thank you so much for stopping by and considering sending in a request! i really enjoy writing for you all, but to keep things organized and fun, please read these quick guidelines first!
what i accept :
fem!reader only
polite and detailed requests with a clear idea
fluff, angst, romance, smut if i’m comfortable with it
fandoms — michael jackson / jaafar jackson
please also mention the specific era you want me to write for mj!
what i don’t accept :
male!reader or any other reader that isn’t fem!
extremely vague requests (the more detailed you are, the better i can bring your idea to life)
rushed/demanding tones
anything involving minors that depicts them in a romantic/sexual scenario
topics that make me uncomfortable—incest, agereg, noncon/dubcon, extreme violence, abuse, fantasy au’s (werewolf, vampire etc.)
specific descriptions of the reader which basically makes them oc (eg: blonde hair blue eyed etc.)
how to send a request :
drop it in my ask box and please be patient with me!
part 1 ; part 2 ; part 3
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader (jackie’s wife)
era: late 70s/otw
wc: 3.5k
summary: someone finally learns how to love and someone learns how to let go.
warnings /tags: ⚠️
ANGST!!!! infidelity(?), brother-in-law trope, age-gap (reader is slightly older), reader is jackie’s neglected wife :(, guilt, angst, mutual emotional repression, michael is catastrophically in love, ANGST ANGST ANGSTTTT, also an inaccuracy - i've made it look like "she's out of my life" was written by michael when in reality it wasn't but idc it's for the plot :c
taglist : @kae2kaee , @boredpretty , @18lkpeters , @mjssluttyfish , @skiicoreee , @evetheegoonette ; @xoxogossipgirl02 ; @tojiswifeforlife ; @pixieelixer-24 ; @weepingwillow12344 ; @bringitonhomejohnb ; @bawdylanguageee
a/n : ahhhhh this is the final part of healing touch :( im gonna miss writing this sm!! thank you for all the reblogs and notes and love for this series!!
It was past midnight and Michael was still in his studio. The fairy lights were on, headphones sitting around his neck instead of over his ears because he'd stopped actually listening to the playback an hour ago and had been sitting there since with the notebook open in front of him, pen in hand, not entirely writing. He'd been in the studio since before dinner. He told himself it was the album, and it was, partially.
He heard the door open and assumed it was Marlon coming to tell him to eat something. Then the door closed and the sound of it made him turn around.
Jackie stood inside the studio, still dressed from earlier, arms loose at his sides. Michael had seen Jackie angry before but this was different.
Michael took the headphones off and set them on the console and waited.
"Stay away from my wife," Jackie said.
Michael went cold.
Jackie moved further into the room, taking his time, stopping near the couch to look around—the fairy lights, the mixing board, the open notebook—before his eyes came back to Michael. "I know something happened. I don't need the details. I just need you to understand me." He tilted his head slightly. "I've been watching for weeks, Michael. I'm not stupid."
"I know you're not," Michael said.
"Then act like it."
Michael stood up from the stool but not to fight; he just couldn't sit down for this. He turned slightly away, staring at the board. There was something sitting in his chest that he recognized, had been recognizing for a while, and it wasn't just guilt. It was the kind of feeling that builds over years of being the youngest, the one who keeps the peace, the one who listens quietly and never says what he actually means because saying it out loud makes it someone else's problem and he had spent his whole life not wanting to be anyone's problem. He was so tired of that.
"Stay away from her," Jackie said again. "Whatever this is, it ends. She's mine."
Mine. Not I love her, not I'm scared of losing her, nothing that pointed to a feeling. Just the word you use about something that belongs to you.
Michael turned around. "Then love her," he said simply.
Jackie blinked. Just once. "What."
"Love her." Michael's voice came out quiet and completely steady, which surprised even him a little. "And don't do it because you're scared. Don't do it because something made you realize you could lose her. Love her because she's worth it and she has been worth it every single day while you were looking everywhere else. Buy her flowers because you actually want to see her face when she gets them. She likes the yellow ones, if you didn't know. Take her to dinner because you want to sit across from her and hear what she's saying. Look at her when she's talking to you—just look at her, all the way, because you want to."
Jackie's expression shifted. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"When was the last time you noticed her?" Michael asked. "She came to find you during that party and told you her feet hurt and you turned back to your friends. She cooked for twelve people that night and you didn't say a word to her about it. She is always apologizing for asking from you." He paused. "I was there when you weren't, Jackie. I've always been there. I've been watching you not see her for years."
"Michael—"
"She has to dim herself down for you." He kept going because he had started and there was no clean place to stop now. This was two years of keeping his mouth shut and it was done keeping itself shut.
"She makes herself smaller so she fits into whatever small space you decide to give her that day. She used to light up every room she walked into. She still does, when she forgets to hold it back—but around you she's learned to hold it back because it's easier than being too much for you. This is what has been happening in your house while you weren't looking."
Jackie crossed the room fast, the full weight of being the oldest and the biggest, stopping close enough that Michael had to hold his ground. "That is my wife," he said, his voice low and shaking with something trying hard to stay controlled. "She is my wife. You don't get to stand in here and tell me who she is—"
"I'm not trying to take her from you." Michael meant it and he said it simply enough that Jackie heard the truth in it and stopped. "I'm telling you to keep her. I'm telling you she's worth keeping, and not just when you're scared someone else noticed her first. You ignored her for years, Jackie. And the second somebody else paid attention, now she's worth fighting for?"
Jackie stared at him. Something was working behind his eyes that wasn't quite getting all the way to anger, because underneath whatever was going on, he started to recognize his mistakes but did not want to admit it. "You think I'm scared," he said quietly. "Of you. You think I'm scared of my little brother."
"I think that you should be," Michael said. "Did you end up finding my necklace in her hair?"
The room went completely silent.
Jackie's jaw tightened. "Careful," he said.
"I'm just asking," Michael wasn't being cruel about it, he was just asking a question he already knew the answer to. "Because you came in here telling me what's yours. I'm just wondering if you noticed it was already gone."
Jackie moved before Michael finished the sentence and grabbed the front of Michael's shirt and he let him, didn't flinch back, just stood there and looked at his brother at close range with that same expression that had no guilt in it.
"Don't," Jackie said. His voice had finally lost the controlled tone. Something raw underneath it now, hot and unsteady. "Don't you dare stand here and—"
"What?" Michael said quietly. "Tell you the truth?"
Jackie held him there for a long moment. His breathing was audible. His knuckles were white in the fabric of Michael's shirt and Michael looked at him without saying anything else.
Slowly, Jackie let go.
He stepped back. Smoothed the front of his jacket with both hands, a gesture so practiced it looked almost involuntary. He looked at Michael with the expression of a man who has been handed a mirror he didn't ask for and can't look away from it.
"She's my wife," he said finally, quieter now. Not like a threat this time, but almost like he was reminding himself.
"I know," Michael said. "Go act like it."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There were yellow tulips and daffodils on the counter in a glass of water, stems already trimmed, sitting in the patch of morning light that came through between eight and nine. Jackie was at the table with his coffee and he looked up when you walked in and smiled, easy and warm, the way he had been smiling at you lately.
"Thought you'd like those," he said. They were exactly the kind of flowers you would have pointed to in a shop window years ago, in that early part of your relationship when you were still paying close attention to what he noticed and what he let pass.
"They're beautiful," you said, and your voice came out right.
He took you to dinner that Saturday at a restaurant you'd mentioned once, months ago, in the middle of a different conversation and you'd said it so casually like the kind of things you say and immediately file under things he won't remember. But he'd remembered.
He asked about your sister, and not a vague how's-the-family kind of way. He listened to you carefully. He refilled your water. He laughed at something you said with his whole face, the way that made him look young and easy, the way you had once loved. He put his hand over yours halfway through the meal and left it there.
You looked at his hand covering yours and thought, without deciding to, about a different pair of hands. About what it felt like to be held like something worth being careful with. You smiled at your husband and the smile came out right and every time it did it cost you something.
Michael had made himself careful about being in the same rooms as you. You would come into the kitchen and find a coffee cup still warm, a chair pushed out. You'd walk into Marlon and Tito laughing about something and see an indent on the couch next to them like someone had just gotten up and left.
Sometimes, you'd stand at the right window late enough and hear, faintly, music from the studio at the far end of the property. He was in there working. The guilt and the grief had both moved into permanent residence by now and they did not take up a lot of space but they were always there, in the corner of every good moment Jackie gave you.
You lay awake one night and stopped telling yourself it was coincidence. Jackie's sudden presence and Michael's careful absence had arrived the same week, within days of each other, and Jackie did not just decide to try. Jackie did not just happen to remember the restaurant or the flowers. Something had shifted the ground underneath him and you already knew who was behind it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You went to the studio on a Wednesday afternoon. You hadn't made a formal decision about it—more like your feet had been making it for days and the rest of you had finally caught up. The jasmine was overgrown on the path and it caught at your arms as you walked through it. You had the necklace in your hand. You knocked.
There was the sound of movement inside, then his voice. "One second." The door opened and there he was; white t-shirt, curls pushed back with one of those thin headbands he wore when he was working, pen still in his hand, a tiredness behind his eyes that had been there for weeks and that sleep wasn't touching.
"Hey," he said, warm and careful.
"Hey. Can I come in." You held up the necklace. He stepped back without a word.
The studio was the same—fairy lights on even in the afternoon, notebooks across the worn couch, the smell of the room that had gotten so specific to itself that you felt it every time like something pressing gently against your chest. You sat on the edge of the couch. He quickly moved the notebooks away and gestured you to take a seat properly, still keeping the space between you deliberate.
"Please make yourself comfortable," he said. "Quincy was here earlier and we were brainstorming, sorry for the mess."
"Jackie has been buying me flowers," you said. "He took me to dinner last week, to a place I mentioned months ago. He holds my hand across the table." You looked up at him. "He's been doing everything I spent years asking for and stopped asking for because I thought he just wasn't capable of it."
Michael said nothing.
"What did you say to him," you said.
A pause. "Nothing he didn't already know."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
You watched him for a moment and understood that he wasn't going to tell you. Whatever happened between him and Jackie would stay in between them. Michael absorbed costs without showing receipts; that was just how he was made. He did the hard things and let people believe they came easily. You looked back down at the necklace.
"I came to give this back," you said. "For real this time. And I need to say something first."
He waited.
"Michael," you said, and he made a small sound like he was going to argue, so you kept going. "Michael you are about to put out something that the whole world is going to hear and lose their minds over. You know that. What's been coming out of this studio—the world is going to open up for you in a way you can't fully picture from here. You're going to go everywhere. Walk into rooms and have people love you loudly and openly, in public, in daylight."
You swallowed. "You deserve that. You deserve someone who can love you like that—who isn't already someone else's, who you don't have to hide, who can say it without it costing you your brother and your family every time she looks at you. Someone who can love you in a way that I will never be able to."
"You're not going to let yourself move on while I'm here," you said. "I know how you are. You'll never ask me for anything because you would rather burn than make it my problem. And I cannot keep letting you do that to yourself." A breath. "You deserve so much, Michael. So much more than this."
"If things were different," he looked down at his hands.
You went still.
He looked up at you. "If none of the rest of it existed. No Jackie, no family, no any of it. If I was just a man and you were just a woman." His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright. "Would you have picked me."
You couldn't speak for a moment.
"Please don't ask me that," you whispered.
"I know." He said it immediately, and something in his face did something fast that you almost missed. "I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"Michael—"
"Forget it. I'm sorry." He pressed two fingers to his mouth and looked away briefly. Then back. "Forget I said it."
