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Warnings: 18+ minors, no p in v, mentions of sex, reminiscing, love letter, dirty talking, Michael writes to you.
Wc: 703
The silence of the house is almost deafening, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of noise and flashing lights that usually follows your husband. It has been weeks since Michael departed for the studio, and the void he left behind is a physical ache in your chest. You find yourself lingering in the rooms he frequents, catching the fading scent of his cologne on a discarded silk robe or the lingering warmth of his presence in the sheets. Every corner of your home is a reminder of the gentle, romantic man who treats you like a fragile treasure, and the longing for his touch had become a constant, humming tension beneath your skin.
Then, a courier arrives with a heavy, cream-colored envelope littered with kisses, smelling like him. Your heart hammers against your ribs as you slide out the parchment, recognizing the messy, looping cursive that always seems to dance across the page:
My Dearest Dove,
As I sit here in the quiet of the night, the world outside feels so distant, and the only thing that feels real is the memory of you. Every melody I write, every note I sing, it all begins and ends with you. You are the light that guides me through the darkness of this industry, the peace I return to when the noise becomes too loud. You are my muse, my sanctuary, and the very heartbeat of my existence.
I find myself longing for the simple things . The way you look when you first wake up, the softness of your laughter, and the warmth of your skin against mine. I close my eyes and I can almost taste you, the sweetness of your lips and the intoxicating scent of your skin that lingers on my fingertips long after I've let you go. I miss the way you feel in my arms, the voluptuous curve of your body pressing against me, and the soft, breathless sounds you make when I kiss the hollow of your throat.
Remember what you told me the last time we spoke? You told you couldn’t live without me, that if something tried to take you away, you’d hold on tight because your world doesn’t spin right without me, you’re angelface. That touched me deeply, my sweet lady. We depend on each other like air and water, one can’t exist without the other. I crave your moans in my ear, your legs wrapped around my waist, and your nails digging into my back. Heaven can wait, my darling, for there is no paradise more divine than the one I find when I am wrapped inside you. I ache for the feeling of your hands wandering over me, the way you know exactly how to make me lose my breath with just a whisper or a gentle touch. I crave the heat of our bodies entwined, the slow, rhythmic dance of our love that makes the rest of the world simply cease to exist.
There are moments when the pressure of this life feels impossible, but I push through because I know you’re waiting for me. My muse you give me a strength I never knew I possessed. I often think of the eternal, and I realize that if the angels came for me, I’d tell them no, I don’t wanna leave my baby alone.
You are my heaven on earth, my everything. I need you more than words can ever express. Until I can hold you again and show you exactly how much I have missed every inch of you, please keep this letter close to your heart, just as I keep you in mine.
With all my love, forever and always,
Angelface xo xo 💋
(A/n: my new username should be mjs-shakespearean-fish, also let me know if you like the language I tried my best🏃🏽♀️)
summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)
pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader
w/c: 9.8k
notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!!
boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS.
there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits.
michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker.
some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️
masterlist • ao3
DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.
It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.
Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.
You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left.
You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.
You’re good at this job, better than you had expected.
Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly.
You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.
You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.
Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado.
Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.
Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.
You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.
Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”
“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.
”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”
His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.
Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.
You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing.
You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—
You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans.
You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”
Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?”
You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”
The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.
Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”
Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.
He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.
Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”
Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.
The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately.
Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”
”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.
“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.
You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”
He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”
You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.
He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something.
That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature.
You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too.
Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room.
But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.
Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”
“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.
”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”
You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.
The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.
You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked.
“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”
You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”
The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”
Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”
”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“
Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”
You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.
The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”
Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.
”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.
Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes.
You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”
The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.
Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—
No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince.
You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect.
They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.
Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.
Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens.
They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.
You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.
The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”
Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”
You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise.
Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.
You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”
He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel.
To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.
This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)
A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.
“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”
You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“
“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”
Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first.
That’s your job. That’s what you do.
You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”
Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.
He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’
You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“
Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.
“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.
“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.)
He cuts you off with a single look.
”You’re staying in here. With me.”
You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car.
The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated.
”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“
”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”
You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat.
It’s ridiculous, and childish.
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.
“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”
It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.
Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”
“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.
He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”
You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.
”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”
Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”
A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it.
You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch.
Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”
He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”
”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”
He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”
”That’s different.”
”It’s not.” He counters.
You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort.
The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.
You wince. “I’ll be fine.”
”No.”
”Michael, please—“
He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.
”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”
You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“
“No.”
”But—“
”No.”
You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.
“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”
You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night.
At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”
Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard.
He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.
Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.
His smile returns—wide and toothy.
”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”
He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”
Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.
You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.
You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.
Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.
You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.
You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing.
You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him.
You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.
You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.
You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt.
You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps.
You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.
You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.
At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.
You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.
You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.
You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.
You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.
Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!
You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.
You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.
Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.
But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.
Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones.
He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.
Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.
The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy.
The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.
“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.
“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.
He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”
You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.
He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel.
(It doesn’t.)
You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical.
You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.
You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.
Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate.
You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.
He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.”
He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”
Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.
“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall.
A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.
”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.
Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room.
Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.
You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.
You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.
“Michael? Everything okay over there?”
He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”
You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.
”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”
You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”
You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.
“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”
You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.
“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”
Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues.
He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”
His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out.
Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”
“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…”
He trails off.
He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden.
Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.
“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“
You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson.
Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.
“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”
He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.
”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.
”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”
Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.
But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more.
And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.
Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.
As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met.
You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?”
You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.
He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects.
He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.
At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.
Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world.
Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.
You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him.
You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.
He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.
Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—
But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.
And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.
He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.
He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.
But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.
You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.
He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.
He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully.
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.
“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”
His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”
A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.
He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.
“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”
You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”
You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.
His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core.
The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.
”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.
He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room.
The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side.
He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.
His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.
Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.
He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”
The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.
That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.
The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.
Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.
He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever.
And you would let him.
You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you.
You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.
You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers.
Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.
It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.
He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace.
“Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”
You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.
”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.
You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.
It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you.
”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine.
Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.
Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.
You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.
You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.
Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.
“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”
”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“
He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.
“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”
In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.
You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.
”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”
”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”
He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”
Next time.
The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply.
But you don’t.
You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him.
You nod, surrendering to him completely.
A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.
His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.”
His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”
His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps.
You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.
You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.
”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.
You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.
A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.
You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.
He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“
”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”
At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.
He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.
“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“
”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.
Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.
You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower.
Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.
Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets.
Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.
Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips.
He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.
He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath.
That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany:
“Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“
The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.
You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words:
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.
You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
The world outside has ceased to exist.
The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.
His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin.
He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.
You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications.
For tonight, nothing else mattered.
a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️
Summary: You and Michael have always practiced safe sex and protection using condoms. However, tonight, Michael forgets the one thing preventing you two from becoming parents ;) (Wrap it up, people!)
Content: Smut! P n V penetration, Subby switch! Mike, consensual unprotected sex, breeding, dirty talking (he’s a talker hehe), begging, male whimpering, teasing, “just the tip”/sensory play, petname (just mama), back shots, praising, a lil masturbation ig, post conception
No ai use! Fuck ai
made this with the thought of OTW/Thriller era, but honestly it can be whatever era you'd like it to be, lovely~ Enjoy ᥫ᭡.
Otw/Thriller! Michael x Reader
(If you are a minor, please go the fuck away and dni)
ᥫ᭡. The lamp on your nightstand flickered a dimmed glow softly as the sound of raindrops outside tapped against your window. It was the middle of the night, and you and Michael were in your bed, shifting and mingling above sheets and blankets amongst the plushies. You moaned heavily against each other’s lips, exchanging soft kisses that soon deepened into a full out make-out sesh as both of your hands roamed each other's semi-nude bodies with curiosity and need. Michael was shirtless, only in his jeans as he hovered over your body that was stripped of everything but your undergarments. Your body squirmed underneath as his hips gently grind against your groin area, continuing to press gentle kisses to your lips before trailing them to your jawline, leaving a soft kiss there and soon pulling back slightly to gaze into your eyes with his big, doe-like ones.
"Stay right here, pretty..." He whispers, placing a final peck on your soft lips before pulling away, scooting off of the bed and making his way to his black coat that rested over the armrest of your vanity chair. He left you on the bed where you laid on your side, watching him pick up his coat and slip his hand inside the inner pockets. Michael’s brows knit together, his motions pausing briefly before he slipped his hand into the other coat pocket, searching for whatever he was after before letting out a gasp of disbelief.
"I could’ve sworn I had it with me." He mutters to himself before shoving his hand into the inner pockets of his coat. You watched him rummage through the coat before tossing it onto the chair soon patting himself down and digging into his pants pockets. It was clear that whatever he was searching for was weighing heavily on his mind.
"W... What is it, Mike?" You ask, propping your body upwards with one of your elbows. Michael’s head snapped towards you, his eyes widening and cheeks flushing in a deep red shade.
"I... I forgot it..." He murmurs lowly, his eyes expanding the more he confessed.
"What do you mean you forgot it?"
"I mean, I forgot to grab the rubber on my nightstand." Michael’s hand slapped to his forehead before sliding down over his face. He let out a groan as he shook his head from side to side, feeling frustrated that he left behind the one thing he was supposed to bring for this moment. "How could I be so forgetful and stupid..." He muttered into his palm.
You tilted your head to the side, giving a genuine look of concern. One thing you absolutely hated was when Michael would beat himself up over the smallest inconveniences. In your eyes, he was just a sweet, hardworking boy who never got a break on anything, and all you wanted was to lift his spirits and alleviate his worries. A sudden idea sparked in your mind, turning your frown into a grin. You slid off the bed and walked over to Michael, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him close.
"It's okay, baby… you know there's a way for us to be careful without using protection," you murmured, slowly leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his neck. His head snapped towards you as his eyebrows knit together in oblivious wonder.
"Is there?" he whispered. You simply nod while the corner of your lips twitched, struggling to hold back a giggle from how naïve the young boy was. It was cute. You took his large hand in your small one with a tug.
"Sure, there is, Mike.... now here, Lemme show you." You slowly pull Michael towards the bed and onto the sheets with him falling on top of you.
"Are you sure this gonna work?" Michael whispered quietly, a wave of nervousness washing over him at the idea you introduced to him moments ago. Growing up majorly sheltered, He was unaware of the so-called “only the tip” method. His knowledge was limited to the basics of conception and the thought of having unprotected sex, along with the possible consequences if you guys weren’t careful, made him feel a bit uneasy. He couldn’t imagine dealing with a sudden pregnancy announcement at this age, the judgment from the public, and most of all, the reaction from you and Michael’s parents—especially his mother, Katherine, a strict Jehovah’s Witness who firmly believed no child should be born out of wedlock.
Even though this was an act so daring yet natural, Michael was determined to make you feel good in any way he could. No matter how risky it might be.
"Don't worry, baby... I've read about this method in a magazine once. It's supposed to work." you shrugged your shoulders, reassuring the nervous boy with a smile. Michael gave a slight nod before shifting his eyes down to his briefs and hesitantly pulling them down. This wasn’t his first time making love to you; in fact, he’d lost his innocence the moment you became a couple, all thanks to you. He just never practiced being intimate without any protection. It was a bold idea, and he wasn’t even sure if the method you suggested would even work, but he was willing to give it a try.
You slowly peeled off your bra along with your underwear, throwing them to the side of the bed and spreading your leg apart to expose your gaped pussy, inviting him closer to your aroma. Michael took that chance, adjusting himself in between your legs. He bit down on his bottom lip, directing the head of his exposed cock to the center of your wet entrance as he gave the end of his shaft the company of his other hand. A small whimper escaped his lips once he felt his sensitive tip gently press against the tight folds of your pussy, slowly pushing inside until it was no longer visible.
He let his head fall back as his needy whimpers soon grew into loud groans that synced with your soft moans. The feeling of your pussy tightening around his sensitive tip made him tremble, his mind swirling in a daze of pure lust and exhilaration as his hips bucked forward, only to feel your hand press against his navel, stopping him from going any further.
"Only the tip, Michael..." you remind him as your eyes shift up to his focused face that only melted once his tip slipped inside your entrance again. He was only an inch inside and still it felt like heaven to him. He wanted to lose control and just stuff all of himself inside your tight pussy but instead he chose to hold back his primal urges for now, letting his tip fall back out with a string of your natural juices sticking to it before breaking apart.
"oh-fuck-" Michael choked out. "You're already so wet for me, mama~"
"Just like that, Mikey~" You moaned as you felt the head of his cock dip back inside your gaping pussy once again before retracting back with only a simply tug. Michael's eyebrows knitted together as he let out a long sigh. His hand squeezed your inner thigh tightly as his other hand stroked the end of his shaft, imagining what the erotic sensation of having all your juices coating his throbbing cock would feel like. He could only imagine how tight yet slick your pussy would be, taking all of him inside you. His now swollen tip that rested against your delicate pussy throbbed franticly before he pushed back inside the slit of your cunt, feeling your warm juices gush around his tip as he began to pump in and out of your slick entrance with a disciplined pace.
“T-this feels too good, mama...” Michael groaned. "Almost like the real thing...."
"See, It's not even fully inside." You huffed, feeling yourself grow more aroused. You let your eyes fall down to the open gap between your bodies below watching Michael stroke himself at a fast pace as the tip of his cock pressed against your labia that glistened with your heat of juices. Michael's other hand released from your thigh, now traveling up to your breasts, gently messaging and palming them. A shudder passed through your lips, parting into a gasp as you felt him push his tip back inside your entrance, this time, deeper than before, then quickly pulling back out. A desperate groan escaped Michael’s lips as his eyes shut tightly.
"I really want to stuff all of me inside this pretty pussy- But I... I can't-" Michael moaned, letting his hips bucked foreword. You felt his tip gently stroke against your throbbing clit with desperation. Your eyes than shifted up at him and from your view, it looked like the poor boy was going to pop just from the overstimulation of his bare tip grinded against the wet flesh of your warm pussy. His face was a deep red as whimpers and sighs escaped his mouth.
"You're doing amazing..." You assure before reaching your hand out to his face, gently squeezing his cheek. "How about we try another position, love?"
Michael looks down at you with low eyes before nodding. He pulls himself off of you, letting you prop yourself upwards and turn around on your elbows and knees. Your back was arched in a perfect curve as your ass was now facing Michael, which caused his eyes to bulge out of the sockets of his skull. He was glued to the suggestive view in front of him, watching your slick pussy now drip from your heated wetness. He repositions himself above, pressing his stiff tip against your wet slit once again.
“You look amazing like this, mama~” he moans as he slowly pushes his tip inside your walls before withdrawing back. Both of your moans filled the air as he continued plunging himself inside your intoxicating heat repeatedly while his hand squeezed your side tightly, balancing his trembling legs as he fought the urge to let go and take control each time he buried his tip inside your warm, slick pussy. You moaned lowly through your teeth as you felt his tip thrust inside your walls, stretching only your entrance apart before pulling out. This left you feeling starved for what you craved most. You wanted to feel his raw cock fill you up whole, making you scream and shudder with pleasure as you took every inch of him, but you didn't want to admit that. You couldn't.
So, you decided to tease him, letting your hips rock back onto his cock, taking two inches deeper than intended with his sensitive tip now deep inside your tight walls. This made Michael go crazy, his moans growing louder and echoing every corner of the room before gripping your ass cheek and pushing you away. His hips bucked back violently with a loud wet--pop- noise as his cock slipped out of your pussy, his shaft now covered in more of your lude juices.
"No-No! Don't do that, Mama!” He whines. You only respond with a giggle, resting your chin on your knuckles, enjoying the sudden reaction. He was so sensitive and eager for more, and you knew it. You simply wanted to tease him and watch him squirm helplessly.
"Do what?" You playfully questioned. "I'm only helping, Mikey~"
Michael paused, his hands gently squeezing your sides. Even though he made a weak attempt at protesting, he still let you continue to toy with him, rocking your hips up and down on his shaft. You could feel his tip press against your wet labia before slipping inside your pussy each time you dropped your hips briefly before lifting yourself up again. Michael let out a shudder as his stiff cock jerked upwards, throbbing for any attention you were willing to give him.
"Dear God, Mama... You're teasing me..." He whines louder. A giggle escapes your lips as you continued to bounce yourself on his cock, his tip now coated in a shiny layer of your natural juices as he throbbed inside your walls. It didn’t take long for Michael to slip back into the movement, thrusting his hips to your rhythm as his hand slid down to your hip, giving a firm squeeze.
"Oh, God it feels too good, mama... I need to feel all of you..." Michael whimpered pitifully as he continued to push his tip inside your wet entrance that allured him to go deeper before pulling back out again, repeating the movement. The sensation of your walls hugging tightly around his tip, gripping his sensitive skin before letting him go drove him crazy. He didn't want more. He needed more. He needed to give you all of him without being held back. Michael felt his legs grow wobblily like jelly as he stuffed his tip inside your entrance again, slightly an inch deeper before pulling out again, stroking the rest of his cock with his hand.
"You want to go inside deeper, don't you, Mikey?" you moaned, looking over your shoulder as you felt your back arch more. You watched the facial expressions painted on Michael's face that read pure ecstasy, his eyes closed shut yet his mouth quivered in a pouty expression. It was clear that Michael wanted to push that barrier. The limit. And you couldn't help but to tease him about it.
"It feels so good." Michael only repeated, his eyes still shut as he continued to push only his tip inside of your folds. "I need to feel more of you princess..."
"Just earlier you were unsure about it." You teased more in a protesting manner, letting your hips rock back and forth to his rhythm to purposefully let him slip inside deeper. Michael only replied with a loud and long whimper as he continued to thrust, his hips bucking back violently once he felt himself sink inside more.
"I..I-don't even care about it anymore, mama...I... I need to feel all of this sweet.... sweet pussy on me..." He struggled with his words as his mind was somewhere else. More focused on the sensation of your ass moving back and forth on his cock, swallowing an inch or more of his shaft inside your pussy as his tip was now buried inside the tight grip of your walls. He winced at the feeling as his hand gripped tighter around his shaft, stroking firmly. His other hand moved to your round ass, squeezing and pulling at the skin before cocking his hand back and slamming it back down, giving your ass a stern and loud -smack- before picking up the pace of his thrusts.
"f-fuck!" A loud moan escaped your lips in reaction to the sudden spank to your ass. Your skin tingled with pain before it was eased by the gentle caress of Michael's fingers. You felt him shift his weight above you, leaning in close to your ear as his pants and whimpers became clearer and consistent.
"You're gonna let me go deeper, mama? Say it. Say that I can go deeper!" Michael moaned, begging for your approval of entrance as he felt his tip bury inside the folds of your pussy. He knew that you were teasing him with the grinding, accepting his eagerness. And he only wanted to hear it from your lips that you'll let him in. All of him in. His hips bucked forward, pushing his cock a few inches deeper before pulling back. "Tell me... Please tell me!"
“Yes, Baby Go deeper!” You wailed, looking over your shoulder and into his eyes. “I’m all yours.”
Once you gave in to his wishes of stuffing your pussy, he shifted into an entirely new person. His whimpers faded away and was bow replaced by heavy, uneven breaths. He couldn't control himself any longer, pulling the tip of his stiff dick out your entrance one final time before slamming himself back inside your pussy, this time all the way with a slow and deep thrust. He was going to give it all, without anything or either of you holding him back from this moment.
You couldn't help but let out a cry as your head instantly fell into the pillow below. Your moans and whimpers were now buried into the plush as you could feel your pussy open and adapt to Michael's thick raw cock filling you up with all of his 9 inches. Michael groaned, feeling your warm pussy grip around his shaft with such pleasure as your warm juices gushed all over his thick shaft. He adjusted himself with careful, gentle strokes before speeding up his pace, bucking his hips deeper into your wetness until he was balls deep.
"You feel so good, mama! Mmfh-Thank you so much!" Michael moaned, his eyes shut tightly as he let his head fall back. Both of your moans and screams synced together, followed by Michael’s repeated cries of “thank you” and “I love you,” filling the room with warmth and erotic aroma. His eyes shot open and fell down to the view below him, watching his cock slip in and out of your soaked pussy with his shaft now covered in a coat of your cream and natural lubricant. Your back was fully arched now with his huge hand gripping your ass cheek firmly as he continued to pound into you. He loved this view. He loved taking the little control that he had upon you in this position while watching your ass bounce back onto his cock.
"Mmph..That's right, Mama~" He huffed, the corner of his lips now curved into a devious grin. "Take all of me~"
He gave your ass another harsh slap, continuing to stuff his raw dick inside your precious pussy with each stroke. Your moans and cries were like music to his ears, and he enjoyed giving you every moment of satisfaction with more than just his tip. He could feel your walls throb and tighten around his cock as your whines grew louder into screams.
By now, you were a moaning mess, pulling on the sheets and blankets below as your legs grew weak from every thrust. Michael was merciless with his movement, gripping your hips with his hand as he repeatedly thrusted his cock inside of you, his balls now slapping your swollen clit as his tip kissed your cervix, now with a point to prove. You felt your legs tremble with a familiar tight knot feeling building up inside of you, signaling that you were shamefully close to your climax.
"I'm gonna cum, baby! keep going!" You wail out as your body began to twitch around his cock. From behind, you heard a chuckle escape Michael’s lips before giving your ass another harsh -slap-.
"Already?" Despite his teasing, Michael followed your orders, continuing to stroke his cock in and out of your needy pussy with dominance until you felt your body shake, letting your juices release all over him and coat his flesh with your creamy cum.
"There you go, mama...let it all out for me~" Michael praised, letting his dick slip out of your soaked pussy, pressing and slapping his sensitive tip against the folds of your swollen lips before pushing himself back inside your walls, continuing to pound in a faster pace. He was in heaven, feeling his raw cock stuff inside your creamy walls made him go insane. It was a natural feeling, yet something he’s never experienced up until this very moment. To him, this was way more than the regular sex you guys had before. This was something way more intimate. More special.
“Fuck, this creamy pussy is wrapped tightly around my cock, baby... I need you” Michael let out a whine as you felt his cock throb and jerk frantically inside of your pussy. This was a signal that he was also close to his climax and ready to release. And, with the moment he was in right now, you knew he wasn't planning on letting his seed out anywhere other than your tight pussy that was prepared to take all of his seed in your womb. You looked over your shoulder and watched his scrunched-up face with his eyes squeezed shut. His teeth bit down harsh on his bottom lip, while the corner of his mouth twitched. You could see bullets of sweat form on his forehead while his face flushed a crimson color. He
"Goddamn, (y/n) ... I'm so close, mama~" He admitted with a breathless whimper, yet never slowed down his pace. Instead, his thrusts became sloppier and rough as his body trembled above you. His hands were frantic to grip on any bit of skin he could place them on, squeezing your sides, hips, and ass. "Look at what you're doing to me with this sweet pussy of yours, mama."
The sound of wet skin repeatedly slapping against each other filled the room accompanied by your moans and cries. He continued to plunge all of his dick inside your wet core, making you take every bit of him that he could give. With an attempt to slow him down, you reached back letting your fingertips press his stomach before feeling him grip your wrist and wrap it around your back, continuing to mercilessly pound your pussy into the mattress.
"M-Mikey!" You screamed.
“B-been teasing me this whole t-time, mommy… with this nice ass and deep pussy...oh- I wanna release all my cum inside you!” Michael groaned, his thrusts becoming less focused and sloppier. “A-and I want you to take it!”
"B-Baby!” You shout, your eyes now rolled back to your skull as your mind started to become hazy in thought.
"I can't hold back... It feels too good, s-so wet...s-so w-warm, baby.!" He grunted, throwing his head back once again as pitiful moans and whines left his mouth like a spell. “I want you to take it for me, mama!”
"M-Michael-Y-you're supposed to pull ou-" Your protest quickly turned into screams and cries as Michael's thrusts turned even more animalistic. His tip repeatedly hit your sweet spot with his hips picking up a faster pace. You bit down on your bottom lip as pitiful cries escaped your throat. From behind you felt him lean down, grabbing a handful of your hair into a ponytail and pulling it back as he continued to stuff his dick inside your poor, breeding pussy. You wanted to shout at him for ignoring you, but deep down you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were enjoying the moment just as much as he was, and, in fact, you liked the sudden domination he had upon you. It was a turn on like no other.
"You feel so good, mommy... I can't dare to release anywhere but inside this creamy pussy! F-fuck-want to plant all of my offspring inside of you, mama." He moaned lowly. "I-I want you to have all of my babies!"
