#jackson x reader

pairings: michael jackson x black!fem reader.  genre: smut.  warnings: reader is submissive. vibrator usage. edging. rubbing iykwim. no p in v sex. soft dom to eventual meanie michael

sometimes you get bored and like testing michael's limits. you definitely went too far today. mdni.⋆‧°𓏲ּ𝄢

a/n: remember that this is fantasy land and michael may seem "out of character" here.

mature!michael can be so mean when you provoke him. and you knew better than to do so, but you still did. you talked back to him a few times, ignored him, and dropped his hand while you were walking to the car.

and that’s exactly how you ended up sitting with your back against his chest, his free hand wrapped lightly around your throat as the other pressed a vibrator into your pussy. he’d already brought you to the edge twice and didn’t seem like he wanted to stop anytime soon. tears pricked the corners of your eyes as he held it right against your clit this time.

"what's wrong, mama? didn't you ask for this?" you whimper as he speeds it up, pressing it into you harder. your clit was so overstimulated you couldn't stop trying to squirm away, but he held you down and made sure there was nowhere for you to run. you let out a long and drawn out moan.

"please, mikey. i'm close. i'm sorry, please i'll-"

michael places a chaste kiss to your neck and pulls the vibrator away. he shushes your whines and holds you as you writhe around. his hand wanders down and rubs your heat. you buck your hips up and he sits you right back down. "c'mon baby, stop squirming. be good for me." your head feels soooo fuzzy as he turns the vibrator up to the highest setting and moves it up and down your soaked slit.

he lets out a noise that sounds somewhere between a gasp and a moan as your legs start to shake again. "please, sir." you beg. tears wet your pretty lashes, your eyeliner staining your face as you cry out. "are you close, love?" you nod. words were too difficult at this point.

you were almost about to go right over the edge after being kept there for far too long. your cunt throbs beneath the vibrator and your head goes back, only being able to form a silent "o" shape with your mouth.

and then he stops :( and you're begging him to let you cum, but he kisses you on the forehead and tells you to "shut up and put your dress back on." you whine and hold onto his bicep, looking up at him with big, glassy eyes. "sir... i'm sorry. please?" but he ignores you, just kisses you once again and moves on as if nothing happened.

otw!michael x gf!reader

synopsis: You and Michael play entirely TOO much, and it's all fun and games until you get hurt

content: fluff, established relationship, Michael bonding with his siblings, mentions abuse literally once, but nothing severe at all, comfort, barely proofread

authors note: I haven't written a fic in literal years and it's my first time writing anything related to Michael (please be easy🫶🏼😔)I just thought it would be a cute little moment and I feel like as wild and playful as he was this might not be too far fetched idk😅 originally the story was gonna end with some smut but I figured I'd keep it tame for my first one. If you hate it, I'll dip but if you guys like I might write more. Enjoy🫶🏼

word count: 3.3k+

summary: with each day you spend on the farm, you’d be stupid not to notice the monsters roaming the Hillwalker’s house. You never really questioned how they came to be, since you had a general idea. But Jackson takes it into his own hands to show you exactly how the farm animals are created.

trigger warnings: graphic descriptions of gore, mentions of vomit, torture if you squint

author’s note: wow first post hello butchery nation!! Um I’d like to clarify that what I mean by “if you squint” is not because they put any hands on you, but bcs you’re forced to watch the whole process. Also “mentions of vomit” is rlly js you thinking ‘oh im gonna throw up’—nothing comes out! This is pretty graphic, so read w caution! And also this might be a bit OOC…I’ll get around to writing the brothers soon enough. I took Jackson’s 10 and brought it to 100💔

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“Hey—wait!” You thrash, hands scratching at the grip over your collar. William doesn’t respond. He only digs his fingers further into your clothes to deliberately curl his nails into your skin. Not too long ago, he burst into the room you’ve started to accept as home, beckoning you with a nod of his head. When you had an inkling of refusal, he took matters into his own hands, chasing you around the room and forcing you into a corner.