But the answer was already in the room. It had been in the room since you walked in, maybe since long before that, and you both knew what it was. You could see that he knew. The look on his face when your eyes met his told you he knew exactly what your silence meant, and the knowing of it was its own kind of awful.
"Please," you said, barely above a whisper. "Don't hold this place open. Just go live."
He nodded once. Then he held his hand out, palm up, and you placed the necklace in it and watched his fingers close around the chain. He looked at it in his fist, then back at you, and he was holding himself together with visible effort—you could see it in his jaw and his breathing and the way his eyes were very bright.
"I'm glad," he said finally, his voice rough at the edges. "That he's doing it. Jackie. Whatever I said to him—I'm glad you're being seen. I'm glad someone in that house is finally looking at you the way you should have been looked at the whole time." He exhaled slowly and it shook. "Even before any of this. Even when I knew nothing could ever happen. Even when it was just me sitting across the room wondering if you'd had a good day." A small, miserable sound that was almost a laugh.
"I just wanted somebody to love you right. I just didn't think it was going to hurt this much when it wasn't me." Tears were pooling in his eyes now. You couldn't do anything about them.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt. Because there was no villain sitting across from you. No selfish man trying to take what wasn't his. Just Michael. Michael, who loved you so much that even now, while his heart was breaking in front of you, he was still trying to be happy for you. Still trying to convince himself that this was enough.
"Don't," you said. "You're making it impossible."
"I-I know. I'm sorry." His voice finally cracked, just slightly, just at the very edge of it.
You stood up and crossed the studio and pressed your palm to his face. He closed his eyes. One tear slipped out and you caught it with your thumb, the same way he had once caught yours in this room, and he turned his face into your hand, barely, the smallest motion, something he probably wasn't even aware of doing.
Something inside your chest felt like it was being pulled apart stitch by stitch. But you didn't cry, you couldn't. Not when he was already carrying enough of it for both of you.
So you swallowed hard and forced your hand to leave his face.
"Go be extraordinary," you said, your voice wrecked and past caring about it. "Go see all of it. Let people love you loud and don't hold this place open."
He opened his eyes. "Y/N." Just your name.
"I know," you said. "Me too."
You walked out and the jasmine caught at your arms and you made it about halfway down the path before the crying caught up with you— not the quiet kind, the ugly kind, your hands coming up over your face even though there was no one to hide it from. You walked the rest of the way to the house like that, shoulders shaking.
You were upstairs with the shower running hot enough to fog every surface, both palms flat against the tile, head down, and tears mixing seamlessly with the scalding water, you cried hard and silent. You couldn’t even feel your own tears in the downpour, and that made it easier to pretend they weren’t there at all. Now you were putting yourself back into your own body. Back into your life. Back into being someone’s wife. The steam was thick and the mirror had completely disappeared, you were grateful for that because you were not ready to look at your own face yet.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Weeks blurred into months.
Off the Wall came out the following fall and the world, as you had told him it would, completely lost its mind. Michael won a Grammy for it, Best R&B Vocal Performance, and you watched the clip one evening with Jackie's arm around your shoulders on the couch. Michael at the podium, wearing a black tuxedo, soft-voiced and gracious as he thanked everyone. He didn't look into the camera for long, shy as always.
It was a Tuesday night a few weeks after the Grammys when you heard it.
The bedroom was dark. Jackie was asleep beside you, breathing deep and even, and the radio on the nightstand was playing low—some late-night countdown. You were on your back looking at the ceiling, not thinking about anything in particular, or telling yourself that, which had become a nightly habit. The host said something in his smooth late-night voice, alright, alright, this one's been flooding our requests all week, this is Michael Jackson, 'She's Out of My Life', and then the piano came in.
And then his voice.
She's out of my life.
You lay completely still.
She's out of my life, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Jackie shifted in his sleep and pulled you closer on instinct, his arm warm around you, completely unaware. You lay inside his hold and the song played and the tears slid sideways into the pillow without you making a sound, because you had gotten very good by now at crying without making a sound. You cried because you know she's out of my life was recorded in one take, because Michael kept stopping and starting over and finally Quincy just let the tape run. The version on the album is the one where he cried at the end.
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader
wc: 4.7k (i got carried away a lil)
summary: two days apart shouldn’t feel like forever but try telling that to your husband. based on this request by @miss-kuki-nz (thank you! i enjoyed writing this)
warnings: none, just pure fluff <3 also, the kids remain unnamed. i wasn’t sure what to do w that so they’re just referred to as “your son” and “your daughter” lol
November 7th, 2001
The crisp November air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped out of the car onto the bustling sidewalks of Manhattan at West 45th. Giant billboards flashed advertisements for Michael’s new album, Invincible, and massive screens on the buildings displayed the different covers in rotation. Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nerves. You adjusted the strap of the diaper bag slung over your shoulder, glancing down at your two little ones. Your son, four years old with his father’s curious eyes and a mop of curls peeking from under a wool beanie, clutched your hand tightly. Your daughter, three and full of energy wrapped in a tiny pink coat, held onto your other hand, her small fingers warm despite the chill.
They’d been asking for their Daddy nonstop for the past two days.
“When is he coming home?” your son had whispered all morning on the plane, his voice small but hopeful.
“Soon, darling,” you’d promised. And now, that soon was here.
Michael had flown out to New York a couple of days earlier for this special signing event at the Virgin Megastore—his first-ever in-store appearance to celebrate Invincible. The album had dropped just over a week ago, and the world was buzzing. But being apart, even for a short time, felt like an eternity. The kids missed their father terribly; bedtime stories without his gentle voice reading them felt incomplete. And you missed your husband.
“Surprise time,” you murmured to the children, kneeling briefly to fix your daughter’s scarf. “We’re going to make Daddy so happy.”
Your son nodded solemnly. “We stay in line and wait for our turn?”
“Exactly,” you confirmed with a smile.
You’d secured the album and special passes through a discreet call to Michael’s team who were in on the secret and coordinated everything so you could blend into the line without drawing attention. Security was tight, but a few trusted people had helped make the surprise possible.
New York was still tender. You’d felt it the moment you landed. Something slower in people’s movements, this kind of gentleness that hadn’t been there before September. And yet here they were, hundreds of fans, standing in the cold to be near something that felt good.
The line stretched further than you’d anticipated. It wound from the entrance of the Virgin Megastore, down the block, and curved around 6th Avenue where a cluster of fans had been gathering since before sunrise, you were told. Hundreds of people, maybe more, bundled in coats and scarves and clutching their copies of Invincible to their chests like something precious.
You found your place in the queue and settled in.
“There are so many people here, mama,” your daughter observed, craning her neck to peer at the line ahead of you. Her breath made small clouds in the cold air.
“There are,” you agreed, shifting the diaper bag higher on your shoulder. “Daddy has a lot of fans. They are here because they love him.”
“More than us?”
You looked down at her upturned face, so earnest you felt your chest squeeze with something warm. “Nobody loves Daddy more than us, sweetheart.”
She seemed to accept this with great satisfaction, hugging her stuffed elephant tighter.
Your son was quieter, like he was thinking hard about something. He stood close to your side, his small hand still wrapped around yours, and watched the crowd with his father’s eyes—the same expression full of wonder, curiosity and attention that Michael had.
“Is he already inside?” he asked.
“He should be getting ready to come out soon, yes.”
“And he doesn’t know we’re here?”
“Not yet.”
A slow smile spread across his face. He liked surprises. He’d gotten that from his father too.
The wait was long, and you’d come prepared.
You’d packed juice boxes and little foil-wrapped crackers, a small activity book that your son quickly lost interest in, and a travel-sized container of animal crackers that your daughter rationed with the seriousness of a tiny accountant, counting each one before eating it. You’d brought an extra pair of mittens for each of them, which proved necessary when your son declared his hands were frozen approximately forty minutes into the wait.
Around you, fans speculated about what he might be wearing, whether he’d speak much, whether he’d sing anything. A group of teenagers near you had been practicing what they wanted to say to him, coaching each other, dissolving into nervous giggles every few minutes. You listened to them with quiet fondness. You understood that feeling. Even now, after everything, Michael still gave you that flutter. Maybe more so, because now you knew him. The whole of him, not just the image and somehow that made it more, not less.
Your daughter tugged your sleeve. “Mama. I’m cold.”
You crouched down and pulled her close, rubbing her arms briskly through her coat. “Better?”
She leaned into you, resting her chin on your shoulder, and sighed the contented sigh of a child who had decided warmth was satisfactory. “Can Daddy come home after this?”
“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”
“Good.” She patted your cheek once with her mittened hand. “I miss him, mama.”
“I know, baby. He misses you too.”
You thought of the phone call from last night, after the kids were asleep. Michael’s voice low and a little tired, the way it got when he’d been performing or working for too long and needed to just be himself for a minute. I miss you. I miss the kids. Tell me something normal. Tell me what you had for dinner. And you’d laughed and told him about the pasta your son had refused to eat and the way your daughter had spilled orange juice on the dog, and he’d laughed too, and for a little while it had been like he was right there.
“He said he couldn’t wait to see you,” you told her.
She smiled and tucked her face against your neck.
A ripple moved through the line—a surge of murmuring and you straightened up, your pulse jumping. Through the glass front of the store you could see movement, figures in dark clothing, the deliberate organized energy of a security detail coordinating itself.
“Mama,” your son said quietly, moving closer to you. “Is it time?”
“Almost,” you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
You watched through the glass, trying to catch a glimpse. The staff inside were moving with more purpose now. Someone adjusted a display. A woman with a headset spoke into it with focused urgency. And then;
There he was.
Even from this distance, even through the glass and the crowd and the slight distortion of the window, you knew him instantly. He emerged from a back area wearing a royal blue silk shirt with matching pants, his dark hair falling past his jaw. He was speaking to someone beside him, nodding, and even from here you could see the quiet tension in his shoulders that meant he was preparing himself for the scale of it all.
Your son made a small sound which was not quite a word and you felt his grip tighten on your hand.
“Not yet,” you murmured. “We wait for our turn. Remember?”
He nodded, pressing his lips together, practically vibrating with eagerness.
The line began to move in earnest. Groups of fans filtered through the entrance, spent their moment at the table, emerged back through a side door with teary eyes and trembling hands. You heard various noises from inside; applause, squeals, the sustained low roar of excitement. Every few minutes the queue shuffled forward.
You were maybe thirty people back when your daughter started flagging.
She’d been a trooper, genuinely, more patient than you had any right to expect from a three-year-old in the cold for over an hour. But the warmth you’d maintained with crackers and cuddles along with the distraction of the glittery star stickers was wearing thin, and she was beginning to list against your leg with the boneless weight of a child approaching the edge of her reserves.
“Up?” she asked, lifting her arms.
You settled her on your hip and felt her immediately go limp with relief, her head dropping to your shoulder. It was going to be difficult for you to carry her comfortably for long, but you decided to go for as long as you could. Your son pressed close to your other side, alert again now that the end was visible, his earlier quiet replaced by a barely-contained energy.
Twenty people. Then fifteen.
You could hear Michael’s voice now, just barely, filtering through the sounds of the crowd, brief exchanges, warm and low. You couldn’t make out words, only tone. You knew that tone.
Ten people. Eight.
Your daughter had fallen into a light doze against your shoulder, which you took as both a mercy and a complication. You pressed a kiss to her temple and kept her steady.
Five people.
