A angsty fluff piece that stars a very sweet and over protective MJ. You are debuting your new relationship to the media at an event and things get a little tense when a tabloid trash writer finds you both leaving the venue. Ends on sweet note.
“Sweat on the Dance Floor”
MJ x Fem Reader Fic!
A short and sweet fluff fic. You get hurt while dancing in-front of the boss. What happens now? Caring and kind MJ.
“The Shower Scene”
MJ x Fem Reader Fic!
Mature Era, daddy Michael.
Two lengthy-ish chapters. He’s sad and slightly absent at first, struggles with mental health, this is circa 2008 so it tracks, unfortunately. SMUT. Read the kink tags plz! Enjoy😈
✨”Take a Joke will ya’”✨
Off the wall / Early thriller Era Mikey
This one is really silly and just a fluffy dribble about some sibling shenanigans and a prank gone wrong. This popped into my head and I couldn’t not write it. Read it for the smiles I suppose. 🫶
“Who’s Bad”
Bad Era Micheal
Two lengthy-ish chapters AGAIN yes because I like actual plot with my smut sometimes. A little build up is good sometimes hahah. SMUTTY, check tags!
pairing: mature era mj x established girlfriend! reader
word count: 6.3k
tags: smut, age gap, mutual masturbation, masturbation in front of a mirror, cumshot, yes u are a swallower (soz if u aint), teasing, mike loves your body and wants to see allllll of you, some slight domesticity at the start, MIKE IN HIS READING GLASSES WEYHEY,
authors note; based on this request. i hope u guys enjoy this ... first mature mike fic... kinda nervous. let’s pretend that in his late 40s mike was still living at neverland and that those fuck ass allegations never existed.
if there are any grave errors in this then u know it was a wee tired gal who wrote it.
₊˚ෆ
18+ MINORS DNU!
✩ 𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗱𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗹𝗮𝗺𝗽 cast a soft yellow glow across the rumpled duvet. Michael sat propped against a mountain of glittery pillows, his reading glasses perched low on his nose, a thick, leather-bound book open in his slender hands.
He wore a pair of crisp, sky-blue cotton pyjamas, the top buttoned neatly to the throat. Michael was old school like that.
Without the stage makeup, the sharp of his cheekbones were softer, the famous cupid's bow of his lips relaxed but still a little pouty. He was so focused on the book, in front of him that he hadn’t realised your eyes were on him. The kids were finally in bed, and the Santa Barbra Valley was quite literally an oasis of pure and utter silence.
You lay on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching him, the sound of your pulse in your ear. The digital clock on the nightstand read 1:17 AM.
For six months, this had been your secret universe, Neverland, the kids, your research. Access to all the books you could ever want; because Michael wanted them too.
It hadn't been the fame that made you fall. You'd grown up with him on MTV like everyone else, had your own version of him blu-tacked to some adolescent wall in your head. But that person and this person were barely related.
This one read your work irrigation manuals for pleasure to better understand you and got genuinely despondent about your losses.
you were used to failed dates and one night stands that didn’t work out, so when Michael came around all dashing and interesting, you hadn't stood a chance of getting away from his gravitational pull.
He was a beyond perfect boyfriend; allowing you into intimate spaces with his kids, being soft with you romantically, cooking you dinner - albeit, not very fancy dinners — but it was what you both loved. The lack of care or pretence. His heart was always in the right place.
There would however, always be 12 dozen beautiful deep red roses on the counter in the main kitchen at Neverland for you, when you came home from a dig.
✧˖°.
Earlier that evening you'd been cross-legged on the library floor surrounded by plaster casts and field notes, a Triassic vertebra balanced in your palm; genuinely quite stressed about work… and the unraveling situation you found you could not control with Michael.
He could sense your stress and when he'd appeared in the doorway in his socks, two mugs of chamomile in hand, you felt your shoulders drop considerably.
"Is that bone from something that could have eaten me?"
You looked up. He was already looking at the bone with genuine concern.
"Probably not," you said. "It's a herbivore."
He looked quite petulantly disappointed that it wasn't some ravenous, crazed creature. He handed you your mug anyway and dropped down onto the floor beside you, crossing his legs, the chamomile balanced carefully in both hands while he peered at the vertebra like it might do something.
"How do you know it's a herbivore?"
"The teeth mostly. And the shape of the jaw."
"But you don't have the jaw."
"No."
"So you're guessing then?" He smirked at you, the smile lines around his mouth pronounced and feather fine.
You looked at him. "I'm inferring. From evidence we have collected, the context…. It's different."
He made a face that suggested he wasn't entirely convinced but was willing to let it go, and reached for one of the plaster casts.
He turned it over slowly in his long fingers, studying it from every angle, and something about the way he held it and how he reached up and pulled his reading glasses down from where they'd been pushed up on top of his head, settling them onto his nose, made your heart squeeze in your chest.
His eyes behind the lenses went enormous. Soft and dark and completely ardent, blinking down at two hundred million years of bone like it owed him an explanation.
He always touched your work like that. Like he'd been told what it cost you to bring it home. He was so fascinated by everything you did, and he usually asked such deep and intrinsic questions about it too; the conversation very rarely lingered on himself, he always flipped it around on you.
"What's this one?"
"Femur. Juvenile. About two hundred and twenty million years old."
He was quiet for a moment, genuinely sitting inside that number.
"Two hundred and twenty million," he repeated softly, more to himself than to you. He set it down gently. "And we're sitting here worrying about tabloids."
You laughed before you could stop yourself and he looked pleased — a little startled by it, like your laugh was a thing that still caught him off guard.
He stayed. Asked questions for nearly two hours, working through your field notes. he clearly had nowhere else to be and genuinely wanted to understand.
At some point he'd stretched out on his side on the rug, head propped in his hand, reading your annotations upside down and asking whether the scientist who'd disagreed with your dating method was being professionally jealous or just wrong.
"Both, probably," you'd said.
"Mm." He'd nodded gravely. "I know that feeling."
You'd been about to say something when small feet appeared in the doorway.
Prince stood there in his Star Wars pyjamas, eight years old and entirely unrepentant about the hour, holding a copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire against his chest like it was going to grow wings and fly away.
"Daddy."
Michael turned his head. "Buddy, it's late—"
"You said you'd do the voices for the characters."
"I have company, baby."
"You did the 'maybe' face when you said it. The maybe face means yes."
You pressed your lips together very hard to try stop from laughing. Michael sat up and gave you a look that clearly communicated that he did not appreciate you finding this funny.
"The maybe face," he said flatly, not fully understanding Prince's made up concept.
Prince padded across the library and deposited the book in Michael's lap with a funny nonchalance that did not belong to a kid at that age. "Voldemort needs to be scary. Last time you made him sound like a good guy”
"He's a complex villain and I—"
"Daddyyyy” Prince whined.
Michael picked up the book. Looked at you expectantly, clearly wanting you to get him out of this scenario; that would likely last into the small hours of the night; Prince never fell asleep fast.
"Okay," he huffed, standing, and Prince immediately took his hand. As he passed to walk out of the door, he pressed a chaste kiss to the top of your head, warm and brief, there and gone before either of you had to overthink the softness of it. The domesticity.
Their voices disappeared down the hall. You could already hear Michael attempting something considerably more threatening than a butler.
You had sat for a moment listening to them with a small smile on your face, the chamomile tea stale and cold beside you.
✧˖°.
He’d come back into the bedroom later that evening with a soft smile on his face, clearly happy he’d been able to do that for his son.
You had already climbed back into bed and lay there in the dark with the weight of all of your thoughts sitting heavy on your sternum; six months of a life you hadn't planned on, settling over you like sediment.
He had come so out of the blue, a whirlwind, well and truly. All grins and soft murmurs about how ‘pretty you were’ and that he ‘needed to take you out and learn more about archeology’.
There were long conversations that stretched until dawn about lost cities and starving children, about music as a healing force, about the joy of him being able to grow his own fruits and vegetables without anyone there to interrupt him now, and how he couldn’t have ever had that before if it weren’t for Neverland. He loved the slow life now, there was no more touring or extravagant stress on his body, just peace.
You'd connected in a way that felt predestined, two oddly-shaped puzzle pieces from different boxes that somehow fit. He called you his "mirror soul."
But outside these gates…
"What if the fans find out?"
The words left your mouth quickly and quietly, like word vomit. Michael's finger, tracing a line of text, stilled. You inwardly rolled your eyes that he was trying to read such a stiff book at this hour; but this was Michael and he quite literally would read anything.
He didn't look up immediately. He slowly closed the book, using a velvet tassel to mark his place, and set it aside on the nightstand.
He took off his glasses, folded them neatly, and turned his head towards you. His dark eyes were almost amber in the lamplight.
"Then… they find out," he said, his voice a low, melodic rasp used only for these private hours.
A gentle smile touched his lips. "—and I want them to. I'm tired of hiding you away," He said, his hand slid over the covers to lightly touch yours that lay balanced on your side.
"You deserve to be shown off, to be in the light"
You pushed yourself up to sit, pulling your knees to your chest and your hand away from his.
The oversized MIT sweatshirt you wore swallowed you whole.
The silence stretched long enough to become its own kind of rebuttal to his sweet proposed gesture. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, but you could hear the slight emotional waver.
"Do you want to be with me, Y/N?" The question came out, no accusation in it yet, just something careful and exposed sitting underneath the words.
He was looking at you with intense, pleading eyes and you could see him doing the thing he did when he was bracing for impact; a stillness that moved through his whole body, like he'd drawn himself inward. Likely waiting to hear something he already suspected was coming.
"Because sometimes I feel like I am the only one who — " he stopped. Pressed his lips together. And then started again.
"I need you to tell me honestly. Because if this isn't what you want—"
"Michael, that's not what I—"
"Then what?" He snapped.
and there it was, just briefly, the hurt surfacing before he could smooth it back down. He shifted against the pillows, and the lamplight caught the angle of his jaw, tight with the effort of staying composed.
"Because I have been patient, and I have been careful to keep you out of the papers, and I have tried to give you every reason to feel safe here, and still you talk about this," He gestured between you both, exasperated. "like it is something you are waiting to escape from. Like I am something you are waiting to get away from."
"I'm not," you said, and the firmness in your own voice surprised you. "I promise you, I am not."
He looked at you for a long moment. Something in his expression shifted, the hurt receding just slightly, making room for confusion. "Then why do you keep—"
"Because they'll eviscerate me." The fear tumbled out now, cold and slick, and once it started you couldn't seem to stop it.
"They'll find my academic records, they'll find pictures from my high school days and make fun of me, they'll call me a gold-digger, a nobody, they'll — they'll say I'm too plain, too ugly for you."
Your hands, curled up in the sleeves of your sweater, came up to the sides of your face.
"Your fans, they have an image of you. It's celestial. And I'm just a person really. Just a regular person. They'll find out how much older you are than me and they'll eat it up, and they'll get between us and cast doubt in your mind that maybe I am not the one—"
True tears started to brim in your eyes of the thought of being rinsed through in the tabloids, just like Michael had been most of his adult life.
The tension completely left his body at that point, his eyes no longer casting an accusatory and pained look. You looked up and found him watching you with an expression you hadn't seen before — it wasn’t hurt or guarded, something much softer and a little undone, like he'd been handed back something he thought he'd lost.
He understood now. It hadn't been about him at all.
His usually easy smile was settled in a patient line. He had listened until you ran out of breath, until the only sound was your shaky inhale. It was his turn now to make a point.
"C'mere," he said, a firm request, cutting off your spiral into despair. His voice had dropped another octave, an authority you'd only glimpsed in flashes before.
It was the voice of the man who commanded stadiums, not really the gentle soul who read bedtime stories to his children.
This was Michael in his late forties, a king in his own kingdom, and he was done with this ugly narrative that the press were constantly spinning about his celebrity.
You uncurled yourself and moved to the edge of the bed beside him. Instead of pulling you into an embrace, he took your face in both his hands. His palms were warm, his touch infinitely gentle, but his grip was unyielding.
"Look at me," he whispered. "Really look. Do you see a celestial being? Or do you see a man?"
You rolled your eyes and tried to pull out of his grasp but he held your face tighter.
"A man…" you said, moping.
"Uh-huh. A man who needs prescription glasses to read, who loves bad sci-fi movies, who gets nervous before going to the dentist? You see me. And I see you. The most beautiful, brilliant, confounding woman to ever walk into my chaos. And I will not let you speak about her that way."
He released your face and stood up in one fluid motion, extending a hand. "Get up."
"Michael… its late, where could we possibly be going?" You reluctantly whined and gave him your hand.
"Up. Now." The command was soft, but absolute.
You took his hand. He led you across the deep-pile carpet, to the far wall of the master suite, which was dominated by a magnificent, floor-to-ceiling antique mirror in a gilded frame.
He let go of your hand and, with a surprising strength and energy for almost 2am, began pulling large, decorative pillows from a nearby chaise lounge, arranging them in a semi-circle on the floor directly before the glass.
"Sit," he instructed, nodding to the pillows.
Feeling a confusing mix of vulnerability and a strange, thrilling charge, you sank down onto the cushions, sitting cross-legged. You were facing the mirror, your reflection wide-eyed and small in the sweatshirt.
He came behind you, a soft and oddly sweet vision in his blue pyjamas, and knelt close, his knees framing your hips.
You could feel the heat of his body through the thin cotton. He placed his hands on your shoulders, his gaze locking onto yours in the mirror.
"You see her?" he murmured, his lips beside your ear. His breath was warm, the air moving the hair beside your ear, tickling you slightly.
"That's the woman I fell for. Look at her."
You tried to look away, but his hands tightened slightly. "Look."
You met your own gaze. You saw the anxiety, the fear, and most importantly how lost you looked.
"She is a humanitarian," he whispered, his voice a sensual, rolling cadence. He began a slow, deep massage of your shoulders. "Her hands have touched artifacts thousands of years old. They've also held the hands of orphans in Nairobi. She has a mind like a diamond; precise, brilliant, and tough." One of his hands slid down your arm, his fingers tracing the sleeve of your sweatshirt.
"She has a laugh that sounds like wind chimes near a beach town. She argues with me about the socio-political and… pretty much debates in circles around me." He laughed warmly, and you felt the vibration of it against your back. It was always a welcome sound, his laugh. Laced with innocence that made your heart swell.
