Honey

divider credit to @pixopix

No one was going to believe her when she told them about this. Would she even be allowed to talk about this tomorrow? Would one of the security team members follow her out of here with an NDA in hand? Whatever. She would sign just about anything at this point if it meant Michael kept touching her like that. 

“Fuck yeah!” she shouted, then immediately smacked a hand over her face to cover her blush. That was so unsexy of her. “‘M’sorry.”  

Michael just huffed out a laugh. His two fingers kept up a steady push and pull, curling inside of her on the way out. The pads of his fingers dragging against her made her feel like a live wire, sparks of ecstasy zipping through her stomach. She peaked through the gap in her fingers to glance up at him, just to make sure this was really happening and — yup, there he was. The Michael Jackson, with his perfect jawline and perfect curls falling from his loose ponytail and perfect everything actually, was kneeling above her while he finger fucked her to within an inch of her life. 

“You’re doing so good for me, ma,” he told her. “I love hearing you.” 

Her legs were spread butterfly style on the couch of his dressing room, one knee hanging over the edge of the cushion. The couch was more than spacious enough to fit the two of them, and she wondered somewhere in the haze of pleasure, if he made sure of that just for times like this. He rolled his thumb against her clit and her hips jumped involuntarily. She whined a little when he used his free hand to grip her waist and hold her in place. 

“I knew it when I saw you on that stage I needed to touch you again. Can't believe I was lucky enough to see you in the crowd.”

Surely her eyes were bugging out of her head at this point. She said, “You think you’re lucky?” 

This was what every one of his fans fantasized about. Being singled out in the crowd, brought up on stage during a song, feeling Michael’s arms around them, and then some. It had all happened in a whirlwind of colors and sounds. She’d been a crying wreck when one of the security members hauled her through the mass of fans, given mere seconds to prepare herself for what was about to happen. Then suddenly she was inches away from Michael. His hands were in her hair, his chest was pressed to hers, and when he sang the lyrics to “She’s Out of My Life” she had been absolutely positive that he was singing them to her. 

Somehow, despite the utter emotional disaster she had been, he’d liked her enough to invite her backstage after the show. Now here they were. Her graphic t-shirt was pushed up to her bra, and those were the only pieces of fabric conserving what was left of her dignity. She was bare from the waist down otherwise. At some point earlier in the chaos of clashing lips and roaming hands on the way to the couch, she’d lost her denim shorts and underwear. 

Michael was in a similar state of disarray. He’d ditched half his ensemble from his final stage look at the end of show — black leather jacket discarded, black jeans somewhere on the floor tangled up with his socks. He was in only a sweat-soaked, white t-shirt and dark blue briefs which stretched tantalizingly across his hardness. His stage makeup had been mostly washed away from the night’s events, and his cheeks and chin were covered in pink lip prints courtesy of her own doing. 

When the lights came up at the end of the concert, that same security member had stopped her at the end of the aisle. He’d leaned in closer and said, “Mr. Jackson would like to see you again.” That was when everything stopped feeling real, and started to feel like she’d been thrown into one of those cheesy stories she and her best friend would make up on the spot during late night phone calls. 

Of course she’d wanted to say yes. The trouble was, she wasn’t alone. Her best friend and fellow Michael Jackson fanatic was standing right next to her, and they had driven to the stadium together. They’d looked at each other, communicating silently in the way only best friends could. She wanted to go backstage, who wouldn’t when put in her position? But there was no way in hell that she was going to split off from her friend. In the end, that had been an easy obstacle to resolve. They’d both been led to the Crew Members Only section of the stadium and were greeted by Michael Jackson’s personal bodyguard. He was a bearded man in a fedora who had introduced himself only as Bill, and now he was currently out there giving her best friend a VIP level tour of the entire production. 

The thought that everyone on Michael’s team probably-most-definitely knew what he was getting up to right now should have embarrassed her. But it only turned her on more. When Michael’s fingers hit a specific spot inside her she gripped the back of the couch and held on tight, fighting against his hold to meet his thrusts halfway. 

“Oh my god, yes, please keep doing that…” 

Michael leaned down to lick a stripe from her navel to the band of her bra. She shuddered underneath him. “Think you’re ready for something more, baby?” he asked. 