Your son looked up at you. His eyes were bright, serious, his father’s eyes in his father’s expression with the look of concentrated emotion, too big to fully contain, being held carefully.
“Mama,” he whispered.
“I know, darling. We’re almost there,” you whispered back.
Three people. Two.
One.
And then it was your turn.
A staff member held back the small velvet divider and smiled at you knowingly. “Right this way, Mrs. Jackson.” He took the diaper bag off your shoulder and passed it on to another staff member, signaling them to place it somewhere safe.
You took a breath and walked forward.
The table was set up near the center of the floor, with displays of the album on all with all five covers. The overhead lights were bright, and there was a backdrop behind the table, and there were cameras, staff members positioned at intervals, and a whole organized infrastructure of the thing. You took it all in in a peripheral, secondary way because the primary thing was him.
Michael sat at the table with a Sharpie in his hand and his attention on the album being placed in front of him, saying something to the previous person that was wrapping up.
He hadn’t looked up yet.
The previous fan moved away and a staff member reached for your album to place it on the table, and you shifted your sleeping daughter on your hip, and took the last step forward, and Michael looked up—
And stopped.
The Sharpie hovering above the album cover, his eyes landing on you and then widening like something cracked open in his face, all the careful measured grace of the public version of him dissolving instantly and completely.
He stared at you for one second, two—
“Surprise!” you said softly.
Your son, who had been managing himself with admirable restraint for nearly two hours, completely abandoned any further effort at restraint. “Daddy!”
And Michael was already moving.
He was on his feet before the word had fully left your son’s mouth, already coming around the table, the Sharpie forgotten, the album forgotten, everything forgotten except the small boy who had broken into a run toward him. He dropped to his knees right there on the floor of the Virgin Megastore and caught him, and your son hit him with the full momentum of several days of missing his father, both small arms wrapping around Michael’s neck, and Michael wrapped around him just as completely, one hand cradling the back of his head.
There was a murmur through the crowd of staff and waiting onlookers.
Michael’s eyes were closed. His jaw worked. He held your son like he was checking something, making sure something was still true, and then he pressed his face into your son’s hair and you heard him exhale, a slow, shuddering breath.
“Hey, buddy,” he managed. His voice was rough. “Hey. I got you.”
The four-year old said something muffled into Michael’s shoulder. You couldn’t hear it. After a long moment, he finally lifted his head and looked at you.
In all the years you’d known him, in all the ways you’d seen him look at you with love, with gratitude, with the tender warmth he reserved for you alone, you weren’t sure you’d ever seen him look at you quite like this. Like you’d done something he hadn’t known how to ask for.
His eyes were wet.
“Hey,” you said.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Hi.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “What are you—how did you—“
“We took a plane, daddy!” your son informed him, pulling back to look at his father’s face.
Michael laughed as he pressed his forehead to your son’s briefly before standing, keeping one arm around him and turning to you.
He reached out and touched your face with his free hand—fingertips only, brushing your cheekbone gently.
“You brought them all the way here,” he said.
“They were going crazy without their daddy. I was going crazy without you.”
“You could have called. I would have set everything up—”
“Absolutely not.” You shifted your daughter on your hip, and she stirred faintly at the movement, grumbling without waking. “We stood in line like respectable fans. We wanted the element of surprise.”
“You stood in line?”
“Yes.”
His expression was something close to disbelief. “Baby. It’s so cold outside, I don’t want you guys getting sick.”
“We had crackers while we waited,” your son offered helpfully. “And she got glittery star stickers.”
Michael looked at the star sticker on his daughter’s coat, now slightly crumpled from being carried. He reached out carefully and touched the sticker, then looked up at you.
“How long has she been knocked out for?”
“She almost made it the whole way from departure but crashed right before the event started.”
He was already reaching for her, his hands going to her with the practiced ease of a father who had spent countless hours with his baby draped over him. You transferred her carefully, and she shifted in the transition—made a small complaining sound and then her head found Michael’s shoulder and she settled immediately. Her tiny head fit perfectly in the space between Michael’s shoulder and neck.
He tucked her close and looked at you over her head.
“You must be so tired, baby,” he said.
“Not really, I am not the one signing albums.”
There was a brief disruption while the team figured out what to do with the four of you. Michael’s manager appeared at his elbow, murmuring something into his ear, he listened and nodded while keeping one arm around your son and holding your daughter with the other. He looked down at the boy while he listened and made a face—a silly face meant only for his son—which always earns him a laugh.
Some rearrangement happened. A small area was cleared slightly to the side of the main table. A staff member brought over a chair. The signing would continue—Michael had insisted on that but you and the kids would be nearby rather than shuffled off to a waiting room somewhere, and a couple of additional security team members were repositioned to keep the immediate area clear.
It was handled with the efficiency of people who were practiced at managing extraordinary circumstances, and within a few minutes it had simply become the new arrangement, absorbed into the event without further disruption.
You sat down with your daughter, who had finally surfaced into drowsy wakefulness and was now sitting in your lap looking around the store with an unbothered expression of someone still partially in a dream. Your son had stationed himself right beside Michael’s chair and was watching everything with wide, attentive eyes—the fans as they approached, the albums being signed, his father’s steady and gracious presence through it all.
“I wanna sign albums too, daddy!” he insisted.
“Oh, do you now?”
The little boy nodded enthusiastically.
“Here, let me see your autograph first.” Michael pulled a spare piece of paper toward him and handed him a Sharpie.
Scribbling an unintelligible mess, he handed the paper back to his father.
Michael examined the scribbles with exaggerated seriousness, turning it sideways as though he were evaluating a priceless work of art.
“This is actually much better than my autograph.”
“It is?”
“Oh, absolutely.” He tapped the paper. “Look at this confidence. Look at these bold artistic choices.”
The four-year old beamed. Michael leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“I think I’ll have to let you sign an album just for Daddy.”
“Really?!”
“Mm-hm.” Michael glanced toward the line of waiting fans. “The fans aren’t ready for this level of talent yet.”
A few people nearby burst out laughing.
The last fan came through and the staff began the gentle, organized process of winding down the event. Adjusting displays, speaking into headsets, beginning the conclusion of the event. Michael signed the final album, spoke the final kind words, and the person left with the same shining eyes as everyone before them.
Then the table was just a table.
Michael set down the Sharpie and turned, and for the first time in the past hour or so he wasn’t in the middle of something. He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders once, and you recognized that particular exhale—that he was really tired but still gave his all to the fans.
Your daughter held up her stuffed elephant. “Daddy. Look.”
He crossed the few steps between you and crouched down in front of her. “I’m looking.”
“His name is Peanut.”
“I remember Peanut,” Michael smiled.
“He came on the plane.”
“That was very brave of him. He’s as brave as my princess.”
She considered this, then held the elephant out toward him. Michael accepted it with appropriate gravity, examined it, and handed it back. She tucked it under her arm, satisfied, and then reached out and patted his cheek with one small hand, the same gesture she’d given you in the cold outside.
He gathered her up and stood, settling her on his hip, and turned to find your son already close, leaning against his side in that particular way kids had of simply annexing a parent’s space. Michael put a hand on the back of his head, ruffling his curls gently.
“You both waited in line,” Michael said. He was talking to both of them, but his eyes found yours over their heads. “I hope you did not trouble mama too much.”
“Mama said we had to be patient,” your son told him.
“She was correct.” His voice was dry but warm. “She always is.”
“I know,” the boy said, with an earnestness so complete it almost sounded like a medical fact.
You stood up and looked at Michael.
In his arms, your daughter was braiding a section of his hair with focused concentration. At his side, your son was speaking a mile a minute about the plane and the clouds and his unsuccessful mission to find their house from the sky. And Michael listened to all of it, and at the same time he was looking at you.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
You took a step closer. “For what?”
“For doing this.” He shifted the girl slightly, freeing one hand, and reached out to touch your face again, fingertips at your cheekbone, like he was still checking. “For standing in the cold for I don’t even know how long. For bringing them. For—” He stopped. His jaw tightened briefly. “I needed this. I didn’t say so, but—”
You closed the remaining distance and leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw, brief and soft. He turned his head into it slightly, like a reflex.
“We’re in public,” you murmured.
“So?” he said, his voice low.
“So behave,”
“God forbid a husband missed his beautiful wife and wants to kiss her.”
“You’ll survive,” you laughed, and your daughter looked up at the sound of it with bright interested eyes. Your son stopped talking about the plane ride long enough to look at both of you with the mildly suspicious expression of a child who knew something was happening that was for grownups.
His staff had arranged cars. That was the other thing about Michael’s staff, the logistics that had an invisible coordination that moved things from one arrangement to another. You’d half expected some debate about hotels, about whether you’d all head to a restaurant first, about the details of the evening. Instead, there was simply a car waiting when you emerged from the side entrance of the store, and a small security presence around it, and a team member who smiled at your children and told them both they’d been very patient today.
Michael settled both kids in the car, buckling them securely.
“Hotel’s not far,” he looked at you.
“Good. Somebody’s going to be fully asleep in about eight minutes.”
He glanced at your daughter already leaning heavily against her brother. A small smile. His hand found the small of your back briefly.
“Come on,” he said.
She was asleep in six. Your son made it to the hotel lobby before his eyes started losing the fight, and by the time you’d gotten upstairs and through the door of the suite and managed the brief logistics of pajamas, he was moving on autopilot, responding to instruction with the half-conscious compliance of a child running on fumes.
Michael took over without discussion and that was something you’d loved about him from early on. How fatherhood came to him naturally. You caught fragments from the bathroom where you were washing your face, removing the makeup of the day: the beginning of a bedtime story and the specific register he used only with them.
By the time you came back into the room, both children were in the hotel bed, and Michael was just rising from where he’d been sitting at the edge of it, his voice trailing off from wherever the story had left them.
He stood up and looked at them for a long moment.
“She’s got a new thing she does,” you said quietly. “With her hands when she’s falling asleep.”
Michael glanced back at your daughter.
“Braiding things. She was doing it to my hair earlier.” He said immediately. “She started about three weeks ago.”
Your gaze drifted to the little girl. Even now, her tiny fingers were absentmindedly twisting the edge of her blanket as sleep pulled her under.
You hadn't even realized when the habit had started but Michael did.
“And he’s taller.”
“What?” You snorted.
“I’m serious.”
“Michael, you’ve been gone two days. That’s not how growing works.”
“Time zones. California’s three hours behind New York. That’s three whole extra hours of growing.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose and shook your head, fighting a laugh. “Michael…”
He put his arm around you, and you leaned into him, as you both stood there for a moment in the soft dim hotel room. Your children sleeping, the city a distant murmur outside.
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
“I’m glad we came too.”
“The line, though.” He shook his head slightly. “You didn’t have to. The kids must be so tired and cold. And you had them all by yourself.”
“We wanted to. We wanted to be in the line with everybody else.” You tilted your head up to look at him. “I wanted to see your reaction when you didn’t know we were coming.”
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
"You got me."
"I know."
"And they were very well behaved," you continued.
Michael's eyebrows rose.
“You should've called me."
"And said what?" You laughed. "'Michael, come rescue me from the line you're currently signing for’?”
"Yes. Would have dropped everything to be with my family.”
You turned toward him and he kissed you softly. His hand found your waist as he leaned in, pressing his lips briefly against yours before resting his forehead against yours for a moment.
When he pulled back you rested your head against his chest and listened to the steady, reliable sound of his heartbeat.
Can I request a Mature era Michael Jackson x wife reader fic?.