"Hell, I think you're the only one to ever be able to tell me i am wrong to my face"
His other hand left your shoulder and came around your front, splaying possessively over your lower belly, pulling you back snugly against his chest.
You could feel the firm plane of his torso, the steady beat of his heart against your back. His voice never wavered, a hypnotic, intimate sermon. He was so good at this, you'd fallen into his clutch now. He'd speak at charity galas and award ceremonies, calling attention to incredibly important causes with grace and ease. He always knew the right thing to say. All that wit and emotional intelligence, still intact under the cruel paradox of fame. The more it demanded of him, the more it took. Yet, here he was. Still here, and still trying; and with you.
"And this body…" he breathed into your ear, changing the subject. He nipped your lobe gently with his teeth. A sharp, sweet jolt went through you.
"This body is a masterpiece. It's strong. It carries her across dig sites and through laboratories."
His hand on your belly slid lower, pressing down through the thick fabric of your sweats and the sweatshirt. "It houses a fire of ambition that matches my own."
His fingers found the seam of your sweats, dipping beneath the waistband. They didn't dive lower, just rested there, a hot, promising weight on your pubic bone. Your breath hitched and your head fell back against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut.
"Eyes open, baby," he coaxed, his teeth grazing your earlobe again. "Watch. Watch me worship you."
You forced your eyes open. In the mirror, you saw the intimate tableau: you nestled back against him, your cheeks rosy.
Him, looking over your shoulder, his expression one of fierce, concentrated adoration. His famous features were set in lines of absolute certainty. His smile reached his eyes, and the lines there were accentuated in the lighting of his bedroom; adorable. Proof that he had smiled so much throughout his life and had lived so thoroughly.
His hand began to move. He rubbed slow, firm circles over the front of your sweats, the heel of his palm applying perfect pressure right over your clit. The fabric was a frustrating barrier, but the motion, combined with his words, his teeth on your ear, was overwhelmingly potent.
"They don't get to have an opinion," he said, his voice thickening. "They can have me when I put myself out there. But when I want to be private I will. I get you always, because you're mine… and no one else's"
He paused briefly, his eyes finding yours in the mirror, his breath quite shallow.
"-- And right now, I can feel my girls heat through two layers of clothing." He punctuated the statement by grinding his palm down harder, and a broken moan escaped you.
"And its so warm, and wet for me," You felt your hips gyrate slightly, without you even meaning. Your body just naturally gravitated to the pleasure, seeking more.
"That's it," he praised, his own breathing starting to deepen. "Yeah" his voice was breathy and low.
"Let me hear you. It's only me here with you, let yourself feel good."
His other hand came up to your chest, sliding under the bulk of the sweatshirt and your thin camisole beneath.
His cool, elegant fingers found your bare breast, cupping its weight, his thumb sweeping back and forth over your nipple until it peaked into a hard, aching point.
He pinched it gently, rolling it, and you arched against him, a whimper caught in your throat.
"See how beautiful you are?" he murmured, watching your reactions in the glass.
"See how you come alive? That's my doing. Why should we deny ourselves of this just because some journalists said so? No one else can have an impact on this."
The mixture of sensations were a driving delirium in your brain. The deliberate, rhythmic pressure through your sweats, the expert play of his fingers on your breast, the hot whisper of his words and the sharp little bites on your ear and neck. You were panting, your hands gripping his thighs where they bracketed you.
"Off," he commanded softly, his hand leaving your breast to hook into the waistband of your sweats and your panties beneath. "Lift up for me."
In a daze, you raised your hips. He peeled both the sweats and your simple cotton panties down your thighs in one smooth motion, leaving you bare from the waist down, the cool air a shock against your feverish skin. You felt yourself start to flush again realising you had not even bothered shaving. You gave him a helpless look in the mirror and he rolled his eyes and tutted.
"Aw c'mon now, you know i prefer you this way" the sound of his voice in your ear sent tingles shooting down your spine, making your cunt wetter. You could see your entrance glistening in the mirror, courtesy of the spotlights above you.
"So perfect f'me, so natural", he peppered kisses down your neck and back up again to your ear, the skin there now raised with goosebumps. "-- the way its meant to be"
He tossed the garments he'd been holding aside without a glance, his attention fully returned to the mirror.
His arm came back around you, his hand no longer hindered by fabric. His fingers, long and knowing, slid through your slick folds with a low, appreciative hum that vibrated through your back.
"So slick," he breathed. "So ready for me."
You were so wet for him that you could hear yourself, you didn't even bother look at what he was doing with his hands, the sensation already lighting a fire in your stomach.
He slide his his middle and ring fingers into you slowly and gently, the base of his hand now pushing at an angle against your clit. You let go of the breath you were holding and threw your head back. His free hand that had been roaming came up to hold your neck.
"Mm i love seeing you like this, how you respond to my touch" his hand gently left your neck and and pulled your face to a position where you could see yourself in the large ornate mirror again.
He gave you a shy little smile and continued on. The scene in front of you was obscene, and so diabolically dirty. He pulled his fingers out of you and a glistening string of wetness trailed away with it. You briefly eyed his face to see his reaction to this; his eyes drooping lightly, lustful and his bottom lip under painful pressure from where his teeth where digging into it.
He found your clit, already swollen and throbbing, and began to circle it with a torturously slow, wet precision, smearing around your arousal.
His touch was confident, dominant, leaving no room for insecurity or thought.
It was pure sensation, orchestrated by him. Your moans became continuous now, a low, desperate string of sounds—"Ohgod, oh, thatssogood, p-please…"
You watched, mesmerized and exposed, as his fingers worked you in the mirror. You saw your own face, eyes dark with pleasure, mouth slack.
his face also reflected, etched with an efficacious mix of love and lust, his eyes glued to where his hand disappeared between your legs. The visual was as arousing as the physical touch, a feedback loop of escalating need.
"I'll continue since you said please, m'girl", feigned innocence in his low voice,
Driven by a surge of boldness, you reached one hand back, fumbling behind you. You found the firm swell of his erection in his pyjama pants.
He was so hard for you, straining against the pale blue cotton. You palmed him through the fabric, and a ragged, guttural groan was torn from his throat, his rhythm faltering for a second.
"is this really turning you on, Michael?" you managed to gasp, squeezing him gently.
In the mirror, you saw his eyes slam shut for a moment, his jaw tightening.
When they opened, they burned with a new, hungrier fire. He increased the pace of his fingers, then now sliding inside and out at a rapid pace, curling just so. You cried out, your hips bucking against his hand.
"Y-yeah, God —," he gritted out, his composed, sensual narration cracking under the strain of his own desire.
"And it's not enough. Touching you like this… watching you… it's heaven, but it's not enough."
He withdrew his fingers suddenly, making you whine in protest. He brought them to his lips, never breaking eye contact in the mirror, and slowly, deliberately, sucked your taste from them.
The act was so blatantly carnal, so far from the shy, boyish figure of public imagination, it stole the air from your lungs.
He didn't let the moment at the mirror linger. The charge was too high, the need too direct. With a soft groan that was more command than sound, he stood, pulling you up with him. Your legs were unsteady, but his arm had a strong hold around your waist, guiding you the few steps back to the edge of the vast bed.
"Here," he murmured, his voice already thick with intent.
He sat on the edge, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled you to stand between his spread knees.
The sky-blue pyjamas were a stark, innocent contrast to the dark hunger in his eyes.
"Riiiiight here, baby."
His hands went to your bare waist, and tugged at the hem of the thick sweatshirt you were wearing.
"Let's get this off," he said sweetly.
The cool air of the room kissed your bare skin on your legs, but the heat of his gaze was enough to keep you warm.
"Arms up." You obeyed, and he pulled the sweater and the thin camisole over your head, leaving you utterly exposed before him. You felt quite silly in this moment, and very…observed. In the past, the sex had mostly been in the dark, you feeling shy and uneasy about your imperfections. Michael was lean, petite, but strong and very beautiful. You were not always sure you lived up to that level of…perfection.
You knew deep down and rationally that no one was perfect and even he struggled at times, his weight fluctuating and his vitiligo… but he still had such a presence, an aura that preceded his natural and physical beauty.
He let out a long, slow breath.
"My God."
A violent wave of shyness crashed over you. You crossed your arms over your chest, wanting to shrink, to hide. He caught your wrists gently but firmly.
"No," he said, his voice low and unwavering. "No hiding. Not from me. Not ever." He guided your hands down to your sides, then leaned forward, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your belly. His hands slid up to cradle your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you gasp.
"I want to see the pleasure on your face when it happens. And I want you to see it on mine. We're not hiding anything tonight" He said, his features soft.
"I am not willing to hide you anymore, either."
He laid back on the bed, propping himself up on the mountain of pillows, his legs still hanging off the side. He beckoned you with a curl of his finger.
"Come here. Sit on the bed, facing me. Show me how you touch yourself."
Trembling, you climbed onto the bed, kneeling a few feet from him. The lamplight painted your skin in gold, highlighting every tremor.
You couldn't look at him. Your gaze dropped to the rumpled duvet.
"Eyes on me, baby," he coaxed, his voice a sensual rasp. He was already working on the buttons of his pyjama top. He shrugged it off, revealing the lean, pale plane of his torso. It was mostly pale with a sprinkling of darker little vitiligo patches; a beautiful painted galaxy on his skin.
He then hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his bottoms.
"C'monnn, keep looking at me."
You forced your eyes up as he pushed the blue cotton down his hips. His cock sprang free, fully erect, thick and flushed a deep, ruddy dark pink at its tip. A prominent vein ran along its length, and a clear bead of fluid welled at the slit. As much as it was cliche, he really was breathtaking. An intimate masculine sight.
He took himself in hand, giving one long, slow stroke from base to tip, a low hiss escaping his teeth.
"See what you do to me? How much I have been strainin'" he swallowed slightly, his mouth clearly dry. "This is all yours."
He began to stroke himself quite delicately, you observed, but not without showcasing rhythm.
His fist moved with a soft, wet sound, his thumb smearing the pre-cum over his swollen tip.
"Your turn," he breathed, his eyes locked on yours. "Touch yourself. Let me see you do it."
Your hand felt like a stranger's as you brought it down between your legs. The first contact of your own fingers on your slick, swollen flesh made you jerk. You touched your clit, a feather-light circle, and a shaky sigh escaped you. You tried to look away, your cheeks burning.
"Please look at me though," he said, his voice gaining a ragged, desperate edge. His strokes on himself sped up slightly.
"I want to see it in your eyes. I want to see the second it feels good. C'mon, m'girl. For me."
You met his gaze. The intensity there; the love, the lust, the sheer want…it was as if he were getting on his knees and begging from the ground for this.
You pressed harder, circling your clit with more purpose. A soft moan built in the back of your throat.
"That's it," he encouraged, his own breathing deepening. He shifted, spreading his legs wider, giving you a full, unobstructed view of his hand working his cock.
The sight was mesmerizingly lewd. You could see the way his legs tensed in pleasure, and how he worked his body to try get himself further to the precipice; his movements becoming slightly uncoordinated.
"Yeah, just like that. You're so wet for me. I can hear it. Let me hear you moan, too."
You did. A low, continuous whimper started as you fell into a rhythm, two fingers sliding through your own arousal before returning to circle your clit. You were panting, your free hand clutching at the duvet.
"Use your fingers inside," he guided, his voice hoarse. "Imagine it's me. Curl them a lil'. Ahh… just like that."
He quickened the motion on himself, his fist twisting on the upstroke, his hand angled in the perfect way that could nudge him closer to his peak.
He was fucking his own hand now, his hips lifting off the bed to meet each stroke. His hair was falling in his face, no longer silky and straight at the front where his real hair was peaking out, it looked soft, wet and coiled.
"You see how hard you make me? You see how bad I need you? How much I crave you? I'm gonna come so hard for you, baby. But I need to see you. I need to watch you come for me first."
You were so close hearing him talk this way. It wasn't that he wasn't always dirty, he most definitely was.
The fever pitch within you was tightening, burning. The visual of him — the man you'd really grown to adore, on his back, jerking himself off with desperate, hungry strokes while he watched you pleasure yourself, was the most insane aphrodisiac imaginable.
But the vulnerability was overwhelming. As the first flutters of your orgasm began to spark, you tried to turn your head, to hide your face in the crook of your arm.
"NO." The word was a cracked, desperate plea. He stopped stroking himself, his hand stilling, gripping the base of his cock tightly, the veins on his pale hands standing out.
"Please. Look at me. Please. I need your eyes. It's the only thing that–" he looked down at himself and started to slowly but surely pump his cock in his hands again "… ahh… it's the only thing that makes it real. Don't hide from me. Let me in."
The raw, broken need in his voice shattered your last barrier. You turned your face back to him, your eyes swimming with tears of overwhelming sensation and emotion. You held his needy gaze.
Not all of the dirtiness of the situation, but his need, that's what sent you right off of the edge.
With a cry out loud of "fuck", you came.
Your body bowed and jittered, your fingers working frantically as waves of intense, pulsing fulfilment racked you. You held his eyes through it all, watching as your climax reflected in his; a mirror of lust and ecstasy.
The sight of you coming while holding his gaze destroyed him.
"Fuu–!" he spluttered, cutting himself off before he could yell out much more; his hips moving off of the bed, and his legs straight and tense with concentration. His hand became a blur on his cock, his strokes short, brutal, and frantic.
"Your--Mouth. Open your mouth. Now. Gonna give it to you. Take it. Swallow it!"
You were dazed, submissive, floating on the aftermath. You crawled forward on your knees, your lips parting obediently just inches from the throbbing head of his cock.
He didn't wait. With a final, guttural shout — "AHH-GOD! I love–" …he came.
The first powerful jet hit the back of your throat, hot and salty. The next pulses painted your tongue, filled your mouth, thick and copious.
He kept stroking himself through it, muttering "thats it m'girl" milking every last drop, his body trembling violently.
Those two words sat in your chest, lodged like a wooden stake, splinters and all.
“I love” — and then nothing.