Michael's hips bucked foreword with force as he began to jackhammer his cock inside your pussy. Your screams and moans only grew louder mixing with the vulgar noises of wet skin slapping against each other. With impulse, Michael used one of his hands on your hips to pull you backwards onto his cock, closing the gap in between the skin of as hips and your ass now connected with wetness and his rough thrusts. You could feel his cock pump inside your walls, throbbing frantically for climax.
"Oh, fuck, baby! Take all of my seed-take it all-Ahh!" Michael pumped a final time before his hips slammed into your backside with force, causing your body to sink into the mattress. His head was thrown back as a series of his pitiful moans echoed the room while ropes of his warm seed painted the inside your walls. His body trembled as he shifted his weight onto you, now leaning down and resting his head on your back while his cock stayed buried inside your warm, filled walls. He couldn’t dare to let himself off until every bit of his cum was filled up inside of your womb.
His moans then died down to small pants and sighs, placing a small kiss on your back and whispering “I love you.” into your skin before lifting himself up. He pulled himself out with a loud -pop- noise while his eyes were fixed to your swollen pussy that was now brimmed up with his cum. He exhaled a sigh of satisfaction before collapsing onto the bed, his mind now clouded and dazed as he stared up at the ceiling.
Your legs were growing numb from soreness as a mixture of your fluids and Michael's seed slowly oozed out of your now bred pussy, dripping onto the sheets. You finally let yourself collapse onto the bed, lying there for a brief moment before you felt Michael’s slim yet toned arms wrap around your waist, pulling you against his chest. “I hope I wasn’t too rough on you, mama..” he whispers into your ear before placing a peck against your neck.
“Please, don’t worry.” You respond. Michael’s lips curved into a soft grin before pushing himself upward, scooting to the side of the bed and making his way over to your side. He held out a hand for you to take.
“C’mon..lemme run you a bath, Ma.” He suggested. You give him a smile before taking his hand and following him to the bathroom where the two of you spent the rest of the night bathing together. Afterwards, you helped each other into your pajamas before drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms. ☽
── ୨ৎ─5 weeks later~ (Hehe) ─୨ৎ─
"Oh, thank you, Miya," Michael murmured softly to one of the maids as she handed him a tray with two plates of breakfast and two glasses of orange juice. She gave a quick nod before turning on her heel and leaving the bedroom, gently closing the door behind her.
It was a quiet morning at the Hayvenhurst home, where you'd spent the night with Michael. After listening to your complaints about feeling nauseous all morning along with your repeated trips to the bathroom, he asked one of his security gaurds to take a quick trip to the nearest drugstore to purchase a pregnancy test. After that arrived, you were convinced to take the test while he waited anxiously for the results.
He let out a sigh, setting the tray on the nightstand before walking over to the closed bathroom door where you were cooped up in.
Knock, Knock, Knock
Michael knocked on the wooden door. "Mama, how's it going in there? You've been quiet for a while."
Inside, he heard a scuffling sound, followed by the roar of the toilet flushing. It was a brief second before the door instantly flew open with you now leaning against the frame of the door, with the stick dangling in between your fingers. His eyes widened as he stared at the result, clear as day, reading 'pregnant'. His cheeks flushed a warm rouge shade at the sudden realization of what was to become. It was no longer a speculation and you guys are actually expecting a baby now.
"This is what I get for giving you an ounce of control... You overdo it and never know when to end the fun." You playfully rolled your eyes with a grin on your face.
"Maybe I went a little too far," Michael chuckled softly, his posture shrinking in embarrassment as you shot him a knowing glance.
"I just can’t wait to hear what your mother will have to say."ᥫ᭡.
A/N: Hey Guys!! This is my first smut/fanfic on here and I hope that it was at least readable hehe. It definitely was proofread multiple times by me but may still have some errors. If you enjoyed this, please let me know cause I have way more ideas I’d like to post :)
Content: Mature Era! Michael Jackson Mean x BM! Reader
Warnings: 18+ minors dni, black reader, use of n word, p in v, porn with a plot, future unplanned pregnancy, jealousy, toxic relationships, manipulation?, attitude issues, unresolved anger, pretty angsty but ends happy, disclaimer: reader’s mouth is reckless but don’t take anything said too serious.
Wc: 950+
The phone on your nightstand buzzed for the third time in ten minutes, the vibration rattling against the wood. You didn't even have to look at the screen to know who it was. Michael.
You stared at the ceiling, chewing on your lip. You hated his guts—or at least, you told yourself you did. He was the kind of man who could make you feel like the center of the universe one second and then completely invisible the next, all while maintaining that soft, angelic smile that fooled everyone else. To the world, he was a saint. To you, he was a headache in a designer suit who knew exactly how to push your buttons without ever raising his voice.
Finally, you snatched the phone up and pressed answer.
"Hello, my love," his voice drifted through the speaker, airy and sweet, sounding like he’d just woken up from a nap in a cloud. "I was thinking about you. I really miss you. Why don't you come over?"
You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "The fuck you want, nigga?" you snapped, your voice harsh and grating compared to his melodic tone.
There was a small, amused hum on the other end. He didn't get angry; he never did. That was the worst part. He just let you scream, let you be the 'aggressive' one, while he played the role of the patient, long-suffering partner. "I just want to hold you. I have some dinner waiting, and I thought we could spend some quality time together."
"I don't want no dinner. I'm tired," you lied, already sitting up and reaching for your clothes.
"I understand. But I know you've been stressed. Let me take care of you," he whispered, his tone dripping with a gentleness that felt like a trap.
You groaned, throwing the phone back down. You knew the game. He’d do something small to piss you off. Like 'forgetting' to tell you he was picking up the kid early, or making a passive-aggressive comment about your attitude while smiling—and then he’d call you with this sweet, romantic energy that made it impossible to stay away. You didn't want the romance, and you certainly didn't want the conversation. You just wanted the one thing he provided better than anyone else.
Forty minutes later, you pulled up to his place. You didn't even knock; you had a key he’d given you months ago, a gesture he called 'trust' but you saw as a way to ensure you’d always come back.
As soon as you stepped inside, he was there. He looked immaculate, his skin glowing, wearing only a button up that hung loosely off his shoulders, and some drawls. He stepped toward you, his movements fluid and graceful, and wrapped his arms around your waist.
"You came," he murmured, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "I'm so happy you're here."
You shoved his chest, though you didn't push very hard. "Cut the shit, Michael. I ain't here for no Hallmark movie. I'm just here to get my nut off, so let's get to it."
He chuckled, a light, airy sound that made you want to scream and kiss him at the same time. He didn't comment on your language or your tone; he just leaned in, his breath warm against your ear.
"Whatever you need, baby. I just want you to feel good."
He led you toward the bedroom, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass firmly. Despite his gentle speech, his grip was possessive. He pushed you back onto the bed, hovering over you with that serene expression. He started kissing you—slow, romantic, deep kisses that tried to pull a softness out of you that you refused to give.
You reached down, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, ripping it open to expose his chest. You didn't want the slow burn; you wanted the release. You reached further down, grabbing his dick through his underwear. He gasped, his back arching slightly, but he kept his voice low and sweet.
"You're so impatient," he whispered, a small, teasing smile playing on his lips. "But I love how much you want me."
"Shut up and give it to me," you muttered, pulling him down.
He obliged, shifting his weight to pin your wrists above your head. He whispered things like, "You're so beautiful," and "I've got you," while he slid his dick inside you with a slow, agonizing precision.
You let out a loud moan, your head hitting the pillow. The contrast was maddening—the way he looked at you with such adoration while he fucked you with a steady, relentless rhythm that left you breathless. He knew exactly how to hit the spot, driving deep and filling you up, making you forget for a moment that he was the most irritating man you'd ever known.
As you neared the edge, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing every inch of him. He picked up the pace, his breathing becoming heavy, though he still managed to kiss your forehead tenderly.
"I love you," he breathed, just as you peaked, your body shaking under him.
“Lo- you” you could barely talk through the wave of the orgasm until you collapsed back into the sheets, spent and shaking.
As he pulled out and cleaned you up with a warm towel, another one of those 'sweet' gestures that felt like a leash, you looked up at him. He was smiling, looking completely satisfied, the picture of a perfect man.
"I'll call you tomorrow about the baby's schedule," he said softly, kissing your cheek.
You groaned, closing your eyes. "God, I can’t stand your black ass."
"I know, baby," he whispered, his voice full of warmth. "I know.”
(A/n: I’m trying out a newer trope, it’s a more realistic version of playing hard to get meets toxicity. I’m not gonna go into how they ended up here, that’s for you to imagine for now but let me know if you need that lmao I have an idea already fr.)
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You let out another small moan, your hips moving slightly back and forth as you did. Michael’s cock twitched in his pants. He felt like a pervert, he thought about how nasty this was but he couldn’t contain himself just like he couldn’t contain his small whines every time you rocked onto him.
“Mike…” It was impossible for him to ignore, he loved it when you moaned his name. His dick strained against his pants so much he thought they were going to rip.
“Shit.” He swore under his breath “need more.” he muttered weakly as he lifted you up slightly to take his pants off, now just leaving him in his boxers.
Getting a sight of the precum leaking from his briefs your weight settled onto him again. The thin cotton of his boxers doing nothing to hide the hard length of his cock. It pressed up between your thighs, the damp spot of precum spreading against the fabric as you rolled your hips. Michael’s fingers dug into your sides, holding you steady while his own hips started to push upward in short, desperate thrusts.
“Fuck… just like that,” he breathed, voice tight. Every slow grind dragged the head of his cock along your covered pussy, the wet heat of your briefs soaking through both layers. You could feel how hard he was, how the ridge of his cockhead caught and rubbed with every pass. His boxers were already clinging to him, the front soaked dark where his precum kept leaking out in steady beads.
Michael’s head tipped back against the pillows, throat working as another shaky whine escaped him. His cock jerked visibly every time you dragged yourself over it. The friction was maddening
“God, you’re so wet,” he groaned, watching the way your panties darkened too. He thrusts up again, grinding the full length of his cock against you in one long, slow drag.
The head caught right on your clit and you both moaned at the same time. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing, pulling you down firmer.
The bed creaked under the steady motion. Your hips moved in tight circles now, grinding your soaked covered cunt over the straining bulge of his.
You slowed your pace deliberately, rolling your hips in long, teasing drags that made his whole body twitch beneath you. “Mmm, look at you,” you murmured, voice low and sweet. “So desperate. You’re throbbin’ so hard f’me.”
Michael whimpered, hips jerking up to chase the friction, but you lifted just enough to deny him the full pressure. “Please,” he gasped, fingers tightening on your hips. “Don’t stop—fuck, I need it.”
You smiled softly, pressing down again in a slow grind that dragged your soaked briefs over the head of his cock. “Shhh, baby. I’ll give you what you need… but not yet.” Your voice stayed gentle even as you edged him, keeping the pace just slow enough to keep him aching.
you eased off, leaving him whining and bucking helplessly beneath you. “Don’t cum yet,” you whispered, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Be good f’me and hold it a little longer.”
Michael’s head thrashed against the pillows, a broken moan spilling out of him. “I—I can’t—please, I’m s’close—” His cock jerked violently against you, the wet spot in his boxers spreading wider. You kept the pressure light, circling your hips in lazy strokes that made him sob with need.
“Such pretty sounds,” you praised, voice soft and warm.
He was shaking now, thighs trembling under you as he fought to obey. Every time you felt his cock throb like he was about to tip over, you slowed even more, grinding just enough to keep him right on the edge.
His whimpers turned desperate, high and needy, his fingers digging bruises into your skin.
Finally, when his voice cracked on another broken plea, you leaned in close and whispered, “Okay, baby. Okay…” You cooed.
You pressed down hard, grinding in quick, firm strokes that made his whole body jerk. Michael’s mouth fell open on a strangled moan.
His cock pulsed violently against you, thick ropes of cum shot out, soaking straight through his boxers and spreading hot and wet between you. The fabric grew slick and sticky as he kept thrusting through it, each pulse pushing more cum out until it was leaking down the sides of his shaft.
The feeling of him coming apart under you pushed you over the edge too. “Fuck—Mike,” you moaned, voice breathy and sweet as your clit throbbed hard against the soaked cotton.
Your own orgasm hit in waves, hips grinding down on his still-twitching cock while your briefs grew just as drenched. Your release mixed with his through the thin layers, the wet heat spreading everywhere you were pressed together.
Michael kept whimpering, hips jerking in little aftershocks as you both kept moving, drawing it out until the overstimulation made you both shudder and slow.
He stayed buried against you, cock still half-hard and leaking through the ruined boxers.
Your combined mess soaked the fabric between you, warm and slick. Michael’s chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath, fingers stroking absently over your hips.
m. jackson x reader Michael needs you more than air, more than life. And he just can't stop himself.
con. slight angst , mention of breakup , fluff , sweet sex , unprotected sex (minors dni) , oral (f receiving) , creampie , fem!reader , (y/n) only used in the beginning wc. 2.3k my first ever michael one shot! it’ll help to listen to the intro here. reblogs are always and greatly appreciated!!
masterlist taglist
Following the initial release of the "Bad" album in 1987, listener feedback reported a trend in conflict over the spoken introduction of Track #8 "I Just Can't Stop Loving You". The intro featured a brief, soft-spoken monologue by Jackson himself that entails a profession of love. An anonymous source even reports that, in an attempt to create a more intimate sound, Michael recorded the intro underneath the sheets of his own bed with a "personal friend for support". Yet, viewers reported the intro was "awkward", "creepy", and "weird", so Jackson later removed his monologue from further pressings and releases in 1988. Today, many of Michael's fans suspect and theorize that the recording involved (Y/N) (L/N), Jackson’s lifelong friend and widow who has remained notably private about her relationship with the King of Pop.
Michael’s curls are soft against the inside of your thigh, a gentle touch in contrast to the weight of the tape recorder over your bare stomach.
The cool metal is still shocking to your skin, but you’ve begun to warm up to it in the past half-hour it’s taken you and Michael to fully mentally prepare for this. When your boyfriend approached you over a week ago asking for a personal and rather intimate favor, you weren’t sure how to decide. For a year now, you’ve managed to keep your relationship with Michael extremely private.
“No one’ll know you’re even there, angel,” he’d said when he’d noticed your hesitation.
You took exactly eight days to think it over. Your decision? Abandon any logic and hope his fans don’t put two and two together (which isn’t likely; you’ve come to expect it now).
It’s what led to the scene you find yourself in now: you, clad in nothing but your black lace panties, and Michael, comfortably laid between your legs on the bed, propping himself up with his arms─which have wrapped around your thighs─all the while underneath the thin, white bedsheet. It covers a part of his face, concealing the way his cheeks have turned a deep shade of pink.
“You don’t have to be nervous, Mikey,” you reassured him for the eighth time that evening. You take his hand into yours and gently squeeze. It pulls a soft smile from him.
“I know, baby. Thank you for lettin’ me do this,” he murmurs before pressing a firm kiss to your thigh. He then shifts forward, placing himself beside you on the bed with his head just at your shoulder. He runs his hand down your arm, reaching your stomach, and presses the ON button of the tape recorder. A red light flashes, followed by a click and a whir, which continues on into the silence. You can practically see the words forming in Michael’s head. “I just want to lay next to you for a while.”
You exhale, slowly, so as not to disturb the recording. Does it pick up the butterflies in your stomach? Michael glances up at you; his eyes never fail to knock the air out of your lungs.
“You look so beautiful tonight,” he says, his eyebrows just slightly curling up as if in fascination. His slender fingers return to your skin, this time, on your cheek, just below your lower lash line.
“Your eyes are so lovely.”
Then, his thumb traces the curve of your cheek and the outline of your lips, still swollen and puffy from making love.
“Your mouth is so sweet.”
He shifts in the bed, causing a brief rustling noise to cut through the silence, but Michael doesn’t focus on the recording. Instead, he draws small shapes into the skin of your chest, brows now knit in thought.
“A lot of people misunderstand me,” he says. “That’s because they don’t know me at all. But not you, June-bug,” the nickname, an old reference to your friendship before romance. “Never you. You know me better than anyone.”
Unable to speak or move, you only place your hand over his. Underneath his palm, Michael can feel your heart. It sustains him.
He moves his hand downward, separate from yours, to where the softness of your breast meets flush with his hand. The sensation sends a chill down your spine. You keep yourself from letting out a sound in response, but your restraint is tested when Michael gently squeezes the flesh in his palm.
“No one loves me like you do. My girl,” he says, kissing the skin around your sensitive nipple.
Michael rolls it between his nimble fingers, applying just enough pressure for your body to melt into his touch.
“I never want anybody else. No one else f’me-” he cuts himself off with another kiss. “But you.”
Despite the sexual appearance of the scene, his touch isn’t sexual at all, not even inherently. His mind is completely elsewhere to care about lustful want right now─or even the recording device propped on your belly. He speaks mindlessly, or maybe it’s completely mindfully, pulling at each string of his own heart until the words come to him like music.
As you fight to maintain your silence─desperately wanting to reach out or say something to him─Michael continues.
“I just want to touch you,” he says again, but there’s a rawness to his voice now. “And hold you. I need you.”
It almost sounds as if he’s crying. Unbeknownst to you, he almost is. With every fiber in his body, Michael aches for you.
“God, I need you.” Michael pleads, his lips now inches away from yours. His eyes meet yours again, and you notice a sweet desperation within them. It calls out to your own sensitivity, both physical and emotional, and the urge to deny yourselves any longer is now impossible to ignore.
“I love you so much,” he says with a breath he’d been holding.
His big hands take your face in their holds and pulls you to him. Your lips seal the gap as yours and Michael’s hands begin to hurriedly run over each other’s bodies. Fingers move with precision and routine, recognizing the dip of your waist and the way his arms flex with every movement. Michael hadn’t lied; you knew him better than anyone, and that included his body.
You know to brush his neck with your lips because it pulls that little whimper from him. To rub over his shoulder blades so you can hear him gasp.
Your bodies twist together as Michael moves above you, pressing himself as close to you as possible─and accidentally kicking the tape recorder further into the sheets, abandoned and crumpled at the end of the bed.
The night may have started with the recording, but it’s the last of Michael’s worries now. Out of sight, out of mind. The two of you hardly notice the glowing red light beaming through the bedsheets.
You don’t notice as it records every lewd sound─heavy pants cut off by sloppy wet kisses, skin gliding across skin, faint whispers and giggles mixed in with gasps and moans; your sweet “mm, fuck, Michael” as he presses a finger between your warm folds, running the tip up and down to collect your slick in his hand and rub at your burning clit.
Or the shaky cry you let out when he pulls an orgasm from you just minutes later, his face locked between your thighs as one hand pistons two long fingers past your soaked hole, curling them inside you and working you open, pulling from you an endless string of incoherent curses and murmurs; with his lips devotedly wrapped around your sensitive nub, he groans into your cunt while your hips roll against him as you ride through the high with tear-stained cheeks.
Or the squelch of his tip pressing into your cunt and the instant slam of his hips that instantly follows; your moan and his sweet, “I got you, mama. Just feel it,” before he sets a steady pace, the girth of his length stretching open your walls in the most delicious way.
It eventually turns into a rough, heated rhythm, and the sound of skin clapping echoes throughout the room. A bead of sweat drips down Michael’s forehead. With every thrust, he buries himself so deep that his hips meet your sopping pussy with a forceful thud. Every. Time. And the pressure it put on your swollen clit was the perfect accompaniment to the feeling of him inside you.
“I love you,” he whispers endlessly. “I love you.”
A kiss to your forehead.
“I love you.”
A kiss to your teary cheek.
“I love you so much.”
A kiss to your lips, one that extends into that sweet moment where Michael’s movements begin to stutter. He envelopes you in his hold─arms tucking you close to his chest and pulling your legs inwards, which only allows him to drive deeper into you.
You instinctively wrap them around him, earning a muffled groan into your hair. “I- I l-love you, too, Mik- oh, Michael.”
His hand slithers between your bodies and towards your clit, slowly rubbing circles over it, as he kisses your neck─right on that spot where it meets your shoulder, that sensitive spot that sends shockwaves through your bloodstream.
“Fuck, baby, I-” You lose your voice when your breath catches in your throat.
"Mhm," he groans into your skin. "Feel ya openin' up for me, love, but I need ya to wait for me. Can you do that for me, baby?"
You whimper as you press your forehead against his shoulder. Your spine arches from the bed when he quickens his movements against your nub, eyes gently rolling back into your head. The physical stimulation─of his hands, his dick, his body─and the emotional stimulation─of his constant praise, his kisses, his heartbeat against yours─is entirely too overwhelming to gather any restraint.
But for him, you do. You nod through closed, teary eyes. Your hands find themselves splayed on his back, sealing you to him.
"That's my girl," Michael says. His cock pulses inside of you, and you know it's only minutes before you can finally feel your second release. You bite back a scream once his tip kisses your cervix. "Feel me there, baby. That's where I am."
He's mumbling nonsense by now, too tired and spent from late nights at the studio and endless meetings and rehearsals─but his words slur together, drunk off of you.
"I'm right there with ya."
With only a sharp, muffled groan as a warning─he hardly needs one by now─he pours himself into you. Warmth pools inside of you through hot spurts, and the heat eventually surges throughout your own body. Your heart flutters at the sensation of your second orgasm as you cry out into the sex-filled air, Michael's name falling from your lips like it was the only thing you knew.
"I love you," he says again, and it seals the moment.
You feel your limbs go limp, falling to your sides. Next is Michael's body lying soundly above yours, slightly but comfortably pressing against your lungs; he likes to do this sometimes and let yourselves rest for a little before cleaning up.
But the rest never comes─because he never stops.
"M-Michael," you murmur breathily.
His hips lazily roll against yours, sliding his still rock-hard length through your gummy walls and gliding past his own release. He feels it soak the base of his shaft, and he groans, raw and passionately, into the air. The sound of his pleasure─how you and your body make him feel─grounds you.
"I'm sorry, baby," he whispers, dragging himself out just to fill you again.
You open your eyes and look down at him. His soft, usually styled curls are now messily splayed from his face like rays from the sun. Some of them stick to his skin with sweat, which glistens in the low bedroom light.
"What're you-" You begin to say before gasping when he switches the angle of his hips, now reaching a new and deeper corner of your warmth.
At the edge of the bed, the tape recorder whirs. It catches the soft, wet sounds of your combined releases trickling out of you as Michael continues to plunge inside of you. A gentle, pleasurable sting follows each thrust, and even if you wanted him to stop, you don't have the energy to tell him. Your muscles slowly begin to contract from the stimulation of his girth splitting you open again as if he hadn't just minutes ago.
"I-" Michael chokes and holds onto you like you're made of liquid light. "I'm sorry. I can't stop. I just-"
"'S okay," you slur, desperate for any feel of him you can get. His arms somehow press you to him even closer as he ruts into you. You wonder to yourself when the night will end, and you hope it never will. "Feels s-so good."
"Oh, I know, sweetheart," he groans, one hand snaking up your back and intertwining itself with your hair. "Feels good f'me, too."
His fingers gently tug at your roots, pulling a deep groan from you.
"I just can't stop lovin' you, angel."
Needless to say, edits were made to the tape later on, personally by Michael himself, who was certainly surprised when he played the tape back with you. He dubbed a copy of the original—as per your request—and kept it locked away in your New York apartment from prying, raiding eyes. When the album was released, you relived that night every time you restarted the track. You never thought it was weird. Certainly not creepy. When Michael removed it from new pressings, you understood. It was only fair. It meant absolutely nothing to you because your love didn't exist for viewers' pleasure. You and Michael were infatuated with each other—until you weren't.
Until secrets were kept and lies were turned inside-out, leaving the air between you two stale with contempt and suspicion. Until somewhere, along the way, a wrong turn was taken, and you couldn't remember who was at fault. By then, you were glad he'd cut the recording, though, deep down, it was just another reminder of how you were, once again, out of his life.
contents: 18+, dom!reader + sub!perv bsf michael + ?friends to lovers? + shopping together + public play + oral (m receives) + ruined o + reader is black and there's a mention of skin tone, but anyone can enjoy
stumbled upon this ad from vs and fell in love w the first outfit. time period is imagined to be the early 80s, but think abt whatever era you see fit, triumph, thriller, thrad, idm!
wc 2.5k
Stretching out your manicured hand in front of you for no reason other to admire your fresh set, you nudged your childhood best friend, Michael, trying to get his attention as he was fiddling with his new watch on his wrist. You two walked aimlessly at the mall, strolling past the food court now, searching for the next store that would catch both of your eye.