He’d been opening her up for several minutes already, and was clearly getting worked up himself. She observed the way he sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, the slight crease in his brow. He wanted to get off too, but thus far had been totally dedicated to making her feel good. If she said no to this next part, she had no doubt that he would back off right away. 

She did not want to say no. 

“Yeah,” she told him, starting to look around. “You got a condom?” 

Michael froze. His dark eyes went wide. The confidence and sex appeal that practically oozed off him on stage was replaced with the biggest oh shit face she had ever seen in her life. 

“Aren’t you on the pill?” he asked, voice tight in his throat. 

At that, her jaw dropped. She sat up a little, wincing at the feeling of his fingers sliding out of her. “Michael. Jackson. Are you telling me that you brought me in here to fuck and you didn’t even come prepared?”

She had no idea where this bout of confidence had come from. An hour ago she hadn’t been able to string a single sentence together through her tears, and now she was scolding him while sitting there half naked. Perhaps it was the fact that he would be thoughtless enough not to bring protection that disillusioned her. From his shocked expression, it seemed that he was also caught off guard by being spoken to in this manner by a fan. 

“I…I mean, um, you see—” he stuttered. 

“What kind of pop star doesn't keep condoms in his dressing room?” 

“It isn’t like I do this all the time!” He looked down briefly, hurt flashing across his face. “I’m not like that.”

Mushy, pink feelings fluttered through her insides. So she was just special, then? As sweet as that was, if it was even true, she wasn’t about to let him take her unprotected. She was a huge fan of his, sure, but she wasn’t dumb. Even if they did the pull-out strategy there was no guarantee that they’d be in the clear. The likelihood of her ever being this close to him again were slim to none, and she was in no position right now to raise a whole child. The PR nightmare, the hush money, the tabloid frenzy, all those risks were much too great to throw caution to the wind for a single night. 

At the same time this realization came to her, it seemed to settle with Michael as well. He sat back on his haunches and her stomach dropped. He was about to throw her out, wasn’t he? She would forever be known as the fan who almost had sex with Michael Jackson. Just as she was about to swallow her pride and start collecting her clothes, Michael straightened up.

“Lemme try something,” he said. 

“What?” she couldn’t keep the skepticism out of her voice, especially when his eyes lit up with such excitement. 

“Will you trust me?” It was a non-answer. But he wasn’t kicking her out, so she took that as a win. She nodded, and he surged forward to kiss her again. “Thank you,” he said against her lips. 

He guided her to lay flat on the couch. He stood momentarily to slip off his briefs and squeeze some body oil into his hands before kneeling back on the couch. His hardness bounced up against his stomach, thicker than it was long, and she bit back a whimper. She was already mourning the loss of feeling it inside her. With gentle touches he spread her legs and smeared the body oil over her thighs. Her breath caught in her throat when he kissed the crook of one of her knees and then brought her thighs together again, leaving a slight gap between. What the hell was he planning on doing? 

Her head fell back against the arm of the couch when Michael inserted himself between her thighs and began thrusting. A deep moan rumbled in his chest and he squeezed his eyes shut at the feeling. 

“You feel so good, mama,” he breathed. 

He leaned forward, bracing himself with hands on her hips. At this angle the tops of her thighs brushed her abdomen, nearly folding her in half. The body oil aided in the glide, eliciting obscene, slick sounds of skin on skin. She watched, entranced as the red, flushed tip of him disappeared and reappeared between her legs with every thrust. He was already trembling. God he was so hot. He switched up his stance, widening her thighs just so, and then suddenly he was bumping her clit on every roll of his hips. 

Her hands found his shoulders and dug in. “Shit, Michael!” 

It wasn’t enough to get her to the edge, but still enough to tease. Enough to send ripples of pleasure up her spine. He kept thrusting, movements growing erratic as he drew closer to his limit. Her breaths mingled with his own, moans and whines harmonizing as her whole body was scooted up the couch. Her t-shirt slipped halfway back down her stomach, revealing a crinkled, printed image of Thriller era-Michael’s serious face. 

