tya

edit from ojjunkie on tiktok

Mature!Michael with breeding kink thats it. No title.

･ ⟢ ⋮ AUTHORS NOTE: I DONT EVEN KNOW. I WAS SEARCHING FOR MICHAEL WIDGETS N SAW HIM W GLASSES IDK GLASSES = BREEDING KINK? GOODNIGHT. this is my first time writing smut ever i’ve only ever read it. Okay wait but lmk how i did, comment plesaese. Also taking requests rn!

･ ⟢ ⋮ CW: NSFW (DUH), BREEDING KINK, not really much warnings to give..MINORS DNI, creampies, sex lots of sex, no actual pregnancy but talks of pregnancy.

･ ⟢ ⋮ WORD COUNT: 460

･ ⟢ ⋮ GENRE & TYPE: SMUT & HEADCANNONS - FEM!READER (I mean it can be gender neutral. IDM) BLACK!READER

Mature!Michael who noticed how good you were with kids one day, watching you comfort one of them after they fell. Patting them down and making sure they were alright, made him notice how maternal you were. Confirmed that you’d be the best mother and that arose something inside him.

Mature!Michael who whisked you away right after that, arm wrapping around your waist until his hand was splayed across your stomach absentmindedly patting it every now and then. 

Mature!Michael who tried to convince you that you looked so good taking care of kids and that you’d look even better with his kids, it’d be perfect. A way to openly and possessively claim you as his. Plus it helps that he’s always wanted kids.

Mature!Michael who after you tease him saying you’d definitely have his babies rushes you to the bedroom and not even 30 minutes later you're definitely bent over into a mating-press. His hand always seems to find its way back to your stomach pressing down until he felt the shape of his bulge. He immediately kisses the side of your face before teasing you.

synopsis: michael working on his new album ‘bad’ has him occupied all day, everyday for weeks on end. as his wife, you’re rightfully frustrated in more ways than one. so, when you hear a female voice in the background during a phone call to the studio — you can’t help but want to claim what’s yours.

warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+

Hayvenhurst had never been this quiet.

Usually, the large mansion was filled with noises of laughter, joy and, more often than not, pure ecstasy from you and your husband.

However, as of late, Michael had been occupied from early hours of the morning, to late at night, when he would trudge home in an exhausted state, curl up against your slumbered frame and fall asleep. And, by the time you’d be waking up, he was already gone. You understood that being the wife to a global superstar had its perks and drawbacks — and when it came to writing and producing an album, the drawbacks were more prominent.

It was late on a Saturday night when you found yourself more bored than usual.

* ˚  ✶ content/warnings: angstyyy, mean michael with a mean reader, NASTY AND HATEFUL SMUT, rivals to lovers, inaccurate details lowkey, slowburn till it gets real spicy, setting takes place at the infamous 1984 Grammys night  * ˚  ✶ WC: 10k (oops) * ˚  ✶ A/N: this is so long and i debated making this into multiple parts, but i wanted y'all to EAT the tension. comment how you feel about their dynamic because i was ready to punch them both and i was the writer mind you...

﹏﹏﹏

CELEBRATORY DINNER 

Michael rolls his eyes, masking his annoyed look behind his glasses. He spots you across the room, shaking hands with your fellow colleagues in the room. It was a few days after the 26th Annual Grammys, and all the Grammy-award-winning artists were invited to a celebratory dinner. Michael would be content with his victory, as he broke the record and won eight awards that night for his album, Thriller. The problem? You also won eight awards for your album. 

Everyone in the room was shocked- a record like that has never been broken, let alone twice in one night. Michael remembers biting his bottom lip so hard that he drew blood as you walked onstage, a smirk planted on your face as you accepted the award and gave a short yet detailed speech. He would’ve been happy if it were someone else, don’t get it twisted. He isn’t that selfish. However, when it comes to you, he’s the most selfish he can be. 

﹏﹏﹏

5 YEARS AGO 

The competition between the two of you began a few years back, before he released his first solo album. He remembers the first time you met so vividly, more than he should, honestly. He was in Las Vegas for a performance with his brothers and had visited the venue a few nights prior. He walked inside with his security guard, Bill, ready to take a small tour, before a voice so melodic and powerful stopped him in his tracks. His brows furrow, running his hands down his pants before he walks to where the singing comes from. His breath hitches slightly, watching as you pace back and forth on the stage. 

“Guys, let’s fix the light on this part of the stage. I want the center to be on me.” You spoke into the microphone, and people nodded to your orders as they adjusted the light. Michael squints his eyes, making sure his vision wasn’t deceiving him. 

“Is that-“ Bill begins, and Michael hums, interrupting him. 

“Yes, that’s her.”

The Jackson family knew who you were, too well. You were a year younger than Michael, and your success had been skyrocketing off the roof and into the stars, not backing down. You released a single at the same time as them, and it beat them on the charts by one place—number one, to be exact. You were interviewed by some reporters who asked how you felt about beating the talented and famous Jacksons. 

You shrugged your shoulders, brushing your hair out of your face, feeling indifferent to the question. “Well, what can I say? Maybe they’re outdated compared to the new type of music the world wants these days.” The family fumed as your response sat on the front page of the newspapers for weeks. Outdated? The Jacksons? Never. Michael replayed the clip over and over, using it as a motivation as he worked on his album, Off the Wall, during his nights. Michael never wanted to be outdated; he wanted to be timeless. He wanted to make sure his music would live on forever. He knew this wouldn’t happen if he kept just making music with his brothers, so he released his studio album and was proud of the success. He would nod as reporters pointed out how his singles were charting the billboards, not missing how they’d be boldly asking how he felt beating your record.

“I want to be timeless. I think this album does an amazing job at this.” Michael would respond, hinting at your remark in the press. You rolled your eyes as you watched the interview, cigarette in hand, as your knee bounced up and down, as his soft yet taunting voice filled the silence in your living room. 

Michael Jackson was talented; you could confidently admit that. But God, he was so egotistical, just like every other man in the music industry. You were above all the other women in the music industry; you were proud of that. But being a woman kept you from rising above on the latter any further, and your recent single was a barrier you were proud to break. Everyone comparing you to the Jacksons ticked you off. It made it seem like your talent always had to be compared to men. This led you to build a small resentment for the group, one you’d never actually say out loud. Or so you thought. 

You take a small break from your rehearsal, irritated at your team’s inability to comply. You needed this tour to be perfect, and opening in Las Vegas was the ultimate masterpiece move to ensure you’d secure sales for your upcoming album. Your assistant comes up to you and nods his head at two people, just feet away from the stage. You recognized the shadow just by a single glance, and it made your insides begin to swarm. Annoyance, shock, and attraction all in one, and you hated every single lustful flutter.

“Well, look at what the damn cat dragged in.”

Michael lets out a laugh, walking down towards the center of the room, closer and closer to you. “More like the press. Your press, to be exact.” 

You let out a satisfactory hum. “Is that so?”

Michael nods, looking around, mentally noting the details of your stage. He noticed how the stage light perfectly highlighted your features. He wanted that same effect, plus more. You noticed him studying and pointed to your crew member, giving him a warning look. He stops the effects altogether, directing another crew member to turn the lights on. Michael laughs, shaking his head as he smirks at Bill. “I’m not here to steal your ideas, girl. I was just in town, you know, for our three sold-out nights coming up.”

You scoff, wiping the sweat off your forehead as you walk to the edge of the stage, eyeing Michael carefully. “How pitiful it must be, to not be able to sell it out yourself. It seems you still have to have your brothers by your side to keep going.” 

Michael’s eyes widen in surprise at your venomous words. He didn’t expect kindness out of you, maybe cordial words, yes, but this? This was pure disrespect. A level of disrespect so deep that he was scared that biting his tongue wouldn’t do enough justice to help him suppress his resentment towards you. 

You smirk, taking a seat and crossing your legs. “Did I hit a nerve? I’m sorry, I forgot I wasn’t in an interview.” 

“Why must you be so mean? I’ve never once said anything to make you dislike me.”

“Oh, I don’t dislike you, poor thing. I’m just not passing out like every other woman out there, and it seems that bothers you, which bothers me.” You respond, shrugging your shoulders. 

﹏﹏﹏

WEEKS BEFORE GRAMMYS CELEBRATION DINNER 

And since that moment, Michael has disliked your name, your face, and even your music. It was hard to avoid you, given your growing fame. Your music was beginning to stream everywhere, competing alongside other big names on radios and in shopping malls, and even his workers were playing your songs. 

There was a recent moment, a few weeks before the Grammys night, when the two of you were set to be a part of a photoshoot together, meant to commemorate the world’s current big stars. You declined at first, not wanting to share any space with him, but your manager insisted it’d introduce you to another world of business. “Sponsorships,” she called it. You accepted, wanting no unnecessary contact with him before the shoot. 