Swallowed back down in the chaos of it, gone before you could be sure of what you'd heard. You tried to hold onto the present moment, the heat of him, the weight of the room around you, but your mind kept snagging on it, turning it over like one of your fossils.
He had never said it. Not once in six months. And maybe he hadn't said it now either. Maybe it had been nothing. Maybe the wanting of it was making you hear things that weren't there.
His eyes were screwed shut in intense release, but then they flew open, locking onto yours as he fed his release into your mouth, ensuring you saw the utter, vulnerable surrender on his face.
Despite the come in your mouth, and how it dribbled over your lips and chin, he smirked and said something you were really not expecting and had never heard before from him in this context. He was usually quite old school.
"Kiss me," he panted, his voice wrecked. "please."
You did. The act was profoundly submissive, deeply intimate. He must have been able to taste himself on your lips.
Spent, he fell backwards deeper onto the bed, his softening cock resting against his belly. He was breathing like he'd run a marathon, sweat glistening on his chest. He reached for you, his hands trembling as they cupped your face.
"Damn that's taking more out of me nowadays than i thought," he whispered, his thumbs stroking your cheeks.
He pulled you down, into what you expected to be another kiss, but instead moved to rest your head on his sweaty chest, right over his pounding heart. He wrapped his arms around you, his hands finding somewhere to hold on your body, the way they always did, as he already knew the shape of you by heart.
"Y'hear that pounding? Genuinely that's how you make me feel, always" he murmured, the bliss of the intimacy evident in his voice.
You turned your head and looked up at him through your eyelashes, completely dumfounded by the entire outcome of the evening.
The question was still there, quiet and persistent, curled up and pressing around your heart. You weren't going to ask him. You weren't ready to know the answer, and you suspected, from the way he'd swallowed it back down, that neither was he.
As the clock flickered over to the 3am mark, he spoke again more quietly; "i need them to know you, Y/N. how special you are."
You nodded solemnly, not exactly thrilled about the situation, but it meant that you wouldn't have to be so careful anymore, and that you could begin living a life that truly was in the light, and not as much in the shadows.
The silence of the valley returned and all you could smell was him, musky and a bit sweaty with a powdery aftershave peaking through.
This evening proved you had sacred proof of a trust that maybe no headline could ever touch.
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : what happens when someone who has spent his whole life controlled finally has to choose who gets authority over his future?
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : heavy family conflict and emotional manipulation, discussions of abortion, public humiliation and loss of bodily autonomy, manhandling / being dragged against one's will, gendered power imbalance, generational trauma, intimidation, minor injuries and bleeding (scraped knees, bruising), hurt / comfort, literally j*e jackson being absolutely awful. **9k word count.
┊ ♡ ﹒ part two here!
“I don’t want you around my son.”
Joe points directly at (Name) when Michael opens the front door, his voice loud enough to carry across the driveway before anybody even fully processes what’s even happening.
Chilly air bites against her bare legs beneath the oversized shirt she’d thrown on half awake as morning light spills across the front steps and over the line of cars crammed unevenly outside the house. The engines are still running from how quickly everybody apparently left to get here. She instinctively tightens both hands around Michael’s bicep beside her, pressing herself closer against him while the men of the Jackson family crowd the doorway.
The boys all look they’ve been dragged out of their sleep.
Tito has a jacket thrown over what looks like his pajama pants, hair barely smoothed down while he keeps shooting worried glances between Joe and Michael. He’s already spent the entire drive over trying unsuccessfully to calm this situation before it escalated. Marlon looks uncomfortable as he stands off near the driveway, arms folded awkwardly across himself while he avoids looking directly at (Name) for too long, he’s visibly aware this has already gone way too far. Randy lingers closer to the cars rubbing sleep from his eyes every few seconds, still trying to gather himself because he quite literally got dragged out of REM. Jackie is larger than all of them, fully awake now out of necessity rather than his choice. He’s prepared to stop his father from switching this altercation from verbal to something physical, already on go.
Michael’s hand wraps tightly around the door knob, trying so hard to be brave. But he looks exhausted. Sweatpants thrown on crookedly, curls flattened unevenly from sleep, eyes heavy from being dragged awake too fast. But when Joe points toward (Name) again, something in his expression shifts.
“Josep—” Marlon attempts to speak.
“No,” Joe snaps, cutting directly over him without taking his eyes off her. “I told you all this was gonna happen.”
(Name)’s grip tightens harder around Michael’s arm and she can physically feel her pulse hammering in her throat now. Nobody’s yelling except Joe, but the front porch already feels like too much is happening. There’s many bodies, too much noise. Michael subtly shifts more in front of her without seeming fully conscious he’s doing it, blocking part of Joe’s line of sight while she stays tucked tightly against his side.
“She’s got you missing rehearsals now,” Joe continues, his eyes locking onto Michael’s. “Hour late already. People waiting on you while you up here playing house.”
“It’s still early,” Michael says quietly.
“It ain’t early when there’s work to do.”
Jackie steps a little closer while Tito mutters something low that sounds like “Joe, c’mon.” But Joe barely hears anything but himself and his own thoughts anymore. His attention keeps snapping back toward (Name).
And then he points at her again. “This right here is the problem.”
Michael speaks again but his voice leaves him before he even has time to think about it. And for one brief moment, he wishes it hadn’t. “Get your hand out’ve her face.”
The driveway goes completely still for half a second after he says it. Because Michael almost never speaks to Joe like that and realization settles over him very quickly.
He feels sick—so, so sick. He could vomit right now.
There are certain feelings adulthood never managed to kill. You can become famous, wealthy. You can become the most recognizable person in the world. and build kingdoms out of your talent alone. But then your father looks at you a particular way, and suddenly all of it feels like decoration. Suddenly you’re not a man standing in front of property you pay for your girlfriend to live in. You aren’t a provider. You’re his son again, a boy again. A little boy waiting to see what kind of mood his father is in before deciding what version of himself is allowed to exist that day because everything depended on it.
“Who you talking to, boy?”
The question makes him turn color. He’s spent his entire life knowing this exact question—the verbiage, the tone. It’s not meant to be answered, but to be reacted to. It’s a challenge, a warning and the reminder. The absolute demand to remember where he came from and who made him. Who’s in charge.
Michael hates that his heart is beating so hard. Hates that his palms feel warm. Hates that fear still comes before anger in his heart. Fear first. Always fear first. It embarrasses him in ways he can’t explain. Embarrasses him because he’s standing beside the woman he loves and is supposed to protect as the man in the relationship. It embarrasses him because his brothers are watching. Embarrasses him because some part of him thought he had outgrown this years ago but, deep down even he knew he’d never be able to escape this feeling.
Beside him (Name) feels the shift happen without fully understanding the nuances. She’s seen Michael sad, anxious. Seen him overwhelmed and collapsing into himself under pressure. But this feels different, older somehow. The fear isn't coming from the conversation they’re having now because it’s coming from hundreds of conversations that happened before she was ever in the picture. A hundred moments she wasn’t there to witness or protect him from. The awful history between a father and a son fills up the space around them until it feels impossible to breathe through.
“I said who you talking to?” The question isn’t really a question anymore, it’s an invitation. An opportunity to back down.
An opportunity to apologize and make this easy.
Michael knows that too. Become smaller, submit to his father’s intimidation and make things easy.
But he can feel (Name) beside him. He can feel her holding onto him and through her touch he can feel her fear. Thee choice becomes unbearable because backing down no longer belongs solely to him. If he shrinks now, he leaves her standing there alone and Joe gets to keep treating her like she’s a cancer to the family name instead of his person.
“I’m—I’m talking to you, Joseph..” His voice is quiet. Not brave in the slightest but it is honest. It’s the honesty people stumble into when they’re too exhausted to lie anymore. And Michael is tired.
Something changes in Joe’s face, its recognition. He’s seeing a version of Michael he doesn’t particularly like. A version that belongs to himself and not Joseph Jackson, his father.
Because that’s the thing Joe never seems to understand. Fear and control are not the same thing. Michael is afraid. Everybody standing here can see that he's afraid. But for the first time in a long time, he isn't letting that fear make the decision for him.
The realization seems to irritate Joe almost as much as the answer itself.
“My girl is not the problem.” Michael says it before he can lose his nerve. “So please.. leave her alone.”
The statement simmers between them.
He’s saying he’s not ten anymore, saying he knows what he’s doing. He’s saying he loves her.
Joe never takes his eyes off Michael.
“Oh, that’s where we at now? You gon’ tell me what to do?”
“I’m asking you not to point at her..”
The argument changes speed when Joe looks at (Name) again.
Up until now, it’s been about rehearsal. About Michael being late, Joe being angry. Familiar territory everyone standing in the driveway has seen before in one form or another. But then Joe’s attention settles on her, a cold chill slides down her spine. Before he even opens his mouth, she knows where this is going. She’s spent weeks carrying this secret around like a live wire, convincing herself there would be a better time to tell Michael. A calmer time. A private time. One more day. One more conversation. One more chance to figure out how to say it without watching his entire world collapse around him.
“Did you handle your business yet?”
Michael doesn’t understand the question. It sounds strangely vague to his ears. He glances toward (Name), expecting her to answer immediately, expecting this to be something small and unrelated to him. Instead, she goes completely still, the stillness that comes from panic. The kind that arrives when the lie (by omission) you’ve been telling up and abandons you. Michael feels it instantly—that shift. The fear. The way her grip on his arm changes. And all at once, a terrible feeling begins creeping into his stomach. He’s not understanding, at least not yet. But the sensation that he’s standing at the edge of something he doesn’t know about but should.
The silence stretches far too long and becomes an answer all on its own. Joe watches her without blinking. Waiting. Michael watches her too with his brows pinched in the middle, now aware of how terrified she looks. And now remembering the strange conversations they’ve had over the last few weeks. Every question she never fully answered. Every moment she seemed on the verge of saying something before changing her mind. The pieces aren’t fitting together yet, but they’re moving.
Joe nods slowly.
“I’m gon’ ask one more time.” The driveway feels smaller as all the brothers have gone quiet. Even the morning doves have seemed to have stopped singing as Joe’s voice lowers.
“Did you handle your business yet?”
And when (Name) still can’t answer, when she just stands there staring with tears gathering in her eyes, Michael watches confirmation settle across Joe’s face. The silence told him everything he needed to know. And standing beside her, Michael feels very afraid of whatever conversation everyone seems to be having except him.
(author’s note: hello! stop reading here if you’re particularly sensitive to manhandling and heavy themes! or maybe even take a break! 💗)
Joe’s hand closes around (Name)’s wrist before anybody fully realizes what he’s doing. One second she’s standing beside Michael on the porch, clutching his arm so tightly her fingers cramped, and the next she’s being pulled down the front steps so abruptly she misses two of them entirely. Her foot catches the edge and she stumbles hard, a startled cry tearing from her throat as she nearly goes down. The concrete scrapes across her bare knee when she catches herself. The sting is hot and sharp. By the time she regains her footing, her skin is already scraped raw.
“Joe, let go of me!”
The driveway erupts all at once with Tito and Randy shouting. Jackie moving so fast he nearly collides with Joe trying to intercept him. Somebody keeps saying Joe’s name over and over as if the repetition alone might somehow break through whatever decision he’s already made. None of it matters. Joe keeps walking and dragging her forward with certainty of a man who has already decided he’s right. The more she resists, the more inevitable it feels. Michael’s voice cuts through the chaos somewhere behind her, the panic she hears from him makes her stomach drop. She’s never heard anything quite like that from him before.
“(Name)!”
She digs her heels into the pavement while ger other knee slams against the driveway when she loses her balance again. Pain shoots up her leg and tears flood her eyes. Fear—this is real terror she’s experiencing. The rear passenger door gets yanked open and now this isn’t just an argument anymore.
“Please!” She sobs. “Joe, please don't—”
“Get in the car.”
“No!” She twists violently, trying to wrench herself free, but his grip only tightens. She gets a good look at him, and really sees him. He looks convinced that he’s solving a problem. And she’s the problem.
“I’m taking her to the clinic.”
The statement is thrown out across the driveway and everything stops. The brothers fall silent and even (Name)’s struggling falters. Michael freezes halfway down the driveway, the color draining from his face so quickly it almost looks unreal. Nobody breathes then.
Joe points directly at her. “This girl is pregnant.”
A sound leaves (Name) before she can stop it.
Not a word or even a small cry, really. Just a small, helpless noise that seems to come from somewhere deep inside her chest, its beyond language. The moment Joe says it, the moment the word pregnant is said out loud in the middle of the driveway for everyone to hear, something inside her simply gives way. All the effort she’d spent holding herself together over the last few weeks vanishes at once. The planning. The rehearsing. The constant bargaining with herself that she’d tell Michael tomorrow, or the day after that, or when she found the right moment. Gone. Torn out of her hands before she ever got the chance. Her eyes squeeze shut instinctively, thinking maybe if she can’t see their faces, the humiliation won’t be real. But it is. It’s real, so horribly real.
Her knees nearly buckle beneath her and she thinks she’s actually going to collapse right there in front of everyone. The driveway tilts sickeningly beneath her feet, blood from her scraped knees mixes with fresh tears tracking down her cheeks, and all she can think is not like this. Not in front of his brothers. Not in front of Joe. Not Michael finding out this way. She had imagined so many versions of this moment. Nervous ones. Tearful ones. Maybe even happy ones. Michael sitting beside her, holding her hand. Michael hearing it from her. Instead she’s standing in the middle of a nightmare she can’t wake up from, her secret hanging in the air for everyone to stare at while her body seems to forget how to stay upright. For the first time since this started, she stops fighting Joe entirely too devastated to remember how to.
Joe shakes his head.
Michael genuinely thinks he misheard him.
The driveway feels like its been stretched one hundred feet and muted like somebody stuffed cotton into his ears. He can see mouths moving. See his brothers reacting. See (Name) crying. But everything feels strangely far away as the words register individually. This girl. Pregnant. But they refuse to connect. They hover in the air like separate things while his brain scrambles desperately to make sense of them.
