Summary: A Rumor Has Been Going Around About You And D***a R**s. So During An Interview With You And Michael You Were Asked About It.
Warning(s): That Woman Is A Warning By Herself, Language,
A/N: Just Wanted To Join In On Bashing Her. Please Follow, Like, Reblog. My Request Are Open.
People remembered the magazine covers, the news reports, the grainy paparazzi photos, and the headlines splashed across every tabloid for weeks afterward.
Something had happened between you and Diana Ross at a party, and by the end of the night Diana had been seen leaving in tears.
Meanwhile, photos of you leaving the same party looked completely different. You were calmly fixing your lipstick in the reflection of a car window while Michael Jackson kept a protective hand around your waist, carefully guiding you through the crowd of flashing cameras so you wouldn’t bump into anyone.
You already knew reporters were going to ask questions eventually. And honestly? You didn’t care.
So now here you were, seated beside Michael during an interview, fingers loosely intertwined with his while reporters circled like vultures. At first, you handled the questions politely, your years of PR training showing through every practiced smile.
But the second Diana’s name was mentioned, your expression changed immediately. “So, Ms. Y/N, do you mind if we ask a few questions?”“Ask away,” you answered smoothly. “Well, I’m sure you’ve seen the tabloids over the past couple of weeks. Can you tell us what happened that night between you and Diana Ross?”
Your smile dropped instantly, leaving behind nothing but irritation. Even the interviewer looked caught off guard by the sudden shift in your expression. “Are you okay, Ms. Y/N?” “Oh, I’m fine,” you replied coolly. “I’m just not a big fan of Diana Ross. You could say I’m more of a Cher girl.” A few nervous laughs echoed through the room.
“Michael, do you mind telling us—” “Hey,” you interrupted sharply, turning toward the interviewer. “You already asked me. No reason to ask Michael.” Beside you, Michael quietly rubbed his thumb over the back of your hand, trying to calm you down before things escalated.
“As much as I want to say a lot of things about that woman,” you continued, your voice dangerously sweet, “I’m going to keep this brief because my mama raised a good girl.” You paused for a moment before adding: “Unlike her.” Michael nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Your mind drifted back to that night. It had been after an award show that you and Michael attended together. The evening had started perfectly music, drinks, laughter, Michael smiling brighter than he had in days.
At one point, Michael had wandered off to talk to people while you headed to the bar to grab drinks for the two of you. You were feeling good that night. Relaxed. Happy.
Until someone stepped beside you. “You’re Y/N, correct?” You turned slightly and immediately saw Diana Ross standing there. And instantly, your mood soured. “…Yeah.” Diana gave you a once-over, slow and judgmental look.
“Well,” she said lightly, “I just wanted to see what Michael dragged in this time.”
You gripped the drinks tighter. Over the years, you had heard enough stories and seen enough behavior from Diana to know exactly the kind of person she could be. Still, you tried to keep your composure. You just wanted to get back to Michael and leave.
But Diana kept going. “You know,” she continued, swirling her drink lazily, “it’s not going to last between you two.” You stayed silent. “Either he’ll get bored and leave you…” she said with a shrug, “or you’ll leave him once you realize he can’t give you what you actually need.”
Your jaw clenched. “And honestly?” Diana smirked. “Michael’s always been easy to manipulate. He gets attached to anyone who gives him attention.”
That did it.
Without a second thought, you poured your drink straight down the front of her dress. The gasp around you was immediate.
Diana jumped back in shock. “What the hell is wrong with you, you little rat?!” “Oh, now I’m the problem?” you snapped. “You walk around bullying people and expect nobody to react?” “You think you’re special because he’s entertaining you right now?” Diana spat. “Please.” “And you think tearing him down makes you important?” you shot back.
At that point voices were raised, insults were flying, and somewhere in the chaos a couple of swings were thrown before security rushed in.
But through all the yelling, you remembered one thing clearly: Michael grabbing your hand and pulling you away from the crowd not caring about anyone but you. And as you were being pulled away you yelled out, “Rot In Hell!”.
“Baby, baby, hey—look at me,” he said softly once he got you outside. “Are you okay? What happened?”
You were still breathing hard with anger. “She pissed me off so much,” you muttered. “She started talking badly about you and I couldn’t just stand there listening to it.” Michael’s expression softened immediately.
“Did she say anything bad about you?” “That’s not the point,” you said quickly. “I don’t care what she thinks about me. But when it comes to you? No. I’m not letting anybody disrespect you like that.” Michael gently cupped your face before kissing you softly, and you felt yourself calm down almost instantly. “So…” he teased quietly, “you were my knight in shining armor tonight?” You finally smiled. “I always will be.”
Back in the present, a small smirk tugged at your lips as the interviewer carefully asked another question.
“So you’re saying Diana Ross was bullying you?” “I’m saying she was being a bully,” you corrected. “And I hate bullies.” “Are you worried she might sue you?” You actually laughed at that. “Oh, I would love for her to sue me,” you said confidently. “I would love to see that woman in court.”
The interview ended shortly afterward. Later that night, you and Michael were curled up together in your shared bed, the lights dim and the chaos of the media finally far away.
Michael traced small circles against your arm before speaking quietly. “Thank you, baby.” You looked up at him. “For what?” “For standing up for me.” Your expression softened instantly. “Of course, sweetie,” you whispered. “I love you with all my heart. And I’ll be damned if someone talks badly about you or to you without consequences. I don’t care who it is. Diana Ross or anybody else.” Michael laughed softly before leaning down to kiss you again.
“I swear,” he murmured against your lips, “the Lord really blessed me with a woman like you.” You smiled warmly, resting your head against his chest while his arms wrapped securely around you. And eventually, the two of you drifted off to sleep tangled together, far away from the cameras, the headlines, and everyone else’s opinions.
warnings: 18+, nasty nasty nasty, blowjob, choking, degradation, manipulation, and more
“swallow m’ whole,” michael groans, pushing your head down further on his cock. “gonna cum down that pretty throat.” his legs spreading more so he could push your head down harder.
your hands lay on his thighs, trying to keep yourself up but oh no mikey doesn’t like that. “stop tryn’ get up.” he groans, slamming your head back down to the base of his cock. “not done til’ i say.”
he throws his head back as you choke on his dick, whimpering everytime you gag on him. he grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you off of him just so he can take a look at your ruined face.
his dick twitching and oozing above you, “spit on it, mama” you prop yourself up using his thighs, and slowly let the spit fall onto his swollen tip. he whimpers and his grip on your hair tightens.
“mm look at y’” he mocks, “such a nasty girl f’ my cock” he looks down at you, his brown eyes full of lust. you look down, but not before a hand meets your chin and forces you to look up to him.
“say it.” he demands, “s-say what?” your voice comes out soft a complete contrast from his. “tell me how bad y’ want mikey’s dick.” your chin hurting from his grip.
“s-so bad-” you start, bringing your mouth back to his pulsing dick. “p-please, mikey.” your tongue slides up and down his cock, groans and curses leaving his mouth.
"come on, baby," michael purrs, his voice low and commanding. "use that pretty little mouth of yours to worship my dick like you should." he pushes against your mouth, trying to thrust deeper inside.
his breath comes out in short, sharp pants as he fucks your mouth. his grip on your hair tightens, pulling you closer as he thrusts deeper. you can feel the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat with each movement.
"look up at me while you suck it," he commands. you obey, tilting your head back as you continue to bob your head on his length. he groans when he sees the tears streaming down your face and the spit dripping from your lips.
his dick hits the back of your throat over and over, making you choke and gag around him. spit and precum mix together, dripping down your chin and onto your tits.
michael groans deeply as your tongue works over his dripping slit, before he pushes you head back down to take more of him, "yeah, take it deeper," he mutters, watching your eyes water as you choke around him. "look at you, so good f’ me.”
with one hard thrust, he buries himself balls deep in your throat and comes hard, pumping hot ropes of cum directly down your throat. he holds your head in place, forcing you to swallow every last drop as he groans, “atta girl…”
note: okay i tried my best blowjobs are my weakness i hope u guys enjoy this my inner freak came out when i was writing this , manipulative michael>>>>>> anyways i hope u guys enjoy <3
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader
summary 𖹭 a late-night grocery run turns mildly catastrophic when michael gets recognised in the produce section. while security suffers in the background and the crowd outside keeps growing, his spouse is far more concerned with determining which pasta sauce has the best volume-to-price ratio. somehow, arguing over tomato percentages ends up calming michael down more than anything else could.
content 𖹭 2.05k words, married! michael jackson, gn! reader, domestic fluff, grocery store date, humour, paparazzi, mildly overwhelmed michael, famous people trying to be normal, i need more fluff for my man
author's note 𖹭 guys that bio-pic has really taken over my life, i need to get a job. I HAVEN'T HAD A CRUSH ON MICHAEL JACKSON SINCE I WAS 5 WHY DID IT HAVE TO RELIVE IT NOW. I HAVE STUFF TO DO WHYYYY.
every once in a while, you insist on grocery shopping yourselves. is it practical? fuck no. but there was an incident in 1999 where you watched an assistant confidently purchase twelve avocados that were somehow simultaneously rock hard, bruised, and expired. you had stared at the bag in silent anguish before declaring, “i refuse to become so far up my own ass that i forget how to pick fruit.” from that point onward, despite constant protests from security, management, and anyone else logistically responsible for your safety, you and michael occasionally snuck out to buy groceries late at night. adorned in hoodies, baseball caps, sunglasses at objectively unreasonable hours, face masks — basically anything that looked like it would hide your identities when in reality it just made the two of you look significantly more suspicious. note to self, next time, consider trying the clark kent glasses approach instead.
nonetheless, usually it worked.
the important word is usually.
as tonight, it did not.
you stand in the pasta aisle, skin pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, holding two jars of marinara up at eye level with the unwavering concentration of a surgeon evaluating donor organs. the glass feels cool against your fingertips as you tilt each bottle slightly, watching the sauce slide sluggishly against the sides. one boasts a higher tomato percentage and fewer preservatives, its deep red colour rich and velvety beneath the artificial supermarket lighting. the other is cheaper by nearly two dollars, though its thinner consistency and suspiciously orange undertones suggest a much lower quality. you narrow your eyes at the ingredients list, lips pursed in thought. too much water. too much sugar. not enough garlic.
i mean what even is ‘arrabiata’ anyway…?
around you, the supermarket hums quietly. refrigerators buzz, the sound reverberating against the tiled floors, lights flicker faintly overhead, and somewhere nearby a trolley with a most definitely broken wheel squeaks with irritating persistence. the scent of bakery bread and industrial floor cleaner mixes together strangely in the cold air. somewhere in the distance, a small commotion begins to stir near the front entrance of the store, voices rising faintly above the mechanical drone of refrigerators and rattling carts, but you barely register it. right now, your full attention is devoted entirely to determining which pasta sauce offers the most financially efficient ratio of authenticity to price.
then suddenly one of your security guards speed walks past the aisle looking visibly stressed. immediately after, another one. you glance up briefly. “…hm.”
from somewhere in the distance you hear it: “oh my god, that’s michael jackson.”
ah. there it is.
you sigh lightly to yourself and continue examining labels. honestly, this is why you told him not to wear those sunglasses.
“michael, nobody wears massive black aviators inside a grocery store at eleven o’clock at night unless they are either famous or actively shoplifting.”
“they complete the outfit.”
“you’re going to get mobbed or arrested.”
“that’s mean.”
five minutes later, you hear the unmistakable squeak of your husband’s rubber soles against the linoleum floor before michael appears at the end of the aisle, moving with the cautious restraint of somebody trying very hard not to attract attention while already knowing it is far too late for that. the brim of his baseball cap sits low over the dark curls spilling out beneath it, oversized sunglasses still stubbornly fixed across his face, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as though he could physically fold himself smaller against the growing awareness around him. his expression is carefully composed, deliberately neutral, though you can still recognise the faint tension lingering beneath it immediately; the slight stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly whenever too many strangers begin looking at him all at once. behind him, somewhere near the frozen foods section, the ordinary rhythm of the supermarket has started mutating into something far more discordant: trolley wheels screeching abruptly to a stop, hurried whispers multiplying into overlapping voices, the unmistakable plague of public recognition spreading from person to person with an incomprehensible speed. like dominos falling one after another, somebody gasps, “oh my god, that’s him,” followed almost instantly by another voice insisting they shouldn’t stare while very obviously continuing to do exactly that.
you don’t even look up immediately.
“hi, love,” you say absently, still studying the labels with furrowed concentration. “which one do you think gives you more sauce per dollar without sacrificing its integrity?”
michael blinks behind his sunglasses.
“…what?”
you hold up two jars of pasta sauce.
“this one’s nearly twenty percent more expensive per ounce,” you explain, squinting at the sticker, “but it actually lists real tomatoes first. the other one is basically tomato-flavoured water. i’m trying to determine whether the extra dollar ish justifies purchasing it over the one with the questionable tomato origins.”
for a second he just stares at you. then he visibly exhales, the tight line of his shoulders softening slightly as his attention shifts away from the growing noise near the front of the store and toward the jars still balanced carefully in your hands.
“baby,” he says finally, somewhere between the worlds of amused and bewildered, “we can afford the extra dollar.”
you look up at him like he’s fundamentally misunderstood the point.
“that’s not the issue,” you say immediately. “it’s the principle of the thing. if we keep letting them get away with this, eventually we’re all going to end up eating ‘tomato sauce…?’ yes, the question mark comes with the jar.”
you hold up the cheaper bottle, thrusting the thing toward michael with the indignation of a prosecutor presenting exhibit A.
“like this one has corn syrup in it.”
michael leans in, peering at the tiny print. “…is that bad?”
you stare at him.
for a single beat you are genuinely speechless.
“…michael.”
“what?” he asks, all wide eyed in innocence.
“it’s pasta sauce.”
“yes?”
“why is there corn syrup in pasta sauce?”
he glances back at the sticker again with a sincere, thoughtful expression, as if the ingredients list might suddenly rearrange itself into something reasonable. “…to make it sweeter?”
“that is not the point,” you say, voice climbing slightly with the full weight of your emotional investment. “if i wanted sweet tomato sludge, i’d just go buy ketchup.”
michael’s shoulders begin to shake beneath the hoodie. he presses his lips together in an attempt to prevent its escape, but the laughter is already winning, spilling out in soft, helpless bursts that make his comically large aviator glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. the growing chaos surrounding the rest of the store—the rising voices, the hurried footsteps of security—fades even further into the background. right now the only crisis in the universe is the culinary crime happening in your hand, and michael is looking at you like you are the most fascinating, unicorn-esque thing he has ever seen.
“…maybe they’re balancing acidity,” he offers, clearly fighting for composure.
you look at him in outright betrayal, eyes wide with theatrical horror.
“oh my god,” you whisper, “not you defending big pasta.”
and that does it. michael’s quiet laughter breaks fully into something warm and unguarded, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him duck his head slightly under his hat. he reaches out and gently lowers the offending jar in your hand, as if removing the evidence of the crime.
“you’re being ridiculous,” he says softly, though the grin still lingering across his face ruins any possibility of genuine criticism.
“it’s called having standards,” you reply, tilting your head with mock severity. “you should try it sometime.”
michael’s quiet merriment breaks into another laugh as he dabs at the corner of his eye, drying an unapologetic, stray tear. his loafers click audibly against the linoleum as he shifts his weight to shield you from the surrounding aisle. “standards,” he repeats, letting the word settle on his toungue as if he were tasting it. “i married you, baby. i’m pretty sure that fulfills my excellence quota for at least the next decade.”
the words hit you like warm honey poured straight into your chest. heat floods your face so fast you actually feel your ears burn. you open your mouth, close it again, suddenly unable to find a single clever comeback while your heart does an embarrassing little flip behind the prison bars of your ribs. he’s looking at you with that half-smile — the one that made the entire world fall in love with him while somehow making your own world feel utterly, completely irrelevant. and all you can think is how unfairly charming he is even in a hoodie and baseball cap, standing mildly panicked in the middle of a damn grocery store.
flustered beyond recovery, you forcefully blurt out, “just choose something already or we’ll be here all night.”
“alright, alright,” michael says through lingering chuckles, reaching for another jar from the shelf with exaggerated seriousness. he turns it slowly in his hands, scanning the marker, suddenly becoming emotionally invested in the outcome too. then, triumphantly: “…this one has basil.”
you stare at him flatly.
“all pasta sauce has basil.”
“but this one says imported basil,” he counters, tapping the word with a long finger.
you narrow your eyes immediately. “propaganda.”
“it sounds fancy.”
“it SOUNDS like a large carbon footprint.”
his smirk widens, brows raising upwards in entertainment as he studies the ingredients again. “…maybe the basil travelled a long way.”
a horrible strangled noise escapes you, a mix of a laugh and genuine despair. “baby, please be serious.”
“i am serious,” he insists, though the tickled look on his face suggests otherwise.
“no, because now i’m imagining little passport stamps for herbs,” you mutter, pressing a hand to your forehead.
beyond the aisle, the commotion continues swelling into something increasingly unmanageable — whispers multiplying into growing shouts at a volume that absolutely should not exist at eleven o’clock at night, all held back hysterically by a team of large, burly security guards frantically blocking the entrance to the pasta aisle. every few seconds the noise threatens to pull michael back into that familiar guardedness the world is constantly demanding from him, breath tightening beneath the careful disguise he’d donned on. but somehow, every single time it begins creeping back in, you pull him straight out of it again with absurdly passionate debates about fraudulent tomatoes and whatever else you'd suddenly become enthralled about. and so he keeps looking at you, the chaos surrounding him fading into little more than distant static compared to whatever thing you’re saying next.
you shake your head, fighting your own smile as you take the jar from his hands and set it firmly back on the shelf. “we’re getting the one without corn syrup and without basil that needed a visa. end of discussion.”