Michael felt the same, probably even worse. He practically begged his manager not to let him do the shoot. He reminded his team that he wanted to do no press for this album; he wanted to go big because people truly loved his music. 

“This will look good for the members of the voting committee, Michael.” He was told, and if it weren’t for his mother next to him, he’d throw everything in front of him on the floor. They had a point, and he knew this too. The only detail keeping him from being completely grateful for the opportunity was the fact that he’d have to share it with you. 

The day came, and the two of you arrived minutes apart. You walked into the building, sunglasses on, while you signed some documents your assistant was handing to you. You look up, Michael’s gaze on you. He tightens his lips, fingers fidgeting with one another as you walk past him without a double look. Once again, he didn’t expect you to hug him or be so interested. But it’d been years since he’d last seen you, and he expected at least a greeting. 

“Fine, let it be that way.” He mutters under his breath, following behind you. He pretends not to notice the sway of your hips, the way they move so beautifully as you take each step. He puts on his sunglasses, using that to cover the fact that his eyes couldn’t stay off of you. You were mean, a very rude thing, but you were so beautiful. Michael’s exact type. He would’ve asked you out long ago if it weren’t for the weight of your cold heart. His cock hardens at the thought of gripping your hips under his touch, using all his force to pound into you mercilessly. He shakes his head. Why is he thinking like this? He hates you. 

He walks into the office and finds you reading a document. Your assistant looks up, gulping at Michael as he sits across from you. “Hello, Mr. Jackson.” 

“Please. Call me Michael. We’ll be working together for some time, I see.” Michael curtly smiles at your assistant, and you take your glasses off, rolling your eyes. “Since when were you a Michael lunatic?” You turn to your assistant, irritation creeping up on your skin. The last thing you needed was an acquaintance formed between your worker and your pesky colleague. 

“I’m not.” Your assistant whispers, a hint of fear and regret laced in his tone. 

“Good. Keep it that way.” You sharply say, turning to give Michael an annoyed look. 

“How are you?” Michael asks, and your breath hitches. His words would carry purity to them if he meant them. However, you know he wasn’t interested in your well-being. He was interested in your downfall, to see you crumble and call it quits forever. 

“Better than ever.” 

“You won’t even ask how I’m doing?” 

You shake your head, feigning a look of innocence. “No. Because I don’t care how you’re doing.” 

The room is silent, the air conditioning being the only noise either of you wishes you could really focus on. Instead, for you, your eyes rake over Michael’s ungloved hand. The veins in his hand begin to emerge, anger laced in between them. You shift your legs slightly, choosing not to focus on the wetness beginning to drip from your core. His hair was so perfectly styled against his face that it stood no chance against the flyaways standing out from yours. 

You knew about his burn incident weeks prior, and you wished you hadn’t felt the sharp pang in your chest as you looked at the pictures of him in the hospital. Your team advised you to send flowers, a “comprising gift,” they referred to it as. You declined. 

He looked so damn good, and he knew that. He sat there, proud as ever, as he focused on the emotion behind your eyes. He knew the true meaning behind your eyes. It was behind his. He had no shame, raking his eyes down your face, to your chest. He bites his bottom lip, looking away from your cleavage and to the door.

You sit in silence for almost half an hour, humming along to a popular song on the radio (your song), and continue signing documents. Michael takes glances at you, staring at the concentration in your eyebrows, at the shape of your lip as you bite it occasionally. He watches the flicker in your lashes, noticing how real you look in front of him. No makeup, no costumes, no words. Just you in silence. 

The door opens, and you look up, setting your pen down as you stand to shake the editor’s hand. “Hi.” 

You exchange names, and she smiles at you. “Thank you for accepting. The both of you. This will help you both succeed much further.” 

“I’m glad I can help.” You laugh, and Michael gives a sarcastic laugh, shaking the editor’s hand as you all walk out. 

“Okay. Here’s the plan. You’ll be wearing a few different outfits, most of which will match. Mr. Jackson, we got the approving list.” You turn to Michael, eyes twinkling with confusion. He got to give restrictions? 

“I’m sorry. A list?” You huff. 

The editor, Ellen, looks between the two of you, confusion in her eyes as she licks her lips. “Yes, Mr. Jackson sent a list on behalf of both of you.” 

Your mouth parts, and your breathing becomes more aggressive and defensive. Michael lets out a soft laugh, hands on his hips as he watches your face crumble. Smile. You don’t want him to see you fall apart. “That’s correct, my apologies. It seems I may have forgotten.” 

The editor smiles, points to your dressing rooms, and introduces you to your makeup and hair artists. You get familiar with the people and the room, taking a seat in front of the vanity mirror. You shake your head, turning to your assistant. “I hate his guts.” 

Your assistant nods, crossing his feet. He doesn’t say anything; he knows better than to. So he stands there, listening to your pessimistic rantings. He wants to roll his eyes. Just fuck already, is what he wants to truly say. Instead, he hums, nodding his head to every single thing you spit out. You’re interrupted by your makeup artist, who smiles at you as she begins to shade-match your skin complexion with the makeup in her hands. You build a conversation, making the process go faster and much more smoothly. You almost forget what this photoshoot was for, and who it was with, before she applies lipstick on your mouth and whispers, “This will go so perfectly with Mr. Michael’s cheek colors.” 

You let out an unsatisfactory groan. “Right.” 

Michael, across the room, listened attentively to his makeup crew. He was a perfectionist and wanted meticulous attention to detail in his makeup. He, more specifically, however, wanted to make sure the discoloration in his face wasn’t evident. He wanted even strokes and shade, to ensure no one could see it at all. He didn’t want anyone to see the unevenness in his tone; it was an insecurity he had built up over the years. He didn’t want you, out of all people, to notice it up close. 

It was hours later, and you two were finally dressed and in your makeup. You take a look at your first outfit. It’s a beautiful, brown leather dress, one that matches Michael’s brown leather jacket. You run your hands down your sides, pitching at the tight leather. You weren’t typically insecure; you loved your body and knew you captured most people's attention when you walked into a room. But for some reason, right now, you felt uncomfortable. The leather against your skin made you feel suffocated, and the blue details in your hair made you feel like a prop. You brushed off the feeling, feigning a smile in the mirror before walking out of the room and into the crowd of crewmembers adjusting the cameras, lights, and set. 

“You look beautiful. That dress looks even better on you.” Ellen exclaims, clapping as you give her a small smile. You spot Michael walking towards both of you, and you pretend that the sight of him in casual attire doesn’t affect you. Your outfits match well together, and if you weren’t familiar with the distaste you both had for one another, you could easily look like a married couple. However, that wasn’t the case, and you suppress a roll of eyes as he does a spin. 

“This jacket is beautiful. I almost want to keep it.” Ellen laughs, walking you both under the lights. 

“We’ll start with some duo pictures, and then take some solo shots after. Once we’re done, we’ll review them and decide whether to do retakes. Got it?” You both nod and stand awkwardly next to one another. 

Michael hums, inspecting every detail of you from head to toe. A small smirk crept on his face as he ran a finger on your waist. “You dress up nice.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you take a step away from him, crossing your eyes. “This dress is ridiculous. It doesn’t look right on me whatsoever.” 

“Maybe it’s you that makes it look ‘wrong’, because the dress is beautiful.” Michael hums, shrugging his shoulder as he fidgets with his gloved hand. 

You nod, looking down at your feet. Michael was right, it was a beautiful dress, but it just didn’t look good on you. You keep quiet, licking your lip as you clear your throat. “I guess you’re right about that one. First thing you’re ever right about.” 

Michael slows his movements, and regret fills his body. He notices the crack in your voice as you speak, and he feels horrible. He thought you’d give him a smart remark back, but instead, you gave him a hurtful look. “I didn’t mea-“

“You said what you said, don’t take it back.” You interrupted him, giving the makeup artist who was touching up your makeup a small smile. You don’t speak after that, scared you’ll give away any more vulnerability. The artist walks away, leaving you and Michael in your space once again. Ellen yells some directions, so Michael grabs your waist. You pretend your skin isn’t heating to a perfect temperature under his touch, a touch you hate yet yearn for. 

“Perfect! Now, Michael, look at her like you’re proud of her. Remember, the goal is to capture success, wealth, and respect.” Ellen voices, and you nod your head. You take your free hand and wrap it around Michael’s shoulder, and look up at Michael. The camera flashes, and you smile at Michael. A smile that Michael looks down on, noticing the fact that it doesn’t reach your eyes as it should. Instead, it carries resentment. Hurt. Pain. His stomach drops, and it takes every fiber in his body to stop him from calling the flashes off. He feels uneasy, and he hates that he does. 

The flashes stop, Ellen announcing a five-minute break. You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and quickly walk away from the center, and to the back, where your assistant hands you a cup of apple cider juice. “Thanks.” 