“I’m gonna cum,” Michael said tersely. She could see the glisten of his precum every time he thrust forward. She wanted to see him fall over that edge, see how his face and whole body lost control in the midst of it. But there was one thing. She opened her mouth to speak up, when Michael cried out, “I can’t…ah!” 

She didn’t even get a chance to say “wait” before he was spilling all over the front of her shirt. His toes curled from the force of it, his fingers tightening on her hips. She whined, half devastated and half enthralled by the sight of him. Seconds after he’d finished, he slid down the couch and pushed open her thighs with both his hands, diving his head between her legs.

His mouth on her felt just as amazing as his fingers, but in a completely different way. His tongue was warm, the wetness of his saliva and her own arousal making a mess of his cheeks and chin. It couldn’t reach as deep inside of her as his fingers, but he more than made up for it in energy as he fervently licked her. She was instantly reverted back to that emotional wreck she’d been on stage, teary eyed and unable to get a word out. When he sucked her clit into his mouth she was absolutely gone. Fireworks burst behind her eyelids. Her entire body locked up as she pulsed around his head, legs shaking like crazy. He held her through it. 

The high faded gradually, and when she came back to herself Michael was resting his head on her stomach. They caught their breath in silence, the post-orgasm buzz too comfortable to break with any conversation. Then she looked down at her ruined shirt again. She tried to muffle her teary sniffle, but Michael caught it right away. His head popped up and he pushed himself to sit up, big eyes full of concern.

“What?” His voice was syrupy sweet. When she just shook her head he cupped her face and urged, “What is it? Did I hurt you?” 

“No,” she said. This was so embarrassing. “It’s just…my shirt.”

He looked down at her shirt as if seeing it for the first time. In the image he was posing in his iconic red jacket from the music video, blocky letters spelling out BEAT IT right behind him. The entire front was covered in ropes of white. It was totally going to stain. She didn’t have a spare outfit, and like hell was she going to walk out of here with the evidence of what they’d done all over her. Which meant she would have to try wiping it off, even though that would probably just rub it in worse. Her house, and by association her washing machine, was at least an hour’s drive away. 

Despite her best efforts, a sob escaped her lips. Was she really crying over something so insignificant in the face of everything she’d just experienced? She tried to cover her face again, but Michael’s hands cupping her cheeks blocked her way. Through her tears she managed, “This was my fav-vorite sh-hngh-irt.” 

Michael shushed her, gathering her up in his arms. She fell into him, grateful to be able to hide in the junction of his shoulder and neck. He was just as good at hugs as he was at literally everything else. Somehow this only made her cry harder. 

“Sorry, I’m so sor-ry,” she kept repeating. He swept his hands up and down her back, but she felt him trembling lightly beneath her head. Confused, she looked up, breaths hiccuping. Michael’s lips were pulled thin, his jaw tight as he tried to hold back his laughter. “Are you laughing at me?” 

“No!” he exclaimed, losing the battle against the grin that stretched across his face. “I’m not, I promise.”

She pouted, pulling back from him a bit. “Feels like you’re laughing at me.” 

“Please, you’re just so cute.” She opened her mouth to argue, but the doting way in which he petted her hair shut her right up. “I’m sorry I ruined your shirt, I wasn’t thinking. I’ll buy you another one — hell I’ll buy you every tour shirt I got. Sound good, baby?”

That did sound pretty good. All of the tour merch had been either sold out or not in her size when she and her friend had arrived at the venue. She nodded her assent and Michael’s grin softened. He pulled her in for another kiss. She sighed into it; if he kept this up she was really never going to leave unless someone physically dragged her out. 

Eventually, she would have to go. Her friend couldn’t be distracted by a behind the scenes tour forever. Tomorrow reality was going to crash down on her like a mac truck, and she was not looking forward to it one bit. 

When Michael broke the kiss, he kept his face close. She felt his breath on her cheeks when he asked, “Are you coming to the show tomorrow night?” 

“I wish. But tonight’s tickets cost a whole paycheck alone.” She didn’t mention how the price had been one hundred percent worth it, post-concert experience not included. 

“That’s too bad.” Then Michael paused, considering. “If I got you and your friend front row tickets, would you come back?” 