“Michael.” His doe eyes immediately snapped to your attention.
“Just got em’ done yesterday.” You placed your hand in his field of view, shaking it back and forth.
“Cute! They look nice, really nice..” He said the latter part of his sentence in a lower tone, making you raise a brow.
“What’s that mean?!” You shoved him playfully, thinking it was a dig.
“Nothing! Nothing. Promise.” He shielded himself from your shoulder, letting out an airy laugh. But little did you know, that ‘dig’ was none of the sort. Michael was a self proclaimed master at this— sneaking in sly perverted comments towards you without you noticing. All he could think of when he saw your manicure was how good your hands would look while wrapped his leaking... he had to stop himself from finishing the thought. He was delighted at the fact that you often had no clue, it further fed his growing crush for you.
Going back to looking around the mall, you passed a Spencer Gifts before you spotted a Victoria’s Secret. You let out a gasp at the sight, excitement running through you as the store was gaining popularity in the papers lately for its cute lingerie.
“Victoria’s Secret…” You mumbled, stopping to think as Michael followed in your footsteps. “I probably shouldn’t spend my money in there.” You lied out loud, knowing you wanted to go in, but were trying to think of Michael as he may be bored or put off by the sexy ‘girly’ store.
“No!” He interjected, awfully loudly, toning it down so he wouldn’t sound crazy.
“No.. I mean, like a late birthday present. I’ll pay for it,” He proposed with a small smile, making your face light up. Your birthday was like 2 months ago.. but you had no room to complain when free shit was being offered. You gave him a tight hug, completely squishing your breasts in between the two of you, deciding today was the perfect day to go braless.
“You’re the best!” You beamed, sighing happily into his shoulder. Michael in turn wrapped his arms around your upper back, pulling you closer. You thought nothing of it, he was your best friend. But he couldn’t contain the large smile that was plastered across his face behind your back, giddy at the way he could perfectly feel the plush of your breasts and the slight prod of your nipples against his chest.
Walking into the store, you two were greeted kindly by a woman before you made your way to the bras, pulling open the drawer of your size to browse the undergarments. You mumbled small ‘Ooh, cute’’s and hummed to yourself as you weighed your options, becoming increasingly indecisive, and as soon as you raised your head to ask for Michael’s opinion, you noticed he was no where to be found. Scanning the place to look for him, you finally caught sight of him, looking at slip on dresses. You briefly looked at the mannequins around him before your eyes stopped at a red, see through lace bodysuit. It was the most gorgeous thing you’d seen in a while, and you needed it as soon as possible. You quickly walked over to the rack and promptly plucked it off, along with the matching fluffy red heels from the shelf, tapping Michael to get his attention.
“Look at this.”
“That’s wonderful,” His eyes flickered back and forth between your body and the bodysuit, obviously trying to imagine what it would like on you. “Try it on!” You took notice to his staring and began to blush.
“Really?”
“Yeah, if i’m gonna spend,” He grabbed the fabric and shoes to look at the tags, “80 dollars on this.. it better fit you perfectly.”
With that, you couldn’t rush quicker to the dressing rooms, and Michael purposely walked behind you, silently celebrating in his head and cheesing like an idiot.
❤︎
You admired your body in the mirror of the dressing room, now clad in the red lace and fluffy heels, cheeks growing hot as you thought of what could happen if someone saw you in this. You kept your cheeky underwear on just in case you decided you didn’t want it, but since you went braless, your nipples beautifully poked through the fabric, and the contrast of the dark red on your brown skin was to die for. You couldn't help but stare, in a daze.
“Hey! Are you done? Show me.” You snapped out of your trance as Michael called out from outside, tapping on the curtain that separated the two of you.
“Are you sure, Mike? This is pretty revealing..” You let out an awkward laugh.
“We’ve been friends since we were in diapers.. what are you talkin’ about?”
“Okay.. yeah, come in.” You riddled your head of any weird thoughts and stood to the side as he slowly pulled back the curtain, his bambi eyes peering from behind playfully. The dressing room was shockingly large, accompanied by a little chairs to sit down on, fitting as plenty of women got fitted by the workers with their partners there.
“Well..?” You let out a laugh as he fully stepped in, a shy smile now on his face as his eyes met yours, letting them slowly travel down your body as he took it all in.
“I love it,” Michael let out a large sigh before walking closer to you, pulling on the fabric that clung to your sides. “This is beautiful on you, y/n.”
You felt yourself relax at his comments, although still feeling shy at his intrusion of your space. “You think so?”
“Of course,” He stepped back and sat down on the chair across from you, hands settled in his lap. “You gotta model it, girl. Do a twirl, somethin’.”
You felt yourself blush as you spun around, taking him up on his challenge, posing with your backside out, to which he let out a low “Wooow” that slipped past your ears. You got more and more confident as you continued to do more silly little poses, his eyes not knowing where to settle.
“If a guy saw me in this..?” You whispered, an attempt to act sexy as you playfully strutted towards him, running your hands down his thighs as if you were giving him a dance. “He’d probably faint.” You stood back up, and without thinking much, you swiftly stepped on the tiny space of chair that was left in between his legs, just inches away from his crotch. Michael’s eyes went wide at the sudden action, and you completely froze when you saw his reaction, realizing you probably went overboard.
You awkwardly took your heeled foot down and opened your mouth to apologize, but with a quick glance at him again, your gut told you that something was up. His cheeks were almost as red as your bodysuit, his hands were questionably placed over jeans, and his chest rose more than usual…. was he getting a kick out of this?
“Michael? Why are you,” You questioned, close to a whisper, slowly reaching a hand to pluck one of his away from his lap. There was an unmistakable tent in his jeans.
“You’re.. what the fuck?” You felt your heart stop, the awareness hitting you like a truck. Michael’s breath came out in hard puffs through his nose now, the air in the dressing room now feeling completely different.
“Is this because of me?” Is all you could get out, utterly confused, and the younger below you stammered over his words as he tried to come up with a good answer.
“No, It’s just.. um,” He started, embarrassment flooding his body as he looked down at his lap to avert your gaze. “I couldn’t control it. Believe me.” He lied through his teeth, trying to decide whether or not this was the worst or best moment of his life.
You laughed in disbelief at him, your brain shuffling through all the events that had just happened up to now.
“No. You like me, Michael. You like this,” You looked to the side into the mirror. “Just wanted to see me in some lingerie so you could touch yourself later or something? You're a pervert.” You babbled, trying to piece together something out loud as frustration took over you. How did you not realize this? You pressed hard as you suddenly ran your hand over his bulge, confirming two of your assumptions: he was without question, hard as a rock and most importantly, huge.
“Don’t touch it like that...” His voice came out meek, helpless as his breath got caught in his throat.
“Why? Cause you’ll get even more turned on?” You were pissed. Your best friend just hid the fact that he had an obvious crush on you, and essentially used your friendship to get some new goddamn fap material for later. But what truly, really made you irritated was the fact that there was an undeniable wetness blossoming in between your legs from the thought of him getting off to you without you knowing.
“No. Shut up.” His eyes met your face again, trying to read your expression.
“Let’s just leave, Michael.” You promptly stood up and began to walk towards your stuff.
“Don’t do this to me,” He croaked out, a small whine escaping him from behind you. “You can’t do that and then just leave me hanging.”
And with that, you found yourself hovering over him again quicker than you walked away. You hesitantly extended your hand towards him, grazing your fingers over his neck to stop at his chin, pulling it up to get a better look at his face. His eyes weren’t even looking at your face, but at the way your breasts were almost spilling out of the low cut of the bodysuit as you leaned over him. You cursed to yourself as you bent down even further to kiss him, slow and steady as you tried to find your footing.
You pulled back, breathing heavy now to admire his flushed face. You raised a brow at him, giving him one last out before he gripped your lower waist, eyes pleading.
“Don’t make any noise, okay?” You said, hushed. Your hands fumbled with his jeans, moving them down just enough to give you access to where you wanted him. He wore his typical, Calvin Klein briefs, but they were accompanied by an opening where is length was, obviously for taking himself in and out without too much effort. You scoffed at the sight as you pulled him out from his confinement, watching as his top row of teeth sank into his bottom lip.
“Of course you would wear these.” You began to grind your palm over his head, hand stroking him painfully slow down his cock as you spread his pre-cum over it. He let out a needy noise at the stimulation, already too loud for your liking.
“I’m sorry.” He said breathily, completely guilty, head spinning as he attempted to wrap his head around the fact that you were touching him like this. You smiled at his little admission mixed with apology, using just two fingers to stroke him now.
“I wish you would’ve just told me, Michael.”
“Mhm, I- shit.. wanted to, one of these days,” He let out a moan as your fingers came up to squeeze at his head. “Can’t talk when you’re doing that.” You anxiously peered through the small opening between the curtain and the outside before placing a slap to the side of his dick.
“You’re bein’ loud. And when we get caught,” You fully wrapped your hand around him again, going even faster this time. The only thing he could focus on was the way your nails shimmered in the light as you pumped him, completely validating his thought that your hands would look so good wrapped around his leaking dick. “I’m blaming it all on you.” Michael’s mouth fell open as you did this, trying to hold back his noises as his hips bucked pitifully into your touch.
“Good, just like that.” Your smile got even bigger now, throughly enjoying the effect you had on him. Feeling like you still hadn’t given him enough slack, you sank onto your knees, uncomfortably sitting on top of his feet before pressing a wet kiss to the head of his cock.
“Don’t… I’ll really get us caught.” His hips raised from his seat as you used your hand to push him back down, ignoring his warning anyway and licking a stripe over his glans. He clamped his mouth shut before a muffled moan escaped him, his leg beginning to bob under you.
“I’m serio-“ He tried to warn you again, but before he could finish, you had completely taken him in your mouth. His mouth fell open once again with a loud, broken moan, making you hit his side. He panted heavily as you slid your lips up and down his length, coming up to swirl your tongue around his tip in a way that made him cover his mouth. His body began to shake as he whined into his hand, the other coming to gently grab a hold of your hair as you continued to make love to his dick.
You hummed as your mouth was stuffed full of him, just about to give attention somewhere else before you heard faint footsteps come your way. You immediately froze at the noise, squeezing Michael’s thigh as a way to tell him to seriously shut up.
“Dressing room number 7? Here you go, young lady,” It was the voice of one of the workers leading someone in across from you. For no other reason than to get his heart beating, Michael slowly moved his hips upward, rubbing his head against your tounge before a muffled ‘Mm!’ left his throat, large and deep gasps following as his orgasm unexpectedly began to take over. Your eyes went wide as he pulsed in your mouth, his healthy, thick ropes of his cum spilling into your mouth and now threatening to overflow.
You firmly held his hips down again before biting down onto him gently, quickly ruining the majority of his orgasm. His back arched as he tried to control himself, trying not to let the bliss he was experiencing seep away, but it was far too late. Your heart pounded in your ears from the adrenaline as you swallowed what you could, both you and Michael’s labored breathing being the only thing audible aside from the music playing in the background of the store. There was a noticeable silence coming from outside of the dressing room, and you swore you two were over with, until the employee spoke up.
“L-let me know if you need anything.” Was all you heard before the footsteps faded down the corridor. You finally let yourself breathe as you came off of him with a small ‘pop’, a not so satisfied look written on your face.
You wanted to tell him off for obvious reasons, but seeing the desperate look on his face as he let his hand fall from his mouth, along with the way his unfulfilled dick twitched in your hand, it—to your disdain, really just made you want to touch him more.
𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝘩𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚..
minty speaks! sorry for the wait on this one, i kept thinking it was trash while writing and kept rewriting stuff 💔
also, thank you guys so much for over 300 followers and all of the support lately!! i'm so happy to see that sm ppl enjoy my writing :3
first off i love love love your stories but, what if you do a story where reader and michael are dating or married or whatever and michael is teaching her some of his dance moves and stuff. it could be like fluff/angst because he gets really touchy “guiding” her on what to do
Tender Moments
Michael Jackson x Black! Fem Reader
Word Count: 561
Summary: Michael tries to teach you some of his dance moves on a late night
Tags: Fluff, fluff and more fluff, you and Michael being the happy couple you are, Michael cracking quick jokes
a/n: I got more thing I want to release today than I'm locking in and completing my ongoing series
“Michael, I don't think I can do this." You laughed softly.
"Baby, you're perfect!"
Michael's hands were on his waist as he watched you. He was trying to teach you some moves. It was the spur of the moment, as he couldn't sleep. He patted the space beside him and felt nothing. He found you in the kitchen, drinking some water. You two ended up in the expansive living room.
"Now slide one foot after the other." He made movements with his hands.
"Michael!" You huffed as you stopped. "I feel stupid."
"Here." Michael walked closer to you, putting his hands on your waist.
Michael pressed closer to you and whispered. "You were almost there."
You leaned your head back to look at his eyes. "Ain't nobody moonwalking like you."
"Yeah? But it would be great if my wife could."
You stared at him before sighing. "Okay, let me try again."
You unwrapped yourself from Michael. You walked further out, facing backward towards him. You tried to slide one foot after another, getting slight movement. You huffed before stopping. "I'm not doing this."
Michael let out an airy laugh. "Okay, let's try something different."
Michael moved around the room as he saw him pull something from the bookshelf before placing it in the home stereo system. He flicked off the lights, making the living space darker.
He walked back to you as you heard unfamiliar instrumental play. You raised an eyebrow at Michael.
"What is this?" You asked.
"Something new I'm trying for an album," Michael said.
You paused slightly as you heard his voice start to fill the space. "This is good, Michael."
He ducked his head at your praise. "It's just a demo."
"Don't tell nobody about this." He joked while pointing a finger at you. "I can sue."
"Suing your own wife." You gasped. "How could you?"
"Girl, please." Michael raised an eyebrow.
"You always like to match attitudes with me." You rolled your eyes.
"But you like it, don't you, baby?"
You stared. "Whatever."
Michael clapped his hands. "So." He walked closer to you. "I need to try out some new choreography."
"And I'm your guinea pig."
"No, you're my dance partner." Michael wrapped his arm around your waist. "Now follow my lead."
You listened as Michael guided you through what he wanted. "No, baby, like that." He lifted your arm higher.
Time went on as you and Michael talked quietly, with a quiet laugh let out once in a while. You noticed Michael's eyes on your face.
"What?"
"I love you."
You bit your lip. "I love you too."
"I would love you more if you got these moves right."
"Michael." You deadpanned at him.
"What?" Michael shrugged his shoulders. "You gotta move them hips, girl." Michael pleaded with his hands on your hips, moving them slightly.
"I'm absolutely done with you." You started to walk away from him.
"Baby, wait, I was just kidding."
"I love your hips!"
"Find a new dance partner." You turned around to glare at him before a slow smile pulled at your face. You stuck out your tongue to blow a raspberry.
"Oh, that's how you want to play?" Michael raised an eyebrow.
"Wait." You froze as Michael started to run towards you. "Oh shit."
"Come back here!" Michael said as he ran after you, your laughter filling the space.
𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ( 5.1k ) thriller!michael 𝓳ackson x childhoodbsf!popstar!reader ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡) on the night of the grammys, after two rounds of sex michael begins to cry, overcome by both insecurity and an intense adoration.
𝟏𝟖+ ; 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ⋆ ₊˚✧ﾟ. sub!michael. established relationship: husband n wife of 3 years. together for 6. notice how mike says 'sometime’ instead of sometimes, for realism hehe. . . body dysmorphia. post-coital tears. a lil angsty given the context. comfort. handjob. oral m!receiving. holding hands n talking him through it. m!orgasm. the softest blowjob u could imagine. n so many soft words. . . ;; author put her heart n soul into this btw!
♡ 𝐟𝐞𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟒, 𝓵𝒐𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔…
It was the night of the 1984 Grammy Awards, and regarding your career it had also happened to be your most successful night thus far, as both an individual and as a duo with your husband. You'd taken home six awards, and Michael had taken home eight, therefore both breaking solitary records and in turn garnering the title of most Grammys won by a married couple. It had already been clear that there weren't many others in the industry who could ever come close to the two of you, but nevertheless it was still an incredible feat to declare.
Now, following the afterparty you were home sweet home, both reeling through the aftereffects of two orgasms against the silk duvet of your mansion's master bedroom. You were so full of adoration for each other that you desperately wanted to make love all night, and therefore two rounds was really just the beginning.
Michael was laid back against the sheets, a glittery work of art in midnight blue and gold, embellishments of which your tight mini dress of the same colour was perfectly coordinated. His jacket was still on, but beneath it the buttons of his white shirt were undone below the collar to showcase his slim chest, and his slacks were shoved down just enough to expose his flushed, leaking dick, somehow not yet exhausted of itself even after it had been milked twice in quick succession. Swarovski crystals still decorated his sock-clad feet, shimmering with his jacket under the deep moonlight; and too with your crystallised blue and gold dress, where your breasts had been tugged out of the neckline. You were both twinkling, in your fabric and in your eyes as you gazed at each other.
Michael hadn't wanted to take you out of your clothes—not yet, because the sex appeal of tonight’s look was off the charts—and while you thought it the sexiest thing to be fucked passionately by your man in his own award-winning look, you needed him in the nude so badly. This surge of love you felt tonight couldn't be satisfied truly unless you were granted the opportunity to love on his whole body.
So, on his lap you got to work unbuttoning his stellar jacket, humming as you did, murmuring sweet words into his ear while you licked over his neck. He made the softest sounds in return.
"Wanna suck your dick, baby..." A kiss to his ear, while you began to palm the hard weight of his nether region, poking out through his slacks. "Is that okay?"
"Mama, oh—"
You giggled, continuing to kiss down his neck while you finally peeled the huge jacket off his thin frame.
"I love you, pretty boy," you whispered, cuddling into him as your hand pumped his cock up and down. "So much... You know that, huh?"
Michael only made a strained noise in response. You got to work removing his shirt, the last layer covering his torso, and again snuggled into his chest, your hand never letting up its movements over his achingly hard length, palm smearing pre-cum and remnants of your slick over the head, down the veiny base, and up again.
As your head rested on his bare skin, you whispered nothing but softness to him, still kissing where you could reach of your gorgeous boy, but you were so lost in your provisions of affection that you didn't give a second thought to why Michael hadn't said anything since his last orgasm. Only low moans and sighs had escaped his throat—but only slightly, and he'd been sounding as if he was holding something back, almost as if he was in some sort of pain; of course the complete opposite to how he'd been when he was plunged deep inside you just a few minutes ago. Michael Jackson, the boy who was nothing if not incredibly vocal in all aspects—most certainly including in the bedroom—hadn't said a word in three minutes.
So, when that realisation made you snap out of your so effortless loss of focus where his body was concerned, you paused your hand movements, propped yourself up on your elbow, and looked at him.
"Mikey?”
What you saw quite literally punched a hole in your heart. Michael's face was scrunched up, strained with the pain of endeavouring to force away uncontrollable emotion, and there were tears streaming down his face. He was half-turned away, so you could mostly see just his side profile, but the sight made everything clear enough all the same.
"Mm?" he murmured, silently wishing for a world where it was normal to wear aviators during indoor sex in the middle of the night. Michael hated people looking into his eyes—it was really only you that he felt entirely comfortable with, but that didn't mean that he was also comfortable with you seeing him as vulnerable as he was in that moment. It had all come upon him too fast, too insistent, and in his oxytocin-embraced arousal—both of post-orgasm and as an instinctive response to your soft caresses and whispers—he hadn't been able to conceal the strength of his sadness.
There had been times in the past where Michael had cried both during and after sex, but you'd seen the instances coming, and he hadn't tried to hide it, because he trusted you and knew you wouldn't judge. Making love with somebody so sensitive often produced that reaction, and even though you didn't like to see your husband cry, it was a beautiful, most cherished thing to witness such a visceral reaction at the hands of your intimacy.
Now however, he had tried to hide. Michael was more embarrassed than usual, and had spent the last two minutes desperately attempting to cut short his tears, because the reason for them was causing him too much strife.
Immediately, you tucked your breasts back into your dress, then sat on his lap sideways and wrapped your arms around his neck, cradling his melancholy face in a hand that gently turned him to face you. "Baby, talk to me... Everythin' was just fine, what happened?"
"No, 'm okay," he sniffled, wiping profusely at his cheeks and refusing to look up at you. His gaze stayed at your chest, pretty lashes fluttering with every wet blink.
"Michael—tell me right now, honey," you whispered, stroking through his curls in equal timing with how you stroked the line of his jaw. "D'you wanna stop 'n go to sleep? Cuddle...? Watch somethin' on TV?"
He took a deep breath, leaning his head further back onto the headboard. His cock was softening already, as his emotions overrode any excess arousal.
"Um..."
"Hm?" You were patient with him, knowing how difficult it often was for him to open up about his most sensitive feelings, especially while in such a vulnerable moment. You began to press kisses all over his face, slowly, to both express your unwavering non-judgement and to act as a sedative in calming him down.
"Uh, I was thinkin' about... earlier," he began.
"Yeah?"
"Y'know sometime, I get stuck in my head and... I start overthinkin' about stuff. Little things but... they mean a lot to me."
He almost started to cry again, but this time he stopped himself. He couldn't prevent the crack in his voice however, and upon hearing it you instinctively held him to your chest, resting his head against your breasts as you leaned on his frame. You were silent, allowing him to explain in his own time.
"You're gonna think 'm silly," he muttered against your skin.
"Shh," you cooed. "What's silly is if you don't tell me. So please do, honey."
"Okay..." He took another deep breath. "Um. Y'know when I took my glasses off? 'Cause Katharine told me to?"
"Mhm," you nodded.
"Remember I told you I really didn't want to..."
"Yes, and then I told you that all the girls up in the balcony wanted to see your pretty eyes," you laughed softly, still stroking his hair and face, but Michael didn't even so much as crack a slight smile.
"Mm..." He looked dissociative from where you could see his face pressed adorably into you, and your heart ached with worry at whatever was the matter.
"Carry on, baby," you whispered.
"I just... really didn't want to take 'em off. Tha's all. Um... y'know I hate people lookin' into my eyes and... I already felt real self-conscious anyway, uh, so—" His words began to eat into each other as his anxiety quickened in his tight chest, still worrying that you'd think him ridiculous. "’s been in my mind all night, 'n it's why I hardly ate any of the food... I just wanted to go home, but I had to keep smilin' for the cameras."
"I know that, angel, but—"
"An' one other thing. Your body was distractin' me just before. I got lost in y' as always... an' I was so ready for another round, but then y' started takin' my clothes off, whisperin' things to me so softly an' I just got all in my head again.”
"But why would that be a bad thing, baby? For me to undress you and whisper to you? I thought you were getting too hot in your clothes—the jacket in particular is quite heavy, so..."
Another strained breath from his throat, aside a hiccup and another sniffle, and then there was a stretched out silence.
"I hate the way I look," Michael murmured, so quietly that the muffle almost got muted against your chest.
As soon as you heard the words, you understood, and your pained heart constricted. Your husband struggled horribly with body dysmorphia, and while he could seem the most confident man in the world when he was out in front of the cameras, you knew that it was almost always a mask.
Sometimes, the dysmorphic worry would strike him harsher than usual. Tonight was one of those times.
"Michael... You know—"
"I like my outfit... really, I think I looked good out there tonight—especially with you on my arm, and 'cause I was wearin' my glasses... But when I took 'em off durin' my speech, and when they made me take 'em off for the pictures after, I—" His speech broke off into tears again, and your eyes clamped shut with the same salty fluid of your own, shuffling on him and pulling him even further into your bosom.
"I just don't want 'em to see me," he whispered through tears and the strain of a voice cracked with emotion. "I wanna," sniffle, "be invisible sometime."
Oh, if only he knew just how heart-achingly beautiful he was at every second of every day. No matter what.
"Baby..." you whispered.
Michael continued, words carried by more tears. "I didn't want 'em to see into my soul. I wish I’d kept the glasses on.”
"Baby," you sighed again with more insistence, in understanding but also slightly exasperated over this same conversation you were always having. "Look at me."
You nudged his chin upward gently, making him face you. A pair of beautiful, sad doe eyes met yours, and another tear fell down the fawn's cheek.
"Listen. Nobody can see into your soul other than me."
"But—" Michael began to protest.
"Yes, I know what you wanna say—and it's true. The eyes are the window to the soul. But I believe that in order for anybody to perceive a deep, inner emotional state in somebody's eyes, that person must first care to know the truth about the individual before them. Everybody out there sees you as nothing but an eccentric popstar, and they all treat you as a source of entertainment to project their theories and their nonsense onto. You're an enigma to them—they don't know you at all, baby. They couldn't begin to understand you, no matter how hard they stare."
