â ášłàŹ . description; when a freezing bus lock-in forces you and your best friend michael under the same blanket, a game of truth or dare turns years of hidden craving into pure heat!
content: 18+, smut, bestfriends to lovers, thejacksons!michael, truth or dare, fingering, dryhumping, photographer!reader
âč àŁȘ Ëê°àŠ à»ê±.âËàż
being the head photographer for the jacksons was a dream job, but it came with a very specific set of rulesâmostly ones you made for yourself. the brothers absolutely adored you, treating you like the little sister they never had.
marlon was always stealin' your camera lens caps, randy would act like a total goof whenever you pointed a flash at him, and jermaine made sure you always had a warm plate of food after long, exhausting soundchecks.
then there was michael.
you and michael were the exact same age. youâd practically grown up in each otherâs pockets, sharing secrets on tire swings long before stadium lights, screaming fans, and record deals were ever a factor.
you considered him your absolute best friend. but as the years rolled on, things shifted. michael had developed a crush on you that was as clear as day.
the brothers saw it instantlyâthe way his eyes tracked you across the backstage chaos, the way heâd suddenly straighten his posture when you walked in, the quiet, soft-spoken smiles reserved only for you. everyone knew. except you... or rather, you chose not to see it.
you weren't ditzy; you just kept yourself guarded. you were deeply attracted to michaelâhow could you not be?âbut you refused to mix love with business. tour was complicated enough.
losing your best friend and your job over a messy backstage romance wasn't a risk you were willing to take. so, you kept him firmly in the "just a good friend" box.
until tonight.
the tour buses pulled into the hotel parking lot late into the freezing night. in your room, it was just you and michael, sharing a space with two separate double beds.
but as you sat on the edge of your mattress trying to upload the dayâs shots, you realized your main camera memory card was missing.
you slipped your shoes back on. "i left the card on the bus. all of today's soundcheck photos are on it."
"hold on, it's real dark out there. cold, too. i'm comin' with you," michael insisted, grabbing his sweater. "you ain't walkin' out there alone."
the two of you stepped out into the biting night air, quick-steppin' toward the parked tour buses. for thirty agonizing minutes, you and michael searched on your hands and knees in the dark bus. shivering and empty-handed, you gave up. but when michael reached for the exit handle... it was jammed locked.
trapped on a freezing, dormant bus until morning, you both accepted your fate. there was one narrow cubbied bed with a thick quilt, and a small dining booth across the aisle.
"you take the bed," michael said right away, unzipping his oversized jacket and sitting at the vinyl booth with his songbook. "i'll be just fine over here with my music."
"are you sure, mike?" you asked, crawling into the narrow bunk and pulling the heavy quilt to your chin. "it looks freezing over there."
"i'm tough, don't worry 'bout me," he insisted softly.
within ten minutes, michael was hunched over his paper, his arms pulled completely inside his sweater sleeves, shivering so hard his pen was slipping.
you watched him from across the aisle, the quiet scritch-scratch of his pen failing to hide the violent shudder in his shoulders.
a soft giggle escaped you. "michael... itâs warmer over here. come lay down before you freeze to death."
he stopped writing, his big doe eyes blinking as he peeked out from his collar. "you sure? the bedâs kinda small... i really didn't wanna crowd you, sweet thing."
"just come on," you murmured, shifting your body all the way against the padded back wall to clear a spot. "stop bein' stubborn. you're gonna freeze."
michael offered a sweet, grateful smile, slid out of the booth, and hurried across the icy floorboards in his socks. he hovered at the edge of the bunk, looking down uncertainly until you lifted the heavy edge of the quilt.
"here," you offered gently. "get in."
he slid in beside you, bringing a temporary rush of cold air that was instantly burned away by his body heat. the space was tinyâso tight his shoulder was pressed flush against yours, his chest right there in your peripheral vision as he pulled the heavy quilt all the way up over both of your heads.
it created a dark, warm little cocoon, illuminated only by the faint, amber glow of the tiny reading light overhead. the scent of his perfume, mixed with the soft cotton of his shirt, immediately filled the tiny space.
"gosh, that's way better," michael breathed, letting out a soft, relieved sigh. his face was only a few inches from yours on the shared pillow. "you're so warm..."
you lay on your side, staring into those big dark eyes. the quiet hum of the dormant bus, the howling wind outside, and the sheer closeness of his breath made the air between you feel heavy and charged.
"since weâre stuck here for hours," you whispered, a teasing smirk playing on your lips, "we need somethin' to pass the time. truth or dare?"
michael blinked, a quiet, breathy chuckle escaping him as he adjusted the blanket under his chin. "truth or dare? jeez, what are we, twelve years old again?"
"come on, mike. don't tell me the big stage star is scared of a little game," you teased, nudging his leg with your knee under the thick covers. "i'll go real easy on you to start. truth or dare?"
michael squinted at you, a playful glint lighting up his eyes. "truth. hit me."
"alright..." you tapped your chin thoughtfully. "whatâs the most embarrassing thing randyâs done on this tour so far?"
michael burst into a quiet, high-pitched giggle, hiding his mouth behind his hand so he wouldn't laugh too loud. "oh, man. easy.
he tried to do a cool slide across the stage during rehearsal in chicago and completely ripped his trousers right down the seam. jermaine had to throw a towel right at his face!"
you snorted, laughing softly into your pillow. "no way! how did i miss that?"
"you were backstage loadin' film!" michael laughed softly, shaking his head. "okay, my turn. truth or dare, pretty lady?"
"truth," you said proudly.
michaelâs grin turned mischievous. "whoâs your absolute least favorite brother to shoot photos of? tell the truth now."
"oh, that's mean!" you gasped playfully. "marlon. definitely marlon. he can't sit still for two seconds! every time i click the shutter, he's makin' a ridiculous face or stealin' my lens cap."
michael giggled, resting his cheek against the pillow, looking right at you. "he really does steal those caps every single day just to hear you yell."
"right? okay, your turn," you said, settling deeper into the mattress. the light playful mood was nice, but you wanted to push the envelope just a little bit. "truth or dare, jackson?"
"truth again," he murmured, his voice dropping slightly as he watched your eyes. "ask me anything."
"okay..." you leaned in a fraction closer. "who took that polaroid of me backstage yesterday? the one i caught tucked inside your songbook?"
michael froze. the playful grin melted off his face, replaced by a dark red blush that surged up his neck and flooded his cheeks. "iâyou saw that?" he stammered, his long fingers nervously tugging at the seam of the quilt. "hey, that ain't fair!"
"answer the truth, mike. it's the rules of the game."
"fine..." he muttered, looking down shyly, his eyelashes casting long shadows in the amber light. "i took it. you just... you looked real pretty, okay? standin' in that gold stage light... i couldn't help myself."
your heart did a sudden, violent flip against your ribs. the air inside the blanket cocoon suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.
"your turn," you whispered, your voice losing its playful edge.
michael looked back up, his soft brown eyes searching your face. the nervous stutter in his breathing was obvious now. "truth or dare?"
"truth." you grin.
michael bit his lower lip, his voice dropping to a low, trembling whisper that vibrated right against your chest. "why do you always act like you don't notice when i look at you? you always act like... like i'm just your buddy."
the silence that followed was deafening. the wind outside seemed to vanish, replaced entirely by the sound of his ragged breathing and the fast, heavy thud of your own pulse in your ears.
"because," you whispered back, the words catching in your throat. "i was scared. i was scared if i let myself see it... if i let myself react... i'd ruin everything. our friendship. my job on tour. i didn't want to lose you, mike."
michael stared at you, his dark eyes shining with an intensity so raw it took your breath away. "is that the only reason?" he asked softly. "just... fear?"
you looked down at his soft lips, then back up to his eyes. the strict wall youâd built between work and friendship didn't just crumble, it vanished completely.
"truth or dare, mike?" you asked quietly, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
michael didn't hesitate, his gaze locked onto yours. "dare."
you reached out, your hand slipping up to cup the side of his warm neck, your thumb resting right over his racing pulse. "i dare you to stop bein' scared."
michael swallowed hard, his dark eyes flashing with a sudden, beautiful confidence. "i ain't scared no more," he whispered softly.
he closed the tiny distance between you, his lips pressing gently against yours.
it started as a sweet, hesitant brushâa quiet question asked in the warm dark of the blanket. but as you let out a soft sigh against his mouth, months of holding back exploded. michaelâs hands, warm and trembling slightly, reached out to hesitantly grasp your waist.
gaining his confidence, he pulled you firmly onto him, bringing your body flush against his in the narrow bed.
the kiss deepened into a long, seamless makeout session. it was tender, deep, and intoxicating, filled with years of unspoken longing.
his long fingers tangled into your hair, holding you right where he wanted you, while you slid your arms around his neck, feeling the fast, steady thud of his heart against your chest.
every time he broke the kiss to breathe, heâd pepper soft, trailing kisses along your cheek, your jaw, and the corner of your smile, before pulling your lips right back to his with a quiet, needy sigh.
when he finally pulled back, resting his forehead against yours, both of you were breathless, flushed, and tangled up together under the heavy quilt.
his hand stayed wrapped snugly around your waist, his thumb gently stroking through your shirt.
michael smiledâa radiant, breathtaking expression in the dim amber light. "gosh... i think i like this game, baby."
the word slipped out of his mouth so naturally, so effortlessly, that he didn't even notice at first. but you did. you froze, a wide, teasing grin slowly spreading across your face.
"wait a minute..." you murmured, leaning up to nudge his nose with yours. "'baby'?"
michaelâs eyes widened slightly, his cheeks instantly warming up all over again. "iâjeez, did i say that?"
"you sure did, jackson," you giggled, running your fingers teasingly through his dark curls. "getting comfortable, aren't we?"
michael let out a soft, shy chuckle, burying his face into your neck for a second before looking back at you, his eyes brimming with sweet honesty.
"well... i've always wanted to call you that," he whispered, his voice dropping low as his hand down your back. "ever since i can remember."
your heart melted right there in his arms. "oh yeah?"
"yeah," he murmured, his gaze darkening again as he looked at your mouth. "and we ain't done playin'. my turn. truth or dare, baby?"
a thrill ran up your spine at the sound of the nickname. "truth."
michael leaned down, his lips brushing right against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his warm breath making you shiver. "truth..." he whispered husky, "when i pulled you on top of me just now... where did you wanna put your hands?"
your breath hitched sharply. you pulled back just enough to look at him, shocked by how smooth and bold he was suddenly bein'. "michael!" you gasped, your face burning red.
"hey, it's a truth!" he giggled softly, his hands tight on your waist, tugging you just an inch closer so your hips rested against his. "answer it for me, baby."
"i..." you swallowed hard, staring into his dark, hungry eyes. "i wanted to slide my hands right under your sweater. feel your bare skin."
michael let out a soft, shaky breath, his eyes widening slightly as his grip on your waist tightened. a slow, satisfied smile bit at his lips. "gosh..." he whispered. "okay. your turn."
you smirked, leaning down until your lips were hovering a millimeter over his. "truth or dare, mike?"
