jj >⩊

━━ i’m all you need. ᢉ𐭩 wc: 743 ⸝⸝⸝

❝ you want your own bedroom, but your husband, bad!michael, strongly disagrees.❞

ⓘ light suggestiveness. pouty michael.

you had a lifestyle magazine opened on your shared bed to a well-decorated, feminine bedroom, but michael wasn’t staring at it—he was staring at you as if you just suggested moving to mars.

"a separate bedroom?" he repeated, his soft voice rising into a scandalized gasp.

he stood at the foot of the bed, his hands coming to rest firmly on his hips. he shook his head in disbelief. he couldn’t help but wonder if he had done something wrong or if you didn’t find him attractive anymore because of his snoring.

"y/n, we are married. husbands and wives share a bed. that’s how it works!”

you were sitting on the edge of the bed as he stood in front of you flopping his hands around.

"mike, it's just for my own personal space," you explained, trying to suppress a smile at how offended he looked.

one of your friends told you all about how she felt happier having her own bedroom and how it can do wonders for a marriage. plus, she’s been married about twenty years longer than you. you didn’t realize that not compromising on every single thing was an option, and you truthfully couldn’t stop thinking about it.

you looked down at the sparkly bed set you were sitting atop of and the Jesus portrait above the bed.

“…besides, i want to decorate it in my own style. y’know, my own books, maybe a giant pastel rug, a cheetah print loveseat. i love our bedroom, but sometimes i just want somethin’ of my own." you shrugged your shoulders, unable to look him into his eyes that always appeared larger than life whenever he was upset.

you looked down at your swinging feet instead.

michael pouted and rolled his eyes.

"but our bedroom is cozy, and you have somethin’ of your own—it's my left shoulder!"

he marched around to your side of the bed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. he huffed. he grew more and more upset the longer the looked at your empty side of the bed. he couldn’t bear for that sight to become the norm. he was also internally panicking because you were his personal nyquil; he slept much easier with your presence next to him.

“if you sleep in another room, who am i supposed to serenade at two in the morning when lyrics come to me in a dream? who's gonna steal the cover off me?"

"you can still visit, michael," you giggled, reaching out to tug on the fabric of his shirt.

"visit?" he repeated loudly, his lips curling in horror at the word.

"i have to make an appointment to see my own wife? no, no, no. i don't like the thought of it at all. it makes me feel like we're landlords." he violently shook his head as he walked back over to you.

he suddenly slumped down next to you, burying his face in your shoulder with a dramatic sigh, his long loose curls sprawled out.

"we can change the rug, y/n. we can buy books—whatever y’want. just please don't leave me. i’ll do whatever y’want angel." he pleaded, pulling his head back and holding both of your hands into his.

when you looked forward instead of into his eyes, he slid off the bed and dropped down on his knees. he rested his head against your hard knee and looked up at you pleadingly. some of his strands partially covered his eyes.

“michael!” you groaned, trying to move your knee from his heavy skull, but he grounded the weight of his head into it. he was genuinely bothered by the idea and didn’t support it at all. you definitely weren’t expecting him to be so dramatic about it either.

“i’m so serious baby. don’t go.” he sighed.

you bit the inside of your cheek knowing that you already discussed the decorations with one of the onsite architects.

he raised his arms and began gently rubbing long ovals up and down your covered thighs.

“who’s gonna love you when you need me, baby?” he muttered slowly, grazing his teeth across his reddish pink lower lip.

you gulped quietly then rolled your eyes. you tried pushing his veiny hands off of you, but he instead took hold of your smaller ones and began kissing each of your fingers.

“michael! seriously stop being childish.” you groaned.

he, unfortunately, wasn’t going to stop until you let this grotesque idea go.

—

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ Michael Jackson was achingly desperate for your physical touch. He knew that you’re weren’t a touchy person, but he can’t help but seek out your warmth as much as a man possibly could.

While you were lazily flipping through the latest magazine, Michael sat beside you watching a movie. It had started entirely by accident. His hand rested beside you, palm facing up toward the ceiling. Unconsciously, you had reached out without looking, wanting something to fidget with.

It was a completely unconscious, hypnotic rhythm. Your fingers tracing the lines of his palm. It was a delicate, feather-light touch, and entirely addictive to Michael.