He finds himself staring at (Name) as though the answer might be written somewhere on her face. And every strange moment from the past few weeks begins rearranging itself into something clear in hindsight. The tears she’s tried to hide. The nervousness he could never quite understand. The questions that seemed oddly specific at the time, questions about disappointment and anger and mistakes and whether people could forgive things they hadn’t expected. The way she’d looked at him lately, sometimes opening her mouth like she wanted to say something before thinking better of it. The fear. More than anything, the fear. He sees it all now. Not as separate incidents but as pieces of the same story. A story she’d apparently been carrying while he remained oblivious to it. His stomach hurts—because she knew. She knew.
The hurt sneaks in rearing it’s ugly little head directly into his chest, nearly hidden beneath the shock. It isn’t intense enough to be anger or resentment. It’s something.. honestly way sadder than that. A dull ache that spreads slowly through his chest the longer he stands there looking at her. Because all he can think about is the amount of time that must have passed between finding out and now. Days. Maybe weeks. Countless conversations that feel different in retrospect. Countless opportunities where she could have told him and didn’t. And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that what wounds him is a small, ugly part of him wonders why she didn’t trust him enough to come to him.
Pregnant. The word doesn’t even feel real. His entire life just changed between one heartbeat and the next. He’s going to be a father. A dad. He helped create life. This isn’t real life.
She looks at him. And the expression on her face is so devastated, so apologetic, so terrified of what he might be thinking.
The worst part is the fact that she can’t read him right now. Normally she can. Normally she knows exactly what he’s thinking long before he says it. She knows the tiny shifts in his expression, the way his mouth moves when he’s trying not to laugh, the particular look he gets when he’s upset but pretending he isn’t. She knows him. Or at least she thought she did because right now she knows nothing. He’s just staring. And that terrifies her, because the truth is that her fear of Michael being angry has never been entirely rational. It’s actually embarrassingly childish when she really examines it. Michael has never given her a reason to believe he would scream at her or humiliate her or stop loving her over one mistake. Yet she’d spent weeks building these catastrophes inside her own head, convincing herself there was a wrong way to tell him, a wrong time to tell him, a version of this conversation that would make him look at her differently forever.
Now she’s standing in front of him and every ridiculous fear she’s been carrying feels very fucking real because he isn’t saying anything. The silence is unbearable and her mind fills it for him. Maybe he’s angry. Maybe he’s disappointed. Maybe he’s wondering why she hid it. Wondering how long she’s known. Maybe he’s wondering what else she hasn’t told him. The thoughts arrive one after another until she can barely separate reality from imagination anymore. The awful thing is that Michael’s opinion of her matters far more than she’s ever admit out loud. Somewhere along the way, his approval stopped being something nice to have and became something she needed always because loving someone inevitably gives them a certain kind of power over you. The power to hurt you simply by looking disappointed. The power to make your stomach drop with a single expression. The power to make even you feel like you have to prove you’re good enough to be loved.
And right now she feels very young. Very small. Very foolish. Like a child waiting to find out how much trouble they’re in outside the principal’s office. Except Michael isn’t giving her anything and that’s worse. Anger is understandable. Anger can be apologized for. But shock is different, shock means she has no idea where his thoughts are taking him. It means she can’t follow him there. It means that since Joe spoke, she’s completely locked out of the one person whose reaction matters most. So she keeps looking at him. Keeps searching his face. Keeps waiting for something. Anything. A smile. A frown. A shake of his head. Some indication that he is still her Michael and not a stranger standing across the driveway from her. But it never comes. He just keeps staring trying to hold an entire collapsing universe together inside his head. And when fresh tears spill down her cheeks, she realizes the cruel irony of it all. For weeks she’d been terrified of telling him. Now she’s terrified of what happens after he knows.
“I’m not letting her ruin your life.”
“Joe—” Tito starts.
“Stay out of it.” Joe cuts him off before turning back toward Michael.
“You think this is funny? You think this is some game?”
Michael says nothing. He can’t. His mind is moving too fast and not fast enough at the same time.
”How do you even know it’s yours?”
Nobody says anything. Nobody even seems to know what to do with it. The pregnancy is one thing. The screaming is one thing. Joe being angry is one thing. But this? This feels different. Meaner. Like the argument has crossed into territory it never needed to touch. Jackie is the one who finally breaks the silence, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh as he shakes his head.
“Aw, c’mon, Joe. Nah, man.”
Joe turns toward him. “What? You got somethin’ to say to me too?”
“..You know that ain’t right.”
“It ain’t right?”
“No.” Jackie gestures toward Michael and (Name) like the answer should be obvious. His irritation is growing more visible by the second. “They been together how long?” Nobody answers because nobody has to—everybody knows. Everybody standing in that driveway has watched the relationship unfold for years. Through the tours, recording sessions, family gatherings, arguments, reconciliations, and everything in between. “(Name)’s been around since Mike was seventeen. Man, quit it.”
The words seem to irritate Joe almost as much as the pregnancy itself. “That don’t mean nothin’.”
“It mean enough.”
“No, it don’t.”
Jackie runs a hand over the back of his neck and exhales sharply. “You mad? Fine. Be mad.. You wanna get on him ‘bout rehearsal? Fine. But don’t stand here sayin’ stuff like that.” The driveway goes quiet again. Nobody wants to get involved. Nobody wants to make things worse. Yet even the brothers look uncomfortable now because regardless of how anyone feels about the situation, the accusation feels evil and insulting. Not just to (Name). To Michael.
“They love each other, Joe.” He says. “Everybody know they love each other.”
Michael looks up and his eyes flicker toward Jackie, something in the expression nearly breaks the older brother’s spirit. Michael looks devastated—like he’s trying desperately to catch up to a conversation everyone else somehow started without him. The ground beneath him has shifted and he’s still searching for something solid to stand on. Jackie sees it and feels a fresh wave of frustration. Because regardless of whatever happens next, one thing is painfully obvious. Michael didn’t know. Whatever this is, however long (Name) has known, however scared she’s been, Michael is finding out right now. In the middle of a driveway in front of an audience. From his father.
Unfortunately, Joe appears completely uninterested in anybody else’s opinion. He lets Jackie finish, lets his words hang in the air for all of two seconds before dismissing them entirely. Frankly, they’re irrelevant because none of this is actually up for discussion.
“Love,” Joseph laughs a little. “Y’all don’t know the first thing about love.” His grip tightens around (Name)’s wrist and she lets out a small cry, stumbling when he starts moving again. The sudden jerk nearly sends her back to her knees. The scrapes on her legs burn viciously as she tries to keep up, her vision blurred from tears.
“No, please—”
“Get in the car.” The command is flat, final. And that certainty terrifies her more than the yelling ever could.
The rear passenger door is still hanging open. Waiting. The sight of it sends fresh panic crashing through her chest. She can picture it too clearly, all of it. The door closing. The car pulling away. Michael disappearing in the rear window while she screams for him. Her feet plant themselves instinctively against the pavement. She pulls backward with everything she has left.
“No!” The scream tears itself from her throat before she can stop it. Raw and desperate out of genuine fear. It rips straight through the driveway. Straight through Michael.
It triggers something in Michael and he finally moves but Joe is faster.
Before anybody can properly react, before Jackie can get between them or Tito can grab the door, Joe yanks (Name) forward and practically throws her into the back seat. The force of it sends her sprawling awkwardly across the upholstery, her shoulder slamming painfully against the opposite door. The breath leaves her lungs in a startled gasp and she’s too stunned to move and process the fact that she’s actually inside the car. Until panic crashes back in all at once.
“Michael!” The scream tears itself from her throat as she scrambles upright.
Outside, the driveway erupts. Michael reaches the car just as Joe slams the driver’s door shut. The locks drop immediately with a sharp mechanical click that feels horrifying. Michael grabs for the rear passenger handle anyway, yanking so hard the entire vehicle rocks on its suspension.
“Dad!“ His voice cracks with panic. Pure panic.
Inside the car, (Name) throws herself toward the door, fumbling desperately with the handle through blurred vision and shaking hands. Nothing happens. Child lock. She pulls again. Nothing.
“Let me out!”
Joe doesn’t even look at her. “Sit down.”
Outside, Jackie is pounding on the driver’s window. Tito is trying another handle. Randy is shouting. And Marlon looks halfway between furious and terrified. Michael catches sight of (Name) through the glass. Her face. The tears. The absolute terror—fear. Genuine fear.
Then the engine starts and everybody freezes.
Nobody moves because nobody quite believes Joe is actually going to do it. Until he does, and the car lurches into reverse. Jackie jumps back as gravel spits across the driveway and Michael stumbles away from the vehicle as it swings around. And then it’s gone. Down the driveway. Onto the street. Disappearing faster than any of them can process.
There’s a pause in any movement.
“What? Y’all just gonna stand there?” Tito’s voice cuts through the shock.
Everybody is still staring at the road where Joe’s car disappeared, Michael hasn’t moved at all. He’s still standing exactly where he was when the car pulled away, staring after it with an expression that looks almost frighteningly blank.
And Tito doesn’t have the patience for it.
“Get in the damn car, let’s go!” That finally breaks whatever spell has settled over the driveway and everybody moves at once.
Jackie is already heading for his car. Randy nearly trips over himself getting to his. Marlon takes off running. And doors start slamming, engines start turning over. The sudden burst of activity feels frantic and messy and desperate because nobody actually has a plan. They just know Joe has (Name) and every second they’re standing here is another second she's alone with him.
Michael finally blinks, his mind is still somewhere back in the driveway. Still stuck on the look on (Name)’s face through the glass. Still stuck on the word pregnant. Still stuck on the sound of her screaming his name. The thoughts keep colliding with each other until none of them make sense anymore. By the time he reaches Jackie’s car, he barely remembers crossing the distance.
“Mike!” Jackie yanks his door open. “Hurry up!”
Michael practically falls into the passenger seat followed the door slamming.
Tito’s already pulling onto the road ahead of them. Another set of headlights swings out behind them. Gravel sprays beneath the tires as Jackie throws the car into gear and guns it down the street.
The ride to the clinic felt so endless.
The only sounds are from traffic, the occasional turn signal and the shaky breaths she keeps trying and failing to steady. Her wrists and upper arms ache from where he’d grabbed her. Her knees burn every time the car hits a bump, dried blood has begun to crust over her scrapes, pulling uncomfortably against her skin whenever she shifts. She keeps staring out the window because she doesn’t want to look at Joe. But she doesn’t know which is worse, looking at him or catching her own reflection in the glass and barely recognizing herself. Puffy eyes. Tear stained cheeks. Hair falling out of place. She looks exactly how she feels.
Distraught.
The second the car finally pulls into Planned Parenthood’s parking lot, fresh panic surges through her chest.
“Joe..” Her voice comes out weak.
He parks, turns off the engine and opens his door.
“Joe, please. Don’t do this.”
Of course, she gets nothing in response as he gets out.,
A minute later she’s being ushered through the front doors with trembling legs and tears threatening to start all over again. The waiting room smells like coffee and antiseptic, and a slight hint of body spray. People glance up when they enter. A pregnant woman flipping through a magazine. An elderly couple sitting together. A receptionist behind a desk. Normal people having normal days while her entire life feels like it's actively collapsing.
The receptionist looks up with a practiced smile.
“Good morning.”
Joe takes over. ”We need to see somebody.”
The woman glances between them. “..Okay. Is she the patient?”
“Yes.” The receptionist’s eyes settle on her, taking in the red eyes, the scraped knees, the fact that she looks distressed and like she’s been crying for hours.
“Miss? Are you okay?” The receptionist asks and (Name) stares, the simple question almost makes her cry.
Nobody has asked her anything all morning.
Nobody has cared what she wanted.
Before she can answer, Joe does it for her. “She’s pregnant.”
The receptionist blinks, she clearly doesn’t like what’s going on here. “Okay.”
“And she needs to be seen, right the hell now.”
Again, the receptionist looks toward (Name). “Would you like to be seen today, sweetheart?”
Joe’s jaw tightens. “Yes.”
The receptionist doesn’t even acknowledge him as she keeps her attention on (Name). “Honey?"
Before (Name) can answer, the front doors burst open and the entire waiting room turns.
Jackie. Tito. Marlon. Randy.
And Michael.
Michael arrives last, breathless and visibly shaken from sprinting through the parking lot. His hair is disheveled and he looks nothing like the famous pop star Michael Jackson. He looks like a young man who has spent the last twenty minutes terrified. The second his eyes find her, he stops moving.
And she can’t breathe.
Because he’s here. She can’t even look at him because she’s so humiliated.
Unfortunately, Joe notices too.
“We ain’t doin’ this here.”
The receptionist’s smile disappears. ”Sir, what's going on?”
“Family business.”
The woman stares at him. Then at (Name). Then at Michael standing near the entrance looking like he doesn't know whether to run to her or stay where he is. Then back at Joe.
Whatever she sees concerns her very quickly. “Sir, if she’s the patient, I’d like to hear from her directly.”
Joe lets out an irritated breath. “I’m the manager around here and what I say is best for business."
“No, sir.” The correction comes instantly, professional and calm but firm. It’s evidently clear this woman has been doing this for a very long time and will always prioritize and protect every single woman who steps foot into this building. “If she’s an adult, she makes her own medical decisions.”
Joe actually looks caught off guard. “’Scuse me?”
The receptionist folds her hands together. “If she would like an appointment, we can help her. If she would like information, we can help her. If she would like to leave, she can leave.”
“You don’t understan—”
“No, sir.” The woman shakes her head. “I think you don’t understand.” Because this isn’t a family argument anymore. This is reality. It’s paperwork. It’s consent forms. It’s a beautiful stranger with a name tag telling Joe Jackson that he doesn’t actually get to decide what happens next. And that he could go to hell, respectfully.
Then she turns toward (Name). “Is there something you’d like to do today?”
After being dragged out of her home, dragged into a car, dragged into a clinic, and talked about like she isn’t even standing there—let alone a human with feelings, somebody is finally asking what she wants.
And the decision belongs entirely to her.
The receptionist’s words should have ended it. They should have settled the matter the way facts often do, with a simple reminder that reality exists outside the boundaries of family dynamics. Instead, they seem to make Joe angrier. There is something desperate in the way he continues talking, as though volume alone can restore authority that has already begun slipping through his fingers. He isn’t really arguing about the pregnancy anymore. He’s arguing against the idea that there are limits to his control. Against the fact that there are people in this building who don’t know him, don’t fear him, and don’t particularly care what he wants. Every sentence he speaks feels less like an argument and more like a refusal to accept that the world is moving forward without asking his permission first.