"dare," he rasped without a second thought.
"i dare you..." you whispered, sliding your hands slowly down his chest, stopping right at the hem of his sweater, "...to let me."
michaelâs breath hitched completely. a low, needy hum escaped his throat as he grabbed your waist, pulling you all the way back down into another deep, breathless kiss, his hands guiding yours right up beneath the warm fabric of his shirt.
the room inside the quilt felt like an oven now, the freezing air outside the bus completely forgotten. the heat radiating off michaelâs skin under his sweater was intoxicating, and the soft, needy sound he let out as your warm palm pressed against his ribs sent a shiver straight down your spine.
he broke the kiss just enough to breathe, his dark eyes heavy, hooded, and completely focused on your lips. his hands were firmly planted on your hips, keeping you pinned right where he wanted you. flush against his body in the narrow bed.
"gosh," michael rasped, his voice a quiet, breathless murmur against your cheek. "you... you're drive-in' me crazy, baby."
you let out a quiet, breathless laugh, feeling his heart hammer wildly under your fingertips. "your turn, jackson. truth or dare?"
michaelâs thumb stroked a slow circle over your hip bone through your pants. "truth," he whispered, his eyes flicking down to your mouth. "tell me... when youâre takin' photos of me on stage... do you ever look at my mouth and think about this?"
you bit your bottom lip, a wave of heat rushing through your chest. "every single show," you confessed softly, sliding your hands further up his bare chest, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin. "especially when you sing the slow songs. i'd pretend the camera wasn't even there."
michael let out a low, shaky exhale, his grip on your hips tightening just a fraction. a slow, smoldering smirk spread across his lipsâa look that was pure confidence, completely different from the shy boy who was shivering twenty minutes ago.
"my turn," you whispered, leaning down so your nose brushed against his. "truth or dare?"
"dare," michael said instantly, his dark eyes challenging yours. "make it good, baby."
"i dare you to tell me the dirtiest thought you've had about me since we started this tour."
michael froze for a split second, his breath catching in his throat. a deep, gorgeous flush flooded his dark skin, but he didn't pull away.
instead, he leaned up, his lips brushing right against the shell of your ear, his warm breath making every hair on your neck stand up.
"i thought about what itâd feel like to have you locked in my hotel room..." he whispered husky, his voice dipping into a low, velvet gravel. "...no cameras, no brothers, no schedule. just you stripped down in my bed, let-in' me touch you everywhere i wasn't supposed to."
a sharp gasp escaped your lips. you pulled back just enough to look at him, your chest heaving. "michael..."
"you asked for the truth, baby," he murmured, a dangerous, playful glint in his eyes as he pulled you back down by your waist. "truth or dare?"
"truth..." you rasped, your pulse hammering in your ears.
"whereâs the most sensitive spot on your body?" he asked, his long fingers gently sliding up from your hip, his thumb lightly dragging along the sensitive skin of your lower belly just beneath the hem of your shirt. "where do you want me touchin' you right now?"
your eyes fluttered shut at his touch. "right there," you breathed out, your voice trembling. "and... my neck."
michael didn't hesitate. before you could even open your eyes, his lips were on your neck, pressing a series of open-mouthed, hot kisses right along your jawline down to your collarbone. you let out a quiet gasp, your fingers clutching tightly at the bare skin of his shoulders under his sweater.
"truth or dare, mike?" you whimpered,
shifting your weight slightly over him.
"dare," he groaned against your skin, his hands sliding down to cup the curve of your backside, holding you firmly against him.
"i dare you to kiss every inch of skin you can reach without takin' my shirt off," you challenged, your breath coming in short, needy hitches.
michael gritted his teeth, a low hum vibrating in his chest. he immediately pulled your shirt up just far enough, burying his face in the soft skin of your stomach.
he kissed your waist, your ribs, trailing hot, wet kisses up toward the bottom of your bra, making you arch your back into him with a quiet whimper.
"gosh, you taste so sweet, baby," he muttered breathlessly against your skin, his hands pulling you even tighter against his torso. he looked up at you through his thick dark lashes, completely flushed. "truth or dare?"
"dare..." you gasped, resting your forehead against his chest.
"i dare you to ride my lap," michael whispered rasped, his eyes dark and hungry. "sit right on top of me."
your heart stopped for a beat. without a word, you shifted, swinging one leg over his body so you were straddling his thighs, hovering right over his lap in the narrow bunk. the shift in position brought your hips directly in contact with his.
michael let out a harsh, sharp breath, his hands instantly gripping your thighs to steady you. "jeez..." he groaned, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as he felt your weight on him.
"my turn," you whispered, leaning down so your breasts brushed against his chest, your voice thick with heat. "truth or dare, michael?"
"dare," he gasped out, his hands squeezing your thighs tightly.
"i dare you to show me how much you want me."
that was the final snap. michaelâs restraint shattered into pieces.
"dare," he rasped out under his breath, his hands moving from your thighs straight to your hips.
with a low, needy growl, michael lifted his hips up into yours, rolling his pelvis directly against you through your clothes. the sudden, intense friction made a loud gasp fly out of your throat.
he didn't stopâhe began a slow, agonizing rhythm, rolling his heavy weight against you from underneath, grinding his hips up into yours while his hands dug into your waist to keep you locked to his rhythm.
"michael... oh god..." you whimpered, throwing your head back as the intense heat pooled straight between your legs.
"tell me it feels good, baby," michael rasped out, his breathing completely wrecked as he thrust his hips up into yours again, the heavy friction of your jeans dragging against his trousers making him bite his lower lip until it was white. "tell me you like it..."
"i love it, mike..." you gasped out, your fingers gripping his shoulders through his sweater as you rode the slow, heavy movement of his hips.
he groaned at your words..a deep, chest-vibrating sound and pulled your head down to capture your mouth in a frantic, desperate kiss. he rolled his hips up into yours with more force, grinding hard against you, making both of you gasp for air under the heavy quilt.
the entire narrow bus bed shook softly beneath you as the game of truth or dare dissolved completely into a hot, continuous wave of pure, heavy friction in the dark.
every time his hips hit yours, heâd murmur sweet, breathless assurances against your lipsâ"i got you, baby... i got you..."âholding you tight against him as the freezing night raged on outside, completely forgotten in the heat of the narrow bunk.
the air inside the dark, heavy cocoon of the quilt was suffocatingly hot, thick with humidity and the rich, intoxicating scent of his perfume mixing with the sweet heat building between your bodies. outside, the freezing night wind howled against the metal hull of the tour bus, making the bunk feel like the only warm place left in the entire world.
the slow, agonizing roll michael was setting from underneath you was driving you out of your mind, but the narrow space and the heavy layers of clothes were making both of you desperate, restless, and completely undone.
you let out a sharp, frustrated whimper against his lips, your fingers tangling tight in the soft dark curls at the nape of his neck. "mike... please..."
in one smooth, surprisingly powerful motion, he grabbed you firmly by the waist, his long fingers digging into your hip bones.
he flipped you onto your back against the narrow mattress. you gasped, the breath knocked right out of your lungs as your thighs naturally fell open.
michael instantly slid right between them.
he settled his full, heavy length flush on top of you, his broad chest pressing firmly into yours, his hips fitting directly into the warm, damp space between your thighs.
through his trousers and your jeans, you could feel every rigid, throbbing inch of his hardness pressing right against your center.
"gosh..." michael groaned into your neck, his whole body shuddering as he felt your warmth beneath him. "jeez, baby... look at you."
before you could move, his long, slender fingers laced firmly through yours. with effortless strength, he pinned your hands up beside your head on the pillow, gathering both of your wrists into just one of his broad hands, locking them securely above you.
"michael..." you whimpered, your heels digging into the mattress as you tried to roll your hips up to meet his.
"shh... stay right there, baby," michael whispered, his voice dipping into a low, hypnotic rumble right against your ear. "just stay real still for me. let me look at you."
he lifted his hips just a fraction of an inch and brought them down with a slow, agonizingly heavy roll, grinding his hard length directly against your sweet spot through your clothes. the sheer, relentless friction made a loud, pathetic whimper tear from your throat.
michael smiled against your cheekâa slow, sweet, utterly possessive expression. "look at you... so quiet and shy for everyone else on this tour... but makin' all these pretty little noises just for me."
"michael, please..." you gasped, your pulse hammering in your throat.
"truth or dare, baby?" michael rasped out, his hips giving another deep, rolling thrust that made the bed springs squeak softly beneath you.
"truth!" you sobbed out, your chest heaving against his. "truth!"
michael gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching as he held your wrists locked above your head. "truth..." he groaned, his dark, glazed eyes searching yours in the faint amber light.
"tell me... when you see me on stage and i pull my shirt up... or when i slide down on my knees in front of thousands of screamin' people... do you pretend i'm doin' it just for you?"
you whimpered, arching your back into his heavy downward pressure. "yes!" you confessed, your voice breaking. "every single night! i pretend you're lookin' right through the lens at me!"
michael let out a low, dark hum of pure satisfaction, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline down to your pulse point. "i am," he whispered husky. "every single time, baby. i'm only ever lookin' for you."
he shifted his weight slightly, rolling his pelvis against yours in a continuous, agonizingly slow circle that made your toes curl.
"my turn..." you panted, struggling to catch your breath. "truth or dare, jackson?"
"truth," he panted instantly, his thumb lightly stroking the back of your pinned hands. "ask me, baby."
"tell me the exact moment you decided you were gonna stop playin' nice and finally touch me tonight."
michael let out a ragged exhale, his eyes fluttering closed as his hips kept up that heavy, rhythmic roll. "when you giggled at me shivering in that booth," he rasped out, his breath burning hot against your ear.
"when you lifted that quilt and told me to come lay down next to you. i walked over to this bed, and i said to myself... if she lets me under this blanket, i ainât ever lettin' her go."
a sharp, breathless thrill shot straight down into your belly. "mike..."
"dare or truth, baby?" michael murmured, his tone dripping with soft, commanding authority. "choose."
"dare..." you gasped out, desperate for more.
michaelâs dark eyes flashed with a smoldering, dangerous heat. "i dare you to unbutton my shirt," he whispered, his voice dropping into a low, velvet gravel. "use your teeth. and don't you dare close those pretty eyes while you do it. look right at me."
your heart hammered against your ribs. michael slowly released your wrists, letting your arms fall onto the pillow. you reached up, your hands trembling as you cupped his warm cheeks.
you leaned up, your dark eyes locked onto his, and caught the top button of his shirt between your teeth. you tugged gently until it popped free of the fabric, your warm breath brushing right against the bare skin of his collarbone.
michael let out a low, shaky gasp, his eyes darkening as he watched you work. "gosh, you're so sweet..." he rasped out. "so sweet for me."
slowly, agonizingly, you worked your way down to the second button, clicking it free with your teeth and pressing your lips to the warm, smooth skin of his chest. michael growled low in his throat, his hips grinding down into yours in a long, punishing roll that made you gasp against his neck.
finally, michaelâs hand slid down, shoving straight past the waistband of your pants. his long, warm fingers slid beneath the thin fabric of your underwear, finding the slick, burning heat of your center.
you let out a sharp, loud gasp, your head snapping back against the pillow as his long fingers cupped you, his thumb finding your wet, swollen sweet spot with devastating accuracy.
