✿

It's hard to believe that it's been 17 years since we lost Michael. Yet his legacy continues to shine brighter than ever. His music, his artistry, his vision, and the messages he shared with the world continue to inspire people every single day. Generations that weren't even here when he walked this earth continue to discover him and fall in love with the magic he left behind, and the same will be true for generations to come.

Beyond the icon, beyond the records and awards, there was a human being. Someone who loved deeply, cared endlessly, dreamed fearlessly, and wanted nothing more than to heal the world and bring happiness to others. He wasn't a perfect man, but he gave so much of himself to make others happy, and I think that's one of the reasons why I, and so many others, still hold him close to our hearts even today.

Personally, I can only say thank you to Michael, even though he may not be here to hear it. Thank you for the music, for the joy, for the comfort, for the inspiration, and for creating something so timeless that even after all these years, you continue to bring people together. Thank you for reminding us to love, to care, to make a change, and to never stop believing in magic.

Seventeen years later, the love for Michael still hasn't faded. It never will. If anything, it has only grown stronger. Millions of people across the world still celebrate him, defend his legacy, and remember the light that he brought into their lives.

Even though I never knew Michael personally, he was one of the most giving people I have ever known of. Not just through his music, but through his charity work, his visits to hospitals, and the way he used his platform to draw attention to causes he cared deeply about.

People remember the performer, the records, and the achievements, but sometimes forget just how much of his life was spent trying to help others. Michael was loved by millions, but I can only imagine how lonely that kind of fame must have been. To live under a microscope for decades, with the entire world watching your every move, couldn't have been easy.

Yet despite all of that, he never stopped creating, never stopped dreaming, and never stopped being the amazing man he was.

Today, my thoughts are also with the Jackson family. As fans, we grieve and remember Michael, but I can't imagine what this day must feel like for the people who knew him best and loved him long before the world did. If losing someone who changed my life through his art can still bring me to tears 17 years later, then I can only imagine the weight of losing a son, a brother, an uncle, a father, and a friend.

I hope today brings them comfort, peace, and the reminder that Michael's love and legacy continue to live on in the hearts of millions around the world.

To Michael,

If heaven has the ability to be a magical place for anyone, I hope it is for you. I hope your personal heaven is everything you dreamed of while you were here. A place filled with peace, wonder, love, laughter, and endless happiness. I hope that somehow, in some way, you can still see, feel, and understand how deeply you are loved to this day.

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pairing: thriller m.jackson x fem!reader.

synopsis: after the incident between you and michael at the grammys, at another award show you still aren’t over the situation fully and after a couple glasses of champagne, you’re ready to confront diana on her actions. after it not going the way you wanted it to, you gave michael the silent treatment, then showing him what he’s missing out on.

warnings: jealous michael, smut, dominant reader, sub michael but he turns dominant at the end, slight choking, riding, arguing, angst, making up.

a/n: this finna be long so buckle up ladies but i’d say the smut is worth it at the end.

part one.

another award show. another red carpet. another night of forced smiles and pretending that you want to be present. you stood beside michael, his arm casually draped around your waist as cameras flashed relentlessly. the paparazzi shouted questions, but you barely registered them over the pounding in your chest—a familiar ache that never quite went away.

the award ceremony went through fast, nothing wrongful happened, michael won a few awards. but he was more aware of what he was doing this time because of what happened previously at the grammys.

the after party was already loud when you spotted her. diana ross, draped in a silver silk, her laughter cutting through the room like a blade. and there was michael, drink in hand, looking uncomfortable but polite as she draped herself against his arm. her manicured fingers traced his bicep, lingering far too long for mere friendship.

your grip tightened on your champagne flute. anger rushing through your body more than anything.

you watched, the alcohol buzzing in your veins, as diana leaned in close, whispering something against his ear that made him stiffen. she didn’t step back; instead, her hand smoothed down his arm, possessive and familiar, her body angled toward his like she belonged there. michael didn’t push her away immediately, offering a polite, strained smile instead. it was the final straw.

you cut through the crowd, your heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. “diana,” you said, your voice carrying an edge despite the alcohol. “i think you might have forgotten where your hands belong.” diana turned, her smirk already in place. “oh, i remember exactly where they belong,” she purred, not even looking at you. “unlike some people.”