”You don’t understand what’s at stake here.”
The statement isn’t directed at anyone in particular. It’s directed at the room—at the entire world for refusing to bend the way Joe thinks it should.
“If people find out my son has a babymama, it’s gon' mess up our product—our brand.”
And that’s when the brothers finally stop trying to keep the peace.
Because there is something uniquely infuriating about watching a grown ass man drag a crying woman into a clinic to force her into an abortion and then continue speaking about her as though she isn’t standing three feet away. Tito’s patience finally snaps first. Jackie, Marlon and Randy follow immediately after. Years of old resentments begin bleeding into the conversation. Old wounds. Old arguments. Old frustrations that have nothing to do with the pregnancy and everything to do with control.
A security guard appears near the front desk and then another. A nurse asks everyone to lower their voices and nobody listens.
For (Name), the noise gradually stops sounding like English. It becomes something shapeless and overwhelming, a wall of sound pressing in from every direction at once. The fluorescent lights overhead seem brighter than they did a few minutes ago and the waiting room very quickly feels too crowded, too exposed, and too public. Everywhere she looks there are strangers witnessing one of the worst moments of her life. A pregnant woman flipping through a magazine. An elderly couple pretending not to stare. Nurses trying to remain professional while an entire family implodes in front of them. People are realizing this is the Jackson family and Michael Jackson’s pregnant girlfriend is here for an abortion. The humiliation crashes over her all over again. She had spent weeks carrying this secret, weeks rehearsing conversations in her head, weeks convincing herself she would find the right moment to tell Michael. Every version had ended with the choice belonging to her. Every version had ended with privacy. Instead, she got a forced trip to a clinic and Joe Jackson announcing he wants her pregnancy terminated. Somewhere, the story stopped belonging to her.
That realization is what finally pushes her over the edge. The loss of ownership of her body, the dehumanization of herself. The feeling that everyone has been discussing her future while she stands screaming at the center of it, reduced to a subject instead of a participant. Her chest begins tightening until each breath feels smaller than the last. Thoughts start colliding faster than she can sort through them. Fear folds into shame. Shame folds into guilt. Guilt folds into the familiar childish terror that Michael is angry with her and she simply can’t tell. She hates how much that possibility matters. Hates that a part of her still wants his approval as desperately as she did when she first fell in love with him when they were seventeen. Hates that, despite everything happening around her the thing she wants most is a sign that he doesn’t look at her differently now.
Michael notices before anyone else.
The argument has long since lost his attention. Her pregnancy is still sitting inside his chest because he hasn’t figured out how to hold it yet. Every attempt he makes to examine it seems to split into ten other thoughts. The shock of finding out. The hurt of being excluded. The realization that she’d been dealing this alone. The image of her in the backseat of Joe's car. The look on her face through the window. It all keeps circling without resolution. But the second he sees the distant look settling into her eyes, every one of those thoughts disappears. He knows this version of her, the difference between crying and panic on her. He’s watched her push herself too far before, watched her try to hold herself together long after she should have stopped trying. What frightens him now is how familiar it looks. Because it looks like him.
The noise of the room continues around them, but Michael doesn’t hear it anymore. The only thing he can focus on is the way her breathing has changed and the fact that she looks like she’s slipping further away from the room with every passing second. His hands find her instinctively, one settling against the back of her head while the other gently covers her ear, creating a small barrier between her and the chaos surrounding them. It’s not a solution by any means and de knows that. But it’s something. A way of saying that she doesn't have to absorb all of it at once. A way of giving her one thing to focus on besides the noise.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his forehead briefly resting against hers.
The words aren't true. Neither of them are naive enough to believe that. Nothing about today is okay. Their lives have been blown apart in the span of a couple hours. They’re literally standing in a clinic because his father tried to force a situation he had no right to control. There are a hundred conversations waiting for them on the other side of this moment, but his words aren’t really meant to describe reality. They’re meant to communicate something else entirely.
I'm here. You're not alone. You don't have to do this by yourself.
The receptionist notices almost immediately, her attention shifting away from Joe and the growing argument surrounding him. What she sees instead is a young woman on the verge of a panic attack and a young man who looks just as shaken but is trying desperately not to show it, and failing. She sees the way (Name) has folded into him without thinking and the way Michael hasn’t taken his hands off her once. She sees two young people drowning beneath circumstances neither of them had any control over.
“Excuse me, mister Jackson.. are you two.. the couple?”
The question feels oddly intimate amidst everything else. Michael lifts his head, momentarily caught off guard by how simple it is. After all the shouting and accusations and assumptions, his answer is the easiest thing he’s been about to say all day. He nods.
“Yes..”
The receptionist studies them for another moment before her expression softens. “Would you like a private room? Somewhere quiet, away from.. all this?”
The offer feels like a deep cut, it’s the first genuinely compassionate thing anyone has suggested since the morning began. Michael doesn’t hesitate and doesn’t even ask where he just nods again, unable to find the energy for words. The idea of getting (Name) away from this room, away from Joe, away from this noise and the eyes and the prying eyes, feels less like a preference and more like its necessary.
The receptionist smiles gently and motions for them to follow.
The room itself is completely unremarkable. An examination table sitting in the center of the room. Cabinets line the counters, stocked with supplies that all look identical in their sterile blue and white packaging. There’s a sink, a rolling stool, a faded medical chart pinned to the wall. It’s your standard annual check up room and yet the second the door closes behind them, it feels like the safest place either of them has been all morning. There is a door between them and everyone else for the first time this morning.
The silence that settles isn’t awkward though. If anything, it feels overdue. Both of them are exhausted in ways that go beyond simple fatigue. Adrenaline has this cruel habit of keeping people on edge until the danger they perceive passes, and only afterward it allows them to feel the full traumas of what they’ve survived. Michael sits on the rolling stool beside her for a long moment without speaking, his elbows resting against his knees as he studies her. His eyes drift across her face, her eyes are still swollen from crying before he eventually settles on the angry scrapes covering her knees. The sight seems to bother him, perhaps because the cuts are visible. Tangible and a problem with a clear beginning and end. Compared to everything else, scraped skin is refreshingly simple.
Michael can fix that. He can fix that.
He reaches for the supplies sitting in the cabinets.
The avoidance is so obvious neither of them acknowledges it. There are conversations the size of elephants in the room, questions that need answers. But they both ignore it, for now at least.
The alcohol burns the second it touches the raw scrape.
A sharp hiss escapes her before she can stop it, her knee instinctively trying to pull away from the sting. It’s not even particularly painful compared to everything else she’s felt today, but the sensation catches her off guard. Immediately Michael’s head lifts.
”You okay?” The question comes out so soft as he looks up at her from where he’s crouched in front of her, his Bambi doe eyes wide with concern. It’s painfully sweet the way he asks, because the answer genuinely matters to him.
She can’t bring herself to look at him still.
Not when every time she does glance his way, she’s struck by the terrifying realization that he’s.. still Michael. Still gentle and still looking at her the same way he always has—she feels shy.
“Mm,” she murmurs softly, keeping her eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “Just stings a little.”
The concern doesn’t leave his face any time soon and he watches her for another moment, before he returns to cleaning the scrape. The room falls quiet again and its strangely intimate. No one’s watching. No one needs anything from them.
When he finishes cleaning the scrapes, he turns toward one of the drawers and begins searching for bandages. She watches absentmindedly until she notices the subtle shift in his expression.
“What is it..?”
Instead of answering immediately, Michael pulls a small box from the drawer and holds it up.
Disney themed bandaids.
The sight is so absurdly unexpected that a startled giggle escapes before she can stop it and Michael glances between her and the box.
“They have Disney.” He smiles a little.
Carefully, Michael peels some bandages from their wrappers and smooths them over her knees. One ends up slightly crooked. He notices instantly.
His frown deepens.
“..It’s a little crooked.”
“Michael, it’s a bandaid.”
“But it has to be perfect on you..”
Another laugh escapes her when he fixes it and this one comes easier. The tension in the room doesn’t go away, but it is lighter. You could compare it to knot loosening enough to allow circulation back into a limb.
When he’s finally satisfied, Michael smooths the edges down with his fingertips and leaves his hand resting there before something thoughtful settles over his features. The same look she has seen a hundred times before when he becomes lost inside his own head. Before she can ask what he’s thinking, he bends forward and presses a quick kiss against one bandage.
Then the other.
The conversation doesn’t start because either of them is ready for it, every possible distraction has been exhausted. Michael stays seated in front of her, one arm resting loosely across his lap, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the cartoon princesses now stuck to her knees.
“..Can I ask you somethin’..?” He rubs his hands together nervously.
She nods.
“Why didn’t you tell me, dove..?”
There isn’t an accusation hidden in the question, that’s what makes it harder to answer she thinks. He’s not angry, he’s hurt. And hurt simply sits there between them and asks to be acknowledged. (Name) drops her gaze to her hands because the truth is she doesn’t know how to explain it. The answer was never one thing. It was dozens of fears layered together until they became impossible to untangle.
“I was gonna tell you, ’Key..”
”I know.” Because of course he knows. If she’d truly intended to hide it forever, she wouldn't have spent weeks looking fucking haunted. The secret had been leaking out of her in a hundred different ways be just didn’t know what the hell was going on. Michael’s expression softens.
“I think that’s what’s botherin’ me,” he admits quietly. ”You were gonna tell me.. but you were scared to.”
He’s talking about the fact that she’d convinced herself she had to handle this all alone and she’s forced to consider what this morning must have felt like from his side. Finding out he might be a father in the middle of a screaming match. Learning she’d been withholding life changing information from him.
“I didn’t know what to do.. ’m sorry..”
Michael lets out a small breath and looks away for a moment.
“I didn’t know what to do either.. looked like a punk..”
The honesty catches her off guard. She’d spent so much time fearing his reaction that she’d never really considered he might be just as overwhelmed.
The memory of the drive to the clinic rises uninvited. The rearview mirror and Joe’s eyes finding hers every few minutes. The hatred in them. He’d planted these awful doubts in her mind and by the time they’d arrived she’d found herself questioning things she’d never questioned before. Whether she was capable of raising a child. Whether love was enough. Whether wanting something automatically meant she was ready for it. Would Michael get tired of her and leave? Maybe she was only supposed to be a temporary person in his life, a placeholder for someone rich and famous..
“What if we’re not good at this?” She asks like word vomit. “What if I can’t do it?”
Michael takes the question seriously. “Lovey.. I don’t think anybody knows what they’re doin’. I think everybody’s probably scared.”
She studies him for a long moment before asking the question that’s been sitting underneath all the others. “What if you leave?”
Michael’s expression changes, because he understands that that question didn’t appear out of nowhere. It came from weeks of fear, insecurity, and a voice that didn’t belong to her. He reaches for her hand and wraps his fingers around it gently.
“(Name),” he says softly. ”Look at me, please..”
Reluctantly, she does.
His eyes are tired and red around the edges he looks so sure. The most sure than she’s seen him all day.
”I want this.” Michael swallows hard and lets out a small, nervous laugh. “I’m scared. Real scared..”
His thumb brushes across her knuckles. “But I want my baby.”
(Name) feels some of the fear loosen its grip on her chest. They don’t have all the answers. Maybe they never will. But they’re finally found their way back to the same side.
Synopsis: You wanted to know who’s bad, so he showed you.
Pairing: Husband!Michael Jackson x fem!reader (bad era)
Warnings: MDNI, porn without plot, p in v (unprotected sex but it’s ok because you’re married to him), bondage, slapping, fingering.
Word Count: 1.9k
Drea's note: Requested by my beautiful @thatoneliberiangirl. Forgive me for posting this so late omg I am sorry🫠🫶🏻
The editing crew murmured amongst themselves as you entered the room, eyes watching your every move as you walked towards an empty seat near the closest television screen. They had been working on the final touch-ups for the upcoming ‘BAD’ music video and needed a fresh set of eyes to make sure everything was in order. However, they weren’t expecting Michael’s wife to be the one to take on this responsibility.
“Uh, Mrs Jackson! So nice to see you here today.” The lead editor spoke up with professional enthusiasm, stretching his hand out across the video equipment to shake yours.
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to seeing the video. Is it ready?” You get straight to business, shaking the man’s hand with a subtle sense of pride.
“Of course.” He responds and slips a copy of the music video into the television before you.
The sound of static fills the room before the short film begins. You’d been there when Michael was filming, having been personally invited by him to watch his work. Now, it was time to see if the short film fully encapsulated his vision for the song.
You watch intently as Michael acts, smiling softly at how adorable he looks portraying Darryl. You lean forward around the scene where Darryl has had enough with being pushed around and smirk at his words.
“You wanna see who's bad? You wanna see who's bad?”
You shift in your seat, crossing a leg above the other and squeezing them to suppress the sudden feeling between them.
“Can you rewind to that last part? Before the push?” You whisper, and the editor obliges.
There are those words again: “You wanna see who's bad? You wanna see who's bad?”
You don’t even notice the words slip out of you when you speak just loud enough for the editor to hear you, “Yeah, I wanna see who’s bad.”
The editor looks away in slight chagrin after hearing your sultry comment. He clears his throat as the film continues before you.
When the film ends, you get up and bid everyone in the room goodbye, having given the ‘ok’ to publish that tape as the final cut. The editor nods with a bashful smile, your previous words still ringing in his ear. A part of him wonders if that was a subtle way to say you weren’t pleased with the acting, so when you finally leave the room, he picks up the phone and dials your home number to contact Michael about his concern.
When you finally make it back home, you slide out of your heels and toss your purse on the table near the entrance. The house is quiet. Maids have left after a long day of cleaning, leaving you and Michael, wherever he is, alone.
“Michael? I’m back! I watched the film,” You shout into the void, not certain whether he’s even close enough to hear you as you make your way upstairs to your shared bedroom.
The door opens on the other side, revealing your lean husband. He’s dressed in a simple grey sweater and denim pants. He stands with his arms crossed, eyes squinted in subtle anger. He fixes his gaze on your lips, then your eyes, then they travel down your dress.