Michael is in New York City for a meet & greet, signing in support of his invincible album. He's been away from home for a couple of days, and reader and their kids have been missing him just as much as he's been missing them so reader and the kids decide to surprise him by flying to New York to attend the signing and they stand in line waiting to surprise him.
i love this, it’s so cute. thank you for the request! i’ll work on it
hi! can you maybe write an angsty fic where the reader sees a bunch of groupies at every show michael does and can’t help but feel insecure? then michael reassures her (can be fluffy or smutty it’s ur pick 🥹)
tysm anon for the request!! im gonna start working on this. ik he did solo tours for bad, dangerous and history but idk which era to write for..
no pressure to write it but you’ve been dating michael for a while and are still uncertain about having kids but one day u see him being super sweet and nurturing to a little one maybe it’s in neverland or something and u start to change ur mind a bit. if this makes any sense feel free to change it up as u please <33
𑣲┆BUNNY EARS ˚.⋆ֹ
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader
wc: 1.5k
warnings: extreme fluff and tooth-rotting sweetness, michael being the most gentle person ever, very light emotional moment, reader’s fears about the future(?)
a/n: i couldn’t help it i had to write this one. thank u anon for the request!!
You were not supposed to fall more in love with him today.
It was just a quiet afternoon at Neverland Ranch—one of those unpublicized charity visits Michael arranged so lovingly for the children. You’d come along like you always did on his slower days, curled up with a book near the rose garden that you weren’t really reading. You were simply happy to exist in his orbit, soaking in the peace of the place he’d built like a dream.
That was all this was supposed to be.
But Michael had been completely wrapped up in the children within minutes. You watched with the softest ache in your chest as they gravitated to him, drawn by that special warmth he carried so naturally. He raced with them across the grass, let himself lose spectacularly at games with rules you couldn’t even follow from afar, and sat cross-legged in the flowers while two little boys explained their toy trucks to him with all the seriousness in the world. He nodded along, hand under his chin, as if they were telling him the secrets of the universe.
You gave up pretending to read somewhere in the first hour and just watched him tenderly with your heart full, eyes misty.
Things grew softer as the afternoon stretched into golden hour. The laughter quieted into sleepy giggles, children drifting toward picnic blankets with sleepy eyes and tired movements.
That’s when you noticed her.
Little Cora sat alone on the wide stone steps of the garden path, not sad, just peacefully on the edge of everything. Seven or eight years old, with the sweetest twists in her hair and sunny yellow beads that clicked softly when she moved. She was staring down at her sneakers with the most tragic little pout.
Both laces had come completely undone.
She glanced at them. Looked away. Glanced back again, as if they might magically fix themselves if she wished hard enough.
You got up and started walking towards her but before you could reach, Michael appeared from around the fountain and jogged to her immediately. He changed direction without a second thought, his steps light and easy as he approached.
Cora looked up when his shadow fell gently over her. She studied him with big, serious eyes—the way only certain small children do when they’re quietly deciding if you’re safe.
Michael lowered himself smoothly to her level, crouching at first, then settling fully onto the warm stone step beside her so he wouldn’t tower over her.
“Hey, Cora,” he said, voice like warm honey.
“Hi, applehead,” she whispered back.
He glanced down at her shoes with the softest smile. “Looks like those laces are giving you a little trouble today.”
She nodded solemnly. “They keep coming undone. Every time.”
“Every time?” he echoed, eyes wide with gentle understanding. “That’s no good at all.”
She held one foot out toward him, trusting and shy all at once.
Michael took her little sneaker in both hands with such care, like it was made of the most delicate glass. His long fingers moved slowly, untying the messy knots with infinite patience.
Cora watched his hands carefully. She looked around at the gardens, the fountain, the sprawling grounds. Then back at him, squinting slightly. “This house is very big for one person.”
“It is,” he agreed. “I rattle around in it a little.”
She seemed to find this funny—didn’t quite smile, but something shifted in her face. She watched his hands on her laces.
“Do you get lonely?”
Michael paused for a moment, then lifted his head and looked straight toward you with the softest, most loving expression. He pointed gently in your direction.
“Sometimes,” he admitted tenderly. “But that special lady over there keeps me company too. She makes everything feel less big and a lot more like home.”
Your heart did a full, fluttery flip. Cora followed his gaze and spotted you standing a little ways away. You waved at her and she waved back.
She looked back at him. “Is she your wife?”
Michael’s cheeks went the softest shade of pink, but his smile only grew sweeter. He shook his head gently. “Not yet, sweetheart. But she’s my girlfriend, and I’m the luckiest man in the world to have her.”
Cora considered this very seriously. Then, in that completely unfiltered way only little kids can manage: “Do you have kids?”
Michael let out a soft, melodic chuckle—full of warmth and zero embarrassment. He tied the first bow with extra care so she could watch every gentle movement.
“Not yet,” he answered honestly, voice like velvet. “But I hope someday. I think I’d like to be a daddy who ties lots of bunny ears and reads bedtime stories.”
Cora’s eyes lit up. “You’d be a good daddy.”
The way he looked at her then like she’d handed him the moon, made tears prick at your eyes. “Thank you, angel. That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.”
He guided her through the second bow even slower, barely touching her fingers, just enough to help. When her small, slightly crooked bow appeared, Cora stared at it in pure wonder.
“I did it!” she breathed.
“You did it all by yourself,” Michael said, pride glowing in his voice. He double-knotted both with the lightest tugs. “There we go. These bunny ears are staying put, I promise.”
Cora tested them herself, then leaned forward and patted his hand so softly. “You’re really nice, applehead.”
He looked like his heart might burst. “And you’re really special, Cora. Thank you for letting me help.”
She wandered off soon after to show her perfect bows to the other kids, pausing every few steps to admire her shoes with a proud little smile.
Michael stood and came straight to you on the low garden wall. He wrapped his arms around you in the gentlest hug, pulling you into his chest and pressing the softest kiss to your temple. Afternoon sunlight wrapped around you both like a warm blanket.
You stayed quiet for a moment, breathing him in—that comforting mix of fresh air and his cologne.
Then you whispered, “She really likes the bunny ears.”
“Had to double-knot them so they don’t trouble her again.”
“I’ve been thinking about it more than I’ve told you.” You admitted and that caught him off guard.
He waited patiently, thumb tracing the softest circles on your back.
“Watching you today,” you said. “You just—you sat down on the ground, Michael. She held her foot out and you just sat right down and you were so—” your voice went a little soft and you cleared your throat. “You were so gentle with her. The way you talked to her. The way you kept saying that’s okay every time she dropped the lace. You never made her feel—” you shook your head.
“Made her feel what?”
“Like it was taking too long. Like she was too much. Like you had somewhere else to be.” You finally looked at him. “And I thought… I want that. I want that for my kid someday. I want them to have that.”
Michael held your gaze for a long moment.
“That terrifies me a little,” you added. “To want it that clearly.”
He pulled back just enough to cup your cheek, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. His dark eyes shimmered with so much love.
“I want it too, baby,” he murmured, resting his forehead against yours. “But only when you’re ready. We have all the time in the world, and I’ll be right here.”
You didn’t say anything. Just laced your fingers through his and held on.
“We also gotta be prepared for jelly hands in our hair, chocolate-smudged hugs, and questions about why the moon follows us home.”
You laughed through the tears prickling at your eyes and melted completely into him, arms wrapped tight around his waist as the warm breeze drifted through the roses and distant children’s laughter floated on the air.
Somewhere near the fountain, Cora was sitting with another little girl, showing her something—her hands moving, demonstrating. The other girl watching closely.
healing touch pt. 3 is genuinely the most angsty piece i’ve ever written. i had to take a moment to just stare at it in complete silence before posting… and part 4 will be the last one in this series ;(
also! english is not my first language but i hope i’m writing okay so far?? hopefully my stories have a good flow and there aren’t any grammatical errors 😭
part 1 ; part 2
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader (jackie’s wife)
era: late 70s/otw
rating: mature/explicit (18+)
wc: 3.6k
summary: after jackie finds michael’s necklace tangled in your hair, something changes. michael grows distant, jackie starts paying attention in ways he never used to, and you try to convince yourself you imagined the rest. but the closer things seem to settle, the harder it becomes to ignore what’s still waiting underneath.
warnings /tags: ⚠️
ANGST!!!! infidelity(?), brother-in-law trope, age-gap (reader is slightly older), heavy pining, reader is jackie’s neglected wife :(, guilt, angst with little comfort, mutual emotional repression, michael is catastrophically in love, manipulation via the necklace incident™, emotional breakdowns, did i say angst?, crying, loneliness, unhealthy devotion, devastating tenderness, doomed romance
taglist : @kae2kaee , @boredpretty , @18lkpeters , @mjssluttyfish , @skiicoreee , @evetheegoonette ; @xoxogossipgirl02 ; @tojiswifeforlife ; @pixieelixer-24 ; @weepingwillow12344 ; @bringitonhomejohnb
You made yourself stay still when Jackie reached for you. His fingers moved through your hair gently, almost tenderly, and you thought—for one suspended second, that he was just touching you.
Between his fingers, in the warm lamplight, hung a thin silver chain.
And you wished the floor would swallow you whole right then and there.
“What’s this?”
Three seconds. You had exactly three seconds.
“Oh.” You put up a small frown of someone genuinely puzzled. “Must’ve gotten caught when I was walking. Probably one of the boys lost it out there.”
Jackie looked at the necklace.
Then he looked at you.
The silence went on long enough that you heard the house settle, heard a car pass somewhere outside, heard your own heartbeat in your ears.
Then he closed his fist around the chain.
“Hm.”
He walked to the dresser. Set the necklace down, filing away for later—and turned off the lamp.
“Come to bed,” he said.
You lay in the dark and could not stop shaking.
Jackie fell asleep within twenty minutes the way he always had, easily and completely, a talent you’d spent years envying. You listened to his breathing even out and stared at the ceiling and felt the ghost of fairy lights behind your eyes. A string of soft gold. A worn couch. Hands that touched you like you were something sacred.
The necklace sat on the dresser three feet away.
You didn’t sleep until almost four.
What you didn’t know and had no way of knowing—was what had happened when you were leaving the studio and Michael had watched you go.
He stepped close. His hands were gentle the way they always were with you, careful and deliberate, moving through your hair like he was tidying it, sending you back looking like yourself. You stood still and let him and felt something warm move through your chest at the tenderness of it.
You didn’t feel him find the chain already caught there.
You didn’t feel his fingers pause on it. The small decision that happened in the space of two seconds. Take it out, or don’t. He chose to go with the latter.
Smoothed your hair down over it. Made sure it was hidden well enough to survive the walk upstairs but not well enough to survive your husband’s hands.
You smiled at him. Said goodnight. Kissed his cheek.
He watched you disappear into the house.
Then he stood alone in the studio and pressed two fingers to his neck, still feeling the ghost of the chain around his neck. He’d stood in the studio doorway and watched you cross the back garden, watched you smooth your dress, watched you begin the quiet work of becoming ordinary again. Every step away from that room was a step toward the house, back toward the bed, back toward a life that had never had room for him in it. He had all the time in the world to jog up to you and take the chain out, not be so petty to put you at the risk of being under Jackie's suspicion.
He should have gone inside. Put something on to record. Done anything except stand there watching the most important thing in his life walk away from him in the dark.
But you were almost at the back door and something in his chest was pulling tighter with every step you took and he thought about you lying down in that bed, Jackie’s arm heavy across your waist, the studio folding up behind you like a dream.