So now here you are, being dragged down the steps into the living room without mercy. You tried struggling at first, but with the way William’s hand tightens impossibly further into your shirt, you finally succumb to whatever waits for you.

After being dragged down another staircase—the steps leading to the basement—you’re finally brought into a room lit by a red light. William shoves you into a chair situated parallel to a table in the middle of the room. He doesn’t bother tying you, especially since he doesn’t leave, leaning on one of the doorways with a scowl directed at you.

“Ah, just in time!” You hear Jackson’s voice call cheerily. Something drags behind him, long and heavy. You force your eyes away from the doorway, but it doesn’t matter, since you see Jackson lift and dump whatever he was dragging onto the table. The smell hits you first, and you squeeze your eyes shut.

“None of that,” Jackson clicks his tongue. It comes out awkwardly through his missing tooth. “We’re here to show you The Lord’s gift! It’s high time you learned the beauty of labor!” He says, raising his arms in a show of what’s in front of him. Not that you were looking. “The gift of creation! The Lord has bestowed me the gift of Their birth!” You shiver. Birth? You crack open an eye, and the sight in front of you has you holding back vomit.

A corpse lay on the table, seemingly fresh with the way blood still drips from its flesh. Their head lolls in your direction, eyes cold and lifeless. Their jaw slightly creaks open, as if it were weightless, and a line of spit drools down their chin, pooling on the table.

You clutch the sides of your chair, squeamish, letting out a horrified breath through your nostrils.

“Wh-“ You gag over your words, retching forward. “W-What are you doing?” You force out through heaves, teeth clenching and body tense.

Jackson raises an eyebrow at you, “oh, this?” He pokes the corpse below him. “Just some hitchhiker walking along the roads by our farm. He wasn’t too far off from where you ran into the pig!” He says. “Nothing like a fresh kill to spill new life in.”

He toys with something at his hip—something obscured by the table. You see a reflection before you see the object—bright red gleaming off smooth silver. Jackson’s cleaver slowly comes into view, “of course, the lovely cows you see roaming around our farm don’t just come from nowhere!” He says.

“It’s by our hands that we bring them into newfound animation!” He says, thumbing over the handle of Hilda, lifting the cleaver with a wide, open-mouthed smile. The blade comes down, slamming into the already limp corpse’s head. With the body being laid to rest not too long ago, blood spurts from the new cut and spews over the sides of the table.

Jackson finally relaxes his jaw, his wide smile softening into something simpler, but he still keeps his mouth slightly ajar, huffing over his tongue. He tilts his head and pushes the cleaver to the side, shifting and stretching any connected muscle he has yet to slice. You hear it tearing as he continues widening the cut.

You want to tear your eyes away, but you can’t. You don’t want to watch the scene unfolding in front of you, but you keep watching anyway. You’re afraid that if you look away, one of them will force your head back. You don’t want hands stained with blood anywhere near your skin.

Your fingertips bruise from how hard they press into your chair. The bones of your knees ache from how they’re locked into one another, squeezing enough to bruise. Your muscles beg for you to go lax as they cramp and tense. Your skin blemishes with goosebumps, your stomach twists, and you can’t look away.

You’re stuck.

Jackson, who only seems to delight in your shaking, lifts the cleaver once more. He specifically holds it up to the light just so you can see the blood dripping off of it better. Though the red light washes out most of the blood’s sheen, you could still point out the dark crimson dripping from the cleaver. You watch a particularly thick droplet splatter down on the already bloodied corpse, and you shrink further in your chair.

Jackson eventually repositions the blade and swings down again. Where you thought you’d be happy that Jackson’s crude ways of decapitation are finished, your thoughts are cut off as the head casually rolls off the table. It drops to the floor with a dull thump. You tuck your feet in closer, hiding them further under the chair. It doesn’t roll toward you, but it still faces you, lifeless eyes boring a hole into your soul, asking you why you didn’t save them. Not that you could’ve helped if you wanted to.