“Come here.” Michael pulls you into the bedroom before slamming the door shut behind you both. He practically drags you towards the king-sized bed, gently pushing you onto it.
“What’s gotten into you?” you whimper softly as you watch his hands work on his jeans, unbuckling the belt around them. Your dress is hiked up just above your knees, revealing the once-hidden small tear in your stockings. You attempt to straighten yourself, but Michael stops you.
“Ah ah. Stay there.” He slings the belt off, tossing it next to you. He unbuttons and unzips them next. “I want’a show you something.”
Your heart beats faster, chest heaving in anticipation. A familiar shiver of lust rushes down your stomach straight to your core. Michael licks his lips, taking a step closer. He nudges your legs apart with his knee, standing directly in front of you.
“I heard about what ya said at the film viewing today,” he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours. His hand runs up and down your leg, squeezing every inch of flesh he can reach as he ducks his thumb under your dress, “heard you wanna see who's bad.”
A soft moan escapes you. The room feels warmer, smaller even. Michael leans back, his thumb brushing over your sensitive bud. He tilts his head when you whimper from the slight contact.
“You want’a know who's bad, huh?” He speaks just above a whisper.
“Yes,” you whisper back, hands gripping on his arm as his thumb presses soft circles to your clit, “please.”
Michael chuckles, his voice chills your chest like a cold glass of water on a summer’s day. He lowers himself again, pressing your foreheads together again.
“Say it again. Say ‘please’ again and I’ll so ya, bad.”
“Please, Michael. Please show me.” Your hips grind to match the friction between your legs.
In one swift motion, Michael flips you over, positioning you so that your cheek presses against a pillow, ass up and back arched. You hear his belt buckle swinging behind you as he chuckles, then he grabs your hands, holding them behind you before tying them up tightly.
“Are you sure?” He asks mockingly, pulling down his jeans behind you. His weight disappears off the bed, and he fully rids his pants, underwear and sweater, exposing his thick and hardened length.
“Show me who’s bad.” You nod, resting out the restraints on your hands. “Please, Mike.”
Michael hands pull your dress over your butt, hugging your knees to arch your back a bit more. In the deepened doggy style, he rips your leggings right where your underwear is, running his index finger between your soaked panties. He presses his thumb to your clit again and flicks his index finger over it, making you flinch in lustful anticipation.
“So wet already. Needy thing.” Michael teases you in a sultry voice. He dips his fingers underneath your cotton panties, groaning as he slips a single finger into your wet hole.
You shudder at the sensation, your butt instinctively pushing backwards to match the slow pump of his finger into you.
“Mike…” you sigh wistfully. Your hands clenched around nothing behind you, subconsciously trying to free themselves from his belt’s hold.
Michael holds your panties to the side and angles his tip to your entrance. On any other occasion, he would have given you more prep time, but not today. Without warning, he pushes himself into you, stretching your walls as far as his large member needs.
“Oh, Fuck!” You scream into the pillow beneath your cheek, eyes already watering from the feeling. He pulls his hips back, almost slipping completely out of you, before slamming back into your warm cunt with a harder force than the first time.
“Tch, babydoll,” Michael breathes out, voice thick and dark with need. He keeps a harsh pace, hips snapping back and forth as if chasing a high already.
Your moans fill the bedroom, bouncing off the walls, straight to your husband’s ears. Each sound you make sounds painfully beautiful. The feel of his dick in you is too much, too good all at once. He’s huge, stretching your tight pussy with every thrust of his hips. God, it’s tantalising. You squeeze your eyes shut, and your mouth falls slack as the mindless moans and whimpers escape you. It seems to egg him on more. He leans forward and whispers into your ear, his warm breath tickling the sensitive skin of your earlobe.
“Can’t handle it, hmm? Can’t handle how I feel inside you?” Michael grips the soft flesh of your hips, pulling you onto him as he pushes deeper and deeper. “Is it too much for you, babydoll? Am I too bad for you?”
You don’t respond. Words fail you in this moment. All you can do is nod vigorously against the pillow, crying out to him like life itself depends on it.
“Michael! Oh, Michael! M-m-ah!”
“Fuck, babydoll, say my name like that again.” He commands, smacking your plump butt. His large palm surely leaves a mark. He smacks it again before rubbing the point of impact in an ironically sweet manner.
You comply and moan his name like a prayer. The letters webbed into each other, making his name sound like gibberish. Michael pulls on your hair, his grip sweetly arousing along with his relentless fucking.
“I can feel it, y/n, can feel you getting closer,” he groans into your ear, slapping your ass again — the other cheek this time. “What if I just…stop?”
You gasp and cry out in lustful pain, begging him not to. The sight of you like this, tied up, whimpering in unrestrained arousal, mascara running down your hot cheeks; it’s all bringing him closer and closer to release. God, he wants to just finish inside you without giving you your own release, but the gentle part of him won’t let him completely ruin you for himself.
“You should see yourself, such a mess, y/n.” He whispers, pulling your torso up to press your back to his chest in an aching arch. His toned arm wraps around your neck, holding you up while he brings you to your climax.
Your walls begin to pulse around his length, eyes rolling back in blissful pleasure. Your breath comes out ragged, huffing out your senseless words. Michael’s belt is still tightly tied around your wrists, keeping you helpless to his thrusts. In a matter of seconds, you fall apart, juices squelching around your husband’s thick, dark cock in pure ecstasy. Each wave of your climax is accompanied by a deep moan or weak whimper, enticing Michael’s own moans as he nears release. You press your palms against his bare torso behind you, panting as if you ran ten miles in an attempt to catch your breath after your climax.
“Ah, tch, mmm.” Michael’s thrusts grow sluggish, his breath against the back of your neck coming out uneven. His hand grips your neck now, long fingers pulsing around it. In one uneven motion, Michael fills your warm core with his thick seed. He doesn’t stop thrusting, coating your velvet walls in his warm, creamy cum in short pumps.
When his strength falters, he releases you from his grip, letting your chest fall to the mattress, face pressing against the dark pillow again. His body falls beside you, back hitting the mattress in a soft thud before he turns his gaze to you. You’re still tied up, hands lying loosely on your back. Michael’s belt has left a soft ligature mark on your wrist, but none of you cares in that moment.
“You alright?” He presses a gentle palm to your face, cupping your damp cheek with a lopsided smile.
“Yeah…” you answer weakly, completely fucked out.
You smirk and wiggle your hands behind you. Michael shoots up in newfound bashfulness and quickly unties you, watching you wiggle your wrists in a shot to twist the stiffness out of them.
A pause.
“I wanna know who's bad.” You giggle, and Michael rolls his eyes, helping you turn over onto your back.
“Woman, we just finished.” He chuckles, helping you out of your ripped stocking, then your dress.
“I.Want. More.” You quip.
Michael exhales with a sly grin, preparing himself for a long afternoon of pleasing your insatiable desire. It’s safe to say you’ll need to air out the room for the entire night…and definitely change the bedding.
“Okay folks we are running this again and I need it to be the cleanest and tightest run we have had so far!! We have to make sure everything comes off extra sharp on camera let’s go people!!!” This is what the choreographer is yelling at you for the 100th time today. Everyone’s hot and tired and done with the day but this is what you signed up for *especially* since you got selected to be a back up dancer for one of the dangerous short films. All you have to do is grin and bear it until the clock strikes 6pm. It’s currently 5:47pm and the drill Sargent is not letting up until then. There’s sweat pooling around your neck and your shirt is damp and clinging to your chest and hugging your curves.
That’s when the door opened and who walked in, none other than Michael. Fucking. Jackson. Your jaw is on the floor. Thus far the dancers and the star have been kept separate. He knows they have a hard time staying on track when everyone’s a little star struck. Everyone starts talking and gaping at the same time and the room gets noisy. Lots of heys’ and what’s up man’ going around. The instructor started clapping and yelling to regain control of the room.
“Okay people!!! Listen up! We are running what we learned for the song once more tonight for Mr.Jackson. He wanted to see the progress you guys have made so far. I know everyone is exhausted but this is entertainment. Grab some water and get into place” 30 seconds. That’s all the time you have for your brain to catch up and understand your dancing in. Front. Of him. You knew it would happen but not this soon.
You take your place. Your focus laser sharp ready to give everything you have left in this last run through. You count the beats in after the song starts and the instructor claps the group in. You let out a final and shakey breath before you start. You come alive, like there’s nothing you want more then to impress him. You’re dancing like there’s a fire under your feet and you want to burn down the studio. You kick your leg out hard, and suddenly you’re falling. You don’t hear your scream. You’re to into the dance at first that you can’t comprehend that now your crumpled on the studio floor. The music halts and then suddenly everyone was crowded around you.
“Move!! Everyone move!! Give her some space, I need to see what’s going on” Someone is half holding you up from the floor. The agony and throbbing in your ankle so immediate and severe you feel like you might have broken it, the tears streaming down your face freely a sign of the pain you’re in and the frustration and humiliation of fucking up the routine in front of the most important person of your life right now. Your boss.
They swiped at your cheeks softly and started hushing reassurances just low enough in your ear that only you could hear them. “Hey, hey, stay with me now. You did such a good job until I saw you go down, it’s okay, you’re okay. I’m here now. We are gonna figure’it out and get you to my personal doctor. You’re gonna be okay pretty girl” the pretty girl sounded like it slipped out last minute in a rush.
Michael was holding you. He was the one cradling you on the dirty studio floor without a second thought. Your ankle was fucked but damn if this wasn’t a dream. All you could do was sniffle out a small apology and ask if you were fired as quietly as possible, sounding mildly pathetic but you worked so hard to get here.
Michael looked down at you and the corners of his lips turned up the smallest bit. “Darlin let’s focus on getting you looked at and healing before we talk about that but I promise I’ll take careofya’” he looked at your ankle already looking like it was swelling up. He made eye contact with his choreographer. “Call bill and have him swing the car up to the door, I’m gonna take her home to have her checked out. Please and thank you”. Michael lifted you off the floor effortlessly and carried you to the door with you against his chest, you could hear the car pulling up, spitting up gravel.
“I uh well, I hope you don’t mind to much, ah sorry honey, I don’t like watching my dancers get hurt and I get real protective of them. I promise we will patch you up good and I’ll take care of you” The black door to the security car opened and all you could do was manage a shy thank you and a small smile to the best man in the world.
Summary: You are the daughter of a big shot producer close to Michael's album development team, at Epic. Your dad gives you michael's number after you beg him... and he actually decides to humour you and have a conversation
Tags: 18+, smut, Phone sex, sub!michael (sort of), thriller era, he is a bit older and probs yearns to be a bit more frisky, all those hormones, Michael comes out of his shell a bit, he has a filthy little voice, one he didn't even know about til now, but boy does he WHIMPER, silk pyjamas, but Michael still being Michael and talking about disney parks cuz hes a total NERD
Word Count: 4346
Author’s Note: just saw the movie again for the 7th time in imax today. i think i could play a part in it tbh. ALSO PLS LETS TALK ABOUT THE MIDDLE PHOTO ABOVE OF MICHAEL WITH HIS PANTS UNZIPPED PLS AND THANKS. feral. and its what inspired this.
you can read part 2 of Dial tone here
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
The phone rang at an odd hour, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of his bedroom. Michael picked up the receiver, his voice soft and uncertain. "Hello?"
"Hi... is this Michael?" Your voice came through the line, slightly breathless, like you'd been working up the courage to make this call for hours.
He blinked, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "Yes. Who is this?"
"Hi Yes, well, I'm sorry, I know this is strange. My name is Y/N. My father—he's a producer at Epic—he gave me your number. I promise I'm not some fan who broke into his office or anything." You let out a nervous little laugh, and something about it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
"Oh.. Well hi. And yes, I know your father quite well. He’s a great man." His tone was cautious but curious, not angry, his voice airy and highly pitched. Even more so than you had heard before in interviews.
"I know, he’s great, and he’s crazy about working with you," you admitted. "I just—I told him I felt like I needed to talk to you. He probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I am. But yeah. You know my dad, so don’t worry about me being a stranger, I guess."
There was a pause like he was mulling over putting the phone down, and then Michael asked, "Why… did you need to talk to me?"
You swallowed. "Because I saw that interview you did last month. The one where you talked about growing up in the industry and how it felt like you never got to just... be a kid… or a young adult. I feel the same, my dad moved us around a lot for his job, so i never got the childhood i deserved."
Silence on his end. Not quite the uncomfortable kind—the kind that said you'd struck something true in his heart. You had heard he had quite an old fashioned soul, really spoke from deep within.
"I've never had anyone say that to me so plainly before," he finally said, his voice even quieter than before. "Not someone who actually understood what I was talking about when I said i missed out on my childhood. Its odd to hear someone agreeing, actually."
"Then I'm glad I called." You smiled, curling the phone wire giddily in your hand.
The conversation flowed like water finding its natural course. You talked about childhoods that weren't really childhoods—yours spent hovering at the edges of your father's world, his spent at the center of a spotlight so bright it cast shadows everywhere else.
You discovered you both loved old Cary Grant films, that neither of you could sleep before midnight, that loneliness felt like a second skin, a skin, you both needlessly tried to shed but couldn’t.
"You know what I think?" you said, curled up on your bed with the phone pressed to your ear.
"I think the universe put us in each other's path. Too many coincidences for it to be random."
Michael laughed—his real laugh, breathy and bright, and you’d never heard it before. "You believe in fate?"
"Don't you?"
A pause. "I think I'm starting to. If I have my producer's cute daughter calling me this late. I’ve seen your pictures..." He said. “Your dad is proud of you, Miss training-to-be-a-nurse”
Your chest warmed at that. It was strange to think your father had sat across from this person — this boy who'd just spent twenty minutes debating the correct order to experience Fantasyland — and watched him become someone else entirely in a recording studio. A beast, your dad had called him. The kind who walked into a room and knew immediately when the string quartet had played their last note, who could hear a synth line once and tell you exactly why it was wrong. Someone who agitated his own vocal until it sat right, not because he was told to but because he simply knew.
You'd turned that over in your head for weeks after your father told you. The contradiction of it. Because nothing about Michael Jackson suggested beast. Everything suggested careful, considered, a little fragile around the edges; and tonight had confirmed it.
