bewilderedhush @bewilderedhush - Tumblr Blog

I love love love your writing! Rock with you has got me on a chokehold!!! I have a request if that’s okay 🥹 Where the reader and Michael have an established relationship (could even be married?) but they haven’t seen each other in a very long time (work obligations and such) so she sees him for the first time at the MTV VMAs stage (that epic performance!!!) and it’s her first time seeing him with the short hair and it’s an instant turn on. She’s miserable because she has to behave during the entire ceremony (doesn’t do a very good job) and Michael is completely unaware at first, but catches on and starts making things even harder for her. Could lead to smut or at least be very suggestive.

It’s a lot of details but pretty please!!

That Boy Is So Dangerous

AN: This request took me some time i had to watch and rewatch the performance and this is my first time doing a reader version.

This short curly hair was so HOT homagawd.

There's smut. Minors DNI. At all.

Requested by the lovely @bewilderedhush

The flight back from London felt entirely too long. By the time you stepped off the plane, your body felt heavy with exhaustion, your mind fogged from time zones, press obligations, and weeks of missing Michael. All you wanted was to crawl into bed beside your soon-to-be husband, curl into his arms, and sleep for a week.

Unfortunately, life had other plans. The VMAs were waiting, and neither fame nor obligation cared that you were tired, jet-lagged, and aching for a quiet moment that belonged only to the two of you.

By the time you reached the hotel, you were already dreaming of taking off your shoes and disappearing beneath the covers. But the second you opened the door, you stopped.

Peonies and carnations filled the room, arranged across the tables and near the windows in soft bursts of pink, cream, and deep red. Their scent wrapped around you gently, familiar and romantic, easing some of the tension from your shoulders. Then you saw the note resting against one of the vases.

Had to go to the venue ahead of time. I can’t wait to see you. I love you to the moon, orbiting the stars and back. — Michael

You smiled before your eyes dropped to the bottom.

P.S. Please wear that black leather dress with the split.

A tired laugh slipped out as warmth crept into your cheeks. “Bossy from across town,” you murmured, shaking your head.

Still, your fingers lingered on the note. You could hear his voice in every word, sweet and teasing with that little edge of mischief he only let out when he knew he could get away with it. You missed him so much it sat in your chest like an ache.

So you wore the dress, along with red stilettos and silver jewelry that caught the light every time you moved, complimenting your engagement ring. On the red carpet, you answered questions about his performance, your relationship, your upcoming directorial debut, and who you were wearing, all while pretending you weren’t counting the minutes until you saw him.

By the time you were seated inside the venue, the room was buzzing with anticipation. Cameras flashed from every direction. Celebrities leaned close in excited whispers. The air felt charged, like everyone knew they were waiting for something special.

But no one in that room was waiting the way you were.

When the lights dropped and the opening began, your breath caught. He opened with one of your all-time favorites, and for a few seconds, you forgot about the cameras, the audience, and everyone around you. You were too caught up in him, in the command of his body, the sharpness of his movements, the way he stepped onto that stage like it belonged to him.

Then came the fire.

Your stomach tightened the first time it burst up from the stage.

“Oh my God,” you whispered, sitting up straighter.

You knew it was rehearsed. You knew he was trained, precise, and aware of every mark and cue, but none of that stopped your heart from climbing into your throat when he ran across the stage, signaling for the flames during Slash’s guitar solo like danger was just another part of the music.

You gripped the arms of your chair, torn between awe and nerves. “Michael,” you breathed, half warning, half prayer.

But he looked fearless. Completely alive. Completely in control.

By the time the “Billie Jean” section started, you could breathe again, though barely. His body moved like the beat had climbed inside him and taken over. Every turn, every snap, every glide looked effortless, but you knew better. You knew there had been late nights in the studio and endless rehearsals, him twisting and testing movements until they matched whatever version of the music only he could hear.

The tick walk slid seamlessly into his classic moonwalk, made even cooler by one hand tucked into his pocket, like defying physics was casual. Like making an entire arena lose its mind took no effort at all.

You sat there with your lips parted, your applause delayed because you were too busy staring.

What a man.

When he stopped, the audience erupted. You stood with everyone else, clapping hard, your chest full of pride as he took the microphone. His face shifted almost instantly once the music paused, the commanding performer softening into the shy, grateful man you knew so well.

“Thank you,” he said, breathless and smiling as the crowd screamed louder. He ducked his head for a second, overwhelmed, before lifting the mic again. “I love you all. I love you so much.”

Your heart softened.

That contrast always got to you. One moment he was fire, precision, rhythm, and absolute control. The next, he was bashful, almost boyish, smiling like he still couldn’t believe people loved him that much.