"michaelâoh god!" you whined into the air, your thighs spreading wider for him completely on instinct.
"shh, open your eyes," michael commanded softly, his voice thick and gentle, yet entirely in control. "look at me, baby. i wanna see your eyes while i feel how wet you are for me."
you forced your eyes open, staring up into his flushed, gorgeous face. michael didn't rush. he began an agonizingly slow, light pressure with his thumb, just barely tracing circles over your warm skin, teasing you until you were practically begging.
"michael, please... move your hand..." you whimpered, rolling your hips up into his palm, desperate for friction.
michael smiled, a dark, fond little look in his eyes as he held his hand completely still, letting you burn. "truth or dare, baby?" he whispered, his hips giving a lazy, heavy press against yours.
"truth!" you gasped out, tears of frustration teasing your eyes. "truth, mike, just touch me!"
"truth..." michael murmured, his thumb giving one slow, firm drag right over your sweet spot, making you cry out softly. "tell me what it feels like when i tease you like this. tell me how needy you are for me."
"it's drivin' me crazy!" you sobbed out, clutching his shoulders. "it feels so hot... i'm so needy for you, mike! please..."
"that's my girl," michael rasped, his tone melting into pure velvet praise. "good girl for me..."
he finally increased the pressure, his thumb slicking your warmth all over your sensitive skin in slow, rhythmic strokes while his heavy hips kept up a steady, rolling grind against your thigh.
he leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his dark eyes fixed on your mouth as he watched every single expression cross your face.
"dare," you gasped out, your voice barely a breath as his thumb dragged across that swollen sweet spot again, sending electricity shooting straight up your spine. "give me a dare, mike..."
michaelâs dark eyes burned down into yours, heavy-lidded and dripping with raw, possessive intent. his hips gave a long, excruciatingly slow grind against yours, holding his weight heavy on top of you.
"i dare you..." he rasped out, his voice dropping into a low, velvet gravel right against your ear, "...to put your hands on my hips, right where my trousers meet my skin, and pull me down as hard as you can. i dare you to feel how bad my body is shakin' for you, baby."
you didn't hesitate. your trembling hands slid down his broad back, fingers digging into the firm skin just beneath the band of his trousers.
you pulled him down hard, jamming his heavy length flush against your heat. michael let out a ragged, guttural groan into your neck, his whole frame shuddering as he felt the intense, seamless friction between you.
"gosh... jeez, baby," he panted, his hot breath burning your skin. "you're trying to ruin me..."
"truth or dare, jackson?" you whimpered, your heels digging into the mattress, your hips rolling helplessly into his palm as the tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter.
"truth," he gasped out instantly, his thumb tracing a small, firm circle right where you needed it most, making your hips jump. "ask me, baby... ask me anything you want."
"truth..." you sobbed softly, tears of pure, agonizing pleasure pricking your eyes. "tell me... what's the dirtiest thing you've ever thought about doing to me when we're alone?"
michael gritted his teeth, a dark, dangerous smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he rolled his hips in a deep, punishing circle against yours.
"i thought about bending you over the mixing console in the studio," he confessed shameless, his voice dropping into a dirty, husky rumble that sent shivers straight to your toes. "with the door unlocked... pullin' your skirt up and hearin' you try so hard to stay quiet while my brothers were right down the hall."
a sharp, breathless cry tore from your throat, your thighs clamping tight around his hip. "michael!"
"truth or dare, baby?" michael murmured instantly, not giving you a single second to recover, his thumb speeding up just enough to keep you hovering right on the edge of the abyss.
"truth!" you panted, writhing beneath his heavy, loving weight. "truth!"
"truth..." michael whispered, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart stop. "tell me what it sounds like when you're alone in your room thinkin' about me. do you whisper my name when you touch yourself?"
your face flushed bright red, a loud, pathetic whimper escaping your lips. "yes!" you cried out, completely undone by his soft, commanding authority. "yes, mike! every single time!"
michael let out a low, victorious growl, his chest vibrating against yours. "i knew it," he rasped, his face flushing with dark pride. "i knew my sweet girl was thinkin' about me..."
he leaned down, capturing your lips in a messy, breathless, greedy kiss, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth, swallowing every needy whimpering sound you made.
slowly, deliberately, his long fingers slid deep inside you, stretching you gently while his thumb pressed hard, fast, and relentless against your sweet spot.
"oh god... michael!" you gasped against his lips, your body curling upward around his hand as the sensation flooded every inch of you.
michael set an agonizingly sweet, steady rhythm with his fingers, pumping inside you with slow, deep thrusts while his thumb worked your center. he looked down into your eyes, his gaze overflowing with pure adoration, completely wrapped up in how beautiful you looked beneath him.
"you like that, baby?" he whispered rasped, his breath hot against your neck as his fingers curled inside you, finding every sensitive spot. "you feel how good you wrap around my fingers? so warm... so wet for me..."
"mike... please... it's too much..." you sobbed out, your hands clutching his shoulders, your back arching off the narrow mattress.
"shh, just let go for me," michael murmured lovingly, his lips pressing soft, worshipful kisses along your collarbone, your jaw, and the corner of your lips.
his hand worked faster, his fingers curling deeper into your heat, driving you completely out of your mind. "look at me, baby. tell me... you wish that it was me inside of you, huh?"
a breathless, helpless sob tore from your throat, your eyes locked onto his blown-out, dark pupils. "yes!" you screamed softly into the quiet space beneath the quilt. "yes, mike! god, yes!"
"that's my girl..." michael rasped out, his thumb pressing hard against your sweet spot while his fingers thrust deep one last time, driving you straight over the edge. "take it all for me, baby..."
the electric coil in your belly shattered completely. violent, rolling waves of pure, uncontrollable pleasure crashed through your entire frame, your tight muscles pulsing wildly around his fingers. your head snapped back, your heels digging into the bed as a high, breathless cry echoed under the quilt.
michael held you tight against his broad chest, his fingers staying deep inside you to ride out every single wave of your climax, swallowing your sweet, messy cries with soft, worshipful kisses. "gosh... look at you," he whispered breathlessly, his tone dripping with pure romance and devotion. "so gorgeous... so good for me..."
as your breathing slowly began to settle and the intense trembling in your thighs softened, michael gently slipped his hand out from beneath your clothes. he reached up, tenderly brushing a damp curl away from your forehead, kissing your temple with sweet affection.
it was only then, as you rested your cheek against his chest, that you noticed the heavy, rigid strain still pressing tight against your thigh through his trousers. he was completely unfulfilled, his breathing still ragged and strained, yet he was making no move to touch himself or fix his clothes.
you lifted your head slightly, looking up into his dark, soft eyes. "mike... what about you?" you asked gently, your hand reaching down toward his belt. "you... you didn't..."
michael caught your wrist gently, shaking his head with a sweet, tender smile that made your heart completely melt.
"i'm okay, baby," he whispered softly, pulling your hand up to press a warm kiss against your knuckles. "it's alright. i only wanted to tend to your needs tonight. just seein' you give it all to me like that... feelin' you call my name... that's more than enough for me."
he pulled you tight against his chest, wrapping the thick quilt around both of your shoulders as the wind howled harmlessly outside, holding you close and cherished in the warm, dark quiet of the bus.
the heavy quilt was pulled all the way up to your shoulders, trapping every bit of shared heat in the quiet, dark cocoon of the narrow bunk. your head rested comfortably on michaelâs bare chest, the steady, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat serving as a soothing lullaby against the low howl of the icy wind outside.
michaelâs long fingers were tangled lazily in your hair, his thumb stroking smooth, gentle circles against your temple. every few minutes, heâd press a tender, lingering kiss to the top of your head, whispering sweet, drowsy praises against your skin until your eyelids grew too heavy to keep open.
"go to sleep, baby," he murmured, his voice dipping into a soft, velvety rumble as he pulled you even closer, his arm wrapped around your waist like a protective shield. "i got you. i ain't goin' nowhere."
wrapped in his warmth and the lingering, sweet ache of the night, you let out a soft, contented sigh and finally drifted off, completely safe in his arms.
the quiet dawn crept over the horizon, casting a soft, cool blue light through the frost-dusted windows of the dormant bus.
click.
the heavy emergency door handle at the front of the bus finally gave way with a sharp metallic pop, followed by the heavy thud of boots stepping onto the cold floorboards.
"hey! anyone in here? mike? you guys in here?"
jermaineâs deep, groggy voice echoed down the aisle as he walked toward the back, rubbing the sleep from his eyes after getting the spare key from the hotel desk. he strolled past the small dining booth, looking around for any sign of you or his younger brother.
when he reached the small sleeping cubby, he froze.
the heavy quilt was slightly pulled down, revealing you fast asleep, your face buried comfortably in the crook of michaelâs neck.
michaelâs arms were wrapped snugly around your body, his face turned toward yours, his dark curls spilling over the shared pillow. his unbuttoned shirt left his smooth chest exposed, right where your hand was comfortably rested.
jermaine blinked once. then twice. a wide, slow smirk spread across his face as he took in the scene.
"well, well, well..." jermaine chuckled softly under his breath, shaking his head. he leaned against the frame of the booth, crossing his arms with a quiet, knowing grin. "about damn time."
he reached out and gave the edge of the mattress a quick, loud tap with his knuckles. "wake up, lovebirds. tour bus leaves in an hour, and marlonâs already down in the lobby asking where his lens cap went."
michael stirred instantly, his eyelids fluttering open as he let out a low, sleepy groan. he instinctively tightened his grip around you, pulling you closer before his dark eyes blinked up and landed right on his older brother.
a dark red blush surged up michaelâs neck instantly, his eyes widening in mild panic as he realized how completely caught you both were. "jermaine! iâweâit ain'tâ"
jermaine just laughed softly, raising his hands in fake surrender as he turned to walk back toward the exit. "save it for the breakfast table, little brother. but you better help her find that camera card before marlon starts digging through her bags."
as jermaineâs footsteps faded down the aisle, michael looked down at you, his face burning, though a shy, radiant smile slowly broke through his flustered expression.
you stirred against his chest, blinking sleepily up at him with a mischievous grin. "caught us, huh?"
michael let out a quiet, breathless chuckle, leaning down to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips. "looks like it, baby..." he whispered, his eyes glinting with a dark, romantic promise. "...and we still got a long way to go on this tour."
Other!Michael has been watching you in the quiet shadows of Neverland. Seeing you cry yourself to sleep because of Michael's neglect. He coos in the dark wanting nothing more than to comfort you but knows it's not time for you yet.
