#mjfan

badangerous!michaeljackson x fem!reader

setting: november 1989, neverland ranch

synopsis: because you and michael usually can't go out for date night, he surprises you with a private screening of disney's latest film, the little mermaid, at neverland's home theater.

genre: fluff, slice of life

wc: 1.2k

note: also published on wattpad (@/hotstreet) in my imagines book, dreamers ! ⊹ ࣪ ˖

Disney has just released their latest animated film, The Little Mermaid. There had been very modest and minimal promotion, but when you discovered it, you told your boyfriend, Michael, that you wished to see it with him. This, unfortunately, is not a possibility because of his global fame and good standing. Whenever he goes out with false aspirations for a private adventure out on the town, there's nowhere or way for him to hide because of how recognizable his gait, build, and voice is. Especially his laugh. That unrestrained, buoyant, and obnoxiously loud laugh, so specific to him, gives Michael away every time.

However, because you're his girl, he wants to grant your request. Perhaps not in the way you had originally desired and expressed to him, but grant it nonetheless. So, at Bill's wise suggestion, he capitalized on that two-edged, global fame and good standing that usually keeps your date nights out of populated locations, and pulled a string or two.

Michael skillfully managed to convince the Walt Disney company to benevolently provide him with a copy of the film on a VHS tape, so the two of you can have a private screening in Neverland's home theater. After all, he has garnered them much attention in the past and is an avid Disney connoisseur, so this was really the least they could do.

You've just gotten home from an evening appointment at the salon, which Michael insisted Bill drive you to and from. Although you have your own place, you spend most of your time at the ranch with Michael and practically live there. The clothes, shoes, and accessories pertaining to your personal style appropriating a portion of his closet, your snacks of choice stowed away in his kitchen, and your hair products and cosmetics put away in his bathroom like easter eggs all left bold, undeniable clues of you.

Since the Bad World Tour ended a few months back, he's made it a point to be more available for you. During that time, your relationship had suffered much abuse at the hands of incompatible schedules, time differences, delays, missed phone calls, minimal meetings, and petty arguments fueled by high stress and sleepless nights, which would subsequently lead to him ignoring you.

He has always avoided confrontation.

But, now that he's home, you both wordlessly purposed to rebuild all that had been crushed like sandcastles, and this small, but meaningful gesture of a movie night is one of those efforts.

Michael had been tinkering in his home studio while you were away, but now that he sees you peek into the room and knows you've returned, he sets his work aside to spend a comfortably quiet evening in with you. "Hi, baby," A smile blooms on his makeup-free face as he steps out of the studio, already in pajamas, and pulls the door shut behind him, meeting you in the foyer of the building that also housed his private theater and arcade.

You had a feeling you would find him here.

"Like it?" You ask as he approaches you, referring to your hair. "Yeah, 's nice. It looks real nice." He compliments, getting a good look at the style and gently handling it with his nimble fingers. "Kathy did a good job." Michael remarks in regards to your trusted stylist. He absentmindedly bites his velvety bottom lip, preoccupied with your hair now. You chuckle at his intense focus, placing a kiss on his cheek and eliciting a soft, slightly bashful laugh from him.

He gives you a gentle peck on your lips, hands coming to rest on your upper arms, "I've got a surprise for you." You give him a hesitantly curious look, "A surprise? For what?" He chortles at your uncertainty, "Date night, remember?" Michael takes your hand, "Come. I'll show you. 'S in the theater."

As he leads you a few feet to the door of the cinema, he changes his mind and stops. "Actually, let's get you in pajamas first. You wanna be comfortable." You follow his lead, skeptical but trusting enough as he turns towards the exit. A passive, but genuine smile finds permanent residence on his lips. "Are you hungry?" He asks as the both of you walk to the main house. "There's some enchiladas in the kitchen. Akasha made 'em." He explains. Akasha Richmond was his private chef during the Bad tour, who still cooks for Michael on occasion.

Before you can reply, he pipes up again, "Y'know what, I'll jus' get you a plate. And if you don't want it, I'll eat it." He quirks his brows and you chuckle while shaking your head. It isn't until you make it inside the house that he lets go of your hand. "Meet me in the theater when you're done changin'." Instructs Michael, and then the two of you split off in separate directions.