Unbeknownst to you, Michael’s watching you intensely. He notices the quiver in your lip as you talk with your assistant, the shaking of your hand as you take small breaths. It seemed like you were panciking, and despite the regret seeping deep in his heart, he stood where he was. He didn’t move, not to apologize, or to distract himself. Instead, he kept his eyes on you, even as you walked back and took your place beside him. You turn to Michael and give him a sharp look. “Going to comment on how ugly my makeup looks? Or is that for the next session?” 

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Michael defends, crossing his arms. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t apologize; he knew he needed to. You just made it so damn hard to. 

Ellen comes up to both of you and smiles. “The pictures look great. Now, I want you,” she turns to you, “to grab onto Michael’s shoulders as he sits. Michael, grab her hand and smile. You both are going to look so perfect.” You give her a small smile and take a step back as a crew member sets a chair, and Michael sits down. You wipe your hands on the back of your dress and stand behind Michael. You take in his scent, filled with a sweet and intoxicating scent, which distracted you from the fact that you were mad at him. 

“Stop smelling me.” Michael hums, and you scoff. You lightly set your hands on his shoulders, putting on a smile as the flashes begin. Michael grips onto your hand, looking up at you and smiling. You look at him for a second, and the look he gives you makes you want to slap him. He stared at you like you were prey, and to him, that’s what you were. The camera clicks continued, and you looked back up, smiling into the camera.

“More eye contact with each other, please! Michael, don’t squeeze her hand, it looks purple through here.” Thank you. Michael lets go slightly, and the pain subsides. 

“Do you genuinely like seeing me in pain?” You say through your teeth, fluttering your lashes as they continue to take pictures. 

“Seeing you beneath me keeps me going, girl. Get it through your skull.” Michael responds, and your knees buckle. You harden your grip on his shoulder, smirking softly as he lets out a rasped breath. 

“Amazing. Now, outfit change. 15 minutes.” Ellen instructs, and you pinch Michael’s shoulder before bending down to his ear. 

“You’ll be kissing my feet one of these days, Michael Jackson. Remember that before you decide to use your ego on me.” 

Michael grunts, watching as you walk away and into your dressing room. He stands, taking his jacket off and placing it over his hard-on before slamming his dressing room door open, letting out a breath. Why did you have that effect on him? 

You undress and put on a teal suit, a color that was meant to radiate tranquility. Instead, it just reminded you of the insecurity laced in your spirit. You hated feeling this way, and most of all, hated that you felt this way because of him. You come out of the dressing room, standing behind the camera as Michael takes his solo shots. You focus on anything but him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of admiration that everyone else on this set gives him. 

“Great. Your turn.” Ellen points to you, and you walk past him, taking a seat in the beautiful red chair that matches your lipstick. Your suit is meant to represent “fuck the stigma,” but instead, it makes it seem like you’re falling right into the stigma. Michael looks at you, nodding.

You smile into the camera, leaning back as you lick your lips and let the flashes distract you from the fact that Michael is staring at you, more like focusing on every imperfection of you based on the judgment in his eyes. Nonetheless, you finish your part and move to another background, where it comes to posing with Michael. 

You sit next to one another, watching as the crew works on staging the light just right. Michael clears his throat and looks at you. He opens his mouth, and despite the seriousness in your face, he is ready to let him say what he needs to say, but he can’t speak. He’s frozen, unable to speak. 

“You won’t ever be timeless with that damn attitude. You put on a facade, fooling every single folk out there who listens to your music. They don’t know the real you.” 

“Tell me, darling, what’s the real me?” Michael hums. 

“A real dog piece of crap. You’re a bully, an egotistical man ready to ambush anyone willing to take any sort of spotlight away from you. Unlucky for you, that person happens to be me. A younger girl.” 

Michael stares at you, gripping onto the armrest beneath him. He wanted to hurt you, make you cry, anything to shut you up. And so he venomously says, “Exactly. So stay where you’re at. Don’t try to ignite a fire where a fire already burns. You’ll just be a waste.” 

Your breath hitches, and Michael turns, leaving you completely silent. 

The rest of the shoot goes silent between the two of you, playing your parts as you work together to look good for the cameras, quickly pulling away when Ellen yells, “Done!” You change back into your clothes, removing your makeup, and request to be alone. Your assistant complies, leaving the door slightly open as he walks away. You look to the door, waiting for him to leave before biting your lip, watching through the mirror as your eyes begin to tear, and you close them. The tears fall, and you cover your mouth as you sob. This shoot, despite the constant compliments and reassurance that it was perfect, you felt angry and ugly. You hated the clothes against your skin, the fact that you were in a hairstyle you’d never wear willingly, and most of all, paired up with the one you hate the most. You continue to sob, wiping away the rest of your makeup before dropping the wipe onto the vanity and tucking your face into your hands. 

Michael walks to your door, peeking through the space. He hears your sobs. He knows them all too well. He knows the feeling of crying after hearing constant consolation. However, he felt horrible. He felt like garbage. He knew you were in that state because of him. He took it upon his own liberty to make it up to you by speaking highly of you in his portion of the solo interview.

“She’s a very talented young woman. Her music is amazing, and her ideas are so intelligent. They’ve definitely inspired me. My brothers and I carry so much respect for her, despite all the press forcing us to hate each other.” He quoted, clawing at his pants as he practically had to make sure his heart wouldn’t stop beating as he said the words. They weren’t a 100% lie; he just hated that he even had to say something like that. 

He debated knocking on your door, wanting to give you an apology, but instead, gave you one last look before walking off. You, on the other hand, pull your hands away from your face and smirk. You heard footsteps as soon as you placed your head in your hands, and took a small peek from under your eyes as Michael stood there and watched you. Your assistant had warned you that Michael would say some good things about you in the interview. You, on the other hand? You didn’t hold back. 

“Michael, like every other man, hates to see a woman succeed. I mean, you can be timeless without putting others down. Jackson is the king in ensuring that he’s the saint in every situation. I mean, how jealous can you be? You’re allowed to share. I mean, that just shows the privilege he carries. He makes good music, I guess. But as a person? He’s difficult to work with, and I’ve only met him twice.” 

﹏﹏﹏

MORNING AFTER GRAMMY NIGHT

The magazine and interview came out the morning after the Grammys, and Michael fumed. And I mean fumed. His family had never seen him slam doors so hard. He didn’t even greet his animal friends as he walked past them and into the backseat of his car. He was furious. He had spoken so well of you, even willing to lie to his family, and look at how you repaid him? You probably faked crying, he thought. He ignored the look of his family as he walked up and down the stairs, figuring out ways to get you back. Bill looked at him through the mirror, watching the sweat begin to build up above Michael’s lip as he bit it. 

He had milestones to be proud of- that should’ve been his focus. Instead? He ripped apart every single copy of the magazine they had sent him. He kept one, however. He felt mad at the biological aspect of his body as he raked his dark eyes over your body. God, you were beautiful. In the pictures together, you two could’ve fooled anyone living under a rock and could say you two were in love, and they’d believe it. Michael hated the effect you had on his body, and that just made him despise you more than ever. 

You, on the other hand, looked at your Grammys sitting in a perfect line at the top of your dresser. You drank the champagne in your hand, humming along to a Bruce Springsteen song as you looked through the magazine over and over again. Not only did you look better than you thought, but Michael had fallen into your trap. Although his words did hit a tiny spot, you knew he would feel bad and make up for it in the most cowardly and noble way possible. You traced your manicured fingers along his quotes, smiling. Maybe he was lying, maybe he was finally being honest. Either way, none of it mattered. You had eight Grammy awards in front of you, ready to be cleaned and placed in a cabinet. Oh, and an outfit and speech to prepare for the celebratory dinner that’d take place in a couple of nights. 

﹏﹏﹏

CELEBRATORY DINNER 

You approach Michael, and smirk as the cameras follow both of you. You rake your eyes over his body, a detailed jacket similar to the one he wore a few nights ago, reminding you of the very reason you decided to dramatize your look today. “Hello, Mr. Jackson.”

Michael leans in, feigning a formal cheek-kiss as the cameras click, harshly gripping onto your arm. “Save the dramatics, young thing. You already won.” 

“Oh, honey, but we both did.” You pull away, grabbing his hand on you and interlacing it with yours, turning to smile at the camera. They move away to another guest, and you drop it, rolling your eyes. Michael’s stomach flutters at the nickname you give him, but he tucks that feeling away, focusing on the disdain that sits in his heart. 

“Want the truth? I can’t be happy with that night. I don’t think I ever will be. All because of you.” 

You place a hand over your heart, brushing away the loose piece of hair from your face. “Does it bother you that much to share such a milestone with a woman?” 

