ᴘᴀᴄᴋ ᴜᴘ ᴍʏ ʙᴀɢ!
pairing: thrillerera!michael jackson x assistant!female reader
synopsis: you’re his assistant making sure his life is in perfect order! but what if he wants to do something else than packing his bag.
tags: mature content, smut (minors dni!), face sitting, oral sex (f receiving), pussydrunk!michael
word count: 3.5k
an: my very first time writing smutty content :’))
You were Michael’s assistant—tasked in making sure he stays on schedule, knows all the deadline he needs to meet, he stays fed, and mainly comfortable to be able to work properly in the studio.
The digital clock on his bedside table cluttered with various Pinocchio stuffed toys read 8:32 PM. It has been exactly thirty two minutes since you asked him to pack his duffle bag and left him a strict itinerary for the weekend’s songwriting camp in the studio.
You marched down the hallway of Hayvenhurst, a small notebook tucked in your armpit. When you pushed the door open, the lecture died in your throat.
Michael hadn’t even moved.
The empty duffle bag lay pathetically on the foot of his bed as he lounged across the mattress propped up on one elbow. He sports a crimson button-down—his curls perfectly picked out, framing a face that is annoyingly handsome and is beginning to infuriate you.
“Michael,” you call, crossing your arms as you shift on one hip. “We are supposed to be at Westlake in an hour, and you haven’t even packed a single sock.”
He didn’t apologize. His wide dark eyes slowly tracked from the tips of her shoes, up the tailored line of her pants, settling deliberately on the open collar of her cardigan. A soft boyish smile on his face.
“I know, I’m sorry,” he murmured as he sat up, his voice soft and whiney. “I really tried to pack…But I got distracted.”
You frown.
“By what? The wall?”
Michael looked up at you through his eyelashes. His cheeks flushing a faint pink.
“By you,” his tone sweet. He sat up—his wide eyes sparkling with an emotion she won’t dare name.
“You looked so pretty out there giving me orders. It made me…think about things.”
He reached out with a hesitant grace, his long slender fingers gently grabbing the small notebook from your arm. He didn’t open it. He simply set it down beside him.
“You’re always taking such good care of me,” he whispered as he tilted his head. “But you know…as my assistant, you’re supposed to make sure I’m comfortable before I sing. M’ chest feels really tight right now.”
“Then pack the bag, Michael,” you tried to keep your stern voice though it came out uneven. “It’ll take your mind off it.”
“No…” he murmured with a sudden glint flashing in his eyes, completely playful and devoid of his usual gentle demeanor. “I think…I think you packing my bag would help my chest. And it will be very efficient.”
Your face practically heats up in a mix of frustration and embarrassment.
Before you could reply, he leaned up—his lips brushing your collarbone. His breath hot and trembling.
“Please, mama? Show me how good you are at your job.”
The air in the room felt suddenly heavy, thick with the scent of his cologne and the underlying heat radiating from his body. You felt your heart hammer against your ribs like a trapped bird. You were supposed to be the professional one. The one who kept him on track, the one who didn't let his charms derail the entire production schedule. But Michael was a master of breaking down those walls, using that soft, melodic voice to melt your resolve.
His lips were a warm, lingering pressure against her skin, sending a shiver straight down her spine. When he called you ‘mama,’ his voice dropped an octave, losing that boyish quality and replacing it with a low, honeyed vibration that made your knees feel dangerously weak.
"Michael, this is... this is highly inappropriate," you managed to breathe out, though your hands, which were supposed to be gesturing sternly, instead found themselves resting in tight fists on his shoulders.
He let out a soft, melodic chuckle, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. He inhaled deeply, a low hum escaping his lips as he took in your scent.
"Efficiency is everything, mama," he murmured, his breath hitching. "And right now... my heart is racing so fast, it's almost distracting. Only you can calm it down."
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his large, dark eyes wide and shimmering with a predatory sort of playfulness.
"Just a few minutes," he pleaded, his fingers sliding from the notebook to your waist, pulling you a fraction of an inch closer to the edge of the bed. "Pack my things... and then maybe... you can help me with the rest of my needs?"