“some people who aren’t possessive about what isn’t theirs,” you shot back, your voice trembling with suppressed rage. “he’s not a toy you can pick up whenever you want.”

diana’s laugh was sharp and brittle. “please. he was never yours. he’s polite. there’s a difference between manners and ownership.”

“he’s mine,” you hissed, stepping closer. “and you’re crossing a line.” diana’s eyes narrowed, her smile fading into something cold and calculating. “is he? because from where i’m standing, he’s not pushing me away.”

“because he’s too polite to make a scene,” you snapped, your temper flaring hot. “unlike you, he has class.” diana chuckled darkly, sliding her hand further up his arm to rest possessively on his shoulder. “class has nothing to do with it,” she countered smoothly. “if he was truly yours, sweetheart, he wouldn’t be letting me touch him.”

“maybe he just doesn’t want to hurt your feelings by telling you to fuck off,” you shot back, the alcohol making you bolder than usual. the room seemed to go quiet around you. diana’s face hardened, her composure cracking just for just a second before she recovered with a venomous smile. “careful, darling. you’re punching far above your weight class.”

“and you’re punching down,” you retorted, your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “clinging to a man who clearly wants to be anywhere but next to you.”

diana’s composure slipped completely, her eyes flashing with rage. “at least i have history with him,” she spat. “what do you have? a few months of playing house?”

“i have his heart,” you said simply, knowing it was true even if you couldn’t prove it publicly. diana scoffed, rolling her eyes dramatically. “you have his heart? he’s been in love with me for years. you’re just a distraction.”

“a distraction?” your voice cracked slightly, hurt bleeding through your anger as she just threw your insecurities right in your face. “is that what you think i am to him?”

michael finally stepped forward, his jaw tight. “diana, that’s enough. both of you.”

you expected him to grab your hand, to guide you away, to remind everyone in this room who you were to him. instead, his hand touched diana’s shoulder, gently but deliberately, and you noticed diana leaned into him just slightly.

“michael, tell her,” diana demanded, her voice saccharine sweet. “tell her how ridiculous she’s being.”

he sighed heavily, rubbing his temple. “baby, maybe you should just…calm down,” he said, his eyes avoiding yours. “you’re making a scene. diana hasn’t done anything wrong, we were just talking.”

“she hasn’t done anything wrong?” your voice cracked, humiliation burning hot in your chest. “she’s practically climbing you, michael. and you’re defending her?”

“i’m not defending anyone,” he said firmly, though his body language said otherwise—protective, shielding diana slightly. “i’m telling you to stop. you’re embarrassing yourself.”

“embarrassing myself?” the words came out small, betrayed. “by defending what’s mine?”

diana smirked, watching the exchange with satisfaction. “looks like someone needs to learn their place,” she murmured.

“diana, stop.” michael snapped, finally losing his patience with her. but then, he turned back to you, his expression hardening. “and you, calm down. you’re overreacting.”

overreacting? your heart screaming, your jealously boiling, your man defending another woman?

“i’m overreacting?” you repeated slowly, shocked and hurt. “she’s all over you and i’m the problem?”

“you’re marking this about nothing, again.” he insisted, clearly annoyed now. “she’s just being friendly. you’re being possessive and rude.”

“rude?” diana purred, leaning into michael now, her hand resting on his chest. “she’s being psychotic, darling. there’s a difference.”

michael didn’t shrug her off. he didn’t even seem to notice. he just looked at you with tired, exasperated eyes. “baby, please. not here. not tonight.”

something inside you broke at that moment—his exhaustion with you, his defence for her, the way everyone was watching this disaster unfold. you felt tears burn your eyes and you refused to let them fall in front of all these people.