Other!Michael who gets his world prepared for you. Conforming reality into what you truly desire. The kids that you've always wanted? There are 3 of them. 2 boys and a girl. Each of them patiently waiting for their mommy to come care for them.
After conforming his realm to what you desire he works on his physical appearance. Wearing the form of one of Michael's looks that you absolutely adore. His silk black hair in a wolfcut with the red blouse and black pants.
Other!Michael who places the door to his realm in the most obvious spot so he knows you can find it. He just can't stand to see you cry anymore! He wants you in his world so he can spoil you rotten. Give you the love that you deserve.
When you finally find it and see him, he is sad when you are so afraid. It's the eyes isn't it? They're not the brown doe eyes that you love so much and he hates that your scared of him for that reason. But he is still your Michael! Just the better version of him.
Other!Michael who is patient with you warming up to him. He waits for your single to initiate things. He watches you eagerly through his black beady eyes you come to like.
He spends every single second proving to you how much better he is than the real Michael. Your husband is halfway across the world forgetting that you are at home all alone while he is here pampering you with kisses and affection. Why can't you see he is the one you should pick?
When he introduces you to the children he wants to wipe the tears from your face. The kids had remained nameless. Waiting for you to bestow them the names you had written down in your journal. You name them Prince, Paris, and Blanket.
If there is any guilt of what you are doing he takes them away. You think you're cheating? How are you cheating if you are with him? Silly you. How can you cheat on your husband with your husband? That doesn't make any sense!
He gets sad whenever you go back to your world. You should stay! Why wouldn't you? You have everything you ever wanted in eyesight. But he respects your decision (barely)
When you do leave, the world goes dark. Like the curtains of a live play drawing close. The children go still in place waiting to be off use again, the animals around neverland flop down like ragdolls, and he goes back into the shadows to watch you as you go on about your day.
When Michael makes you cry or sad, you barely notice how the walls creak and groan. Other! Michael hates to see you cry and he hates Michael with every fibe the has. If killing him meant he won't exist, your husband would've been dead.
Other!Michael who patiently waits for you to say you want to stay with him and your kids forever. If the real Michael won't take care of you, he will. He waits for the day you all can be one happy family.
àŸàœČàŸàœČsynopsis: michael being distracted by your pretty face.
warnings: kissing obsessed!michael
w.c: 378
michael watched you intently as you spoke, unable to get enough of you. you were beautifulâeverything about you was, from head to toe. you were a masterpiece. and he couldnât get enough of you.
he zoned out, using his fingers to pick at the skin on his lip. his eyes fell from your face down to your cleavage. it wasnât on purpose, he just couldnât help himself.
âand so i told him, i said sirââ michael, are you even paying attention?â
he blinked out of it and scratched the back of his neck.
âyeah,â
âokay. then what did i just say.â you grabbed your glass of wine from the coffee table. bringing it to your mouth to take a sip.
âyou said that uhm, you were, you, uh, had a client. and he told youââ
âiâve heard enough,â you grabbed the small pillow from behind you and chucked it at michael. âpay attention to when iâm talking.â
âokay, okay. jeez.â
you squinted your eyes at him and took another sip from your glass. you placed it down with a sigh. you looked at michael who was already staring back at you. he licked his bottom lip.
âcome here.â
you tilted your head in confusion. he nodded his head once and you stood up and walked the very short distance. michael fixed how he was sitting and pulled you into his lap. he wrapped one arm around your waist and the other reached up to caress your face.
âyouâre so pretty,â making you blush and smile. leaning in to place a kiss on his cheek, âthank you, michael.â
âthatâs all i get?â
â..yeah.â
âgive me another one.â his hand fell to the side of your neck. squeezing slightly.
you flipped your hair over your shoulder and leaned in. kissing him on the lips this time. he deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into your mouth. he sucked on your bottom lip as he pulled away. pulling a moan from you. you fixed your position and straddled him. you leaned down to kiss him again the coolness of his breath brushing your lips before they met. his large hands slid up and down your back. the warmth seeping through the fabric. they faltered and rested very low on your waist. gripping you tightly.
he pecked your lips a few times before pulling back and kissing down to your neck. he left wet kisses all over your chest. down to your cleavage.
m. jackson x reader Michael needs you more than air, more than life. And he just can't stop himself.
con. slight angst , mention of breakup , fluff , sweet sex , unprotected sex (minors dni) , oral (f receiving) , creampie , fem!reader , (y/n) only used in the beginning wc. 2.3k my first ever michael one shot! itâll help to listen to the intro here. reblogs are always and greatly appreciated!!
masterlist taglist
Following the initial release of the "Bad" album in 1987, listener feedback reported a trend in conflict over the spoken introduction of Track #8 "I Just Can't Stop Loving You". The intro featured a brief, soft-spoken monologue by Jackson himself that entails a profession of love. An anonymous source even reports that, in an attempt to create a more intimate sound, Michael recorded the intro underneath the sheets of his own bed with a "personal friend for support". Yet, viewers reported the intro was "awkward", "creepy", and "weird", so Jackson later removed his monologue from further pressings and releases in 1988. Today, many of Michael's fans suspect and theorize that the recording involved (Y/N) (L/N), Jacksonâs lifelong friend and widow who has remained notably private about her relationship with the King of Pop.
Michaelâs curls are soft against the inside of your thigh, a gentle touch in contrast to the weight of the tape recorder over your bare stomach.
The cool metal is still shocking to your skin, but youâve begun to warm up to it in the past half-hour itâs taken you and Michael to fully mentally prepare for this. When your boyfriend approached you over a week ago asking for a personal and rather intimate favor, you werenât sure how to decide. For a year now, youâve managed to keep your relationship with Michael extremely private.
âNo oneâll know youâre even there, angel,â heâd said when heâd noticed your hesitation.
You took exactly eight days to think it over. Your decision? Abandon any logic and hope his fans donât put two and two together (which isnât likely; youâve come to expect it now).
Itâs what led to the scene you find yourself in now: you, clad in nothing but your black lace panties, and Michael, comfortably laid between your legs on the bed, propping himself up with his armsâwhich have wrapped around your thighsâall the while underneath the thin, white bedsheet. It covers a part of his face, concealing the way his cheeks have turned a deep shade of pink.
âYou donât have to be nervous, Mikey,â you reassured him for the eighth time that evening. You take his hand into yours and gently squeeze. It pulls a soft smile from him.
âI know, baby. Thank you for lettinâ me do this,â he murmurs before pressing a firm kiss to your thigh. He then shifts forward, placing himself beside you on the bed with his head just at your shoulder. He runs his hand down your arm, reaching your stomach, and presses the ON button of the tape recorder. A red light flashes, followed by a click and a whir, which continues on into the silence. You can practically see the words forming in Michaelâs head. âI just want to lay next to you for a while.â
You exhale, slowly, so as not to disturb the recording. Does it pick up the butterflies in your stomach? Michael glances up at you; his eyes never fail to knock the air out of your lungs.
âYou look so beautiful tonight,â he says, his eyebrows just slightly curling up as if in fascination. His slender fingers return to your skin, this time, on your cheek, just below your lower lash line.
âYour eyes are so lovely.â
Then, his thumb traces the curve of your cheek and the outline of your lips, still swollen and puffy from making love.
âYour mouth is so sweet.â
He shifts in the bed, causing a brief rustling noise to cut through the silence, but Michael doesnât focus on the recording. Instead, he draws small shapes into the skin of your chest, brows now knit in thought.
âA lot of people misunderstand me,â he says. âThatâs because they donât know me at all. But not you, June-bug,â the nickname, an old reference to your friendship before romance. âNever you. You know me better than anyone.â
Unable to speak or move, you only place your hand over his. Underneath his palm, Michael can feel your heart. It sustains him.
He moves his hand downward, separate from yours, to where the softness of your breast meets flush with his hand. The sensation sends a chill down your spine. You keep yourself from letting out a sound in response, but your restraint is tested when Michael gently squeezes the flesh in his palm.
âNo one loves me like you do. My girl,â he says, kissing the skin around your sensitive nipple.
Michael rolls it between his nimble fingers, applying just enough pressure for your body to melt into his touch.
âI never want anybody else. No one else fâme-â he cuts himself off with another kiss. âBut you.â
Despite the sexual appearance of the scene, his touch isnât sexual at all, not even inherently. His mind is completely elsewhere to care about lustful want right nowâor even the recording device propped on your belly. He speaks mindlessly, or maybe itâs completely mindfully, pulling at each string of his own heart until the words come to him like music.
As you fight to maintain your silenceâdesperately wanting to reach out or say something to himâMichael continues.
âI just want to touch you,â he says again, but thereâs a rawness to his voice now. âAnd hold you. I need you.â
It almost sounds as if heâs crying. Unbeknownst to you, he almost is. With every fiber in his body, Michael aches for you.
âGod, I need you.â Michael pleads, his lips now inches away from yours. His eyes meet yours again, and you notice a sweet desperation within them. It calls out to your own sensitivity, both physical and emotional, and the urge to deny yourselves any longer is now impossible to ignore.
âI love you so much,â he says with a breath heâd been holding.
His big hands take your face in their holds and pulls you to him. Your lips seal the gap as yours and Michaelâs hands begin to hurriedly run over each otherâs bodies. Fingers move with precision and routine, recognizing the dip of your waist and the way his arms flex with every movement. Michael hadnât lied; you knew him better than anyone, and that included his body.
You know to brush his neck with your lips because it pulls that little whimper from him. To rub over his shoulder blades so you can hear him gasp.
Your bodies twist together as Michael moves above you, pressing himself as close to you as possibleâand accidentally kicking the tape recorder further into the sheets, abandoned and crumpled at the end of the bed.
The night may have started with the recording, but itâs the last of Michaelâs worries now. Out of sight, out of mind. The two of you hardly notice the glowing red light beaming through the bedsheets.
You donât notice as it records every lewd soundâheavy pants cut off by sloppy wet kisses, skin gliding across skin, faint whispers and giggles mixed in with gasps and moans; your sweet âmm, fuck, Michaelâ as he presses a finger between your warm folds, running the tip up and down to collect your slick in his hand and rub at your burning clit.
Or the shaky cry you let out when he pulls an orgasm from you just minutes later, his face locked between your thighs as one hand pistons two long fingers past your soaked hole, curling them inside you and working you open, pulling from you an endless string of incoherent curses and murmurs; with his lips devotedly wrapped around your sensitive nub, he groans into your cunt while your hips roll against him as you ride through the high with tear-stained cheeks.
Or the squelch of his tip pressing into your cunt and the instant slam of his hips that instantly follows; your moan and his sweet, âI got you, mama. Just feel it,â before he sets a steady pace, the girth of his length stretching open your walls in the most delicious way.
It eventually turns into a rough, heated rhythm, and the sound of skin clapping echoes throughout the room. A bead of sweat drips down Michaelâs forehead. With every thrust, he buries himself so deep that his hips meet your sopping pussy with a forceful thud. Every. Time. And the pressure it put on your swollen clit was the perfect accompaniment to the feeling of him inside you.