"But my eyes looked a lil red like I'd been cryin'..."
"Honey, I swear nobody noticed. I only noticed when I was right up close to you."
"But the cameras..."
You took hold of his hand, interlacing your fingers with his in order to soothe. "Michael, what are you so afraid of?"
He took a deep breath. "’m just insecure, and... constantly nervous when 'm out there, I guess. Whenever 'm not performin'. I hate bein' perceived by 'em all but at the same time I willingly put myself out there to be perceived. And I willingly took off my glasses..." A strained sigh. "I hate when they look at me so closely."
"Hey, listen to me," you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “You looked so incredible tonight. All anyone's talking about is how gorgeous and iconic you were."
Momentarily his eyes looked a little hopeful and brighter, but that was just a flash, and in an instant the orbs had retreated into sadness again.
"Sweetheart, you have the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen," you cooed into his ear, kissing his face a thousand times over, from forehead to chin. "Excuse my slightly overdone romanticism in advance, but whenever I look into them, I see an ocean of glistening stars. They're very expressive—of course they are—but that's never a bad thing because let me tell you..." You pulled back to look at him directly, still cradling his cheek. "I'm the only one who knows your soul. The world can't get inside—they can't permeate your inner self the way you fear so much, I promise you. But honey, even if they did—even if they knew of your sadness and of your sensitivity, it would only strengthen your character even more." Now you wrapped your arms around his frame, squeezing him gently. "Your soft nature should never make you feel insecure. It's mine to hold and take care of, and with it you show me so much love. You're my sweet, sweet angel, 'n I'm so grateful for you. Listen to every one of my love songs if you ever lose sight of that."
Now you were both crying, silently, and the tears mixed as they swam down your cheeks that were pressed against each other's. Michael wanted to move on from the vulnerability of the moment, so at the time he wouldn’t say, but really he wasn’t crying merely of insecurity. What had also overcome him was an immense adoration for his lady, and your words now were heightening that emotional effect.
"Thank you, honey," Michael sniffled, pulling back a little for a warm kiss. Your hands were still enveloped, and you ran your thumb over his knuckles absentmindedly.
"It’s you and me, forever 'n always," you grinned, smooching his nose. Finally, a small smile rose to his own cheeks, and yours grew wider as you wiped his tears.
"And your pretty smile..." you added with another slow kiss, "... born of the gentlest angel. That's what I think every time I look at you."
Michael truly did cry a lot in private. One would never expect him to be that way based solely on his public persona, but he was so incredibly sensitive that he felt his pain extremely deep, and on top of that felt the world's pain even deeper. He hated to rely on you to reassure him, but he knew your comfort was all he ever needed.
"So," you muttered into his hair, "what was that bullshit about you being too insecure to let your wife undress you? Hm?"
Michael chuckled shyly, still sniffling. "I don't know, mama, I've just been feelin' real bad about myself lately... I can't pinpoint what's botherin' me exactly, but..."
"You overthink too much, Mikey," you replied, twirling his curls through your fingers. "The most beautiful, most sexiest man on this earth is my very own husband, and I'm never gonna hesitate to get him out of his clothes, so… that means he shouldn't hesitate to let me."
Another deep breath, and then he finally smiled a little wider. "Alright."
"Yeah?" Your eyes lit up at his slight return of happiness. "We can follow this up tomorrow if you want, baby, but I just need to know whether you're refusing things because you really aren't in the mood or if it's just because you're self-conscious."
"No, um... 'm really horny... even after all that," he chuckled. "I was just nervous, but I'll try not to be."
You smiled and kissed him slow. "I love you. You're beautiful from head to toe; please trust me on that. I'd never lie to you about anything."
Michael nodded slowly, eyes still full of sorrow, but he was listening, and he was really trying.
"Relax for me,” you continued. “Forget about the world… just focus on me 'n how good I'm gonna make you feel. Wanna make you cum again, baby.”
Michael would never wholeheartedly trust in your reassuring words regarding his appearance, but it was enough that he might do so slightly in moments like these, where you were prepared to deliver the most sensuous exhibition of your adoration.
You kissed his nose and gave him a momentary hug, before climbing off his lap and kneeling on the bed to rid him of the rest of his clothes, happily sliding down his slacks to throw them to an unknown area of the room. His hardening cock stood up perfectly in your line of vision, and your mouth watered at the sight.
Above you, propped up against the headboard, Michael's eyes were shut, his breathing slow and measured while in the process of allowing himself to relax into the intimacy. It was so admirable how your relationship held a perfect balance between giving and receiving such careful pleasure as this.
After slowly kissing down his lean torso, with particular attention to his navel, you resumed the movements of your hand up and down the length of him, returning him to his fully hardened weight in no time. The soft sounds he made were those of perfection, and his dick was so, so pretty.
A deep brown, flushed mauve at the tip, veins running along the underside and through the base… He was so huge in your hand, girth unbelievably thick. You needed a taste badly.
And as you admired the sight, squeezing and pumping and provoking the most heavenly sounds from the man before you, he wanted an additional component too.
“Honey…” Michael moaned.
“Yes, baby?” You pressed an open-mouthed kiss to his leaking tip, and his thighs twitched in pleasant surprise.
“Oh—”
You giggled, still toying with his member, and through strained noises, he managed to say what he intended. “Uh… oh baby, mm—would y’ take your dress off for me, sweetheart? Wanna—mmph—see all of y’ now…”
“Of course, handsome—whatever you want,” you beamed, sitting up straight on your knees and turning so that your back faced Michael, gesturing for him to unzip.
After he'd tugged down the zipper, you shimmied out of the fabric, tossing it somewhere, then returning to love on his sex. When you took him into your mouth again, his hips bucked up instinctively, and you chuckled as you licked up the side of his dick.
"Mm, so pretty, baby. Such a pretty boy for me, huh? Say it, honey..."
Michael never liked to compliment himself even in the most casual sort of ways, let alone during oral sex, while you cooed at him so softly and carefully, your voice alone behaving as a sweet caress. He adored the way you spoke and sucked at once, but that adoration didn't diminish his shyness.
"Mm?" You provoked him to answer your order while your hands, tongue and lips continued to affect their magic to his most sensitive area.
"Pretty boy..." you repeated, kissing along the veins leading to the tip. "Y'hear me? Tell me you’re listenin’ to me, Michael..."
There was something about the way you used his real name in such a moment that made him feel even more flustered. You mostly used pet names for him both inside and outside of intimacy, so whenever you uttered 'Michael' all sultry and warm, that only worsened his aroused struggle.
But finally, he said what you wished—even if it was only a murmur.
"Yeah, ’m pretty—mmmh..."
Although still doubtful that he meant it and that he understood just how beautiful he truly was, hearing the utterance leave his lips was all you wanted.
"Mhm, so, so pretty..." you emphasised, trying to profess your eager point as much as possible. "Am I makin' you feel good, Mikey?"
"Mhmmm... oh yes—"
Now, peppering kitten licks and soft pecks over the head of his glistening dick, you took one of his hands in yours, where your other was still pumping up and down what of his length you couldn't treat with your mouth. You interlaced your fingers with his, throat humming sweet sounds that vibrated around him. Michael felt as though he was in heaven, and he really thought he might cry again, eyes tightly shut, lip bitten between his teeth, hips writhing relentlessly...
Most of the time in your relationship, both the giver and receiver in whatever oral circumstance didn't merely experience the sexual hits of pleasure from the act. Truthfully, the circumstances were always much deeper than that. They were spiritual, heart-aching, celestial... And it all came so naturally for two lovers this deeply entwined, using every sexual instance to display devotion and admiration, gratitude and comfort...
Tonight was the perfect example of the way you both loved on each other. Your hand held Michael's so soothingly, thumb rubbing over his knuckles while you cooed at him. Often he would squeeze at the immense pleasure, and you'd shush gently, talking him through the sensations. Never did you stop telling him how pretty and angelic he was.
"My sweet, handsome angel boy..."
"Mama, don't—"
"Don't what, baby?" you sighed against his tip, free hand playing with his balls now, teasing him into even sweeter sighs.
"Don't call me that—mmhhh—"
"Shh," you whispered, ignoring his silly protests as you sucked more open-mouthed kisses up and down all nine inches of him. "My sweet doe-eyed honey, I love you... So, so much… I wish you could see yourself the way I see you..."
Momentarily, you enveloped half of his length in your mouth, the head nearly reaching your throat; a feeling of which elicited a deep groan from the throat of Michael's, and then you pulled back with a wet pop. A string of saliva-precum fusion dragged messily against his sex.
"You're my everything, baby..." More kisses along the veins, with some dotted inside his thighs too. "I wish you could feel the way my stomach jitters with butterflies, the way my heart beats stupidly fast whenever we lay close..." You somehow managed to talk so much while never letting up a constant enacting of passionate display to where he pleasantly ached. "Like when we... mmhhh... lay here, skin to skin, limbs touchin’, kissin’ until we fall asleep... I pity the world that they can't experience what that feels like with you."
"Baby—Oh, that's real good, right there, honey..." he moaned and whined, hips bucking more fervently now, his free hand moving into your hair as his other hand squeezed and squeezed. You never let go, comforting his shaking fingers in the same way you did that time he anxiously had his first rhinoplasty—the surgery you'd begged him not to go through with, but where he’d been so deeply insecure that he wouldn’t listen.
"Yeah, like this?" you moaned, alternating between pumping his cock and kneading his balls beneath, while your tongue kept up the work of speech and sucks in equal measure. "You just keep tellin' me how you want it, baby. My beautiful husband..."
Smoothing your hand over his thin waist, he physically shuddered at the gentle quality of your touch, and he was getting seriously close to orgasm now.
"Yeah, love what y' doin', honey... Keep suckin' just like that—mmhhh—feels so—nngh—so wonderful..."
"I know, baby," you purred along the girth of him, able to tell just how nearby his climax was. That was told in the twitching on your tongue, the erratic thrust of his hips, the almost painful-sounding noises from his throat...
"You gonna cum for me, Mikey? C'mon, sweet boy, want it all on my tongue, let go for me..."
Michael didn't like to admit it aloud—again, due to his shy demeanour—but he loved the way you moaned those words to him, the way you whispered things he never believed but that sounded so beautiful coming from your pretty lips. Temporarily he would accept the praise, though it wouldn't be long before he would be sat producing silent tears again, either alone or in your hold, because the dark side of his mind would so often win.
But for the duration of moments like these at least, Michael was on cloud nine.
"Oh mama—oh, I'm so close, baby—fuck—ugh no, I shouldn't be cursin'—mmm—"
You giggled against him, so amused at how he could be in the most filthy predicament and still condemn himself for a single curse word.
"Mhm, that's it, cum on my tongue, pretty baby," you sighed sensually, before taking him as deep as you possibly could, gagging around his girth and subsequently creating a filthy production of salty, translucent slick all down your cheeks and jaw, down Michael's balls and onto the sheets below.
The words he uttered now were effectively inaudible, spilling from his lips chaotically as he arched his back, cock delving deeper into the waiting comfort of your constricted throat.
"Oh, baby, 'm gonna—'m 'bout t'—"
You pulled back—exhaling harshly—to pump harder, creating particular suction over the head. "Shh, let it happen, handsome... Want it all down my throat..."
And at that final vibration of your vocal cords over his sensitivity, Michael finally climaxed.
"Oh, yes girl—nngh, oh, baby!”
Erratic spurts of hot cum erupted as you stuck your tongue out, catching every familiar drop and swallowing eagerly. You'd never tire of his taste, nor of the satisfaction of being able to give him so much pleasure, to provoke him into this beautiful, dazed out state.
While he rode through his high, catching his breathing against the aftershocks, you continued to pepper kisses over his pretty dick, hand still in his, and giggling now at noticing faint, scattered lipstick stains. Then languorously, you opted against overstimulation, seeing just how affected your beautiful man was, and therefore chose to instead lie directly on top of him, blanketing his flushed torso. You rested your forehead on his sweat-clad skin, and kissed his lips with a gentle passion.
When you pulled back, you couldn’t help but smile. He looked incredibly gorgeous—sweat adorned every inch of his face, dragging up into his hair although taking instead the appearance of glistening sparkles, and his eyelids kept fluttering shut, almost as if he was dipping in and out of consciousness, but the sensation in his body couldn't have been more pressingly present, rendering him more corporeal than ever he’d felt.
You stroked his hair while he came back down to earth, and took great happiness in covering his damp, soft face in your sweetest kisses. At last, he finally opened his eyelids properly, and began to smile too as your eyes met his dilated pupils.
"Honey..." he murmured, wrapping his arms tight around your waist while you cupped his cheek.
"Hey, angelface," you giggled, poking his nose. "You good there?"
Michael laughed, scrunching up his face. "Y' nearly knocked me out there, mama. That mouth..." He whistled playfully, and you chuckled against his jaw.
You both must have looked into the emotions strewn within each other's eyes for at least two minutes, faces pressed so close that your lips were essentially met without movement for that long too, and the silence couldn't have been more intimate, nor could it have been more comfortable.
You thought back to who you were in your teens, or more accurately who you'd been before the age of nineteen, when you believed you were so innately incapable of dealing with such intimacy. You had been so sure that these sorts of things would forever be nothing but uncomfortable and unsuitable to your personality, but Michael had brought you into that other world with patience, and now truly you could stare into each other's eyes for a million lifetimes, wrapped tight in each other's arms, whispering the most vulnerable words imaginable.
It stunned you whenever you thought back to those earlier years. Because now, in the present moment—skin to skin, breath touching breath, limbs enshrouded by limbs—you couldn’t have felt more at home. The two of you would take care of each other this way forever and always, as you’d declared tonight.
“I love you, baby,” you murmured against his collarbone, arms hugging his neck. “Wanna watch Peter Pan?”
“Mm, I love you more, Tink,” Michael smiled, kissing your head. “'n yeah, I wanna, but… first would you, uh… would y’ make love to me again? On top this time… Just before we watch the movie.”
You giggled with him. “Of course, Mikey. Best of both worlds.”
And so you continued your night of sex against the moonlight, so soft and slow with Michael still mostly retaining submission in his craving to be taken care of. Then, you relished in the comfort of each other’s aftercare as you got lost in the world of his comfort character fluttering across the grainy screen.
Your sweetheart’s head laid on your naked breasts while you stroked through his hair. It had only been a month since the horrific Pepsi incident had irreversibly burned his scalp, so you had to be careful with the way you touched the area, always conscious of keeping him pain-free.
Michael felt safer than ever in your arms, and despite his recent bout of insomnia, he didn’t take too long to fall asleep, the distant hum of the television playing in the background as he did. You had to leave his embrace to pull the cassette from the VCR before switching off the screen, and he groaned in protest when you did, waking up momentarily.
But soon enough you’d returned to holding him, nestling him against your chest, kissing his head to guide him into drifting off again. Legs entwined, bodies fitted perfectly into one another, you wished you could freeze time and refuse to face the noise of tomorrow, but you could only dream of such a miracle.
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authors note: i imagined this specific michael while writing this!
'i left it in here somewhere,' michael mumbles to himself.
the california summer heat suffocates michael's trailer as he searches for his camcorder, needing all the behind-the-scenes footage he can get for his speed demon music video. sweat drips from michael's curls and down his temple, tickling the side of his face as he rummages through piles of clothes and accessories left scattered around.
three loud bangs rattle the side of the trailer, followed by a muffled 'hurry up!', making michael roll his eyes in annoyance. 'i'm look'n!' he huffs, the thick jacket only making the relentless heat worse.
michael's fingertips finally graze the glass lens of his camcorder, buried underneath a pile of pillows on the sofa. he wraps his hand around the body and tugs it free, inspecting the camera for any damage before letting out a quiet sigh of relief. gently, michael grabs the hem of his button up and wipes the lens clean.
flicking the power button on, the viewfinder flickers to life with a soft electronic whir. michael starts to play with the settings, trying to find the right coloring for the bright california sun. his tongue peaks out in concentration as he fumbles with the camcorder, trying to remember which buttons lead to what setting. you always knew how to work this thing better than he did-- though he'd never admit it aloud.
as michael makes his way to the door, he notices a small indicator that catches his eye. the tape isn't blank.
his brows knit together in confusion. he could've sworn he popped in a new tape a couple days ago to make room for today's shot.
curious, michael switches the camcorder into playback mode. the screen flickers for a brief moment before settling on a video you recorded last night.
you're wearing his button-up-- the one you wore to bed last night-- and the sight of you draws a small, involuntary smile on his face. michael lets out a surprised breath as he presses the play button, abandoning the door in favor for the sofa once again. nestling back into the cushions, he lets production wait. they can spare a couple more minutes.
the video crackles for a few seconds before loading onto your face. you beam into the camera, letting those deep dimples michael adores so much, settle into your cheeks.
'hi mikey,' you say warmly. 'i hope everything's going well. i miss you baby.'
his smile grows without him even realizing. after a day of hearing directors bark orders, crew members calling his name, and music blaring from every corner, your voice is the only thing he wants to hear. it fills the trailer with a warmth, the california sun couldn't provide even on its worst day.
you set the camera down on the bed you shared, letting it capture your full body in the frame, and let your fingers grasp the top button of michael's shirt--popping them open one by one.
'hopefully you missed me just as much as i missed you.'
michael's eyes widen like saucers as he watches you unbutton his shirt to reveal absolutely nothing underneath. not even those cute little lace panties you loved to wear around him. just your golden-brown skin glistening from all the body butters you used. he can almost smell you through the camera, remembering how you smelled when he climbed into bed beside you last night.
he watches as you spread the shirt apart, giving him full view of your breasts. nipples erect as they greet the cold air and michael's hungry eyes. you slide your hands up your belly, cupping each breast in your hands, squeezing the flesh and rolling the nipple between your fingers.
'ohh fuck,' he hears you whisper, lightly wincing at your mouth as you tug harshly on the bud before letting your breast snap back in place.
if anyone were to come in and hear your lewd moans and whimpers, he'd never live to see another day. it took him completely by surprise that you left him such a video, meant for his eyes only. seeing you grope yourself, for him, made the tent in his pants stand tall. you must've recorded this before he came home from rehearsal.
you lean back on your hands, hiking your thighs up and spreading them wide, flashing your juicy cunt straight at the camera. michael lets out a silent gasp as he sees the light reflect off your lips. like they're drooling at the sight of being filmed. oh, what he'd give to have a taste.
a moan slips from your mouth as you bring your hand to your cunt, dipping into your entrance to collect some slick before heading up to your clit.
'oh minnie... my sweet girl,' he mewls, entranced with the way your fingers rush and circle over your nub, desperate for some sort of stimulation. you even took it a step further by giving yourself a few soft smacks against your cunt before swirling your fingertips with such sloppiness, michael had to close his eyes to regulate his nervous system. his angel was behaving so nasty, it made shivers go down his spine.
it was just too much. all he can hear was you and your pussy crying for him. begging to be touched and soothed by him. and all he can think of was 'how could you film such perversion and then crawl into bed beside him as if you hadn't just sealed his fate? kiss him goodbye and send him on his way, knowing you left behind a piece of yourself he'd cherish deeply.'
a gasp catches in your throat and michael snaps his eyes open, taking in a sight so divine it left him speechless.
'mmm papa...,' you whine, plunging two slender fingers in and out of your sopping cunt. drops of your essence splatter from your cunt and smear along the inside of your thighs. it's like watching his favorite artist paint a piece in real time. the pace you're giving yourself so quick and sharp that michael fights a scowl, not appreciating the way you're rushing. he really wanted you to take your time, show him exactly how you want it.
if only he knew of your surreptitious video before he was out of your vicinity. he would've put you right through the mattress.
your shaky moans and tiny gasps of air rewrite the chemistry in his brain. it's like he's witnessing an erotic scene for the first time. every squelch from your cunt has him seeing stars. every eyebrow scrunch and lip quiver you throw out when your fingers graze that delicious spot, makes the room spin around him. every pump of your digits brings him one step closer to an untouched orgasm.
he can't escape this spell you've placed him under. you're everywhere. in his ears, right in front of his face. he can even feel the tightness of your walls surround him as you clench around your fingers. vacuuming them inside with greed.
he can't think. he can't even breathe. you must've known what this was going to do to him, right? that's why you did it in the first place?
michael’s eyes glaze over as you buck your cunt onto your fingers. whines reaching that high pitch tone you develop when you’re so close. the muscles in your stomach contract as your body edges the brink of euphoria.
‘c’mon angel, almos’ there,’ michael urges, antsy to watch you unravel for him when he notices how tired you’re getting. your pace faltering until it's nothing but a slow, harsh pump. palm slapping your clit as you stuff your fingers until you can’t anymore. it was truly enamoring.
you slam your palm down a couple more times, chasing that dual stimulation before shaking your hand aggressively, seeming to have found that spot that makes you twitch. michael watches as your back arches deeply before your head whips back.
a violent stream gushes from you and straight at the camera lens. drowning and warping the video with your essence as a loud cry tears from your throat. so beautiful and raw that michael moans with you. feeling as though he’s riding this wave with you.
your body collapses back on itself, chest heaving, as you try to overcome the aftershocks that crash upon you with no mercy. every twitch bringing on a new surge of pleasure, numbing your brain to complete mush.
it takes a second for you to gain your senses, and when you do you rise to meet the camera with the cutest lazy smile michael’s ever seen. a fucked out smile that lets him know you’ve achieved your goal. the hand you squirted on, still dripping, reaches to end the video. leaving michael in complete silence with his thoughts.
‘bang bang bang’
michael jolts at the sudden pounding on his door, clutching the camera tight against his chest as he feels his heart leap into his throat. without bothering to see who's there, he flicks the power button off, the sharp snap cutting through the silence .
‘mike, did you find it?’ bill’s muffled voice calls through the door, laced with growing urgency. michael fumbles with the tape compartment, popping it open before pulling the tape free with shaky fingers. he quickly stuffs it between sofa cushions, making sure it disappears from sight.
‘im comin’!’
with reluctance, michael stands from the sofa, lightly cringing at the pool of pre-cum dribbling down his thighs. he reaches down, rubbing his nectar into his boxers as he makes his way out of the trailer. already constructing a plan dedicated for you when he gets home.
authors note: currently working on a long smut/angst oneshot that's so nasty and offers no comfort (at least for part one..), y'all will struggle figuring out if you hate me or love me.
you’ve spent months pretending that the lingering kisses, lingering hugs, and lingering feelings between you and michael don’t mean anything. but after one movie night at hayvenhurst, the line between friendship and love becomes impossible to ignore.
ೀ 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 .ᐟ ⊹ mdni 𑣲 thriller era!michael. friends to lovers. mutual pining. “we’re just friends”. first time together. oral (f receiving). penetrative sex. praise. needy!reader. shy!michael. lovesick idiots. kissing. yearning. mutual confessions. pet names; baby, favorite girl. established emotional connection. soft aftercare. fluff & smut. no use of y/n. slight mention of j*e
wk 5.7k
DECEMBER 9, 1984.
“Janet, I couldn’t possibly do that… isn’t that more of a family thing?” you heard her smack her teeth on the other end of the line.
“Girl, you are family, and besides, I don’t see a problem with you hanging out with all of us. I know Michael would be surprised seeing your face after these long, dreadful months,” she teased, and all you could do was sigh. You and Michael have been friends for quite some time now, and you weren’t sure if your relationship was completely platonic.
Both of you shared intimate moments—kisses, hugs—that hinted at a romantic relationship, yet neither of you ever confessed.
“Fine, Janet, I’ll go! But not because I want to see Michael, so don’t even try to pester me with your restless teasing,” she responded with high-pitched ‘mhhmmm’
“Well, get ready. Because we’re heading out tonight! I’ll get one of my guards to take us there,” she said, “what ti—“
“Oh! and make sure you wear something cute, okay?” She didn’t even say goodbye; she just hung up the phone. What exactly were you going to wear that was considered cute? It’s freezing like hell outside. Considering when you first moved to California you thought it would be warm, even during winter.
But, no. It’s always between 40-60 degrees outside.
You got up and searched through your closet and drawers, picking out a warm knitted sweater and some bell-bottoms that hugged your hips and seat perfectly before flaring out at the knee.