“you know what?” you choked out, your voice trembling so violently you could barely get the words out. “you’re right, michael. i am embarrassing myself. by thinking you were actually mine.”

before he could respond, before diana could utter another poisonous word, you turned on your heels, your heels clicking sharply against the marble as you fled towards the exit.

you made it outside before the tears started falling, fat and angry down your cheeks. you couldn’t believe what just happened—he took her side. he called you rude and possessive. you felt sick, embarrassed, heartbroken.

the cool air hit your face as you stumbled toward the parking lot, your heels catching on the pavement. you didn’t call a car. you didn’t call him. you just walked, tears blurring your vision, the humiliation burning like acid in your chest.

back at the after party, michael stood frozen, watching the foot you’d disappeared through. “michael?” diana’s voice was soft, concerned—but you’d already gone. he didn’t hear her. his eyes were fixed on the empty doorway, chest tightening with an emotion he couldn’t name. something felt wrong. he’d chosen the easy path, the one that avoided conflict tonight, but the look in your eyes before you left haunted him.

the front door of hayvenhurst clicked shut behind you, the silence of the massive house swallowing you whole. you didn’t turn on the lights. you didn’t need to. you knew these halls by heart.

your heels were kicked off somewhere by the front door. you stumbled up the stairs, each step heavy with humiliation. in you and michael’s bedroom, you finally let yourself break.

you collapsed onto the bed, burying your face in his pillow—still smelling like him, like home, like love. but none of that mattered anymore. you’d been made a fool of. you’d been called psychotic, possessive, ridiculous. and michael hadn’t defended you. he’d defended her.

the tears came harder now, ugly sobs shaking your body.

your phone sat on the nightstand, dark and silent. you stared at it, waiting. for what? an apology? a call explaining that he didn’t mean it?

but the minutes stretched into hours. nothing came.

you curled into a ball, clutching his pillow tighter, breathing in his scent through the tears. you’d given him everything.

hours later, the house was dark and quiet. you were asleep, finally exhausted from crying. michael finally arrived home, his steps hesitant as he climbed the stairs. he paused outside the bedroom door, listening to your soft breaths. the silence weighed heavy on him.

he pushed the door open slowly, the moonlight streaming through the windows illuminating your tear-stained face. he felt a pang of guilt so sharp it stole his breath. you looked so small, so broken, clutching his pillow like a lifeline.

he moved quietly, stripping off his suit jacket, shoes, tie. he sat carefully on the edge of the bed.

he reached out tentatively, brushing a strand of hair from your face. his fingers hovered over your cheek, tracing the damp path of your tears. he felt sick with himself—he’d made you cry like this. he’d hurt you in front of everyone. and for what? to avoid a scene?

as he watched you sleep, he realised something worse than the humiliation you’d felt tonight was the pain he’d caused you. and he couldn’t bare it. he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. you stirred slightly, nuzzling into the pillow that still smelled like him.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered against your hair, his voice breaking. “i’m so sorry, baby.”

he stayed there, sitting beside you in the dark, watching the rise and fall of your chest. he thought about diana’s smirk, your shattered expression, the way you’d walked out alone. he’d failed you.

and worst of all? worst of all, he knew you were right. you weren’t being psychotic or possessive. you were being his woman, and he’d let another woman disrespect you right in front of his face. he hadn’t protected you. he’d protected his ego.

he leaned his forehead against your shoulder, closing his eyes, the guilt suffocating him. he had ruined everything.

the next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains, illuminating your cold shoulder. you were awake, staring out the window, giving him the silent treatment. he deserved it. he sat up slowly, running a hand through his messy curls. “baby?” he tried softly.

you didn’t respond. didn’t even blink. you just kept staring out the window like he wasn’t even there. the silence was worse than any argument, any scream, any accusation. it was the silence of someone who’d loved too much and been hurt too deeply.

he reached for your hand but you pulled away, getting out of bed without a word.