“yes, ma’am,” michael murmurs, lips still curved as he nudges the cart forward with his hip. his hand finds yours on the handle, warm and steady.
“oh my god.”
“what?”
“michael.”
“what?”
you point toward the shelf ahead in genuine disbelief.
“this pasta is six dollars.”
he leans slightly closer to inspect the price.
“…that’s insane.”
“who are they trying to impress with noodles?”
michael laughs again, low and quiet, the sound entirely his own. a moment later one of the security guards appears at the end of the aisle, face flushed and exhausted from dealing with the hordes of teenage girls and ogling mothers pressing against his barricade. why so many people decided to go grocery shopping past midnight? we shall never know.
“sir,” he says with a noticeable tinge of desperation, “we should probably head out soon.”
michael gives him a small, polite nod. you, however, are still glaring at the shelf like it’s insulted your entire bloodline. “six dollars. for noodles. this country is insane.”
michael slips his fingers between yours beneath the cart handle. for a beat the noise of the crowd recedes. the two of you stay there — him in his ridiculous gargantuan sunglasses, you still clutching the decently (still fairly overexpensive) priced jar — before he leans down and presses a brief kiss to your temple.
“next time,” he says against your hair, voice soft with amusement, “we’re definitely getting the corn syrup, imported basil one. i'll prove to you it's actually good.”
you huff a laugh, taking on his challenge. “deal.”
author's note 𖹭 WHOO THIS WAS WAY LONGER THAN I ANTICIPATED IT BEING, it started off as a little "imagine if michael and you went grocery shopping" and somehow turned into this. i mean its not that long way but its way longer than a drabble should be. anyway ENJOY!
SUMMARY: based on this request. The problem isn’t that women flirt with Michael Jackson. The problem is that Y/N notices. The bigger problem is that Michael notices Y/N noticing.
CONTENT: Michael Jackson x Reader. Established relationship. Jealous and slightly possessive reader. Protective and hopelessly devoted Michael Jackson. History era. Humor, fluff, backstage shenanigans, playful jealousy, a little bit of female rivalry, pda, and Michael being completely obsessed with his girlfriend.
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭
Everybody on the set knew Michael Jackson was hopelessly in love and obsessed with his girlfriend, Y/N.
Not regular boyfriend obsessed. Not casual celebrity relationship obsessed. No.
This man looked at her like every love song he’d ever written had somehow become a person.
And unlike people assumed Michael wasn’t oblivious. Naive sometimes? Sure. Too kind for his own good? Absolutely. But stupid? Never.
He noticed when women flirted with him. He noticed the lingering touches. The giggling. The way too-long stares. He just usually ignored it because none of it mattered to him.
Not when his Y/N existed.
And honestly? Michael kind of enjoyed letting people embarrass themselves sometimes.
Especially when Y/N got possessive.
Because underneath all her confidence his girl had a little crazy in her.
Not toxic crazy. Fun crazy. Sharp-tongued. Territorial. The kind that smiled sweetly while threatening somebody psychologically.
And Michael secretly adored it. Secretly even got a little bit turned on by it.
Especially during the making of his album History.
Because, lucky Michael, Y/N followed him everywhere during that time. Sets. Tours. Studios. Rehearsals. You name it, she was there. And he absolutely love it and begged for her to be around.
Sometimes she would sit behind the monitors in giant sunglasses and one of his jackets criticizing choreography like an offended sports commentator.
Sometimes she wandered onto stage during lighting checks just to bother (kiss) him while he worked.
And Michael? Oh, he orbited her constantly.
If she disappeared too long he noticed immediately.
If somebody annoyed her he noticed immediately.
If she looked jealous—oh, he definitely noticed immediately.
Which became a problem once that stupid (according to Y/N) backup dancer showed up.
Beautiful girl. Very aware she was beautiful too. One of those women who walked around like every room was an audition.
At first it was harmless. Too much laughing. Standing too close. Finding excuses to touch Michael during rehearsals. Nothing they weren’t used to. And Michael ignored all of it politely. Not passively, though. He’d subtly step away. Redirect conversations. Immediately look for Y/N afterward.
One afternoon during choreography rehearsal the dancer pressed herself against him during a move that absolutely did not require it. Michael caught it instantly.
His expression flickered. Not flustered, no.
Annoyed.
He stepped backward smoothly.
“Careful,” he said lightly. “That’s not part of the choreography.”
The room went awkwardly quiet.
Because the correction sounded polite, but very pointed. The dancer recovered quickly though. Smiling wider instead. “Sorry,” she purred. “It’s hard to focus around you.” Michael gave the smallest tight smile imaginable.
Then immediately looked across the room.
Right toward where Y/N was.
She sat on top of a monitor table sipping on some tea while watching the entire interaction over the rim of her cup.
Their eyes met instantly. And Michael saw it.
That little look.
Worse than insecurity.
Amusement. Dangerous amusement. Like she was deciding whether to kill somebody recreationally.
Michael bit back a smile and abandoned rehearsal entirely, walking straight toward her.
The dancer blinked in disbelief and confusion.
Michael stopped between Y/N’s knees automatically while she looked up at him lazily.
“You surviving over there?” she asked sweetly.
Michael leaned down just enough for only her to hear. “She’s annoying me.”
Y/N nearly smiled. Nearly. Instead she tilted her head innocently.
“Aw. You need me to save you?”
Michael looked at her through his lashes with a tiny smirk. “Maybe I want you to.”
That was the thing about Michael. People thought he was shy all the time. But around Y/N? He knew exactly what he was doing.
The next few days only got worse.
The dancer became bolder because apparently humiliation wasn’t enough to stop her.
One day Y/N walked into Michael’s trailer and immediately stopped in her tracks.
The dancer stood there laughing at something Michael clearly had not found funny.
Too close again. Hand on his arm. Michael looked up the second Y/N entered.
And immediately—immediately—his entire body language changed. Relief crossed his face and his shoulders relaxed.
“Baby.” He said, an enormous smile taking over his pretty face.
That one word alone made the dancer look irritated.
Michael stood up right away crossing the trailer toward Y/N while the dancer still talked. It was like he genuinely forgot she existed halfway through the conversation. And the best part was that he didn’t even did it on purpose.
He kissed Y/N’s forehead softly before murmuring. “Please tell me you’re done with wardrobe?”
The dancer stared at them like she wanted to scream. Or commit a felony.
Y/N smiled sweetly.
“Mhm.” Then she looked toward the dancer casually and waved her fingers at her. “Oh. Hi.”
The girl crossed her arms. “You’re always here.”
Michael answered before Y/N could. “Yeah.” He looked down at Y/N and smiled. “That’s where I keep her.”
Y/N bit her bottom lip, a small giggle getting through. The dancer clenched her jaw. And Michael noticed that too. Because again: that man was not oblivious.
That night after filming the music video wrapped, Y/N sat in Michael’s lap backstage while he removed the iconic tape pieces from his fingers. He grunted with frustration as one particular tape was stubbornly sticking to his hand. He shook his head lightly and placed his hand on Y/N’s lap, giving up on taking it off. She took his hand in his and started to work on it.
“Told you she wants you,” Y/N muttered, eyes on the tape.
Michael didn’t even look up.
“She wants attention.”
Y/N raised an eyebrow. “She does?”
Now Michael looked up. Completely calm. “Baby, women who actually get my attention don’t act like that.”
That sentence sat directly in Y/N’s bloodstream for the next forty-eight business hours.
Unfortunately the dancer overheard enough little moments like that to start resenting Y/N badly.
And truly? Y/N was handling the situation with all the grace and emotional restraint of a jealous housecat.
Not because she doubted Michael, never that. But because watching another woman repeatedly ignore boundaries made her act a bit mean.
One morning while getting some coffee with a makeup artist from the crew, Y/N watched the dancer laugh a little too loudly at something Michael said from across the room. She stared for a moment.
“You know,” Y/N said casually to the makeup artist, “I actually feel bad for her.”
He looked up.
“Why?”
Y/N sighed dramatically. “Can you imagine embarrassing yourself in front of Michael Jackson every day?”
“Babes, that’s literally all you do.”
“That’s different.” She argued, eyes not leaving Michael’s little annoyed expression as the dancer talked his ear off.
The makeup artist frowned. “How?”
“Well, he thinks it’s cute when I do it.”
That made him snort.
Across the room, the dancer laughed again. Too loud. Way too loud for Y/N’s liking.
Y/N’s eye twitched. Just a little. Michael looked up automatically. Their eyes met.
And immediately he knew.
Uh-oh.
The dancer kept talking. Y/N kept pretending she wasn’t watching. Michael kept pretending he wasn’t watching her watch him.
The cycle continued for approximately three full minutes. And then rehearsal finally broke for lunch.
Michael made it maybe halfway across the room before finding her. As usual. As he always did.
He dropped into the chair beside her, arms crossed over his chest and a tini-tiny smirk on his pretty face. He looked far too pleased with himself.
Y/N narrowed her eyes.
“I don’t like your face.” She motioned to his face.
“My face?”
“That face you have going on.”
“What face?” He was doing it on purpose at this point.
Y/N nodded, a bit annoyed, actually. “The one you’re making right now.”
Michael smiled. Exactly. That face.
Y/N sighed dramatically.
“She’s so annoying.”
Michael’s smile widened instantly, cheeks starting to hurt. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
Y/N looked away rolling her eyes.
Michael bit the inside of his cheek as he tried not to laugh. He failed, the tiniest of giggles leaving his lips. “Baby.”
“Oh, don’t you ‘baby’ me.” Y/N said, a pout taking over her face as she crossed her arms over her chest.
He shook his head in a very teasing way.
“Oh, my miss possessive.”
Y/N whipped her head around so fast. “Excuse me?” Voice laced with annoyance.
Michael’s smile got bigger.
“Miss Possessive.”
“Michael.”
“My miss Possessive.”
“I swear to God—”
Now he was just fully laughing. Shoulders shaking. Head ducked down. The worst part? The man looked delighted. Absolutely delighted.
“You were staring.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“You so were.”
“I was observing.”
Michael nodded thoughtfully. “Right.”
“I was.”
“Very scientific.”
“Exactly.”
“Research purposes, am I right?”
“Absolutely.”
Michael looked away again. Trying (unsuccessfully) to recover.
Y/N pointed a sharp finger at him, eyes wide. “Stop enjoying this.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She nodded. “Too much, actually.”
“I’m really not.” He mumbled holding his hands up like a guilty man.
“Michael.”
“Okay, maybe I am enjoying little.” He clicked his tongue. “You’re cute when you’re jelous of me.”
Y/N groaned loudly and threw her head back. Michael looked like he’d just won an award. “I don’t get jelous.” Deny, deny, deny.
Michael nodded, a full ironic expression on his face. “Right, what ever makes you sleep at night, princess.”
Y/N narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Deny, deny, deny.’ She thought to herself. But then again, what the hell? “You know what?” She finally snapped, whipping her head in his direction. Immediately he perked up.
“What?”
She cocked her head to the side and raised her brows for a moment. “I lied.” She stared into his eyes. Michael blinked.
“You lied?”
“Yeah.”
She threw both hands into the air. “I’m jealous.”
Silence. Then Michael smiled so hard he nearly looked embarrassed.
“Really?”
“Oh, don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.”
Y/N pointed at him again.
“The face again.”
“What face?”
“The one I just said you do when you’re enjoying something way too much.”
Michael laughed. Actually laughed.
Oh, the audacity of this man.
“Baby—”
“Shut up.”
“Baby.”
“Nope.”
“You’re so cute.”
Y/N covered her face immediately.
“This is very humiliating for me.”
Michael gently pulled one of her hands away.
Still smiling. Still completely in awe of her.
“I like that you care.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “Yeah, right.”
“I do.” He intertwined their fingers and kissed her hands.
“You’re making it worse.”
Michael leaned closer.
“Miss Possessive.” He whispered.
Y/N pointed at him immediately.
“Keep talking and I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
She stared at him for about two seconds. “Yeah, probably not.”
“Exactly.”
And somehow that made him smile even bigger.
One afternoon the dancer walked past Y/N and muttered. “Some girls get way too comfortable.”
The makeup artist nearby actually choked on her water at that.
Then came the shirt.
Michael arrived on set late one morning wearing black jeans, curls tied back loosely, sunglasses and a T-Shirt that read:
MY GIRLFRIEND IS HOTTER THAN YOU
That man.
That. Impossible. Man.
The crew in the studio did not know how to react.
Screaming.
Wheezing.
People dropping things.
Y/N’s hand just flew over her mouth, disbelief flashed across her face. She shook her negativity head at him.
That infuriatingly beautiful man.
“Michael Jackson, you are unbelievable.”
Michael looked around confused.
“What?”
“You cannot wear that!”
He glanced down at the shirt casually.
“What? I thought it was cute.”
“You are insane.”
Michael smiled slowly then. A little smug this time. Good Lord. “I know.”
Y/N stared at him in disbelief.
“You did that on purpose?”
Michael shrugged lightly. Then leaned close enough for only her to hear. “She keeps staring at me.”
Y/N went silent immediately.
Because oh. So he had noticed.
Michael slid his sunglasses down slightly.
“And she keeps making you mad.”
Y/N folded her arms trying not to look pleased.
“And?”
“And I don’t like it.”
That should not have been as attractive as it was. Unfortunately for Y/N it was devastatingly attractive.
Y/N just shook her head again, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face into his chest. Michael let out a loud laugh and kissed the top of her head.
The final confrontation happened two days later.
Y/N sat backstage getting her eyeliner fixed when the dancer appeared again.
Arms crossed, cocky expression on her face.
“You know,” she started casually, “it’s kind of embarrassing how attached he is to you.”
Y/N looked at her through the mirror.
“It is?”
“He’s obsessed.”
Y/N smiled faintly. “Yeah, I know.”
That clearly wasn’t the reaction the dancer wanted. She stepped closer.
“I just think if Michael met somebody more…” She actually looked Y/N up and down. “,exciting—”
Y/N actually laughed this time. Not fake. Real. Sharp. “Okay,” She mumbled still smiling.
Then finally she stood up slowly.
And suddenly the room felt different.
Because Y/N wasn’t intimidated. Not even slightly.
She walked closer until the dancer had to tilt her head upward slightly.
“My boyfriend would never look twice at you,” Y/N said calmly.
The dancer scoffed. “You sound very confident.”
“I am.” Then Y/N smiled. Mean. Beautiful. “But if you wanna embarrass yourself…” She shrugged lightly. “Try him.”
And apparently the woman was dumb enough to do exactly that.
Later during rehearsal Michael sat alone near the stage sipping on some orange juice while checking choreography notes when the dancer approached.
Y/N watched from across the set already bitting down a smile because she knew this was about to go horribly.
The girl leaned against his chair.
“You know…” she said softly. “I think you deserve somebody less possessive.”
“Huh?” Michael looked up slowly, brows frowned slightly. Already looking very unimpressed. “My girlfriend is a little possessive.” His eyes flickered briefly to where Y/N stood, a small smile appearing on his lips. “I like it.”
The girl laughed lightly.
“She watches every woman around you.”
Michael capped his water bottle calmly.
“Because every woman around me keeps bothering me.” The dancer blinked. Michael continued before she could recover. “And honestly?” He tilted his head slightly. “I’m starting to think y’all do it on purpose.”
The dancer forced a smile. “I just think maybe you’d get bored eventually.”
Michael stared at her for a long moment. Then glanced across the room toward Y/N. And the second he saw her? His entire face softened automatically.
Then he looked back at the dancer and said very simply: “I’ve been in love with her for years.” Silence. “People don’t get boring when you actually love them.”
Murder. Complete murder.
The dancer looked like she wanted earth to swallow her whole now.
And Michael wasn’t finished. Because suddenly he smiled politely. Not cruel, which felt, somehow, worse. “And respectfully…” He gestured vaguely toward Y/N across the room. “Have you seen my girlfriend?”
The dancer’s face went blank. She honestly didn’t know what to say.
Y/N covered her face laughing discreetly, pretending she wasn’t doing her absolute best to eavesdrop when Michael finally stood up and walked straight toward her.
The second he reached her he wrapped one arm around her waist naturally, pulling her closer.
Y/N looked up at him through a grin.
“You’re a little crazy in the head, you know that, right?”
Michael looked very pleased with himself.
“Yeah? Well, I’ve learned from the best.” He teased her and Y/N shook her head.
“You’re unbelievable.”
Then Y/N grabbed the front of his stupid shirt and kissed him right there in front of everybody. Just because she could.