He gave you a lopsided smirk, his eyes dancing. He knew he was being a brat, he knew he was playing a dangerous game with your schedule, but he also knew he wanted you right there, in the center of his world, instead of packing a bag.
Eager to escape his hold and not be even later to the camp, you stepped out of his reach and walked straight to his dresser. You grabbed a random pile of shirts, pants, and jackets. Hastily folding and stuffing them into the duffle bag.
Michael’s face brightened at this. Your uncharacteristically fast and sudden movements and the way you deliberately focused on the task at hand made him smile like a total loser.
He stood up, his bare feet padding across the carpet before standing behind you. You could feel the heat radiating from his chest against your back, a silent, heavy pressure that made it difficult to focus on the task at hand. You were trying so hard to be the efficient assistant who kept his life from spiraling into chaos, but Michael was making it nearly impossible.
His hands, slender and warm, slid around your waist from behind. He draped his arms loosely around you, his chin coming to rest on your shoulder. He was so close that every time you breathed, you felt the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against your spine.
"See?" he whispered, his voice a velvety, high pitched lilt right against your ear, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps down your arms. "You're so good at it. So fast."
He nuzzled into the crook of your neck, his soft curls tickling your skin. You could feel the faint prickle of his eyelashes against your cheek. He wasn't helping you pack. He was simply standing like a clingy toddler.
"Michael, please," you huffed, though the reprimand lacked any real bite. You shoved a pair of black socks into the bag, your fingers trembling slightly. "If we don't leave soon, the engineers are going to think we’re unprofessional. We have a schedule to keep."
"Gosh, always the schedule," he murmured, a playful pout evident in his tone. He turned his head just enough to press a lingering, soft kiss to the side of your neck, just below your ear.
You gasped at the sensation of his lips.
“Michael…” you weakly protested, but the name comes out more like a plea than a reprimand.
He lets out a soft, triumphant hum, a sound of pure satisfaction. He leans even more of his weight into you, his chest molding to your back as he nuzzles the sensitive skin behind your ear one more time.
"Is that a 'Michael, stop it'..." he whispers, his lips grazing your earlobe, "...or a 'Michael, keep going'?"
He’s being so bold, so uncharacteristically confident in his pursuit. The shy, soft spoken boy is nowhere to be found making you stunned and unable to think properly.
"It's a 'Michael, we're going to be late'," you try to insist, but as you reach for another sock, his hand slides from yours, moving up your arm to graze the skin of your shoulder, his touch light as a feather.
"You're so stubborn, mama. It's one of the things you do best."
He turns you around in the small space between you and the dresser, his hands sliding down to rest firmly on your hips. Now, you're forced to look up at him. His dark eyes are hooded, intense, and swirling with a playful mischief that makes your heart do a frantic little dance. He isn't looking at the bag, or the schedule, or the clock. He is looking at you as if you are the only melody worth recording in the entire world.
"The engineers can wait ten minutes," he says, his voice dropping into that smooth, commanding register that makes your knees feel like they're made of water. "I’m the star, remember? But if you don't look at me like you want to... then I don't think I'll be able to sing a single note tonight."
He leans in, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitching as he waits for your answer. The duffle bag sits forgotten at your feet, half stuffed with clothes, as the silence in the room becomes thick with a tension that has nothing to do with work and everything to do with the man holding you.
“What do you want to do?” you breathe out.
The question hangs heavy in the air, and you can feel the exact moment his breath hitches in response. The playful mask he was wearing slips just a fraction, revealing the raw, unadulterated hunger underneath. He doesn't answer immediately, instead, he just stares into your eyes.
His hands on your hips tighten, his thumbs tracing small, deliberate circles against the fabric of your pants. The heat from his palms seeps through, grounding you even as your head begins to spin.
"What do I want?" he repeats, a low murmur that vibrates in the small space between your lips. He lets out a shaky, uneven breath. "Gosh... where do we even start?"
He leans in, closing the distance until the tip of his nose brushes against yours. He’s so close you can see the way his long lashes cast shadows against his cheekbones. He smells like the faint, sweet scent of the orange juice he had earlier.
"I want to forget about the studio," he whispers, his voice dropping into that soulful tone that he usually reserves for the most intimate moments of a song. "I want to forget about the deadlines and the schedules... and just be here. With you."