âI love you,â he whispers endlessly. âI love you.â
A kiss to your forehead.
âI love you.â
A kiss to your teary cheek.
âI love you so much.â
A kiss to your lips, one that extends into that sweet moment where Michaelâs movements begin to stutter. He envelopes you in his holdâarms tucking you close to his chest and pulling your legs inwards, which only allows him to drive deeper into you.
You instinctively wrap them around him, earning a muffled groan into your hair. âI- I l-love you, too, Mik- oh, Michael.â
His hand slithers between your bodies and towards your clit, slowly rubbing circles over it, as he kisses your neckâright on that spot where it meets your shoulder, that sensitive spot that sends shockwaves through your bloodstream.
âFuck, baby, I-â You lose your voice when your breath catches in your throat.
"Mhm," he groans into your skin. "Feel ya openin' up for me, love, but I need ya to wait for me. Can you do that for me, baby?"
You whimper as you press your forehead against his shoulder. Your spine arches from the bed when he quickens his movements against your nub, eyes gently rolling back into your head. The physical stimulationâof his hands, his dick, his bodyâand the emotional stimulationâof his constant praise, his kisses, his heartbeat against yoursâis entirely too overwhelming to gather any restraint.
But for him, you do. You nod through closed, teary eyes. Your hands find themselves splayed on his back, sealing you to him.
"That's my girl," Michael says. His cock pulses inside of you, and you know it's only minutes before you can finally feel your second release. You bite back a scream once his tip kisses your cervix. "Feel me there, baby. That's where I am."
He's mumbling nonsense by now, too tired and spent from late nights at the studio and endless meetings and rehearsalsâbut his words slur together, drunk off of you.
"I'm right there with ya."
With only a sharp, muffled groan as a warningâhe hardly needs one by nowâhe pours himself into you. Warmth pools inside of you through hot spurts, and the heat eventually surges throughout your own body. Your heart flutters at the sensation of your second orgasm as you cry out into the sex-filled air, Michael's name falling from your lips like it was the only thing you knew.
"I love you," he says again, and it seals the moment.
You feel your limbs go limp, falling to your sides. Next is Michael's body lying soundly above yours, slightly but comfortably pressing against your lungs; he likes to do this sometimes and let yourselves rest for a little before cleaning up.
But the rest never comesâbecause he never stops.
"M-Michael," you murmur breathily.
His hips lazily roll against yours, sliding his still rock-hard length through your gummy walls and gliding past his own release. He feels it soak the base of his shaft, and he groans, raw and passionately, into the air. The sound of his pleasureâhow you and your body make him feelâgrounds you.
"I'm sorry, baby," he whispers, dragging himself out just to fill you again.
You open your eyes and look down at him. His soft, usually styled curls are now messily splayed from his face like rays from the sun. Some of them stick to his skin with sweat, which glistens in the low bedroom light.
"What're you-" You begin to say before gasping when he switches the angle of his hips, now reaching a new and deeper corner of your warmth.
At the edge of the bed, the tape recorder whirs. It catches the soft, wet sounds of your combined releases trickling out of you as Michael continues to plunge inside of you. A gentle, pleasurable sting follows each thrust, and even if you wanted him to stop, you don't have the energy to tell him. Your muscles slowly begin to contract from the stimulation of his girth splitting you open again as if he hadn't just minutes ago.
"I-" Michael chokes and holds onto you like you're made of liquid light. "I'm sorry. I can't stop. I just-"
"'S okay," you slur, desperate for any feel of him you can get. His arms somehow press you to him even closer as he ruts into you. You wonder to yourself when the night will end, and you hope it never will. "Feels s-so good."
"Oh, I know, sweetheart," he groans, one hand snaking up your back and intertwining itself with your hair. "Feels good f'me, too."
His fingers gently tug at your roots, pulling a deep groan from you.
"I just can't stop lovin' you, angel."
Needless to say, edits were made to the tape later on, personally by Michael himself, who was certainly surprised when he played the tape back with you. He dubbed a copy of the originalâas per your requestâand kept it locked away in your New York apartment from prying, raiding eyes. When the album was released, you relived that night every time you restarted the track. You never thought it was weird. Certainly not creepy. When Michael removed it from new pressings, you understood. It was only fair. It meant absolutely nothing to you because your love didn't exist for viewers' pleasure. You and Michael were infatuated with each otherâuntil you weren't.
Until secrets were kept and lies were turned inside-out, leaving the air between you two stale with contempt and suspicion. Until somewhere, along the way, a wrong turn was taken, and you couldn't remember who was at fault. By then, you were glad he'd cut the recording, though, deep down, it was just another reminder of how you were, once again, out of his life.
synopsis: just michael yearning for lady!reader and you being oh so oblivious. thatâs it.
tw: none rly, no proofread,
a/n: credit to @uzmacchiato for the divider! also just putting this out cause hehâŠiâve got some angst plannedâŠ.anyways! enjoy as always my lovelies
michaelâŠwho couldnât keep his hands off you. no matter what the circumstance was. getting by you? his hands are giving your hips a gentle squeeze as he murmurs âsâcuse me, mamaâ. correcting your notes in the studio? his fingers are curled in the nape of your neck, gripping gently. even on red carpets or in public! and if anyone says anything about it, heâll respond with a small knowing smile and say âthatâs just how we areâ.
michaelâŠwhoâs favorite phrases tend to be âattaâgirlâ âgood girlâ âthatâs my girlâ. he just loves to watch as your cheeks flush and you squirm at the praise. âstop thatâ you mumble but heâll just grin and scratch your scalp.
michaelâŠwho always is trying to protect you from the negative tabloids that drag your name through the mud. he knows itâs an inevitable part that comes with being famous but if thereâs something he can do to prevent it, he will. obviously youâll end up sing it anyways. heâll snatch the magazine out of your hands or shut the tv off. âdidnât i tell you to not watch that junk, honey? i know, itâs okay. itâs just idiots hatinâ to hate. donât listen to them.â
michaelâŠwho loves ragebaiting you. he canât help it! youâre so cute when youâre mad! heâll mock your pout while suppressing a grin, mirror your expressions before breaking out into a laugh. ruffling your hair, pinching your cheek, anything to get you riled up. itâs like watching a cute little puppy try to act big and scary.
michaelâŠwho definitely gets cuteness aggression with you. even during the most mundane tasks. you could be sitting at the studio, reviewing your track and heâll be all over you. âand i- michael, are you okay?â you ask gently when you see the man quite literally trembling. he looks up with those doe brown eyes and grins âi jusâ- ugh! youâre so frustrating, mama. i jusâ wanna squeeze you- gently of course!â you gave him a weary look. âare youâŠfeeling okayâŠ?â he shrugs his shoulders and decided screw it. he tugs you out of the chair onto his lap and squeezes your waist and all the air out of you. âmichael-!â âsh, sh, shâŠhow are you even real, angel? youâre gonna be the death of me one day.â
michaelâŠwho is a gentleman at heart. heâll give you his jacket in the studio, at awards, restaurants, anywhere you could be cold. heâll hold doors open for you and pull out your chair. heâll never let you buckle your own heels or go on the red carpet without a compliment from him. heâs constantly adjusting your necklace, wiping smudge lipstick from the corner of your mouth, fixing your hair. itâs the best to have a literal fashion icon adore your own taste.
michaelâŠwho tries to be there for everything. he really does take his role as your mentor seriously. however, being one of the most famous people in the world and in the middle of his comeback era, he canât make every rehearsal or show. to make up for this, he promises one-on-one time. for a missed rehearsal, a movie night. for a missed show, a bouquet and dinner. you tell him that itâs really not necessary but he just âtskâ and shake his head with that same smile he always gives. â âcourse it is, baby. only the best for my girl.â
michaelâŠwho doesnât confirm nor deny the rumors of your and michaelâs sudden intimacy. âsheâs my girl- sheâs close to my heart and i couldnât think of someone better to have in my life. iâm extremely grateful for her everyday.â heâd tell the press with a smile. meanwhile you would question your own existence in your living room.
lady!readerâŠwho for the first time in your life thought that maybe he likes you. maybe God was that generous to give you the blessing and the chance to love Michael. until you ran into some gossipy background dancers from Michaelâs tour at a party.
âfresh meat, hm? very out of michaelâs range but hey, i guess heâs trying to branch out.â one of them, Aniah, teased as she took a sip of her wine.
you tried to laugh it off but the comment didnât sit right with you. âmichaelâs range?â
âoh, girl, you have no idea! he usually doesnât go for the wholeâŠmiss park avenue thing, ya know?â another, Tiffany, chimed in.
âboy, does he have an eye. letâs see there was diana, tatum, brooke-â the last, Kelly, listed on her fingers.
âoh! and donât forget Tatiana!â Aniah giggled.
âand especially Siedeah!â Tiffany blurted out.
âohhhh, Siedeah!â All three girls sighed in unison before breaking out into giggles.
they might as well have ripped your heart out of your chest and stomped on it. you felt the tears prickle your eyes as the knots in your stomach tighten. the weight in your chest got heavier.
âoh, hunny, donât cry over it!â Tiffany pouted. âthose cute little puppy eyes donât deserve such a tramp!â
âcâmon, weâre getting a drink. youâll feel better after that!â Aniah linked arms with you as dragged you to the bar.
youâre not a drinker. but tonight, you might. because you would drink any remedy that would wash that knowledge away from your brain.
want more lady!reader? check out here!
a/n: HA! bet you werenât expecting that ending. watch out, babes. itâs about to get real. hope you enjoyed, xo mimiiii
áŻotw!era micheal canât stop cumming for his bestfriend.
mdni 18+
youâd conditioned michael so thoroughly that even the most intimate touches felt like second nature.
whether it was your hand wrapped snugly around his cock while you two watched a movie, you swallowing load after load, or when his face buried between your thighs after a long day, these moments had becomeâas micheal called it, âfriend time.â
after all, thatâs what best friends did.. help each other unwind, show appreciation, explore every inch of comfort together. nothing was off limits.
you did everything under the sun.
everything except have sex.
michael still held that one line sacred. to him, it was something reserved for marriage, a vow, a consummation of lifelong commitment. you saw it differently. to you, all that was needed was trust and loveâand michael had both for you in overflowing abundance. truthfully, you didnât care about either at the moment. you really just wanted him inside you.
youâd noticed it more and more lately: no matter how perfectly you sucked him off or stroked him through shuddering orgasms, heâd still be achingly hard afterward, twitching with unspoken need.
âwhatâs wrong, mikey?â you asked softly, pulling off his cock with a wet pop!
you stayed on your knees, spit striken lips, a thin string of cum still connecting your tongue to his flushed tip. your eyes glistened evident to your abused throat.
âwas it not good?â
ân-no, it was really, really good,â he stammered, voice trembling. his fingers twitched against the couch cushions.
âi donât know why it wonât⊠why iâm stillâŠâ
your wicked brain started to turn. you knew exactly what the problem was.