And because Michael Jackson looked at her like she’d invented sunshine just to brighten his day.
oh i need more young hoe reader with mikey i just need her being such a bitch (lovingly) and him eating it up
and young hoe reader really brings michael out of his shell. he cusses more, speaks his mind with more authority, flips people off he doesn’t care! much like his girl!!
idk young hoe reader would highkey loveeeee bubbles, she’s spotted with him more than michael at this point. michael gets irritated because she’s constantly putting jewelry on him, and cute, sparkly newsboy hats. now she’s making headlines ‘the feminization of bubbles.” and again michael pleads but she’s just staring at him blankly, with bubbles on her hip like it’s her newborn, “like you had him dressed any better.”
young hoe reader always finding ways to incorporate pink into his outfits cause she likes the idea of matching but also doesn’t wanna be cliche about it. it’s bad enough they have an age gap. skinny pink ties, small pink embellishments on his suits that aren’t always noticeable first glance, pink socks peaking above his WORN through loafers ♡
young hoe reader making sure michael EATS, she doesn’t play that picky eater bs. and when the paps comment on his weight she’d nearly hiss, “when’s the last time you accompanied a scale?” OH OH OKAY
young hoe reader plucking his lace fronts so they melt better..
Synopsis: Michael loves to call reader while he's away on tour and spill the tea on all the drama backstage
Content: Michael swearing, drama queen, established relationship
Era: Any
W.C. .8 k
Masterlist
Michael calls you all the time when he's on tour. All. The. Time. Not that you have any issue with it of course. But it does occasionally wake you up from a deep sleep just to tell you what's going on between two of his back up dancers. Despite this, you live for the drama and always end up getting way too invested.
2:30 AM and the phone by your bed rang loudly. You groaned and rolled over, holding it to your ear.
"Michael, this better be good, it's so late here." Your voice slurs together from exhaustion.
"I know I know! I'm sorry... but I got more information about Becky, Trina, and Laurence." His voice brimmed with excitement.
You sat up immediately, switching on your lamp.
"Oh shit, no way! Okay okay, what happened?" You held the phone close, not wanting to miss anything.
"Alright, remember how I told you Becky missed rehearsal bout a week before tour started?"
"Mhm, which is crazy, she never misses rehearsal."
"Right! And I asked Laurence, cause they're good friends. Well apparently they were more than good friends. They've been fuckin secretly for a whole year!" He whisper shouted into the receiver.
You gasped, "No way no way! That's not possible, cause he and Trina are together, right?"
"Oh yeah, they've been goin out for 3 years. And get this, are you ready?"
"I dunno! Wait, yes tell me!"
"Becks and Trina are pretty good friends right. Well apparently before Trina got with Laurence she and Becky were a thing. Like a hot thing supposedly."
You gasped loudly, "Wait, noooo! Not the lesbians splitting up."
"That's the thing, Trina got with Laurence after telling Becky she didn't like men. So Becks was pissed and went and messed around with Laurence to get back at Trina."
"Wait, now I'm confused. So are neither of them lesbians?" You rubbed your head.
"No, Trina's not a lesbian, she lied about that. But Becks is a lesbian and is just fucking Laurence to get back at Trina. Keep up, baby."
"I'm trying! I just woke up, you ass." You frowned slightly.
"You're right, I'm sorry. I'll let you go back to sleep."
"Uh no. Finish the damn story, mama wants more movie."
He laughed loudly, "I love you, sweet girl."
You smiled, "I love you too, now back to it, angel face."
"Right, okay. So flash forward to Becky missing rehearsal, apparently it's cause Trina found out and went over to Becks place and they got in a huge fight, but then ended up sleeping together."
"So the lesbians prevail?!"
"Kinda? Not really though, because Trina says it was a mistake and goes back to Laurence, which is why Becks didn't show up."
"Oh poor Becky."
"I know. Anyway, so flash forward to now. We were running a number before the concert started and both Becky and Trina were nowhere to be found, we had to call in their swings last second. The whole time I'm standing there thinking, they're definitely goin at it right now. And I'm also watchin Laurence, and he's pissed. He looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel, the vein in his head was soooo big."
"Oh I bet. Okay, so now are the girls together?"
"Mhm, and get this. This is gonna blow your mind. Laurence quit. Like on the spot."
"Oh shit, wait that's not good, what are you guys gonna do?"
"Well, his swing is gonna move into his spot permanently. Honestly, I'm thrilled. Laurence always got on my last nerve. He has an obnoxious laugh. It's like a hyena." He mimics the laugh over the phone.
You grimace, "Oh, that's grating. I think my ears are bleedin."
"Mhm, now imagine that anytime he makes a joke that only he finds funny. So I'm happy. The lesbians are back together, and we got rid of a lazy hyena."
You laugh, "Well, sounds like productive drama for once."
He laughs with you, "Yeah. Well, I'll let my sleeping beauty get her rest. I just needed to tell you about the update."
"Thank you, baby. I appreciate it. I'll talk to you tomorrow, kay?"
"Alright, I love you." He kisses the phone.
"I love you too, get some sleep." You kiss the phone back and gently place the phone down. You laugh to yourself, he's so theatrical, but you love it.
content warnings: p in v sex, reader referred to as "girl" as in "pretty girl", caregiver kink, breeding kink, creampie, thigh riding, virginity kink, corruption kink, praise kink, d/s elements, impact play, titty sucking, guided masturbation
ushijima gets painfully hard taking care of you. he loves how dependent you become for every little thing - how your eyes get so sweet and gentle when you thank him for all he does for you. when he's cooking soup for you, his brain is a million miles away, off fantasizing about you fluttering around his fingers, your voice a hoarse whimper against the thick column of his neck. he doesn't care if you can feed yourself - he wants to see you willingly open your mouth when he tells you to, wants to make sure you have a belly full of nutrients before he parts your legs and noses between your folds. "it's good to have an orgasm when you're not feeling well. everyone knows that, my love."
sakusa has a breeding kink because of the ownership, the mess, the sheer fucking risk. you had a pregnancy scare once and it bricked him up instantly. now every time he's fucking you, he's promising to knock you up, smiling to himself when you clench and groan around him. he stuffs you full of cum and then fingers it back into you, fingertips expertly rubbing along the walls he's just coated white with his seed. you're a mess of his making, painted in his cum and soon to be swollen with his child.
daichi isn't stupid—he sees the way you look at him, virgin eyes all sweet and trusting when you tell him that you want him to be your first, that you trust him. he wishes he could ignore the possessive desire to take your virginity, to corrupt you so completely that no other man can ever lay claim to you in the way that he has. but he can't, not when you're whimpering in his lap, legs draped on other side of his thigh, swollen pussy beating in time with his heartbeat as he bounces you up and down. "i know, i know," he soothes. "feels real good, doesn't it, angel?"
oikawa is the sloppiest pussydrunk simp to ever exist. the second he's inside of you, he's moaning and whimpering, barely able to stop himself from praising you. "oh fuck baby -- my pretty baby, you feel so good. you're mine, right honey? all fucking mine?" he can barely control himself; the velvety suck of your walls along his cock feels unreal. "wish you knew how good you feel -- it's impossible not to fuck you full, sweet girl." he buries his face in your neck, hips erratic in rhythm, thighs flexing with every thrust. "please let me cum inside you, baby, please." his fingers dig into your skin when he feels you tighten around him. "oh fuck, right there? is that where you need me?"
kageyama lets you use him like a dildo - legs tied apart and your panties stuffed in his mouth. he's uncharacteristically noisy in his pleasure, grunting and groaning every time you shift your hips. "you like being used like this, don't you?" you smirk down at him. "mr. big strong volleyball player just wants his pretty dick wet." but all he's thinking about is the sheer athleticism of your thighs, how beautiful you look with sweat dripping down your face and in between your tits, and how desperately, violently, he needs you to let him cum.
tsukishima loves to fight and fuck. nothing gets this man harder than someone who goes toe to toe with him. what he didn't expect was how much he wants you to smack him across the mouth when he finally slides inside of you, how much he wants you to tell him he's not fucking you well enough. "slap me," he says. you flash the nastiest smirk before your palm rings across the side of his face. his cock twitches. "yeah. do that shit again, baby."
kuroo loves how smart you are; one of his favorite things to do is lay between your thighs and listen to you read to him, his face squished into your tummy and his arms wrapped around your hips. he loves it so much that your reading sessions often turn into him lazily licking between your folds for hours. a command for you to keep reading rumbles from his throat whenever your focus wavers, when the swirl of his tongue through your wet heat bucks your hips off the bed. "who said you could stop?" he pulls away from your clit. "i'm really interested in learning more about mycology, baby."
best friend!suna takes your "getting your tits sucked on can't feel that good" personally. he tells you it's a shame that no one's ever made you feel good like that, that you should make sure you don't like it before you entirely discard the practice. "plenty of people have sucked on my tits," you tell him. "none of them were me," he replies, all serious calm mixed with arrogant intent. you know you're fucked when he squeezes the heft of a breast in his palm, teeth scraping over your nipple. you arch into his touch. "see? the little princess just needed special treatment."
kenma is amazing at guided masturbation. he doesn't have the best game in person, but behind a keyboard, he's a master. his instructions for you are always slow and methodical, a careful exploration of the erogenous zones he knows drive you wild. you're so obedient, too, sending him voice clips when he tells you to, your pretty voice on display as you finger yourself slowly. his final message reads: please show me how pretty you look rn, along with a picture of his flushed face, leaking cock in his hand.
SYNOPSIS: Michael needs to finish recording a sensual track and he needs some inspiration late one night in the studio. Quincy knows the perfect gal for the job. Inspired by an excerpt from Moonwalk.
CONTENT: fluff, mutual pining, thriller!Michael, no use of y/n, era 1982
Song Inspiration: "The Lady In My Life" - Michael Jackson
The lighting in the studio was dim. Michael had worked on this same piece for the last 6 hours, and at this point no one in the studio was having fun.
"How was that Quincy?" Michael asked, taking his headphones off when the music stopped.
"You're hitting every note and run perfectly. It sounds like Michael Jackson singing a song."
Michael frowned. The response confused him. Perfect was supposed to be good.
But something was missing.
Quincy Jones had quite the ear for music. He just knew what would make a certain song "pop". And let's just say the song wasn't there yet.
Michael wasn't feeling the music. He was calculating, analyzing. Quincy could tell.
Quincy stood from his chair. He paused, trying to figure out how to word the hardest piece of his feedback.
"You're trying so hard to sound grown that you forgot to sound honest."
Sometimes Michael's perfectionism got in his own way. The man could spend three hours obsessing over a single riff. Five hours debating a background harmony. An entire evening deciding between two nearly identical takes.
Most artists would've killed for that level of dedication. Today Quincy wanted to strangle him.
"The Lady in My Life isn't about vocal technique." Michael remained silent.
"It's intimacy...vulnerability."
Michael looked away, toward the floor. Anywhere except Quincy. The producer noticed immediately. There it is. The problem.
The song made Michael uncomfortable.
Michael was uncomfortable because the song was honest. Yearning.
To sing a song like this earnestly required a great deal of courage.
Love ballads were nothing new to Michael. He had spent most of his career singing about romance
This track was different though. Michael needed to beg for this woman's presence. He needed to audibly yearn for her touch.
The problem was that Michael wasn't used to singing something so vulnerable.
As a performer, he understood infatuation. He understood longing. He understood excitement.
The thrill of seeing someone from across a room or the rush of a first dance. The fantasy of a perfect love story.
Those emotions lived comfortably in his music. They always had.
Even the love songs from Off the Wall had a youthful energy about them. The kind of romance that existed in daydreams and stolen glances.
The Lady in My Life was different. There was nothing playful about it.
The song wasn't asking Michael to chase someone. It wasn't asking him to flirt.
It wasn't asking him to fantasize. It was asking him to choose. To commit.
"What am I doing wrong, Q?" Michael was genuinely lost at this point. He thought the take sounded great. And that was rare for Michael.
Quincy decided to be blunt.
"I need you to sing this song like you've found the one. Like you're gonna spend the rest of your life with her because you need her."
That terrified Michael. Not because he didn't believe in love. Quite the opposite.
He believed in it so deeply that he treated it almost reverently. Like something sacred. Something private.
The public knew Michael Jackson.
The performer, phenomenon, and superstar.
Very few people knew Michael the person.
People painted Michael out to be overly confident, but the truth was he was still shy. Painfully shy.
He was the kind of shy that would cover his face and mumble "Oh god", when his brothers teased him about a girl. The kind of shy that pushed him to write his feelings into songs, instead of saying them out loud.
Quincy knew the problem wasn't the song. The problem was that Michael was hiding inside it.
And until he stopped hiding, they were going to be there all night.
Quincy checked his watch and decided it was time to bring in some assistance.
"I'll be back."
Nobody questioned him. The producer disappeared from the studio.
Michael stared after him, confused.
Minutes later, you were on your way to the studio.
You had been halfway through getting ready for bed when Quincy called. At first, you assumed something was wrong.
Nobody called this late unless it was important.
"Quincy?"
"Hey, sweetheart. I need a favor."
Immediately you sat up straighter.
"Is everything okay? Where's Michael?"
The producer chuckled.
"Michael's fine."
The answer came so quickly that you knew he'd expected the question.
"But he needs some inspiration."
You frowned.
"Inspiration?"
"Can you be here in thirty minutes?"
You glanced toward the clock on your nightstand. Then toward the novel laying open beside you.
Then back toward the phone.
"I guess." Your confusion must have been obvious.
"Anything to help."
"Good."
Relief colored Quincy's voice.
"I'll explain when you get here."
Before you could ask another question, he thanked you, reminded you to drive safely, and hung up.
You stared at the receiver for a moment, confused.
Michael was in the middle of finishing Thriller. The entire project had consumed his life for months.
Most days he left before sunrise and returned long after dark. You knew better than most how much pressure he was under.
You'd watched him obsess over lyrics, over melodies. Over arrangements. Over things nobody else would ever notice.
Sometimes you wondered if Michael even understood how hard he was on himself. Probably not.
The book you'd been reading disappeared into your purse. You grabbed your keys.
And thirty minutes later, you found yourself walking through the front doors of Westlake Recording Studios.
The receptionist greeted you immediately.
You'd been there often enough that most of the staff recognized you by now.
"Evening."
"Hi."
You approached the desk.
"Quincy asked me to stop by."
The receptionist smiled knowingly.
Of course he did.
After a brief phone call, she nodded.
"Go on back, sweetie. They're expecting you."
You thanked her and headed down the familiar hallway.
The closer you got to Michael's studio, the louder the music became. Then voices.
You slowed. The door wasn't completely shut. Suddenly you felt like you were hearing something you shouldn't be.
And before you could announce yourself, you heard Quincy speaking.
"I need you to beg, Michael."
You froze. Inside the room, Michael looked exhausted. His curls were damp with sweat. His sunglasses rested low on his nose.
One hand rubbed the back of his neck.
The other rested against his hip.
"I'm trying, Q."
His voice carried a level of frustration you rarely heard from him.
"I really am."
Quincy shook his head.
"No."
The producer pointed toward the booth.
"You're singing." Michael sighed heavily.
"But I need you to beg her like you might never see her again."
For a moment, Michael didn't respond.
Instead he looked toward the floor. Almost embarrassed, definitely shy.
Which immediately caught your attention. Then he spoke quietly.
"This is very difficult for me."
Suddenly he looked less like Michael Jackson and more like the young man you knew. The one who overthought everything and cared too much.
The one who always felt things more deeply than he let people see.
Michael's eyes lifted and landed directly on you. Everything stopped.
For a split second, his entire face changed. The frustration and exhaustion disappeared.
And a smile almost appeared.
Seeing you was honestly the best thing that had happened to him all day.
Then realization struck.
His eyes narrowed, slowly and suspiciously.
The smile vanished. Uh oh.
"What?" You questioned. Didn't he know you were coming?
Michael immediately looked toward Quincy, then back toward you.
When he looked back toward Quincy, the betrayal registered in real time.
"Q."
Quincy suddenly found the ceiling fascinating.
"Q."
The producer refused to make eye contact.
Michael pointed directly at him.
"You called her?"
You looked between the two men.
"Wait." Your confusion grew.
"He didn't tell you?"
"No."
Michael dragged both hands down his face.
"Oh God."
You started laughing.
The reaction only made him more embarrassed.
Because the truth was, there were very few people capable of making Michael Jackson genuinely flustered.
You happened to be one of them. Michael groaned.
"Q, why would you do this to me?"
The producer finally looked up.
Because he knew exactly why.
For all the time the two of you spent together, Michael somehow remained oblivious to how obvious he was.
Everyone noticed it.
There was something about the way that his shoulders relaxed when you walked into a room. The way he unconsciously searched for you in crowds.
The way his entire mood improved whenever you stopped by the studio.
Everyone noticed.
Michael didn't know how obvious it was. He was simply too shy to admit it.
Unfortunately for him, Quincy Jones had never been interested in protecting anybody's pride.
Especially when there was a hit record on the line.
Quincy nearly shoved the two of you the inside the recording booth.
The moment Quincy closed the studio door behind him, the room fell silent.
Too silent.
You glanced toward Michael.
Michael glanced toward you.
Then immediately looked away.
Michael never wished he could disappear more than in this moment.
"Oh, this is terrible."
You could't help me giggle at Michael's visible discomfort.
"It's not that bad."
"It is."
"It isn't."
"It really is."
You smiled.
The reaction only made him groan louder.
Truthfully, Michael felt for you exactly what the song needed.
Outside the booth, Quincy flicked a few switches. The overhead lights dimmed.
The bright fluorescent glow disappeared, leaving only the softer amber lighting around the recording equipment.
The space suddenly felt smaller, warmer. More intimate. Almost private.
Through the glass, Quincy gave Michael a thumbs up.