Michael laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, please, don’t make it into that. You know perfectly fine why I hate sharing anything with you.” 

You shake your head, grabbing a champagne glass off the waiter’s tray and gently sucking the candied cherry, giving it a small pop as you maintain eye contact with Michael’s dark eyes. The look he keeps on you is intense and dangerous, yet promising. “Michael, let go of the theatrics, and enjoy the fact that we’ve made history. If you drop this immature behavior just for one night, so will I, I promise.” 

“Nothing about what I want to do to you is immature. I promise you.” Michael leans in, whispering in your ear as he softly pinches your cheek, spinning you as you both greet a member from the committee. You shut out the words from everyone else, focusing on the intentionality behind his words. Threatening, poisonous, and toxic. And yet, your body loved every single syllable that came out of his mouth, and you were more mad at yourself for feeling that way. 

You both move on, appreciating the distance as a distraction from the fact that you two didn’t know what you were doing anymore. Michael didn’t care to be cordial or respectful. The things he wanted to do to you, the way he wanted to bend you over and pound into you roughly without mercy, the way he wanted to pull on your hair, putting pressure on your neck to the point where you’d beg him to stop, yet pull his hands back onto your neck if he dared to pull away. The looks he gave from across the room should’ve been forbidden. It carried lust, heat, and vulnerability. All of which he was willing to submit to just for one night, if it meant his mind would finally get rid of you. 

The tables had labels with your names on them, and of course, your names were right beside each other. You took a seat next to him, holding onto your dress as you bent over, wiping away any nonexistent crumbs from the seat, as Michael focused on the softness of your breasts. You smirk, finally sitting and turning to him. “Done being a little crybaby?” 

Michael rolls his eyes, giving a small smile to some guests as they walk by him, offering their congratulations. “I’m keeping track of every smart comment you make, by the way.” 

“For what?” 

Now he turns to you. “So you know how many times you’ll be denied finishing by my hand.” 

Your mouth gapes open, and you lose grip of your clutch. It falls onto the floor, and Michael bends down, keeping one hand on the floor and another on your thigh as he presses a kiss near your ankle. He groans softly, sitting back up and placing your clutch on his lap. “You did say I’d be kissing your feet soon, huh? Guess you were right.” 

You’re silent, clearing your throat as you push your chair closer to the table. You’ve gone completely speechless, and you hate yourself for it. Michael hums, smirking beside you as he takes a sip of his drink. Most of the night passes by, and it takes every smart neuron in your brain to stop you from running to the bathroom and pleasuring yourself. It seems you still have some common sense. 

“Lastly, can we give it up for the record-breaking stars in the house?” Someone speaks into the microphone, and you smile and wave as the camera pans to you, then to Michael. Michael bows his head, waving. The cheers in the room break out of the trance you’ve unfortunately fallen into. 

“You two are so young, and already legends to many. How do you do it?” You playfully shrug your shoulders, pointing to Michael as the crowd laughs. You cross your legs, biting your bottom lip as Michael smirks at the camera, wrapping an arm around you. You huff a breath, attempting to scoot away, but instead, Michael grips onto your back harder. 

The crowd takes note of every single detail of you both- from your facial expressions to the unintentional matching outfits you two are wearing. They keep your interviews in mind as you smile at each other, confused by the sudden friendliness. You, on the other hand, want to kill Michael. Where did he get the audacity to think he could touch you like that? Why is his grip hardening, becoming warmer and warmer? Despite these thoughts, you don’t push his hand away. Instead, you keep it there, nodding along to the speaker. 

“And now, a speech from our record-breaking artists!” You and Michael stand, and Michael takes out his hand, and you look down at it. You turn and spot Lionel Richie sticking out his arm, and you give a smirk to Michael as you grab onto Lionel’s. You hear some gasps around you, but you kiss Lionel on the cheek as you walk onto the stage. Michael stands beside you, grabbing onto your waist. He leans into your ear, and you feel yourself shudder. “You embarrassed me, girl. Another deny tonight.”

You gulp and watch as Michael pulls away, waving kisses to the crowd as he steps onto the podium. He begins his speech, and you don’t care to listen to anything he says. That’s a lie; you just can’t focus on anything besides the way he grips onto the glass podium and licks his lips. 

“And of course, I get to stand here a proud and fortunate man alongside this beautiful artist.” Michael turns to you, and you give a small raise of your eyebrows, walking to the podium as you softly push Michael away. 

“Whatever good he said about me just now, I agree.” You speak, and the crowd laughs. Michael nods his head, biting his lip as he gives a glance at Lionel, rolling his eyes as he keeps his gaze on you. 

“I said most of what I meant the other night, in my speeches. But I truly hold so much love and appreciation for my team, family, and friends who supported me on this journey. As a woman, it isn’t easy getting any higher on the ladder in this industry.” You feel your voice crack, and the room focuses on you. 

Michael tenses beside you, not knowing what to do. He didn’t want to steal your spotlight by attempting to comfort you, but he also didn’t want to see the press label him as a “jerk” for not giving you any solace. 

“For so long, since I started being known, I was always compared to the men in the industry who have come before me. Of course, my respect to them for breaking their own barriers and creating their careers. But, as a woman, it isn’t fair for me to sit there and allow any interviewers to disrespect the career I’ve worked so hard to build.” You turn to Michael and give a small nod. A nod that makes Michael’s breath hitch. That nod, a gesture so minuscule yet so heavy with meaning. It makes Michael’s heart beat faster, confused yet relieved. 

“I’m really grateful I’ve won all these awards- they look so good in my house,” you laugh, wiping a small tear away that threatens to fall, “but I’m more proud of myself. Proud that I’ve endured so much, and yet have come here and broken the barrier. A barrier I’m proud to say I’ve broken with the one and only, Michael Jackson.” The crowd literally erupts in screams, standing as you take a step back and laugh. Michael’s eyes slightly widen, shocked at your words. He takes them in, every single syllable entering his body, running like euphoria through his blood. You turn to him, leaning to hug him, pressing a kiss against his cheek. His cock hardens at your touch, twitching as you pull away, smiling as you run your fingers down his arms and into his free hand. 

“I never hated him, by the way. You all just took away my words out of context!” You say, blowing a kiss before pulling Michael away and down the stairs, and back into your seats. 

Music begins playing, and artists take the chance to group and gossip about what just happened. You grip onto the glass, taking a sip of the champagne. Michael subtly runs his hand over his crotch, wanting to find any friction to stop him from finishing in his pants then and there. 

“You must want to see me worship you like you’re the only thing in the world.” 

“That’s been the plan all along, sweetheart, I thought you knew.” 

Michael hums, keeping a hand on your thigh as you smile at guests who walk by, offering their compliments to you both. He leans into your ear, brushing hair out of your way as he keeps his gaze on your face. “I’m going to ruin you tonight in a way where you’ll be begging for mercy.” 

You lick your lips, smiling and pressing a soft and subtle kiss beside Michael’s ear. “What if I like that?” 

“Then I don’t want you complaining when you’re not allowed to play with yourself, baby.” 

A voice interrupts you both, and Michael begins talking with them. You’re impressed at his ability to act like he wasn’t just the reason your core was practically leaking down your legs. You straighten your posture, pretending not to notice that despite Michael’s attention being on his guest, his hand never left your thigh. You attempted to fidget yourself out of his touch, but he didn’t budge. If anything, it pushed him to keep his hand on you. 

The rest of the night goes by in a blur, Michael keeping a grip on you with no shame. You were embarrassed, secretly. You knew the exact judgment you’d receive the same night by the media tabloids, but a part of you didn’t care. 

You were having fun, that’s what you reminded yourself whenever you caught yourself smiling a little too hard. 

﹏﹏﹏

You closed the door with a bit of aggressiveness, double-checking the lock as you walked to Michael, who was sitting on the bed, glove off and beside him. You throw your clutch and jacket across the chair, sitting in the other, crossing your legs as you throw your head back and keep your gaze on Michael. He invited you to his hotel room, and you refused. 

You gave him a small pat on his back, walking to your car and opening the door, closing it a minute later, and walking back, rolling your eyes as Michael stood by his car door, nodding to it as you walked into the back and sat down, ensuring you had enough space from Michael where the cameras wouldn’t capture anthing suspicious, simply cordial respect between two superstars. 

You changed your mind once you got to the hotel, giving an excuse that you were “tired,” and Michael hummed, leaving you in the lobby as he walked to his room. You stood there, feeling stupid and confused. You made up your mind an hour later, walking to his room and doing the walk of shame. You knocked softly on his door, sighing as he gave a warm “welcome.” 

Michael’s eyes are on you, raking his eyes from your exposed legs to your unblinking eyes. “You had me waiting like a fool.” 

“I wasn’t sure if coming up here was a good idea.” 

“What makes you say that?” Michael jokes, and you let out a laugh. 