He was petrified to move a single muscle, afraid that you’d snap out of it and realise what you were doing.

Don’t move, he kept internally repeating to himself. Do not move.

You were entirely immersed in the magazine, your eyes widening only the tiniest bit whenever you found something interesting. Michael found it all too endearing.

Michael’s leg suddenly became restless. He pleaded with his own body. No. Don’t ruin it. Please don’t ruin it.

He let out a tiny, barely audible exhale. The feeling was so good it was almost agonising. You weren’t doing it to comfort him, you weren’t doing it to tease him. You were simply doing it because your body naturally sought out his, even unconsciously.

He wanted to stay in this position for the rest of his life. But obviously his traitorous body had to betray his mind. A stray curl tickled the tip of his nose. He tried to fight it. He really did.

His head gave a sudden, sharp jerk as he sneezed into his left shoulder. Your fingers froze. Michael’s heart sank straight to his feet. No, no, no, no, please God, no.

You blinked as the daunting realisation of what you had been doing crossed your face.

“Sorry. I didn’t realise I was doing that.” you murmured, your voice slightly raspy from disuse.

Casually, you began to pull your hand away, intending to rest it on your thigh. Michael felt the warmth slipping out of his palm. The corners of his mouth slightly drooped, his sad, wide eyes watching you.

Before he could stop himself and before you could fully pull away, his fingers gently clasped around your wrist.

“Wait,” Michael blurted out desperately. You blinked at him completely startled. “Michael? What are you doing?”

“I… I wasn’t complaining,” he stammered. He tried his best to seem casual but it was plain to see that he was slightly nervous. “You don’t have to stop.”

“I didn’t mean to annoy you, I’m sorry.”

“Youweren’tannoyingme!” Michael rushed out frantically, his eyes wide. He cleared his throat, trying to seem casual again. “It wasn’t annoying at all. It was… it was fine. It was good.”

“It was good?” you repeated his words, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.

“Yeah,” he muttered shyly. He looked at you through his dark eyelashes. “It was nice. You can… you can keep doing it. If you want.”

You stared at him for three long seconds while he watched you with pleading eyes, patiently waiting for your next move like a puppy eyeing a treat. A soft, genuine laugh escaped you. The sound instantly melted Michael’s features.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, your fingers began the same rhythm they had earlier.

“Like this?”

Michael nodded happily.

as you roll your hips forward, pressing your cunt right against his throbbing cock, a low groan escapes his throat. his large hands immediately lock onto your hips, pulling you flush against him and guiding your rhythm while you melt into each other's mouths. the intense friction drives him so crazy that before long, he's already leaking straight through the thin fabric of his boxers.

when your hands reach for his waistband to pull them off, he catches your wrists, stopping you with a breathless, raspy "no... not yet."

instead, his hands slide down to your shoulders, gently guiding you down to your knees between his legs. looking up at him, you press your lips right against the warm, damp cotton, tasting him through the cloth. he gasps, his fingers instantly tangling into your hair to hold your head tight against him as you lick and suck at his tip right through his underwear.

Michael Jackson

michael jackson x sunshine!reader

𖦹 summary : michael greets everyone with a kiss— including you. so returning his kindness, you greeted him with a kiss, too.

𖦹 tags : fluff, one-shot(?)

𖦹 word count : 3.3k

𖦹 a/n : a bit delay on the best friends au… so enjoy this instead ! (thought abt this at 3 am LOL ITS SO CUTE I HAD TO WRITE IT). also while writing this i imagined michael during his bad era, the pic is only for the plot and it fits. (BUT U CAN IMAGINE WHATEVER ERA YOU GUYS LIKE) most likely would write a part two ><

⤷ masterlist.

michael jackson was an affectionate person, and everyone around him knew that. a kiss on the cheek, a hand on someone's shoulder, and a warm hug goodbye. so when you first walked in as the newest wardrobe assistant, you nearly jumped out of your skin the first morning michael leaned down and kissed your cheek. "good morning." "...oh!" you blinked at him before smiling so brightly it nearly hurt to look at. "good morning, mr. jackson!" michael laughed at your formality. "no need to call me that, really. just call me michael." "oh. okay, michael!" you didn't blush, no awkwardness, just... genuinely happy. michael had to pause for a second. "...you okay?" "mhm!" "you sure?" "yeah! i thought it was really sweet." "what is?" "the kiss. my grandma greets everyone like that." "does she?" "mhm!" "...that's nice." then you gave him another smile before wandering off carrying a rack of costumes. michael stood there for another second before shaking his head. "she's quite... adorable." he muttered to himself.