âsâokay, baby. iâll help you.â
you rose gracefully, eyes locked on his as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your white lacy panties and slid them down. michaelâs gaze followed them, his breath catching. a flicker of curiosity shone in his wide eyes.
âloveyâŠ?â he whispered, a private nickname he only used when the rest of the world fell away.
you climbed over him, knees bracketing his hips. his cock, still slick from your mouth, rested hot and heavy against your inner thigh. you positioned yourself so your dripping core hovered just above his tip, brushing against him teasingly.
michael looked up at you, eyes blown wide.
âw-wait⊠isnât thisâisnât this like doing it? we arenât reallyâŠâ
micheals voice trailed off. you cupped his cheek, thumb stroking softly as you held his gaze with full conviction. maybe if you believed such an obvious lie, he would too.
âmicheal do you trust me?â
he flinched at the rare sound of his government name on your lips. "of course lovey why would you ask me thaââ
âthen believe me when i say this isnât doing it. if i donât move.. it doesnât count.â
you lifted your hand and held up your pinky finger between you, smiling gently.
âpromise.â
michaelâs eyes dropped to your pinky. a soft breath left him. pinky promises had been sacred between you two since you first became friendsâyears of secrets, late-night talks, and little vows sealed with linked fingers. pinky promises meant no lies. he searched your face for a long moment, looking for any sign of deceit, but found only your steady gaze. then hooked his pinky with yours.
âokay if you promise..â
you smiled softly and began to sink down onto him, slowly and carefully. inch by inch, your tight heat enveloped his length until you were fully seated, bodies pressed flush together. a shaky breath left michaelâs lips, his hands gripping your waist.
for a moment you stayed perfectly still, just letting him feel you. then his hips gave a small, instinctive twitch. then another. he started movingâjust shallow little rocks.
âmikey,â you murmured, âyouâre moving.â
his eyes fluttered open, cheeks burning. âmânot⊠not fully,â he breathed, looking to you for approval. âdoesnât count, right?â
you pretended to think for a moment. âthatâs right, baby. not fully.â
you leaned down toward his ear and whispered, âbut iâm gonna need you to stay real still so i can make you feel good, mkaaay?â
his eyes fluttered closed as his head lulled to the side with a nod. you began to roll your hips in slow, grinding circles against himâkeeping him buried deep inside your dripping heat. every smooth roll hugged him tight, your body squeezing and rippling around his length while your swollen clit rubbed deliciously against him. his fingers flexed on your hips as he tried to match you with tiny movements. pushing his hips upwards.
he was really was trying not move.. and technically he wasnât really moving, right?
you leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead, then his lips. âsuch a greedy boy,â you whispered against his mouth. âis this what you needed, sweetheart? my mouth isnât enough for you anymore?â
he nodded faintly, his response melting into soft whimpers as you kept rolling your hips, gyrating in that slow, constant motionâdrawing needy sounds from him with every circle.
you kept working your hips flush against him so he stayed completely sheathed inside your dripping heat. every smooth roll hugged him tight, your body squeezing and rippling around his length while you rubbed your swollen clit against his pelvis with each lazy grind. michaelâs hands trembled on your waist, his breathing ragged, eyes hazy.
âl-lovey⊠iâm gonnaâ iâm going toâŠâ he whimpered, voice breaking as his hips twitched helplessly beneath you. his cock throbbed hard inside you.
you peered down at him with lust-blown eyes. one hand came up to gently cup his jaw, thumb rubbing slow, encouraging strokes along his flushed skin as you nodded.
âdo it,â you whispered tenderly, still rolling your hips. âgo ahead, baby⊠your best friend wants it.â
michaelâs eyes widened. he came hard, pulsing deep inside you with thick, warm spurts, flooding your pussy. you moaned softly, clenching around him as your own orgasm crashed over you at the same time, milking every drop.
even as he filled you, you kept moving slowly, eyes locked on his.
âgood job, angelface, you did so good for me,â you cooed softly, still trying to catch your breath as you watched his fucked out face melt from intense pleasure into a hazy, blissed comfort. you lightly kissed his cheek while his cock continued twitching inside you.
for a moment the room was quiet except for your heavy breathing.
then michaelâs eyes widened in panic. he looked up at you, scared.
he wasnât wearing a condom⊠and you sure as hell werenât on any birth control.
you stayed right where you were, sitting in a pool of both your cum, you brushed his hair back tenderly.
âmikey⊠do ya wanna make your best friend a mommy too?â
đđ
a/n: this was requested! i canât find the original, but to whoever asked for this, thank you cutie!
nanny telling michael about how she's experiencing the worse baby fever ever. all about how her friend just had a baby and how cute the tiny newborn is, and with the emotions of blanket starting to walk it's all too much. and she knows she wasn't there when blanket was a newborn, but two nearly three months is still fresh in her books !
but she's so caught in her blabbing that she doesn't even notice the way michael's eyes have dilated, or the way he's staring at her like she's prey when the attention turns to blanket who's asleep on her chest, bringing a hand either smooth at the wisps of hair covering his shut eyes or cheek. his breath has even become all rugged as you speak about wanting to experience a child, about the moment when you first meet them and their little noises they make, and oh, the scrunch they do when you pick them up. it's all innocent in your eyes, but you don't even know you're giving michael the hardest hard on right now, and truthfully he doesn't care to hide it like he usually does.
his eyes tracing your silhouette when you get up to take blanket to his nursery, mesmerized by the sway of your hips. his imagination running rampant on the ways he'd have you folded and bent as the two of you make love. how'd you call his name, asking, begging him to fill you up. he'd tease you and ask if you want to give him another baby, and of course you'd nod eagerly, locking your legs over his hips so he'd have nowhere to pull out (not that he'd want to).
don't even get him started on the intoxicating thought of you swelling throughout pregnancy. your hips becoming wider to prepare you for birth while your breast fill with milk for the babe. blanket still clung to your hip as you waddle around with the older two. and he'd dote on you everyday, every second. giving you any message or craving you'd ask for, pressing kisses to your temple as he hums about how glowing you look.
it takes your hand on his knee and a few shakes for michael to be brought back to reality, already knowing that you're way too close to him for him to smell your perfume. balling his hands into fist at his side so that he doesn't do something he regrets, because his fantasies are fantasies for a reason.
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since you confirmed that you do wish to have kids one day, michael couldn't stop hyper fixating on your hips. and he thought he was obsessed with all of you ⯠but your hips is a completely different story.
it doesn't matter what pants you're wearing or if they're hidden from the baggy shirt or sweater your wearing, he'll always be able to pinpoint the plushness of them. and as sick as it is, it gets him going seeing his youngest attached to your hip, figuratively and literally. besides michael, you're the only person who's been there consistently for blanket since he was just a few months old, so it only makes sense that he clings to you. and you make it look effortless, the young boy resting a head on your shoulders with a tiny hand balled up into a fist around you shirt collar, while your arm secures him against your hip, all while entertaining the two oldest.
the two of you don't speak about it, not since it happened when one day blanket had been inconsolable. he had begun teething and the pain either caused him to wail or chew on the closest thing to him. it was really a blur when it happened, passing the child off to his father to go get one of the frozen teething toys from the freezer, which only ensued more sobs from blanket, barely making it out of the room when you heard "mama" in between his broken sobs. it caused you to whip around, michael's eyes already on you with a similar shocked expression on his face. with heat creeping up your neck you stumble back, muttering, "'m gonna go get the toy," before scurrying to the kitchen. you don't know what you expected that following night, if michael would be mad or not, but to allow things to blow over you spoke about it first, apologizing. just for michael to shut you down, saying there's nothing to apologize for and that understands why blanket would call out for you.
unknowingly that that 'slip up' only filled his fantasy further. don't get him wrong though, he's a grown man who can contain his urges, but some quiet nights he spends with his fist around his cock at the thought of you swollen with his child. but for now he'll spare any sneaky glance at your hips, even letting a hand hover as he squeezes himself by you.
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the air that rested amongst the neverland household was comfortably steady and somewhat peaceful, aside from your daughter randomly blurting out miscellaneous information about the cartoon she watched earlier in the day. you figured it was appropriate to close off the busy day with some pampering with your baby girl.
damp hair sits messily beneath neatly wrapped towels, the two of you draped in the most lavish robes with your names embroidered near the chest thanks to michael; heâs cheesy so naturally he has a matching name embroidered robe as well. your faces covered in face masks you've applied, and you've chopped up some cucumber to put on loveyâs eyes cause she saw it in a movie once and needed to do it. she needs the full experience.
michael walks in on the two of you relaxing in the living room, feet soaking in a homemade foot bath, with matching green faces, âhowâre my girls makinâ out?â long legs carry him through the living room to make his way closer to the toothachingly sweet scene that plays before him. seeing the ones he loves most share a peaceful evening together warms his heart, he truly believes in the simpler things.
lovey claws at her cucumbers to take a peak at her daddy, to be fair sheâs been dying to munch at them anyway. âmommy made cucumbers!â her voice laced with that typical excitement her tone seems to rest at. sheâs always been a happy child, naturally very silly and giggly much like her father.
his eyebrows quirk in amusement, eyes widen for dramatics, âoh did she?â you can feel the couch sink as heâs now taken place next to your daughter. you chuckle beside her, sheâs also naturally very dramatic like her father.
âi didnât make them baby, just cut a few.â you softly correct her. your eyes are closed but you can feel her eyes shift towards you, briefly taking in your correction before her attention is back on michael.
he can see the light flicker above her head when she gets an idea. âdaddy, can you have a face like me and mommy?â
âface mask, lovey.â you chime in.
âface mask!â her voice pitched with enthusiasm, satisfied she learned the proper name of the goop currently sticking to her face.
you finally peel you eyes open to look at michael, but heâs already got his eyes locked on you. lovey waits patiently for an answer, little feet sloshing around in her foot bath. a playful sigh escapes his lips, âif i can have a cucumberâsure, lovey.â he bargains.
with a burst of eagerness sheâs shoving the now warm cucumbers sloppily in his mouth, and he canât hold back his cackle. chews clunky when he tries to digest the misplaced veggie.
wet feet splashes out of the water, crawling over his lap to reach for the small tube of âgreen teaâ face mask that was left on the coffee table. she attempts to clasp it in her puny hands, but he gently takes it from her noticing her slight struggle in grasp. she takes her place in his lap, a tiny yet satisfied smile plays on her lips.
he assists her in opening the product, "what's next lovey?" flashing a toothy grin, she stretches her little palm as much as she can as a way to signal squeezing the green paste into her hand. she childishly giggles along with michael when the air gets trapped in the tube and makes a 'fart' sound, according to lovey.
you shake your head at them in amusement, "you two are gross."
michael braces himself, eyes closed, head pushed forward, so lovey has clear access. he isn't worried much about weather or not it'll irritate his sensitive skin cause its his face mask, he's more than happy to share with his girls.
he's expecting lovey to be heavy-handed like him, but she's very careful with her application technique. tiny hands palming the product across his cheeks, along his nose, and onto his forehead.
he flutters his eyes open when she pauses, "how do i look?"