Janet picked you up later that night, as you wrapped your arms around your body while the cold air hit your face, “bell bottoms? Girl, what is this, the 70s?” Janet said, You rolled your eyes, 'it’s too cold to dress ‘cute’ in your terms.” You slid into the car, and Janet was right behind you.
The drive wasn’t really long, and it wasn’t quiet either. You and Janet loved to have your discussions, of course, she teased you a bit more about you wanting to come along, as if she didn’t ask, always bringing up ‘Michael this’ or ‘Michael that’. At one point, she could tell you were visibly annoyed, and she switched the topic.
You arrived at the venue together, stepping out of the car as the cold evening air nipped at your cheeks. Janet shut the door behind her and pulled her coat tighter around herself. Together, you guys made your way toward the entrance, where Bill was already waiting.
“Hey, Bill!” Janet screamed from the other end, waving her hand around lazily. Bill laughed, shaking his head. “Well, look who finally showed up.” His eyes landed on you. “Didn’t know your little friend was comin’ along.”
“They’d be glad to see both of ya’.”
“I’d be even gladder if you’d let us inside,” you replied, rubbing your hands together. “It’s freezin’ out here.”
Bill barked out a laugh as he reached for the door. “Always got somethin’ smart to say.” You gave him a little courtesy bow in return, with a huge grin on your face. He rolled his eyes playfully before holding the door open.
Heading in first, as Janet shuffled in behind you, letting out a sigh of relief as the warmth washed over you, Janet immediately ran over to Marlon to make fun of him, Randy, and Jermaine bickering with each other. A slight smile formed on your lips as you relaxed your arms and walked over to Michael.
He stood a few feet away, deep in conversation with Jackie. Your eyes were fixated on the curve of his nose, the softness of his lips as he spoke, the sharp line of his jaw, and the loose curls that rested effortlessly against his forehead.
“Michael.” Your voice is quiet and composed. As he turns his head, you watch those beautiful, big doe eyes brighten with genuine warmth. Almost sparkling, he walks towards you and swoops you into a comforting hug.
“Here we go," Jackie mutters softly under his breath before walking away to sit next to Marlon and Janet.
Michael was warm and slightly sweaty. “I didn’t know you were comin’,” he murmured against your shoulder. continuing to hold you in a comforting embrace.
“Janet sort of dragged me out here, but I thought it’d be good to see all of you, especially knowing how tough it might've been for y'all." You gently moved back from the hug, looked him in the eyes with understanding, and offered a warm smile, noticing his hands still resting around your waist as they gradually moved lower, reaching the edge of your ass.
“Mm, I would usually complain about how much I hate touring, but now that you’re here. I feel so much better.” His hands left the lower area of your waist as they moved to intertwine with yours, holding one up to place a gentle kiss on the back of your hand. Your face flushed, warm. And soothing moments like these made you melt. If only you could kiss him right here, right now.
“I don’t understand why y’all won’t date already,” Jermaine pitched in, as the rest of the siblings exchanged laughter.
“We’re just frien-”
“We’re just friends,” Randy finished in a perfectly deadpan voice before Michael could. Another wave of laughter filled the room. Michael narrowed his eyes. “Oh, you think you're funny?” Randy barely had time to react before Michael lunged playfully, hooking an arm around his shoulders.
“Mike—man, get off me!” Randy squirmed around as he struggled to be let free. “Oh, now it ain’t funny?” The two wrestled around the room while Jermaine doubled over laughing, Marlon nearly fell off the couch.
Janet pinched the bridge of her nose. “Would y’all please act like grown men for five minutes?” All you could do was laugh.
“Guys, it’s gettin’ late. I’m ready to go home, Joseph should be bustin’ through this door any minute now,” Jermaine interrupted, glancing over at the entrance. The brothers had already started gathering their jackets and bags, still throwing little comments at each other as they did so. There was no clue what Joseph could have possibly been doing for this long.
Michael was walking up to you again, offering you a seat in one of the stylists’ chairs. You took it as he stood behind you, his hands resting on the back of the chair seat, his figure lingering behind you. “Where’d he even disappear to?” Marlon wondered aloud.
“No tellin’,” Jackie replied with a shrug. “Probably talkin’ somebody’s ear off.”
“Yeah, I’ll meet you guys back home then?” Janet inquired as she looked between all of you, “and I’ll take ya’ back home.” She said smiling to you as you messed around with your thumbs.
“Hey, how about tomorrow we all settle in for a nice movie night? Somethin’ chill,” Jackie suggested, looking around at everyone. The brothers exchanged nods, a few of them mumbling quiet agreements.
“I like that idea,” Michael said, a smile slipping onto his face. You could hear it in his voice, the soft bass in his throat making the words come out warm.
“Okay, well, I guess we better get goin’.” Janet stood from the couch, slipping her coat back on as everyone else began saying their goodbyes.
You pushed yourself up from the stylist’s chair, smoothing out your clothes before you felt a gentle hand wrap around your forearm.
You turned around.
Michael looked at you with those big brown puppy eyes, his lips curling into the smallest smile. His gaze flickered over your shoulder, making sure nobody was paying attention before he stepped in just a little closer. Without saying a word, he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss against your cheek.
The warmth lingered. Your hand instinctively lifted to the spot he’d kissed, your fingertips resting there as your face grew warm.
“I’ll see y’ tomorrow… ’kay?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips as you quietly mouthed, “Okay.”
His fingers slowly slipped away from your forearm, lingering for just a second before letting go completely.
“Bye, guys,” you called, waving to the brothers as they returned their goodbyes. Then, with one last glance over your shoulder, you followed Janet out the door and headed home.
That night, all you could think about was the kiss goodbye. You and Michael had kissed before, and not just on the cheek. You’d had your makeout sessions, your quiet, intimate moments together that neither of you ever seemed to talk about afterward. But somehow, the two of you were still “just friends.”
You stared at the ceiling, wondering how much longer this could possibly go on before one of you finally gave in and admitted how deeply in love you were with the other. The thought made your chest feel warm for a moment, Michael’s smile flashing through your mind, the softness in his voice when he’d whispered he’d see you tomorrow.
If the two of you actually dated, what would happen if it all fell apart? You’d been friends for years. He wasn’t just someone you liked; he was woven into so many of your memories, so many of your ordinary days that had somehow become special because he was there. The idea of losing that felt worse than keeping your feelings to yourself.
A knot tightened in your stomach. Your mood shifted from pure happiness to a deep, restless anxiety, and you pulled the blanket closer around yourself as if it might quiet the thoughts circling in your head.
You were already dressed and ready, after you got off the phone with Janet this morning saying she would come get you, you’ve been pacing back forth out of nervousness. Ever since you kept thinking about the turmoil of events that could happen between you and michael, it’s been kind of hard to stay relaxed.
The doorbell rang.
“Janet.” You said enthusiastically as you pranced your way over to the door, surprise, surprise. It wasn’t Janet.
It was Michael.
“Mornin’.” Michael said, titling his head with a slight smile, “morning” you said your heart was beating out of your chest as you struggled to speak for a moment.
“Where’s janet…?” you questioned as you peeked over his shoulder, “She had to run some errands so she won’t be back until later this afternoon.” He said following your eyes as he looked behind him and then back to you, the cold air coming in from the doorway.
“Oh, shoot, you must be cold! come on inside.” you gestured him in, as he made his way past you, you waved to bill that was sitting behind the wheel of the vehicle. You gave him a small wave and held up one finger, silently telling him, just a minute, before closing the door behind you.
“Hopefully you don’t mind me takin’ you,” Michael said as you walked over to the coat closet, rubbing your hands up and down your forearms, still trying to warm yourself from the cold air that had drifted in through the open door. You reached for your small black jacket, shaking your head before slipping one arm into the sleeve.
“…No,” you replied with a soft smile. “I just wish she would’ve told me sooner. Y’know I don’t have a problem with you takin’ me anywhere, Mike.” You slipped your other arm through the sleeve and turned back to face him, smoothing the front of your jacket as your eyes met his.
Michael nodded to himself, a smile slowly pulling at the corners of his lips. “Good,” he said, almost sounding relieved. His hands disappeared into the pockets of his jacket as he glanced down at the floor for a brief second before looking back up at you. “I wanted us to have some alone time anyway before we made it back to Hayvenhurst.”
Your fingers paused on the last button of your coat.
“…Alone time?” you repeated, your voice quieter than before. “Michael, don’t start, because once you get your lil’ act goin’ you get all shy and embarrassed.” You held up your hand to cover the smile spreading across your face as you walked over to him, placing both hands on his shoulders.
He bit down on his lip almost immediately, his eyes dropping to the floor for a second before flickering back up to yours, just like you said. A faint blush dusted across his cheeks. God, he was adorable when he got like this.
“I-I don’t… It’s just, I mean—” he stumbled over his words, his hands fidgeting at the hem of his jacket. You waited patiently for him to say what he needed to, giving him a small nod of encouragement as your thumbs gently brushed against his shoulders.
“I… I haven’t seen you in so long, that’s why…” he finally managed to sputter out, letting out a nervous little laugh. “…and y’know you’re my favorite girl.” The words lingered between the two of you for a moment, hanging in the air as neither of you said anything. A smile slowly crept onto your face.
“Well…” you murmured, your eyes never leaving his. “What do you wanna do now that y’have me?”
The tension between the two of you grew thicker by the second, the space between your bodies slowly disappearing until there was barely any left. Michael searched your face for a brief moment before leaning in, pressing his soft lips against yours. You sighed into the kiss, parting your lips just enough for him to deepen it, his tongue slowly meeting yours.
The kiss got sloppy, real sloppy. Your fingers curled around the front of his jean jacket, tugging him even closer as the kiss deepened. A quiet whimper escaped your lips when his hands slid around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You could feel the way his hips instinctively buckled into yours, needy and desperate, like he’d been thinking about this.
Honk! Hooonk!
You quickly pushed yourself off of Michael as he let out whine from the departure of your lips. “I forgot Bill was waitin’,” you laughed under your breath, fixing your hair with your fingers and smoothing out your jacket while Michael awkwardly cleared his throat.
“We should get goin’,” he said, his cheeks still faintly pink as he made his way toward the front door. You grabbed your purse from the table and followed him outside, climbing into the car beside him.
The ride to Hayvenhurst was unusually quiet. Well… not too quiet. Bill would ask you a few questions here and there, trying to fill the silence. “So, what do you plan on doin’ for the rest of the winter?” he’d ask, and the conversation would carry for a minute before fading again.
Michael had his hand placed onto your thigh, rubbing small circles onto your pant leg with his thumb.
The gates at Hayvenhurst slowly came into view. You always adored how beautiful this house was. No matter how many times you came over, it still managed to amaze you. As you looked out the window, your eyes landed on Janet standing in the driveway, smiling frantically as the car rolled to a stop. You slowly turned your head and side-eyed Michael.
“You said she was runnin’ errands.”
You could practically see him getting nervous.
“She must’ve gotten back early becau—”
Before he could even finish his sentence, you opened the car door and stepped out.
“Did you set this up?” you asked as you walked toward Janet, pointing back toward the car with a curious look on your face. You weren’t mad—oh, you’d never been angry at Janet. If anything, you found the whole thing amusing. It seemed exactly like something she’d pull.
“Set what up?” she asked innocently, looking at you before glancing over at Michael. Her eyebrows slowly raised. “Oh… ohhh.” She started giggling. “Girl, I didn’t! I was out helpin’ LaToya last minute this mornin’, I swear.” She laughed again, shaking her head. “Come inside, I know it’s cold out here!”
She wrapped an arm around yours, ushering you through the front door as Michael quietly followed behind the two of you.
The living room was lively with the rest of the brothers, all of them already gathered around the television watching something that had been on before you got there. Laughter echoed throughout the room as everyone argued over whatever was playing. Michael brushed past the two of you once again, his hands lingering on your waist for just a second as he carefully squeezed by, making sure he didn’t bump into you.
Janet watched him walked right past the both of you and back to you. “So…” you looked at her a little confused, “what?” She huffed dramatically, glancing around to make sure nobody was listening before motioning for you to follow her upstairs.
“So did he say anything?” Janet asked quietly as the two of you walked up the stairs toward her room.
You blinked.
“Say what? And mind your own business, Janet.” A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.
“Oh, whatever.” She rolled her eyes, shutting the bedroom door behind the two of you before kicking off her house shoes and plopping comfortably onto her bed. “You and my brother need to start makin’ some changes, and I’m talkin’ about real quick.”
“Like… confessin’… you mean?” You watched her settle onto the bed before taking a seat on the floor, sitting criss-cross applesauce as you looked up at her.
“Yes.” Janet looked at you like the answer should’ve been obvious. “You two have been at this for months. Let alone y’all have been friends ever since I introduced you.”
She rolled over, grabbing one of her magazines off the nightstand and flipping through the pages absentmindedly.
“I know…” you sighed. “It’s just… I don’t think we’re ready.”
Janet slowly lowered the magazine just enough to give you the biggest stop bullshittin’ me look you’d ever seen.
You couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.” She snapped back
You let out a long sigh, your fingers tracing little patterns into the carpet.
“It’s not that I don’t want to date Michael. It’s just that… I don’t wanna ruin our friendship either. We’ve been friends for years, Janet. If we break up… then what?” You looked up at her, searching her face for some kind of answer.
Janet closed the magazine and set it beside her before climbing off the bed to sit next to you on the floor.
“One thing I’m gonna tell you,” she said, gently nudging your shoulder. “Michael is definitely not a heartbreak.” She smiled, wrapping an arm around yours. “You gotta go for it, girl. This lil’ situationship’s gonna drag out for both of you, and it’ll only make y’all even more frustrated.”
“Come on, y’all! We’re about to watch a movie!” a familiar voice shouted from downstairs. It was Jermaine.
“Damn, what time is it?” You looked over at Janet before scanning around her room, trying to find a clock.
“Almost noon,” she answered, glancing down at the watch around her wrist. “I guess we’re watchin’ a few movies today.” Janet pushed herself off the bed, stretching her arms above her head before offering you a hand. “C’mon.”
You slipped your hand into hers, letting her pull you up before the two of you made your way downstairs together.
Your eyes focused on michael as he fixed himself a glass of orange juice, his eyes not flicking up to you not once. You followed Janet into the living room, carefully stepping over Jermaine’s legs before settling yourself at the very end of the floor beside Marlon. Janet plopped down right next to you, crossing her legs underneath herself
“Do you guys even know what movie we’re gonna watch?” you asked, raising an eyebrow as you looked around the room. The ten seconds of silence told you no. “Well.” Jackie said to break it, “We can all look for somethin’ together…” You rolled your eyes.
“So what’d you call us down here for if you ain’t even got the movie picked out?” Janet twisted around, reaching over you just to smack him on the leg.
“Ow—!” Jackie huffed, rubbing the spot. “You gotta be so aggressive? Doesn’t findin’ somethin’ together sound like a nice idea?”
Janet was rummaging over you now trying to grab Jackie just to hit him.
“Will you two quit that?” Marlon interrupted, sliding his forearm between the two of them before Janet could swing again. “I know you didn’t come over here just to beat up on us.” He looked over at you, noticing how Janet was practically halfway in your lap. “Plus, you’re shovin’ your friend.”
“Oh—oops.” She immediately leaned back into her own spot, looking over at you with the cutest embarrassed expression on her face. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” you laughed, brushing it off before looking over at Marlon. “Thank you.”
“You’re welco—”
“Switch me spots.” Michael’s voice cut him off as he lightly tapped Marlon on the shoulder.
Marlon slowly looked up at him, then over at you, and a grin spread across his face almost instantly. He wiggled his eyebrows, looking between the two of you.
“I see what’s goin’ on here,” he teased with a chuckle.
“Marlon, shut up,” Michael laughed, trying to hide the smile creeping onto his face.
Still grinning to himself, Marlon stood up and switched places with him, making his way over to the other end of the room where Randy and Jermaine were sitting. Michael quietly settled down beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours.
His scent carried hints of warm vanilla and cocoa, faint but familiar. It always seemed to linger around him. You smiled over at him as he sat down.
“I got you somethin’ to drink,” he said softly, handing you the cup of orange juice he’d fixed for you earlier.
“Thank you.” You smiled, wrapping your hands around the cup before taking a small sip.
“Man, we’re watchin’ A Christmas Carol, it’s new!” Randy shouted, reaching over Jermaine in another attempt to snatch the remote from him.
“Y’all always fightin’. Just turn the damn movie on,” Jackie said with a laugh.
Jermaine rolled his eyes, yanking the remote right back out of Randy’s hand before getting up to slide the A Christmas Carol VHS into the player. “See? This is why I don’t let you touch nothin’,” he muttered, earning another laugh from everyone in the room.
As the opening credits began to play across the television, you found yourself scooting a little closer to Michael, gently linking your arm with his. You felt him tense for the briefest second before relaxing into it, his breathing growing just a little heavier. You glanced over at him from the corner of your eye.
Was he nervous?
Michael lifted his cup and took another sip of his orange juice before setting it down on the coffee table, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against his knee.
“I heard this was good,” he whispered, leaning in just enough so only you could hear him. “I’ve been meanin’ to watch it.”
“Yeah?” you whispered back, turning your head toward him with a small smile. You weren’t nearly as much of a film buff as Michael was. He could spend hours talking about movies without getting tired of it, going on about camera angles, and directors. Charlie Chaplin was always at the top of his list.
A smile lingered on your face as you rested your head against his shoulder.
Eventually, you got up to excuse yourself to the restroom. As you started walking away, Michael reached over and gently grabbed your wrist, stopping you for just a second.
“Where you goin’?” he asked quietly, trying not to draw anyone else’s attention.
You smiled at him, leaning down just enough to whisper back, “The restroom. I’ll be right back.”
He nodded, slowly letting go of your wrist as you made your way upstairs.
You stepped into the bathroom and quietly shut the door behind you. You had barely turned around before a soft knock echoed from the other side.
“Occupied!” you called through the door.
“…It’s Michael.”
You paused, your brows knitting together as you turned to face the door.
“Mike?” you asked, your voice laced with confusion. “Did you need somethin’ from outta here?”
Silence.
For a moment, all you could hear was the faint chatter and laughter coming from downstairs. Then you heard the soft thud of his hand resting against the door.
“You.” His answer came out almost in a whisper, the single word carrying just enough hesitation to tell you he was already embarrassed by it.
It was so quiet, so timid, that your heart nearly skipped a beat. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, a warmth forming at your core.
You opened the door just enough for him to slip inside. Michael stepped in quickly, his cheeks already flushed pink, and the moment the latch clicked behind him he leaned in and caught your lips in a kiss that felt both shy and desperate. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer while he nudged the door shut with his heel, the soft click sealing the two of you away from the noise downstairs.
“I wanted t’ pick up where we left off,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and a little shaky. You smiled into the kiss, thinking this was probably just another one of your secret make-out sessions, the kind you’d shared a handful of times. His tongue brushed yours gently, testing, and you answered with a soft hum that made his fingers tighten on your hips.
You could feel yourself getting damp just from the situation itself, the arousal pooling from underneath you.
The kiss deepened. Michael’s hands slid down to your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the sink with surprising ease. Your back met the mirror, and he stayed pressed between your legs, breathing hard. When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wide and filled with lust. His lips swollen and flushed pink.
Michael watched the way your body reacted to him, your chest rising and falling a little quicker with every passing second, your thighs instinctively tightening around his hips, your lips parted from the kisses you’d shared. He swallowed hard, his gaze lingering on you before he nervously looked back up into your eyes.
“Can I…” he started, the words catching in his throat. He took a quiet breath before trying again. “Can I… eat you out?” The question came spilling out all at once, his voice barely above a whisper. “…On the sink. Is that okay?”
You didn’t hesitate.
You nodded, your breathing uneven as you looked back at him. “Please, Mike…” Your voice came out shaky, almost pleading. “I need your mouth on me right now. I’ve been achin’ for it… please.”
He hadn’t expected that answer. Truthfully, he’d been preparing himself for you to laugh it off or tell him no, leaving the question to hang awkwardly between the two of you.
Instead, hearing the desperation in your voice made his cock twitch.
Michael let out a sound of relief before he hooked his fingers into your waistband. His movements were careful, almost hesitant, as he tugged your pants and underwear down together, easing them off one leg at a time until they pooled around your ankles and onto the floor. “So pretty.” He murmured as he saw the sight of the glistening core.
His cheeks burning as his eyes then lingered on you, almost as if he couldn’t believe you were letting him do this. Then, without another word, he slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of you like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.
He started slowly, pressing lingering kisses along the inside of your thighs, letting his lips brush against your skin as he worked his way higher. Every now and then he’d glance up at you through his lashes, searching your face for any sign that you wanted him to stop.
When his mouth finally met your slick heat, the first slow swipe of his tongue pulled a quiet gasp from your lips.
Encouraged by the sound, Michael let himself settle into the moment, his tongue moving cautiously at first as though he wanted to learn every part of you. It didn’t take long before that carefulness melted into something more eager, his confidence growing with every soft sound you made.
His hands tightened gently around your thighs, keeping them spread as he buried himself between them, completely lost in you.
You quickly brought a hand over your mouth, doing everything you could to swallow the moans threatening to escape.
The rest of the family was still downstairs watching the movie, their muffled laughter and the sound of the television drifting faintly through the floor. The last thing either of you needed was for someone to come looking for you.
Your legs began to tremble beneath his touch. Michael’s tongue moved a little faster, a little more confidently now, and you couldn’t stop the shaky moan that slipped past your fingers.
“Mmm… Mike…” you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper.
Your thighs instinctively tightened around his head, silently urging him closer. A muffled groan escaped him against you, the vibration sending a shiver through your entire body and making your hips jolt before you could stop them.
“Fuck… right there…” you whispered, your words breaking apart as you bit down on your knuckle, trying desperately to stay quiet.
Your breathing had become uneven, your chest rising and falling with every passing second as your legs continued to shake. You pressed your palm more firmly over your mouth, trying to muffle every sound threatening to escape, but it was no use. Soft, broken whimpers still spilled through your fingers, each one a little quieter than the last.
Michael didn’t let up, licking and sucking until your whole body tensed and you came with a muffled cry, thighs squeezing his head while your free hand gripped the edge of the sink.
He stayed there until the last tremor faded, then rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Before you could catch your breath he leaned in and kissed you again, tasting yourself on his tongue.
The kiss turned messy fast, both of you breathing hard. Your hand slipped down between you, finding the hard line of him through his jeans. You rubbed once, feeling him twitch, and Michael broke the kiss. “Fffuck.” he said with a shaky exhale.
You whispered against his lips, “I want you inside me.”
Michael froze, eyes wide. “I… I can’t. We shouldn’t. We’re still friends, right?” His voice cracked a little, but his body stayed pressed close, hips giving an involuntary little roll against your hand.
You kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and warm. “Friends don’t usually go this far. I trust you, Mike. I want this. I want you.”
He searched your face for a long moment, then nodded, cheeks flushed dark.
His hands shook a little as he unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down just enough. He stepped between your thighs again, one hand guiding himself.
Instead of pushing in right away he rubbed the head of his cock slowly along your wet folds, dragging it up and down in lazy, teasing strokes. The friction made you shiver. Michael watched your face the whole time, breathing hard, clearly overwhelmed.
You hissed through your teeth, “Just put it in already. Stop teasin’ me.”
Michael let out a soft, desperate sound and finally pushed forward. The first few thrusts were slow and shallow, almost lazy, like he was still learning how to move inside you. Each gentle roll of his hips dragged against every sensitive spot, and you had to bite your lip hard to keep quiet. “Shit you… feels s’ good,” he whispered, voice trembling. “So warm… s’ tight around me.”
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he finally gave in with a shaky moan, sinking all the way in on the next thrust. “Mikey—” you gasped softly, hand still pressed over your mouth. “Ssshit, fuck!”
Michael’s thrusts grew a little more urgent, still careful but deeper, the sound of skin meeting skin soft and wet in the small bathroom.
You kept one hand over your mouth, the other clutching his shoulder, trying to stay quiet while pleasure rolled through you in hot waves. “Oh… oh… right there,” you whispered between shaky breaths.
Michael buried his face against your neck, breathing your name between shaky gasps, hips snapping a little faster now that he’d found a rhythm that made both of you tremble. “Feels s’ good… I ca— I can’t stop,” he groaned quietly, voice thick with pleasure.
You came again with a muffled whimper, walls pulsing around him. “Michael—” you moaned into your hand, thighs tightening around his hips.