He tilts his head, his lips hovering from yours, teasing you with the promise of contact but not quite delivering it. He’s a perfectionist, after all. He believed in building tension and anticipation until it’s almost unbearable.
"I want you to stop being my assistant for just a few minutes," he breathes, his eyes darkening with a sudden, intense heat. "I want you to just be mine."
He finally closes the gap, but not with a kiss to your lips. Instead, he presses his lips into the corner of your mouth, closing his eyes and letting out a long, shuddering exhale. Giving you the chance to pull away, or perhaps slap some sense into him as his assistant.
He's giving you a choice, but he's also making it very clear that he has already decided how this night is going to end.
As if something flicked inside you, you gently grabbed his jaw as you dropped the duffle bag—his clothes escaping and unfolding on the carpet. You crashed your lips into his.
It isn't a gentle kiss. It isn't the polite, kiss on the corner of the lips he did beforehand.
Michael lets out a muffled sound against your mouth halfway between a moan and a whimper before he completely melts into you. His hands, which had been resting tentatively on your hips, slide upward with a sudden, desperate urgency. His fingers tangle into your hair, pulling you closer as if he’s trying to merge your very souls.
He responds with a ferocity that catches you off guard. His tongue sweeps experimentally against yours, tasting of sweetness and heat, and he groans deep in his throat a low, vibrating sound that you feel in your own chest.
He stumbles back slightly, his heels catching on the edge of the rug, but he doesn't care. He pulls you with him, his body pressing you back toward the edge of the bed, his movements fueled by the the months of longing he’s been suppressing.
He breaks the kiss for a split second, just long enough to gasp for air, his forehead leaning heavily against yours. His eyes are blown wide, dark and shimmering with a raw, primal intensity. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving against yours.
“You have no idea... how long I’ve been wanting to kiss you."
He doesn't wait for a reply. He dives back in, his lips finding the sensitive curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin in a way that makes your toes curl into the carpet. He’s taking what he’s been craving for, his hands roaming your body with a possessive, hungry grace.
The professional facade you tried to maintain is officially gone, replaced by the same feverish hunger that has been consuming Michael for weeks. As he collapses back onto the mattress, his breathing is heavy, a rhythmic, desperate sound that fills the quiet of the room. His eyes, dark and dilated, never leave yours as he reaches up, his fingers trembling slightly as they tug at the hem of your cardigan.
"Please..." he whimpers, the sound high and melodic, yet laced with a gravelly desperation. "Please... don't make me wait. Not anymore."
He shifts, settling himself on his back, his hips arching slightly off the bed. The crimson of his shirt bunched up, revealing the toned expanse of his stomach—the product of his hard work as a dancer. He looks up at you with an expression of pure vulnerability, his eyes shimmering with a plea that is impossible to ignore.
"Take them off," he breathes, his voice dropping into that deep, soulful register that vibrates through your very bones. "Your pants... just... let me see you."
The logic in your brain practically flew out the window. The alarm bells telling you that he is your boss and you are his assistant are dead silent as the hunger you tried to hide and the need to please him overtook you.
As you move to obey, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, his hands reach out to guide you. When you finally kneel over him, the moonlight from the window catching the curves of your silhouette and the cotton of your underwear, he lets out a low, shaky groan of pure want.
"Sit..." he gasps, his hands sliding down to your thighs, his touch burning hot against your skin. He pulls you closer, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that feels like it could melt iron. "Sit on my face, mama... please. I want to taste you. I need to this is real."
He is begging. The man who commands a crowd of thousands is reduced to a needy mess at your feet, craving the your scent, your taste, and your very being. He wants to lose himself in you, to drown out the noise of the world in the most primal way possible.
As you move to fulfill his plea, hovering just above him, you see the way his eyes close in anticipation, his lips parting as he prepares to receive you.
“Michael, I—I don’t want to crush you,” you stammer out as you hover your hips above his face.
A breathless laugh escapes his lips, a sound that is half giggle and half groan. Even in his state of desire, that playful, boyish side of him peeks through. He looks up at you, his dark eyes hooded and heavy with lust, a devastatingly handsome smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth.