Looking down at the head, Jackson rolls the sole of his foot over its crown, dragging it closer until it was close enough for him to kick away. Distantly, you hear William scowl to your left. You’d honestly forgotten he was there.

“Did you have to kick it away?” He asks. Not because he found it gross, but because he would be the one taking the responsibility of cleaning it up.

“Just getting rid of the trash, William!” Jackson responds. “It had to go to make way for something much more beautiful.”

Beautiful? Beautiful, he says, while referring to cow heads sown onto human carcasses. The cow heads that somehow brought back the corpse’s autonomy, but kept their body functions locked in the jumbled head of an animal that only knows pain. You know better. You’ve seen actual beauty, and this? This is far from it. How could anyone see blood and suffrage and label it as pretty?

“Ah, now that you mention it,” you focus back in on Jackson, who’s talking. “We still need the head for this body! Mind getting it for me, William?” He asks sweetly.

The man in question snarls but turns on his heel anyway, walking off with heavy footsteps.

“Isn’t this just great?” Jackson asks, drawing you back in. You weren’t even aware you looked away, and you curse yourself for looking back. The blood in front of you only seems more apparent now that you’ve looked away. “You’re finally able to see what we see! The Lord blessed this farm with clay to mold. I am only its humble sculptor.” He says, putting a noble hand to his chest, the hand holding Hilda. The silver smears blood into his flannel, blending in with the red squares. You try not to think about how much blood has already mixed with the fabric of the shirt.

You hear footsteps coming back. Something new is being dragged into the basement, something heavier. You hear it thump down on multiple steps, making old wood creak with effort. William reenters, hand curled around a cow’s horn. He pulls its entire body into the room, dropping it and letting it slump along the floor. You note the cow’s already dead, and how it has uncharacteristically long, sharp teeth. Seems like it mutated. Maybe that’s why it died?

“Good enough?” William asks gruffly, crossing his arms.

Jackson drops to a crouch, leaning from side to side, inspecting the cow. “No sign of rotting…” He mutters. “Yes, this’ll do.” He says. “Mind grabbin’ the corpse for me?”

“As if you could pick up the cow,” William comments flatly. “You move the body, I’ll move the cow.”

“You always gotta fight about it…” Jackson complains, but he scoops up the corpse anyway. He rounds the table, and he starts making his way toward you. You lean to the side to try and get away from him, a fearful whimper in your throat. You hunch and close your eyes, fully expecting the corpse to be lain atop of you, but Jackson merely places it on the table behind you. You sigh with the most amount of relief this situation could let you muster.

William hefts the large cow onto the table in the meantime. He seems to sway with its limp weight, but you might’ve made that up. He rolls it onto its back and waits for his brother’s move.

Jackson pushes him away with a little wave, and William rolls his eyes and retakes his earlier position.

You’ve seen the cow monsters. You have an idea of what comes next. The hitchhiker—that’s currently dripping stickily warm crimson on you—is missing a head. Something has to replace it. At least the cow’s decapitation is a bit easier to watch. It feels slightly less inhuman—with it being an animal—but you feel like your opinion of the matter is a double standard. Humans are animals, too. Does a species with a more developed brain give it more privilege to life? How is that fair to any living matter?

You blink your thoughts away and find Jackson’s gaze in your direction. Your nerves spike, but you realize that he’s not looking at you. He looks at the corpse in thought, cleaver at his chin. He taps the blade on his jaw, and you pray he sorts his thoughts soon. You hate his eyes being in your direction.

Deciding something, he shifts down to the cow’s stomach. With utmost care, he drags a sharp corner of the cleaver along the udders of the cow. You don’t like how he’s gentle. You don’t like how he looks like he truly believes what he’s doing is for the greater good.

He pulls the udders from the cow’s body, squelching as it tries to stay connected to the cow. He sets the udders and cow head at the end of the table, “mind finding a place for this?” Jackson asks, looking to William.

“I’ll see if the pig’s still hungry,” William says, rolling the cow off the table, its weight slamming on the ground with a loud bang. William winds a hand around one of its legs, since there is no longer a head to hold on to.