𖦹

after that, it became a routine. whenever you crossed paths with michael– "good morning." he would always give you a kiss on the cheek. whenever rehearsals ended– "great job today." another kiss. sometimes before he left the studio, he would bump into you in the hallways before another– kiss. "take care." and you would always accept every single kiss with the exact same sunny smile. "thank you!" "see you tomorrow!" "have a nice evening, michael!" not once did you overthink it, read into it, or even ask yourself, 'does he like me?' because that's just michael. he greeted everyone that way. you would see him kiss some backup dancers on the cheek, sometimes it would be the hair stylists, or even female producers.

you even saw him one time, kiss his sister latoya and his mother on the cheek when they came over to the studio. you thought it was a really sweet habit of michael's.

𖦹

the crew adored you. mostly because you somehow made every miserable twelve-hour rehearsal feel lighter. you would compliment everyone and remember birthdays. one time, you even brought your homemade cookies to work because– "i accidentally made too many." you said with a sheepish smile, but there were clearly six dozen. but nobody questioned it. you would even apologize to chairs after accidentally bumping into them, and michael witnessed that once and physically stopped. you rubbed the chair apologetically. "i'm sorry." "did you just..." "hm?" you looked up at michael. "...apologize to a piece of furniture?" "what if i hurt it...?" he stared at you. and you stared back. "honey... it's a chair." you blinked. "i know... "..." "but still. it's basic manners." michael had to physically turn around before a laugh could escape.

𖦹

one afternoon, you wandered into the rehearsal room carrying a tray. "i brought lemonade!" the dancers practically cheered, handing everyone a cup. michael walked over to you and accepted a cup. "thank you." "you're welcome!" he smiled before absentmindedly kissing your cheek. you smiled back at him. "drink lots of water, too!" "...yes, ma'am." nobody noticed anything strange, not even the dancers at that time. because nothing was strange. ...not until a month after.

𖦹

it had been a hectic morning. everyone was rushing through the studio, carrying equipment or stage costumes. michael had arrived late and hurried inside, and the second you spotted him across the room– "there you are!" you beamed. you smiled so brightly that the entire room seemed to brighten with you. michael's head shot up, and you walked straight over to him. "oh, good morni–" kiss! you tiptoed to his height and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. "good morning, michael!" then you just... walked away. the whole studio froze. someone dropped a clipboard, one of the dancers slowly lowered the water bottle they'd been drinking from, and the makeup artist's mouth actually fell open. on the other hand, you were completely oblivious. you continued toward the wardrobe racks and hummed to yourself "...okay! let's organize these jackets..." as if nothing happened. michael... did not move. like his brain has simply stopped. "..." his hand slowly lifted to his cheek. "she..." he muttered quietly. one dancer leaned toward another. "...did she just–" "i think she did." "michael?" michael still hadn't answered. he was staring at absolutely nothing when his ears turned pink. then red. then somehow redder. "michael?" one of the dancers asked. "you alright, man?" "hm?" michael finally answered, then a laugh. "she kissed me." he touched his cheek again, and the room collectively tried not to laugh. "sure did!" "we all saw." and michael blinked. "oh." then... very, very slowly. a smile spread across his face. it was small at first, then impossibly soft. the kind that reached his eyes. "that's... sweet." he looked down.