Then the stage transformed again, of course he had planned it that way. Your theatrical, dramatic, hopelessly romantic fiancé knew exactly how to turn an arena into a love letter when he wanted to. When the opening of “Dangerous” hit, the energy shifted completely.

He became sharper, darker, smoother in a way that made your pulse misbehave.

And when his eyes found yours during the song, the rest of the room blurred. It felt impossible that thousands of people were watching, because somehow he made it feel private. Like every step, every glance, every roll of his shoulders was meant only for you.

The pelvic thrusts did absolutely nothing to help the thoughts forming in your head.

Neither did he.

Especially when he leaned into the attitude of the song and delivered that cheeky, pointed, “You know you want me,” with his eyes aimed directly at you.

The people around you screamed. You just stared at him, stunned, amused, and entirely too affected. Then he glanced over again during the dance break, biting his bottom lip for half a second before snapping back into the choreography.

He knew exactly what he was doing and worse, he knew you loved it.

By the second standing ovation, you were flushed, breathless, and completely undone by him. It wasn’t just the performance, though that alone would have been enough. It was the raw talent, the precision, the charisma, the way he poured his whole body into the music until there was nothing left between him and the sound.

But what really got you was the shyness that returned when the applause hit. The way he smiled and looked down, almost embarrassed by how deeply the crowd loved him. That softness after all that intensity did something to you every time.

You thought the performance was over.

Then the opening notes of “You Are Not Alone” began an your whole body went still.

After weeks apart, missed calls, rushed schedules, different countries, different beds, and too many nights falling asleep without him beside you, the song landed somewhere deep. Your throat tightened before he even started singing.

Michael looked at you almost immediately, not by accident his dark brown eyes purposefully looking into yours.

As he sang, his voice softened around the lyrics, and your eyes began to burn. You tried to blink the feeling away, but it only made it worse. He knew what this song meant tonight.

When he reached the chorus, he moved down the stairs.

Your heart jumped. The cameras followed him, the crowd screamed, but he kept his eyes on you as he came closer. Before you could fully process it, he reached for your hand.

His fingers wrapped around yours gently, warm and slightly damp from the performance. The second his hand closed around yours, something inside you loosened.

You had missed him. Deeply.

He tugged you up just enough to fold you into a careful hug, mindful of the audience and the cameras, but unable to keep himself from touching you. His arms held you with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

You pressed your cheek briefly against his shoulder, closing your eyes for one stolen second.

“I missed you,” you whispered quickly, barely loud enough for him to hear over the crowd.

His hand tightened around yours, and for a moment, his head dipped close to yours like he wanted to answer but couldn’t trust his voice. Then he had to let go.

You watched him run back up the stairs, your hand still tingling from where he’d held it. A choir emerged behind him, their voices swelling around his as he poured every bit of emotion into the final stretch of the song. His face was open, vulnerable, and full of feeling, like he was giving the entire room his heart while saving the deepest part of it for you.

By the final note, you couldn’t stop yourself from clapping loudly for him, laughing softly through the emotion caught in your throat. The audience rose around you, but there was no hiding how moved you were. Not from him.

He gave his thank-yous again, breathless and glowing beneath the lights, then came down the stairs before anyone could fully stop him.

This time, he hugged you tightly. The crowd roared, cameras flashed, and still he leaned close enough for his lips to brush your ear.

“I missed you,” he whispered.

You closed your eyes, holding him for as long as the moment allowed.

The show continued around you, but Michael took your hand and led you backstage, his palm locked around yours like he was afraid someone might pull you away. His adrenaline was still pouring off him, his curls damp, sweat shining along his throat as people rushed toward him.

“Michael, that was incredible.”

“You killed it, man.”

“Legendary. Absolutely legendary.”

He smiled, thanked them, accepted hugs and congratulations, but he never let go of your hand. Every time someone reached for him, his fingers tightened around yours. Every time someone pulled him into a brief embrace, he shifted so you stayed close.

You watched him with quiet affection, amused by the way he could command an entire stage and still cling to your hand like a boy who had finally found his way home.

At one point, you leaned closer and teased softly, “You know you’re allowed to let go for five seconds.”

He looked over at you immediately, eyes bright, smile breathless. “No, I’m not.”

Your heart squeezed. “Michael.”

“I’m serious,” he murmured, his voice gentle beneath the backstage noise. “I haven’t had you near me in weeks.”

The honesty quieted your teasing. You squeezed his hand back. “I know. I felt it too.”

His expression softened, the playful edge fading into something more vulnerable. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The noise around you blurred beneath the look passing between you.

Then someone called his name from down the hall, and he blinked like he remembered where he was.

“Come on,” he said softly, tugging you with him.