He went back inside and sat at the mixing board in the dark without turning anything on. The fairy lights still glowing. The worn couch still holding the shape of the last two hours.
Michael didn’t regret it.
That was the thing he sat with. Turning it over, examining it from every side, waiting to find the part where he felt like he’d done something wrong.
He didn’t find it.
The next morning Jackie found Michael in the kitchen before anyone else was up.
He didn’t raise his voice. That was the thing about Jackie when he was truly serious—he went quieter instead of being louder. He closed the kitchen door and leaned against the counter with his arms crossed and looked at his little brother with an expression that had nothing friendly left in it.
“We need to talk about this solo thing,” he said.
Michael set down his glass. “Not now Jackie—”
“No. I’m talking.” The authority of an oldest brother so practiced it was almost reflex. “You’ve been missing sessions. You’ve been pulling away from the group for months. And I need you to understand what that looks like from where I’m standing.”
“I gave you the schedule. I’ve been upfront about everything—”
“I’m not talking about the schedule.” Jackie’s eyes were steady on him. “I’m talking about what you’re doing. What you’ve been doing for a while now.” A pause. “You’ve always had this thing, Michael. Since we were kids. You see something that belongs to somebody else and you decide you deserve it. You decide you’ve outgrown whatever you already have.”
Michael said nothing.
“What, the band isn’t good enough for you anymore now? What we built together, all of us, isn’t enough for you?” Jackie tilted his head slightly. Something moved behind his eyes that was more than frustration about music and they both knew it. “You always want more than what you got. More than what’s yours.”
The kitchen was very quiet.
Michael looked at his brother for a long moment. When he spoke his voice was completely level.
“I hear you,” he said.
He picked up his glass and left the kitchen.
Michael threw himself into the album.
It wasn’t a decision so much as a verdict. He came out of that kitchen and understood with complete clarity that he had put you in a position that could hurt you, that Jackie’s eyes had been saying things his mouth hadn’t gotten to yet, and that the only thing he could do—the only decent thing—was remove himself. And everything said in the kitchen was not only about music.
So he worked.
He was in the studio before anyone woke up and still there when the house went quiet at night. Quincy called and Michael answered and they talked for hours about arrangements, about feeling, about what the album needed to be. He had notebooks full of ideas. He had energy he didn’t know what to do with and no healthy place to put it.
When you were in the same room he was polite. He said your name the way he would say anyone’s name. He did not let his eyes find you first.
He told himself it was the right thing.
He told himself you’d understand.
He told himself a lot of things in those sessions, alone with the mixing board, and the music was better for all of it and he was not.
Jackie bought you flowers on a Tuesday.
Not for a special occasion or an apology for anything specific. Just flowers, set on the kitchen counter when you came downstairs, with a small smile and “thought you’d like these.”
You stood in the kitchen holding them and felt the ground shift slightly beneath you.
He took you to dinner that weekend. He asked about things you’d mentioned weeks ago that you hadn’t expected him to remember. He reached across the table and touched your hand and left his there.
You smiled back at all of it. You received it and smiled but inside you, something was falling apart.
Because you had wanted this. You had a whole history of wanting exactly this—your husband’s attention, his presence, the version of him that made you feel like you hadn’t made a mistake. You’d grieved the absence of this man for years before you ever walked into the studio that night.
And now here he was but the only thing you felt was guilt. Along with something else. Something you spent the first week trying not to name.
Michael barely looked at you anymore.
He was busy with the album—that much was true, you could see it, the creative momentum of someone making something he believed in. But the distance was more than him being busy. He stopped looking for you in rooms.
You lay awake one night listening to Jackie breathe and let the thought you’d been keeping at a distance finally come all the way in.
Maybe that’s all it was.
The dark made it easier to think things you’d refuse in daylight. You turned it over carefully. Michael was twenty-two years old. He was in a complicated season of his life, trying to prove himself, surrounded by pressure and expectation. And you had been there—available, forbidden, his brother’s wife, which made you exciting in a way that had nothing to do with you specifically. Maybe you were the forbidden thing and now he had the forbidden thing and he’s done.
You thought about his hands on your face. The way he said your name like it hurt him. I love you. Whispered into the dark of a room where nobody could hold him to it.
You thought: people say things.
You thought: he’s twenty-two.
You thought: Jackie is right here bringing you flowers and maybe you judged him too quickly and maybe you burned something real for something that was never real at all.
You turned onto your side.
Jackie’s arm found you in his sleep, heavy and habitual.
The necklace was still on the dresser.
Jackie hadn’t moved it. Hadn’t mentioned it. It sat in the same spot for over two weeks like a small silver fact neither of you were addressing, and every morning you saw it and every morning you got dressed and left the room and said nothing.
On a Thursday afternoon when the house was quiet you picked it up.
It sat in your palm. The pendant catching the light. You told yourself you were just returning it. You told yourself this was just the right thing to do—close this particular door properly, give back what wasn’t yours to keep, be the person who did the responsible thing. You were not going to see him. You would just go to the studio, leave the necklace somewhere he’d find it, and come back.
That was all.
The door was unlocked the way he always left it, the fairy lights still strung and glowing even with no one there, casting their soft gold over everything. The mixing board dark. The worn couch against the wall. The smell of warm electronics and cedar that had become so specific to this room it almost felt like a presence.
You set the necklace on the edge of the mixing board.
His notebook was open on the board.
You weren’t looking at it. You were already turning away when something snagged your peripheral vision and it wasn’t the writing. A corner of something tucked between the pages. Old newsprint, the warm yellow color of something kept a long time.
You stood there for a full five seconds telling yourself to leave.
Then you reached for it.
It was a film still. Black and white. Carefully cut, not torn—someone had taken their time to use scissors for this, had wanted the edges clean. A woman’s face, soft and luminous and unmistakably Audrey Hepburn, and next to her was Humphrey Bogart.
You turned it over.
On the back, in his handwriting in French were the words—
'Mon frère a une gentille petite amie.'
(trans : my brother has a lovely girl)
And below it, written smaller, like he’d pressed the pen lighter and didn’t want anyone else but him to notice the words:
'I wish I were my brother.'
You stood very still and read it again. You had watched Sabrina and knew that these were lines from the movie.
Then you turned back to the notebook. Not snooping—your hands were moving before you made the decision, gentle and careful, turning pages with the reverence of someone handling something they understand is private and cannot stop themselves from reading anyway. There were lyrics you half-recognized, melodies you’d heard drifting under the studio door on nights you’d stood outside not knocking.
And between all of it, pressed flat and kept, more scraps.
A torn corner of something with three words circled in ink. A strip of notebook paper in different handwriting—a lyric someone had shared with him, maybe, or something he’d written down somewhere else and brought back here. Small paper affirmations tucked into the spine like bookmarks, the handwriting careful and private.
You sank onto the couch.
The Sabrina newspaper cutting was still in your hand. You looked at it again. The soft yellow of the newsprint. The edges worn smooth from handling without the sharp brittleness of something new, but the gentle give of something taken out and looked at and put back many times. The kind of worn that takes months or even longer than months.
'I wish I were my brother.'
This was not written after the massage, or the night in the studio, or any of the moments you’d been cataloguing and assigning meaning to. The paper itself told you. The color of it, the soft edges of it, the way it had been handled so many times it had taken on the quality of something beloved.
He had been carrying this for a long time.
And you had spent two weeks in the dark telling yourself he did not care. You convinced yourself that you were just a forbidden thing he’d wanted and gotten and moved on from. You had taken something true and turned it into something small and temporary because it was easier than believing something real was being destroyed in the house thirty yards from this studio.
The tears came without warning.
Unfortunately, not the kind you could manage. You put your hand over your mouth and they came anyway—all of it at once, everything you’d been performing okay over for weeks, the guilt and the grief and the two weeks of methodically dismantling your own certainty, the flowers on the counter, the necklace on the dresser, lying in the dark next to Jackie telling yourself you’d imagined the depth of it.
You sat in the fairy lights and cried into your hands and held a worn piece of newsprint and understood, with the particular clarity of something you can’t unfeel once you’ve felt it, that you hadn’t imagined anything.
You didn’t hear the door.
Michael stopped in his tracks. He stood just inside the doorway with his jacket over one arm, clearly just back from somewhere, looking at you with an expression that went through several things very quickly. Your face. Your hands. The notebook open on the mixing board. The necklace sitting on the edge of it.
The scrap still in your palm.
The look that moved across his face then was something you didn’t have a name for. Exposed. Complicated. The look of vulnerability of someone whose most private thing has been walked into without warning.
He closed the door behind him.
Neither of you spoke.
Then he crossed the room slowly and crouched down in front of you—not sitting beside you, not standing over you, but crouching, getting low, putting himself at eye level like he wanted to make sure you could see him clearly. His elbows rested on his knees. His eyes on yours.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Hey, don’t—”
“How long?”
The words came out before you’d finished deciding to say them. Your voice was wrecked. You held up the scrap of paper between you.
He looked at it. His jaw moved.
“Michael.” Your voice cracked on it. “How long have you had this?”
A long pause.
“A while,” he said.
“How long is a while.”
He reached out and took the paper from your fingers gently. Looked at it for a moment. Turned it over like he was reading something he’d written a lifetime ago.
“Two years,” he said quietly. “Give or take. Before he put that ring on you.”
The studio was very still.
“Two years,” you repeated.
“Yeah.”
You looked at him. Really looked at him—the tiredness around his eyes that had been there for weeks, the careful way he’d been holding himself in rooms with you, the deliberate distance he’d been maintaining that you had turned into evidence of indifference. You thought about the song. Written three days after a party where he couldn’t answer a simple question.
Three days. But the Sabrina scrap was two years old.
“Why didn’t you—” You stopped and shook your head. The question didn’t even make sense. Why didn’t he what. Tell you? Do something? He had done the only thing he could do, which was sit in a studio thirty yards from the house and keep it in a notebook and write it into songs that were supposed to be for someone else.
“It wasn’t mine to do anything about,” he said, like he’d heard the unfinished question anyway. “You were his girlfriend. Then his wife. You still are.” The words cost him something. You could hear it. “I kept thinking if I was patient enough, if I was good enough—” He exhaled. “I don’t know what I thought.”
“You pulled away,” you said. “These last few weeks. I thought—”
You stopped.
“What did you think?”
You looked at your hands. “I thought it was just you being a boy. I thought I was—available. That you wanted the forbidden thing and you got it and you were done with it.”
The sound he made was quiet and pained.
“Look at me,” he said.
You looked up.
“I have been in love with you,” he said, “for two years. Maybe longer. Not because you were forbidden. Not because of anything that happened in this room.” His voice stayed steady, but his eyes didn’t. “Because of who you are. Because of the way you laugh when something really catches you off guard. Because you always ask me about my music like it actually matters to you. Because you cheer for me louder than anybody else ever has. Because you see things in me nobody else even looks for.”
He swallowed hard.
“And because it kills me a little every time I look at you and realize how much of yourself you’ve had to dim down just to survive being loved by him.” His jaw tightened. “You used to light up a room. Now half the time you look like you’re apologizing for taking up space in it.” A pause. “And he doesn’t even notice. It kills me.”
Your eyes filled again.
“I pulled back because I was scared for you,” he continued. “Jackie was probably suspicious and I—I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you because of me. Because of something stupid I did.” His jaw tightened. “I should’ve thought about that before I—”
“Before you what?”
He looked at you. The fairy lights were gold across his face.
“The necklace,” he said quietly. “It was already caught in your hair. And I’d seen it before you left.” A pause. “But I didn’t say anything.”