Was that even a real question? Seriously, what had she done other than cry all over him and give him an attitude that made him want to do all this for her? Maybe she’d bumped her head on the way back to her seat and this was all some coma induced hallucination. Whatever it was, dream or not, she was going to ride it out to the end. 

She wanted to come up with something clever or flirty to respond with, but her fangirl brain beat her to the punch. “Duh,” she said. 

divider credit to @pixopix

1 - Victory Tour - Los Angeles, 1984

Steam from the hot shower settled heavily in his lungs with every breath he took. The stream of water cascaded down his back, the pressure much better than he would have expected for a hotel in Los Angeles. He might have been more concerned about using up all the hot water if not for the distraction that was the sounds Michael kept making. Pleasant little sighs and needy whimpers that cut right through him. 

This was not what a bodyguard did. This crossed every possible boundary of professionalism in the book. But when had he ever cared about professionalism? Not since the first time he’d witnessed Michael during climax, surely. 

“I’m so proud of you,” he told Michael. He massaged the pads of his fingers into Michael’s scalp, then squeezed some conditioner into his palms and rubbed it from middle to end of his curls. He took his time, savoring Michael’s obscene moan. He wasn’t even touching him like that, at least not yet. But from Michael's behavior alone, one would believe otherwise. “Telling everyone in that crowd how it’s gonna be from now on. How does it feel?” 

“Feels good,” Michael mumbled into his skin, voice deep and relaxed, forehead propped against his shoulder. Whether he was talking about announcing the Jacksons’ final tour, or about having someone touch him like this was unclear. Maybe it was a bit of both. 

When the conditioner was thoroughly rubbed in, he rinsed his hands under the spray. Michael leaned heavily against him, the bone deep exhaustion from the months of touring catching up to him all at once. He didn’t mind being the person to keep him upright. He wrapped one arm around Michael’s back to keep him steady as he swayed on his feet.

“Careful now, don’t need you to slip. What a way to end the tour that’d be.” He kissed Michael’s neck. With his free hand he blocked out his next words in the air, “‘Michael Jackson announces split from The Jacksons; breaks his toe in the shower. Karma?’”  

Michael huffed a laugh. “You’re shit at coming up with headlines.”

“Good thing I’m not a journalist then, hm?” He dropped his hand, trailed it through the droplets of water on Michael’s waist down to his hip. Michael sighed again and pressed the firm length of himself up against his thigh. 

“C’mon,” he urged. “You said you’re proud of me, didn’t you? Haven’t I been good?” 

Usually he’d tease Michael a little longer, deny him of what he was so blatantly asking for until he was an absolute puddle at his knees. While a blow job in the shower did sound nice right about now, this wasn’t about him. This was about Michael and what he’d accomplished tonight on stage. He drew one of Michael’s legs around his waist and ground their hips together. 

“You've been very good,” he agreed.

Michael's head fell back, eyes slipping shut. He breathed hard, letting out broken whines and meeting his thrusts halfway. 

“Please,” Michael said breathlessly. He always begged so sweetly. 

He lifted Michael under the thighs and pressed him up against the tile wall of the shower. Michael wrapped his arms around his neck. He was so light, it took barely any effort to hold him up like this at all.  The angle spread him wide, allowing easy access to push inside if he wanted. God, did he want to…

He put Michael back on his own two feet, and Michael's eyes snapped open. “What?”

“We gotta wash the conditioner out of your hair first.” 

The pout on Michael's face was positively lethal. 

“Fine,” he said. “But afterwards we aren't leaving this shower until you make me forget my name.” 

“Deal.”

2 - Bad Tour - London, 1988

The hours immediately after a concert always left Michael wired up. He gave his all on stage, pushed himself to the brink every time, but that didn’t translate to falling asleep easily. He needed something to help settle his mind, wind him down.

“Yellow,” he told Michael, watching him from on the couch, the image of patience and control with one leg crossed over the other.

Michael on the other hand was slowly falling apart on the bed across the luxury hotel room. He was propped up against the pillows, still nude after showering. He kneeled with his legs parted on the mattress, damp skin glistening in the low light. Obediently, he drew a hand up his hard length at a slow, drawn out pace. 