"like shrek" you grin at your own comment, and like you expected lovey thinks its the funniest comment in the world. chubby cheeks squished into his chest as she giggles uncontrollably.
michael's breeding kink gets worse once you start working for him. especially when he sees how quickly the kids warmed up to you when you first started! and how much you clearly care for them despite just having the title of being their nanny.
from taking them on adventures (whether it's just walks around the neverland grounds or outings out), picking them back up and dusting them off when they get hurt and of course kissing said boo-boo over the character bandaid you put on at their wish, to musing prince's antics to watching paris's rehearsals in the home studio to falling asleep with blanket pressed up against chest when he couldn't sleep. everything about you makes michael go crazy with thoughts that you'd be a great mother.
and it only got worse when there was a down time in the home, michael had return early and prince and paris were content entertaining themselves and each other after having lunch. so that just left you, michael, and blanket at the table, the two of you talking about blanket's milestones, having seen him hit important ones like saying his first word and taking his first steps since you started nannying the jackson kids just a couple of months before blanket's first birthday. michael watched you with a certain look in his eyes as you clean off blanket's messy face and hand hands with a wipe before you remove him from his booster seat and watch him run over to where his siblings are.
you begin to ramble on about the doctor's visit michael had to unfortunately miss earlier that morning.
"y'know, he's hitting all of his milestones excellently!" you beam, spewing information about infant progression from your degree.
michael nods along, a smile to match your own. because if he didn't he'd continue to dwell on missing an important check up for his child, despite your reassurance that it's just one out of the countless other visits he's been there for. "hm, tell me more."
and you do. going on about blanket's coordination and the small sentences he's started to form, especially when you read to him. and somehow that caused you to go off on a tangent about how paris has been loving one of your childhood books the paper bag princess, a small telltale of the age difference.
it's in the moment that michael realizes how much you care about the kids, his kids development into tiny humans. and he honestly, like really truthfully can't help but shift in his seat, eyes concentrated on the natural glow you have as you talk about prince's interest to remove his training wheels on his bike. and he should be paying a attention, especially since it's his eldest boy your talking about. you're just making it extremely hard to pay attention, and his thoughts don't help, not when they're all about how glowy and borderline angelic you'd look pregnant with his child.
so, really, it isn't his fault when he mutters out. "have you ever thought about having your own kids?"
the question makes you stop talking and you just stair. taking in how michael's hair cascades over his face and his eyebrows raised a little at the ask of the question.
"um-" you're trying to rang in any loose thought in your mind. but all that keeps racing within it is that this is your boss who just asked you this question, and it's a harmless one, you get asked it quite a bit from family and friend. and you consider you and michael close enough for a question like this to come up, but the way he's staring you down as if he's hungry when there's a plate of half touched food in front of him has you feeling like a deer caught in headlights. "i do," answering honestly.
that's all michael needs to hear. "you'll be a great mother," he compliments, with thoughts that he'll be the man to make you a mother.
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summary: youâre michaelâs personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, youâre forced to share the last hotel roomâand its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)
pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader
w/c: 9.8k
notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BEDâsmut ahead!!!
boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS.
there is discussion of michaelâs struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits.
michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the readerâso much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker.
some suspension of disbelief may be requiredâthere are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI âŒïž
masterlist âą ao3 âą wattpad
DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.
Itâs lateâ11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bonesâthe faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.Â
Normally, you would have already been on Michaelâs private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticutâthe next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the cityâsomething he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.
You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragementâgiving everything he had left.Â
Youâre exhausted yourselfâthe good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. Youâve been Michael Jacksonâs personal assistant for nearly a year nowâyour first job in the industryâand somehow youâd managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.Â
Youâre good at this job, better than you had expected.
Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were âa natural,â and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly.
You still donât quite believe it, but you love the work youâre doingâeven when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.
You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arenaâs back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.Â
Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado.
Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.
Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.
You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. âAre we good to go?â You ask, breath fogging in the air.
Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. âWeâre not going to the airport.â
âWhat? Why not?â You ask, although the reason is obvious.
âItâs a really bad storm,â he says. âEven by Colorado standards. Theyâve halted all flights. Nothingâs going out tonightâprivate or not. Theyâre saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.â
His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.
Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.
You immediately start mentally rearranging everythingârehearsal times, load-in windows, Michaelâs rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing.
Youâre already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boardedâ
You sigh in reluctant acceptance. Youâll make it work, you always do, but that doesnât stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans.
You mutter under your breath, irritated: âItâs late March, for God's sake⊠we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.â
Michael hears youâbecause of course he doesâand he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms donât rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. âIs everyone else already on their way?âÂ
You nod. âThey left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.â
The majority of the crewâthe dancers, the band, techniciansâhad left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.
Bill nods in confirmation. âI already checked, they beat the storm. Everyoneâs safe, joker. No need to worry.â
Michael exhales, slow and heavy. Heâs relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting upâa control freak in the most endearing way; heâs a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.Â
He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.
Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. âWeâre gonna head back to the hotel. Letâs move before it gets worse.â
Michael steps aside and lets you climb in firstâsomething he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that heâs just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.Â
The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately.
Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. âYouâre jumpy.â
âIâm not,â you mutter, even though you absolutely are.
âYou sure about that, girl?â He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.
You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. âI grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isnât natural.â
He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. âWell, Iâm used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place⊠Iâve seen worse.â
You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to youâsubconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.Â
Heâs always been flirty and touchy with youâlittle nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something.
Thatâs just how he is, though. He was like that with everyoneâit was in his nature.Â
Youâve always remained professionalâheâs your boss, after all. But youâve spent so much time togetherâlate nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilitiesâthat you like to think heâs become your friend, too.Â
Still, youâd be lying if you said you never thought about itâabout himâlike that. That you hadnât dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like youâre the only person in the room.Â
But you love your job, and heâs Michael Jackson. Youâre just⊠you. His employee. Heâs your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelingsâburying them under professionalism and responsibility.
Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. âHey. Stop stressinâ.â
âIâm not stressing,â you lie, letting out a shaky breath.
âYou are,â he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. âThe next show isnât for a few days. Itâll be alright.â
You know heâs trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He canât stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.Â
The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotelâa luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past weekâsnowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.Â
You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach himâcheeks flushed, tie crooked.Â
âGood evening," he says, even though itâs clearly anything but. âHow can I assist you?â
You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. âHello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.â
The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. âIâm very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in touristsâand now the weatherâweâre nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.â
Your pulse quickens. âHow limited?â
âThe penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single oneâŠâ he says apologetically. âBut perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. Iâm sure someone would be willingââ
Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. âNo. Please donât do that.â
You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fanâheâd sooner sleep in the lobby.
The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. âWe do have two standard rooms availableâone with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.â
Two rooms. For all of you. You sighâit would have to do.
âWeâll take them.â You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.
Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes.
You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. âLetâs head up.â
The group moves as oneâthe four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.
Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. Itâs not as private as you would preferâtypically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fansâ
Noâspirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince.
You knew better than to refer to Michaelâs fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first dayâto treat his fans with love and respect.
Theyâre not âcrazyâ; theyâre passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.Â
Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well⊠usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.
Still, youâre glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens.
Theyâre clearly exhaustedâfaces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.Â
You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.Â
The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. âWeâll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usualâfirst team, get some sleep. Iâve got point for now.â
Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. âYâdid good, kid.â
You smile back, gratefulâgrowing warm at the praise.
Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a âwork-dadâ roleâalways offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.
You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. âThis oneâs yours.â
He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. Itâs a âstandardâ room, technicallyâbut it's still a luxury hotel.Â
To you, a âstandardâ room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.Â
This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, youâre sure.)
A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the cityâalthough the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael wonât touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.
âIâll call room service,â you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might needâextra blankets, bottled water, towels. âHave them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Donât even try to lie to me, Michael JacksonâI know you have barely eaten today.â
You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. âIâm really sorry itâs not a suite. If I couldâveââ
âWait,â he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. âThere were only two rooms. Where are you staying?â
Your stomach sinks. Youâd hopedâfoolishlyâthat you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadnât made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first.
Thatâs your job. Thatâs what you do.
You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. âOh, that. Donât worry about me. Iâll figure something out.â
Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.Â
He doesnât say anythingâsimply waits with an expectant look on his face that says âexplain yourself.â
You sigh, defeated. âI was⊠probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next doorââ
Michaelâs horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.Â
âAbsolutely not.â He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.Â
âThat is a ridiculously stupid plan,â he continues, incredulous. âYouâre not staying in a lobby. Youâre not sleeping in a car. Youâre not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.âÂ
You open your mouth to argueâeven though you already know that youâre not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.)
He cuts you off with a single look.
âYouâre staying in here. With me.â
You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jacksonâglobal superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car.
The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you werenât so irritated.Â
âMichael,â you sigh. âI canât justââ
âYou can,â he says simply. âAnd you will.â
You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantlyâarms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upwardâdetermined to match your stubbornness beat for beat.
Itâs ridiculous, and childish.Â
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.Â
âYouâre my boss.â You remind him, weakly. âI canât share a room with you.â
Itâs a flimsy argument and you know it. Youâd spent months practically living togetherâworking side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, grantedâbut the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.
Michael raises a single eyebrowâthe cocky one that you try so hard to hateâand suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. âThen donât make me play the boss card.â
âThe boss card,â you repeat, deadpan.
He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. âThatâs right.â
You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where heâs going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.
âIâm your boss,â He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. âAnd Iâm ordering you to stay in this room for the night.â
Your jaw drops, and you sputterâcaught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. Heâs never âorderedâ you to do anything. âThatâthat is⊠so not fair, Michael.â
A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome faceâtriumphant and boyish. He knows heâs won. He knows you know heâs won. And heâs enjoying every second of it.Â
You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breathâsomething about egotistical pop starsâbefore crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch.
Michael clears his throat. âWhat do you think youâre doing?â
You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. âIâm taking this.â
He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. âNo, youâre not.â
âItâs fine.â You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. âSeriously, Michael. Iâll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.â
He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. âYouâve been working all day, too.â
âThatâs different.â
âItâs not.â He counters.
You glance at the couch again, helplessly. Itâs⊠not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. Itâs one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort.
The kind of furniture that says âlook, weâre pretty and expensiveâ, but absolutely does not say âplease relax here for eight hoursâ.
You wince. âIâll be fine.â
âNo.â
âMichael, pleaseââ
He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.
âIâm a gentleman.â He says, voice firm. âDo you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? Iâd never live it down. I canât deal with all that.â
You snortâyou canât help itâbecause the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.Â
Still, you canât bring yourself to accept. âMichael, seriously, I canââÂ
âNo.â
âButââ
âNo.â
You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.Â
âWeâll share it.â He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. âItâs king-sized. Thereâs plenty of space. Itâs the only option that makes sense.â
You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night.
At that, he notices your hesitationâthe way your arms are folded tightly, and how you canât quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.