𖦹

an hour later. you were helping fold costumes, humming a song quietly to yourself. michael came and quietly walked over to you. "hey. can i ask you somethin'?" you looked up and nodded. "mhm. what is it?" "this morning..." you nodded. "yes. what about it?" you tilted your head, still smiling. michael had to look away to bite in a smile. "you kissed me." "oh! yeah." "...why?" he asked, and you looked genuinely confused by the question. "because that's how you greet, isn't it?" you said. "i mean... you always do." you continued, blinking while you stared at his reaction. "i thought.... it'd make you feel welcome like you do for everyone else." you tilted your head, and michael forgot how to breathe at that moment. there wasn't a teasing smile on your face, nor a hidden meaning or embarrassment. you truly believe you'd simply returned his kindness. "was... was i not supposed to?" you frowned slightly. "oh– no, no." michael answered immediately, he nearly startled himself. "not at all." "...you sure?" "yes, absolutely." he paused. "it was... really sweet of you." you beamed. "i'm glad!" then... you went right back to folding shirts. michael just stood there for a couple of seconds, watching you happily hum while organizing costumes. completely unaware you'd just unraveled him with one innocent little kiss. he quietly covered the side of his face with his hand. "good Lord..." he muttered quietly to himself, and one of the dancers walked past with a grin. "you good, mike?" michael laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "no..." he looked over to you, who was now apologizing to a tangled clothing hanger because you'd bent it slightly. he smiled to himself. "...i think i'm in trouble."

𖦹

the mistake wasn't big. you accidentally labelled a few jackets incorrectly. one costume rack had been rolled to the wrong side of the stage. it delayed rehearsal by maybe a few minutes. still... the stage manager wasn't in the best mood today. "please pay attention. we can't have mistakes like this from now on." you immediately straightened and nodded at every word the stage manager said. "i'm sorry." "you need to be more careful." "yes, i understand." "and always double-check before rehearsal." "i will." you said, absolutely no excuses or arguing. you nodded and kept your head down. by lunch, everyone else had already forgotten about it. but you hadn't. you stood alone backstage with a clipboard pressed against your chest. "...okay." you let out a tiny sigh before continuing. "i made a mistake. but that's okay– everybody does." you nodded to yourself. "i'll do better tomorrow." a pause. "…no. i'll do better this afternoon," you smiled to yourself. you looked up at the blue sky peeking through the loading dock doors. "at least nobody got hurt! and..." you counted on your fingers. "i remembered everyone's measurements. that's good... i only cried for about–" you checked your imaginary watch. "five seconds." you smiled even wider. "it's improvement. okay! let's go have a better day." a little clap for herself.

𖦹 michael had only come backstage to grab a bottle of water he had left behind, but instead– he stopped around the corner and saw you. "..." he was watching and listening quietly, and you were... giving yourself a pep talk. there was no audience, no performance; you were just choosing to be kind to yourself. michael had stared at you. 'God...' you were unbelievable. michael suddenly has the overwhelming urge to pick you up and set you somewhere safe. tell everyone else to stop being mean to you forever. his chest actually hurt. 'she is...' he covered his mouth. 'she's so cute.' you turned around, and your whole face lit up when you saw michael. "oh! hi, michael!" you beamed, like you hadn't been scolding yourself a minute ago. "hello. you alright?" he smiled. "mhm!" "...you sure?" "yeah. i made a mistake." "i heard." "but i'll fix it!" "i know you will." you nodded once. "i already made a checklist, see?" you proudly held up the clipboard. "i won't forget again." michael looked at the page, and every task had a tiny little checkbox. some even had smiley faces beside them. "...you drew faces." "they make checking things off more fun." "of course they do." he laughed quietly. "y'know... you don't have to be so hard on yourself." "but i wasn't." you blinked. "i was encouraging myself." michael blinked right back. "right." you smiled. "if i already feel bad... why would i make myself feel even worse?" michael had no response because she was right. painfully right. he looked at you for a long second– then he reached over. he gently adjusted the little headset clipped crookedly to her collar. "there." "hey, you fixed it!" you looked down at your collar. "you would've forgotten." "i would've. thanks!" "so..." he smiled at you. "double-check your costume list." "i will." "and don't skip lunch." "i won't." "and drink water." "i already had two bottles." "good." "i listened." you grinned, and before michael could even think about it– "good girl." the words slipped out of his mouth, and you just smiled proudly. "i know, right!" michael looked away. 'why did i say that?' "anyway. i should go." you said, hugging your clipboard again. "you should." "bye, michael!" you walked two steps before stopping. "oh!" michael looked back. "hm?" you walked right up to him, rose onto your toes, and placed one quick kiss on his cheek. mwa! "have a good day!" then you skipped away. actually skipped. michael's brain completely shut down again. his fingers touched the exact spot you'd kissed. "...again? she did it again." he whispered to absolutely no one. across the hallway– you were happily checking boxes on your clipboard. "done!" a smiley face. "done!" another smiley face. one of the seamstresses looked over. "you seem happier, sunshine." "i am!" "what happened?" you smiled before responding. "michael reminded me not to forget lunch." "that's sweet." "mhm! and i got to tell him to have a good day, too." you said, and never once considered mentioning the kiss. because to you, you had simply greeted him the way he always greeted everyone else. a perfectly normal goodbye. meanwhile for michael... he couldn't concentrate for the rest of the rehearsal. every few minutes, without realizing it, his fingers would drift to his cheek again. he caught himself doing it for what had to be the fifth time. "michael?" "hm?" "you have been touching your face all afternoon." one of the dancers said. "...have i? "yeah." he lowered his hand immediately. "you okay?" they asked, and he glanced across the stage and saw you laughing with two wardrobe assistants, because you'd somehow managed to put a tiny sequined jacket on the wrong mannequin and declared it looked 'very fashionable.' you looked very pleased with yourself. you were so bright. effortlessly yourself, and michael smiled before he could stop it. "yeah, i'm alright." a quiet laugh escaped him. "i just..." he watched you for another second. "...think she's the sweetest girl i've ever met."