Back in the mainly empty, dimly-lit auditorium, you find him sitting close to the front. He has a blanket, your favorite drink, and a warmed plate of red enchiladas. "What are we watching?" You ask, coming to sit beside him. "You'll see." He replies, giving you the blanket. He goes up to the projector, which was connected to the VHS player encasing the exclusive, one-of-a-kind and specially requested tape. Michael presses play and promptly trots back to his spot, right beside you. You share the blanket with him, curious as to which film it is. Initially, you expect Peter Pan out of habit, but then recollect that Michael called it a "surprise," meaning it must be something new.

He watches you more than the screen, anticipating a reaction with a knowing smile on his face. "What is this?" You inquire, at a loss as you study Disney's signature, opening frame. Michael's amused smile expands a fraction, "Jus' keep watchin'." As the film begins, you silently study the first, nautical scene—an old-timey ship out at sea, with singing sailors and a dashing prince. A small, wonderful gasp passes from your lips, an inkling developing within you. Could it be? But, how could it be? The other part of you admonishes your doubt, knowing that after all, it is Michael.

He can do many extraordinary things the majority can't.

"This is The Little Mermaid, isn't it?" You realize, looking at him. He nods, chortling, "Yeah. I asked 'em to send me a copy." He then sheepishly adds, "I guess I should also confess that it was Bill's idea…." You smile, kissing him, "You're so sweet. I'll have to tell 'im thank you. I can't believe they sent it to you…. But, at the same time, you are Michael Jackson, so I guess that counts for something." Michael's heart soars at your approval, satisfied that you are satisfied. "Since we got the tape, you can watch it whenever you want. Figure you'll probably wanna see it a couple o' times."

"Oh, I'm gonna play the hell out of this thing." You remark, making him chuckle. "I'm gonna memorize this whole script, know all the songs… you're gonna be sick of me." You tell him. "Oh, boy. The whole thing? What have I done? You're gonna be beltin' it all around the house." He jests, an instinctive grin brightening his countenance in the dark environment.

Yet in this moment, within that brilliant mind of his, he questions how he could possibly become sick of you, when just the prospect of his baby singing Disney songs through the halls like a princess, or quoting an applicable line from the film during whatever moment you later find yourselves in, is already so charming?

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

Synopsis: You have a HUGE misunderstanding

Tags: Confusion, Jealousy, held in emotions, Love, Overstimulation.

TW: anticipation, Sex, orgasm, p in v, and other sexual orientation.

Requested: No/ Yes

Word count: Idk

________________________________

We’d been talking for five months.

Not dating.

Not nothing either.

That weird in-between stage—half friendship, half “what are we doing,” full of late-night texts, soft looks across rooms, phone calls that last too long, and moments that feel like they should mean more… but no one says it.

I liked him. A lot more than I meant to.

And maybe that was the problem.

Talking makes you close—but not safe.

Talking makes you want things no one’s promised.

⸻

The night of the gathering was chill. One of Michael’s friends was throwing something low-key—just music, drinks, and a bunch of people who knew each other well enough to pretend they didn’t care who was watching.

Michael picked me up just after seven. He wore this black tee that hugged his shoulders a little too perfectly, curls still a little wet like he’d showered last minute. When he smiled at me through the open car window, my stomach pulled tight in that dumb way it always did.

“Hey, you,” he said.

“Hey, yourself.”

He smelled like cedarwood and mint. He always did.

⸻

At the party, I drifted. Talked to a few people I didn’t expect to talk to—some guy who produced something for somebody famous, a girl who ran a wellness brand I’d actually followed for a while. Michael introduced me around, then got swept up in conversation across the room.

I wasn’t mad. It was his crowd.

After a while, I excused myself to the bathroom. On the way back, I slowed when I caught sight of him in the hallway—smiling, arms wrapped around a girl. She was petite, pretty. He kissed her cheek. She laughed, touching his chest like they’d done that a hundred times before.

And it wasn’t a thing. I knew that.