Michael looked horrified. You were beginning to understand why.
He lifted his sunglasses, awkwardly putting them back on.
"Michael" you said softly, holding out your hand expectantly.
"No" He moaned.
You better than anyone knew the shield his sunglasses afforded him. Michael really didn't want anyone looking him in his eyes.
You tilted your head, giving him a kind smile. Still, your palm stayed open.
He sighed deeply before taking the glasses off and handing them to you. Still, he avoided your gaze.
Quietly, you picked up your book and sat cross legged on the floor in front of Michael.
The instrumental started.
Soft. Smooth. Warm.
For a moment Michael stood completely still. One hand resting against his headphones.
Eyes closed. He was preparing.
Then he started singing. It was euphoric.
You had been trying to focus on your book. You understood that staring at Michael would only further fluster him.
But when he started singing this song, you couldn't help but look him.
His eyes were shut anyway.
You'd heard Michael sing hundreds of times. At rehearsals, sound checks. In recording sessions.
Sometimes in the car. Sometimes absentmindedly while making breakfast.
But this felt different. There was no performance in it. No choreography. No audience.
No Michael Jackson.
Just Michael.
The man. The person.
The friend you had spent countless afternoons talking to about everything and nothing.
His voice wrapped around every lyric so gently it almost hurt.
"Lay your body close to mine...Let me fill you with my dreams"
Your breath caught. The words sounded familiar. You knew the song.
But somehow they felt different now. It was as if they belonged to the room. Like they belonged to you.
Michael kept his eyes closed through most of the first verse.
You suspected it was because he was too embarrassed to look at you.
Then he reached the chorus and finally opened them. Big mistake.
Because the second his gaze met yours, his stomach flipped.
You realized Michael wasn't looking through you.
He wasn't imagining someone else. He wasn't pretending.
He was singing directly to you.
Michael hoped it wasn't obvious, but you felt it immediately.
Every lyric. Every promise. Every note. It was as though the song had transformed into a conversation.
It was as though Michael had somehow taken everything he struggled to say aloud and hidden it inside the music.
The realization made your chest ache.
Because suddenly you understood what Quincy had been hearing all along.
Every line felt like a confession and every promise felt personal.
For the first time, you realized how much of himself Michael hid from the world.
People saw the confidence. Talent, fame, and perfection.
They didn't get to see this.
The softness and tenderness. The way he looked at someone he cared about.
Halfway through the second verse, Michael stopped looking away. Stopped hiding. He stopped being embarrassed.
And for a few beautiful minutes, he forgot there was anyone else in the building.
He forgot Quincy, and the engineers.
The pressures of Thriller and deadlines drifted away.
There was only you. The woman sitting across the room.
The woman who knew him when the cameras were off.
You were who he looked for first whenever something exciting happened. The one he wanted to call when something went wrong.
Somehow you made him feel more like himself than anyone else ever had.
When the final note faded, silence settled over the booth.
Neither of you moved or spoke.
Then—
"THAT'S IT! We got it."
Quincy's voice exploded through the speakers, booming claps disrupting the mood.
The spell immediately shattered.
Michael and you both jumped. And just like that, the embarrassment came rushing back.
Before you could say anything, Michael reached for his sunglasses and shoved them back onto his face.
He felt heat rushing to his face as he felt his fight or flight kicking in.
You noticed, unfortunately for him.
"I should go."
"What?"
"I should go."
Michael immediately started gathering random things. Headphones.
His orange juice. A notebook. Anything and everything.
The poor man looked like he was trying to flee the country.
"Michael."
"Thank you for coming."
The words came out way too fast as he fumbled with the miscellaneous items he was holding, nearly dropping things.
"I really appreciate it."
"Michael."
"And Quincy got what he needed so—"
"Michael."
Finally he stopped moving, slowly and reluctantly.
You tilted your head.
"Why are you acting weird?"
"I'm not."
"You are."
"I'm really not."
"You are."
Michael covered his face, groaning. The sound was muffled by his hands. Then silence.
You watched him carefully. And suddenly everything clicked.
The song, the embarrassment. The sunglasses.
The way he'd looked at you. The way Quincy had looked at him.
The way everyone in the room seemed to know something you didn't.
Your eyes widened.
"Oh."
Michael immediately knew.
"Oh no."
A smile slowly spread across your face.
"Michael." You said teasingly, nearing closer to him.
"Please don't."
"Am I..."
You struggled not to laugh.
"Am I the lady in your life?"
Michael covered his face. Completely. Every ounce of dignity abandoned.
"You're embarrassing me." He shook his head, smiling bashfully as he turned away from you.
Michael wished he could vanish into thin air. The answer was obvious.
Your heart nearly melted. You approached him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind.
Michael instantly felt himself relax under your touch. This type of embrace was new. Sure, you'd hugged before. But this felt different.
"Michael."
"No." He mumbled through his fingers, still covering his face.
"Michael."
"No."
"You are so cute."
The compliment only made things worse. A frustrated noise escaped him.
Then finally, after a long pause, he lowered his hands and turned
Just enough for you to see his eyes. You kept your arms around him.
His vulnerability nearly stole your breath.
Because suddenly he wasn't embarrassed anymore. Just honest.
"You really don't know?"
The question came out quietly. Almost disbelieving.
You stopped smiling. Michael looked down. He found the courage to find your eyes again
"I thought everybody knew."
You felt a knot in your stomach. The confession sounded so sincere. So painfully Michael.
"I look for you in every room."
His voice dropped lower.
"I tell you everything." Another pause.
"You're the first person I want to talk to when something good happens."
Michael swallowed hard.
Then finally said the thing he'd been trying not to say all night.
"Of course it's you."
It felt like time was frozen. His expression softened.
Michael leaned against the wall behind him, pulling you to him in a way that had you sure he was going to kiss you.
Levi knows he’s the strongest soldier in the Survey Corps. He can flyer faster, hit harder, and ride further than anyone else.
“An otherworldly fighting stamina,” Erwin called it.
But when he makes love to you, it’s a different story altogether.
Because you feel so good. Your body is so warm and your pussy is so tight. Each thrust he takes elicits the most wonderful moans from your lips. He wants to close his eyes and get lost in the feeling, but he’d miss the erotic sight of watching you underneath him - blissed out, body covered in marks that he gave you, smiling as you ask for more, more…
Shit
He wills everything within him to not come yet. It’s too soon, he wants to keep feeling you like this, to ravage you until you’re breathless, begging for reprieve.
But goddammit, he loves you so much and you’re just so fucking beautiful…so….so…
“Levi…”
You whimper his name and his hips falter their steady pace.
Not yet…not yet….
But he can’t help it. His climax comes strong and hard before he collapses on top of you.
Sure, the bedroom isn’t a battlefield, and his stamina might be lacking now. But Levi isn’t a quitter.
And he’ll fuck you all night until he gives you everything that you want.
Hi! Ok umm the cute fic I had in mind is thriller era michael x reader. The reader is friends with Michael, who is very affectionate towards her calling her baby, kisses etc. in his mind he believe they are dating since he treats her like his girl (had all they’re firsts together) but reader just thinks he’s an affectionate friend. She ends up going on a date and he finds out and gets angry and confesses they’re dating and she’s shocked and confused and he describes his feelings of why he believes they’re dating each other. Srry if it doesn’t make any sense.
clueless | michael jackson
- summary: thriller!michael has been your best friend for years. when he discovers you have a date with some random guy, he tells you he's actually been your boyfriend this whole time. go figure, huh?
word count: 8k
warning: reader is oblivious. like so freaking oblivious. jealous!mike, mildly like very mildly possessive undertones, first kiss flashbacks, im really bad at writing kissing scenes holy cow, pretty rushed and short, woman's failed attempt at writing angst!
* no usage of y/n, michael refers to reader as 'baby' practically every sentence
author's note: Oh my god first of all, to YOUU, REQUESTER, I'm so terribly sorry for taking so so long. It's been a whole week. I'm so, so sorry, I promise I never intended to take this long!!! It's just I've been working and then bam, writer's block! Again, I'm so sorry and if this doesn't go the way you wanted it to, I'M SO SORRY. I love you so much for requesting, I'm really honoured because I absolutely love your idea and this type of trope but I sincerely apologise if I don't do it justice.
Secondly, this is straight up word vomit, guys. Also, I've been writing some scenes when I was fighting sleep, so not really proofread! Thank you lovelies.
+++ ignore the plot holes please <3 michael is silly and so is the reader, let's focus on that instead of realism, okay?? <3
+++ english isn't my first language!! and I'm not a professional writer by any means!! I hope you enjoy regardless, thank you so much!
Nights at Michael’s are always different from the nights in your own home.
Everything is always calmer, more gentle. The warmth of his home hugs you more than yours ever do, strangely enough.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you sink further into the comfortable sheets of Michael's bed as the television plays a rerun of Roman Holiday. This is practically a nightly routine for you, almost every night of the week has you ending up in Michael's house, as per his wishes. You have an apartment of your own, but Michael deems it unnecessary as you spend most of your time out of work with him anyway. You're aware he's been close to going to the landlord on behalf of you to discuss moving out, twice, but you're also aware he's not stupid enough to actually do anything behind your back.
If you don’t know any better, you’d think it’s pretty odd to be so close to someone you met by pure coincidence. But the thing is you do know better. And it's that you’d never trade your friendship with Michael for anything else the world has to offer.
You and him have been friends for a good few years now, having met him just a little before his 'Off The Wall' album release. Accidentally bumping into the then-twenty year-old-star in a record store of all places, a few apologies were exchanged before your eyes noticed the Donna Summer album in his hands. That led to further conversations ranging from talking about how good Donna Summer's latest single is, to Michael showing you the Bee Gees album he's planning on purchasing, and somehow ends with you playing a record of Blondie's on the store turntable to make him listen to the B-sides.
It was a whole hour and a half before a burly looking gentleman kindly reminded Michael he had other affairs to tend to, and after eagerly sharing each other’s contact details, you got home urgently to listen to the newly bought records of Jackson Five.
From then on, you've been calling and exchanging letters with Michael non-stop. Postcards from the different states he’s touring in, long distance telephone calls when his shows end, and everything in between. He finds a way to contact you so often that when his mother knew of you, she asked you to come over for one of their family gatherings. That's likely when it's been established that you and Mike are pretty much best friends.
You were lucky enough to witness Michael at his most focused when he was working on final touches to Off The Wall, changing musical tunes during late nights in the studio. Memories of celebrating with him when said album won the Grammys, as well as the AMAs. There’d even been numerous times where you got to come to his shows during the Triumph Tour with his brothers. It’s been well over four years since you met, and at this point he’s the only person to truly know you inside and out.
A quick snap out of your thoughts when the bathroom lights turn off, and Michael steps out as he dries his curls with a towel. He’s been out the whole day doing… whatever it is pop stars do during their spare time, only reaching home about half an hour after you already made yourself a cup of tea to heal from a long day at the diner. You don’t even know how it got to the point where you can just waltz into Michael’s home without him even being there, but it’s better not to question much about it.
Michael walks around the bedroom, shifting things as he gets ready for bed. Glancing at you, his eyes soften. "Tired, baby?" He asks gently.
"Mhm," you hum in response, sinking further into the blankets. "Had the worst customers today. I don't even care about the no tipping, y’know? The thing that’s bugging me is why the hell were they drinking fifteen shots of espresso at 9.30PM? And God... One of them had a rat-tail, Mike. I sure hope it doesn't become a thing because it's just so unfortunate to witness."
A soft chuckle escapes him, warming your heart. You continue ranting, “Mike, that one mean woman who comes for coffee every lunchtime? She got to the diner late, and then proceeded to blame me for making her late because by the time her food arrived, her break was almost ending. Can you even believe that?”
Michael clicks his tongue, getting on the bed. Making himself comfortable, he pulls you in and wraps his arm around your back, your head laying atop his chest. "I told you to please just stop working there. I can take care of you, baby. You know that. We'd be just fine and you can do whatever it is you want."
Shaking your head vehemently, you nudge at his chest. "No way, Mike. I can handle myself. I'm a responsible adult. I'm a strong, independent woman, y'know?"
"I know you are, beautiful. I'm just tellin' you that I can help while you look for somethin' you'd actually enjoy. Not that horrible diner place. You deserve so much better," Michael says as he leaves soft kisses on your temple.
You melt at his touch and close your eyes. Murmuring, "Thank you, Mikey. It's just hard leaving Daisy all by herself. The others are so mean to that poor kid."
"Hell, I'll hire her for somethin' if it means you're out of that damn place," Michael grumbles as he shifts and pulls you closer.
Snickering quietly, you hush him before kissing his jaw, "That's enough out of you, hm?”
“I'm serious, sweetheart. That job is stretching you thin, and I'm not liking any second of it. I'm just worried about you,” Michael looks at you with furrowed brows, thumb stroking your cheek.
Michael has never not worried about you, you think. The man has protective tendencies towards everyone he cares for, but it's been noted by many that whenever you're in the picture, it's as if it gets dialed up to the maximum level. One of the most insane things he's done so far was that he had three extra secure locks installed at your front door when you first moved into your apartment, and despite it being against the rules, the landlord couldn't really argue with the Michael Jackson over his loved one's safety.
You respond quietly, “I know, Michael. Don't worry too much. I got everything handled, okay? I'm looking for job openings as we speak.”
“If you'd just consider the fact that I know many people in all kinds of businesses, baby–”
“No,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “Uh-uh, I'm not doing this again. Mikey, I don't want to take advantage of you for this. I'm doing this myself because that's the right thing to do.”
“It's not taking advantage, it's called networking,” Michael sighs.
Shaking your head again, you shift to make yourself more comfortable against his chest. “No helping, Michael. Not unless I'm absolutely desperate. Which I'm not… yet.”
He sighs again, silent for a moment before kissing your head. “Fine. But I'm tellin' you right now. The minute you want to quit, go on ahead and don't hesitate. You got me, you know that right?”
“Yes, I do.” A small smile forms on your face, eyes closing slowly. “Goodnight, Mike.”
"Goodnight, baby," he wishes, shifting down slightly as he gives a peck on your lips before burying his head into your neck. Murmuring softly, “Love you.”
“Love you,” you reply, already out of it. The room’s silence filled with only the sounds of you and him breathing in sync, and the TV playing the end credits of Roman Holiday.
Despite the quiet, your mind races.
Okay. You're aware of how it seems between the both of you. It’s been mentioned by a few who witness your dynamic and you’re aware of how weird and frankly, even disturbing for friends to be this close. Cuddling is one thing, but kissing on the lips and saying ‘I love you’s are on a totally different level. It doesn't really occur to you when that has evolved. As far as you're concerned, he just started calling you sweet names one day and became more physically needy than usual.
It happened around after he returned from his tour in Europe, so you figured they really weren't joking about how Europeans are more touchy. Well, that's what the travel magazines say anyway.
With that, you leave it be. In retrospect, you're never one to turn down any physical affection from Michael. And deep down you know it gives you butterflies, but you remind yourself daily to just ignore it.
So you do. Remind yourself, that is. Without fail.
It gets a lot more difficult each day, if you're being honest with yourself. On some days, it feels almost impossible. Especially when he gets so touchy and soft. Holding your waist as he talks to his brothers. Firmly holding your hand when he walks down the studio hallways. Even during the little days when he has free time and instead of doing something more worthwhile with someone more important, he'd persuade you to come stay at his house and play all kinds of board games.
You beat him at Connect Four every time, by the way.
Once having realized the risk of this becoming a huge problem if you don't handle the… pool of feelings swirling in your gut… and how it would lead to everything crumbling down, you knew you had to do something.
That's why, after much pressure from your boss, Janine, you're going on a blind date with her nephew.
“He'll be just the perfect man for you, doll,” she said to you so excitedly. In fact, so excitedly that you couldn't really turn her down. It's set for the day after tomorrow, and you still haven't told Michael.
Make it work first, see the guy first. See how things go before saying anything to Mike. That's your plan. It'd be a waste of time if the date didn't work out and you got Michael's hopes up regarding your love life for no reason at all.
How on Earth would you even start? Michael knows you're not exactly the type of person to go on just any blind date. He'd ask. And what could you answer? That you're falling in love with him more every single day that passes? That you're only doing this to get over it?
Absolutely not.
•
Mornings with Michael are always the epitome of domesticity at its finest. Both of you are hanging around the kitchen. Michael is sitting at the kitchen island, with only intentions of accompanying you, who's currently craving a bowl of freshly sliced fruit.
“Hey, baby? I'm gonna be home late again. Q called and said somethin’ about some adjustments the album needs. You got anything planned for today?” Michael asks, eyes focusing on his book of notes. Hand gripping on a pencil, eager to underline or scratch words about whatever it is he's working on. He writes down any important pieces from meetings, or anything that comes to mind about a lyric or a tune. You call it his ‘book of wonders’, and Michael laughs it off with a shy blush every time.
“What more adjustments does it need? I think the album is already perfect!” You scoff.
Michael laughs quietly and shrugs, “I think he's gonna cut another song from the final tracklist. Been drivin’ me crazy with that.”
Pointing at him briefly, you press your words firmly. “Don't let him cut Billie Jean, Mike. I swear to God.”
“I promise I won't. Not Billie Jean,” Michael snorts, “Anyway baby, your plans? For today?”