Michael stands and takes off his coat. He kicks his shoes off and nods to your heels. You nod your head, carefully taking them off and placing them below the table next to you. 

Michael walks to you, crouching down, bringing his lips to your ear. “Nothing about what I want to do with you is a good idea, baby. Catch up.” 

You sigh, closing the gap between the two of you. The kiss was fierce, harsh, unloving. It wasn’t soft or filled with relief- it was filled with coldness and shame. 

You let out a moan as Michael brings his hand down to your throat, putting pressure on it as you slip your tongue into his mouth. Your nipples harden against your dress, and you bring your hand down to your breast, toying with it as you whimper. Michael notices this, and he immediately tuts, shaking his head as he pulls your hand away. “No touching unless I say so.” 

You shake your head, pushing his hand away as you fight to touch yourself, but Michael just watches, using all his force to keep your hand away. You softly groan, his grip hurting. You eventually give in, allowing Michael to take control as he puts pressure back on your neck. “Good girl, baby. I want you all to be compliant after being so mean to me these past few years.” 

You close your eyes, the pressure on your neck darkening your vision. Michael hums, letting go as you let out a whine. Michael grabs onto your shoulders, helping you up as he unzips your dress. You stand naked in front of him, and you feel the weight of his words in the past haunt your mind. You instinctively cover your body, and Michael grabs your arms, pulling them away and keeping them next to your legs. “Don’t.” 

You stay silent, unsure of what to say. 

“You’ve always been the most beautiful woman to me. Always.” 

“You have a funny way of showing it.” You spit back, anger lacing into your tone. Michael smirks, and you push him, gripping onto his shirt as you give him a frenzied kiss. Michael groans, allowing your taste to consume him whole. You taste so perfect against him. Your tongues play with his so cohesively, like the rhythm you two created was pre-planned. Maybe in a way, it was. All those years of pent-up tension were finally being expressed, and it felt so good. It wasn’t right, of course, but nobody cared about the ethical dilemmas around here. What was important was how the body chemistry worked out, and Michael appreciated a good beat against his own melodies. 

You use all your force Michael’s shirt open, not caring about his whines about how expensive it was. You just cared about running your hands down his chest, his skin so soft against your palms. How can someone with so much disdain in his heart be so physically delicate? 

Michael turns you around, laying you on your stomach against the softness of the bed. Michael presses against your shoulder and down to the waistband of your panties, where he brings them down. He stuffs them in his pocket, smirking as he lifts your bottom. He licks his fingers, moistening them as he runs them down your neck and to your breasts, giving them a hard pinch before bringing them over your exposed pussy. He begins stretching your pussy with one finger, teasing at your whines. “Where’s all that back-talk now, hm?” 

You bite Michael’s free hand, scared to make any more noise as he keeps his finger inside your wet hole. He doesn’t move, and your eyes roll back. “Please.” 

“That’s more like it.” Michael thrusts his finger in and out, wetness coating his finger. He pushes another in, admiring how much you could take without already cumming. He pushes your limit, inserting another, and begins thrusting again. You cry out, grinding onto his hand, teeth clenching against each other as your clit receives stimulation from  Michael’s palm. 

“Look at how wet you get from me. Have you been like this the entire time?” Michael whispers in your ear. You know he’s referring to the entirety of your rivalry, and you suppress your remarks. You’re too busy focusing on the stimulation against your core, and how full Michael’s fingers are inside you. 

“Oh, Michael.” You loudly whine, and Michael groans, rubbing his clothed cock against the back of your thighs. He begins dry humping you, refraining from doing anything more as your ass thrusts back against his stomach. 

“Everything about your body makes me a submissive man. I hate feeling this way. I hate you for making me feel this way. And yet, I’ve never wanted to stay so close to a person like right now.” Michael breathes out, and his words bring more pleasure to you than his actions. You feel your legs begin to shake, and your vision becomes cloudy. 

“I’m about to cum, Michael.” You regret it the moment the words leave you, because as soon as your wet walls began to tighten Michael’s fingers, he slides them out, juices flowing down your thighs. You let out a loud grunt, using all your energy to push away from him and turning around, legs still shaking as you sit up. 

Michael smirks at you as your face heats up in embarrassment and anger, mostly embarrassment. “You’re a jerk.” 

“I warned you, baby. Next time, remember to be nice if you want to cum.” You roll your eyes, and Michael readjusts himself on the bed, crawling to you. He pulls your hair, forcing your mouth open as he slides his tongue into yours, battling for dominance. He brings his hand to your nipple, immediately taking control as you let out a desperate sigh. 

He starts pressing wet kisses down your face and into your neck, sucking gently against the softness of your throat, making sure he leaves bruises on you. He brings his tongue down to your breasts, spilling them out of your bra and stuffing his face in between them, humming. “These will be the death of me.” 

You let out a breathy gasp, lying back onto the pillow as Michael runs his tongue over your nipples, sucking gently on each breast. You bring your hand down his shoulder, squeezing the muscle you began grinding yourself against him. He lays a hand on your stomach, halting your movements. “Let me eat in peace first, please.” 

You whine but comply, holding onto his face as he continues to suck on your breasts, the pleasure becoming a familiar feeling your body knows it could get used to. His tongue builds up a pattern that makes your muscles tighten, feeling your stomach build up with a yearning to release. Michael brings his hand down to your stomach, humming before he pops his mouth off your breast. You whine, shaking your head, pleading incoherent words. 

“Poor baby can’t even speak. How much more submissive can you get for me?” Michael smirks, pinching your nipples before standing up, sliding his shirt off his arms and onto the floor. 

You keep your hazy gaze on him as he runs his hand down his chest and to the waistband of his pants, zipping the zipper down and pulling them down altogether. His cock springs out, and you have to bite your lip to suppress a humiliating moan from escaping your fevered body. He begins pumping it, and you get on your knees, crawling to him once he directs you to him.

“Suck it for me, fox.” Michael rasps, and you wrap your tongue around the tip, sucking gently before shoving as much as you can fit in your mouth, bobbing your head up and down. Saliva trickles down your mouth and onto the base of his cock messily, but neither of you cares. 

Michael brings his hands to the back of your head, pulling gently on your hair into a rhythmic pattern. He hums, and every vibration runs through your body, electrifying every single cell in your body. You bring your hands down to your opening, fingering yourself before Michael harshly grips onto your hair, shaking his head. 

“You don’t even deserve to feel pleasure from yourself.” Michael teases, and you let out a desperate moan into his cock, feeling a harsher grip on your face as he bobs you up and down. You feel his cock pulsate in your mouth, and you open your eyes, finding Michael’s eyes rolled back as he bites his lip. You pinch his thigh, and he lets out a rasped whimer. A whimper so beautiful you take it in, memorizing every harmonic note.  Michael smirks, thrusting himself into your mouth, appreciating every noise you let out. 

Michael thrusts himself into your warm mouth before spilling inside your mouth, keeping your mouth on his cock until it stops twitching.

“Be a good thing for me and swallow it, okay?” Michael grips onto your jaw, and you let out a gasp as you swallow, humming as Michael grips onto your arms, bringing you onto his lap. 

Your breathing falls into a calm rhythm, matching Michael’s. You use the quiet to look into Michael’s eyes, looking for any trace of emotion. Your heart isn’t sure what’s looking for, but you see satisfaction, pleasure, and somberness. You bring your fingers across his face, an action so soft, yet Michael’s skin prickles, heart tingeing at your touch. He’s scared, unsure of why he feels so terrified to continue touching your skin. It felt so soft under his touch, perfect even. And Michael didn’t label perfection to just everything. 

“You’re ruining me, and I hate you for it,” Michael murmurs, lining up cock to your entrance. He teases your slit, closing his eyes at your moans. 

“But I’ve never felt more at home than I do at this moment.” 

His cock thrusts into you, the pain hitting you instantly. He stays still, sighing as your head falls onto his chest. You grind onto him, wanting the pleasure to hit you all at once. Michael takes the hint and brings his hands to your hips, gripping them as he begins thrusting into you. It’s a pound so heavy, filling yet your soul feels empty. You shake your head, biting onto Michael’s chest as his ruts inside you make sin look so innocent. 

“Please. I need more.” You whine, and Michael hums, quickening his pace. You’re stuffed completely, cock disappearing into your body. Michael moans at the pleasure, every massage working his thighs. The pleasure becomes overbearing, and his muscles begin to spasm. You smile softly, turning the languid movements into frenzied bucks, taking control. You grip onto Michael’s shoulders for support and begin hopping on him, the stimulation overpowering you. Your moans were pornographic, a shameful reaction you’d know you’d regret the next morning, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about the outside world right now, or the sad look in Michael’s eyes; you cared about how good Michael’s cock filled you, every vulnerable thrust swallowing you whole. 