and across the stage, completely unaware of the effect you had on him, you looked up and caught his eye, and gave him an enthusiastic little wave. michael waved back automatically. then sighed with a smile. he had a feeling that if you kissed his cheek again, just one more time. his heart might genuinely forget how to behave.

𖦹

the wardrobe department was always busy before rehearsal. there were pins everywhere, steam from pressing irons, and measuring tape loose around the room. people were running everywhere, and you somehow managed to smile through all the chaos. “michael?” he looked up from the mirror and saw you. “hm?” “i need you for fitting.” “right now?” “if you don’t mind.” “of course.” he stepped onto the little fitting platform. you circled around him with a measuring tape hanging around your neck. “arms out, please.” he obeyed. his arms were out, and you took one look at him in the blue stage jacket. “oh!” your face brightened, and michael blinked. “what is it?” “you look really handsome.” “…” you immediately crouched to pin the hem. “i think this color suits you.” you said, and michael forgets his own name. “i like this better than the yellow one… the shoulders look nicer.” you continued talking as if you’d just commented on the weather today. you tugged gently at the fabric. “and your curls look extra pretty today.” “…” “you okay, michael?” you asked. “i…” he cleared his throat. “…thank you.” his ears had gone pink. you just smiled. “you’re welcome.” then continued pinning his pants, completely oblivious. you hummed while working. “i think we need…” you stepped back. “maybe…” you frowned as you thought. “could you turn around for me, please?” and michael did. you hummed while you smoothed the fabric across his shoulders. “so broad…” you said absentmindedly, purely from a tailoring perspective. “no wonder this keeps pulling.” michael looks straight ahead. ‘God... help me.’ you walked around again. “there.” you smiled proudly. “you wear clothes pretty well.” “do i?” “mhm!” you nodded enthusiastically. “they look alive when you wear them.” michael had to look up at the ceiling because if he looked at you— he was absolutely going to smile like an idiot. “done!” you clapped once. “it looks perfect.” he looked at himself in the mirror, then looked at you. “thanks.” “hm? for what?” “…everything.” you tilted your head. “i just fixed a jacket.”