The feeling pushed Michael over the edge right after. He would thrust in deep one last time, body shaking as he spilled inside you, a low groan pressed against your skin. “Mmm… fuck… I’m coming…”
For a long moment neither of you moved, just breathing together, his forehead resting against yours, as you both reached your climax.
Michael pulled out gently and helped you down from the sink. “You alright?” He looked at you with genuine concerned washed over his face.
“I’m fine Michael, don’t worry.” you smiled at him, “was that your first time?” You said as Michael sat you down on the toilet seat to clean you up.
He was too embarrassed to admit it but he ended up letting out a small ‘yes’ He was so adorable, “You did good baby.” You said as you caressed his face lifting up his chin to meet eye contact with you.
There was this burning sensation in your stomach, something aching.
“I love you.” you said in a whisper, michael looked up at you “I love you too.” as he planted another kiss onto your lips.
When you were dressed again he opened the door a crack, listened, then took your hand and led you back downstairs.
The movie was still playing, but Marlon and Jermaine looked up the second you appeared. Exchanging knowing glances. You felt your face heat up, but Michael just squeezed your hand and gave you a shy little grin before you both slipped back into your spots like nothing happened.
✧ A/N ++ thank you so much reading my first fic on here, this took me quite some time to finish since i kinda thought of this on a whim… BUT. it’s whatever.
Could you please write a Michael fanfic where the reader dresses up as Tinkerbell and Michael as Peter Pan? :3
( ˶°ㅁ°) !! 0.9k, fluff ) husband!michael jackson x fem wife!reader <3
“come on, come on,” your husband urges, already grinning from ear to ear as he hears you rustling around in the bathroom. michael was already in costume, a green cap perched upon his head of curls as he sits cross-legged on your shared bed, fidgeting. true to the character he's dressed up as, he's restless, his knees fluttering up and down in anticipation.
“relax, michael, it’s almost on,” you laugh from inside the bathroom, the sound ringing out clear through the bedroom.
childishly, he replies, “i can’t relax, i’m too excited!”
you shake your head to yourself as you pull up your dress, adjusting it until it fits snugly around the curve of your breasts. then, you turn towards the mirror, checking yourself over. it’s a perfect fit, the green fabric hugging the shape of your abdomen before flowing naturally into a sort of skirt shape around your mid-thigh. jagged green ends rest against a small, translucent, built-in petticoat, the colors of which contrasting beautifully with your skin. the pointed slippers on your feet match the color of your outfit, a nice, leafy green with white pom-pom attachments right along your toes. sucking a breath in, you reach for the door handle, slowly opening it and peering out.
your curious, cautious exit only makes you look even more like the beloved cartoon character, your eyebrows raising as an expectant look settles along your face. "well?" you prompt, mildly concerned by michel's sudden silence.
you have nothing to worry about, however. michael's silence isn't that of judgement, but awe. he'd expected it to look good, really, he did. this was better than good, though, it was... beautiful. it was meant for you, really!
"well," he echoes after some time, mocking your voice playfully. his left hand rests along his thigh while his right gestures for you to come closer. "don't be shy. c'mere, tink." your husband looks every bit the boyish rebel that peter pan is as you walk closer, his eyes sparkling. "look at you," he coos, twirling his index in a circle, "spin for me?"
"it's not slipping, is it?" you ask as you model for him, giving him a full three-sixty. your head turns, glancing at your back and butt over your shoulder before you reach to adjust around your chest again.
"no, it's perfect. it's a perfect fit," michael reassures you quickly. his cheeks are perfectly rounded, almost animated, due to the size of his smile.
you hum in acknowledgement. "you're just so quiet."
"i'm admiring," he explains, "i'm taking everything in— and there's so much to take in, isn't there? and all of it's so good." ah, still a flirt after all these years...
"you're flattering me," you chuckle, shaking your head as you stand before him.
"i'm not! you're the perfect tinkerbell. the perfect woman. you look adorable." your husband beams, content for a second before jumping up to his feet. "i gotta get the camera!" with the energy and focus of a hound dog, michael bounds off to search for it, scrambling around the room and then downstairs.
"don't rush! i'm not going anywhere!" you call out, moving to sit along the bed until he returns. he's back in a minute or so, one curl loose against his forehead as he snaps the first picture of many. "beautiful," he remarks as he takes a sneaky shot of you sitting down and staring into space.
"hey, i wasn't ready," you whine, tilting your head towards him.
"it's a candid," michael shrugs, letting out a short laugh as he steps closer, "don't worry, i'll take more. plenty more, baby. you look so good."
your head tilts up as he approaches, his playful, mischievous gaze meeting your more grounded and fondly amused one. "you look good, too. you're a very dashing peter pan, you know. and with that smile, too? too cute."
"handsome, not cute," he corrects you, "i'm a handsome rogue. i'm peter pan, tink!"
"the cutest peter pan i've ever seen," you tease, sliding off the bed before walking over to him. cupping michael's face is natural by now, the first thing you think to do whenever you're this close to him. indulging in the instinct is almost as rewarding as pressing your lips to his right cheek. then a little further up. then the corner of his smile, along one of his dimples. it isn't long until you're peppering him in kisses while he giggles, his hands resting against your waist.
"ah, jeez, tink, you're gonna leave lipstick stains!" he complains, pretending as though the idea doesn't make his heart race. michael's always been fond of the visual evidence of your love: the kisses you leave along his face or neck, the rings along your fingers, the matching outfits, etc.
"hush up," you mutter lightly before kissing him some more, your hands leaving his face as you wrap your arms around his neck. your eyes close as you press a kiss to his lips, one that he eagerly melts into with a quiet hum of delight.
when the two of you finally pull off each other, you, out of breath and breathing heavy while michael's wearing your lipstick more than you are, your husband just laughs. his hands squeeze along your hips as he speaks, "so stubborn, just like tinkerbell."
you roll your eyes, knowing it's true. whatever, he loves you for it, and that's all that really matters.
looking for more?
starting off my epic comeback w one of the cutest concepts ever I LOVED THIS REQ like the concept of michael calling you "tink" in that soft voice of his... lord give me my husband back NOW. also, that black cosplayer(?) with the braids that go blonde omg i think it's so creative and cool when black cosplayers do that!!! absolute peak!!!
SYNOPSIS; michael wants your babies. that’s literally it.
THEMES; unprotected sex, heavy breeding kink, toxic dynamic, controlling behaviour, secrecy, oral (m!receiving), degradation, isolation & michael getting a lil physical when he’s jealous (not w reader), angst i guess, lots of dirty talk
NOTE; i had thradera!mike in mind for this but you can imagine him however you want. heavily inspired by massive attack’s dissolved girl. in ref to the person requesting more toxic!mike. masterlist can be found here.
That was the only way to describe it, in those early months, when the relationship was still new enough that every touch felt like a revelation. Michael didn’t just want to be near you. He wanted to be around you, threaded through you in some way that made it impossible to tell where he ended and you began. He called you baby from the first week, constantly, the word a substitute for your actual name. His voice dropped half a register when he said it, low, intimate, even in public and even when his brothers were in the room making kissing noises, and laughing at him for being so gone.
“I’m not gone.” He protested once, his arm draped across the back of a booth at a restaurant in Encino, his thumb tracing the ridge of your shoulder through your blouse while Tito pretended to gag across the table. “I’m just, you know… attentive.”
“You’re sick.” Marlon corrected, pointing a breadstick at him. “You’re love-sick, man. It’s embarrassing.”
Michael’s mouth curved, though he didn’t look at Marlon. His dark eyes found yours, bright with something private that belonged to the two of you alone. His thumb continued moving against your shoulder in that slow, deliberate rhythm, less an absent-minded habit, but more a declaration of ownership disguised as tenderness. "Let them talk." He murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. "They don’t know what this is."
He was right. They didn’t.
What it was, in those first months, was intoxicating. He paid attention in a way that felt like being the only person in the entire world. He noticed things no one else noticed, the way you twisted your napkin when nervous, the exact shade of lipstick you favoured, the way your voice changed on the phone depending on who was calling. He catalogued you with the same meticulous focus he brought to a recording session, turning you over in his mind like a mix he was trying to perfect, except the scrutiny was so warm and wrapped in genuine delight, that it never occurred to you to call it what it actually was.
He was generous too, which made it impossible to see the edges of what was happening until you were already inside it. Not just gifts, though there were plenty of those. A gold bracelet arriving in a velvet box on a Tuesday for no reason. A leather jacket you’d pointed out in a window once, then forgotten about three minutes later. Flowers so constantly that the vase on your kitchen counter was never empty.
He gave you access. The private phone number, a key to Hayvenhurst, a seat in the studio during sessions where you’d sit in the corner with a book while he worked, occasionally glancing up between takes to make sure you were still there, still his. Every gift was a thread. Every key, every phone number, every come with me, baby, I want you there was a stitch in a life being built around the two of you alone.
Your friend Jennifer noticed before you did.
“You’ve been busy.” She said over the phone one evening, her tone carefully neutral.
“I haven’t been busy. I’ve just been with him.”
“You’ve been with him for three weeks straight. I called your house four times last week.”
“He likes having me around. Is that a crime?”
“No.” She paused. "Just don’t disappear, okay?”
You laughed it off. You remember that now, the sound of your own laughter, completely dismissive, because you could not fathom what she was talking about. How could you disappear when you’d never felt more seen? Michael looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world full of illusions.
You didn’t call Jennifer back that week, or the one after. It wasn’t deliberate. Life simply filled up with him, every hour accounted for, every evening claimed, until weeks bled into each other and the sound of her voice on the phone started to feel like a voice from another version of your life.
In those early months, what you knew was that he was beautiful, he was kind, he wanted you close and he made you feel like the centre of everything. The sex was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.
The sex. God, the sex.
He was starving for you. The first time you slept together, in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst with the door locked and the lights low, he undressed you like he was unwrapping something sacred. His fingers careful at the buttons, his mouth following each newly exposed inch of skin with a focus that bordered on devotional. He kissed your collarbone, your stomach and the inside of your wrist. He pressed his forehead against your hip bone and breathed you in, his eyes closed, his hands gripping your waist like he was trying to anchor himself.
So when he finally looked up at you from between your legs, the expression on his face wasn’t just desire. It was hunger. A hunger so deep and consuming, that it made your breath catch, because you’d been wanted before but you’d never been devoured, and that was what Michael did. He devoured slowly with a single-minded focus that made you feel like the only woman who’d ever existed.
The first time he came inside you, he didn’t attempt to pull out. You hadn’t discussed it. You were on the pill and he knew that, but something shifted in him at the last moment, some primal instinct that overrode logic. His hand tightened on your hip, his breath ragged against your throat. He buried his body as deep as it could go with a groan that sounded less like pleasure, more like a man finding religion. When the trembling stopped and the sweat cooled, he stayed inside you. He propped himself on his forearms and looked at you with those beautiful eyes.
I want to get you pregnant, he’d say, the words rolling off his tongue like a confession he’d been holding for years.
You laughed because you thought he was joking.
He wasn’t joking.
It became a thing after that. Not a conversation, not a boundary you set or a fantasy you explicitly agreed to. It became a thing the way all the most dangerous things in your relationship became things. He talked about it while he was inside you, when his control was slipping, when the polite, gentle Michael the world knew dissolved and the raw, obsessive one took his place.
You want that, baby? You want me to fill you up? You want me to get you pregnant? He would say, his voice dropping to something almost unrecognisable. His hand pressed flat against your lower stomach like he could feel the possibility of it, like the idea of putting a baby inside you short-circuited every rational thought in his head.
You said yes. You always said yes. Not because you wanted to get pregnant, you were careful. You were a rational person living in the real world. But the way he said it, in that desperate voice laced with something darker, made yes the only possible answer. The breeding talk wasn’t about babies. It was about permanence. Him wanting to be so deep inside you he could never be removed, to leave a mark so profound it would outlast both of you. It was a language the closest his desperate, obsessive brain could get to articulating that need.
He finished inside you every time and you noticed that. You didn’t think about what it meant, but some part of you registered the consistency, the way he’d thrust deep and hold still after, his hand finding your stomach, his breath evening out against your neck like a habit he had no intention of breaking.
The first time you rode him was your idea. You’d been laying in bed, tangled together in Saturday morning light, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh, his mouth pressed against your temple. You shifted on top of him with a slow confidence that caught his breath. His hands found your waist immediately, instinctively, gripping hard enough to bruise. The sound he made when you sank down onto him was grateful in a way that made your chest ache.
“Oh God.” He breathed, his head pressing back into the pillow, eyes half-closed. “Baby…”
“Look at me.”
His eyes found yours, wide and dark, his hands tightening on your waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin just above your hip bones. The lazy Saturday morning dissolved into something deliberate and dangerous, because you were on top, you were in control, except the expression on his face wasn’t submission. It was hunger.
“Move.” He murmured, his voice rough as his hips rolled up into you once experimentally. His jaw tightened. “C'mon, baby… move for me.”
You moved slowly at first, your hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid percussion of his heartbeat under your palms. The angle was deep like this, impossibly deep, every roll of your hips drawing a sound from him that evidenced his desperation. His fingers dug into your waist hard enough to leave marks you’d find later, in the mirror, with a kind of detached wonder.
His eyes never left yours, not once. He watched you move on top of him with that beautiful, consuming focus. So when you started to pick up speed, when the pleasure built in earnest, his hand slid from your waist to the back of your neck and pulled you down.
“You feel so good.” He murmured against your mouth, his lips barely touching yours. “You have no idea, baby. You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me.”
His grip tightened as his other hand pressed flat against your lower stomach, that same gesture, that impossible tenderness mixed with something far more primal.
“I’m gonna fill you up.” He whispered, his hips snapping up to meet yours as his rhythm faltered, every element of his control slipping. “I’m gonna get you pregnant, baby. You want that? You want me to put a baby in you?”
“Yes.” You gasped, because the angle was too good and the look in his eyes was too consuming for any other word.
“Yeah?” His hand tightened on the back of your neck. “Say it again.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
“Yes, Michael.”
He came with his face buried in your throat, his groan vibrating against your skin, hips pressing up into you so hard you felt him everywhere. The pulse of him deep inside. His arms wrapped around your back to crush you against his chest like he was trying to merge your bodies together.
You thought it was sweet and you thought it was passionate. You thought the breeding talk was a harmless expression of desire that made the sex hotter and the intimacy deeper, without seeing the seed of something else buried inside it. Something that looked like worship but grew like a root system, spreading quietly beneath the surface of your relationship in directions you wouldn’t discover until much later.
You didn’t see any of it. Not yet.
──── ୨୧ ────
It was industry, the kind of event Michael normally navigated with practiced ease. That smile, the handshake, the gentle deflection of every person who wanted a piece of him, his body language open and warm while his eyes stayed careful, keeping you close without appearing to.
You wore the black dress he’d bought you, the one with the thin straps that made his breath catch when you’d tried it on, his hands settling on your hips from behind.
That one, baby, get that one.
You felt beautiful in it, standing beside him with his hand on the small of your back, a glass of champagne in your hand, the room buzzing with industry faces, flowing conversations and the low hum of a band playing something Motown in the corner.
The man’s name was David, an A&R guy from Capitol, the kind of confident that came from money rather than talent. You noticed him, how his smile was too wide, his handshake too firm, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative tour of your body that lasted too long before he remembered to look at Michael.
“Jackson.” He said with a grin, clapping Michael on the shoulder like they were old friends. They weren’t. “Good to see you, man. And who’s this?”
“This is my girlfriend.” Michael responded, his voice even, his smile fixed in place.
David’s eyes returned to you. “Lucky man.” His gaze dropped to your bare shoulders, tracing the neckline of the dress. “Very lucky.”
The conversation moved on and David drifted. Michael’s hand remained on your back, his thumb tracing a slow circle just above the curve of your spine. You thought it was over until David appeared again forty minutes later, drink in hand, leaning against the bar where you’d gone to refill your champagne.
“Hey.” He spoke casually, the kind of friendliness that felt like a door held open a little too wide. “You having a good time?”
“I am, thanks.”
“You look like you’re having a good time.” He took a sip, his eyes dropping again, like the act of looking was something he wanted you to witness. “That dress is something else… Michael’s got taste, I’ll give him that.”
Your smile tightened. “Thanks.”
He laughed, leaning closer, slightly closing the proximity between the two of you. “Bet he doesn’t let you out much, huh? I wouldn’t either, if I were him… Must be hard to share something like you.”
It was the kind of comment that sat in the grey area between compliment and proposition, the kind most women learned to navigate with a polite laugh and a strategic exit.
You were preparing exactly that, the excuse, when Michael appeared at your side. You hadn’t seen him approach. His hand located the small of your back, not gentle this time, his body angled between you and David in a way that wasn’t casual but was exactly as territorial as it looked.
“What did you just say to her?”
Michael’s voice was quiet, not raised nor heated. Quiet in a way that made the air between the three of you feel dangerously thin. His smile was gone. Not replaced by anger, but something more controlled, the calm of a man who’d heard exactly what he thought he had and wanted it repeated so there could be no misunderstanding.
David blinked. “Hey, relax, man, I was just—”
“No. Say it again.” Michael’s head tilted slightly, his eyes fixed on David’s face with an intensity that made your stomach clench. “Go on, say it again. What did you just say to her?”
"Jackson, come on, I was just being friendly—"
"Say it again."
David’s grin recalibrated, settling into something uneasy. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it alright? We were just talking.”
Michael stared at him for a long moment. Long enough for David to shift his weight, to glance sideways, to realise with dawning discomfort that the man in front of him wasn’t going to let this go.
Then Michael’s hand shot out and shoved David square in the chest.
David stumbled backward into the bar, glasses rattling and ice spilling, his drink sloshing over his hand as he caught himself. The sound was small and the impact was contained, but the room noticed. Heads turned and conversations topped. The band played on for a few bars before trailing off and in the sudden quiet, Michael took a step forward, his hand still extended, his breathing controlled but his body coiled.
“Don’t look at her.” Michael said. "Don’t talk to her. Don’t come near her again."
David stared at him, stunned, a red flush creeping up his neck. “What the fuck, Jackson—”
Jermaine was there. You didn’t see where he came from, but suddenly he was between them, his hand flat on Michael’s chest, his body acting as a wall. “Mike. Mike, that’s enough.”
Michael didn’t listen. He tried to push past, his shoulder driving into Jermaine’s hold. His eyes were still locked on David, his voice dropping to something low and vicious. “Touch her again, I swear I’ll—”
“Michael.” Jermaine’s hand fisted in the front of Michael’s shirt, yanking him back hard enough to stop the sentence mid-breath, his other hand gripping Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t do this, not here.” He growled into his ear.
Michael strained forward. His whole body was trembling, every muscle taut, his jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck stood out like cables. For a long moment, you thought he’d shove his own brother aside, thought he’d get past Jermaine and finish whatever he’d started. The whole room was watching. Every pair of eyes were fixed on the three of them, on Michael Jackson trying to fight his way through his older brother to get to a man who’d spoken to you wrong.
You stood behind them, your champagne forgotten, your hand pressed to your mouth, shocked, because this wasn’t the man you loved, this was something else entirely. Something you’d seen flickers of in the bedroom but never in public and never with witnesses.
Jermaine held him and steered him toward the exit, one hand on his chest, the other on his arm. Michael let himself be moved, but barely, his body rigid, his strides long and mechanical, not looking back.
Jermaine got him to the door before looking at you over Michael’s shoulder, his expression complicated, somewhere between apology and warning.
“Get him home.” He said quietly.
──── ୨୧ ────
Michael didn’t say a word in the car.
Not when you climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind you, not when he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the driveway without looking in your direction, not for the entire forty-minute drive back to Hayvenhurst while the city lights smeared past the windows in long, blurry streaks of gold and white.
His hands were on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road with the blank focus of someone choosing where to look so they wouldn’t have to look somewhere else.
You tried. His name left your mouth somewhere around Encino, testing, and it dissolved into the quiet without leaving a mark on him, without so much as a flicker in his expression.
You said Michael, it wasn’t like that and his knuckles tightened on the wheel, the skin stretched white over bone, but he didn’t flinch and he never turned his head. You stopped talking after that because there was nowhere for your words to go except back into your own throat, choking you, so you sat in the passenger seat watching the streetlights pass over his face in intervals, each flash catching someone you didn’t quite recognise.
The gates opened and he parked. Michael got out of the car without waiting for you, without reaching for your door, without the hand on the small of your back that was always there, every single time without exception. You stood in the driveway, watching his back disappear through the front door and the distance between you felt like something measured in miles rather than the handful of feet it actually was.
The house was dark except for the foyer light someone had left on and you could hear his footsteps ascending, steady and unhurried, the sway of a man moving through his own house at his own pace who happened to not care that you were standing in it. You followed him up because standing alone in that foyer felt worse than following someone who didn’t want you behind him.
The bedroom was empty when you reached it, the bathroom door already closed, water running behind it in a steady rush that filled the silence the way his silence in the car had.
You sat on the edge of the bed in your dress, your heels still on, your clutch still in your hand because you couldn’t remember putting anything down since the car. You stared at the wood grain of that door until the lines blurred and your heartbeat stumbled over itself.
You replayed the party on a loop. David’s out of pocket comments, the sound of Michael’s shoes on the floor behind you in the half-second before Jermaine grabbed him. The look on his face when he turned toward you. Not jealousy, but ownership. The look of someone watching a stranger put their hand on something that belonged to them while they were standing right there.
You put your clutch on the nightstand and kicked off your heels before reaching for the drawer out of habit, looking for a chapstick, something to fill your hands with so they’d stop shaking.
Which was when you clocked the notebook.
It was small, encased with black leather, the kind you’d buy at any stationery store. It was sitting on top of a pair of folded reading glasses and a tube of hand cream, nestled among his things with the quiet belonging of something that had lived in that spot for months. You picked it up and opened it before your brain had finished deciding whether you should.
The first page had your initials at the top in his handwriting, neat and startlingly familiar, the way his handwriting always was when he was being careful.
Below that, dates arranged in columns. Cycle days marked in one colour, ovulation windows in another, little circles around certain dates with times noted beside them in the margin.
Some days were starred. One entry read simply day 14 with a circle around it and, in smaller, more deliberate handwriting beside it
Held her still after.
Months of it. Months.
Your vision did something strange at the edges, the lines of text blurring and sharpening in sequence. You turned it and found more of the same extending back further than you could have guessed, each entry uniform in its neatness and patience, the handwriting consistent throughout, which meant he hadn’t started this casually and grown more invested over time.
He’d been this deliberate from the very first entry. He’d been watching your body more carefully than you’d been watching it yourself, every slow night when he held your hips a certain way, every time he pressed deeper and stayed after with his breath warm on your neck. His hand would find your stomach and rest there, and it hadn’t been tenderness nor had it been a habit.
It had been precision.
You closed the notebook before putting it back exactly where you’d found it. You slid the drawer shut and sat on the bed with your hands in your lap, the water still running behind the bathroom door, trying to decide whether to scream or hold the notebook up when he walked out and say what the fuck is this, Michael.
You thought about calling Jennifer from the landline downstairs, except Jennifer hadn’t called you back in two weeks and the thought of explaining any of this to anyone made something inside you curl up and hide itself away like a small animal retreating into a place too dark to be found.
The water stopped. He came out in boxers and nothing else, droplets still clinging to his collarbone and he didn’t look at you. He walked to his side of the bed, pulled back the covers and turned his back to you within seconds, the rigid line of his shoulders facing you like a wall.
He didn’t speak to you that night. He didn’t speak to you the next morning, either, leaving the bedroom before you woke, the sheets cool where his body had been. You found him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. When you said his name he looked up at you with polite, empty eyes, the kind of expression you’d give a housekeeper or a stranger. He said morning the way someone says it to be polite, then looked back down at the paper.
That was the first day.
The second day was worse because he moved through the house like you weren’t there. Not cruelly or dramatically. He simply existed in the same rooms as you without acknowledging that your presence required anything from him. He ate breakfast while you stood in the doorway. He went to the studio, then came back. He ate dinner in the kitchen while you sat across from him, your food untouched, your throat too tight to swallow and when you tried to talk to him he responded in short, courteous sentences that gave you nothing, the way you’d respond to someone making small talk in a waiting room, pleasant and completely devoid of substance.
I’m fine, thank you. The session went well. I think I’ll read for a bit before bed, he’d say.
You didn’t sleep. You lay next to him on the mattress that suddenly felt enormous, the two feet between your body and you stared at the ceiling. You listened to the measured cadence of his breathing, too even to be asleep but too controlled to be anything but another form of the silence he’d wrapped around you like a punishment.