You stared at him.
“You left it,” you said slowly.
“Yeah.”
“On purpose.”
“Yeah.”
The word sat between you without apology.
“You watched me walk back to that house,” you said, “knowing what you’d done.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing he might find it.”
“Yes.” His voice was barely above a murmur. “I know it was stupid, I was being selfish. You were about to go back in there and I was just supposed to stand here and watch you disappear? Like this room was nothing? Like you were gonna lie down in that bed and everything that happened in here was just something we were both going to pretend didn’t?” He shook his head. “I couldn’t do it. I’m sorry that it put you at risk. I’m not sorry for the rest of it.”
You reached forward and took his hands.
He stilled and looked down at your fingers around his.
“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered. “I don’t know what any of this looks like. I don’t know what comes next or how any of it works and I’m scared, Michael. I’m really scared.”
“I know.” His thumbs traced over your knuckles. “Me too.”
“I thought you got what you wanted that night and—“
“No,” he cut you off. “It was never that.”
“And the two years—”
“Every single day of them.”
You let that settle into the places that had been empty. The studio was warm and quiet around you, the fairy lights doing what they always did in here, making everything feel smaller and safer and like the rest of the world was very far away.
“I don’t know what to do,” you said again.
“Neither do I,” he said honestly. “But I’m not going anywhere. Whatever you need, whatever you do after this.” His hands tightened around yours. “I’ll be right here.”
You looked at him before leaning forward and pressing your forehead to his.
Someone called out your name faintly from the back porch.
Jackie.
“You should go,” Michael said quietly.
The words almost broke you. He didn't mean them because he wanted distance again, but because he loved you enough to know what this could become if anyone saw you here now; crying in his studio with his hands still warm from yours.
You nodded once, though neither of you moved.
Outside, Jackie called your name again. Closer this time.
You stood slowly. Michael rose with you.
For one suspended second you both just stood there looking at each other like people standing on opposite sides of something irreversible.
Then he reached up and brushed his thumb beneath your eye, catching the last tear there before it could fall. Such a small gesture, but it felt more intimate than anything else had.
“Go,” he whispered again.
You stepped toward the mixing board and picked up the necklace carefully, curling your fingers around the thin silver chain. You looked down at it in your palm for a long moment before closing your hand around it tightly and promised yourself you would keep it with you.
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader (jackie’s wife)
era: late 70s/otw
rating: mature/explicit (18+)
wc: 4.9k
summary: you came to michael's studio to bring him banana pudding but that one late night in his studio finally brings everything you both have been trying not to feel to the surface.
warnings /tags: ⚠️
infidelity(?), brother-in-law trope, age-gap (reader is slightly older), loads of sexual tension, heavy pining, reader is jackie’s neglected wife :(, mj is (pussy) whipped, overstim(?) but not explicitly mentioned, shy!michael, crying during sex, vaginal sex, praise kink undertones, oral (f receiving), body worship, possessive thoughts, unprotected sex, first-time ish, guilt, he is catastrophically in love
taglist : @kae2kaee , @boredpretty , @18lkpeters , @mjssluttyfish , @skiicoreee , @evetheegoonette
The studio sat at the far edge of the property like a secret no one was supposed to find. Tucked behind thick jasmine vines that had grown wild over the years, the small converted pool house felt worlds away from the main house. Inside, the lighting was dim. Just one warm desk lamp glowing over the mixing board and a string of soft fairy lights strung along the back wall that Michael had added himself. The rest of the room lived in gentle shadows, making everything feel smaller.
You stood outside the door for a long moment, heart thudding heavily against your ribs. Weeks had passed since the party and that foot massage. Weeks of stolen glances, small thoughtful gestures, and a growing silence that felt heavier every day. Jackie had been gone again. He left earlier this morning for another trip, another excuse not to see you.
You told yourself you were only bringing Michael some banana pudding because it was the polite thing to do and because he's your husband's little brother.
You knocked softly.
A pause. Then his voice, quiet and surprised. “Come in.”
The door creaked as you pushed it open. Michael sat hunched at the mixing board, headphones around his neck and curls messy. He wore a simple gray t-shirt and jeans, looking every bit the twenty-two-year-old who spent too many hours alone in this room. When he turned and saw you, a mix of happiness and panic flickered across his face.
Girlfriend.. I'm gonna show your boyfriend.. show him..
He immediately changed the tape. “Y/N,” he said, standing up too quickly. “Hey. I didn’t… I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“I brought banana pudding,” you said, holding up the small container. “Extra wafers. Thought you might want some while you work.”
He took them carefully, fingers brushing yours for a second too long. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”
You moved to the worn couch against the wall and sat down, smoothing your dress over your thighs. Michael hovered for a moment before sitting on the other end, leaving careful space between you.
“This is so good,” He took a spoonful of the pudding.
You looked up at him. “Jackie doesn’t like how I make it.”
“You’d think he’d notice what he’s missing.” Michael kept his tone gentle.
Your shoulders stiffened and you badly wanted to change the topic. “That song earlier sounded nice.”
He shifted. “Just... something I’ve been working on.”
“Can I hear it?”
He hesitated. He could deflect—say it’s not ready, it’s garbage, whatever. But you’re looking at him with genuine interest in those eyes and he is so desperately in love that he can’t say no to you.
He looked at you for a long moment, and you can see the internal war playing out across his face. The desire to show you something he’s created warring with the danger of letting you see that close into his heart.
Michael turned back to the mixing board without a word.
The tape rewinds with a soft whirring sound. Then he plays it.
“Girlfriend, I’m gonna tell your boyfriend…”
Your breath catches.
“We’re gonna have to tell him you’ll only be a girlfriend of mine…”
“Michael…” you start, but you don’t know what comes next.
You can’t say I heard you. I understood every word.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, finally turning to face you and he looks almost panicked now. “I shouldn’t have played that. I should’ve just lied and said it was a demo or somethin’.”
“It’s beautiful.” you say softly, though your voice sounds strange even to yourself. Smaller somehow.
Michael lets out a shaky breath and looks away immediately.
“It’s too much,” he admits quietly, his voice cracking slightly around the words. “I know that. I’m trying to…” He swallows hard. “I’m trying to be respectful of—”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I wrote that three days after the party,” he continues softly. “After you asked me if I had a girlfriend and I couldn’t even answer.”
A hand runs through his curls in frustration, messy and restless.
“It’s beautiful,” you repeat.
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you can see the hopelessness in his eyes. The acceptance of something that can never be. He's twenty-two years old and he loves you like it's the only true thing he knows.
You reach out without thinking about it. Your hand finds his on the mixing board, fingers just barely touching. The contact sends a shock through you both.
“Michael…” you say his name like a question.
He didn’t pull away. His eyes found yours, and the longing there was so raw it almost hurt to look at. Slowly, like he was moving through water, he turned his hand over so your palms pressed together. His thumb traced the inside of your wrist, and you felt that gentle touch everywhere—in your chest, your stomach, between your legs.
The fairy lights blurred in your peripheral vision. All you could focus on was the warmth of his skin and the way he looked at you like you were the only real thing in the world.
You leaned forward. It happened without your permission, your body moving on instinct and need. His breath caught. He leaned in too, and you could see the exact moment he was going to kiss you, the way his eyes fluttered closed and his jaw softened.
But you closed the distance first.
Your lips met his in a kiss that started trembling and hesitant. Michael made a soft, broken sound against your mouth, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. His hands came up to cup your face with such care, thumbs brushing your cheeks as if you might vanish.
He whispered your name like it hurt him. “Y/N…”
Foreheads pressed together. You kissed him again, deeper this time, pouring months of quiet yearning into it. His restraint was beautiful, even now he held back, letting you lead, touching you like you were sacred.
Michael let out a soft, broken whimper into the kiss. The sound went straight through you.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were half-lidded, lips slightly swollen, cheeks flushed deep. The fairy lights painted soft gold across his pretty face.
“Touch me,” you whispered against his mouth.
He lifted your dress slowly, almost painfully so, kissing every new inch of skin as he exposed it. When you tried to hurry him, tugging at the fabric yourself, he caught your wrists gently and pressed them above your head for a moment, eyes dark and shy.
“Wait,” he breathed, voice shy and respectful. “I want to feel all of you… please. Let me take my time.”
You nodded, breathless.
He released your wrists and pulled your dress off completely. His gaze dragged over your body with such open hunger and awe that you felt exposed in the best way. He leaned down and kissed between your breasts, then lower, tongue tracing slow, needy patterns across your stomach as his hands caressed your thighs.
“You’re so soft,” he breathed, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “So warm… I’ve dreamed about touching you. About how you would feel under my hands.”
You tried to arch into him, wanting more friction, but he gently held your hips down against the couch, thumbs stroking soothing circles.
“Please,” he murmured again, voice needy. “Don’t rush this. I need to remember every second. I’ve come thinking about you so many times… don’t take this away from me.”
Your mind was spinning. The shy boy who massaged your feet with blushing ears was now whispering confessions that made heat pool low in your belly.
You pulled his t-shirt over his head. He helped you, cheeks flushed deep with embarrassment and want. But the moment his shirt was gone, his hands returned to you. He laid you back on the couch with careful strength. He settled between your thighs, kissing the inside of each one with such devotion it made your legs shake.
“Can I taste you?” he asked softly. “I need to feel you on my tongue.”
You nodded immediately. When he finally put his mouth on you, it was slow and reverent. His tongue licked long, broad strokes through your folds before focusing on your clit, sucking gently, then harder, then soft again—teasing you.
You tried to grind against his face, chasing more, but his hands gripped your hips firmly, holding you still.
“Stay still for me,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “I want to make you feel so good you forget everything else.”
He slid two fingers inside you, curling them perfectly while his tongue circled your clit. His pace was devastatingly slow and steady. The wet sounds of his mouth filled the quiet studio, mixing with your gasps and his soft, needy hums. He was completely focused on you—eyes focused on you, cheeks flushed, baby hairs sticking to his forehead.
When your first orgasm began building, he could feel it. He kept the same steady pace, never speeding up, just deepening the pressure of his fingers and tongue.
“That’s it,” he whispered against you. “Let go for me, pretty girl.”
You shattered hard, thighs trembling around his head, crying out his name into the dim studio. Michael moaned softly with you, licking you through every wave with gentle devotion, drawing out your pleasure until you were shaking and oversensitive. Only then did he kiss his way back up your body, pressing soft, loving kisses to your stomach, your ribs, your breasts.
He hovered over you, cock hard and nudging against your thigh through his jeans. His eyes were dark with need but still so full of love.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice hoarse. “Do you still want me?”
You answered by pulling him into a deep kiss, wrapping your legs around his waist.
Michael groaned softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. For a moment he let you lead again, kissing you back with trembling need. But then something shifted. His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping them firmly as he pressed his still-clothed erection harder against your bare core.
He broke the kiss, breathing ragged, forehead pressed to yours.
“I need these off,” he whispered, voice low. “I need to feel you properly.”
Before you could reach for his jeans, his hands were already there—unbuttoning them with surprisingly steady fingers. He pushed them down just enough, along with his underwear, freeing his cock. It slapped heavy and hot against your stomach, flushed dark and leaking at the tip. The sight made your breath catch. He looked almost embarrassed for a second, that familiar shyness flickering across his face, but it quickly melted into something hungrier.
He pushed in slowly, inch by trembling inch, whimpering softly the entire time. When he was fully buried inside you, he let out a broken moan and pressed his forehead to yours.