You hum absentmindedly, too distracted with cutting up some apple slices for your fruit bowl. “I’m going out later. Thinking about doing some shopping.” You're off work today and tomorrow, so there's plenty of time to get ready and make yourself beautiful for the stranger you're about to go on a date with.
God, everything is so silly.
“Ooh, somethin’ special going on? You never shop for yourself spontaneously. I always have to beg for you to do that,” Michael asks, getting up from his seat and walking up to you. Hands snaking around your waist, chin resting on top of your shoulder as he takes a gander on the bowl of fruit snacks you're making for yourself.
“Looks like heaven, doesn't it?” You ask with a teasing grin, gesturing towards the bowl.
“No, angel. You do,” he replies with a kiss on your temple. “You didn't answer my question.”
“Oh, that. Well…” You shrug, “Maybe, maybe not. We'll have to wait a bit and then you'll get your story, hm?”
“Hmm… Okay, I'll bite. I'll be waitin’ for some kind of update soon, okay?”
“I promise,” you say.
Michael nods with a smile, tilting down and softly presses his lips against yours. Your heart lurches as you hesitantly kiss him back. Not two seconds later though, he pulls away with a grin when a knock comes onto the door. “That's Bill. Hold on, baby.”
As he walks away, you take a minute to gather yourself. Breathing deeply, you groan at the delusional path your heart was heading down. What was that kiss? Jeez, Europe really did a number on him.
Turning back to the bowl of fruit, you rethink how good of an idea it is to actually go on this damn blind date.
•
“I’m telling you, Daisy, what if this is a bad idea?” You hiss in desperation into the telephone.
You’re back in your own apartment, surrounded by messy piles of clothing. It’s almost 10PM and the thing is, what you should be doing is some facial care before the date tomorrow, but instead you’re currently freaking out on Daisy. You were supposed to be back at Michael’s. But then. During your retail run, you belatedly realized it’s almost impossible to sleep at Michael’s the night before your blind date.
One, he would try to heckle his way into knowing what you’re going to be up to.
Two, you would immediately give in to him and tell him everything.
Three, after all of that, he’d question your sudden urge to date.
And finally, you’d have to tell him you’re doing it to get over your stupid feelings for him.
Ruining your friendship with Michael would have to be the worst thing that you could do to your life.
So that’s how you end up back in your own space, though the comfort you felt at Michael’s is sorely missed. Picking up a nearby sweater, you throw it across the room to the ‘No’ pile. “What if the date turns out really well but it’s just my subconscious self making it work to forget about Mike? That wouldn’t be fair to Janine’s nephew.”
“Okay, first of all, if your subconscious self is making it work, that’s a good thing. At least some part of you have an effort to try. Second, it’ll be exactly perfect if you got over Michael. I mean… c’mon, you’ve been friends for years. If he hasn’t made his move by now, then he never will.”
‘Well yeah, but if I told you he kisses me almost every day, you’d probably be saying something different,’ the thought runs through your head silently. Blinking away your delusions, you sigh, “What if Janine’s nephew thinks I’m too breezy?”
Daisy laughs, “Girl, you’re not as breezy as you think you are. And even so, breezy is in now. You’d be having him drooling all over ya’.”
A brief pause.
“You keep saying ‘Janine’s nephew’,” Daisy says, “Girl, do you even know what his name is?”
Shameful heat blushes your neck, grimacing silently, mind running to remember.
“Uhm… Kevin… what’s-his-name?”
Shrieking laughter from the other side of the telephone makes you flinch in shock. You’re telling her off, whining as Daisy repeats to herself the word Kevin. “It’s Calvin, girl,” she corrects you, chortling unabashedly. “Calvin Johnson, Janine’s sister’s son. Remember that before you embarrass yourself tomorrow night.”
“But Daisy! What if it’s a bad idea?”
“Listen to me. Calvin is also being set up, right? He’s probably just as nervous as you are. And he doesn’t know you yet. If you somehow don’t hit it off, which I seriously doubt because, well, don’t tell Janine this, but she’s a killer matchmaker, I mean, hello? Douglas from the kitchen and Jake from the laundromat across the street? Who the heck expects that? Anyway, if you somehow don’t hit it off, he won’t be hurtin’ and cryin’ in the ditch somewhere. He’s fine, and so are you. Just do this.”
You bite your lip, “Daisy…”
She immediately cuts you off. “The main reason why you’re still apprehensive is because you want to know what Michael thinks. And he probably would not give you the input you secretly want. I love you, really I do, but it’s time to acknowledge the fact that nothing seems to be blossoming there. You deserve the world, babe... You can go try and gettin’ it yourself instead of waitin’ around for someone to give it to you.”
Listening to her gentle voice, you fiddle with the string of pearls on your corner table. Sitting back on the couch, looking at the mess in front of you while the words she says slowly take root in your mind. Daisy is right. You’ve spent years trying to hollow out your feelings, ignoring whatever is growing inside the crevices of your heartstrings whenever you look at Michael, forgetting those sneaky thoughts of what it would be like to have him as your boyfriend, husband, the lover of your life. All of that, you’ve been pushing down so deep, and the fact that Michael is so openly and brazenly affectionate with you starts to feel a little insulting. Here you are, absolutely spiraling from every single touch shared, and yet, for him it’s just another friendly peck. Everything he does means the whole world to you, but why doesn’t it seem to mean much to him?
You’re aware you’re being unfair. Michael doesn’t owe you anything. All he asks from you is a loyal companionship, be it in a platonic way. He never expressed intentions of something more, at least not officially. It’s your own fault for developing feelings. You can’t be mad at him.
You can never be mad at Michael. Not when all he’s done for you is provide love and unconditional support.
After a few more minutes of slow conversation with Daisy, you tell your goodbyes after reassuring her you won’t back out on the blind date. Heaving a deep sigh, you get up from the couch and start cleaning up your mess. Already deciding on what to wear for tomorrow night, you’re determined to never have to look at a piece of stray clothing ever again because it will absolutely slay you if you did. You haven’t been this fashion anxious since forever ago. Having Michael as a friend has its perks, and one of them is receiving endless fashion tips; that actually works for you.
And obviously, Michael should be no such help for this particular instance.
The landline rings and you pick it up, half assuming it’s Daisy to convince you to not back out again. The girl has such little faith in you, you scoff.
“Daisy, I promise—”
“It’s Michael.”
Your eyes widen briefly before a soft laugh escapes you, “Oh, hey, Mike.”
“Where are you?” he asks, voice sounding a little stiff. Momentarily freezing, your head tilts in confusion over his tone.
“I’m at home, why?”
“No, you’re not. I know this because I’m calling from home. I thought you’re staying here tonight?” Michael asks.
“Oh, I thought you’re supposed to come home late tonight?” You ask him.
Michael replies with the same stiff tone, “I got out early, Q just wanted to get rid of Billie Jean and I chewed him off and got out of there before he could jump me. Baby, you’re not home. Why?”
“I meant I’m at my home, Mike. And because I figured I had to stay here at least for tonight, the space is literally about to gather dust.”
“That’s never stopped you before?” he argues.
Letting out a nervous laugh, you say, “Mike, maybe it’s because I don’t want you to get sick of me—”
“That’s a bunch of bull, sweetheart. C’mon, what’s happenin’? Please, baby, tell me,” Michael pleads, voice almost upset. “You’re supposed to be here with me. I want you here.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, sensing the upcoming begging and persuading coming from him. Firmly reminding yourself that no matter what pretty words he says, you’re putting your foot down and not surrendering to him. Regardless how tempting it is.
How insanely tempting.
“I’m sorry, Mike. It’s just so late already, you know?” You try to deflect.
“Who said anything about you drivin’? I’ll get Bill to drive you, I’ll call him right now—”
“Wait, Mike, don't!" You exclaim. “Poor Bill needs his rest. And so do you. Mike, we can sleep apart for one night.”
“We can but I’d rather not, baby…” he replies, almost completely quiet. “Is something the matter? You usually tell me when you’re not coming over.”
Slapping your palm to your forehead, you let out a soft gasp. “Of course! Oh, Mike, I’m so sorry. It completely slipped my mind. I was too distracted from the– from today! I’m sorry, honey, I should have given you some kind of note.”
Michael hums, “That’s okay… Just… Don’t you want to come over?”
Hearing his desperate tone, you almost stood up to grab your keys right then and there. Fighting against the strong urge, you sigh out and try to ignore the heavy guilt inside, “Mike, I’d love to but it’s late. Please rest. I promise I’ll see you the day after tomorrow okay?”
“Woah, hang on, why not just tomorrow?”
A tugging of your bottom lip, you think of what to say. You genuinely can’t bring yourself to tell him the truth. You don’t want to risk it. Not if he’s going to interrogate you until you confess your undying love for him. Gosh, your head feels as if it’s about to explode.
“Because I’m gonna be doing something tomorrow. Remember the little update?”
“Why can’t you just tell me now? Or tomorrow night?” Michael almost pleads.
“Mike, please don’t make this harder for me,” you tell him, whining. “I promise, promise, promise I’ll tell you the day after tomorrow. Please?”
A beat of silence.
“I can’t…” he starts so timidly.
You hum in question, “You can’t what, Mike?”
A clearing of his throat before he replies, voice firmer, “Nothing. Okay, baby. I’ll wait until the day after tomorrow to see you, but I’m callin’ you tomorrow midnight. I need to hear your voice and I need to know you’re at home safe.”
“Okay, Michael. That’s very sweet of you.”
He only hums in response. Furrowing your brows, you ask him. “Mike, are you alright?”
“I just miss you so much, baby,” he replies after a short second. He says it so earnestly, your cheeks warm up.
“We just saw each other this morning,” you softly remind him with a laugh.
“I don’t care.”
You smile softly, finger coiling with the landline wire. “I miss you too, Mikey. I’ll see you, okay?”
“Don’t forget to call.”
“I won’t!”
“You better not… Go to sleep. Goodnight, baby. I love you.”
“I love you too, Mike. Goodnight.”
Hanging up, you let out the deepest sigh you could muster. Plopping your head on the back of the couch and staring off into space, you wonder why Michael is taking it so hard about you sleeping in your own apartment.
•
Taking a sip from your wine glass, you smile politely as Kev– Calvin tells his story. Sitting at a table for two in a fancy restaurant is honestly not what you expected, but when he stood in front of your doorstep dressed in a black suit and tie, that would have been your first hint. You’re immediately relieved about choosing the dark, sleek dress that was purchased spontaneously the day before.
“And then my boss just went off on him, I did nothin’ but walk away, it was so bad,” he laughs. Calvin Johnson has a really cute laugh. He was pretty, too, you think. His hazel eyes gleam brightly and he knows how to land a joke. He orders good food and good wine. His voice is pleasant and deep. He dresses nice.
But… nothing. You feel absolutely nothing.
Here you are, dinner with the perfect gentleman who knows to compliment, and you’re feeling absolutely nothing. Your mind is just filled with thoughts of what Michael would have done if he saw the waiter passing by with mismatched neon socks, or what Michael would have ordered if the menu only consisted of fourteen different types of spaghetti, if he would have vomited and just starved altogether, or what Michael would have said to you when you pointed out the painting of the restaurant’s owner at the entrance that resembled Gene Kelly. Michael, Michael, Michael. It’s like he’s taken over your life the more you try to forget about your feelings.
You’re immediately being consumed by guilt at the thought of hurting Janine and her nephew. They are both really nice and warm people, and you’re returning the favour by playing games. Michael would have been so disappointed. He probably would enjoy talking to Calvin. Maybe if it doesn’t work between you and Calvin, and you’re being real honest here, it definitely won’t, you could introduce him to Michael. They already have the musically talented section in common. Only Calvin was more towards classical instruments. Well, maybe they could read music sheets together.
Biting your lip, you realize you’re only thinking of things that include Michael to help you go through this date. And that only makes you feel worse. You’re a terrible person.
“ — Hey, are you okay?”
You slightly jump, wide eyes gazing back at Calvin’s concerned ones. “O-oh, yeah, yes! I am okay, I’m so sorry. I’m just so… full, I get a little breezy when I’m, uh, full.”
Just pulling shit straight out of your ass.
He nods in acknowledgement, giving a small smile before he continues his story about… kangaroos or underoos. Either one.
You couldn’t really focus on the rest of his story, not that you did in the first place, but this time the focus was actually elsewhere instead of inside your own head. Your eyes flicker to a few tables behind Calvin, and the familiar face catches you off guard. Slightly squinting, you try to make out who the person is, before pausing your breath. It’s one of Michael’s bodyguards, you think. He’s newly appointed, but he seems nice. He has ginger hair and a small tattoo behind his ear, that’s how you know it’s him. Tilting your head further to the side, you try to recognize the rest of the table he’s sitting at. Nerves racking, you hope with everything you have that Michael isn’t there with them. But after seeing the whole table only has burly men laughing aloud, you realize they’re just on their break. Michael gives them his card sometimes and tells them to get fancy dinners. This must be one of those nights where he wants to be completely and utterly alone. Your heart drops. Could something be bothering him? He was definitely off from the phone call last night.
Your eyes suddenly make contact with one of the guards, who looks just as dumbfounded as you are. It was the world’s worst staring eye contest before you clear your throat. Averting your gaze, you force a smile as Calvin cluelessly continues his story.
That redhead is so gonna rat you out.
•
Returning home couldn’t be any more relieving than it is now. You’re leaning against the front door after closing it, sighing heavily. Thinking of moments prior.
“Hey, listen… I had a wonderful time tonight. And I think you did, too. But just as friends, huh?” Calvin asks as he walks you to your doorstep. You only look at him with your mouth slightly agape, not knowing what to say.
He laughs, shrugging, “I only agreed because of Aunt Janine. And I’m assuming you did too. That woman doesn’t know how to take no for an answer, that’s for sure.”
“She sure doesn't,” you softly chuckle.
Calvin rubs his nape, looking at you with an almost sympathetic grin. “And uh… don't take this the wrong way, but I sincerely hope you don't go on another date with a stranger.”
Trying to hide your offended face, you ask him. “Why do you say that?”
“Because this whole night, I was just talkin’ your ears off but your mind is in a completely different place. I mean, I was talking rubbish towards the end, with the kangaroos and all. Not even a peep from you, because you're busy thinking…” he trails off, displaying a pitying look as you nervously fiddle with your fingers, looking away.
“... Of someone else, hm?”
You don't respond, but you settle for a small smile. “You're too understanding.”
Calvin sighs deeply, “I know.” He says in a melancholic tone.
Laughing with him, you sigh and step closer to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you, Calvin. I'm so sorry this didn't work out. I'm sorry for not trying.”
“Eh, forget it,” he reassures you. “Honest. We wouldn't work anyway, I actually liked those risottos.”
“They were disgusting,” you tease back. Hugging Calvin a very short second, you let him off with a goodbye.
Which brings you to now, sighing like the world's biggest loser. You hated letting people down. It feels like you're hurting them on purpose, but it truly isn't your intention. You thought you'd get over your feelings for Michael at least a little.
Instead, the thing you want to do most right now is cuddle up against him.
You're thinking of the possible phrases on what your excuse could be if Michael asks what you've been up to today, not taking any chances that he wouldn't heckle. It's been a good two minutes since Calvin left your doorstep, and the date is being fast forgotten.
More so when a sudden knock comes down on your front door. You instantly know it's not Calvin. This one felt too comfortable, familiar…. Intimate.
You must be imagining things.
Walking back to the door, you take a look at the peephole. And lo and behold, Michael's standing right at your doorstep. His face unreadable.
As you open the door, you force a bright grin onto your face. “Michael, hey—”
“Who's he?” Michael asks sharply. Almost robotic. His body tense, jaw clenched ever so slightly.
“Hm?” You hum in response, tilting your head in confusion.
“The guy you were just with,” he quietly adds, walking into your apartment.
You realize what he's talking about and let out an ‘Oh’. “That's Janine's nephew,” you answer.
Michael just looks at you with a deep gaze. Murmuring hoarsely, he says to you, “C’mon, baby… don't play with me like this. Not right now.”
“Michael, I'm telling the truth, that is Janine's nephew. His name's Calvin.”
“Calvin…” he scoffs before turning around to pace back and forth in your living room. Meanwhile, you get more and more confused.
“What, you went on a date with him or somethin’?” Michael asks you shakily.
Well, the cat's definitely out of the bag, but Michael's reaction is not one you're expecting in any way, shape or form.
“Y-yes, I did… Come on Mikey, what's going on?”
He gives you the most incredulous look he's ever given anyone. “What's going on? Are you actually asking me that? What's… What's wrong with you?”
Hurt strikes through your chest at his words. Michael has never, ever been rude or said anything harsh like that towards anyone, least of all you.
Why is he talking like that to you? And why does it hurt so much with the way he's being so… different?
“What did I do, Mike?” You ask in a small voice, hugging yourself nervously.
“Oh no, no, no, you don't get to be upset, I'm upset,” he says with glassy eyes staring back at you. You almost gasp at the sight, his hurting can be seen as clear as day. Michael continues, “You were on a date with a rando? What, did you think I wasn't gonna find out? And you're so– so casual about it, do you even care at all?”
“Mike, what's… It's one date, Michael, what could be the issue? Please tell me why you're so bothered!”
“Why the hell do you think I'm bothered?”
“I don't know! It's just one date and you're not even my boyfriend, so tell me, Mikey, please.”
Michael throws his arms in the air, “Oh, sure! Just one would be fi– wh-what? I'm sorry?”