“Yes, ride it just like that, my girl. Ride my cock just like that.” Michael hums, and you whine. Every word assuring, every moan filling your ears like a delicious melody you never want to get rid of. 

“You’re mine.” You shamefully mutter, and it brings Michael to tears. Your words hit him like a brick, not stopping him for his pleasure, however, and using that to bring him to his finish. His thrusts become messy, and you bring his fingers to your clit, demanding more pleasure. He gives in, and you feel the heat pooling in your back, crawling to your neck, and down your stomach, where your legs begin to shake. Michael nips at your lip, and he licks your tongue, every breathy moan filling him so perfectly. 

Your gut tightens, and shockwaves run through your body as you come, and Michael follows, hips stuttering as he lets out a whiny groan, eyes rolling back. He bites your lip, drawing blood and licking it, every tremor making his skin heat up. You fall into his chest, head resting onto him as your knees buckle, Michael’s release running down your thighs. The room is silent, your breath being the only muse as proof of what just happened, setting into reality. You’re still scared to move. Michael hesitantly brings his hands to your face and pulls you to his face. 

Your eyes are closed, scared to find anything you don’t want to see in his eyes. However, Michael holds onto your face, whispering, “Open them, please.” 

You shake your head at first and feel regret. You open them eventually, and tears spring up to your eyes. “I’m lost.” 

Michael nods and bites his bottom lip. “I know.” Your body shakes, silent sobs erupting out of you as you feel every piece of your heart wash away in a lost wind. Michael sits still, allowing your cries to relieve. He doesn’t want to stop you, because he knows you feel that way for a reason, but he feels a sharp pain in his chest. 

“We need to talk about this, baby.” Michael pleads, and you wipe your eyes. 

“Michael, what is there to say? You hate me. I hate you. That’s it. That’s.. all.” You get off his lap, and Michael’s skin cools without your warmth. You feel the chills crawl down your body, but you shake them off, choosing distance over comfort. 

Michael’s silent, because you’re right. He kept replaying that in his head over and over as every kiss and thrust felt familiar against his body. That fueled him to go faster, and now, he regrets it. 

“You don’t hate me, and you know that. That’s why you’re searching for that distance right now, isn’t it?” 

You shake your head, tears falling down your face. “I will not talk about this with you, I won’t.” You say, and grip onto your dress, heading towards the bathroom. Michael steps in front of you, stopping you from moving any further. 

“You do damage to me, that I can admit. But I love it. After tonight, there is nothing better for me out there.” 

“This is abuse, Michael. We do nothing but damage each other. That isn’t healthy; this will not work past tonight.” 

“Then I may just die if you walk into that door.” 

Your heart drops, but you choose yourself. You walk past Michael and go into the bathroom. You turn on the faucet, sobbing as you put on your dress and wash your face. You lay your head against the cold skin, water still running as you pay it no mind. You hear the door open, and your sobs grow louder. After some time, you stand and walk out of the bathroom. The room is empty, no trace of Michael. No trace of anything, besides your heels. You put them on and walk out the door. You close it, leaning against it before you pull out your clutch, and take out a cigarette. 

You smoke it as you walk down the halls and downstairs, finding your driver waiting for you at the front. You get inside the car and direct him to your hotel. 

You walk into your room, heart empty and cold, as you sit on your bed. You knew you made the right decision, so why does your heart sit in a pile of black liquid, lost and unable to find satisfactory beating? 

﹏﹏﹏

Bill groans, shaking his head as he sits beside Michael. “This is a bad idea, son.” 

“Everything about her is a bad idea. Hell, she is a bad idea. But I think I want this.” 

“You think, or you know?”

Michael doesn’t respond, looking out the window as the car pulls into the side of your hotel. He strolls in, not caring about the cameras and microphones pushed into his face as he rides the elevator and walks to your door. He stands outside it, ear pressed up against the door before he knocks. 

“Come in.” He hears, and he assumes you must be waiting for someone. Yet, he walks in, and he finds you reading a newspaper while sipping coffee.

You point to the chair across from you and nod. Michael sits down, silent. He opens his name, breathing out your name before clearing your throat. 

“Sign.” You say, handing him a paper.

“NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT,” in big, bold letters. Michael reads over the first and last paragraphs, letting out a laugh. 

“You knew I’d come to chase you, didn’t you?” 

You hum. “Don’t you always?” 

Michael licks his lips, taking the pen from you and signing his name. 

“So…” Michael begins, and you softly smile. 

“I couldn’t sleep last night. Not because I was tired or sore, but because I sat there, my heart feeling lost. Dumbfounded. And I hate feeling that way. I hate you for making me feel like this. But, I also can’t be apart from you without feeling whole. Seeing you walk into that door made me the happiest I’ve been since you last touched me.” 

Michael’s silent, unsure of what to say. What exactly were you trying to say?

You read his mind, because you bite your lip, set down your cup, and let out a shaky breath. “What I’m trying to say is that I still hate you. Maybe I always will. But every touch you linger on me is a molecule that washes in attraction and love, and it scares the shit out of me. But I need more, which means I-“

“You need me.” Michael finishes, and you hesitantly nod. Michael softly smiles, and his soft features build up on his face, making you squirm, but you mirror his smile. 

“You’re poison, you know that, girl?” Michael laughs and stands, pulling you into a hug. He leans his forehead against yours and closes his eyes. 

“And yet we’re still here.” You whisper. 

Michael nods, eyes still closed. His fingers trace your face, familiarizing himself with the face he never wants to stop seeing, kissing, loving. His heart clenches a bit, anxiety and attraction creeping into his system. However, as he holds onto you, he lets out a breath. He’s right where he wants to be, and he can’t complain. You smile against him, eyes admiring his details. You’re in awe of him, of you, but most of all, the will to still yearn for something that isn’t guaranteed to ever work. 

࿐content/warnings: smutty, age gap IMPLIED, angst, bit of mature era michael <3, emotional cheating kinda, reader is fem, lowkey dark michael

࿐wc: 1.3k

࿐A/N: been lazy and still writing my next imagine... it's a long one, so appreciate this short mature michael era headcannon :-))

fwb! michael who befriended you before he got married, making conversation on a mickey mouse shirt you were wearing 

fwb! michael who took a subtle and bold look at the way your shirt accentuated your breasts, biting his bottom lip 

fwb! michael who often thought of you when he was alone, running his hands down his stomach and to his underwear, groaning at the thought of how your delicate hands would feel on his cock 

fwb! michael who'd often feel guilty that he thought of you that way, as you were simply just friends

fwb! michael who felt guilty, still wanting to be your friend while he was married 

fwb! michael who once he got his divorce, instructed his driver to take him to your house and knocked on your door, tears streaming down his face

fwb! michael who appreciated that you opened your arms to him and his problems

fwb! michael who looked up as he wrapped his arms around you, smelling how sweet your neck smelled against his face

fwb! michael who ran his fingers across your lips, loving the way your natural lip shade matched so perfectly against your skin tone 

fwb! michael who closed his eyes, leaning in and kissing you fiercely

fwb! michael who undressed you desperately, letting out a whimper as he pounded into you mercilessly

fwb! michael who brought his large hand over your mouth, warning you to be quiet so you wouldn’t wake up your roommates 

fwb! michael who traced his fingers over your clit, rubbing it with passion, bringing you to your finish 

fwb! michael who woke up the next morning, sternly stating that it couldn’t happen anymore, pretending that his heart didn’t hurt when you agreed 

fwb! michael who got married again months later, breaking your heart as he happily announced his marriage in a public interview 

fwb! michael who called you a few weeks later, telling you that the marriage wasn’t actually romantic, but instead a partnership so he could get the kids he wanted 

fwb! michael who drove to your house that same weekend, kissing you passionately for an entire hour, fingering you in front of your mirror 

fwb! michael who didn’t stop fingering you until you passed out, pressing kisses against the side of your face as you woke up and begged for more 

fwb! michael who left a few days after, asking you to keep sleeping with him but respecting that he was married 

fwb! michael who still called you now and then, asking you how you’ve been 

fwb! michael who felt angry that you had a date and couldn’t call him the next day

fwb! michael who was waiting for you at home, placing you across your lap and spanking you till you apologized and cried, promising it wouldn’t happen again 

fwb! michael who woke up the next day and reminded you that even though you weren’t allowed to date, you were still just friends 

fwb! michael who kept up this routine for the timeline of his marriage, until he told you over coffee that he was divorcing his wife 

fwb! michael who blushed at the smirk on your face as you hummed, biting your lip 

fwb! michael who bent you over your kitchen table, whispering sweet nothings as you cried out for him to give you more 

fwb! michael who told you that you two could still only be friends, as he was a single father now and had to focus entirely on his children 

fwb! michael who was shocked that you showed up a few days later, bringing baked cookies for his children 

