin, your collar bone sweltering as your ruby essence seeped from the corners of his lips.
You felt his bite harshen, his grip on you aching as he had you hovering just above the comforters. Your lips quivered at the gesture, but you couldn't help but feel a shameful satisfaction well up in you.
Eventually, he pulled away. His fangs tenderly dislodged themselves from beneath your skin, dripping in the lavish sustenance he had craved.
His tongue cleaned you tenderly, your chest heaving as he slowly settled you back down onto the bed. Your eyes felt hazy, clouded in an unfamiliar warmth as you watched him rise above you. He brought his thumb to the corner of his mouth, wiping away the remnants as he licked it clean.
His eyes stared down at you— a soft warmth enveloping his once devoid eyes as he leaned down towards you.
He wiped your tears clean, your body relaxing as the pain and heat subsided within you. Your name rolled off his tongue like a choir singing prayer, your head craning to the side to lean against the cold of his palms.
" . . My angel. ."
Elles's Note
AHHH This was SO much fun. I didn't want it to get too long, so . . hehe. . LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS !! Remember requests and remarks are ALWAYS welcomed <33 Look out for the next one .
Requests still open !
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Hey!! Love ur writing and would love if u wrote something about younger reader x bad/dangerous era MJ!! The reader could be from a wealthy old money family and she met MJ at a gala, they hit it off and they started secretly seeing each other. Maybe one day the tabloids spot them at dinner at chateau marmont and write a story about them! Ive clearly thought about this a lot LOL!! No rush tho ⭐️
𖤓 . The Chateau ' Michael Jackson
A/N - Anon ! Thank you so much for this request <3 I love how specific you are . Dangerous era is soo under-loved, so of course I'll feed starving mouths . Hope you enjoy how I interpreted your idea, and all my lovely readers as well
Word Count: 2,640
This is a Dangerous! Michael Jackson x Younger Female! Reader. NO Y/N. Based of Brooke Shields and Michael Jacksons connection. Chateau Marmont.
Reader is 5 years younger (26 and 31, 1990). Dangerous Era 1990, Fluff, Cute Rumors, Wholesome, Female Reader as requested. Michael Spoils you, light bickering, perfect chemistry . . .
Plot; You attend an exclusive Gala to celebrate Michael Jacksons BMI 'Artist of The Decade' Award. When you least expect it, you guys just so happen to get along better than anticipated . . .
The coffee off-the shoulder hugging your skin kept you warm, while the silk golden-leopard print skirt made you stand out amongst the famous crowd.
You were but an anomaly—a thriving young woman, who no one knew much about except the family you came from. And in reality . .
That's exactly how you preferred it.
You never thought to involve yourself in business that wasn't affiliated with your last name. And when you did, it was mostly to be utilized as an icon.
Your flourishing beauty could shoot a product's popularity into the atmosphere, or put a niche clothing brand on mainstream radars. All you had to do was flash your comely smile, squint your pearlescent eyes, and work your magic on popular tabloids.
But, that was all you were to the public eye. Beauty.
New York Times didn't know if you had brains, and People Magazine described you as an 'alluring paradox' — and you were content with that.
You didn't need to prove to anyone who you were, your existence spoke for itself.
Despite that, sometimes you wished you could fit into places such as this one.
The grand, baroque style galas where everyone wore their best. Their best suits , chiffon dresses , silk gloves— it felt like you were in a Marilyn film.
You crossed your legs, the soft material of your teal tights keeping them comfortable as your golden heels caught the lights. Your eyes wandered across the room, recognizing numerous familiar faces.
Brooke Shields, Diana Ross, Eddie Murphy
You'd been in numerous talk shows with them all, and too many magazine covers to count. But , you didn't truly know them enough to just. . . walk up to them. Converse. You couldn't talk about comedy to Eddie Murphy, or share the struggles of acting with Brooke Shields.
Your lips parted to let out a heavy sigh, back slouching slightly as you gently tugged your purse onto your lap. You unclasped the lock, rummaging through it until your fingers grazed the hand-mirror and lipstick.
You flicked the mirror open, using your right hand to unscrew the lipstick as your attention was brought back to your reflection.
Only thing was. . you weren't the only one in it.
A pair of kind, dark eyes stared right at you— golden latex shining as dark strands fell over equally captivating brows.
Your eyes widened, neck turning to look at the figure looming above you. Michael.
"Mr. Jackson ! Gosh, you scared me !" You called out, a hand fanning your face as you encouraged your nerves to relax.
His lips curled into an amicable smile, a chuckle sounding from his throat as he straightened his back, hands clasped behind his back.
"Ah, I'm sorry . I just thought it'd be funny—you looked so engrossed in your, erm. . make-up." His eyes wandered to the chair beside you. " . . . May I? "
You paused, your gaze following his as you slowly nodded your head. " Well, yes of course ! Go right ahead . ."
.
.
A giggle erupted from the depths of your chest, fingers grazing your lips as he told you about his animals.
"And, you're serious ? You just have a huge python roaming around your estate ?" Your voice was quiet , but kiddish. He smiled, nodding his head as he leaned close to your ear.