“What?”
“What did you say?”
“It's just one date!”
“No,” Michael whispers, shaking his head. “After that… what did you mean by that?”
Tilting your head, you furrow your brows. “Mike?”
He suddenly walks right up to you, hands slowly coming up to cradle your face. “I'm not… your boyfriend?”
“ … No?”
Michael's eyes flutter, pain being etched on every surface of his face. “Are you breakin’ up with me, baby?”
“What?” You ask with a soft voice, eyes widening. “When did we get together?”
“What?”
“What?” You repeat, starting to breathe really hard. Michael gives you an astounded look, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek. His lips part in surprise, and it appears as if his brain is taking an extremely long time to register your words.
“What do you mean when did we get together?”
Close to crying, you whine softly, “Michael, I don't follow!”
Michael clenches his jaw, eyes boring into yours as his brows furrow deeper. “Baby, this isn't funny.”
“I'm not trying to be funny!” You reply.
“Then what are you talking about? I am your boyfriend!”
“Since when?” You ask loudly, eyes getting wider by the second.
His jaw only drops further in response, head shaking repeatedly. “She's joking,” he murmurs softly to himself. You deny it again, strongly needing to know what the hell is actually going on.
“Well, baby,” Michael starts with a bewildered look on his face, “I happen to think we got together since I started callin’ you baby every day and how you're practically livin’ with me because I don't think I can actually sleep without you anymore, oh and I almost forgot, we're kissin’ damn near all the time!”
You stand there, yet another dumbfounded look on your face. “I just thought you took home some European customs,” is the only thing you could say in a small voice.
“What?” Michael asks again, another confused facial expression before he sighs and pulls you close. “Baby… you're telling me this whole time…?”
You shake your head, hand coming up to softly stroke his jaw. “I didn't know anything. God, I'm so sorry, Mikey. I mean, I mean what am I supposed to think? You never asked me about it– you didn't clarify anything, did you?”
“I thought in a way, you knew!”
You ask softly, “How could I have known?”
Michael looks away, arms still wrapped around you. “Okay… I’m sorry. I’m really sorry for yelling because now I’m just rethinking everything… I was a stupid twenty year old. Remember how we kissed for the first time?”
Heat rises to your cheeks at the memory. Yes, you certainly did.
By then, both of you have been friends for about a few months. It was late at night, and you were sleeping over at his family house. It was just you two in front of the television, everyone else having already gone to bed. The time was nearing 1.30AM when the movie finally ended.
“Mike, I told you we should have just rewatched Dog Day Afternoon.”
“How was I supposed to know it was gonna be that bad?” He snorts as he places the half eaten bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
Laughing, you lean back on the couch and make yourself comfortable. Turning to him, you ask. “We went straight for the movie earlier, I never got to ask you how your day was.”
Michael sighs and closes his eyes, making you frown in concern. Reaching out to softly grip his hand in between you two, you give a small smile.
“Wanna talk about it?”
He shrugs, looking elsewhere. “I don't know, it's just…”
“New album jitters?” You try, knowing how under the pressure he's been, with Off The Wall about to be released in a few days. If someone were to ask you how dedication was to be presented in real life, you'd point instantly to the man next to you. You've never seen someone so passionate about what they do as much as Michael is with his music.
“... No, it's not that,” he laughs softly. “I mean, I'm nervous about that too, but tonight is different. It's just my brothers. They wouldn't stop ragging on me earlier.”
Pulling your knees to your chest, you tilt your head. “Why? What's the matter?”
“I had them listen to the final picks for the album, and they—”
“If they didn't like it, that's their problem. The album is perfect!” You cut him off, already raging at the thought. You’ve always been his number one supporter and defender.
Michael laughs again, shaking his head. “No, no, they were real supportive about that… it's just the fact that I've uh, I've been singing about, y’know… romance and all.”
You nod, and raise your brow when he doesn't continue. “And?”
He sighs after what felt like forever, “Well it's silly... because I've never even had my first kiss yet, so.”
“Michael, that's okay. Me neither.”
Eyes widening, he sputters out, “You haven't?”
“No,” you laugh. “Is that so unbelievable for you?”
Yes, he happens to find it completely unbelievable because you're so gorgeous all the time. Boys were bound to try something on you. Now once he's realising nobody's ever come close, he feels a sense of happiness. Happy that nobody came close. That she rarely gives her time of day for anyone. And he happens to be one of the few exceptions.
He only shrugs in response to your question before shifting closer. “Does it bother you?”
Shaking your head, you smile at him. “Not really. I'm not dying to be kissed. I know it's gonna happen when it happens. There's no use dwelling on it. But then again, I don't have brothers, nor am I releasing songs about romance.”
“Yeah, they really did their thing when I Can't Help It played,” Michael grumbles.
Softly giggling, you grip onto his hand more firmly. “Don't let them get to you. You have so many girls that've been wanting to kiss you for years. Take your pick, Mike,” you tease.
He only smiles and brings your intertwined hands to his lap. “I know, oddly enough. And I'm flattered that a lot of pretty girls like me. But I don't know them. I can't… I'm not like my brothers.”
Michael bites his lip, thoughts running in his head. He’s thinking of something stupid… Something reckless. Something that can’t be undone if he does it. The silent hum of the room becomes overbearing to him, gaze focused on your soft eyes, down the slope of your nose to your lips. He lingers there, thinking to himself how it would feel like. What it would taste like. Would he still taste the remnants of your flavoured lip balm? Would it be soft and light? Or something else he can’t even imagine?
“Michael?” comes your quiet voice.
“Hm?” He’s out of it, almost. Dazed with some type of need. He doesn’t want to call it lust. He doesn’t think you deserve that. He feels more. The need to be with you. Sit beside you. Hold your hand. Kiss you. Everything he imagines to do with a girlfriend, is what he’s imagining with you.
Good grief, since when did he start crushing on you?
“Michael, do you want to kiss me?”
His brain shuts down. His mouth, hands, and eyes don’t move. Mind blanking out.
After a few moments of silence, he manages to stutter out, “Wh- I’m sorry?”
Softly giggling, you shift your legs down and scoot closer to him. Hand still laced together with him, you look deep into his eyes. Gleaming with amusement, excitement and trepidation altogether. “Do you… Would you like to share our first kiss?”
He stares at you, jaw slack. “I thought it’ll… I thought it’ll happen for you when it happens.”
“Mhm,” you nod, “If you want to, it happens now. If you don’t want to, it will happen for me another time. I won’t be mad at you, Mike. I promise.”
You try to act cool, but the truth is your insides feel far from it. You don’t know what came over you, but from the way he was staring off into space, looking at your lips, the quiet surrounding you felt almost suffocating from the way you wanted him to lean in closer. To do something. Say something. So, you gathered your courage and took initiative. Even if there is no guarantee of him actually agreeing, you find yourself not regretting making your move. You wanted to know what a kiss feels like. And you wanted to know how it feels with Michael. You couldn't think of any better way to have your first kiss if not with him.
Michael is quiet for a few seconds, giving you some time to think of some lame segue out of this suddenly odd predicament you singlehandedly put you and him in. Before you could utter out an excuse, though, he cuts you off.
“I’d really like that.”
Your eyes widen, “Oh?”
“Yeah, I’d like that a lot, actually,” he whispers, leaning more towards you. “Are you sure you want this?”
You could only nod, breathing out a ‘yes’.
Michael’s eyes flicker down to your lips, before gazing back into yours. Shifting closer, his head slightly dips down, you moving with him. Lips a hair’s breadth away from each other, his fingers coming up to gently hold your chin, closing the distance.
When your lips meet his, it feels like a quiet magic blossoming from your lungs and into every crevice of your heart. Eyes closed, you press yourself further against him. Sighing out, Michael tilts his head to the side, parting your lips with his and kissing you deeper.
He does taste your flavored lip balm. And he thinks that’s the happiest discovery of his life.
A close second to knowing now how it feels to kiss you. At first, when you suggested to him to share his first kiss with you, he thought you were joking. But when you joke, he’d know right off the bat. And he knows your tone. You weren’t joking one bit. His mind was racing through what felt like numerous mountains of anxiety and anticipation. In that second, there was nothing he’d like more than to kiss you.
During the kiss, your hand comes up to stroke his cheek. A hum reverberates from him, sliding his tongue against yours, almost breathing into you. It’s a few more seconds of pure bliss before Michael slightly parts away, eyes still closed as he bites his lip. Closing the distance again, you leave some more pecks against the corner of his mouth, making him tilt his head and meet your lips with more passion and fervour. Smiling against the kiss, you melt into him as he holds you against him.
It feels like a long time before one of you takes the initiative to pull away, properly this time. The room is quiet save for the sounds of your heavy breathing. A soft smile is etched onto your face as you eye his gleaming face.
“Was that good?” You ask him, teasing.
“That was good, babe,” he laughs, “That was real good. I liked that a lot.”
Letting out a soft chuckle, you tell him, “I did too.”
“Can we do that more often?” he tries, leading to rounds of shy laughter to echo through the walls of the room.
Snapping out of your memories, you clear your throat. “Yes, what about it?”
Michael reaches and cradles your face, “Well, that was quite literally… one of the best things to ever happen to me. I loved that night. I loved kissin’ you. I loved it so damn much, and I assumed– I assumed you loved it too. I didn’t say anythin’ about you bein’ my girl because I thought it was gonna naturally happen. And the longer I left it alone, and the more we got closer, I just... I thought we'd been together for a while. Nothing too official, because… I didn’t know where you stand on that, but I figured we’d only feel like this towards each other.”
You lean into the palm of his hand, and he leans down and presses a kiss against your temple, continuing gently, “I didn’t think we needed any establishing. I thought you already knew I’d… I’m so in love with you, baby. I fall in love with you more and more each day. But it’s my fault for, well, for not telling you properly. For assuming. I’m really sorry, I should have said something sooner.” His voice is bordering on sounding pained now, but you hush him.
“Mikey, gosh, stop, you’re fine. You’re perfect, don’t be sorry,” you whisper as you leave kisses on his forehead, down his nose and to the apples of his cheeks. “We’re both really stupid.”
He laughs and pulls you closer, if it’s even possible. “Tell me about it. Baby, I really am sorry. Please forgive me?”
“Shh, I forgive you, and I hope you’ll forgive me too. I’m sorry,” you say.
“There’s nothin’ to forgive. You didn’t know. See how funny that sounds now? God, I could just hit myself,” he sighs heavily. “Sweetheart, are we together officially now? I want you to be my girl. Been wantin’ that for years, if you must know.”
You teasingly grin and shrug, “I don’t know… Quite presumptuous of you, already calling me your girl.”
“Baby, I’ve seen the way you look at me,” Michael smirks smugly, “It’s not wholly my fault for thinkin’ we’re together when you gaze at me the way you do.”
“I don’t gaze at you,” you gasp.
His arms snake around your waist again, pulling you closer and nodding dramatically. “Yes, you do and I can’t blame you, baby. I’d want to be my girl, too.” Swatting at his chest, you could only laugh in response.
“I’m serious, y’know? I’d like for you to be my girl. And just mine. No foolin’ around with this amateur stuff,” he says in a quiet tone, “I want you. You’re my best friend and I’ve never loved or wanted anyone as much as I do you. I want to marry you one day, I want everything a man can have with the love of his life, and I want that with you. There had never been and never will be anybody else. I love you, so much. Can you be my girl for real now?”
A soft hum escapes you, “Michael, I love you too. God, I love you so much.”
He doesn’t reply. Michael only leans in and catches your lips so, so urgently, it almost brings you down to your knees. It almost feels like your first kiss again. Except, this time Michael wasn’t afraid. Or doubting. He knows you want him just as much as he wants you. Heat grows from the way he pulls you closer, every inch of you burning from his touch and passion. His lips brushing against yours, tongue slipping in between to glide against yours. Softly nudging you backwards until you’re leaning against the wall, he tugs your bottom lip with his teeth before continuing to kiss you fervently. Your fingers come up to run through his curls, and he tilts your head upwards into the kiss. And that drives you crazy.
Leaving small pecks against your lips before kissing down your neck, he murmurs against your skin, “I love you.”
You could only hum dazedly, weakening as he continues his ministrations on your skin. “I’m so glad you’ll have me, baby.” He continues to whisper.
A final kiss to your lips, he pulls away to softly grin at you. “Tell that Kevin schmuck to kindly get out of your life, please?”
“It’s Calvin, honey.”
“Whatever,” he laughs as he leans his forehead against yours.
Imagine trying to crack ur man and Diana wants to call him. But then he chooses to answer to you jst cut the power
quick blurb before bed— xf! fiancée reader, nsfw if you squint, sub!michael kinda idk, diana can get fucked (by bad karma)
the phone rattled as it rang for the third time that night in the span of an hour. the sound immensely irritating considering it was just supposed to be an alone night. just you and michael, his lips dancing along the inside of your thigh as you two were on the couch, the movie playing long forgotten. a moment of calm in his busy schedule and he finally had time to scratch that itch of yours.
“who the hell keeps calling? i thought you told them you were unavailable tonight.”
“i did,” michael sighed. the sound torn somewhere between exasperation and borderline malice. “let me answer it—“
“michael, you said no work.”
“i’m not,” he promised. standing up but leaning down to place a kiss on your forehead before he walked over to the kitchen, adjusting his hard on in his pants as he did so. “i’m gonna tell them to stop and call back in the morning.”
you huffed and laid back down as he picked up the call on the final ring, messing with your engagement ring.
“hey, this isn’t a good— diana?”
you froze, eyes dragging slowly from the glittering diamond on your finger to where michael stood with the phone pressed to his ear.
his jaw was clenched and you tried desperately to not only hear what that cow was saying on the other end of the receiver but also summoning any shred of willpower you could to not get up and yank the phone away.
you tried desperately to be pragmatic and not fantasize about hitting her with your car.
“diana, i’m engaged. and i know you know that.”
you suddenly felt very, very cold.
michael’s eyes flicked briefly to yours. “what? no i’m not gonna… are you insane?”
you took a gentle breath. in. out.
stood up on legs that felt surprisingly steady and michael watched you carefully as you walked past him and into the kitchen. opening a drawer and shuffling around before your fingers landed on— oh yes, there they were.
then you turned and walked up to him, smile soft.
“diana, you gotta stop calling here—“
snip.
the chord connecting the phone to the wall fell limply at michael’s side and there was a brief moment of sparks.
your hand then wound in the fabric of his shirt and pulled him close, michael’s eyes meeting yours but his pupils were so blown they looked like spilled ink.
“get down on your knees.” your tone was low and left no room for argument.
not that he would, given not a moment later he was doing as told and his mouth was back where it belonged between your thighs.
hey idk if you take requests but i LOVE the way your write for michael, like you don’t make him all mean and scary like these other writers do. he’s literally sweeter than grandmas peach cobbler lmao. anyways queen this is lit my THIRD TIME REQUESTING THIS WITH A WRITER SO HOPEFULLY YOU WRITE IT but can you do a silent treatment one? like the reader is mad a mike for something honestly anything and they live together but she ignores him for like 3 days? make him beg and be super sappy and fluffy 😛. also can it be bad era or dangerous era or history era?
wasn’t gonna drink tonight but i got my first tumblr request
a/n: i'm working on a mj fic rn that’s kind of lengthy (my first one took me like 3 days) so this request is the perfect thing for me to do in between to keep my creative juices flowing, thank u baddie
sorry for how long it took me to answer btw, i been working like a DOG. i swear idk how ppl be farting full blown novels out their butts left and right
bad era cause i'm an obsessed young ho
p.s. u can submit requests, but i make no promises! if i don’t feel the inspiration for it, it just won’t happen- thank u. <3
i hope i satisfy ur vision, anon! :) enjoyyyyyyy! <3
The Silent Treatment
bad era!michael jackson x fem!reader
✴︎ summary ➔ You come home from work to find out that your boyfriend, Michael, has taken a flight to another continent without telling you. It's for business, naturally, but the lack of warning or care about informing you is impactful. You decide to confront him with an old fashioned, but successful method: the silent treatment.
✴︎ contains ➔ established relationship, very light themes of abandonment, angst, MJ begging (rawr), pet-names, sappiness, fluff, light make out sesh, talks of marriage, no smut
3.1k words
Summer of '88
Your house with Michael sits with a stunning view at the edge of a hill in California, secluded from the rest of the scenic neighborhood.
When you both purchased the place and moved in together, you took the liberty of renovating the place inside and out. The roof, windows, walls, floors, kitchen, bathroom. All of it. It’s a house filled to the brim with your favorite belongings, pictures, and memories, now officially mixed in with his.
Stepping out of the car arranged for you, you lift your sunglasses from your face to drink in the sight of home. Bees buzz about in the dozens of fresh flowers you’ve planted, and glancing up, you catch the view of the curtains flowing inside the house through the open window. You smile.
Turning to your chauffeur, you stuff your sunglasses in your purse. “Thanks, Fran!” You shout.
“You’re welcome, sweetie! You get inside safe, now.”
You chuckle lightly as you walk down the front steps, finding it sweet that your driver refuses to leave until she knows you’re inside. The place smells like a floral shop and bakery combined into one when you open the front door, the scent of cookies and daisies attacking your nose.
You take your work heels off and toss them to the side. “Mikey! I’m home!” You call.