This was a game they played sometimes when Michael was really wired up. He watched as Michael bit his lip and fell into a gradual pace, stroking from base to tip and spreading the precum leaking from the head. It drove him wild fighting the urge to close the ten feet of distance between them and replace Michael's hand with his own. Instead he just watched, the tent in his own pants straining against the seam, as Michael's breathing picked up and his eyes squeezed shut. He was close. 

Just before Michael let go completely, he said, “Red.” 

Michael groaned miserably but did as he was told, ripping his hand away and denying his release once more. It was such a beautiful sight, drawing Michael to the edge of ecstasy again and again but always just falling short. His whole body trembled with the effort. His expression crumpled for several seconds before he opened his eyes and stared with raw, desperate desire. 

“How many is that?” He asked Michael.

“F-five.”

“And how many more do you got in you, baby?” 

Michael shook his head, his hair loose and dark against the white pillow cases. “No more. I need to…can I please?” It wasn’t anywhere close to a full sentence, but the sentiment was clear. As he begged for permission to cum, he kept his hands pressed flat into the mattress on either side of him. 

He checked his watch for the time. It was getting pretty late, and they both had an early start tomorrow. He leaned back and planted both feet on the floor, exposing the proof of his own arousal to Michael. Michael eyed it, swallowing heavily.

“Sure, go ahead. Green.” 

That was all Michael needed to hear. He pumped himself with none of the patience from before, filling the room with slick sounds. His hips kicked up to meet his strokes and in moments he'd reached the edge again. This time he threw himself right over it, releasing with a loud, staccato moan. He watched, completely enraptured by the sight no other member of the security detail assigned to Michael would ever get to witness. 

When it was over Michael went totally limp, dropping back against the pillows while he caught his breath. 

He couldn’t deny himself any further. He crossed the space between the couch and the bed and crawled up on the king-sized mattress, hovering over Michael. 

Michael blinked up at him blissfully. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey there. Feeling good?” At Michael's nod, “Feeling tired?”

“Not even a little bit.” 

“Good.” He unzipped his slacks and pulled them down swiftly, baring himself. “Cuz I never said red.” 

Michael's laugh turned into a strangled moan when he gripped him again and started stroking him back to full hardness. He just sunk into the pillows and gripped the corners, eager to be along for the ride. 

3 - Dangerous Tour - Mexico City, 1993

Being under Michael in bed was not their most common choice of positions, but it was always a great time when it happened. Michael was backlit by the moonlight, and his hands roamed with a kind of naive wonder, whole body rocking even though he hadn’t even gotten started. Long, dancer's legs straddled his hips, and it felt both right and familiar. 

“You ready for me?” 

“I've been ready for ten minutes,” Michael responded, looking down at him teasingly. He got lined up, starting to ease himself down when—

The room phone started to ring. Both of their heads snapped over to the side table. 

“It's her!” Michael exclaimed, sliding off him and reaching across the mattress for the phone.

“Really, now?” He glanced at the clock. “It's barely six in the morning over there.” 

“You know she always calls at random hours.” Michael said it like that made up for the interruption. Perhaps for royalty, it did. He brought the receiver to his ear and his voice turned sweet when he said, “Hi, Diana!” 

He was tempted to skulk off to his own room and lick his wounds, maybe get off on his own and call it a night. It wouldn’t be nearly as satisfying but it was better than being left out to dry like this. But he didn’t want Michael to think something was wrong; he had such few people in his life to consider as both friends and confidants. He turned onto his side and leaned his head onto his hand, content to wait it out. The way Michael’s face lit up at whatever the princess said over the phone was well worth it. 

So was the blowjob Michael gave him after he’d hung up the phone, a reward for “being such a respectful audience.” 

+1 - HIStory Tour - Poland - 1996

They were thirty stories high in a penthouse suite. Even this late at night fans were still out front en masse, the roar of their cheers and chants audible above the din of the city’s traffic. It was the same song and dance in every city, in every country. He felt bad for the other guests trying to get some sleep at this hotel, but he’d personally grown used to it over the past decade. It was amazing how far a good pair of foam earplugs could take you in this industry. 