fwb! michael who looked at you with a hint of appreciation and love as you took turns reading to his kids 

fwb! michael who helped you as you dried the dishes, talking about your day 

fwb! michael who didn’t like how he felt as you walked out the door with no intentions of kissing him 

fwb! michael who called you the next day, asking why you didn’t sleep with him 

fwb! michael who was surprised that you initiated the idea of sleeping together while still being true friends 

fwb! michael who agreed and liked the idea of you being someone he could trust, while also still admiring your naked body and the unique way only you could make him finsih

fwb! michael who treated you like a friend in public, taking you to lunch and sharing his new music notes, yet fucking you like there was no tomorrow that same night 

fwb! michael who loved that you were always there, even after years of keeping you in the same cycle 

fwb! michael who took you as a date to an event one night, feeling jealousy lace into his blood as you spoke to his colleagues

fwb! michael who reminded you on the drive home who you really belonged to, leaving bite marks all over your exposed collarbone, feeling satisfied that you complied 

fwb! michael who celebrated your birthday some time after, not being sexual but instead a genuine friend, suprising you with a vacation with your closest friends 

fwb! michael who reminded you he didn’t expect anything in return, just your authentic and trustworthy friendship 

fwb! michael who felt his heart break as you came home and didn’t reach out to him for some weeks, until his kids asked for you 

fwb! michael who called you, expressing that he missed you and asked why you didn’t call him when you arrived home 

fwb! michael who heard your cries, telling him you couldn’t continue being friends with him because you had fallen in love 

fwb! michael who stayed silent, because he didn’t know what to say, and so you hung up, never calling back again 

fwb! michael who was angry at you, but more himself, for allowing himself to think he could ever think he could be a friend to you while having sex 

fwb! michael who requested that his people keep an eye on you, giving him any significant updates about your life 

fwb! michael who felt anger bubble into his blood as his spy had updated him with the fact that a guy was coming over to your house, almost every night

fwb! michael who looked into the guy, finding out that the two of you worked together and were trying out dating 

fwb! michael who was asked in an interview if he was romantically linked with anyone, and he said yes, and he said your name so delicately, you couldn’t help but fall to your knees, turning the TV off and sobbing 

fwb! michael who arrived at your house, pounding on your door and demanding to see you 

fwb! michael who sat outside your door for some time until you caved in, opening the door and asking him why he said what he said 

fwb! michael who said he didn’t know why, but that he didn’t regret it 

fwb! michael who made love to you against your bedsheets, sobbing into your arms as he apologized 

fwb! michael who begged for forgiveness, appreciating that you forgave him so quickly 

bf! michael who drove you to his place, introducing you to his kids as “daddy’s girlfriend” 

bf! michael who proposed a year later, expressing that he always did love you, he was just afraid it would turn into more, and then abruptly end 

fiancée! michael who stared at your ring as he fucked you gently, forcing you to look at him through the mirror, keeping your eyes open as he made love to you

Pairing(s): DILF! Officer! Widowed! Michael Jackson x Babysitter! Reader

Word Count: Imma say around 6k-ish…

Warning(s): Non-Con / Dub-Con, Reluctant Reader, Extreme Overstimulation, Forced Orgasms, Sadistic Michael, Patronizing & Degrading Dirty Talk, Pussy Slapping, Fingering, Scissoring, Squirting, Messy Sex, Breeding Kink, Implied Baby Trapping, Age Gap, Power Imbalance, Uniform Kink, Dark Humor (including dead wife/necro joke), Possessive & Narcissistic Behavior, Explicit Sexual Content, No Aftercare

Tags: Dangerous Era Michael Jackson, Older Michael Jackson, DILF Michael Jackson, Single Dad Michael Jackson, Cop Michael Jackson, Widowed Michael Jackson, Babysitter Reader, Age Gap, Power Imbalance, Non-Con, Dub-Con, Reluctant Reader, Sadistic Michael Jackson, Mean Michael Jackson, Patronizing Kink, Bullying Kink, Degradation, Praise mixed with Degradation, Fingering, Scissoring, Pussy Slapping, Overstimulation, Squirting, Messy Sex, Creampie, Breeding Kink, Implied Baby Trapping, Forced Orgasm, Size Kink, Uniform Kink, Dark Humor, Dead Wife Mention, Necrophilia Joke, Luxury House Sex, Los Santos Setting, Michael Jackson smut, MJ fanfiction, Explicit Sexual Content, Dubious Consent, CNC elements, Possessive Michael, Narcissistic Michael, Erotic Bullying, unfinished work

A/N: This was supposed to be longer but I forgot my train of thought cuz it has been so long lol so imma do a part 1 and part 2 (and maybe more if it drags 😂). I hope this lives up to ya’ll standards and I AM SO SORRY IT TOOK SO LONGGGG!!! I need to manage my time better 😭. But summer is coming so imma be a fool again very soon lol 😂. I wanted a lot of Dead Wife Jokes too but I do apologize if that triggers anyone!! I feel like I haven’t locked my final form with this one yet lol, there was so much I wanted to do but tbh ya’ll I’M A STRAIGHT TO THE POINT WRITER! I love slow burns and builds but I don’t have time lmao 🤣 maybe during the summer I can take on an actual project lol. Oh and yes I did use the GTA world in here lol. For immersion I like to use worlds of my own creation or fiction worlds cuz not everybody live in LA, or Canada or Nebraska or wither places lmao so GTA world made so much sense. Also this has been sitting for 3 months lol 😂 so yeah I had to stop edging you guys at some point and just get it out!

🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤❤️🖤

Part One – The Night He Finally Breaks Her

January 6th, 2025 | Los Santos Hills

The city lights of Los Santos sprawled out below the floor-to-ceiling windows like a glittering sea of sin, but inside Michael Jackson’s sleek double-height living room everything felt intimate, expensive, and dangerously quiet. The massive chandelier overhead dripped warm gold teardrop bulbs at varying lengths, casting soft, shifting shadows across the glossy grey floors and warm wood accent panels. Recessed lighting glowed low and inviting, turning the open-concept space into a cocoon of luxury. The huge low-profile grey sectional dominated the center of the room, piled high with plush matching pillows and that thick cream throw you’d been curled under earlier while the boys watched their cartoons. Now the throw was kicked somewhere near the textured rug, forgotten.

Upstairs, the show-stopping floating staircase glowed with its built-in LED strips along the thick grey steps, glass railings catching the chandelier light like frozen diamonds. The mezzanine hallway was dark and silent. Julian and Crispin—five and nine years old, respectively and were finally, blissfully asleep in their rooms. No more little footsteps. No more “one more story, pleeeease?” Just the low hum of the air conditioning unit mounted high on the wall and the faint, distant pulse of the city far below.

You were not asleep.

You were trapped in Michael’s lap on that massive sectional, back flush to his broad chest, your legs hooked obscenely wide over his strong thighs so you couldn’t even think about closing them. Your shorts and panties were long gone, tangled around one ankle and dangling pathetically. The cool air of the room kissed your bare, dripping pussy like a taunt. Michael’s uniform shirt was still mostly buttoned from his late shift, the cool edge of his badge pressing into your spine every time you squirmed. He smelled like gun oil, expensive cologne, and the faint salt of a long day. Dangerous, familiar, and way too comforting for what he was doing to you.

His voice was soft. Almost sweet. That same velvet timbre he used when he read the boys their bedtime stories or teased them about spilled juice. “Aww, baby… look at you already making such a pretty mess and I’ve barely even started playing with you.”

Two thick fingers were buried knuckle-deep inside your pussy, pumping slow and lazy while his thumb circled your swollen clit in tight, mean little spirals. The wet, filthy sounds echoed obscenely in the high-ceilinged room: loud, slick, constant. Every slow drag of his fingers made your walls flutter and suck around him like they had a mind of their own.

You whined, high and broken, hips twitching hard. “M-Michael… please… it’s too much, I can’t—”

“Shhh, princess.” He nuzzled the side of your neck like a loving boyfriend, but his free arm locked tighter around your waist, pinning you down exactly where he wanted you. “Don’t fight Daddy. You know this greedy little cunt gets needy the second the boys are asleep. She’s been hiding from me all evening in those tiny shorts. Now she’s gonna take what I give her.”

He curled his fingers viciously against your g-spot and you moaned loud, loud enough that you immediately bit your lip, terrified of waking the kids. Michael just chuckled softly, that innocent little crinkle at the corners of his big brown eyes making your stomach flip even as he ruined you.

“See? Listen to how sloppy she is already.” He scissored his fingers wide, stretching your walls open obscenely, holding you spread like he was admiring the view. “Fuck, I love looking at this pretty cunt. So soft and puffy… all stretched around my fingers like it was made for me. You see that, baby? Look down.”