He'd been so clipped at first, his answers arriving in small careful portions like he was rationing himself. You'd talked about The Shining, which he'd been watching alone in the big quiet house while his family were out, and somewhere in that conversation something had loosened.
Then Disneyland, and he'd come fully alive, telling you about a replica Walt Disney World train set he kept, his voice losing every last trace of caution as he described it. He'd sounded like a kid. Like someone who'd never had to perform for a train set.
That was the contradiction your father hadn't mentioned. That the beast in the studio and the boy on the phone were the same person, separated by something you couldn't quite name.
By now his guard had come all the way down. You could hear it, the way he'd settled deeper into his pillows, the quiet rustle of silk against sheets, his voice sitting lower and easier than it had two hours ago.
"What are you doing right now?" you asked.
"Lying in bed. You?"
"Same." You smiled to yourself. "What are you wearing?"
A surprised little huff. "My pajamas. Why?"
"Hmm. What do they look like?"
"They're... blue. Silk."
"Sounds nice." You let your voice drop, just slightly—enough to shift the air between you. "I bet you look nice in them."
Michael's breath caught audibly. "That's—you don't have to—"
"I want to. Can I tell you something?"
"Yes. You may."
"I've been thinking about what you might look like up close and in person. What your hands might look like. The way your voice sounds right now, how low it's gotten."
You rolled onto your back, staring at your ceiling. "Is that okay that I am thinking along those lines?"
The silence stretched. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Yes." he almost whispered.
Your pulse kicked. "Good. Can you do something for me, Michael?"
"Maybe."
"Make yourself feel good, in this moment"
You heard the sharp intake of breath. "I—I don't—"
“You’ve never touched yourself?” you asked, shocked and incredulous. You found it hard to believe someone so sensual on stage and in recording had never been intimate with himself.
“No, I absolutely have, a lot - I mean, I can’t find a girlfriend the normal way so its hard.” He said back, almost stuttering over his words nervously.
“Well, I am a girl and I want to make you feel good. Even if it is over the phone. I feel compelled to” you said, a blush starting to form on your face.
Michael never replied, but you could hear his breathing quicken
"Okay, move your hand for me. Just put it on your chest. Over your heart. Can you feel how fast it's beating?"
A rustle of fabric, then a soft exhale. "Yes."
"That's because of me. Because I'm talking to you in this way. Which I doubt any other woman has yet?." You let your own hand drift down, fingertips tracing your collarbone.
"Does it feel good? Having someone tell you what to do in a sexual way?"
Another long pause, but this one was weighted differently. He was thinking, not retreating. "I... no one's ever asked me that before or spoke to me so plainly"
"Ask yourself. Right now. Does it?"
His answer came out barely above a whisper: "Yes."
"Okay. I want you to slide your hand down. Slowly. Over your stomach."
Fabric rustled. His breathing changed, became shallower. You could picture him—long, beautiful fingers tracing his own skin, that honey skin tone and his beautiful face flushed in the dim light of his bedroom.
"Are you doing it?"
"I am." The word was almost a sigh.
"Keep going. Until you're touching yourself over your pajamas. Don't go underneath yet."
A strangled sound escaped him—half protest, half something else entirely. You heard him shift, the creak of his mattress, then the distinct rhythm of his breath turning ragged.
"There you go," you murmured. "Feel that? That's for me. You’re doing this for me."
"Y/N—" His voice cracked on the syllables. "This is—I shouldn't—"
"You can stop whenever you want. But you don't want to stop, do you?"
Quiet. A shaky exhale. "No."
"Tell me."
"I don't want to stop."
The admission hung between you, electric and trembling. You slid your own hand lower, fingers dipping beneath your waistband, finding the heat that had been building for the past hour.
"I want you to go under now," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Take yourself in your hand. Don't stroke yet—just hold. Feel how hard you are for me”
The whimper he let out sent a jolt straight through you. You heard him obey—the subtle sound of silk being pushed aside, his breath hitching as he wrapped his fingers around himself.
"Good," you breathed. "Now I want you to stroke. Slowly. Just the way you like when you're alone in bed, when no one can hear you."
He groaned, and the sound was exquisite—raw and unguarded, nothing like the polished performer the world knew. This was him, stripped bare. "Ahh—"
"Does it feel good?"
"Yes— It feels more dirty doing it with someone on the line" His hand started moving faster, and you could hear it now—the slick, rhythmic sound of him pleasuring himself, punctuated by those desperate little gasps he couldn't seem to control.
"Slower," you commanded. "I didn't say you could go fast."
A frustrated noise, but he obeyed. You could picture his hand moving in long, deliberate strokes—him biting his lip to keep from crying out.
"Y/N, please—" The word was ragged, almost pleading.
"Please what?"
"Tell me—tell me what you're doing. I want to imagine it.”
Your fingers moved inside yourself, your slick warmth clenching around your slim fingers, and your voice came out shakier than you intended.
"I'm touching myself too. Thinking about your hands on me instead of my own."
"Gods—" The profanity startled you both, spilling from his lips like he couldn't hold it back.
"Are you—inside?"
"Mmhm. Two fingers. Wishing it was you, filling me up"
The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a whine, his restraint crumbling audibly. "Want to feel you—want to be inside you so badly— I’d fill you up"
"Then earn it. Keep stroking. Faster now." you said, your hands moving faster on your heat. “And don’t be quiet, Michael. I want to hear that voice of yours.”
His rhythm picked up immediately, desperate and uneven. You could hear the wet sound of his fist sliding over himself, the slap of it, his breath coming in sharp bursts. "Hahh—ngh—I'm—gonna come on myself if you keep talking to me like that. So- so dirty and honest"
"Not yet," you whined, even though your own body was trembling on the edge.
"Y-you don't come until I say so, Michael."
A full-body shudder seemed to pass through him, audible even over the phone. "Ugh, Please, I can't—you're making me—"
"You can. You will." You pressed deeper, your thumb finding that spot that made your vision white out. "Tell me how badly you want it."
"I want to be inside you so deep—want to hear you say my name when you come—I- god, I—want to fill you up and watch you fall apart for me—" The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them behind a dam, dirty and raw and so at odds with the shy man who'd answered the phone two hours ago.
Your back arched, your fingers working furiously. "Michael—oh—"
"That's it, say my name—let me hear you—"
"Michael—oh—" The orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls clenching hard around your fingers, your thighs snapping shut as you rode out the waves. You couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from your lips—guttural and uncontrolled and so, so loud in the quiet of your bedroom.
You heard him make a sound like he'd been punched—broken and desperate. "Oh god—d-did you just—did you come? Did you actually just—"
"Mmhm," you managed, still trembling, your voice wrecked. "So hard, Michael. Came so hard for you."
"Oh f-fuck—" The word came out stuttered, reverent, like he'd never said it before in this context and wasn't sure he was allowed. "I've never—no one's ever—that was the most intense thing I've ever heard in my entire life, I—"
He was still stroking, you could hear it—the slick, obscene sound of his fist working his shaft, faster now, more urgent. His breathing had gone completely ragged, punctuated by these tiny whimpering moans he seemed to be trying to swallow.
"Don't stop," you breathed, coming down slowly, your body still pulsing with aftershocks. "Keep touching yourself. I want to hear you finish."
"I've never had anyone listen to me before," he admitted, his voice thin and strained. "When I'm alone I have to be so quiet, my brothers are always in the next room and I—ngh—I always imagine someone wanting to hear me, wanting to know what I sound like when I lose control and I—"
"And what do you sound like, Michael?" You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone tight against your ear. "Let me hear the real you."
A broken gasp. His hand sped up, the wet sounds growing louder, more rhythmic.
"I sound like—hahh—like this. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm losing my mind over someone I've never even met and it's—it's driving me insane—"
"Tell me what you're thinking about. Right now. What's making you so turned on?"
"I'm thinking about—" He broke off with a whine, and you could hear him struggling, his shyness warring with the pleasure coiling tight in his belly. "I'm thinking about your fingers inside you. How wet you must be. That you are a complete stranger. That I am unraveling for.” You could hear him gasping for breath, the phone was so close to his mouth.
“I want to—I want to taste it. I want to put my mouth on you and lick you until you're screaming my name again and again—"
"Michael—"
"No one's ever let me—" His voice cracked, raw and exposed. "I've thought about it so much. Going down on a woman. Having her grab my hair and use my face and I just—oh god, I'm so close, Y/N, I'm so close—"
"Then tell me what else you'd do to me." You slipped your fingers back inside yourself, still slick and sensitive, and the sensation made you gasp.
"Tell me everything. Don't be shy anymore."
A shuddering exhale. "I want to—I want to push into you so slowly. Make you feel every inch."
He was babbling now, the words tumbling out faster than he could filter them. "I want to watch your face when I first enter you, when you feel how hard I am for you. I've never—I've never been inside anyone before and I want it to be you, I want you to be the first pussy I ever feel clenching around my cock and I—"
He stopped abruptly, and you could practically hear him blushing through the phone. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—that word—I—"
"Don't apologize. We’re in the moment" You were grinding against your own hand now, impossibly turned on again. "Say it again."
"I want to—" He swallowed hard.
"I want to feel your pussy around me. Is that—is that okay to say? It feels so dirty when I say it out loud. Dirtier than when I think it alone in my bed. It makes me even harder, knowing you're hearing me say these words."
"Good. Keep going. What else would you do?"
"I'd—I'd flip you over." His voice dropped lower, gaining confidence even as it shook with need. "Pin you down. Take you from behind so I could watch you—watch your body move every time I thrust into you. Would you like that? Would you let me be a little rough with you?"
"Yes," you moaned. "God, yes."
"I've never been rough before. I've never even had the chance to find out what I like but I think—I think I'd like that. Holding you down. Making you take it. Feeling you get wetter and wetter every time I—every time my hips snap against your ass and I can hear the sound of our skin slapping together—"
"Fuck, Michael—"
"Am I doing this right?" he asked suddenly, his voice turning vulnerable again, that sweet uncertainty creeping back in.
"Am I—am I being sexy enough? I don't know what I'm doing, I've never talked to anyone like this and I—"
"You're perfect," you gasped. "You're so fucking perfect, don't you dare stop."
"Really?" The word came out like a prayer, awed and disbelieving.
"You really think—no one's ever told me I was—I'm always too quiet, too soft, too weird but when you say it like that I almost believe I could be—"
"You could be what? Tell me."
"Good at this." His rhythm faltered, growing erratic.
"Good at making you feel good. I've imagined it so many times, practiced in my head what I'd say if I ever had a woman who wanted me to talk to her while I touched her and ahh—hahh—now that I'm actually doing it I can't stop, the words just keep coming out and they're so filthy but it feels so right when you're listening—"
"Because you were made for this." You pressed your palm against your mound, grinding in tight circles.
"The shy boy who says the filthiest things when the lights go out."
"Oh god—oh god oh god—" His breathing had reached a pitch of desperation, each exhale a miniature moan he couldn't seem to contain.
"I'm gonna—I can't hold it anymore, please, Y/N, please let me come, I'll do anything, I'll say anything you want, just please—"
"Tell me something you've never told anyone."
"I think about—ngh—I think about someone watching me. While I touch myself. I want them to see how desperate I get, how pathetic I look when I'm chasing my release and I can't find it and I'm whimpering and begging and—I want them to see what you've done to me. I want you to see what you've done to me."
"Michael, come for me."
The sound he made, this raw, transcendent keen that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in his chest, would stay with you forever. You heard the rhythm of his hand stutter, then seize, then stop entirely as he let out a strangled series of moans, each one higher than the last.
"Oh—oh fuck, I'm—Y/N, I'm coming, a-all all over my stomach, it's so much, you made me come so much, I—ahhh—mmph—" It sounded like the receiver dropped for a moment
"Michael," you whispered, and you came again too, your second orgasm rolling through you softer but no less devastating than the first.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.
His gasps were ragged and uneven, yours shaky and light, and the silence between you felt sacred somehow.
Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "That was... that was my first time. Doing that with someone."
"Really?"
"I've never trusted anyone enough to let them hear me like that." You could hear him shifting, probably reaching for something to clean himself with. "I can't believe some of the things I said. It felt good to do it though. Did I really call it my—my cock?"
You laughed, warm and genuine. "You did."
"Oh god." A soft thump, like he'd dropped his head back against the pillow. "I've never even said that word out loud before. Not in that context. I’ve heard it in porn films. And… I said I wanted to feel your—your—"
"Pussy," you supplied helpfully.
He made a noise like he was dying. "Please don't say it again. I am going to die of embarrassment when I wake up in the morning and realise how vulnerable I have been with you on the phone tonight.”
"Don't you dare be embarrassed." You rolled onto your stomach, pressing the phone against your ear like you could somehow get closer to him through it.
"Michael, that was beautiful."
"Beautiful?" You heard the skepticism in his voice, the way he couldn't quite believe you meant it. "I sounded like... I don't know. Some kind of animal."
"You sounded like someone who felt good. Someone who let himself feel good for maybe the first time." You traced idle patterns on your sheets, your body still humming. "That's not embarrassing. It's normal to want release Sometimes you just need a good excuse to get it."
He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear him moving—probably pulling his pajamas back into place, wiping his stomach with whatever he'd grabbed. The domestic reality of the aftermath, the part they never showed in movies.
"I can't believe my father's BIGGEST artist just came while thinking about me," you said, a smile in your voice. "The Epic and CBS executives would have a heart attack if they were somehow to know."
"Oh, stop." But you could hear him smiling too now, that shy little laugh escaping him. "You're going to give me a complex. I'm never going to be able to look your father in the eye again."
"He'll just think you're being your usual quiet self. Little does he know his star performer has quite the mouth on him when he wants to."
"Y/N!" The indignation in his voice was undercut entirely by the laugh he couldn't suppress. "You're terrible. You're absolutely terrible and I—"
He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "I really liked talking to you. Before the... you know. And after. I like your voice."
"I like yours." You hugged your pillow closer. "Even more now that I know what it sounds like when you fall apart."
A soft groan. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you?"
"Not ever."
You heard him shift again, settling back into his pillows, and the intimacy of the sound struck you—how domestic this was, how comfortable, for two people who had never even seen each other in person.