“You feel… so perfect,” he whispered, voice thick. “I-I can’t believe I’m inside you right now.”
He started moving—slow, deep, and shaky with inexperience. You moaned loudly, fingers digging into his back.
“Michael… oh god, you feel so good,” you gasped, tears already pricking at your eyes. “I can feel all of you.”
He thrust a little harder, finding a rhythm, his hands gripping your hips with growing confidence. Every stroke was filled with so much love it overwhelmed you. The way he looked at you—like you were his entire world, made something inside your chest crack open.
Tears spilled down your cheeks before you could stop them.
Michael froze for half a second, eyes widening in panic.
“Y/N… baby, why are you crying?” He slowed his thrusts but didn’t stop, still moving gently inside you. “Did I hurt you? Please tell me—”
“No,” you sobbed softly, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. “You’re just… you’re loving me so good, Mikey.”
His eyes softened with overwhelming emotion. He leaned down and started kissing your tears away—slow, gentle presses of his lips against your wet cheeks, your eyelids, the corners of your eyes.
“I can’t stand seeing you cry.”
But you couldn’t stop. The tears kept falling as he made love to you—slow, deep, devoted strokes that reached places no one else ever had, emotionally or physically.
“I love you,” you cried softly, voice shaking. “I love you so much, Michael. You make me feel safe. You make me feel so wanted.”
He made a devastated sound and kissed you deeply, swallowing your sobs. His thrusts grew a little more intense, but still careful.
“I love you more,” he breathed against your lips. “I’ve loved you for so long. Every song I write… everything I ever do… it's all for you.”
After you came around him, shaking and sobbing his name, he pulled out carefully even though his cock was still throbbing and desperate. The guilt and need were clear on his face—he wanted so badly to stay inside you and finish there, but he didn’t.
Instead, he moved down your body with pure desperation.
“I need to taste you again,” he said, voice hoarse and needy. “Please, baby. Let me eat you out. I want you to sit on my face. I’ve dreamed about it so many times… please let me.”
You were still crying softly from the intensity of it all, but you nodded.
He laid back on the couch and guided you over him with shaky but eager hands. When you hovered above his face, he looked up at you with pure worship in his eyes.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Lower yourself on me, baby. Please. Let me take care of you.”
The moment you settled on his face, his hands gripped your thighs and he moaned loudly against your pussy. He licked and sucked with desperate hunger. His tongue moved in long, needy strokes, then focused on your clit, sucking gently while he whimpered into you.
You cried harder from the overwhelming pleasure and love, gripping the back of the couch.
“Michael— oh my god,” you sobbed, hips rocking against his tongue. “Y-you’re so good to me… I love you. I love you so much.”
He responded by pulling you down harder, licking deeper, completely lost in pleasing you. His moans vibrated through your core as he devoured you like a starving man.
Even while eating you out, he kept reaching up to touch your waist, your breasts, like he couldn’t stop worshipping every part of you.
When you came again on his tongue, thighs shaking around his head, he held you through it, licking you gently until the tremors stopped. Only then did he guide you off him, his face shiny with your arousal, eyes glassy with love and lust.
He pulled you into his arms immediately, kissing your tear-streaked face over and over.
“Shh, baby, don’t cry,” he whispered, voice full of tenderness. He kissed your wet cheeks, your eyelids, your trembling lips. “I’ve got you.”
“I’ve never felt this loved before,” you whispered.
“I want to be the one who makes you feel like this every day,” he said softly. “You deserve to be loved like this.”
His cock was painfully hard, flushed dark and leaking steadily against his stomach. He looked almost drunk with need, eyes glassy, breathing ragged.
But instead of asking you to stroke him or finish him with your hand, he pulled you back underneath him with surprising strength, settling between your thighs again.
“I need you again,” he whispered, voice hoarse and shaky. “Please, baby. I need to feel you around me one more time.”
Michael groaned softly and pushed back inside you in one slow, smooth thrust. This time he didn’t hold back as much. He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip as he started fucking you with deeper, more confident strokes. His silver necklace swayed between you, cool against your heated skin.
“God… you feel so good,” he breathed, eyes locked on yours. “So warm and tight around me. I could stay inside you forever.”
You moaned, legs wrapping tighter around his waist.
His shyness was still there, flushed cheeks, trembling breath—but the need made him bolder. He thrust harder, rolling his hips with purpose, hitting that perfect spot inside you again and again.
“I want to cum inside you so bad,” he confessed, voice cracking with desperation as he fucked you. “I want to fill you up until you’re dripping with me. I’ve dreamed about it so many times… leaving a part of me inside you.”
His words made you clench around him. He groaned loudly, hips stuttering for a moment.
“But I can’t,” he whimpered, almost in pain, still driving into you deep and steady. “I already went too far tonight. I can’t do that to you. I'm sorry.. I'm sorry”
Even as guilt filled his voice, his body grew more dominant—pinning you down and claiming you with every stroke. The contrast between his sweet, loving words and the way he fucked you made your head spin.
“Look at me, pretty girl,” he said softly, eyes dark and intense. “I want to watch you fall apart.”
You came hard around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashed through you. Michael’s rhythm faltered, his breathing ragged.
“I’m so close,” he gasped. “Baby, I’m right there...”
You could feel him throbbing, fighting with everything he had not to cum inside you.
At the very last second, he pulled out with a broken, devastated sound. He pressed his cock against your lower stomach and stroked himself frantically. Thick, warm ropes of cum spilled across your skin as he came hard, moaning your name like it hurt. His whole body shook with the force of it, eyes squeezed shut, necklace glinting against his chest.
When he finally finished, he stared down at the mess he’d made on your stomach, breathing heavily. Shame and awe mixed on his face.
“You look so pretty covered in me,” he whispered, almost ashamed of the thought. “But it doesn’t feel right… I wanted to give you all of me. This feels disrespectful.”
“I love you,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “So much. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now… but I don’t regret this. Not even a little.”
"I don’t regret it either, Michael. I love you too.”
You stayed like that for a while longer. Tangled together on the old studio couch, fairy lights glowing softly above you, his necklace occasionally brushing your skin. He kept pressing small, nervous kisses to your shoulder, still a little awkward and unsure, but so full of love it made your chest ache.
Eventually, you both knew you had to move.
Michael’s arms tightened around you for a few extra seconds before he reluctantly let go. He sat up first, looking adorably shy and disheveled—curls wild, lips slightly swollen, cheeks still flushed. He helped you gather your clothes with clumsy hands, almost dropping your dress twice.
“Here,” he mumbled, handing it to you while avoiding your eyes. “I… um, I can turn around if you want.”
You smiled softly and touched his arm. “You don’t have to, Mikey.”
He still turned halfway anyway, ears pink, giving you some privacy while he pulled his own clothes back on. The silence between you was gentle but heavy and full of everything unsaid.
When you were both dressed, he walked you to the studio door. He stopped right before opening it, turning to face you. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides.
“I don’t know what happens now,” he said quietly, voice nervous again. “B-but if you… if you regret this tomorrow, I’ll understand. I’ll stay away. I promise.”
“I don’t regret it,” you whispered. “Not for a second.”
You leaned up to kiss him softly on the cheek.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said, trying his very best to hide his bashful smile.
You couldn’t believe your eyes that this was the same boy who made you cum three times tonight.
“Goodnight, Mikey.”
You slipped out into the cool night air, the jasmine vines brushing against your arms as you walked back toward the main house. Your legs still felt shaky. Your skin still carried the faint scent of him. Every step away from the studio made your heart feel heavier.
You quietly let yourself into the house and headed upstairs, hoping to shower and collect yourself before anyone noticed.
But when you opened the bedroom door, the lights were already on.
Jackie was sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing the same clothes from his trip. He looked up at you.
“You’re back early,” you said, trying to keep your voice light.
“Yeah. The meeting wrapped up sooner than expected.” His eyes slowly scanned over you. “Where you been? I got home almost forty minutes ago.”
You forced a small, tired smile.
“I couldn’t sleep,” you answered smoothly. “I went for a walk around the back garden to clear my head. Then I sat in the sunroom for a bit.”
Jackie nodded, but something in his expression shifted. He stood up and walked over to you, reaching out to gently tug at something tangled in your messy hair.
“What’s this?” he asked, holding up the thin silver chain between his fingers.
Michael’s necklace glinted under the warm bedroom light. Delicate, unmistakable, and damning.
Summary: Enrolling in a class you have no true interest in has its perks. Like the sexy professor teaching every class.
Content: Professor Michael Jackson, Mature Michael Jackson, reader or oc x Michael, no Y/N, suggestive, a littleeee smutty??
Word Count: 3.2K
"Maya, why are you taking a poetry class?" Her sister had asked, peeking over her shoulder at her laptop screen.
"Because it's a GPA booster?" Maya stated as if it were just common sense.
At the time she made the mistake of enrolling without doing her due diligence, instead choosing to briefly skim over some reddit comments that failed to mention how particular the professor was.
Normally, after taking a look at the syllabus for a class as difficult as this one, she would've dropped it immediately. But there was one reason she had perfect attendance, and he stood before her every class. It was a shame the class was a mere 50 minutes, but it was the nightlight of week, 3 times a week.
Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, she had a pep in her step her friends all noticed. They thought maybe she was seeing someone but keeping it on the low. They didn't peg her for the kind of girl that went for older men, but it's not like she was really going for him. It was just a crush.
He was so intense. Intriguing. Sexy.
Every day, he'd walk in with his briefcase setting it down before organising the papers he liked to look at. He didn't have slideshows he read off of. He was the kind of professor that had a general idea of what they'd discuss, and then he'd just let the conversation flow.
He always wore something that drove Maya insane though, like he knew exactly what she liked. The first day he showed up, she gasped out loud, having to feign a coughing fit just to cover it up out of sheer embarrassment. Since then, she'd sit just a few rows past the first one. Close enough of her a good look, but not close enough to where he could see the effect he had on her.
"Let the words flow out of you. Don't overthink it. It's due next week, not because I hate you but because I want authenticity." He proposed, using his hands to gesture as he spoke.
God those hands.
It was one of the first things she had noticed. Professor Jackson, being the tempting man he was, had decided to wear a button up with most of the top ones undone, and his sleeve rolled up to his elbows. With his arms on display, Maya had to literally bite back her reaction.
Every time he'd move his hands, she'd see a vein bulge, or a muscle flex and she'd nearly let out a moan at the thought of his hands on her. Not to mention the sheer size of them. Blinking away those thoughts, she tried to pay attention to his lecture but then all she could focus on was his lips.
"Fuck." She whispered to herself, watching as he took his leather jacket off, his black hair falling to the side as he reached down to grab some papers.
"I've graded everyone's work. Good job, for the most part." He began, using his free hand to put his reading glasses on. Maya nearly jumped out of her seat at the sight.
The class chit chatted, every student talking to the one beside them about their work and their concerns about their grades. She couldn't care less. She watched him closely, her head tilted slightly as her eyes wandering over his body. He was lean. He was lanky. She wanted to climb him like a tree, but she couldn't even sit in the front row worried he'd notice her obvious gaze.
"I'll be uploading the marks tonight, so keep an eye out for that. We've officially reached the midpoint of the semester, things will just get harder from here."
Harder was right. Aside from enjoying the class because of the free show she got to enjoy every time, she was doing terribly. She underestimated just how talented she was with words, or maybe he was just too picky. She didn't care if it was the latter. But she'd be lying if she said she wasn't worried for her GPA.