As high up as they were, neither of them were willing to run the risk of being seen together out on the balcony. Who knew when a stray news helicopter would come around to get a glimpse of the King of Pop. They made do as it was, with Michael braced against the sheer balcony curtains. He fisted the fabric tightly, tugging at them when a particularly hard thrust made his legs buckle. 

“You’re gonna tear those right down,” he huffed in Michael’s ear. His own hands held Michael’s hips, keeping him right where he wanted him. 

“I’ll pay for it,” Michael huffed. “Just don’t stop, god, please, don’t stop.” 

He pressed himself flush against Michael, reaching around the curtain to crack open the balcony door. Immediately the sounds from outside flooded into their little safe space. Rushing air, cars on the street below, and loudest of all, the cheering.

“Michael! Michael! Michael!” 

“Hear that?” He continued the push and pull of his hips, practically holding Michael up now. “That’s all for you. They love you and your angel face,” he whispered the last part and started kissing under Michael’s ear and along his jaw.

Michael tilted his head to give him more room to work with as he said, “Enough of that.”

“What, you don’t believe me?” When Michael didn’t respond he slowed his pace to a shallow grind so he could focus more on their conversation. “You don’t, do you?”

With a sigh Michael tried pushing back on him to set his own rhythm, but the hands on his hips kept his range limited. 

“Can’t y’just make me see stars without getting philosophical?” 

He could, of course. But with the teeth of the tabloids always sharpening, they were out for blood more than ever these days. Sometimes he felt that a reminder was in order. He pulled out abruptly, and before Michael could protest too much he was turning him around and lifting him so his legs were around his waist. Being in shape was part of the job description, but it also made things like this easier. Michael wasn’t as light as he had been in their twenties, but over the years he made sure he could always lift him up like this. 

He pushed back in and Michael let out a startled moan, throwing his arms around his neck for stability as the new angle punched all the air out of his lungs. 

“You are the most gorgeous man I have ever laid my eyes on, baby,” he told Michael breathily, working to keep up the rhythm and speak at the same time. “I knew it when I met you, and I know it now.” He laved his tongue over the hollow between Michael’s collar bones. 

“I’m not—not gonna last if you keep sweet talkin’ me like that.” Michael was pressed right up against the balcony door now, that sheer curtain putting in all the work to keep the popstar from becoming the front page of an adult magazine tomorrow morning.  

“Good. Cum for me, beautiful.” He could feel Michael tightening around him, and he took one nipple into his mouth briefly before pulling back to say, “My angel face, I wanna see you, wanna hear you. You’re so gorgeous when you get like this.”

That was it. Michael snapped, and with a cry he released all over their stomachs, clenching hard around him. It was a combination of this feeling, the sight of Michael’s O-face, and the sounds he made mixing with the cheers from outside that sent him over the edge as well. He moaned into Michael’s shoulder, thrusting shallowly for another minute as they rode out the high together. When Michael went limp he let him down gently, still supporting most of his weight even when they were both on their feet. He guided them both to sit on the floor, and Michael instantly straddled his lap and clung to him. 

Burying his face in his neck, Michael murmured against his skin, “Thank you. You’re always so good to me.” 

“It’s my job,” he responded, only half joking. He ran a hand up and down Michael’s sweaty back, reveling in the shiver it elicited.  

“It’s not, but you do it anyway.” 

He didn’t have a response to that. They sat in silence for a beat, just holding each other and listening. He felt the gradual slowing of Michael’s heart against his chest, the way his muscles untensed in increments. 

Eventually Michael said, “I love you. And for the record, I think you’re not too bad lookin’ yourself.” 

He laughed and gently pulled Michael’s face away from his neck so he could look at him full on. They’d been through a lot together. Every tabloid smear campaign, every ambush disguised as an interview. He’d seen Michael in every position under the sun, tasted him, touched him, loved him in all the ways known to man and then some. Still, he never got tired of those eyes, or that smile. The way Michael still acted coy when he tried meeting his eyes even after being pinned against a door and railed with no qualms about it. 

He cupped Michael’s face, said, “I love you, too.”