The third day broke something in you.
You’d spent the morning in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, standing at the window then back sitting on the bed again, cycling through the same thoughts the way you’d been cycling through them since the car in the same loop.
Your chest ached, physically. A dull, heavy pressure behind your sternum that made it hard to breathe and impossible to think about anything other than the distance between you and him and what it would take to close it.
You missed him, that was the obscene part. He was in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, standing in the same kitchen and you missed him like he’d died.
You found him in the living room that evening. He was on the couch, reading, one leg crossed over the other, his glasses low on his nose. The lamp cast warm light over the pages and the line of his jaw. He looked up when you walked in with that same polite, empty expression, the one that said ‘yes?’ without saying anything at all and your legs carried you across the room before your brain had finished deciding what you were doing.
You dropped to your knees in front of him.
Not gracefully and definitely not seductively. Your knees hit the carpet hard enough to bruise, your hands landing on his thighs and you looked up at him with everything you had, everything you’d been holding for three days, the desperation and the ache that had taken up residence in your chest like a second heartbeat. His expression didn’t change as he watched you from behind his glasses, the book still open in one hand.
Your hands were shaking when you reached for his belt. You fumbled the buckle, your fingers clumsy, your breath coming in short, uneven pulls but you got it undone and moved to the button of his jeans. His hand came down and covered yours.
Not to stop you, to hold you still.
You looked up at him. His eyes were dark behind his glasses, his lips barely parted and his voice was quiet when he spoke, low and controlled, the first real thing he’d said to you in three days.
Take it out.
Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down. His cock was already hard and the sight of it made something in your stomach clench, a wave of want so sharp it bordered on pain. You wrapped your hand around the base and leaned forward, opening your mouth.
You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the dates or the careful, patient handwriting that had been tracking your body for months like a project. You didn’t think about what it meant that you were on your knees in front of a man who had been planning your future without consulting you, mapping your fertile windows and holding your hips still on day fourteen while you lay there thinking it was love.
What you thought about, with your lips stretched around him and your eyes wet, was how much you liked this.
The fact that you had to work for it. The fact that he’d made you wait, made you ache, made you lay next to him for three nights feeling the absence of his warmth like a wound that wouldn’t close, until your body overrode your pride and carried you across the room, dropping you to the floor in front of him.
There was something in the degradation of it, the submission of it, the way it felt to need someone so badly that the act of kneeling at their feet and opening your mouth felt less like humiliation and more like relief, like permission to stop pretending you hadn’t been breaking since the car.
──── ୨୧ ────
The driveway was dark, the house lights off, the only sound the tick of the engine cooling under the hood and the crickets in the hills beyond the gate. You were bent over the rear bumper of the Mercedes with your palms flat against the warm metal and your cheek turned to the side. The night air hit the backs of your thighs where his fingers were sliding higher, tracing the edge of bare skin, finding nothing beneath the fabric.
His breath caught.
“You’re not wearing panties.”
It wasn’t a question. It was the broken sound a man makes when he’s just discovered something that’s going to ruin him, his voice stripped of every layer of composure he usually carried.
His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him so you could feel him, the hard length of his cock pressing through his jeans against the curve of your ass, hot even through the denim and he rolled his hips once, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was.
“I didn’t think you’d notice.” Your voice came out breathless, wrecked already and he laughed against your ear.
“Didn’t think I’d…” He shook his head, his mouth pressing to the curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. “Feel that? Feel what you do to me, baby. You make me feel like a goddamn virgin. Every time... every single time I get this hard for you like I’ve never done this before.”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, his fingers tracing the slickness already gathered there and he groaned, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.
“Shit... you’re so wet.”
His other hand fumbled with his belt, the buckle clinking and you heard the rustle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock was dragging through the wetness between your legs, sliding along your folds without pushing in, coating himself in it, teasing both of you. Your hips pushed back involuntarily, chasing him and his hand came down on your hip and held you still.
“Put your knee up... right here on the bumper, baby. Let me get at you.”
You lifted your right knee onto the chrome edge of the bumper, the metal cool against your skin. The position opened you wider, tilting your hips back toward him. He made a sound, a wrecked exhale that stuttered halfway through and his cock pressed against your entrance, the head nudging in just enough to make you gasp, just enough to feel the stretch start and then he stopped. Michael held himself there, not moving an inch. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave a stain.
“I’m so crazy for you... do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?”
“Michael…” His name fell out of you like a plea, your voice cracked down the middle and his hips jerked forward involuntarily at the sound of it, the head slipping in just barely before he caught himself and held still again.
Then he pushed in. One slow, deep stroke, his cock sliding into you inch by inch, the stretch burning then blooming into something vast and consuming that made your elbows buckle against the bumper. Your forehead pressed into the metal. A sound fell out of you, something between a moan and a sob and he bottomed out with his hips flush against your ass, his thighs pressing into the backs of yours and his cock so deep inside you that you could feel him in your stomach.
“Oh... oh fuck…” The words barely made it out, muffled against your forearm where you’d buried your face.
He didn’t move. He stayed buried to the hilt, his hands roaming your body with the slow, deliberate exploration of a man mapping terrain he intended to own. One hand slid up to grip your breast through your dress, his palm molding to the shape of you, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric until it hardened beneath his touch.
The other hand flattened against your stomach, his palm pressing low, just above where his cock was splitting you open and he held his hand there, feeling himself inside you through the thin barrier of skin.
“You’d make such a... beautiful mama.”
The words landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading outward through your ribs and something in your lower belly clenched around him so tight that his breath stuttered and his hips jerked involuntarily, a shallow thrust that punched a moan out of both of you.
He laughed, low and breathless, his mouth pressed to the curve of your neck, his tongue tracing the sweat-damp skin there.
“You liked that, didn’t you? You liked hearing that.”
“Don’t…” You started, but you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t know what you were going to say. Don’t stop, don’t say that, don’t make me want that. Your hips pressed back into him and whatever protest you’d been forming dissolved into a moan that vibrated through your entire body, your pussy tightening around him involuntarily and his groan in response was ragged, almost pained.
He started to move. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that withdrew until only the head remained inside before sliding back in with a patience that bordered on cruelty. Each thrust angled deep, dragging against that spot inside you with a precision that made your vision fracture at the edges, your breath coming apart in ragged, uneven pulls.
His hand moved from your breast to the small of your back, pressing you down into the bumper, holding you at the angle he wanted, the angle that let him hit exactly where he was aiming. The pressure of his palm against your spine sent shivers cascading through your entire body.
“Today’s your day, baby... your special day. You know that?”
His voice was low, spoken against the shell of your ear with the quiet certainty of someone sharing a secret. The words sank into you without landing, your brain too fractured by the devastating drag of his cock to process what he meant. His hips rolled forward, deep, deliberate, and your fingers scrabbled against the bumper for something to hold onto, your nails scraping the paint.
“I can feel it. I can always feel it when it’s your time. You get tighter... softer inside. Like your body knows, baby... like it’s ready for me."
His hand moved from the small of your back to your hip, gripping hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he pulled you back to meet each thrust with a rhythm that was slow enough to be torturous and deep enough to make your thighs tremble against the backs of his.
You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the way he swelled slightly at the base, the way the head of his cock caught on that spot inside you with each withdrawal before pressing back over it on the next stroke, a relentless, calculated repetition that was building something vast and terrifying at the base of your spine.
“Oh god…” You pressed your face into your forearm, your teeth catching the skin there, biting down to muffle the sounds that were climbing out of your throat with each thrust.
His pace didn’t change, that was the cruelty of it. He kept that same slow, devastating rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of you with the methodical patience of a man who had all night, who wasn’t rushing, who wanted to feel every second of this.
His hand moved from your hip to between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit with a familiarity that made your whole body jolt, like he knew exactly where it was without looking, like he’d memorised the map of you.
“You’re so close, baby... I can feel it. I can feel how tight you’re getting.”
His fingers worked in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his cock, the dual sensation building on itself in waves that grew higher each time, but pulled back before you could fall over the edge. You were sobbing now, your forehead pressed against the bumper, your hips pushing back against him with a desperation that had nothing to do with technique or rhythm, just the need to be filled, to be taken, to be broken open.
“Please…” You didn’t recognise your own voice, desperate and barely audible over the sound of his hips against yours. “Please, Michael, I want it... I want it so bad…”
“I know you do, baby. I know... but I want to feel you first. I need to feel how bad you want this.”
His fingers pressed harder on your clit, the circles tightening and his cock drove deeper, the slow rhythm finally giving way to something harder, more urgent, his hips snapping forward with enough force to push you into the bumper, the metal creaking beneath your hands.
The dual sensation was annihilating, his cock hitting that spot inside you while his fingers worked your clit with a precision that made your sight darken at the edges, your breath coming in short gasps that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.
“I’m gonna fill you up tonight, baby... I’m gonna cum so deep inside you.”
“Please... oh god, please…”
“Look at me.” His voice was low, wrecked, barely holding together, but the command in it was undeniable. “C’mon turn your head, baby. Look at me while you cum.”
You turned your head, your cheek pressing against the warm metal of the bumper. He was right there, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. His composure was fracturing in real time, the controlled rhythm falling apart into something raw and desperate, his hips driving into you with a force that pushed you up the bumper with each thrust.
The sight of him, the undone look in his eyes and the way his jaw was clenched tight against the sounds climbing out of his throat, pushed you over the edge.
Your orgasm hit like a rupture, a white-hot wave that started at the base of your spine and crashed through your entire body with a force that stole your breath. You clenched around him in rhythmic, desperate pulses that made his composure shatter completely.
His hips stuttered and his rhythm broke, his hand on your clit faltering as the sensation of you tightening around him pulled a sound from his chest.
“That’s it... that’s my girl. Give it to me. Give me everything.”
He fucked you through it, his strokes growing erratic, his groans falling against the back of your neck in hot, uneven bursts. The aftershocks were still rolling through you, each one pulling a fresh moan from your throat, your body clenching around him in waves that seemed to go on forever.
He was close, you could feel it in the way his cock swelled inside you, the way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, the way his breath came in short gasps against your shoulder.
He came with his cock buried as deep as it could go, his hips pressed flush against you, his body going rigid from head to toe. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, each throb accompanied by a groan that shook through his chest into your back, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’d see the fingerprints tomorrow. He pulsed inside you for what felt like minutes, his cock jerking with each wave, his cum filling you in hot, thick spurts that you could feel flooding the deepest part of you.
“Oh god... oh god, baby…”
He stayed inside you and pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, his breath ragged and hot against your skin. His cock softened slowly but he didn’t pull out. His hand slid from your hip to your stomach again, pressing low, holding himself there.
Then his fingers moved.
He reached between your legs with his other hand, not to clean you up, but to where his cock was still nestled inside you. His fingers gathered the wetness that was leaking out around him, his own cum mixing with yours and he pushed it back in.
His fingers slid alongside his softening cock, pressing his cum deeper into you, curling gently, making sure it stayed. He scooped more, his fingers working with a methodical patience that felt almost ritualistic, each stroke pressing another drop back inside, his other hand staying on your stomach, pressing down, holding everything in place.
“Look what I did to you, baby... look at that.” He groaned, his voice almost tender.
His fingers worked methodically, pushing every drop back inside and his hand stayed on your stomach like he was trying to hold something in place through sheer force of will. He pressed a kiss to the base of your spine, his lips lingering there for a moment.
“Stay right there for me... don’t move yet, just... stay like this for me.”
“I’m not moving.” Your voice was barely a whisper, your cheek pressed to the warm metal of the bumper as your body trembled with aftershocks. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He kept his fingers inside you for a long time. Long enough for his cum to stop leaking and for the wetness between your thighs to cool.
His hand on your stomach stayed pressed low, his palm warm against your skin and you could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying in the gentle, possessive pressure of his fingers.
You knew about the pill. He knew about the pill. You’d been on it since before you started sleeping together and he knew that, but had never once questioned it, had never brought it up and yet here he was with his fingers inside you, scooping his own cum back into your body with the careful attention of someone performing a ritual they believed in more than logic and the small pill packet in your bathroom cabinet that made all of this pointless.
“Michael... you know I’m on the pill, right?” You spoke, your voice quiet, almost careful. You were testing something you didn’t have words for.
“I know.” He responded, but his fingers didn’t stop. His voice was steady, absent, like the fact was irrelevant. “I know that, baby.”
He didn’t explain because didn’t need to. The way his hand remained pressed to your stomach, the way his fingers kept working, gentle and thorough, said everything his mouth wouldn’t.
His fingers slipped out of you and he pulled his boxers and jeans back up, then straightened your dress, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs, his hands lingering on the curves of your hips, his touch possessive even in its softness.
He helped you off the bumper, one hand on your elbow, the other on your waist and he looked at you in the dark, his eyes catching the faint glow from the distant house lights. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone.
“You good, baby?”
“Yeah…” You exhaled shakily, your hand finding his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m really good.”
You were better than good. You were full of him, still feeling the warmth of him inside you and the impossible tenderness of a man who had just fucked you over the hood of his car and then spent two minutes making sure his cum stayed where he put it.
You leaned into him, your forehead against his chest and his arms wrapped around you, holding you close, his chin resting on top of your head.
He held you like that for a long time. Long enough for the night air to cool the sweat on your skin and for the driveway to feel like a private world, just the two of you in the dark.
You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the way he’d said today’s your day with the casual certainty of someone who’d been counting, or the way his hand had pressed against your stomach like he was holding something in place, or the way his voice had cracked when he said you’d make such a beautiful mama like it was something he’d been thinking about for a long time and finally let slip.
──── ୨୧ ────
Before you knew it, it was your birth control.
You noticed it on a Tuesday morning, standing at the bathroom counter in one of Michael’s old shirts, the cotton hanging past your thighs. You reached for it out of habit, the muscle memory of six years of the same motion, pushing the foil through from the back, catching the small white disc between your finger and thumb.
You held it on your tongue for a moment. The familiar bitterness sat there, waiting to be swallowed.
You looked at the packet. The rows of pills, four weeks, twenty eight days, each one stamped with a day of the week. You looked at the small white disc on your tongue before your eyes dropped to the sink.
You spat it out.
It landed in the basin with a soft, wet sound. You turned the faucet on and watched it dissolve as the water carried it down the drain in a milky swirl. You stood there with the taste of it fading on your tongue, your hands braced on the edge of the counter, your heartbeat slow against your chest.
You’d been thinking about it for days, since the night you’d opened the drawer in the bedroom and found the small leather planner with your initials on the first page. Cycle days, ovulation windows, dates spanning months, stretching back before you’d even realised he was paying attention. Before you’d realised anyone was paying attention to something like that, something so intimate and quietly possessive that it made your stomach ache when you understood what it meant.
You thought about the car. The hood warm under your thighs, his hand pressed low on your stomach, his voice saying today’s your day with the certainty of someone who’d been counting.
You thought about the way he’d said I know when you mentioned the pill, his fingers not stopping, his voice steady, like the fact was irrelevant.
You thought about every time since then, the way he moved inside you on certain days, deeper, more deliberate, the way he held your hips still afterwards, the way his hand pressed against your lower belly like he was keeping something in.
He’d been studying you, learning the architecture of your body with the same patience he gave to everything he wanted and you’d only just noticed. You’d only just started paying attention to the days, to the pattern, to the way his rhythm changed when the notebook said it mattered.
Your thighs pressed together. The warmth spreading downward, slow and deliberate, pooling low in your stomach. You looked at the packet again before picking it up and you turned it over in your hands, running your thumb across the foil backing.
He knew your cycle better than you did. He’d been finishing inside you on your supposed fertile days with the quiet focus of someone executing a plan and you’d let him. You’d spread your legs for it, arched your back for it, begged for it without knowing why it felt different on those days, why it felt more urgent, more like something being done to you rather than with you.
Now you knew.
You opened the packet and looked at the remaining pills. Tomorrow’s. Thursday’s. Friday’s. The whole rest of the month, lined up in their neat little rows, waiting for you to take them.
You closed the packet and set it on the counter.
You didn’t put it back in the drawer.
You went back to bed. Michael was still sleeping, his face buried in the pillow, one arm stretched across the sheets where you’d been laying. You slid in beside him, your back to his chest, his arm coming around you automatically. He pulled you close, his hand settling on your stomach in the same spot with the same pressure, like even in sleep his body knew where to hold you.
The spot where he wanted to put something.
Your eyes closed with your thighs still pressed together. You could feel the warmth between them, that insistent pulse of something that wasn’t going to go away. You thought about the way he’d held your hips still on ovulation days, the way he’d pressed into you deeper, the way he’d stayed there after.
He’d been trying, quietly and patiently without asking, because asking would have given you the chance to say no.
And now you weren’t going to say no, you weren’t going to say anything at all. You were going to let the pills sit in the bathroom, untouched and you were going to let him keep doing what he’d been doing whilst you stopped pretending you didn’t know what it meant.
You pressed back into him, fitting yourself against his chest, his arm tightening around your waist.
You didn’t think about the pill. You thought about what would happen without it and a twisted part of you liked it.
────୨ৎ────
The public thing started at a dinner party in the hills and became a pattern after that.
You didn’t remember whose house it was. What you did remember was the murmur of twelve people talking over wine and his hand on your knee beneath the tablecloth. That slow, patient climb of his fingers beneath your skirt. The way you kept your face perfectly still while his fingertips traced the edge of your underwear, sliding underneath, finding you already wet from twenty minutes of anticipation you couldn’t show anyone.
You remember the casual excuse he made with the smile that put a room at ease.
You remember the hallway and bathroom at the far end. His hand over your mouth, his cock inside you before the lock finished clicking. Someone knocking. His voice through the door, steady and betraying nothing while his hips were pressed flush against yours.
You remember finishing against him whilst his cum flooded into you in thick, slow pulses, his groan muffled against your neck. Then his hand on the small of your back as he led you back to the table, your legs shaking beneath your skirt, his cum already warm and spreading inside you. Someone handed you a slice of chocolate cake and you picked up your fork.
That was the first time.
After that, it happened at a charity gala, his fingers working you to the edge during the silent auction while a woman talked to you about her foundation.
After that, a listening party for an album that wasn’t his, his hand up your dress in a back corridor while music pulsed through the walls.
Then, the Grammys afterparty, his fingers sliding into you in a coat closet while cameras flashed thirty feet away, his mouth on your neck, your orgasm muffled against his shoulder. Him straightening your dress, smoothing your hair, walking you back out with his hand on the small of your back like nothing had happened.
Each time, he finished inside you and you’d go back to wherever you’d been, a table, a crowd, a room full of strangers, with his cum inside your underwear, pressing your thighs together under your skirt while you smiled and made conversation in an attempt to pretend your legs weren’t shaking.
There was one night you thought about more than the others. An event at Hayvenhurst, some industry thing with too many people in the living room.
He’d taken you upstairs between courses, fucked you slowly against the bedroom door with his hand cradling the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the wood. He took his time because he always did at home.
When he finished, he pulled out with the kind of care that made your chest ache before tucking himself back in and kissing your forehead. You went back downstairs in a white dress with no underwear because he’d pocketed them, grinning at you from across the room for the rest of the night while you sat on a velvet couch with your knees pressed together, his cum slowly seeping into the fabric beneath you.
He waved at you once, from across the room and smiled before taking a sip of his drink. You smiled back.
You were learning the shape of it. Not just the sex, not just the thrill, but the architecture of what he was building. The way the control lived inside tenderness. The way the public and the private were collapsing into each other, until you couldn’t tell which version of him was real. The man who cradled your head against the door, or the one who put his cum in your underwear and sent you back to a party.
You thought about the notebook, the tracked dates, the fact you’d stopped taking the pill.
Then his hand was on your knee again and you weren’t thinking about anything at all.
────୨ৎ────
It happened the way things always happened with him. Slowly, then all at once, then so gradually you couldn’t point to the moment it became permanent.
Your apartment lease lapsed. You found out after the fact, a forwarded letter from your landlord you opened at Hayvenhurst over breakfast. Michael didn’t look up from his coffee when you mentioned it. He just said you don’t need it, baby, soft and obvious, the way someone says the sky is blue. You put the letter in the kitchen trash and forgot about it by noon.
Jennifer stopped calling. Not because anything happened, but because you stopped being available for brunch, then for weeknight dinners, then for the Sunday calls that used to stretch past midnight.
You’d pick up the phone and Michael’s hand would find your knee under the table, his thumb tracing a slow circle, his eyes on the television, his mouth doing nothing in particular. You’d tell her you’d call back. You wouldn’t. Eventually she stopped dialing and you didn’t notice the silence where her voice used to be.
Your manager started calling Hayvenhurst instead of your old number and Michael took the messages. He relayed them at dinner, paraphrased, sometimes days later. He told you which meetings mattered and which ones didn’t and he was always right. That was the worst part. He was always right.
He ordered for you at restaurants. Not every time, but often enough that you stopped looking at the menu, stopped caring what arrived, started trusting the food that appeared in front of you because he knew what you liked better than you did.
He spoke for you at events, fielded questions with his hand on the small of your back, his answers so smooth and complete that you didn’t need to add anything. You stood beside him and smiled, letting the warmth of his palm on your spine say I’m here, I’m his, I’m fine.
Your world didn’t shrink, but it narrowed, like a lens finding focus. Everything that wasn’t him blurred at the edges until you couldn’t see it anymore.
You didn’t notice when it happened, that was the thing. You never noticed because it was already done before you thought to look.
────୨ৎ────
The mirror was in the bedroom, mounted on the wall beside the closet, taller than you, framed in dark wood that caught the lamplight in uneven strips. You’d looked into it a thousand times whilst buttoning your blouse, adjusting your earrings. It was furniture, it was nothing, until he positioned you in front of it.
His hands were on your hips, turning you gently, guiding you until you were facing the glass and he was behind you. You could see both of you in the reflection, his chest against your back, his chin above your shoulder, the dark line of his eyes watching you watch him. His hands slid from your hips to your waist, fingers pressing in, holding you still.
The cabinet was below the mirror, the surface cluttered. You put your hands on it, fingers curling over the edge, your knuckles white against the wood. The surface was cool under your palms.
Michael pressed against you from behind. You could feel him, the length of him, the pressure as he lined himself up. He held you there as he breathed against your neck, his fingers digging into your waist. His eyes locked onto yours in the glass, waiting. He was always waiting now, always giving you the space to say something, to stop it, to pretend you hadn’t already made every decision that led to this moment.
You watched yourself in the mirror. Your face flushed, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling in pulls. His hands were on your body, cladding your skin, his mouth close to your ear. He looked like he owned you and you looked like you wanted him to.
“I stopped taking it.”
Your voice came out quiet, not as an announcement, but something smaller, something that had been sitting behind your teeth for weeks, months, waiting for the right moment to fall out.
The words hung in the air between your mouth and the glass, and you watched them land on his face in the reflection. His expression didn’t falter and his breath didn’t catch.
He already knew.
Of course he knew. He’d known before you’d decided. He’d been tracking the days, the numbers, the windows in his notebook and when you’d stopped swallowing the pills, spitting them into the sink, watching them dissolve under the faucet, he hadn’t needed to see it to feel the shift in you. He’d known the way he always knew.
He pressed his mouth to your shoulder, warm and deliberate, his lips flat against your skin. His breath held and then released in a slow stream that raised goosebumps along your arm before he pushed forward.
You felt him enter you. A single, fluid motion that filled you completely, his hips flush against your body, his hands sliding from your waist to your stomach, holding you against him. You watched yourself take him, how your mouth hung open, watched your fingers whiten against the cabinet edge, watched his hands on your belly like he was holding something in place.
He didn’t move, he simply stayed buried inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his mouth still pressed to your shoulder.
You had never loved anything more in your life.
Not the way you loved him. Not this. Not the fullness, the weight of his hands, the knowledge of what he was doing and why and how long he’d been planning it. You loved the notebook and the pills dissolving in the sink, the way he’d never once asked permission because he’d never needed to. You loved the cage he’d built around you, the beautiful, airless cage that smelled like his skin and the sheets you slept in every night.
You knew what it was. You knew it was toxic and irreversible, the kind of love that hollows you out and fills the space with itself until you can’t remember what you were before it started. You knew. You watched yourself know it in the mirror, your face open and flushed his body moving behind you now, deep inside of you.