.
"Mhm, and it's over three-hundred pounds, too ! Muscles."
.
"Ah! I've heard of muscles before. You've taken so many photos with it— is it the only one you own?"
.
He shook his head. " 'Course not! That'd be no fun and muscles would get lonely. I have numerous other ones; Madonna, Crusher . I used to have a Rosie, but she's an old childhood relic."
Your lips curled into a frown, leaning forward as you propped your elbow onto the satin-covered table and rested your chin on your palm. "Oh. . that makes it sound like she's dead. ."
His smile softened, body leaning back in his chair as he crossed his legs. "It's because she is. She was a good girl. If I could go back and thank her more than I did, I would."
You stared at him, examining his face as it slowly dawned on you; this was Michael Jackson.
The Michael Jackson.
You tilted your head, foot swinging softly as you tried to wrap your head around as to why he'd choose to sit here, with you, of all the people he could've known in this room.
". . Michael, why're you sitting here? I mean, I'm sure there's people who would love to see their favorite king." Your gaze drifted to the people whose eyes had lingered, observing the two of you talk.
He paid them no mind, though. His eyes were solely on you, a nervous chuckle slipping past his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest. "I just recognized you. On magazines. I thought it'd be cool to talk to you for the first time, since I think the way you're described is intriguing ."
You bit back a laugh.
"Intriguing?" You scoffed. "Far from it. I'm nothing but an 'alluring entendre' to them half the time. Not that I'm complaining, but I've seen that phrase in at least ten different articles. They could be more creative, you know?" You rolled your eyes sarcastically.
He liked it, laughing at your mannerisms as he nodded in agreement. "They sure could . I feel as though 'Sparkling Sensation' would be better, or maybe 'Beguiling Blindspot' ?"
Your smile grew as you let out a laugh of your own, the sheer magnitude of it making it purely contagious to the pop star as he followed suit once more.
You playfully smacked his arm, a light shove urging his body to the side as you covered your mouth with your fingers. "Be-gui-ling? You probably don't even know what that is !"
" I do too ! Being a good songwriter means knowing all the funny words."
You sighed heavily, wiping non-existent tears from your eyes as the apples of your cheeks ached from the cackling. He watched you, his own pale skin flushed as his lips stayed in a permanent curve.
.
" . . .Hey." He said, grabbing your attention once your laughter had fully seized.
"Hm?"
". . Come out with me later. I can take you to see my snakes." His voice was quiet, gentle. He seemed nervous, leg bouncing with the anxiety of taking the initiative to continue this with you outside of the event.
Your brows rose, the unexpectedness of the offer making your heart race at what felt like a thousand miles. You leaned close to him, and he did the same. Your hand cupped his ear as you spoke into it, the warmth of your feathery breath sending tingles up his spine.
"I would, but I don't think I can be seen with you . . I don't want you to get into a scandal— " Your words were cut short as he leaned away. He shook his head, brows knitting as he brushed his hair back.
"No scandal, no cameras. I'll go out the back, and you'll come with me. How does that sound?" He hummed, head tilting as the smile slowly returned.
Your eyes wandered to the side. The table you'd sat at was long empty, your family having gone to talk to their own acquaintances. Maybe, just maybe. . . this would be a nice change of pace.
You let out a soft sigh, slowly nodded your head.
" . . Fine. No cameras, and out the back."
.
That was what started it all. Your relationship with the King of Pop.
Your family couldn't have cared less about who you dated. It wasn't out of malice— you were an adult, and they were too busy with their own endeavors to concern themselves with something as flimsy as your love life.
Michael, on the other hand, had to go through hell and back to keep your relationship from the public eye.
He didn't necessarily want to feed the media his own personal life. He enjoyed having a trophy all to himself for once; You.
But, considering his massive pool of fans, it was almost impossible to avoid any rumors.
You were always with Michael. During his Dangerous Tour, you were the one he'd take as a 'date' to carpet events. He'd go as far as to hold your hand, and pettily kiss your cheek whenever paparazzi got too overwhelming.
His outfits seemed less individual, and more curated to match with your own. His tie would be the color of your skirt, or his suit would be the same material as your gloves. Media would brush this off as coincidence— you knew better.
Michael would brush things off during interviews, but sometimes he'd get too excited to talk about you.
.
" So Michael, The McFaul's have been making rounds in numerous industries recently. What do you feel about the middle daughter . .? "
.
His lips immediately twisted into a flustered smile upon hearing your name, one leg crossing over the other as a small chuckle left his mouth.
"Oh she's gorgeous. You know, she's helped me with numerous tour outfits behind the scenes, with the designs and all that . I can't imagine anyone else telling me which socks look better, or how my tie is just a bit too crooked. Just a completely amazing person, in-and-out, for sure. "
.
And . . even if you loved his comments, it was hard not being public about it yourself.
You regretted ever mentioning being worried about a 'scandal' the first time you met him. You weren't thinking too clearly anyway— the fear of your family disapproving of being involved with someone like Michael had gotten to you. They would've thought he was a liability, too risky to maintain a public opinion with the press.