he watched as you walked into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. the sound echoed through the room like a gunshot. he felt like he’d been shot. you were ignoring him. you, his happiness, his smile, his everything, was ignoring him. and it hurt. god, it hurt.

michael was at the studio with quincy, attempting to record more songs. but he kept messing up every time.

quincy looked up from the mixing board, growing. “michael, focus!” he snapped. michael jolted, realising he’d messed up the take again. his mind was elsewhere—on your cold shoulder, the silent treatment, the way you’d pulled away from his touch. he kept replaying the argument in his head, each word like a knife twist.

he ran a hand through his hair, attempting to shake off the distraction. “sorry, q,” he muttered. “let’s try again.” but as he started singing, your face flashed before his eyes, your hurt expression, your silent treatment. he flubbed the lyrics again.

quincy threw his hands up in frustration. “okay, that’s it. michael, you need to focus.” he ordered. michael slumped against the wall, dragging both hands over his face. he was ruining the session because he couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d ruined things with you.

he squeezed his eyes shut, hearing diana’s condescending voice in his head, followed immediately by yours—the pain, the humiliation. and then this mornings crushing silence. you hadn’t even looked at him. he felt physically sick, his chest tight. he usually escaped into music, but today even music couldn’t save him. he missed you. he just wanted his baby back.

the rest of the week was absolute torture. michael tried everything—flowers that you left to wither on the counter, endless apologies, expensive gifts you didn’t even open. he pleaded with you through the bedroom door, his voice cracking, desperate for you to just yell at him, scream at him, anything but this defeating silence.

“please, baby,” he’d begged on wednesday night, leaning against the locked bedroom door. “talk to me. yell at me. hit me. just don’t do this.” silence.

on thursday, he tried flowers again—your favourites, lilies and roses—left on the kitchen island with a note he wrote you. you walked past them without a glance.

by friday, he was a wreck. he tried cooking your favourite dinner personally, setting the table with candles, hoping the aroma would lure you out. you walked right past the dining room to your bedroom, not even sparing the effort a glance.

quincy was furious at his lack of focus, his mother was asking questions, and the house felt like a tomb without your voice.

he’d been desperate, cornering you in the kitchen on saturday. “you have to come,” he pleaded, eyes red-rimmed from sleepless nights. “people are asking questions. the press thinks we’re done. please, baby. one night. one red carpet. then we can…” he paused, voice dropping. “then i’ll figure out how to fix us.”

you’d stared at him, stone-faced, and for a moment he thought you’d say no again. but then you nodded slowly. “one night.” that was it. no more. nothing else.

so here you were, in the bedroom, getting ready for another awards ceremony. but this one was different. you weren’t planning on the matching outfits you both had planned when he first asked you to be his plus one a while back.

you slipped into the dress, turning to check yourself out in the mirror. michael watched, his eyes widening as he took in the stunning sight. the dress was a revenge dress if he ever saw one—long, skin-tight, low at your chest, shimmering with sequins, hugging every curve.

“baby…” he breathed, stepping closer. “you look…” he stopped, jaw tight. the dress plunged low, showcasing your collarbones and the swell of your chest. it was breathtaking. it was dangerous. it was absolutely the kind of dress that would have ever man at that ceremony glued to you.

he swallowed hard, hands twitching at his sides.

“you’re staring,” you said flatly, adjusting the strap.

michael blinked, snapping out of his daze. “i—yeah, of course i am. you look incredible.” his voice was strained. he knew this wasn’t the matching outfit you both had planned weeks ago. this was something else entirely.

“we’re not matching,” you stated simply, applying lipgloss without looking at him.

michael swallowed hard, remembering your earlier plans—coordinated colours, complementary styles. now you stood before him in champagne sequins that left little to the imagination, looking like a goddess ready to make heads turn.

“i know,” he said quietly, his eyes tracing n the curve of your hips.

he watched as you slid into heels that matched the dress, your legs looking miles long. he felt his heart rate quicken involuntarily. this was dangerous territory. you were deliberately dressing to kill—to make a statement. to make him jealous. and it was working. god, was it working. “baby,”

“what?” you asked coldly, matching your lipgloss with your dress perfectly. you looked like a goddess—confident, sexy, revengeful. he realised he was seeing your dark side—the one you only showed when you were extremely angry.