𖦹

later that evening, rehearsals finally ended. everyone had rushed toward the catering. someone had ordered pizza, while some grabbed sandwiches— and michael… didn’t. he quietly stayed behind toward the stage. he was too tired, drained from meetings, and the pressure made him lose his appetite. …he wasn’t really hungry anyway. “michael?” he looked up and saw you standing in the doorway, holding a little tin with strawberries painted on the lid. “hey.” “you were here all along.” “were you looking for me?” “mhm!” you walked over to him and sat beside him. “i didn’t see you at dinner… did you eat?” “not yet, but i’m alright. i wasn’t hungry anyway.” you frowned. “oh.” you held out the tin. “…i made oatmeal cookies.” “for me?” “i made too many.” he looked inside, perfectly round and still warm. “you made these?” “mhm! it’s my grandma’s recipe.” you smiled. “i thought you really worked hard.” you shrugged. “so… you should eat.” michael looked at the cookies. then looked at you. then back again. nobody had ever checked whether he had eaten all day. not even this week, honestly. everyone usually had to ask something from him— rehearsals, meetings, a photo or a signature. but you just wanted him to eat dinner. “thank you.” you beamed. “don’t forget milk.” “milk?” “they’re better with milk. trust me.” he laughed quietly. “i’ll remember.” you nodded very seriously. “and drink water.” “yes ma’am.” “and sleep.” “i’ll try.” “no.” you said almost immediately and pointed a finger at him. “you have to.” “…okay.” after that day, it became a habit. every few days— “i made banana bread.” “i packed extra.” “i tried a new muffin recipe.” michael had stopped asking if you’d baked too much, because he realized you would always bake enough for him on purpose. you never announce it. you never make a big deal about it— you always just place a container beside him. “you forgot lunch.” “you worked hard today.” “i think today is a cookie day.” he never heard someone classify days by baked goods. but apparently, you did.

𖦹 one evening, michael wasn’t himself. the rehearsal had gone badly, songs were pulled out from the album by his producers, and meetings had dragged on. someone from the label has been criticizing everything. so he sat alone on the edge of the stage after everyone had left, wanting some peace and quiet. you almost walked past. almost. then you noticed him sitting alone. you quietly sat beside him, still putting some distance between michael. and for a minute, you’ve said nothing. then you broke the silence. “my grandma says…” michael glanced over to you, and you continued. “…that some days are just determined to be difficult.” “really?” “mhm. so…” you paused and thought very hard. “…maybe today’s using up all the bad luck… so tomorrow doesn’t have to.” he stared at you, and you gave a little sheepish shrug. “well i don’t know if that’s scientifically true— but i think it’s a nice thought, and i wanted to share it with you.” he bit the inside of his cheek to hold back the smile forming on his face, while you stared at the empty chairs and continued. “and…” you nudged the cookie tin towards him and turned to look at him. “cookies can’t fix everything, but they’re a good place to start. michael looked away, a laugh escaped before he could stop it. it wasn’t because it was funny— because it was ridiculously adorable. he rubbed his forehead. “you’re unbelievable.” you blinked. “is that a good thing?” he smiled to himself. “very.” you look relieved. “oh, okay… i was worried.” “no—” he shook his head. “—don’t worry. you make…” he searched for the right words. “…bad days feel smaller.” you smiled.

“i’m glad.” then you stood abruptly. “well— i should go!” “you headin’ home?” “mhm. my bus comes in like fifteen minutes.” he nodded and stood up. “get home safe.” “i will.” you took two steps before stopping— and michael smiled, already knowing. “oh!” “hm?” you walked back towards him, tiptoed to his height, and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. mwa! “goodnight, michael.” then you picked up your bag. “don’t forget to eat the rest of the cookies! and sleep! oh—! and no skipping breakfast tomorrow, okay?” then you left, the stage doors closed behind you. michael didn’t move. he stood there, his hand slowly touching his cheek, and the now familiar warmth lingered. but this time, it wasn’t just the kiss— but because of everything. it’s the way you would notice he hadn’t eaten. the containers you quietly brought from home. your silly optimism. and the way you would never ask anything back from him. you saw him not as a superstar he is— but as a normal human being… and that’s all he’d ever wanted. he sat back down at the edge of the stage for another minute, smiling to himself. he let out a quiet, helpless laugh. “i am done for.” no dramatic realization, no lightning strike— just a simple truth settling gently into his heart. he had spent months thinking you were the sweetest person he’d ever met. but at some point, without noticing... you had become the person he would look for in every room. the person whose laugh he would recognize before anyone else’s. the person who reminds him to eat and becomes part of his day. —and the one innocent little kiss goodbye that everyone else might’ve brushed off… was suddenly a part of every evening. because now, after you walked away, all he could think of now was— ‘i already miss her…’ and that thought, more than anything, told him exactly how deeply he’d fallen.