You didn't care anymore, though. But now you were just too scared to speak up.
.
"Love? Somethin' wrong? You've barely touched your food. ." His hands grazed your lace gloved ones as they reached across the table, pale fingers caressing the delicate fabric as you were snapped out of your thoughts.
You softly hummed, nodding your head as you straightened your back. " . . Yes, yes. I'm sorry Michael, I was just thinking about things." Your eyes wandered around the restaurant scenery, golden and extravagant decorations surrounding every lush square of the establishment.
He let go of his drink, fingers reaching to trace a strand of hair by your ear as he leaned back. "About what? Is something bothering you about this place?" His voice was laced with tender worry, prompting a soft smile to envelop your lips as you shook your head.
" 'Course not darling, this place is phenomenal. I was thinking about. . us."
He felt his heart drop, hands fidgeting against his lap. "Us? Us in . . us in what sense . .?" He stuttered.
"I just. ." You softly sighed, shifting in your seat slightly before leaning forward, resting your elbow on the table as your chin settled onto your palm. Of course, he leaned forward too.
"I don't want us to be so . . secretive. I don't want to tell anyone we're in a relationship, but I want them to know that we're in . . something, you know? A 'not-so-secret' secret." You stared at him, a nervous giggle bubbling up your throat. "I probably sound mad. It doesn't make sense, I just— "
He hushed you, grabbing your free hand and bringing it close to his lips, pressing a tender kiss onto your laced knuckles. "You don't sound mad. I understand what you mean. But, I thought I was doing a good job at that already . . ." He chuckled.
He brought your hand up to his face, pressing the palm of it against the skin of his cheek as he leaned into your touch. Strands of his dark hair brushed against your fingers, prompting them to fidget.
". . You know me. How could I possibly hide the fact you mean the entire world to me?"
You felt your skin flush at the comment. You took back your hand, covering your lips as you shook your head.
"Oh Michael ! You're such a charmer. You sure you aren't trying to ask me out on a date or something?" You said, tone sarcastic as you fanned your hand at him.
He pulled back, his hand pressing against his chest as he feigned shock. "Me? Date? 'Course not! I'd never make such an inappropriate advancement on a beautiful woman. ." He winked at you, his body leaning forward again as he rested his chin on the palm of his hand.
". . Though, maybe a smaaalll kiss? Just one. ." His voice trailed off into a whisper at the end, something mischievous flickering behind the darkness of his pupils.
You huffed, rolling your eyes as you shook your head. You pressed your pointer finger against his forehead, pushing him away softly as he leaned against the backrest of the chair.
"Maybe in your dreams I'll kiss you in this place."
.
.
" Budding Romance, Brief Meet : King Of Pop Finds A Princess ,Or a Best-Friend? "
.
Your eyes stared in shock at the headline Michael was showing you. You looked up at him, searching for any sign of disapproval or fear. Instead, he had a huge, almost childish smile on his face.
He brought the newspaper closer to him once more, opening it as he let out a soft laugh. "This is cute! Look, they're calling you my princess. Isn't it nice?" He hummed.
You huffed, snatching the newspaper from him as you turned your back to him. Your eyes skimmed over the words. . .
" Last afternoon, the 'King of Pop' Michael Jackson was spotted at the luxury Chateau Marmont with a new lady ; The McFaul's middle' daughter. Is this the beginning of a new friendship . . or an intimate romance? "
Your cheeks flushed as you looked at the huge, central image of the article. It was you, sitting across from Michael in the restaurant. He had your hand in his, knuckles pressed firmly against his lips.
"How did someone even get this photo !? I thought that place was supposed to be strictly against photography! It's the Chateau for goodness sake!" You groaned out in frustration, chucking the newspaper aside as you paced around the ornate carpet of your, now shared, living room.
You suddenly felt firm arms wrap around you from behind once you stopped for a split second. Pale hands traveled to your arms, clutching them as a tender kiss was placed on the back of your head.
"Hey. . hey . . relax. Nothing bad's happening because of it. It's not a degrading article, I think it's cute. Plus, you look gorgeous in the photo." You could hear the smile lacing his lips, prompting you to sigh as your shoulders relaxed.
". . Yeah, you're right. It's just—when I said I wanted the world to know we had something, I didn't mean it like that !" You called out, pointing at the now discarded newspaper as you could feel your blood running hot once more.
You turned around to face him, looking up at him as his eyes were enough to calm you down. Your nose flushed, prompting you to smile softly.
He smiled back, his hands gently sliding down to take in yours.
"If they're going to write any sort of rumor about me, let it be about you. You're the only thing I'd ever read about on those things."
.
Elle's Note -
Hi lovelies ! I loved, loved writing Dangerous Era Michael. It was sooo cute. Likes, comments, and re-blogs are always appreciated ! I take a look at alllll your kind words <3. Hope you enjoyed, and look out for the next one.
Requests still open !
⤷ ˊDiver credits: @angeliicide , @honeyluvsw
⤷ ˊ˗tag list - @lotuspetalss ۶ৎ @starryeyedmoonlight ۶ৎ