âHey,â he says quietly. âWe can put up a pillow wall, I wonât touch you. It doesnât have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest⊠youâve been runninâ around all day taking care of everythingâtaking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?â
Your heart fluttersâtraitorouslyâat his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard.
He doesnât mean anything by it, you remind yourself. Heâs just being kind. Heâs just⊠being Michael.
Still, it melts the last of your resistance. âOkay. Fine.â You sigh, long and resigned.
His smile returnsâwide and toothy.
âBut,â you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. âYou get first dibs on the shower. Thatâs my final offer.â
He laughs thenâbright and genuine. Relieved. âDeal.â
Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his stepâfar too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.Â
You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. Heâs impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet⊠you wouldnât trade him for anything.
You finally allow yourself a moment to relaxâyour body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldnât have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. Youâre very glad Michael isnât there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.Â
Still, itâs the first time youâve sat down all dayâthe relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like theyâve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still onâwet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.
You hear the shower startâthe rush of water muffled by the doorâand then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well heâs supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just canât help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.Â
You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctorâs orders. But you donâtâyou love hearing him sing.Â
You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourselfâhis voice, his presence. Him.Â
You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returnsâHeâs your boss. Heâs your boss. Heâs your boss.Â
You repeat the words like a mantraâattempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.Â
You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if youâre sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt.
You donât want to lose himâThat is⊠your job. Yes, thatâs allâyour job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practicalâsomething safe. Work. Work always helps.Â
You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next daysâ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.Â
You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when youâll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.
At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadnât eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.Â
You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michaelâhis favorite, you learned on day oneâand something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.
You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.Â
You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. Itâs still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.Â
You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyesâallowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.Â
Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself againâ
Heâs your boss. Heâs your boss. Heâs your boss!
You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.
You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatlyâtrying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. Youâre still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.
Guilt flashes through you, even though youâre sure he didnât see anythingâthat is, didnât see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.Â
But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.Â
Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wetâa few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones.
He looks like a scene from a movieâeffortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.
Your face heats instantlyâthe rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.
The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each otherâs headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy.
The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly humanâcaught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.Â
âUh⊠my bag. I left itââ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.
âOh!â You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you donât accidentally brush against one another.
He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. âIâm done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.â
You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didnât realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.
Heâs. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel.
(It doesnât.)
You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamasâan oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less⊠practical.Â
You shake the thought away. It doesnât matter. It shouldnât matter. Heâs your boss. Youâre only sharing a bed for practical reasons. Thatâs it. And that's alright.
You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.
Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothedâthank godâsitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate.
Youâre pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.
He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadnât overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. âOkay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.âÂ
He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. âThat was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that weâre okay. She says hello⊠and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.â
Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.Â
âWell, that's my job.â You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sightâhe really did set up a pillow wall.
A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.Â
âEat,â he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you donât hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you donât recognize as you dig into your food.
Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that eveningâthe concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room.
Despite that, however, the silence isnât awkwardâitâs warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each otherâs rhythms.
You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.
Youâre too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over somethingâone of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic youâd come to recognize.
âMichael? Everything okay over there?â
He bites his lipâdeep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. âI just⊠wanted to say thank you.â
âYou already thanked me,â you remind him gently. âAnd I was happy to do it.â
Youâre about to add that itâs your jobâthat youâre his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what youâre paid to doâwhen he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.Â
âNo,â he says, voice soft. âI mean⊠For staying with me.â
You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Before you can respond, he rushes to explainâwords spilling out quickly like heâs afraid to lose his courage. âItâs nice. You know⊠to have someone here. With me.â
You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.Â
âI donât sleep well after shows,â he murmurs. âYou know that.â
You nod. You do knowâhis chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hiredâas if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.Â
ââŠItâs not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.â He hesitates. âI just⊠I don't like being alone after a show.â
Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues.
He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. âI usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when theyâre busy or asleep, I just⊠stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Orââ He swallows, shaking his head. âAnything to take my mind off how alone I am.â
His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadnât meant to let that much vulnerabilityâthat much honestyâslip out.Â
Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. âWhy didnât you tell me? Iâm almost always just a hotel room away.â
âYou work all day.â He shrugs. âIâm not gonna bother you with something as stupid asâŠâ
He trails off.Â
He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks heâs a burden.
Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.
âItâs just nice to have you here.â He says. âEven just for the night. I know Iâm your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than⊠I know weâre not⊠I just wanted to thank you, that's all.â
You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, heâs not your boss, and heâs not Michael Jackson.
Right then, heâs a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.
âAlright,â you exhale, making a decision. âRight now, for the rest of the night; Iâm not your employee, and youâre not my boss. Iâm off the clock.â
He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him meltsâhis shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.
âOkay?â You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.
âOkay.â He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. âIâm glad. Because⊠Well, thâtruth is, I havenât viewed you as just an employee for a while now.â
Your heart stutters. And you tryâdesperatelyâto push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesnât mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. Thatâs all. He needs a friend.
But right then⊠you swear heâs looking at you like youâre something more. Much more.Â
And youâre looking back at him like you wish you could be.
Outside, the storm churned onârelentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.
As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sistersâthe mischief of their early touring days, about the places heâs visited, the people heâs met.
You share quirks from your own childhoodâyour family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was betterâhis eyes lighting up as he insists the original park âhas that special energy, you know?â
You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughterâbright and boyishâmakes something warm bloom deep in your heart.
He talks about his musicâlighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming himâgetting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything heâs working on, and his plans for future projects.Â
He makes you laughâreally laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You canât remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.Â
At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.
Without realizing, youâve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world.
Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freezeâjust for a heartbeatâbut neither of you pull away.
You begin thinking. Too muchâabout him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of youâand how badly you wanted to let him.Â
Youâre mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.
He realizes what heâs done a second too lateâeyes widening and breath catchingâbut he doesnât move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.
Your pulse thunders so hard youâre sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins againâ
Heâs your boss. Heâs your boss. Heâs yourâ
But the words crumbleâfluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.
And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.
He leans inâslowly, instinctivelyâhis forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. Heâs close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.Â
âTell me to stop.â He whispers, voice low and pained. Itâs not a demandâitâs an offering.
Heâs giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.
But you donât. Instead, you lean inâchoosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings youâd been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.Â
You close the gap, pressing your lips against hisâimpossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.Â
He pulls back for the briefest secondâjust long enough to take a shaky breathâbefore kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.Â
He kisses you deeplyâa soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistentâtongue sliding in to taste you fully.Â
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.Â
âI meant what I said earlierâŠâ He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. âI havenât seen you as just an employee for a long time now.â
His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. âI want more with you⊠so much more.â
A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
Heâs half on top of you nowâyour hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.
He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.Â
âTell me you feel the same,â he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. âGod, please⊠I need to hear it, baby.â
You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. âIâve been trying to ignore it for months,â you respond breathlessly. âHow much I wantedâwant you. I couldnât stop it.â
You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so heâs fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.
His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hipsâany inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core.
The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, tooârocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.
âMichael,â you whimper, the single word trembling with need.
He doesnât hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way offâflinging it carelessly across the hotel room.Â
The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side.
He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.
His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.
Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. âYou donât have toââ you start, voice small.
He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. âPlease, babyâŠ. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.â
The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny himâor yourselfâany longer.
Thatâs all he needs before diving inâa hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.Â
The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelmingâsoft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if heâd been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.
Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.Â
He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds heâs makingâlike he could stay there forever.
And you would let him.Â
You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesnât take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you.
You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.Â
You couldnât hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you triedâhis name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers.
Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.
It had never felt like this with anyone elseâthe way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize youâyouâre absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.
He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace.
âCome for me, baby,â he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. âI wantâI need you to fall apart for me.â
Youâre so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.Â
âLook at me.â He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.
You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesnât stop for a single secondâdoesnât even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until youâre shaking and gasping for breath.
Itâs not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finallyâpupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunkâinstantly addicted to you.Â
âYou taste so good,â he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine.
Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.
Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has becomeâhis cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.Â
You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimateâintoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.Â
You want more. You want everythingâevery touch, every sound, every piece of himself heâs willing to give you.
Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. Youâre on him instantlyâpressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.
âDonât stop,â He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. âGodâIâve waited so long for this, girl⊠dreamt about it. Iâve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.â
âShow me,â you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. âI need more, Michael. Pleaseââ
He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.Â
âIâll give you everything,â he promises. âAnythingâeverything you want, mama.â
In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. Heâs thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frameâflushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.Â
You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.
âNot yet,â he rasps, squeezing your hand. âI swear to god, Iâll bust if you touch me like that right now⊠and Iâm not done with you yet.â
âBut⊠I want to taste you,â you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. âI want to make you feel good too.â
He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. âI want that too, more than anything. And Iâll let you⊠next time.â
Next time.
The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that meansâthere will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply.
But you donât.Â
Youâre so utterly consumed by himâby the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way heâs looking at you like youâre everything heâs ever wanted.Â
Consequences be damned. Youâve been good. Youâve been patient. Youâve done everything right for so long. And heâMichael Jackson himselfâwants you just as badly as you want him.Â
You nod, surrendering to him completely.
A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.
His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. âThatâs it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. Youâre so beautiful like this.â
His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. âSo wet for me⊠only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?â
His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps.
Youâre right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers outâpopping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.Â
You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. âShh, baby⊠Iâve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.â
Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searchingâbeggingâfor permission.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.
âBabyâŠ!â He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
Thereâs a slight sting despite his earlier careâa sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like thisâsince anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.Â
Youâre ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it tooâyou can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.Â
A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.Â
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to moveâlong, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.
You cling to himânails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.
He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until youâre gasping and shaking beneath him. âM-Michaelâoh, oh god I think Iâmââ
âCome for me,â he begsâvoice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. âI wantâI need to feel you.â
At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.
Heâs close tooâyou can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutterâbut heâs holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.
âW-where?â He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. âPleaseâtell me where. Iâm so closeâI canâtââ
âInside,â you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. âIâm on the pill. Iâm safe, I promise. Please, Michaelâfill me up. Please, please, I needââ
Thatâs all it takes.Â
He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesnât stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like itâs the only word left in his vocabulary.Â
Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he canât bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes holdâbody shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. Heâs lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.
You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower.
Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.
Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets.
Michael barely moves awayâimmediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.Â
Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips.
He kisses you as if he canât quite believe youâre realâwilling and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though heâs afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.Â
He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath.
Thatâs when you hear itâhis voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany:
âThank you⊠thank you, thank you, thank youââ
The words spill from him like a prayer he doesnât even realize heâs saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You donât speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.Â
You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you canât yet put into words:
Iâm not going anywhere. Iâll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.
You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You donât say it out loud, not yetâbut the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
The world outside has ceased to exist.
The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tourânone of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.
His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin.
He succumbs to sleep completelyâprobably for the first time in daysâsafe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.
You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications.
For tonight, nothing else mattered.
a/n: if youâve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind â€ïž
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