"D’aww…You could crush me... and it would be the most wonderful thing to ever happen to me."
He doesn't wait for you to find your composure. His hands, those long, slender fingers, reach up with a sudden, decisive grace. His palms slid up the insides of your thighs, the heat of his skin making your breath hitch.
As you hover there, trembling, your hips suspended just inches above his lips, he reaches for the edge of your panties. His touch is incredibly gentle, almost reverent, as if he is handling a piece of porcelain.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he hooks his fingers into the fabric and slides them to the side, baring you to his hungry gaze.
The air in the room feels like it's been sucked out, leaving only the thick, intoxicating scent of your arousal. Michael lets out a shaky exhale, his eyes widening as he takes you in. He looks like a man being given water after years of drought.
"Mama..." he whispers, the name a breathless prayer.
He doesn't hesitate any longer. He reaches up, his hands cupping your hips to pull you down, guiding you until you are seated firmly against his face. The moment your warmth meets the soft, damp heat of his mouth, a low, guttural moan erupts from his throat a sound of pure, unadulterated relief and ecstasy.
He begins to taste you with a frantic, desperate hunger, his tongue swirling and teasing, his lips molding to you with a perfection that only a man of his talent could achieve. He alternates between tasting you and providing a sharp suction which made your hips stutter—making him tighten his grip on you.
You whimpered loudly. Your head throwing back as you reached down to hold onto his curls.
He loves the way you touch him. He loves the way you aren't being "the assistant" anymore. You’re being his.
As you tighten your grip on his hair, guiding his head closer, his movements become even more possessed. He’s calculating, sensing the way your muscles tense and the way your breath hitches, and he adjusts his pace to drive you even closer to the edge.
"Mhm... yes, mama..." he murmurs against you, the words vibrating through your entire body. He pulls back for just a second, his face flushed, his lips wet. He looks up at you through those long, dark lashes, his eyes completely glazed with lust. "Don't hold back... please. Give it all to me."
He reaches up, his hands sliding from your hips to your waist, his thumbs digging into your skin as he pulls you down even harder against his mouth. He wants to feel every tremor of your pleasure.
He begins to use his hands as well, his fingers moving to rub frantic circles as his tongue thrusted in and out of your heat which made your vision blur. He’s a perfectionist, and right now, his only goal is your pleasure.
The world around you becomes a blur of white noise and electricity. It’s as if the music has reached a crescendo. Your breath hitches, then a cacophony of moans escaped your throat as the wave of release crashes over you.
Your thighs, trembling and weak, snap shut around his head, locking him in as your body surrenders to the overwhelming tide of pleasure. As you come, you feel the warmth of yourself gushing, and Michael meets it with a ferocity that is almost primal.
He doesn't shy away. He leans and drinks you in, his mouth working with a desperate, hungry intensity to catch every drop of your release. His flat tongue lapped your release as he swallowed your pleasure as if it were the most decadent thing he had ever tasted.
He moaned. The voice low and muffled by your skin. He sounds... satisfied. He sounds like a man who has finally found the missing beat of a track he's been trying to write his entire life.
As the waves slowly begin to recede, leaving you limp and breathless, your legs trembling against his cheeks, he doesn't let go. He stays there for a long moment, his lips lingering against your sensitive skin, his breath hot and ragged against you.
Slowly, he gently maneuvered you so you are sitting on his lap, his movements uncharacteristically heavy. He sits up, his hair a wild, beautiful mess, his face flushed with sweat and your arousal. His eyes are still dark, still shimmering with that intense, predatory heat, but there is a softness there now, too a profound, vulnerable tenderness.
He reaches up, his fingers trembling slightly as he brushes a stray lock of hair away from your damp forehead.
As you regain your breath, your eyes darted down to the obvious tent in his pants.
“Don’t you want me to take care of you too?”
He laughs. The sound light and amused—breaking the heat and tension of the moment.
He pulls you toward him, wrapping his arms around you. He holds you tightly, his chin resting on top of your head.
“I’m fine, mama. We’re going to be late to the camp, remember?” he lets out a lopsided smirk.
“Besides, we have an entire weekend ahead of us.”
Something tells you this isn’t over.