By the time you reached his dressing room, his patience had thinned with every interruption. The second you stepped inside, he closed the door behind you and locked it.

The click sounded louder than it should have.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then he turned around, and his smile spread slowly, wide and beautiful, still breathless from the stage and soft with relief now that you were finally alone.

You crossed the room and kissed him before either of you could say another word.

Michael caught you instantly, one arm circling your waist while the other hand came up to cradle the back of your head. The kiss was desperate at first, messy with all the weeks you had spent missing each other, then it softened into something deeper, slower, aching with relief.

“Missed you so much,” you whispered against his mouth, your hands gripping the front of his shirt.

“Missed you too, baby. So much,” he groaned, deepening the kiss until you were both breathless. He backed you into the vanity, the impact rattling the surface. With one sweeping motion of his arm, he cleared the top, sending makeup palettes, brushes, and haircare bottles crashing to the floor in a chaotic symphony of glass and plastic. He didn't care. He hiked up your dress in one motion, exposing your thighs to the air.

“I really need to taste you right now, baby,” he rasped, his voice husky and thick with lust. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your silk panties and pulled them down, exposing your dripping pussy. The moment his lips hit your lower folds, you quivered, a jolt of electricity shooting through your spine.

It had been an eternity—countless days and agonizing hours since you had felt him. You craved the weight of his body, the heat of his mouth, the invasion of his fingers, and the stretch of his dick. You wanted to be completely overwhelmed, drowned in him. Normally, he was the reserved one, the anchor to your adventurous spirit, but the long absence had mutated his restraint into a raw, aggressive lust.

The second his tongue lashed across your clit, your body convulsed. You were tired of your own fingers; you needed him. When he shoved two fingers deep inside your soaking walls while simultaneously sucking your nub, you let out a piercing scream. He reacted instantly, grabbing your discarded silk panties and stuffing them firmly into your mouth to muffle the noise.

“Just for a minute, baby,” he murmured against your wet skin. “Can’t have the backstage crew hearing you moan my name… can I?”

Just as he prepared to dive back in, a sharp knock echoed through the room. A voice informed him that you both needed to be in your seats in five minutes.

“Hear that? We gotta hurry this up. We can finish this properly when we get home.”

There was no more teasing. He unsheathed his throbbing dick and, without a second of hesitation, slammed himself deep into your pussy in one powerful thrust. You gasped into the fabric in your mouth, your eyes widening at the sheer force of it. He began fucking you stupid, his hips hammering against yours with a primal rhythm that erased everything but the sensation of him filling you.

This was unlike him—aggressive, needy, and utterly dominant. He growled low in your ear, the vibration sending shivers through you as he whispered how much he loved you, how breathtaking you looked, and how he vowed never to let you go for that long again. He promised you a lifetime of this, his voice a guttural rumble of possession.

You clawed at his back, your nails digging through his shirt as you bucked against him. With the panties muffling your screams, your moans became low, guttural vibrations. The friction was intense, the pace frantic. As the pressure built to an unbearable peak, he delivered one final, devastating thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

You exploded, your internal walls clamping violently around him in a series of rhythmic spasms. Your toes curled tight and your eyes rolled back in your head as a crashing orgasm ripped through you, leaving you shaking and breathless in his arms.

Once you both caught your breath, laughter started to slip out between you, soft and breathless at first, then harder as the tension finally broke. The two of you clung to each other, flushed and amused by how quickly missing each other had turned into pure need.

You let your head fall back for a second, still smiling as you tried to steady yourself.

“You were incredible tonight.”

Michael’s smile softened immediately, shy despite the way his hands still held you close. “Yeah?”

You nodded, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “But the fire scared me half to death.”

A quiet laugh left him as he leaned into your touch. “I knew you were gonna fuss about the fire.”

“Because you were running around like flames are background dancers.”

His grin widened. “They kind of were.”

“Michael.”

“What?” he asked, trying to look innocent and failing.

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “You stress me out.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “But you love me.”

“Always and Forever baby."

He smiled softly, then kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world even though you both knew he didn’t. His hands settled at your waist, warm and possessive, his thumbs pressing lightly into the leather of your dress.

“You wore it,” he murmured, glancing down for half a second before looking back at you.

“You asked.”

“I hoped.”

“You knew exactly what you were doing tonight.”

His smile turned playful, though his eyes stayed tender. “So did you, walking in here looking like this.”

Before you could answer, a knock sounded at the door.

“Michael? They need you back at your seat in two .”

He sighed, dropping his forehead briefly to your shoulder. “Of course.”

You laughed softly and smoothed your hands over his chest. “Come on, superstar.”