You tried to shake your head, tears already pricking your eyes, but he used his free hand to tilt your chin down, forcing you to watch. His fingers spread you even wider, the glossy shine of your arousal coating his skin, strings of it stretching every time he pulled back.

“Goddamn, princess. So fucking pretty when she’s all open for me. I could stare at this sloppy little hole for hours.”

“Di—Did you talk to your ex-wife with that mouth…mmmph!” Tears pricked your eyes. Your pussy was throbbing, fluttering, getting wetter with every filthy word. The sounds were obscene. Loud. Slick. Constant. Every time he pulled his fingers back they glistened, coated thick, strings of your arousal stretching between his digits before he shoved them back in.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear like a secret. “I sure hope not,” he purred, “since she’s dead and I’m not into necrophilia, baby~,” He slapped your clit; sharp, sudden, the wet smack ringing out. Your whole body jolted, a broken whine tearing from your throat as your pussy clenched hard around his fingers.

“Michael—!”

Another slap. Harder this time. The sting bloomed hot and sharp, but your hips bucked forward anyway, chasing his palm like a desperate little whore.

“Aww, there she goes,” he cooed, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “Pushing that needy pussy into my hand like you hate it. You’re twitching so much, baby. Look at her jump every time I slap her. So cute.”

He scissored you wider again, pumping deeper, faster, the obscene wet squelching getting louder with every thrust. Your thighs trembled violently over his, muscles jumping and twitching uncontrollably. Another moan ripped out of you. Shameless eyes fluttering as your head fell back against his shoulder.

“That’s it… moan for Daddy. Let me hear how good I’m making this pretty cunt feel.” He added a third finger without warning, stretching you so wide you felt it in your stomach. The burn was perfect, overwhelming, turning your brain to static. “Fuck, feel that? I’m opening you up so nice. Gonna make sure this pussy stays loose and sloppy for the rest of the night.

You were whining nonstop now, high little sounds that broke into sobs every time he curled his fingers just right. Your hips kept rolling down, pushing your dripping pussy into his palm like it had a mind of its own. Tears rolled down your cheeks. Your eyes rolled back as another brutal thrust hit that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your lids.

Michael’s voice stayed so soft, so sweet. “Poor baby… eyes rolling already and I’m not even using my cock yet. You’re such a sensitive little thing. But you love it, don’t you? Look how you’re grinding on my hand like a needy slut. This cunt doesn’t lie, princess. She’s squeezing me so tight, trying to keep me inside.”

He slapped your clit again—three sharp smacks in quick succession. Each one made you jerk and cry out, your pussy gushing fresh slick down his wrist and onto the leather cushion beneath you. The mess was getting ridiculous. A shiny wet spot was already spreading under your ass, dripping onto the cream throw crumpled on the floor.

“Messy girl,” he murmured, almost lovingly. “Look at the couch. You’re ruining it. But I love it. Love how sloppy this pretty cunt gets when I bully her.” He scissored his fingers even wider, holding you open for a long moment so the cool air hit your exposed walls. You twitched hard, a broken moan spilling out as your hips chased his hand again.

“Please… Michael, I—I can’t take it…”

“You can and you will.” His tone was still playful, still that innocent charm, but his fingers never stopped. He pumped them faster, deeper, thumb grinding mean circles on your clit while he spread you open over and over. “Gonna finger this pussy until she’s numb, baby. Until she’s twitching and crying and still begging for more. You’re gonna squirt all over my uniform, all over this couch, all over my hand. And you’re gonna thank me after.”

Your moans were constant now. Loud, wrecked, and shameless. Every scissoring thrust made your walls flutter and clench. Your eyes rolled back again as the pressure built hotter, tighter, meaner. Your hips rolled desperately, pussy grinding into his palm like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

He slapped your clit harder. “Come on, princess. Give it to me. Squirt for Daddy like the messy little babysitter you are.”

The orgasm hit like a freight train. Your whole body seized, thighs locking, back arching as you squirted hard around his fingers. Clear fluid gushed out in pulsing waves, soaking his hand, his wrist, his uniform pants, the couch. The wet sounds were filthy and loud, splashing everywhere. You screamed—actually screamed—eyes rolled back, mouth open in a broken wail as the pleasure ripped through you.

But Michael didn’t stop.

He kept pumping through it, scissoring you wider, slapping your oversensitive clit in time with every gush. “That’s it!! Keep squirting, baby. Look at that pretty mess. So fucking sloppy. I love this cunt when she’s like this. All puffy and red and dripping everywhere.”

You were twitching uncontrollably now, pussy spasming and clenching around his fingers even as the orgasm faded into painful overstimulation. Whines and sobs poured out of you. Your hips still pushed forward weakly, chasing the sting and the stretch like your body had betrayed you completely.

Michael finally eased his fingers out with a wet pop, holding them up so you could see how drenched they were—shiny strings of your cum stretching between them, dripping down his forearm. He brought them to his mouth first, sucking them clean with a low, satisfied groan, eyes half-lidded like he was tasting the sweetest thing on earth.

“Mmm… fuck, princess. You taste so good when you’re this messy.” He scooped up more of the slick from between your trembling thighs, two fingers glistening, and pressed them to your lips. “Open up. Taste how nasty you got for me.”

You whimpered, but your mouth opened anyway. He pushed his fingers in, letting you suck your own cum off them while he watched with that angelic smile.

“Good girl… lick Daddy’s fingers clean. Yeah, just like that. Such a sloppy little thing.” Your pussy was still twitching, gaping slightly, swollen and puffy from the relentless fingering. He spread your folds open again with both hands, humming appreciatively. “Look at her… all wet and used. I could stare at this pretty cunt for hours. So perfect when she’s all stretched and dripping.”

He slapped it again—light but stinging—making you jolt and whine. Then he slid three fingers back inside without mercy, curling them deep.

“Round two, baby. I’m not done until this you’re fingered so dumb and hard til you’re begging me to put a baby in yuh!”

The overstimulation was brutal. Your moans turned into constant, broken sobs. Your eyes rolled back again as he scissored you wider than before, pumping harder, slapping your clit between every thrust. Your hips kept pushing into his palm, pussy grinding desperately even while you cried “too much, too much.”

He cooed the whole time, voice soft and sweet. “Aww, listen to those pretty sounds. You’re twitching so much, princess. This cunt is addicted to being bullied, huh? Look how she’s sucking my fingers back in every time I pull out. Greedy little whore.”

Another orgasm crashed over you; smaller, sharper, almost painful. You squirted again, weaker this time but still messy, soaking everything beneath you. The leather cushion was ruined. The rug had dark wet spots. Your thighs were shiny with it.

Michael finally pulled his fingers free, admiring the way your pussy clenched and fluttered on nothing, creamy and gaping. He reached down and dragged his fingers through the mess in one long, slow scoop that made you jerk and sob. Then he brought his hand up to his mouth and stuck the fingers in, sucking on your mess and moaning like it’s a platter for prime ribs and shrimp, before sitting back and freeing his cock from his uniform pants.

It sprang out heavy, thick, flushed and already leaking at the tip. He rubbed the fat head through your soaked, twitching folds, tapping it against your oversensitive clit, teasing your entrance while you whimpered and twitched in his lap.

“You wanna be a momma?” he asked, cheeky and playful, that big brown-eyed innocence on full display while his voice promised absolute ruin. “You want Daddy to put a baby right here in this sloppy little cunt? Give you your first baby? Don’t die on me like my other wife! I’ll drag you out of the afterlife!” He playfully stuck his tongue out before pressing the thick head against your fluttering hole, not pushing in yet! Just letting you feel it. Your hips twitched forward again, pussy trying to suck him in even as your mind spun.

Michael smiled that sweet, dangerous smile.

“Good girl.”

Part 2 of 2 of The Locked Door Series

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 19.7K i apologize for NOTHING

Warnings: DUBCON ELEMENTS, SMUUUUUUT, religion kink, virgin kink, authority kink, degradation kink, praise kink, age gap, ohhhhh the list goes on y’all been here long enough

A/N: I have nothing to say for myself this time im sorry

***

Obi-Wan feels like he’s going to be sick.

Dinner in the grand hall was difficult enough, forking down mouthfuls of expensive food he’s sure was absolutely marvelous, if he could’ve tasted it.  The s’Ziscari clearly splurged on the celebrations—expensive food, expensive decor, expensive everything, down to the silk napkin he studied and fiddled with under the table as he awkwardly waited for you to finish your plate.

He felt uncomfortable, absolutely.  He’s felt uncomfortable ever since he shuffled into this blasted, Maker forsaken robe not long after he left your quarters earlier.

Not black, no.  Not like yours.  Not like what appears to be an overwhelmingly vast majority of the people he’s encountered so far this dreadful evening.

No, his robes are blue.

freak reveal (me)