“nothing,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair nervously. he knew better than to say anything more. you were like ticking bomb, and he didn’t want to be the one who set you off.

the red carpet was chaos—flashing lights, screaming fans, reporters shoving microphones forward. michael played his part perfectly, slipping his arm around your waist, pulling you close as you walked, his hand rested on the small of your back. “smile, baby,” he murmured against your ear, flashing that famous smile for the cameras.

you smiled on cue, leaning into him, your hand resting elegantly on his chest. the cameras loved it—michael jackson looking every inch the doting boyfriend, you the stunning partner hanging on his every word.

“how are you both?” a reporter called out.

“so in love,” michael answered smoothly, his thumb brushing your hip. “she’s my world.”

the ceremony was a blur of flashing lights and fake smiles. michael played the doting boyfriend to perfection—hand on your thigh under the table, whispering sweet nothings into your ear between presenters, leaning in to kiss your temple whenever cameras flashed. you played your part flawlessly, the picture of the supportive, stunning partner.

the after party was crowded—hollywood elites mingling, champagne flowing, music thumping. michael stayed glued to your side, his hand never leaving your hip. but he noticed the way heads turned as you walked past, the way men did double takes, how his peers couldn’t keep their eyes off you in that dress.

he leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “you’re making everyone insane in that dress,” he murmured, voice low. he wasn’t even being jealous or possessive—just stating a fact. you looked like a damn dream, and every man here wanted a piece of you.

michael was now deep in conversation with quincy, laughing at some joke. other industry bigwigs had gathered around, clearly enjoying michael’s company. you stood a few feet away, sipping your champagne, observing the scene unfold. your posture was perfect, your expression calm, your gaze distant.

a tall handsome producer approached you, flashing a charming smile. “i don’t think we’ve met. i’m julian.” his eyes traveled appreciatively down your dress, lingering on the neckline before meeting your gaze again. “you look absolutely gorgeous tonight.”

you offered him a small, practiced smile, swirling your champagne. “thank you, julian.”

his hand brushed yours as he took your empty glass, signalling a waiter for a refill. “mind if i keep you company? your date seems…occupied.”

michael was laughing at something quincy said, completely oblivious.

julian was attractive, successful, exactly the kind of man who would make michael see red.

you tilted your head, letting julian think he was making progress. “i don’t know—“

“come on,” julian pressed, stepping closer, his hand settling on the small of your back—right where michael’s usually rested. “one dance. that’s all i ask.”

you glanced over at michael. he was still talking, still laughing, still completely unaware. your dress was doing its job—every man in the room wanted you, including julian.

you turned back to julian, letting a small smirk play on your lips. “one dance,” you agreed softly, placing your hand on his chest. the contact was deliberate, calculated. you knew michael would notice eventually—he always did.

julian beamed, leading you toward the dance floor. as you moved closer to him, you caught michael’s eye from across the room.

the laughter on michael’s face died instantly. he watched julian’s hand settle possessively on your waist, pulling you into the rhythm of the music. he saw the way you leaned in, your hand resting comfortably on the producers chest—a gesture usually reserved for him.

his jaw tightened visibly. quincy noticed the shift in his demeanour immediately. “mike? you good?” michael didn’t answer.

julian leaned in, saying something that made you laugh—a genuine, bright sound that carried across the room. his hand slid lower on your back, dangerously close to crossing the line. you rested your head against his shoulder for a fleeting moment, the picture of intimacy.

across the room, michael turned into stone. he watched another man touch what belonged to him.

michael watched from afar, his heart twisting painfully in his chest. he had never felt this kind of jealousy before—it was consuming, overwhelming. he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of you laughing with another man, feeling a deep ache in his very soul.