"Class is over early today. See you guys next week." He smiled, putting the papers away as students quickly began to scatter and head out.
Maya however, took her sweet time. He didn't even wait the full 50 minutes, letting everyone go 20 minutes ahead of time. Acting as though she was looking for something in her handbag, she watched him through her lashes as he put that jacket back on, his shoulders flexing through his shirt as he did so.
Her heart racing as if she was going to confess right then and there, she threw her bag over her shoulder, walking past him with a polite smile keeping her eyes on the ground.
"Wait." He said, just as she reached the doors. With the curl of his finger, he motioned for her to come closer.
And come she did, practically running over to him. She hadn't even noticed her was holding one singular piece of paper. With her name on it.
"Yes?" Maya asked, trying to be as nonchalant as possible.
"Maya, right?" He asked, still wearing the reading glasses that did nothing but turn her on.
She stared at him for a moment, inhaling his scent. He smelled as good as he looked. Swallowing, hard, she nodded.
"I've been meaning to talk to you. I'm a little concerned about your grade." He told her, passing her the piece of paper that she finally registered.
It was her poem- or her sad excuse for one. She had completely forgotten about the assignment, only recalling one detail. Anyone can be the muse, and it can be about anything. She knew exactly who to write about.
"Oh." Was all she could utter, taking the piece of paper from him to read her grade. She managed to get a 30%. Staring down at the grade, then back up at him, her mind was in all the wrong places.
All she could think about was how close they were standing to each other, and how much taller he was up close. She tried not to stare at his lips, but the only thing she wanted to do was grab him by the leather jacket he kept teasing her with, and smash her lips on his. Instead, she blinked.
With his hands on his hips, he stared at her, finally taking his glasses off with his free hand and massaging the bridge between his eyebrows.
"I don't normally do this, but I've noticed you're here every class. Oftentimes you're here before I am, so I can tell you care. You just need a little one-on-one time. Drop by my office hours tomorrow, I'll keep them open for you." He told her, giving her that soft smile that had been showing up in her dreams.
She had been just as nervous as she was giddy stepping into his office. It was exactly what she expected. Dark and mysterious. She was terrified about what one-on-one meant, because it certainly didn't mean making out with her. But, getting to see him on a day she normally wouldn't? Big win.
Since she knew she'd be seeing him, alone, she wanted to wear something a little more impressive than what she usually wore. What he liked? She hadn't a clue. But she went off based on what he wears, making sure to show off her assets just a little. Not obvious and tacky, but enough to warrant some intrigue.
"You came?"
'Almost' she thought to herself, nodding as she shut the door behind her.
He was perched up on the edge of his desk, right before the chair she was assuming was for her. Putting her bag down, she took the spot, admiring the view before her.
"How are you?" He asked, looking down at her. This was exactly how her dreams began.
"I'm fine, you?" She asked, trying to be as unsuspecting as she possibly could given the fact that she wanted nothing more than for him to rip her shirt off with his teeth.
"Good now that you're here."
She could've sworn he was flirting with her, the way he was looking at her through those frames she loved so dearly.
"Of course. I wanna do a good job for you." She told him.
'Subtle' she thought to herself, nearly shaking her head, quickly adding "Uh- since you went out of your way to help me- I mean. You said you don't do this often, so I really appreciate it."
He nodded, "Well let's get started then. Tell me, why are you taking this class to begin with?"
'Shit' she bit her lower lip, glancing down at his hands trying to think of an answer better than, 'I thought it would be easy, turns out it's not, and you're crazy hot. Can we make out?'
"I just thought it would be a fun elective. I like songs, I wanted to see if I could write some." She lied, playing with the hem of her skirt nearly sweating through her shirt. Maybe it was the fact that she was alone, in an enclosed room with the hottest man she had ever seen. Or that she wasn't a good liar.
"I see. Well, the issue isn't your writing." He began, leaning back as he crossed his arms, his forearms flexing. Why did he always have his veiny arms on display? It was so distracting. "It's that your poetry reads... forced."
"Ouch. That's mean." Maya jokingly frowned, scrunching her nose trying to lighten the mood because he seemed a little more serious than she would've liked.
"It's honest, after all I'm your professor. Not your friend."
She narrowed her eyes at him, tilting her head to the side pushing him to continue.
"You're trying too hard to sound profound instead of writing something real. Good poetry usually comes from having real emotions, that way you don't have to invent them."
She stared at him, his advice going over her head as her thoughts wandered to different places. Like what if she took a risk, leaned over the desk and just gave in?
"Maya."
The way he said her name snapped her out of her fantasy, blinking herself back into reality realizing she had been staring at him without a word.
"Hm?"
Professor Jackson exhaled a quiet laugh, through his nose, pushing himself off the desk. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?" She asked innocently, pouting ever so slightly.
"That thing where you look at me like you're not listening to a single word I'm saying. You do it most classes too."
Had he noticed her before? Was she that obvious? She could've died on the spot just thinking about it. But it's not like he made it easy for her, looking the way he did. And being as smart as he was. She never cared for poetry, but she'd read some of his stuff. He was talented beyond comprehension.
"Sorry, just a little distracted."
"Maybe that's the issue. What exactly was going through your mind while writing it?"
She damn near combusted on the spot. She couldn't recall a single line of her life depended on it, but she knew each one was about him. Something about temptation.
She cleared her throat, "I was just trying to be creative."
"Mhm." His tone told her he didn't believe for, not for a second. But it was music to her ears. If she could record him whispering, humming, just talking, she would so she could listen to it as she slept.
"Well, your poem reads like someone trying really hard to describe desire without truly understanding it. I think it would help if you had a muse."
She almost laughed in his face. If only he knew. He was more than a muse, he was an obsession. He was all she could think about, talk about, daydream about. If he wasn't a muse, she didn't know what was.
"Who says I'm inventing it?"
That made him pause, just slightly. His eyebrows jumped more a moment before they settled. His eyes narrowed behind those stupidly sexy glasses. "You have a muse?"
She nodded, avoiding eye contact.
"They can't be very inspiring if this is what you came up with."
"Uh-" Her jaw dropped, quickly shutting because there wasn't a single thought in her head.
He smiled faintly at that, "May I ask who?"
The room suddenly felt too warm, despite the gloom beyond his window.
Maya looked down at her hands before glancing back up at him through her lashes, a shy smile pulling at her mouth despite herself. She watched as realization hit him in real time.
His expression froze. Eyes widening just slightly as every interaction they'd had over the semester replayed. Her sitting front row. The constant flirting. The lingering after class. The staring.
"...Ah." The single sound came out quiet. Slowly, he stood from the desk.
Maya's heartbeat turned violent as he moved around to the other side of it, lowering himself into his chair this time instead of sitting near her, creating distance. Suddenly all that excitement turned to a lump in her throat, her hands clammy and her button up too tight.
"Oh my god." She blurted quickly, grabbing her bag before she cried before him, "I'm sorry, forget I said anything, I should go-"
"Maya."
"No seriously, this is so embarrassing, I need to leave-"
"Maya" His voice came firmer that time, a command rather than a plea. If she wasn't so flustered, she'd bite to think about it later.
Both of them stood now, he wasn't leaning on the edge of his desk anymore, instead just a few feet away since she had already been making her way to the door. With on hand on his hip, the other rubbing the back of his neck as he exhaled a quiet laugh to himself like he couldn't believe the situation he was in.
Maya however was seconds from passing out, or jumping out of the window behind him.
"I should go." She repeated weakly, inching for the door.
"Maya."
Her hand paused the handle.
"Close, and lock the door."
She turned towards him, following his exact orders. The soft click of the lock the only sound between them. When she turned around, he was looking at her differently. Not like a professor.
He wasn't even trying to hide it. His gaze flickered over her once, head to toe before he looked away briefly giving her a look at that jawline as it tightened like he was fighting with himself internally.
"I cannot believe I'm about to say this," he half muttered to himself, his hand on his jaw like his body was trying to tell him no.
"Say what?" Maya asked innocently, eyes wide as she couldn't think straight.
His gaze lifted back to hers, "I can't say I haven't thought about it."
"Thought about what?"
Professor Jackson laughed softly, shaking his head before she realized they had managed to reduce the distance between them, "Oh, shut up."
Before she could muster up a response, still somewhat lost, thinking this was a sick dream, his hand gently caught the end of her shirt just by her waist, tugging her towards him. She stumbled forward with a startled gasp, her bag falling from her shoulder just as his mouth crashed against hers.
And goodness. Every fantasy she'd had about kissing him somehow fell short. He kissed like her was starving. There was no other way to describe it.
He had spent months starving himself of something he desperately wanted, only to finally snap and give in all at once. His hands had found her waist instantly, pulling her flush against him as he kissed her deeply enough to leave her dizzy.
And his lips? Soft in a way that completely contrasted the intensity and passion between them. He kissed her like he wanted to memorize the feeling of her mouths against his, as if he couldn't decide whether he wanted to savour or devour her. He tasted just as good as everything else about him. Coffee. Mint. Something that made her instinctively grip the front of his shirt tighter.
A quiet sound escaped her throat when he kissed her harder, leaning into her and her hands slipped onto his neck for support. He practically groaned in her mouth at that reaction.
"You have no idea," her murmured against her lips, breath uneven now, "how long I've wanted to do this."
The confession alone knocked the air right out of her, her stomach light and fluttery as she pulled back just enough to look up at him, her lips swollen, heart pounding in her chest, "Oh yeah?"
He started at her for half a second, admiring how disheveled she looked now, her lipstick smudges and her shirt unbuttoned from him tugging on her like that.
"Mhm."
His hand slipped beneath the hem of her shirt. Maya inhaled sharply at the sudden warmth of his palm against her skin, the sudden touch making her arch towards him. Michael groaned softly at her reaction, eyes fluttering shut for a second like he was trying to desperately keep himself together.
"Gosh, Maya."
Confidence surged through her body at the realization that she affected him just as badly. At that, her hands slid upward slowly, curling around the collar of his shirt, staring up at him with big eyes making sure he saw the look on her face before she made her move.
Tugging him closer, her lips brushed along the edge of his jawline teasingly. He froze.
'Interesting' she thought, pulling back to get a good look at his face. He had his eyes shut, his breathing a little heavier. She kissed just beneath his jaw again, slower this time.
"You sure are quiet now." She teased softly against his skin, his grip on her waist tightening.
"Maya." He warned.
She only hummed innocently before kissing lower toward his neck, and the sound he let out after that was enough to drive her crazy. Low. Rough. Completely unguarded.
"Oh," she whispered, smiling slightly against his skin. "You like that."
Michael laughed breathlessly, one hand sliding fully beneath her shirt now, fingertips tracing slowly along her waist.
"You're getting cocky."
"You started it."
"Did I?"
"Mhm." she kissed the corner of his mouth once before pulling back just enough to look at him. "You're the one who pulled me over here."
That earned her a look, the kind that made her entire body warm instantly.
"Sit." he told her, using his head to gesture to the desk he'd just been leaning on. She listened, spinning over and pushing herself up.
He stood between her legs, his hands at the back of her neck, guiding her into another kiss hard enough to steal the breath from her lungs.
"Such a good girl for me," he murmured against her mouth afterward, voice rough enough to make her knees weaken. "Doing just as I say."
She nearly melted on the spot, moaning into his mouth. The worst part? He noticed.
A smug smile tugged at his lips, his thumb brushed against her waist, "There it is." he teased softly, "You like that huh?"
A/N: THIS WAS SOOOO FUNN omg mature mike is so sexy I need him