But it felt like a thing.

I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t ask. Didn’t flinch. Just kept it moving.

⸻

The car ride back to his place was quiet.

Not heavy. Not tense. Just… quiet.

I stared out the window. The rain had started again, light and steady. I watched the water slide down the glass like it had something to say.

Michael didn’t push. He drove with one hand on the wheel, one arm resting out the window. His profile looked calm, but I could feel him glancing over every so often.

When we pulled into his driveway, the sky was dark. The house was quiet. Familiar.

Inside, I sat down on the couch and kicked off my shoes. He dropped his keys on the table and stood there for a second, watching me.

“You alright?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

But I didn’t look at him. And I didn’t smile.

He paused. Then came closer. Quiet footsteps. Then he knelt in front of me, gently, like I might flinch. He sat back on his heels, hands on his knees, looking right at me.

“Okay,” he said, softly. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

I stared at the wall for a second. Tried to swallow it. Then looked at him—at those deep brown eyes, at that face I’d memorized too well. Something cracked a little.

“I like you,” I said. “A lot. And I’ve been trying not to say it because we’re not… you know. We’re not anything. But tonight, when I saw you hug that girl… and kiss her cheek… I don’t know. It just made me feel stupid.”

He blinked.

“Kiss her cheek?” he repeated, like I’d told him the sky was green.

“Yeah. In the hallway. You were laughing. You looked happy.”

There was a pause.

And then—he laughed.

Not mean. Not mocking. Just surprised. Soft.

“That was Janet,” he said, sitting up straighter.

I stared at him. “Janet?”

“My sister.”

My whole body went still.

“I—” I blinked. “That was your sister?”

“Yeah. I invited her last minute. She lives nearby.”

I put a hand over my face. “Oh my God.”

Michael grinned. A slow, knowing grin. That perfect white smile. That amused sparkle in his eyes.

“You thought I was—?” he started.

“Don’t,” I groaned, laughing into my palms. “Please don’t finish that sentence.”

“You really thought I’d bring another girl and kiss her in front of you?”

I dropped my hands, cheeks hot. “I don’t know! We’re not together, Michael.”

He tilted his head. “Maybe not officially. But… do you really think I’ve been talking to you every day for five months because I don’t feel something?”

My breath caught.

He leaned in then, slow. His hand came up, fingers resting under my chin, guiding my face to his.

“I like you,” he said. Simple. Sure. No hesitation. “I’ve been trying to be patient. Respect your space. But I like you.”

His thumb brushed the corner of my mouth, and then—he kissed me.

Soft at first. Still testing. Still asking.

Then deeper. Warmer. His lips full and careful, like he was trying not to break the moment. One hand stayed under my chin, holding me steady. The other slid behind my neck, his fingers slipping into my hair.

I kissed him back like I’d been waiting five months. Because I had.

And when he pulled back, just barely, he smiled again.

“You still feel stupid?” he asked gently.

I shook my head. “Only a little.”

He laughed and pulled me into his arms.

His arms wrapped around you like it was the easiest thing in the world — like your body fit against his without effort, like he’d done it a hundred times in dreams he never said out loud.

Your face rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady, warm. You felt the rise and fall of his breath in your hair. Slow. Safe. Close.

You didn’t want to move.

Didn’t want to lose the quiet electricity between you.

But his hands were moving. Soft, slow. Not rushed — just familiar. One hand skimmed the curve of your back. The other settled on your hip, then slid lower. It wasn’t a demand. Just presence. Weight. A quiet claim.

You shifted, just enough to see his face.

His lips brushed your forehead.

Then your cheek.

Then hovered just near the corner of your mouth.

“Still thinking?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed. “Trying not to.”

He smiled — that quiet, knowing smile that always made your stomach flip — and leaned in again. This time, the kiss was deeper. Warm, parted lips and slow breath. You melted into it.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingers grazing just beneath the hem of your dress. Not groping. Just… asking. Waiting.

Your breath caught.

You kissed him again, and your hands moved on instinct — under his shirt, across smooth skin, tracing the lean muscle he always kept hidden beneath quiet clothes and quiet control. He inhaled sharply when your fingertips brushed his ribs, and the small sound from him made something pulse between your legs.