He lifted his head, still smiling, then reached for a towel and cleaned himself up quickly. A stylist slipped in long enough to fix his hair, touch up his face, help him into a latex jacket that made your mouth water, and hand him his sunglasses.

He put them on with that effortless cool that made you roll your eyes and smile at the same time.

“What?” he asked, catching your look.

“You know exactly what.” Your gaze moved over him slowly before returning to his face, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip. “This new hair, by the way?”

Michael’s smile widened, pleased and a little shy despite himself.

You tilted your head, making no effort to hide your appreciation. “It looks so good on you.”

He reached for your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I'm glad you like it.”

By the time you returned to your seats, the show had moved on, but the energy around him hadn’t settled. People still leaned over to congratulate him, still clapped him on the shoulder, still looked at him like they had witnessed something historic. He accepted it all graciously, smiling behind his sunglasses, but his hand stayed wrapped around yours in his lap.

You leaned close and whispered, “You’re still not letting go?”

He turned his head toward you, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Not tonight.”

Your fingers tightened around his. “Good.”

A few categories later, his name was called and the room erupted again.

For a split second, Michael went still beside you, like even after everything, the sound of his name still caught him off guard. Then he smiled, ducking his head as the applause swelled around him. You stood with him, clapping proudly as he leaned down to kiss your cheek before making his way to the stage.

With his sunglasses still on, he accepted the award, one hand wrapped around it while the other adjusted the mic. The crowd quieted just enough for him to speak.

“Thank you,” he began, his voice soft and breathless with emotion. “Thank you so much. I’m honored. I really am.”

The applause rose again, and he smiled shyly, glancing down before looking back out at the room.

“I want to thank my fans. I love you all very much. Thank you for staying with me, for believing in me, and for letting me keep doing what I love.”

Your chest warmed as you watched him, pride spreading through you all over again.

Then his head turned slightly, and even behind the sunglasses, you knew he had found you.

“And I want to thank my beautiful and amazing fiancée,” he continued, his smile turning playful at the edges. “She flew all the way back from London and still managed to look beautiful and supports me like no other.”

The audience reacted instantly, laughter and cheers rippling through the venue as cameras cut to you. Your eyes widened and you laughed, covering your face for half a second.

He added, his tone sweet but unmistakably flirtatious. “Thank you for loving me, for inspiring me, and for wearing that dress.”

The room screamed.nYou dropped your head, laughing as heat rushed into your face, but when you looked back up, he was still smiling at you from behind those sunglasses, pleased with himself in the most aggravating, adorable way.

“I love you,” he said softly into the mic, the flirtation giving way to something sincere. “This is for you too.”

The applause swallowed the room again as he lifted the award slightly, but his eyes stayed on you. And when he came back to his seat, smiling wider than ever, you reached for his hand before he even sat down.

"I love you too."

AN: I struggled with this one it was like 20 pages long and i had to edit.

bewilderedhush

I mean!!!

#michael jackson #mj fanfic #michael jackson one shot #michael jackson imagine #michael jackson vmas #dangerous era #king of pop #mjj #michael jackson smut

prettyangeliczz

he’s such an attractive man, it’s so sick.

gothicmj

yes he is Bambi, but sometimes he is also a little cat

gothicmj

Catcheal confirmed!!!

Michael Jackson and his glorious afro

#michael jackson #mjj #moonwalker #michael joseph jackson #mj #applehead #mjjforever #king of pop #michaeljackson #the jacksons

I have a requests for all the writers out there.

I'd love a story about Michael's long term partner/wife who is famously private and reserved. She never does interviews, avoids the spotlight whenever possible. She's usually and composed. But the second Michael steps onto a stage, all dignity completely disappears

She's not just in love with Michael the man she's also genuinely a fan of Michael the performer and he absolutely lives for it.

I’m talking instantly on her feet dancing, singing every lyric, cheering louder than anyone else in the room, crying during her favorite songs, passionately stomping her feet and clutching her chest during the political ones. Yelling things like “THAT'S MY MAN!" after performances. Then back to her usual self when it’s over.

Over the years, it becomes a running joke with the media. Whenever Michael is performing, cameras immediately cut to her because everyone knows she's going to be having the time of her life. Fans start looking forward to her reactions almost as much as the performances themselves.

And Michael notices her constantly while he's on stage. He feeds off her energy. Sometimes he's clearly showing off for her.

Maybe the scenes can span many years of their relationship, showing how nothing changes. No matter how long they've been together, she's still his biggest fan and he's still completely obsessed with the fact that his favorite audience member is the woman he loves.

Everyone expects a celebrity spouse to eventually become immune to the magic, and meanwhile she’s in year twenty of the marriage still standing up during “Billie Jean” like she just discovered him yesterday 😭