As William leaves once more, Jackson gathers up the hitchhiker behind you. You flinch all the same. You’re just glad you no longer feel streams of blood running down your neck.

Jackson sets them down and rolls up their shirt so it sits above their stomach. “One day,” he starts, finally addressing you for the first time in a while. The cleaver pierces skin, sinking into flesh with a squish. Your jaw twitches. A phantom feeling of a blade running over your stomach has you becoming more uncomfortable.

Jackson starts carving out a wide circle in the corpse. “The Lord will give me their vision for you, one day.” He says with a softness that makes your skin crawl.

Your voice crackles in your throat, “why-why would you n-need a vision?” You ask through a croak. Jackson looks up at you, distracted enough to accidentally puncture the corpse further. He chews the inside of his cheek and slides the knife back.

“For what you’ll breathe life in,” Jackson finally answers.

You swallow thickly. “What I’ll breathe life in?” You echo. Why wouldn’t you be any of the normal farm animals? A cow? A chicken? You don’t feel special. Why would Jackson need one of his ‘visions’?

“I’m thinking a sheep,” Jackson offhandedly throws out. As he speaks, he finishes up his cut. “Somethin’ delicate, y’know? Skittish.” He wriggles his fingers down into the new scrapes in the flesh, prying the chunck of stomach out. “What d’ya think?”

You don’t respond. “Well, maybe a horse or sumthin’ would be more accurate. But I guess the jockey isn’t prone to spookin’…” He shakes his head.

“It’s your fault for giving it a taste for meat.” You jolt at William’s entrance for a second time. At least his presence distracts Jackson from his recent topic. The thought of you being turned into one of those monstrosities…your body straightens with a harsh shiver.

“It wasn’t my fault that girl put her nose in places it didn’t belong!” Jackson says. You can only assume he’s speaking of previous victims, ones long before you.

“Why would you want to put them in a new animal?” William asks, reminding his brother about his previous words, dutifully. You curse him, though you recognize you’re curious, too. But you think you should go without knowing.

“As kudos for surviving as long as they have!” Jackson answers, your prayer going unanswered. “The Lord guided them through our farm, helping them bide their time so The Lord could give me ideas to create something new. Why would he keep supplying us with those hearts if he didn’t want new works of art?” He asks rhetorically.

“Hm,” William hums. He doesn’t disagree.

Jackson makes work of scraping out the corpse’s organs now, bare-handed and nasty. He pulls out a rope of intestines, staring at them with awe. He holds it up to the light, but this time, it’s for his own selfish desire. William narrows his eyes at Jackson, who scrapes the hitchhiker’s stomach clean. It’s far from methodical, and it’s done at a deliberately slow pace. Jackson steals glances of your souring expression and relishes in it.

“Oh, William-“

“I’m not running any more of your damn errands.” William cuts him off. “Get it yourself.”

Jackson gives him a look and drops everything he’s just dug out onto the floor. It splatters, wet, gross. Your body slumps toward your legs before your mind can even think it, crumpling forward and swallowing back vomit for what feels like the nth time. You dry heave into your knees, letting out a distressed groan, but you’re otherwise quiet.

You don’t see it, but you hear Jackson’s foot coming down to step in the pile of gore on the ground. The noise it makes is sputtering and soaked, squishy and wrong, and he chuckles at the pained whine you let out. He leaves you be with William, which is the most mercy you’ve seen all night. William’s terrifying, brooding, angry, serious, and quiet. So, so quiet. You let the silence ring in your ears, trying to use the squealing pitch to deafen out all else. It doesn’t work—you’re still aware of blood pitter-pattering off the table, still aware of William’s heavy breathing and shifting, but you pretend it does.

Please, your thoughts beg, please, let this be over soon. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take.

Your spine twangs with how far it’s bowed, your neck burns with how you crane it into your knees, your limbs ache from tensing and untensing, and your fingertips bleed at their clutches in the chair. But nothing is worse than the sick you feel in your stomach. It churns in your gut and boils you from the inside out, and your body can’t decide if it wants to make you hold your breath or if it wants you to pant.