he wanted to be the one making you laugh like that. he wanted his hand on your back, not julian’s. he wanted to feel your head resting on his shoulder, hear your voice soft and sweet in his ear. the ache was physical—a hollow, desperate yearning that made his chest tight.

quincy was still talking, but michael wasn’t listening anymore.

julian’s hand slid lower, his grip tightening possessively on your hip. he pulled you flush against him, his other hand moving to your lower back—too low for comfort. he leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear whispering something inappropriate. michael’s vision turned red instantly.

michael’s hand clenched into fists at his sides, his knuckles turning white. he took a step forward before quincy caught his arm, holding him back. “mike, don’t,” he warned under his breath. but michael couldn’t look away as julian’s lips trailed down your neck—too far, too intimate.

without another thought, michael pushed past quincy, his long strides eating up the distance between you and julian. he reached the dance floor in seconds, his eyes blazing with jealousy. he grabbed julian’s wrist, yanking his hand away from your hip with a force that startled both of you.

michael looked at you, jealousy blazing in his eyes. “your fun is over for tonight,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his fingers tight around your wrist as he dragged you through the crowd and toward the exit. he didn’t even spare julian a glance—he was too furious, too consumed by jealously to acknowledge the man. the only thing that existed was you, and he was getting you out of there. now.

bill was already stationed beside the back door of the limousine, holding it open before michael even reached the pavement. he sense the explosive energy radiating off of him and moved quickly, opening the door just as michael practically shoved you inside.

michael followed immediately, slamming the door shut behind him with a deafening thud. “drive, please,” he said to bill sharply, locking the partition.

the limousine lurched forward abruptly as bill sped off, the sudden movement throwing you back against the the seat. michael sat across from you, chest heaving, eyes wild, breathing heavily. he was angry—no, he was furious. his jaw was clenched tightly, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

“what the hell were you thinking?” his voice was low, dangerous. he reached out and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look at him. “let another man touch you like that? kiss your neck? hold you so intimately?” each question came out tighter than the last, his jealousy evident in every word.

“you’re mine,” he snarled, his thumb pressing into the soft skin of your chin. “only i get to touch you like that. only i get to hold you, kiss you, make you laugh.” his thumb rubbing your skin softly, “you’re wearing my ring, remember? that means something.”

his possessiveness only fuelled your pent up anger, creating a volatile mix of emotions between you two. your eyes flashed with defiance as you tore your chin from his grasp. “oh, so now touching other people is a problem?” you snapped, your voice laced with sarcasm.

“don’t bring that up,” he warned, his voice dropping dangerously low. “that was different and you know it.”

“was it?” you challenged, leaning closer to him, your strap slipping down slightly. the tension between you was suffocating—jealousy, anger, desire all swirling together.

“it was completely different,” he insisted, his grip on your knee tightening as you leaned closer. the scent of your perfume filled his senses, making his head swim. “i was being polite to diana. that man was practically fondling you.”

“and if i remember correctly,” you added sweetly, watching his jaw tense, “you were ‘being polite’ with diana too. your hands were all over her. your lips…” you paused deliberately, watching for his reaction. “were they just ‘being polite’ too?”

“stop,” he commanded harshly, the word cracking like a whip. “you don’t understand what happened.”

“don’t i?” your voice was sharp, cutting. “i saw exactly what happened. your hands in her waist, her hands all over you, her kiss on your jaw. that wasn’t ‘polite,’ michael. that looked intimate.” you poked his chest for emphasis. “sound familiar?”

his hand shot out, gripping your poking finger firmly. “it meant nothing,” he hissed, leaning in until your faces were inches apart. “she was just being friendly. i was being polite. there was nothing between us.” his dark eyes searched yours desperately. “you know i only want you. only you.” but your anger remained, fuelled by his hypocrisy.

“then why does it feel like im the the one who has to prove myself constantly?” your voice wavered slightly, anger giving way to hurt. “i stand by your side, play the perfect girlfriend, smile for the cameras—and then i watch you touch diana like she matters.” you shoved at his chest. “then some producer touches my neck and suddenly im the problem?”