Hey girl! I love your writing so much. Would you consider writing a fic where Michael (any era) is our first time and he guides us through everything? I feel like you’d write that dynamic so well💕
Guide me જ⁀➴ ♡
𝒻. inexperience!reader x michael. 𝓳┊history!era ˚. ᵎᵎ smut ༉‧₊˚. michael talking you through it ⋆˙⟡ sex ⋆.˚ creampie ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 1,739k wc
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ a/n: hope you like it ♡ edit: HOLY SHIT you guys to whoever read this already, I apologize on the amount of errors there were, I was legitimately drunk af writing this and thought it was a good idea to post it through my phone, gladly I fixed it😭. 𑣲⋆˙— masterlist
Dating Michael has been nothing but a dream, he always treats you like you’re the one and only. You were his number one priority, he always asked about your opinion, how your day is going and so much more.
You could say you're absolutely blessed, considering the lack of experience you had in relationships before him. But Michael never treated you based on your lack of knowledge or understanding, and he never takes advantage of it.
But, there is one thing that you have little to no experience with — that Michael has to acknowledge. You never had sex, all your past relationships *which was not many, never stayed long enough to get to that point.
It was always either you were not ready, or you were saving it for the right moment — but that moment never came because of how fast your partners leave at the end.
Not Michael though, he didn’t care how long it takes, he was willing to wait — and it isn’t the only thing he searched for being in a relationship with you.
But one day it all change, after some slight encouragement from several dirty movies you unintentionally watched, and the fact that you were ovulating hard, you decided tonight’s the night.
You were in the bathroom, staring in the mirror — you just finished your skincare routine, and a couple other bonuses like: putting on lipstick, wearing your prettiest pair of panties, and spraying the perfume Michael always goes crazy for. You were ready.
Opening the door to the master bedroom, you see your boyfriend Michael — standing near the wardrobe, looking quite ready for bed. “Hey baby, ready for bed?” Michael turned to you.
You were also wearing your pink satin nightgown, the one you rarely wore just to save it for this exact occasion. “Baby, you look beautiful” Michael’s eyes lit up — seeing how dolled up you look, you walked closer — placing both your hands on his wide chest, embracing him with a kiss.
Michael kissed you back — craving the taste of your lips. He could also smell the perfume you wore that he absolutely loves. As your lips danced around each other, your hand wandered to his soft black hair — swooping over his bangs that were in the way.
The kiss deepened, you gently started to push Michael back — as he slammed himself to bed, you took it even further by slipping your tongue in. Michael gladly obliged by your boldness, “Michael…” you murmured, parting your lips — unintentionally making Michael lean in wanting more.
“Yeah…?” Michael replied. “I’m ready… I want to make love to you…” you squeezed his hands tight, Michael’s face shifted, for a split second he cracked a smile — but soon dropped.
“Are you sure…? You know I have no problem waiting. Did someone from the press ask you again about this? — God, I keep telling them to mind their own business about that–” “no baby, I want this… It’s my decision, please… I am ready” you pleaded, using your puppy eyes on him.
Michael licked his lips, looking up and down — admiring how you were basically begging. You know he couldn’t say no. “Okay…” he said before kissing you once more, you truly felt he was the onc controlling the kiss — the way he picked up your chin, directing your head upwards, it felt like you were melting.
After positioning you into the bed — with him on top, Michael immediately took off his pajamas, then slowly took off your night gown — leaving you with your delicate panties. The kiss continues, Michael’s hand wrapped around your waist, making you arch your back — you could feel yourself soaking up your panties with every passing moment.
“You wanna act like a professional?” Michael teased, you both smiled — your teeths inches away from grazing each other. “I wouldn’t know how to start” you cooed, Michael laughs, ducking his head down snickering. “That’s alright, we’ll take it slow, I’ll guide you” Michael whispered.
“First, we gotta take these off, which is a shame — they’re beautiful” Michael smiled, wandering down to your panties, peeling them off with a giddy demeanor. You matched his energy feeling just as excited as he is.
Once they were off — Michael gladly tossing them to the floor, he used his big hands to spread your legs wide open, he exhaled a shaky breath — seeing your slick pussy spread apart. “You’re so ready for me baby…” he sighed out, you couldn’t help but feel a bit embarrassed — seeing Michael absolutely mesmerised by your entrance.
“...What’s next?” you said gently — feeling your face burning. Michael quickly looked back at you, realizing how long he’d been admiring your pussy, “what’s next… i just need to get you even more ready okay baby, just for a bit” Michael explained, then proceeds to pull out his hard erect member.
Michael then let his cock rub against your clit, letting his precum mix with your slick. You moaned in an instant, closing your eyes shut — exhaling a sigh. You've never let anything this close to your pussy before, the closest thing was humping your pillow occasionally at night.
“Does that feel good?” Michael asked, “...mhm..” you swallow your breath, quickly shaking your head. Michael smiled proudly, seeing you so needy to his touch was making his erection grow harder “just you wait baby…” he then stopped, making you slip out a whine of disappointment that was out of your control.
“Now just relax…” Michael then slowly let his big cock enter your folds, your mouth formed an o shape, while your eyes stared to the ceiling. The feeling of indulging something so big inside you was mind opening — you didn’t know how to explain it, let alone process it properly.
The only reaction you were able to express was a scream — a scream of pleasure. Michael groaned by the tightness of your entrance, he winced by the mixed pleasure and pain you were giving him. After his length was half way through, both of you panted — collecting your breaths.
“..Slow alright” Michael reminded you, you nodded in response. Michael began rocking back and forth at a slow pace, just for you to get comfortable. You however had your eyebrows scrunched as your eyes glued shut, mouth gaping open. With every push Michael did you gasp.
He was so incredibly big, and his length wasn’t even inside you fully, the pain was there yes but — you don’t ever want it to stop. After a few minutes you’ve gotten used to it, only leaving the absolute pleasure, your legs wrapped around his waist — trying to get him as close to you as possible.
You start to feel the pace Michael was going and how agonizingly slow it was, of course he’s only doing it for the sake of you — but now you were able to bear it, therefore you wanted more.
“..Michael — please go faster, I need you…” you whined, “are you sure—?” his eyes gaze at yours. “Please… “ you were begging at this point, Michael could feel how needy you were. After giving you a taste — you seemed to be addicted to it.
And with that, Michael leaned down giving you a passionate kiss, then started to escalate his movements, thrusting into you with a much faster pace — you admit you weren’t prepared for it.
You moaned into the kiss, Michael dragged his hands to your inner thigh — getting a full grasp on your body. You dug your nails into Michael’s back, feeling intensive pleasure come hitting you like waves.
“You’re so tight baby—“ Michael blurted. His thrusting became more unpredictable, from quickly moving back and forth to sometimes thrusting deep in slowly. Once he does that he tries to penetrate his whole cock into you.
He succeeds, managing to hit that perfect spot that made you wanna roll your eyes all the way up. “Michael—ah-! oh baby…” you moaned and whined, you were extremely overwhelmed, your body heat increasing by the minute.
You eventually hit your orgasm, letting out a deep moan. Although as your arousal coated Michael’s member from the inside — he didn’t stop. He kept pushing himself into you harder and faster.
Your face felt twisted, you were certain you made quite the damage on Michael’s back from your nails. Michael stuffed his head into the cruck of your neck, he was full on embracing making sweet love to you for the first time.
“M-Michael… oh fuck!” you cursed, you started to form tears in the corner of your eye. Michael lifted his head to look at you, he then gave a gentle kiss on your forehead, brows furrowed and toes curled “you’re so beautiful baby… you feel s’good” he whimpered, pressing his forehead against yours.
He continued kissing your forehead, then occasionally got close into your ear “I just wanna feel you… God, I've been waiting for this moment — I wanna make you scream baby — screaming my name… can you do that?” Michael rambled.
You slipped out a whimper, you felt dizzy — but it all felt like such an amazing dream that never seems to end. “So close—“ Michael groaned, after that — one last thrust he finally spurted his release, “Michael—!” you screamed his name as he filled you up full with his seed.
Michael pumped out his member to milk out the rest of his cum inside you, before freeing it, your entrance coated on his arousal.Michael kissed your collarbone — then up to your face, then gently onto your lips. He then carefully lifted you up — settling your head onto the pillows properly, then covering your exposed body with the duvet. He lay down to his back right beside you, as you caught your breath — your hair was a mess, your cheeks flushed, you didn’t wanna move.
“You okay baby…? Was it too much on your first try?” Michael checks up on you, his face begins to worry. You shut your eyes for a brief second “gosh i’ve really been missing out…” you sighed — smiling.
Michael chuckles over your response, cradling your body and giving your head a small peck “I love you so much baby” he whispered. “I love you too” you whispered back.
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⋆❤︎︎࣪˖ ˚₊⋆. after a tiring day, michael finds peace in his one and only safe haven. . .
➳♡ michael 𝓳ackson x childhoodbsf!popstar!reader
{ 1.6k } established relationship: long-term. all fluff. era unspecified ; post-jacksons , pre-history. soft cuddles. . . comfort. sleepy n clingy mike. mention of reader’s period cramps. brief mention of food restriction. slightly nsfw desc ; non-sexual breast sucking.
Tonight, instead of waiting backstage for Michael and watching as he performed his brilliance like you usually did when you were free to be with him, you’d unfortunately been doing the opposite: waiting in the bed of your hotel room, suffering horribly from period cramps. They'd been giving you hell, but had positively subsided by the time your husband returned at eleven thirty; and as he entered in his bold, sequin-encrusted look, strands of messy hair clutching at his temples, he saw your now-peaceful figure fast asleep, head peeking above the thick comforter.
Michael took off his clothes, yawning as he did—although that was no lone signifier that he might actually get to sleep tonight. His ears were ringing with a screechy, deeply uncomfortable force, his head pounded with fatigue, and all he'd been craving for the last hour since the show had ended was to crawl into bed with you and cuddle up into your chest.
While Bill had driven him away from the stadium, hundreds of screaming fans had banged passionately on the window he sat behind, yelling their praises and their marriage proposals, pleading with him to come outside and talk to them. Michael adored his fans—he truly did—but sometimes, even though he felt guilty admitting it, things got too much for him. Running on so little sleep, hardly eating, and then coming off the back of an extremely demanding live performance, he would almost collapse each night. It had been said many a time that no human was ever meant to be anywhere near as famous as Michael Jackson had become, and also that nobody should ever be in his position again. It was way too much for a person to handle, and while Michael believed he was perfectly accustomed to the chaos, it still affected his nervous system badly.
He felt so much gratitude that night as he slid into bed behind you after his shower, snaking his warm arms around your waist. Your very own protective cage.
And though you'd been fast asleep, Michael's presence made you stir, because even in unconsciousness your body craved his touch. When he heard you sigh awake, he gently nudged his pyjama-clad leg in between yours, and kissed your neck lightly.
"Missed you t'night, baby," his deep, natural cadence whispered into your ear. You shivered pleasantly, then turned with a sleepy moan and wrapped your arms around his neck, entwining both of your legs with his.
"Mm, Mikey," you sighed into his mouth as you kissed, tongues gliding over each other's in a quiet passion. "How was the show?"
"Great," he smiled, but you could see how exhausted he was. Wordlessly, he shifted onto his back and then shifted you to lay your body on top of his, one hand holding your ass securely and the other cradling your head. "How y' feelin' now, mama? The cramps gone?"
"Mhm," you nodded into his neck. "Thankfully. But I wish I could've been out there with you tonight."
"No, don't worry about that," he muttered, kissing your head. "It was chaos out there, really. Like, offstage too. The fans... God, before I even got in the car they were all tryna grab at me, 'n I usually don't mind but I was tryin' not to pass out. Paparazzi crowdin’ me too… Couldn't wait to get home..."
"Michael," you sighed. "When was the last time you ate?"
"Uh, I don't remember."
Of course.
"Honey, this is another reason why I like to be there as much as possible. Am I gonna have to start getting Bill to feed you? Hm?"
Michael chuckled, never understanding the severity of his disordered eating because he felt that it never affected him significantly enough to do any damage. He was lucky that the fatigue almost always came only after the performance, not during, so as long as his nutritional issues didn't affect his stage life, he wasn't concerned.
You rolled your eyes, pulling your head up to initiate a soft makeout, because you knew he wouldn't listen to your necessary criticism. He had no makeup on following his shower, and there was a deep-rooted sting of emotion every time you acknowledged that you were the only one who ever saw him like this. Depigmented blotches of paleness over his brown skin, dark circles of exhaustion painting his under-eyes... Michael would rather die than have anyone else see him in his most naked form, hidden by nothing.
The truth was, that if Michael hadn't met you—if you didn't exist in his world—it was very unlikely that he'd have met anybody else to share his life with so thoroughly. He would never want to burden anyone else with a life so insane, and would honestly never feel truly comfortable and trusting enough to believe that they would love him for him, and that they'd always stay, even in his darkest moments. The very fact of your existence kept him going even when he was so horribly low and lost in all his struggles, because you were the only one who had known him since the beginning, the only one who'd experienced a lack of childhood like he had, the only one who understood the perils of the industry. There was zero judgement from you—ever. Even when you disagreed with him or argued with him (which admittedly was frequent in his stubbornness), you never actually judged. And that was because you understood him better than anyone, always understanding what provoked each bout of sadness, anxiety, lone quietude...
"Mm, honey, let me hold you," you whispered, slipping out of his grasp to roll onto your side again.
Michael nodded, having silently hoped you'd initiate that. He too laid on his side, and you brought him as close as could be, burying his head in your chest and running your fingers through his soft curls as he sighed in content at the new position.
"This what you needed, yeah?"
"Mm. Feel so safe, baby, finally… Been waitin' for this all night..." he murmured into your vanilla and cocoa-scented skin, breathing in the flavour happily.
"’m glad, angel," you whispered back, gently running your fingers over his cheek and up to his shut eyelids, over the beautiful length of his lashes.
"Y'sure the pain's gone? I can rub y' abdomen if y' want?" he asked again, referring to your earlier cramps.
"No, baby, the pain faded a while ago—let's just focus on you now. I can see how exhausted you are, 'n I also know the power I hold in my innate ability to send you off to sleep." You giggled quietly, while Michael did too, humming at the way your fingers felt so lovely over his face and in his hair.
And it was true: Michael was pretty much incapable of sleeping when you weren't there. Ever since you were kids and he'd lie awake at night alone and terrified of Joseph's wrath, the only thing that would calm him was when his best girl would appear at his window and climb into his bed. He had always been too shy to cuddle you back then—understandably, because cuddling was of course much more of a couple activity—but it wasn't all that long before you surprised him with wordlessly nestling yourself into his chest. Oh, the excuses you fed to yourself and to everybody about your supposedly non-existent feelings for that boy... The memories of your obliviousness always made you laugh now.
"Your ears ringin', honey?" you asked, massaging the back of his neck. He kept pressing kisses every so often to the erogenous zones of your own neck—but without sexual intention—and they made you shiver pleasantly.
"Yeah," he replied.
"Why won't you just wear an in-ear monitor? You're gonna end up deaf, baby, if you're not careful."
"No, I need t' really be able to feel the music," he protested quietly. "I can't focus otherwise."
You already knew of his reasoning, but you really didn't think it was worth risking the health of his ears for, especially when you managed perfectly fine with the IEM yourself. Michael had his own particular way about doing everything though, and you wouldn't argue further.
"My head's poundin'..." he added, shuffling further into you.
"How about I go get you an aspirin?"
"No—no," Michael whined. "Jus' stay here—I don't want y' to get up... 'm gonna fall asleep soon anyway..."
He did seem like he was already dozing off, eyelids fluttering open and shut continuously, and you began to grin down at him in amusement as he played with the neckline of your camisole top. Your breasts were nude below the cotton, more swollen than usual due to your menstrual cycle, and your nipples were hardened as a result of the hormonal shifts, the peaks pebbled against the thin fabric. As soon as you looked down to see the sight, you knew what Michael wanted.
"Honey, can I—?" he began to ask, but you playfully shushed him with a finger to his lips and a chuckle.
"You want 'em?"
He flushed bashfully. "Yeah... please, mama. Jus' to help me sleep, y'know..."
You giggled. "Don't need t' ask me, baby. You wanna suck on 'em, huh?"
His eyes fluttered upward to meet yours as he smirked boyishly. "Mhm."
And so, lighthearted you rolled your eyes, tugging down the neckline of your cami, and in turn revealing your swelled breasts. You laughed again as you saw Michael's visceral response—his eyes lit up briefly, and he bit his lip on instinct.
Softly, you smacked the back of his head. "Boy, you're crazy."
Chuckling against your chest, Michael's lips latched onto one of your pebbled nipples, while his hand kneaded the other tissue. He always did this for you whenever you were on your period, because your breasts did often ache, but the added bonus was that the rhythmic pull of his tongue over the softest part of your body helped him to fall asleep much better than most other modes of inducing melatonin. You ran your fingers through his hair until he dozed off, and then you fell into slumber too, wrapped wholly around your love, feeling so complete.
summary: Your silent treatment is driving Michael insane, and he’ll do whatever it takes just to get your attention.
꧁⎝ 𓆩༺✧༻𓆪 ⎠꧂
The silence in the house was louder than any stadium crowd Michael had ever performed in front of- and it was driving him absolutely out of his mind.
༻✦༺
It had started yesterday afternoon over something that, in hindsight, Michael desperately wished he could undo. You had every right to be mad at him. He’d made a careless promise, completely forgot about it due to a last-minute schedule change, and left you waiting for hours without a word. When he finally walked through the door with an apology on his lips, you hadn’t yelled. You hadn't thrown anything.
You had just looked at him, shut your bedroom door, and locked in a terrifying, impenetrable wall of silence.
And now? The silent treatment was in full effect.
༻✦༺
Every single movement you made became a high-stakes obstacle course for him. When you woke up and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen, Michael was right behind you, hovering like a nervous, guilt-ridden shadow. He literally tiptoed on the balls of his feet behind you, wincing at every tiny squeak of the floorboards, holding his breath every time you paused.
When you reached the kitchen to make coffee, he immediately darted to the cupboard to grab your favorite mug before you could reach it. He presented it with both hands, offering a sheepish, dimpled smile, his eyebrows knit together in pitiful, pleading arches. You didn't even acknowledge the mug. You simply reached around his slender frame, pulled a completely different cup from the shelf, and poured your coffee in total, agonizing quiet.
༻✦༺
"Baby? Please?" he tried, his voice barely above a whisper as he followed you to the living room, sliding onto the far edge of the sofa while you opened a book. "I'm really, really sorry. You know I didn't mean to"
You didn't even blink. You just turned the page, the crisp snap of the paper sounding like a tiny thunderclap in the quiet room.
Michael let out a soft, dramatic groan, dropping his head onto the sofa cushions. He shifted, crawling on his hands and knees across the rug until he was resting his chin on your knee, looking up at you with wide, glassy brown eyes.
"I'll do whatever you want," he wheedled softly, reaching up to gently tug on the hem of your shirt with two fingers. "You want me to cook dinner? I'll cook. I'll burn the kitchen down, but I'll do it. You want me to massage your feet? I'll do it all day. Just... look at me? Please? Just one tiny glance?"
You slowly lifted the book higher, completely blocking his face from view.
Michael’s bottom lip stuck out in a full, sulky pout. He sat back on his heels, crossing his arms over his chest, muttering under his breath like a rejected toddler before scrambling up to brainstorm his next move.
༻✦༺
Desperate, Michael bought the most extravagant bouquet of your favourite flowers he could possibly find. When the arrangement arrived, he took it at the door and practically bounced back into the room. He presented them to you like a golden retriever bringing back a prize, holding the massive burst of blossoms in front of his face so only his wide, hopeful eyes peered over the top.
"I got these for you" he said softly, his voice trembling slightly with nervous energy. "They're your favorite. Aren't they pretty? Almost as pretty as you..."
You took the flowers, set them flat on the kitchen counter without looking at the attached card, and gave him a brief, lukewarm glance.
"Thank you," you said. Two words. Flat. Cold.
Then you turned right back around to pour a glass of water, leaving him standing there in total, unadulterated agony.
༻✦༺
By evening, Michael couldn't take it anymore. The frustration, the aching longing, and his own dramatic nature had officially boiled over. He was a man who lived on raw emotion, and being shut out by the person he loved most was pure torture.
You were in the living room, folding a throw blanket, when Michael suddenly stepped right into your path. When you tried to step to the left, he sidestepped to the left. When you moved right, he blocked you again, spreading his arms out wide like a goalkeeper.
"Michael, move," you muttered, keeping your gaze fixed firmly on his chest instead of his face.
"No," he said, his voice a chaotic mix of a childish whine and a firm, desperate demand. "No, I'm not moving! You have to talk to me! You've been ignoring me for twenty-four whole hours, and it's killing me. You're driving me crazy! Please, just yell at me! Scream at me! Throw a pillow at my head! Do whatever you want, but stop acting like I'm invisible!"
You finally snapped your head up to look at him, shoving your hands onto your hips. The sight of his messy curls, his wide, desperate eyes, and the sulky, petulant set of his jaw almost broke your resolve, but you held your ground.
"You want me to talk to you?" you snapped, your voice sharp enough to slice through the air.
"Fine! You were so inconsiderate, Michael! I waited for hours. You couldn't take ten seconds to have someone make a phone call? My time matters too, you know! I was sitting here worried sick, thinking something terrible had happened to you, only to find out you just forgot! I was hurt, and I have every right to be angry with you! You're lucky I didn't pack my bags and leave, that's what I've done to every other man who's disrespected me like that before!"
Michael didn't even care that you were scolding him-his face practically lit up like a Christmas tree just hearing your voice directed at him again. He nodded rapidly, taking a cautious, slow step closer, his hands raised in absolute surrender.
"I know, I know! You're completely right!" he pleaded softly, his demeanor instantly softening from sulky to deeply earnest as he saw the genuine exhaustion and lingering hurt behind your anger. "I was stupid and careless, and I hate that I made you feel like that. I hate it. I swear I'll make it up to you. I'm so, so sorry, beautiful. Truly, truly sorry. Please don't be mad at me anymore, I can't take it... please?"
He took another timid step forward, reaching out with just the tips of his fingers to catch the edge of your wrist. When you didn't pull away, his hope doubled. His hand slid down, his fingers gently wrapping around yours, holding on like a lifeline. He lowered his head slightly, peering up at you through his dark lashes, his lower lip trembling just a fraction.
"I hate when you look at me like you don't even know me. I'll do anything, lovey. I'll clear my entire schedule for a month, I'll stay right here with you, I'll never forget a single thing ever again. Just please forgive me... please?"
Hearing the raw, desperate remorse in his quiet voice, your shoulders finally dropped. The tight, painful coil of anger in your chest began to loosen, melting away under his earnest, unblinking gaze. You let out a long, heavy sigh, running your free hand over your face.
"You really drive me crazy sometimes, Michael," you grumbled, though the biting edge in your tone was officially gone.
Michael’s eyes widened slightly, catching the sudden soften in your posture. He held his breath, his hands still clutching yours, completely frozen as he tried to gauge if it was really safe to push his luck. He chewed nervously on his bottom lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then darting back up to your eyes. He swallowed hard, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking terribly small and hesitant despite his height.
"Are... are you still really mad?" he murmured carefully, testing the air. "Or just... a little bit mad?"
"I'm still annoyed," you said, trying to maintain a stern line with your lips.
Michael gave a tiny, tentative tug on your hand, pulling you a mere inch closer. He bit his lip again, his face flushing a faint shade of pink as he hesitated, clearly terrified of ruining the fragile peace he had just won back.
"..Can I..." he started, his voice dropping into a breathless, barely audible whisper. He paused, searching your face for any sign of rejection, his dark eyes wide and pleading. "...Can I have a kiss?" he finally blurted out softly, looking so painfully sweet and uncertain that it almost made you laugh. "Just one? Please?"
You closed your eyes for a second like you were physically bracing yourself, then finally looked at him. The look you gave him was unreadable, but it didn’t stop you from leaning across the tiny space and pressing a quick kiss to his lips anyway. It was brief, barely even a second, a light peck-and the moment it was over, you were already pulling away and turning your head like nothing happened.
Michael went completely still beside you for a second, then let out a small, disbelieving laugh under his breath.
“I got a kiss,” he said softly, a brilliant glow washing over his features, and you immediately groaned and hid your face in your hand.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, i'm still mad” you warned, but your voice wasn’t nearly as firm as you wanted it to be.
And Michael, standing right there in the living room, just leaned in close with a triumphant smile that made it very clear he knew exactly what he was doing to you, completely overjoyed that he was finally out of the doghouse.