Jackson eventually returns with two needles and two spools of thread. Not that you knew—you kept your head down. Jackson is kind enough to step over the pile of organs this time around, setting down his newfound tools. He gives a small frown, “none of that, friend! I brought you here to show you my process. We’re so close to being finished! Don’t make one of us sit you up…” He says a bit pathetically.

You shake your head weakly. Not wanting to deal with any back and forth, William immediately pushes off the doorway. You hear heavy footsteps thumping toward you, and you shake your head harder, whimpering. He grabs your shoulder firmly, but not brutally. He leans you back with little effort, forcing you to lay your eyes on the table again.

You see that Jackson placed the cow udders over the hole in the corpse’s stomach, stitching the two together. The seams of the cuts mold into one another, fusing like they were never there. Your eyes water. You focus on the hands performing the action rather than the result it’s causing.

William immediately goes to aid Jackson, taking the second needle and thread. He grips the cow’s head with a large palm, keeping it upright so it doesn’t loll to the side. He begins his line of sowing with his other hand, making quick work of replacing a human’s head with something unnatural.

“William’s a show off, innit he?” Jackson says to you, but it flies over your head. Your mind’s awash with white noise, a constant static.

“It’s not hard to develop the skill when you keep slicing off your own fingers, Jackson,” William says, unamused. Jackson rolls his eyes and finishes up soon enough.

Once he pulls the thread taught, he flicks Hilda up once more, cutting a steady line through the corpse’s chest. You grimace. “What? The gift’s gotta go somewhere.” Jackson says, plunging his already blood-stained hand into the chest’s gap, ripping out one of the last things that made this corpse human: the heart. He piles it with the rest of the organs on the floor. “Speaking of,” Jackson mutters, walking out of the room to a nearby fridge. He undoes the chains around the appliance, cracking open the door and showing you shelves full of green.

He pulls out one of the green jars, the glass holding the ‘Lord’s gift’. “This’ll bring ‘er to life. Aren’t you ready to see the beauty of birth?”

No. No, you’re not. You can’t watch this. It’s one thing to kill someone, to sew animal body parts into their skin and call it art. But bringing them back? Forcing the rotting corpse to adjust to a brain that doesn’t belong to them? Forcing the rotting animal to adjust to a body that doesn’t belong to them? It’s too cruel. It’s too disgusting.

You jolt out of your chair, your muscles finally unlocking. Even you seem surprised that you moved, but you can’t dawdle on that. You force your legs to move, to pick up the pace, and you sprint out of the room.

“Hey!” Jackson calls after you, dumbfounded.

William’s already moving, pushing off the doorway and chasing after you with heavy thuds. He has no weapon on him, but he doesn’t need one.

You don’t make it far. You stumble down a few steps and throw yourself into an open room, but William knows the house better than you. Where you stutter at corners, William pivots, wasting no time. He crashes on top of you, forcing you to the floor and pinning you down with his own body weight. All the air in your lungs is forced out, and your face being half-submerged in water is certainly not helping.

You struggle and thrash, but it’s fruitless. Another pair of footsteps makes their way up to the two of you.

“And here I was, praising you for accepting my showcase of Their gift!” Jackson says with a hint of annoyance. “We got so close! Couldn’t you have sat still for one more second? I mean, I was gonna keep the cow away from ya’ for your good behavior!”

“I’m not sure why you were expecting much else, Jackson,” William says. You try to make a retort, but all that comes out is a gargled groan.

“Well, I’m sure they’ll come around one day,” Jackson says. “Soon, they’ll feel the warmth of The Lord’s light, and on that day, They will welcome you.” He says eerily.

“So? What about the cow?” William asks.

“Ehh, throw him in that tub over there,” Jackson nods over to the bathtub not far ahead of you. “We’ll give him life another day.”

You silently pray they never invest in ropes and really force you to watch.

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