“you’re not the problem,” he said, michael’s voice cracked slightly, vulnerability breaking through his anger. he released your finger, his hand moving to cup your cheek instead—gentle this time. “you understand that, don’t you? you’re not the problem. never.” his thumb brushed your cheekbone. “i just…”

“i saw him touching you and i lost my mind,” he admitted quietly, his jealousy finally making sense. “it made me realise how much it must have looked to you with diana.” he paused, swallowing hard. “i was being friendly, but i see how it looked from your perspective.”

his hand slid to the back of your neck, pulling you closer. “i’m sorry,” he muttered, his forehead resting against yours. “i’m sorry i didn’t consider your feelings that night. i’m sorry i hurt you.” his other arm wrapped around your waist, holding you tightly against him. “please don’t be angry with me anymore.”

you remained silent, your arms crossed over your chest as you stared out the window. the tension was thick in the air, but there was a new understanding between you two. michael watched you carefully, his thumb absently stroking your neck as he held you closer—waiting for your response.

“say something,” he whispered, his breath warm against the side of your face. his eyes dark searched your face desperately, waiting for any sign that you’d forgive him. the limo swayed gently as it moved through traffic, the only sound between you two. his thumb traced gentle circles on the side of your neck, right where julian’s lips had been not long ago.

“i’m still mad at you,” you finally muttered, though your resolve was weakening under his touch. your arms slowly uncrossed, resting limply at your sides. “you can’t just grab me and expect everything to be fine, michael.”

“i know,” he murmured against your skin, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

the limo pulled through the gates of hayvenhurst, the familiar estate glowing under the moonlight. bill helped you out, giving michael a knowing look before driving off. michael led you inside, his hand firmly on the small of your back as you walked through the grand entrance. the house was quiet, empty except for the two of you.

as soon as the front door clicked shut behind you, you turned on your heel and pushed michael back against it. your hands slid up his chest, gripping the lapels of his jacket and yanking him down for a bruising kiss. you poured all your anger, jealously, and pent-up desire into it, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

“careful,” he murmured against your lips, his hands going to your waist and slowly sliding down to your hips. he deepened the kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips to claim your mouth entirely. he tasted minty and familiar, you missed him since you had ignored him for a whole week.

his hands slid over your body before he lifted you effortlessly. your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively. he walked you both up the grand staircase, never breaking the kiss. “bedroom,” he managed between desperate breaths, his voice rough with need.

you tore your mouth away, panting heavily as he carried you up the stairs. you started ripping at the buttons of his shirt. they popped off and scattered across the floor as you exposed his chest. you leaned down, biting and sucking marks into his collarbone, marking him as yours.

michael groaned low in his throat, his grip tightening on your thighs as you sucked a dark mark just above his collarbone. he practically kicked the bedroom door open, carrying you inside before dropping you onto the mattress. you immediately started taking your dress off, tossing it aside as michael stripping his shirt and jacket to the floor. “still mad?” he challenged.

you didn’t answer with words. instead, you planted a hand firmly against his chest and shoved him onto his back. you straddled his hips instantly, pinning him to the mattress. “watch me,” you ordered, grinding your hips down against his erection. you leaned forward, wrapping your hand around his throat—not squeezing, just claiming. “i’m in charge tonight.”

his breathing hitched at your touch, dark eyes darkening with pleasure as he watched you dominate him. you were like a caged animal released—hungry, wild, unapologetic.

you unbuckled his belt and tied his wrists together above his head, laughing softly when he tried to reach you. “stay still,” you commanded, grinding down again. “this is what you get for hurting me.”

he lay there, bound and at your mercy, his chest heaving as you teased him mercilessly. you leaned down, kissing him deeply while grinding your core against his hardness. his hips bucked instinctively, trying to to get friction where he needed it most. “fuck,”

“please,” he groaned, his voice breaking as you moved against him. his bound hands flexed, straining against the makeshift restraints as he watched you with heavy-lidded eyes. “baby, please…i need you.” you smirked against his neck, nipping at his pulse point. “need me?” you mocked softly. “or do you need diana?”

his body tensed beneath you. “diana doesn’t make me crazy like this,” he choked out, his hips lifting desperately. “it’s not her name i moan. it’s not her face i think about when i—“ you cut him off by pressing your thumb against his throat, squeezing just enough to make him shut up and to make his eyes roll back.