Five months of holding back unraveled, one heartbeat at a time.

He pulled you gently into his lap. His grip on your hips was strong, sure. You straddled him, breath heavy, dress slipping higher, exposing soft skin beneath. His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, then paused — not pushing, just holding. His eyes were half-lidded, dark with something he wasn’t hiding anymore.

He kissed you harder.

Your bodies pressed flush, heat rising between you.

You gasped into his mouth, and he stilled.

“You sure?” he asked, voice rough now.

You nodded. “I’m sure.”

That was all he needed.

He lifted you effortlessly — like carrying you was second nature — and walked you to the bedroom. You clung to him, fingers in his curls, heart thudding as he laid you back against the sheets.

His eyes searched yours one last time.

Then he kissed you. Again and again.

His hands slid up your thighs, under your dress, then eased it over your head. You didn’t resist. You wanted him to see. All of you.

His eyes roamed slowly — not greedy, but deliberate. Admiring.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said, voice low and reverent.

You gave him a half-smile. “You’re just now figuring that out?”

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he admitted, leaning down to kiss your collarbone. “Trying too hard.”

His mouth moved lower — to your chest, the soft curve of your stomach, every kiss slower than the last. He traced your skin like a map he didn’t want to rush. Your back arched. You couldn’t stay still.

You undressed him, too — peeled away his shirt, ran your hands across his chest, down his abdomen. His skin was hot under your touch. Firm, but not rigid. Real. Alive.

He didn’t say much.

He didn’t have to.

You opened your legs for him and he settled between them like it was the only place he belonged. His mouth met you there, soft tongue tracing slow circles around your clit, his fingers parting you, exploring you, then easing inside — deep, curling just right.

He took his time.

Listened to the way you gasped, adjusted when your hips twitched, stayed there until your thighs trembled and your voice broke into a desperate, helpless cry.

He kissed up your body again, and you reached for him, panting. “Please…”

He didn’t tease.

Didn’t hesitate.

You felt him press against you — thick and hard — and your legs wrapped around his hips automatically. The first thrust was slow. Careful. Deep.

You both exhaled.

“God,” you whispered.

He didn’t rush. He set a rhythm. Smooth, rocking, so deep you swore he was in your chest. His hands held your hips, guided your body, his mouth brushing yours with every breath.

You felt every inch.

Every pulse.

Every quiet gasp against your skin.

When you moaned his name, it broke something in him. He moved faster — not frantic, just needier, more raw. He kissed your throat, your cheek, your mouth again like he needed to feel every part of you from the inside out.

You clenched around him, breath hitching.

“I’m close,” you choked out.

He didn’t let go.

Didn’t change a thing.

“Let it happen,” he whispered. “I got you. I’m right here.”

And you fell apart — body tightening, back arching, breath caught in your throat as wave after wave hit you, loud and messy and real.

He followed seconds after, groaning your name, burying his face in your neck as he spilled inside you — deep, full, no barrier, no hesitation. It was raw. Intimate. Final.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t say anything.

Just held you.

Your bodies pressed together, slick with sweat, skin buzzing. His hand ran slowly up your side. Your fingers stayed in his curls.

After a while, he spoke — voice hoarse and soft.

“You really thought I’d kiss someone else in front of you?”

You groaned. “Let me have my meltdown in peace.”

He laughed — chest shaking, lips brushing your cheek. “Next time, just talk to me.”

You looked at him, still half breathless.

“Next time?”

His gaze held yours.

“Oh, there’s gonna be a next time.”

And the way he kissed you again?

"A star can never die. It just turns into a smile and melts back into the cosmic music, the dance of life." - Michael Jackson. ♥️🕊️

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•𝑯𝑰𝑰 𝑻𝑯𝑨𝑻𝑺 𝑴𝒀 𝑭𝑰𝑹𝑻𝑺 𝑷𝑶𝑺𝑻•

(𝒂 𝒍𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒐𝒖𝒔)

𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒃𝒍𝒐g

>about bad era michael