Traveling into the kitchen, you await his response as you take a peek at a tray of freshly baked desserts on the counter. It has chocolate chip cookies, muffins, red velvet cupcakes, and cheesecakes. You lick your lips as you try to decide which you’ll try first.
Your personal chef walks out of the pantry and into the kitchen, wiping at her apron. She sees you eyeing the sweets and nods encouragingly. “Like the desserts?” She asks, her French accent thick.
“They look incredible!" You praise. "Did Michael have you make all these?”
"Uh," The chef blinks slowly at you. “Pardon?”
“…Michael? Did he ask you to make these?”
You furrow your eyebrows, unsure as to why she didn’t understand your question. She looks around the kitchen for a moment before gazing back at you like you've got three heads.
“Michael is in Europe, madame.”
Your body stills to the point where you look like you’re a photograph, and the stutter that’s suddenly taking over the way you speak doesn’t go unnoticed by the chef, who frowns. “What do you mean, Europe? Like… like the- wait,” You press your fingers to your temples, shock coursing through you. “The continent? Michael is in Europe?”
“Yes,” The chef mutters cautiously. She looks petrified.
You open and close your mouth so much you look like a fish struggling to breathe. You almost feel like a joke is being played on you.
“Right now?” You ask.
“Yes, madame.”
You narrow your eyes. “As we speak?”
“...Yes, madame.”
“Which country?” You question.
“Germany, madame.” The chef nods once, like she's sure of it.
You laugh bitterly, the sound of it bouncing right off the high ceiling and spacious walls. “Well, he didn’t let me know!" You complain.
The chef’s frown deepens. “I’m very sorry, madame, he told me to tell you- I just- you were at work and I started baking and--”
You shake your head and sigh, waving a dismissive hand. “No, it’s not your fault. He should have told me himself that he was leaving. Not just… up and go like…” You trail off, not wanting to continue your sentence.
“Like you mean nothing?” The chef finishes for you. You sigh sadly.
Grabbing a cookie from the tray, you hold it up to her in both a 'thank you' and a ‘see you later’ kind of way. You head off towards the main bedroom, tossing your purse onto the floor in frustration.
How could he do something like that?
In what world was it normal for someone to get up, leave to another country, and not say anything to their loved ones? To leave it to the chef? He’s just packed up and taken off to another continent without so much as a letter or note! Maybe that was something that was casual in Michael’s world, but it wasn’t in yours.
Fury laces through you. Your feet start carrying you in laps around the front of the bed, and during a particularly rough stomp, your eyes fall to the corded phone on the dresser.
You’re calling Michael’s personal line before you can even think about it, hand crushing the wire.
“Hello?” He answers casually.
“Germany?” You snarl, not even bothering to return the greeting. “You’re in Germany?”
Michael fumbles on the other end as he tries to process who he’s talking to. “I- uh- Baby?”
“Are you in Germany right now, Michael Jackson?” You angrily grunt, too impatient to establish what’s going on. You feel like a nuke that’s a couple of seconds away from exploding.
The use of his full name has him sucking in a sharp breath, the sound filling your ear. He responds with a careful, gentle, “Yes…”
You stare at the wall in front of you, a sick feeling curdling in your veins. “And you didn’t think to tell me about it beforehand? You think it’s okay to just not talk to me and leave without a trace?”
Your voice is calm and cold, the noises of what sounds like a business meeting fading on the other line as Michael walks to a more quiet area. “N-no, baby, of course not--”
You start to walk in laps again as you reorganize your thoughts, however the phone cord doesn’t let you go far.
“You left it to the chef to tell me, like I’m some… employee of yours or an assistant or something!”
“Wait, hold on, mama--”
“How long are you going to be there?” You snap.
“I’m coming back in three days,” he hesitatly replies.
Well.
If Michael doesn’t think it’s necessary to talk to you about things, why should you talk to him?
You hang up the phone right then and there with no goodbye, a bad taste in your mouth. You feel blindsided and abandoned, even if that wasn’t Michael’s intention. It’s not even like you would have been annoyed or upset with him leaving the country! You understand that his job requires a lot of traveling from him, but a simple note or call would have sufficed!
But he left you behind, without a hug or kiss goodbye. No warning, no care.
Tears well up in your eyes as your anger morphs into something melancholy. When you walk out the bedroom and down the hallway, you hear the phone beginning to ring.
You let it. For three whole days, in fact.
The rest of Michael’s trip is spent by you dodging his calls, fixated on making him feel as ignored as you did. He tries to have other people relay messages to you after realizing you purposefully aren’t answering, but you ignore each one. It’s clear that nothing is getting across until he gets back.
It doesn’t help that you’ve been keeping an eye on him through the media, either. All the photos of him having a great time, the videos of fans cheering at him, it all makes you even more miserable. Not only has he left you without a word, it appears that he’s enjoying himself.
It’s around 8 PM when Michael finally returns home, and after three whole days of trying to gather your words and feelings, you’re certain that sometimes silence is louder than words.
Michael enters your guys’ home delicately, opening the front door and peeking his head in like he’s worried a lion will pounce on him the moment he steps inside. He’s wearing a black jacket and his signature shades, which don’t do well in concealing his nerves.
“Baby?”
In the living room, out of sight from the front door, you clench your eyes shut. With how loving his voice sounds, you know this is going to be hard.
The door shuts and your heart quickens when you hear his footsteps nearing. He enters the living room and stops suddenly, blinking at you with an expression you’ve never seen on him before.
“Hi...” He says, guarded. You flip the page of the book you’re pretending to read. “Are you.. okay?”
You don’t answer. Through the open back yard door, the bark of a neighborhood dog is the thin membrane keeping the two of you from being in pure silence. Your quietness wildly throws Michael off, his face contorting into genuine bewilderment.
He slowly stalks over to stand beside you. “I missed you," he purrs.
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from impulsively lashing out. You missed me but didn’t bother to tell me you were leaving, you think to yourself. Crossing one leg over the other, you make yourself comfortable on the couch without removing your eyes from the book pages. Michael takes off his shades and lowers warily to sit an arm-length away from you.
“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” He asks softly. When you still don’t respond, he leans over to try and catch your eye. “Hello?”
You flip to the next page. Chapter 12, it says. What chapter 11 contained, you have absolutely no idea. You’ve been skimming over sentences and occasionally flipping pages for the last hour whilst your brain’s been going haywire. The past three days have been the worst of your life, and though you hate fighting with your man, his lack of communication and care for you is something you can’t let slide.
Michael moves his fingers to brush over the top of your hand, trying to take ahold of it. You shake him off, your eyebrows furrowing in irritation.
He sulks. “You still mad at me, mama?”
You turn your head away, trying to avoid the smell of his cologne and the way the musky scent makes your mouth water. You feel an ache in your bones. There’s no denying that you missed him.
“Can you talk to me please?”
He tries to caress your lower thigh, a touch he knows you love, but grunts in frustration when you tilt your leg away.
“Baby, come on,” He pleads. “You called me so upset but hung up so fast I barely had time to think, and then you refused to take my calls after and I- I’m just so--”
You huff audibly, the first noise he’s heard from you in three days. He freezes, cutting himself off as he waits for more. He waits for a roll of your eyes, or a lecture, or something. Anything.
“Will you look at me?” He pleads weakly.
You don’t, not even bothering to pretend to read your book anymore. “Please, pretty girl, just once?” He pleads again.
You snap your book shut, squeezing the spine. If you want to keep this up, you've got to get the hell out of here. Slowly, you stand, walking off towards the kitchen.
Michael follows you like a lost puppy. “I told the house staff to let you know I was leaving,” He explains, like you didn’t already know that. He’s following your every move as you stride over and whip the fridge open, examining its contents.
There’s nothing in there that you want. With how sensitive you've been feeling, everything in the fridge looks like too much.
Michael runs both hands down his exasperated face. “I don’t get it, baby! I had a meeting, and I had to go! And you were fine before I left!”
The last word of his sentence hangs in the air. He almost looks taken aback, like he’s just figured something out. His eyes are wide.
You slam the fridge shut, looking to try and take off again, but before you can take a single step he slips in front of you and takes your face into his hands. “Hey,” He says sternly. His face is up close to yours, after so long of missing him and craving him and feeling so hurt by him. Tears well up in your eyes, balancing on your lower lash line, and you know your resolve is starting to break. You look up to try and hold it together.
“Is it ‘cause I didn’t tell you myself?” He questions tenderly, regretful eyes boring into yours.
Your bottom lip quivers and your eyelids start to feel hot. Shit, you think in your head, this sucks.
Michael leans in and positions his head so that you’re forced to make eye contact with him, his curls falling over his forehead in that way you love so much. “Yeah?” He whispers, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “Is that it, baby?”
You close your eyes, allowing your tears to overflow. They glide down your face as you start to sniffle, but you still don’t answer him. Your chest is tight with the grudge you’ve been holding.
He wipes your tears with his hands, pressing delicate kisses to your cheeks. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. I didn’t think it was something so serious. I hate seein’ you like this,” He sighs out.
The kitchen lights are dim, the house quiet in the light aftermath of the night. It’s like the world has paused for a second, just to let you both figure yourselves out. You absentmindedly stand in front of the soft lights, not realizing how insanely beautiful he finds you when you’re backlit.
The energy between you starts to crackle like lightning, and he presses his face into your shoulder.
"Say something, please."
You don't. He groans. “Please, I’m begging you, just talk to me. Look at me. Something, baby, please. I miss you. God, I miss you, mama.”
You flatten your hand over your chest as he begs you, your throat closing. Your breaths are coming out uneven and shallow, but they somehow sound the same as his. It sounds like he’s in despair. Your guilt hits you like a bullet.
Before you can open your mouth to speak, however, he sinks to his knees in front of you out of nowhere. It effectively steals away what you were about to say.
“Oh- my god,” You stammer out, “Michael, get up.”
He shakes his head and grips your hips, smiling gently at the sound of your voice. “Not until you talk to me,” he demands.
You shake your head furiously, “Get up!”
“No!” He argues, his voice staying light. “Look, I was wrong, and I know that, pretty girl. I’ve never really- my whole life is flights and trips and tours and I just didn’t stop to think about how it would’ve felt to you because I thought it was normal,” He explains. His touch on your sides after so long without even speaking to him makes your knees and arms feel weak.
He continues. “I should’ve thought about you. Told you myself before I left instead of leaving it to the staff. You’re my girl, after all. You deserve better than that.”
The kitchen goes mute, save for the sound of the house’s AC working. You look down at him and his dark brown eyes, carding a hand through his curls. “You really made me feel like an afterthought,” You murmur quietly.
“An afterthought? God, no, baby, you’re all that’s ever on my mind. I couldn’t sleep without you in Germany. I can’t ever stop thinking ‘bout you,” Michael reassures you on his knees, kissing your abdomen. “I went about this like an idiot, mama, please let me make it up to you.”
Something blooms in your stomach at the way he’s talking to you, solidifying in your head that he’s genuinely sorry. You nod slowly, grabbing the collar of his shirt and tugging him.
“Okay, okay,” You weep. “Will you please get up now?”
Michael stands swiftly and bear hugs you. He cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into his chest and breathe in his scent. He presses a kiss to the top of your hair, his opposite arm wrapping across your back to enclose you in. “I’m sorry,” He apologizes again.
You paw at his muscular back, overcome with emotion. “'S okay. I’m sorry, too, I should’ve just communicated with you."
“No, you had every right to be upset,” He soothes.
“I was being petty.”
“Mhmm,” Michael hums with a flirty smile. “My petty girl.”
The tips of your ears turn red as you blush, the tiniest smile creeping over your face. "Shush," You grumble. He chuckles sweetly, his body like a furnace against yours.
"I mean it, gorgeous. You drove me up a wall not answerin' my calls, but I shouldn't have left you in the dark like that." He pulls your face from his chest and ghosts his lips over yours. Wrapping your arms over his shoulders, your eyelashes flutter against your cheek as you let your eyelids close.
The both of you sink into a kiss that's been long overdue. Michael starts tracing your silky skin all over, making tingles run down your back, and he kisses you with the utmost gentleness at first before it changes into something hungry and insatiable. Your foreheads bump together as he makes out with you like a starved man.
Both of his hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, and you moan into his mouth as he lifts you up and sits you on the island counter. "Missed you so much," You mumble on his lips, hugging him close as you kiss him.
"Mm," He pulls away and kisses at your jaw, "You're my everything. Future wife and all. I want the whole thing with you."
You pause, pushing back to look him in the face. Surely, he's not being serious.
"Really?" You ask him. He nods with a silly little smile, then widens his eyes.
"Not yet! Not- not right now, I- I wanna ask you properly," He rushes to say, his frantic tone making you giggle. He ducks his head as his face flushes, suddenly acting like a little boy with a crush. "But yeah. Really. Someday, if you want."
You smile happily at him. "Yeah, baby. I want."
He ends up kissing you well into the night, touching and caressing you in ways that make you feel like life's not real. It’s the perfect way to end the 3 day long hell-hole you've been undergoing.
All of the rage you've been building pours down an invisible drain as Michael keeps you close for the rest of the night.
The next day, and the days after that, he does the same; clinging to you like he never wants to let go.
Your edit one-shot reminded me of those celebrities read thirst tweets videos lol, maybe we could see a one shot of Michael and Reader doing that? If that's okay with you of course!
Omg I love this idea!
𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑻𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝑴𝒊𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒆𝒍
(This is gonna be a continuation of the thirst trap fic, so once again, bending time here. Sue me.)
Michael Jackson x Wife!Reader
Synopsis: After the interview where you showed Michael thirst traps of himself went viral, you got an offer that you simply couldn't pass up.
Content/Warnings: This gonna get a little steamy, lots of swearing, foul language, people being freaks! Also all the tweets I used are things that have actually been said either about Michael or other celebrities!
W.C. 1.4K
Masterlist
You sat in the back of Michael's black Cadillac practically exploding in excitement. The interview that you and Michael did where you showed him thirst traps of himself had gotten a lot of traction. You were going through Michael's emails for him, god bless him technology was not his forte, when you stumbled on an email from Buzzfeed. They had asked if you and your husband would be interested in reading thirst tweets about Michael.
After a lot of begging and pleading, Michael had caved in. Honestly, he caved in pretty fast. And now here you were, on your way to the BuzzFeed filming studio. Michael watched you in slight amusement, it made him happy seeing how excited you were.
"So explain this whole thing to me again." He buried his face in his hands, heat already flushing his face.
You turned to him, "Basically there's an app that lets people write out kinda whatever they want, and this company has found a bunch of things written about you and we're going to read them together. We've watched a couple of their videos, angel face, don't act like you don't know what you've agreed to." You smiled and nudged his leg with your foot.
He sighed dramatically. "You're right, I'm just not sure this is a good idea." He hid his face away, trying to conceal his smile. Little did you know, Michael had secretly reached back out to BuzzFeed and had asked them to not only get tweets about him, but tweets about you. And you were so clueless. Michael could see it now, you laughing at his embarrassed face when he would flip everything on it's head and you would be the one hiding your face. He was also very intrigued to see what people really thought about you.
Your heart melted, thinking he was actually nervous. You took his hand, "Hey we don't have to do this, Mikey." You rubbed your thumb over his rings.
He shook his head, "No, I want to, you just know how I get." He squeezed your hand.
You smiled at him sweetly, so sweetly. It almost made him feel bad about the little stunt he was pulling, almost. "I'll be right beside you the whole time, okay?"
He nodded and kissed your head and then your lips.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Before either of you knew it you were sitting in front of a bright blue backdrop. You both sat in separate chairs, much to each of your dislinking. They had originally been set up a foot apart from each other, but as soon as Michael saw it he moved his chair so that it was directly touching yours. You smiled and took a sip of whatever sparkling water they had offered you. You watched as the producer handed the phone to Michael, explaining to him very carefully how to access the tweets they had found. Michael stared at the phone, his glasses hanging onto the tip of his nose.
You laughed a bit at the way his brows furrowed in confusion, "Michael, darling, I can help you if you want."
He shook his head, "No no, I've got it."
You raised an eyebrow at the dismissal. He never declined your help when it came to technology, especially phones. That should have been the first warning sign.
Once everyone was set up, Michael came into frame and took a seat. You crossed your legs in the chair and he instinctively reached over and placed his hand on your thigh. The action warmed you and you leaned into his side slightly.
"Alright whenever you guys are ready." The director shouted from off screen.
Michael smiled and looked at the camera, "Hello, I am Michael Jackson,"
"I'm Y/n Jackson, and we're here with BuzzFeed to read some thirst tweets!" You finished the intro. Michael smiled at you and showed you the phone.
"Do you wanna read the first one?" He asked, you nodded and found the screenshot. He laughed nervously, trying to read your expression, "Oh gosh, I'm nervous."
You laughed, "Don't be this one is pretty tame."
"Girls don't want boyfriends, they just want Michael Jackson."
You looked at him after reading it, and both of you laughed, leaning into each other. "Do you think that's true?" He asked you.
You nodded, "Oh for sure, although I guess I don't really get a say in that, I'm the one that has you." You flirted shamelessly.
He hid his face in his hands, "Next one, gimme the Iphone." He carefully took it from your hands.
"Y'know you can just call it a phone right?" You teased.
He rolled his eyes and cleared his throat ready to read the next tweet.
"Can Michael Jackson please choke me with his thighs?"
You doubled over laughing, as Michael turned bright red. He looked so concerned, "Why would I want to choke somebody?" You opened your mouth to respond, but Michael quickly covered your mouth with his hand, "Don't actually answer that!"