“that’s what i thought.” you released his throat, trailing hot kisses down his chest instead. your hands slid between your bodies, teasing his length as you watched his face contort with need. “tell me who you belong to,” you demanded, your voice low and dangerous. his hips jerked upward, seeking friction. “you,” he gasped, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “only you. always you.”

you didn’t need another word. you slid his pants and boxers down his legs, freeing his hard dick before sliding back up his body and positioning yourself over him, sinking down without warning. he cried out beneath you, head thrown back, chest heaving as you took every inch. “there it is,” you moaned, rolling your hips. you leaned over his bound body, controlling the pace mercilessly—slow, deep strokes that made his thighs tremble. “mine.”

his bound hands tugged desperately at the restraints, frustrated whimpers escaping his throat. “let me touch you,” he begged, his dark eyes pleading up at you. “please, i need to—“

you just smirked, speeding up your hips now without mercy. “no,” you breathed, leaning down to suck bruises onto his neck. “you get to watch.”

“open,” you commanded, sliding two fingers between his parted lips to silence his whines. his tongue immediately curled around your digits, sucking on them eagerly. “this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” you panted, riding him harder, your hips snapping down viciously. “to be used? to have me remind you exactly who owns you?”

his gagging moans fuelled your arousal as you rode him relentlessly, your free hand reaching between your bodies to circle your clit in time with your movements. “look at me,” you demanded, watching his face contort with pleasure. you leaned down, whispering against his ear. “i’m going to make you cum so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

his eyes rolled back at your words, his bucking helplessly beneath you. “fuck, baby—“ he choked out around your fingers that then slid down to his throat, resting there. “i’m so close, im gonna—“ you slammed your hips down hard, grinding your clit agent his base. “cum for me,” you ordered, kissing his lips. “right now.”

his orgasm ripped through him violently, his bound hands twisting in the sheets as he spilled into you with a moan of your name. you kept riding him through it, using him to bring yourself closer to the edge. “that’s it,” you praised darkly.

you freed his hands from the restraints of his belt, watching him immediately grab your hips with force. his restraint snapped—he flipped you onto your back, now pinning your wrists above your head as he drove into you relentlessly.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as he fucked you mercilessly. your nails dug into his shoulders, back arching as he hit a sensitive spot. “there,” you moaned loudly, your eyes rolling back. “harder, right there—fuck!”

“you feel so good,” he grunted, slamming into you with punishing strokes. his free hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it in circles.

your moans filled the room as you came undone, his relentless thrusts and skilled fingers pushing you over the edge. your pussy clenched around him desperately, pulling him deeper as you rode out your high. “that’s it,” he panted, his movements slowing as he watched you with satisfaction.

he collapsed on top of you, both of you gasping for air, sweat-slicked bodies pressed together. his lips found your neck, pressing lazy kissed there as he slipped out of you. “mmm,” he hummed against your skin. “still mad?”

you slapped his shoulder weakly with a giggle, “shut up.”

he chuckled, nuzzling into your neck. “i love you,” he whispered, his voice genuine and heartfelt. the room was silent for a moment before you responded, your voice soft but sincere. “i love you too, idiot.” he laughed quietly pressing a kiss to your jaw.

fuck netflix and fuck all of you guys who are abandoning mike after this nasty documentary.

netflix isn’t innocent! after the biopic was released, everyone now wants to have a piece of michael to profit, he’s INNOCENT, everyone already knows and coming back and talking about these accusations years later and making a documentary about it is ridiculous, disrespectful and disgusting! worse, releasing this doc in JUNE.