You mumbled something through his hand before prying it off, "Okay okay, next!" You took the phone and read the tweet.
"Oh I just know Michael Jackson's dih is big."
"My what?" He looked at you confused. You showed him the tweet, "What is 'dih'?" He looked at you.
You really tried not to laugh, you tried so hard, but that look on his face immediately broke you into a fit of giggles. You were laughing so much you couldn't respond. Michael smiled, starting the chuckle with you, "Why are you laughing? What is it? Y/n!" He grabbed your shoulders, trying to get an answer from you.
Once you finally caught your breath you looked at him and wiped away the tears from your eyes. "They're talking about your junk, Mikey."
His eyes widened and he hid his face in his hands again. You kissed his cheek and looked over at the camera with a smirk and gave an exaggerated nod.
This continued for some time, the tweets getting raunchier and raunchier.
"He's so dada."
"Michael Jackson could spit in my mouth and I'd still call him Daddy."
"What will it take for me to ride that fine man's face?"
"Can Michael Jackson please whimper and moan in my ear?"
"All I want in life is Michael Jackson's face buried deep in my pus-"
Michael cut you off before you could finish reading that one, taking the phone from your hands, his face was red as a tomato.
"Alright, my turn." He declared and carefully pushed up his glasses. He cleared his throat,
"Michale Jackson is the luckiest man alive, because what do you mean he's married to Y/n?"
You blinked a bit and leaned over, trying to look at the screen. "That's not what that one says."
Michael held it away from you, "Oh yes it is! Surprise!" He smirked as your jaw dropped.
Oh how the turn tables.
Michael kept reading.
"My toxic trait is thinking I could pull someone like Y/n."
"Y/n is so mommy."
"I would get on my hands and knees for Y/n."
"I would let Y/n walk me like an actual dog."
You sat beside Michael, stunned, and very flustered from hearing all those things leave his mouth.
"I genuniely believe I could sit in a cuck chair for hours and watch Michael Jackson and Y/n fuck, but mainly so I could watch Y/n."
You hid your face in Michael's chest, your ears burning from how hot they were. "Dear lord, okay okay, you got me!"
Michael laughed a bit, he was just as flustered as you.
It was quiet for a moment before he looked at you, "What is a cuck chair?"
"Oh my god, no. We cannot have this conversation here." You shook your head, laughing slightly.
The video ended with you both laughing and red in the face from all the things you had read.
Michael opened the car door for you and you both got in the car. The ac was on blast, as you tried to cool down.
Michael smiled and wrapped an arm around your shoulders, "I surprised you didn't I?"
"Very much so." You leaned against him.
"Did you like it?" He looked a bit nervous.
"Yeah, I did. Now we both can look like flustered idiots on the internet." You smiled up at him and gently kissed his cheek.
A/n: Also, fuck netflix, all my homies hate netflix. The man is innocent, can we please let him rest!? I literally canceled my subscription today and when it asked for the reason I literally said because they had no morals and the stupid documentary was a cash grab. They aren't getting my money after pulling this shit. So instead, I'm going to see the movie again. Suck on that netflix
Hi! Love your work, can I have a protective Michael x Wife! Reader? Maybe an aggressive paparazzi or something?
YES!
𝑮𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑫𝒐𝒈
Michael Jackson x Wife!Reader
Synopsis: Michael was able to keep his calm when it came to most things, but when it came to your safety, he could become incredibly protective.
Content: Swearing, anxiety around large crowds, someone grabs reader, Michael lowkey loses his shit, suggestive content
W.C. 2.2k
Masterlist
You hated large crowds, something about them made your throat close up and your heart race a million miles a minute. Unfortunately for you, your husband was like a crowd magnet. Not that he really had any control over it, but wherever he went a crowd followed. Had you not hated it, you would have found it impressive.
With his third studio album having just been released, the crowds were getting more intense. You felt like you could hardly go anywhere with him without panic rising into your chest as people quickly recognized him and hovered near the two of you.
Honestly, the worst part of it was the paparazzi. They were what gave you the hardest time, always shoving, always yelling, it made your head fuzzy. Michael knew your aversion to crowds, and he did his absolute best to keep them as contained as possible. He hired more security, he even got duplicate cars to try and throw people off. But somehow those stupid buggers with their giant flashing cameras always found you two.
Since announcing your sudden marriage to the public, the paparazzi had been trailing you specifically. They were all eager to capture photos of you alone, finding any and everything to scrutinize you. It was exhausting. You felt like you couldn't leave the ranch without fearing that you might be photographed inappropriately.
You were a private person, which is why you had kept your relationship with Michael a secret until after you had said 'I Do.' At first you had liked that you had tricked the paparazzi into having not the faintest idea about your existence, but it seemed like they were determined to get back at you.
You sat in the back of the limo with Michael, your knee bobbing up and down anxiously as you drove through the streets. Michael was asked to go to some award show to present a couple awards. He wanted you to come with him officially as his wife. You had announced the marriage a few months ago but this was the first award show of any kind that you had been seen at publicly. He knew it was a big ask, but he wanted you by his side from now on, and who were you to say no to his pleading eyes.
Michael gently placed a hand on your knee, holding it gently, "If you keep that up you'll tear a hole in the floor of the car." He teased, trying to take your mind off what was waiting down the street.
You looked up at him, "Sorry, just nervous."
God you looked so heartbreakingly beautiful, it hurt Michael to look at you for too long. He smiled and kissed your head, "Don't apologize, baby. Y'know m'proud of you for coming with me tonight." He squeezed your knee gently.
You finally smiled, relaxing at his words, "You're too sweet to me."
"Impossible." He laughed, his hand gently grabbed your chin and guided your lips to his. You smiled into the kiss before pulling back slowly and bringing your thumb up to his lips, wiping the lipstick off his lips.
"Leave it, sweet girl. People know I belong to you now, there's no need to hide it."
You bit your lip, holding back your wide grin. He smiled and pulled you back into another kiss, this one deeper than the previous. He pulled you closer, disregarding the pull of his seat belt. Your lips moved gently against his, before trailing down to his jaw, then lower to his neck. He groaned lowly into your ear. "Y'sure know how to work me up right before we go out in public. It's criminal." He laughed breathlessly.
You blushed as you finally pulled away, satisfied with the claim you had placed on him. There were at least three lipstick prints on his neck and jaw, each matching the shade on your glossy lips. "I've had a lot of time mastering the skill." You shrugged and sat back in your seat.
He laughed and looked you up and down. He had bought you the most gorgeous black dress, it sat like silk against your skin, and perfectly matched his black leather suit. You both looked lethal. He sighed and played with the strap of your dress, "I can't wait to take this off you tonight." He smirked as he watched you flush visibly.
You eyed him for a moment, "Don't get ahead of yourself, pretty boy. We have a whole award show in front of us."
He laughed and kissed your knuckles.
The car slowly rolled to a stop, the moment breaking as screams erupted around you. He felt you tense up immediately, and he squeezed your hand, "I've got you, doll."
You took a breath and nodded. He got out on one side of the car, the screams exploding around him, you could see the flashes from the cameras going berserk. Before he could walk around to your side of the car and open the door for you, a group of paparazzi swarmed in, prying the door open. They stuck their cameras in the car without a second thought, blinding you quickly. You held your arm up, scooting to the side of the car Michael had left from. You could hear him shouting at the cameramen, telling them to back up. You looked out the back of the limo, seeing him being pushed back by his security.
Your ears were ringing, and you could feel your heart trying to escape your chest. You were pressed up against the left door, still trying to shield yourself from the right side, when the left door was yanked open.
You felt yourself being pulled from the car, but couldn't see by who, your vision blurry from all the flashing lights. Questions were being shouted at you left and right as people demanded to know anything and everything about you.
"Look over here!"
"Why have you been hiding?"
"Are you pregnant with Michael Jackson's children?"
"Did you trap him into marriage with a child?"
"Look this way!"
A hand grabbed your arm harshly, turning you to face the flashed head on. Your head felt like it was going to explode. Your eyes burned from the light and your ears rang so loud your head felt like it was being shoved against a brick wall.
Your throat felt more constricted with each question and command thrown at you. Your head couldn't keep up with anything around you, as the panic in your chest took hold of your body. You felt helpless against the crowd slowly closing in on you. It felt like being dragged underwater, no matter what you did you couldn't come up for air.
The grip on your arm was ripped away, a figure quickly standing in front of you as security shoved the man back. An arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his side, shielding you from the onslaught of flashes. You couldn't see him or hear him, but you knew his touch.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The second Michael stepped out of the car without you immediately behind him he knew he made a mistake. He didn't even have time to get to your door before he saw two cameramen rip it open and shove their cameras into the car.
The smile on his face quickly turned into something more sinister as he ran around the back of the car, "Hey! Back up!" He shouted at the group that had quickly barricaded himself from you.
Everything had happened so fast that security had mistaken him as the one in need of help. They quickly flanked him, pushing him further from you. He tried shoving past them, growing angrier as more cameras flashed into the limo. "Get away from the car!" he shouted angrily before turning to the two security guards, "Get them to back up, my wife is in the car!"
They quickly scrambled to the side he had been trying to reach, pushing people away. He heard more shouts and looked over to see a man yanking your terrified form from the car.
Michael could've killed the guy. Two more security guards saw the look in his eye and grabbed his arms as he tried to get to you. They knew that if Michael got his hands on that guy things would be bad. Michael felt like he was going to go crazy if he didn't get to you. He could see the way your chest was constricting your airflow. The questions being shouted at you sent him over the edge. He yanked himself free from security's grip.
"Get your filthy hands off her." He growled at the man who was still holding onto you. His hands tore the man away, Bill quickly stepped in between him and the cameraman.
"Get her inside now." Bill nodded toward you.
It took every fiber of Michaels being not to jump the smug guy, but one glance down at you and he pulled you close. He wrapped an arm around you, hand shielding your face as he moved through the crowd easily. People quickly stepped out of his way, seeing what had gone down and seeing the murderous look on his face. He led you into the building. The security that had been hired at the venue quickly led the two of you to a green room backstage, seeing what had gone down.
Michael led you to the couch, carefully kneeling in front of you. Once the door shut he gently pried your hands away from your face.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Everything was quiet now. You didn't know where you were, but you knew it was quiet and it was with Michael. After a moment he took your hands away from your face. Your eyes were squeezed shut, mascara running down your cheeks.
Michael's smooth voice spoke barely above a whisper, "I'm here, baby. Look at me, please. Let me see those gorgeous eyes."
You slowly opened them, your vision slowly coming back into focus. Your eyes settled onto Michael's face, twisted in concern. Your breathing was shallow, your lungs burning for air.
Michael cupped your face, "Baby, breathe with me, okay? Breathe." He took in a long breath, and held it for a second before letting it out. You followed him, breathing in and out slowly until your heart rate had returned to normal. Your bottom lip quivered slightly as you tried not to cry anymore. Michael's heart twisted, "It's okay, doll. Let it out." He pulled you into his arms.
The second his arms wrapped around you, it was like your body let go of all the tension. You melted into his arms, slipping off the couch and into his lap, head against his chest as you cried quietly. It wasn't loud or violent, it was so painful that there was almost no sound at all. Michael held you against him, rubbing your back, and whispering sweet things into your ear.
After you had calmed down you slowly pulled back, sniffling, "How bad is my makeup?"
He took a good look at you. Despite the runny mascara, and the tear stains you looked like a heartbreaking dream. "You're still the most gorgeous creature in the universe."
You choked out a laugh and gently wiped your cheeks. Michael helped you get the mascara off your face, holding your face in his hands afterwards. "I'm so sorry, baby."
"It's not your fault, Michael." You fixed a wrinkle in his suit.
"No but that should not have happened. I am going to have some serious talks with my heads of security as well as the security at this venue. That was unacceptable, I've never in my entire career seen anything like that."
"Mike, it's okay. Really, I'm okay." You cupped his face.
He shook his head, "Like hell that was okay. I couldn't even get to you! Some dick grabbed you, I swear I'll send his ass to jail for touching you like that." His face became stern. It made you smile, seeing how protective he was over you.
"There's no need for that, Michael. I'm sure Michael Jackson screaming at him was punishment enough." You tried to bring him back to earth.
"Not if I have anything to say about it. He's lucky I didn't snatch that fucking camera out of his hands and smash it on the ground."
You grabbed his chin and kissed him, bringing his mind back to the present. "Michael, all that matters is that you got me out of there. I don't want to give them the power of ruining our night."
He nodded a bit, blood starting to cool down as he looked at you. He kissed the tip of your nose and then your forehead. "You're right. Now let's get out there so I can show off my beautiful wife." He stood up, guiding you up with his hand. He walked the two of you out of the room and into the banquet hall. His hand stayed at the small of your back. Before entering the awards room you leaned up and whispered in his ear.
"You're getting something extra special for being so sexy and heroic for me."
ꉂ ᵎᵎ cw/tw: 18+, pussywhipped!teasing!izuku yay, brat!fem!afab!reader, cunnilingus, porn no plot, reader has a beauty mark in the hoo ha, clothed sex
ꉂ ᵎᵎ a/n: this is a reblog from my old account
ꉂ ᵎᵎ synopsis: observant + annoying bf izuku eating out shy reader for the first time
ꉂ ᵎᵎ w/c: ~340
“you got a beauty mark in here, baby.”
after vehemently refusing to observe izuku eating you out for the past five minutes due to shyness, your arm covering your sight lowers so you can glance down at him lying in between your legs, and you watch as his thick fingers spread open your drooling folds into the shape of a V. a shiver runs down your spine as he presses a chaste kiss directly to the mark before swiping over it with his tongue.
“what…?” you ask hazily, attempting to prop yourself up onto your elbows, “i do?”
“uh huh.” he takes another lick, the sound of your guys' bedsheets rustling as he adjusted the growing tent in his sweats. “you want me to take a picture?”
“uh, no—” you scowl. a whiny whimper quickly replaces the sound. “what the hell am i gonna do with a picture?”
“look at it,” he shrugs. “admire it. love it” — chuu — “that’s what i’m doing.”
he must be crazy, you decided, to think you were going to let him have documentation of you receiving oral for the first time — pajamas pants pooled at your ankles, shirt riding up your stomach, hands trembling, needy pussy spread open — on his phone. you shake your head, a breathy hiss escaping you.
“babe, can’t you just— ah — do it without the comments? it’s embarrassing…”
izuku only lets out a simple hum in response. “bossy, bossy,” he muses. his lips wrap themself around your clit before giving the bead an obnoxious slurp. “i just think it's funny.”
“funny?” your brows scrunch. “why is it funny?”
your boyfriend merely laughs at your confusion and how you writhe underneath him. “cause’ it’s like— y’know that thing about how moles are the places where your lover in a past life kissed?” when you roll your eyes, the grin tugging at his lips deepens. “looks like someone was getting freaky.”
god, did he ever shut up?
“izuku,” you huff, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your cheeks. “don’t be weird.”
“alright, alright,” he concedes with a chuckle, “no talking with my mouth full, got it.”
sluttyteacherIzuku! who was the literal embodiment of the phrase “sweet guys with big dicks”. he would fuck you so hard, knees pressed against your chest, tight little hole stretched around his fat cock as you full on cried and sobbed from how deliciously he was stretching you. Your sweet hole throbbed with each merciless thrust, squelching and queefing as your slick dripped onto the base of his cock and onto the green comforter. Yet still, he wiped your tears with his calloused thumb, kissing your lips and face softly with a big smile on his face. “c’mon, love. one more. you can squirt for me, y’know you can.” he groaned so sweetly, acting completely oblivious to your overstimulation and the fact he wouldn’t make you cum till you squirted all over his cock.
sluttyteacherIzuku! who DID NOT value the words “there’s a time and a place for everything” because he would carelessly have you under his hardwood desk, sucking on his fat, flushed tip and palming his dick, fingers running over the veins and toying with his balls as he slightly squirmed during his very important zoom meeting. Or, he would sneak you into his office during a lunch or smoke break, bending you over his desk, sunlight seeping through the curtains as they blew from the open window, groaning at the sight of your fat ass recoiling and rippling with each thrust before taking another puff of his cigarette.
sluttyteacherIzuku! Who had a really bad slapping and degrading kink if it wasn’t obvious already. He’d purposely rile you up during arguments for you to take your anger out on him, smirking as he felt your little palm strike his cheek as you cussed him out. He would even wrap a crumpled piece of notebook paper around his length and use it to jerk him off during late night marking sessions in his office when the thought of you slapping him up and calling him the nastiest things came to mind. He loved being belittled. He loved it when you shoved his head deeper into your glistening cunt as you called him the most sluttiest names known to man. If he was alone, all needy and whining in his office, he’d pinch his nipples through his white button up to stimulate the pain he needed. If that wasn’t enough, he would use cock slapping and voice note sending as a last resort, smacking his flushed veiny nine inches that dripped with his preccum, whispering the most dirtiest things to himself, moaning and deep grunts and pretending you were there to slut shame him. “fuuuck I’m such a—smack— whore. s’feels sooo—smack— good n/n. pick up the fuckin’ phone baby.” He’d whine all high pitched, smacking him self a few more times before he’d cum all over the papers he was grading.
Yeah, he was a “little” bit of a slut.
Dance with me in the rain~ @bluecakes1978 - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