"When can I see you?" The question slipped out before you could second-guess it.
Michael went still. "You want to see me? After... I mean, you've heard me now. You know I'm not exactly—"
"Michael." You cut him off firmly. "I want to see you. I want to sit across from you and watch your face when you talk. I want to know if you gesture with your hands when you get excited about something. I want to see your Walt Disney World toy train set in person. I want to feel what its like to cuddle up next to you on the couch whilst we watch a scary movie. I want to see what you look like when you blush, because I have a feeling you're blushing right now."
"I am not," he lied, his voice pitching higher in that way that told you he absolutely was.
"Liar."
"Maybe a little." A pause. "I'm free this Saturday. If you wanted to—maybe we could get coffee? Or tea? I don't really drink coffee. It makes me jittery."
"Tea sounds perfect." Your heart was pounding again, but this time with anticipation, not nerves. He’d finally see you in the flesh and not just in picture, or your voice on the other end of the receiver.
"There's a little place in Studio City. Very quiet, very private. No one would bother us." You spoke up after a brief moment of silent thought.
"How do you know I don't want people to bother us?" His tone was teasing now, surprising you both. "I'm a superstar, you know. I have an image to maintain."
"Is that right? Because from what I just heard, superstar, you—"
"If you finish that sentence, I'm hanging up this phone and changing my number and telling your father you're delusional."
You laughed, bright and real and full of something that felt dangerously close to hope. "Fine, fine. I'll be good."
"I sincerely doubt that."
Saturday felt impossibly far away. You had three days to get through, three days of classes and shifts at the hospital and pretending you were a normal person when all you could think about was the boy with the honey voice who'd whispered filthy things in your ear like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to listen.
"Y/N?" His voice pulled you back to the present.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For calling. For removing me from my mundane and lonely reality. It isn’t all its cracked up to be… being famous." He said it so earnestly, so sweetly, that your chest ached with it.
"I've never felt this comfortable with someone. Usually I'm so worried about saying the wrong thing, or being too weird, or making people feel awkward—"
"You could never make me feel awkward, Michael."
"No?" You could hear the smile in his voice, that tentative hope blooming again. "Not even when I said I wanted to—"
"Okay, goodnight, Michael!" you half yelled, feeling embarrassment gurgle in your belly once more. You didn’t want to rehash just how dirty you had both been.
His laugh was your favorite sound now—bright and breathy and completely unguarded. You wanted to bottle it. You wanted to fall asleep to it every single night.
"Goodnight, Y/N." A pause, weighted with everything neither of you knew how to say yet.
"Dream of me?"
"Only if you dream of me."
"I already know I will." And then, softer: "I think I started the moment you said hello."
The line went dead, and you held the receiver against your chest for a long time, listening to the dial tone, smiling at the ceiling. What on earth did your crazy and direct personality get you into?
synopsis: michael loves pleasing you so much he has to record it for his future self to enjoy too!
warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+
Click!
And you froze.
The faintest giggle from Michael’s mouth brought you up for air — disconnecting your swollen lips from his own.
You, as Michael’s long-term girl, knew that he was a troublemaker at times — often pulling silly stunts to get a rise out of you and make you laugh. But, rather, in this sense, make himself laugh.
But this, was definitely a new one.
“Mike, what is that?”
Michael sported a childish grin — the corners of his lips tugging each side as he fought to suppress it.
“A camera.”
“I can see that, honey, but what’s it doing out while we’re kissin’?” Your tone had Michael pulling his bottom lip between his lips.
“Wanted to try somethin’.” He revealed, his voice soft and sweet despite the sensual undertone.
You’d barely been situated in Michael’s lap five minutes, lips moving feverishly against his own, anticipating some intimacy with your man, before the clicking of the Sony Handycam CCD-M8U you bought him for his birthday started a recording.
“Come on, baby, keep goin’.” He whispered — behaving like a producer backstage of a performance, using hushed tones to support you with your next act.
You shook your head in protest — lips parting to tell him to turn that damn thing off. But, it was Michael’s way or no way. He perched up from slightly beneath you, capturing your lips again on his own. You could sense the camera on you as Michael slid his eager tongue into your mouth — the wet muscle exploring yours as his right hand levitated in the air, capturing every second of your private moment. His spare hand slid up the centre of your spine, fingers tips tracing the dip, pushing you closer to his chest.
“Michael, turn it of—“ “Shh, just let it happen, doll.”
His muffled dismissal against your lips had you huffing into his — giving up fighting him. Luckily for Michael, you soon forgot about his little friend in the air — your enclosed lip-locking becoming increasingly more heated as time pursed. Your hips ground against his own involuntarily, muscle memory kicking in from your many previous sensual encounters, eliciting a sharp gasp from your throat. Michael hummed into your mouth at the sound of your first pretty noise of the night — the excitement of his future self watching the tape back and watching your neediness increase in real time had him buzzing.
Michael bucked his hips up to meet yours halfway — a genuine whine of desperation leaving your mouth against his own, still locked in a ferocious kiss. Your hands encased his flushed cheeks, holding him dearly close to you, your whines blossoming into authentic moans of pleasure as your throbbingly touch-starved clit nudged against the painfully obvious bulge in his slacks.
Your lips left Michael’s in a frantic, needy frenzy — planting hot, open-mouthed kisses to his jawline, lips dragging along the spectacularly chiseled bone, smothering the skin in your mauve lipstick. Before following his anatomy and furthering your pout down his neck, licking a tentative stripe down the slope.
Michael shuddered under your brutal teasing, hands twitching around the camera ever so slightly. He peered up at it, ensuring he was capturing you in the perfect way.
“Gosh, baby, y’look so pretty like that.” Michael breathed, titling his head back to allow you to expand your surface area of tentative licks, “Kissin’ all on me like that.”
At this point, all the sense you had to smack that camera out of Michael’s hand had long left your head. Now, all you were interested in was pressing hot kisses down Michael’s chest, shoving the loose shirt off his torso to give yourself more room to worship his body with your mouth.
Above you, Michael had managed to shift the camera angle down, now holding the painfully obvious equipment with two hands, resting on his heaving chest — angling it just right to show your arched frame moving down his body, lipstick marks forming on his glossed skin. Your manicured hands reached the waistband of his slacks before peering your head up from his crotch, eyeing him seriously, as if to say put that thing away now.
“Please?” His pleading, slightly whiny voice had any form of judgment you’d once obtained now ten feet out the window as his eyes sparkled above you — lip threatening to fall into a pout as the camera taped you rolling your eyes before unbuckling his trousers, shoving them down his thighs. Michael grinned excitedly as you pressed your chest close to the aching bulge in his boxers.
“Wow, you really do like that camera, huh?” You teased, tracing a calculated finger down the ridge of his hard cock.
Michael hissed at the sudden, feather-light touch, knuckles going white around said tech, lip being gnawed by his pearly whites at the sight of you between legs.
“Quit teasin’.” He spoke shyly, his eyes flicking between the screen and your in-person frame, an anticipatory smile on his face.
Usually, Michael would dislike it when you suck his dick — believing his lady should be pleasured and looked after, not made to strain herself for only his gain. But, he knew how you secretly enjoyed having your throat stuffed full, rendering completely at your mercy, so every once in a while, he’d allow it.
That and you looked so pretty with his cock in your mouth.
Especially on camera.
So, when your lips wrapped around the flushed head of his proud cock, Michael didn’t know whether to focus on making sure every second of this was caught on video, or the feeling of intense delight you were succumbing him to. You suckled the tip just how he liked, his salty, yet equally delicious, pre-cum flooding your taste buds, relishing in the way the perfect dip in his eyebrows adorned his face — he was crumbling.
“S-Shit, sweetheart, doin’ so good.” He panted, thighs tensing against your hands as you steadied yourself on the meaty muscle.
You slid him deeper, tongue dancing over the throbbing vein on the underside of his shaft, while your pretty fingers wrapped around the base, pumping him slowly in beat with your eager mouth. Michael watched you like a hawk — heart thumping in his chest so hard he was certain the tachycardia was going to send him into cardiac arrest at the way your seductive, doe eyes fluttered up at him through your lashes.
“Oh, Lord.” He heaved, head falling back against the pillow as the head of his swollen manhood punched the back of your throat — a loud gag of rejection sounding out into the room.
Michael secretly adored when you did that.
In his trance of lust, the camera slipped from his grasp, sliding down his side, leaving his hands free to slither down and cradle your face. You noticed.
“Ah, ah, ah!” You teased, pulling off his cock with a pop, saliva connecting you even in disengagement, “Thought you wanted it filmin’, angelface?”
Michael whined, trembling hands leaving your face to pull the camera back into his possession — focusing the lense to put you back into shot. Michael’s breath hitched at the sight — even on the choppy, blurry screen, your blown out pupils, tear-streaked, flushed red cheeks and swollen lips glossed with spit and his pre-cum had him twitching in your hand as you pumped him slowly.
“Look so fuckin’ good, girl.” He admitted, furrowed eyebrows hidden between the large hunk of plastic as he watched through it, “Can’t wait to watch this later.”
You laughed, pressing a kiss to the head, collecting the pre-cum that dribbled down him with the tip of your tongue, smiling at the way Michael whined, “Oh, you dirty dog, Michael Jackson.”
Michael chuckled cheekily, “Come up here, wanna feel you.”
Obeying his orders, you let his hardened cock fall against his tensed abdomen, climbing up him once more. Your hips settled either side of him against, clothed pussy lips now hugging the thickness of his cock through your soaked panties.
“Well, would you look at that?” He started, a teasing finger coming down to toy with your damp underwear, a whine leaving your lips at the tentative touches, “Looks like you’re enjoying this after all, hm?”
You failed to reply — words catching in your throat as his finger traced the outline of your aching clit through the thin material, your lips parting at the sheer sensuality of his touch.
“Where’s that teasin’ girl gone, hm? Cat got your tongue, mama?”
“Michael.” Your voice a whiny, needy plea of despair.
“What, baby? Talk to me. Tell me whatcha’ need.” He coaxed, his tone a gentle dominant force that your mouth rambling to answer, to please.
You whined, hips rolling against the hard of his cock, rubbing alongside the pad of his finger that remained flat against your nub, “Plea—please, need it—need to feel you.”
Michael’s hand, steadily holding the camera, angled it perfectly to show your needy pussy humping his cock, as well as the eyebrows knitted in lust on your pretty little face — his cock twitching at the thought of fucking his hand to the recording later.
Michael tapped your hip, demanding you lift your hips to have access to your drooling cunt. He peeled the drenched cotton panties from your puffy pussy lips, tucking them to the side of your vulva. With practiced ease, Michael slid an expert finger between the slickness of your cunt — collecting the sweet essence of your arousal on his digits. With methodical swiftness, a long finger of Michael’s slipped into the clenching hole which needed him most.
“Mmh, such a pretty pussy, doll. Got all wet just for me?”
Michael knew the answer, he just loved to hear you say it. Loved to hear you admit in your drunken state of ecstasy that he was the one to make you slick with arousal. Michael’s fingers moved with excellence you were stunned by each and every time — the relentless abuse against the sweet, spongy spot inside you that had you crying out, tears jerking from your ears at the sheer force of the sensation.
“Ooh, there she go,” He whispered, the ball of his hand coming up to roll against the excluded nub that was screaming for touch, a move that had you sobbing, “That’s the spot, huh, ma? So good it got you cryin’ f’me, hm?”
His name left your swollen, cum-stained lips in a wretched sob, nails digging into the flex of his bicep, gripping on for dear life as you fucked yourself onto his hand.
“Y-Yes! Yes—o-ah! Yes, God, Mike—gonna cum!”
Michael could’ve laughed at the way your face dropped in sheer disbelief as he pulled his hand away from your sopping cunt after your confession of near climax. Your chest heaved, clit throbbing as your eyes welled up, pulling on Michael’s heartstrings.
“Oh, sweet girl.” He laughed, leaning up to press a soft kiss to your pouting lips, “Need you to cum around my cock, babygirl, yeah? Can you do that for me, pretty lady?”
You nodded meekly, bottom lip still jutted out in protest as Michael guided his cock between your shaking legs. Just as his burning hot tip slid into the familiar, wet comforts of your hole — your disappointed pout fell into a gasp of relief.
Michael laughed, his free hand coming to pull on your bottom lip, cock slipping further inside you, “Don’t want this out again, you hear me? No poutin’ girls around here.”
You nodded feverishly — not ever wanting to disobey him, in fear he’d take away the one thing that’s fulfilling the desire that burned fiercely inside you, as he stretched you open, inch by inch. The camera, still rolling, captured all of this — the way each inch of his cock disappeared slowly, your pretty pussy lips wrapped around his shaft, your slick drooling around him.
You whined, feeling impossibly full as he bottomed out, seating you fully down onto his pelvis. His own bottom lip was sucked in between his teeth, admiring the sight of your perfect frame on top of him.
“Oh, I bet you’re so full, huh, baby? Usually don’t let y’ride me first — can feel that pussy throbbing.” He confessed, laughing softly as you whimpered, his free hand slithering up your bared body — making sure to record his hand palming your tits through your lacy bra.
Michael wasted no time pulling the material off your body, reaching behind you to flick the fastener apart one-handed — watching as the bra fell from your chest, your perky tits on full display to him, and the camera, of course. His teasing fingers crawled up you, grabbing a gentle handful of your right breast, humming at the feeling of the soft skin and the sound of your desperate moan. You shuffled around him — wincing at the feeling of his perfectly curved cock nudging your quivering walls, awaiting the approval to start moving.
No matter what you were doing — Michael was always in control.
Michael moved his hand to roll your erect nipple in between his nimble fingers, “Go’head, girl, show me how much you need it.”
You didn’t wait for him to change his mind, not that he would with the way you were clenching eagerly around him, lifting your hips off him, about half-way, before slamming back down. Your head fell back instinctively, a cry of sheer joy slipping from your lips, only encouraging Michael to throb inside you.
“Come on, sweetheart, falling apart after one bounce? Can do better than that.” He teased, smirking at the way you bit your lip shyly, suddenly embarrassed at how much effect he had over you.
Your hips rose again — now bouncing with the help of Michael’s tight grip on your hip, pulling you up and down on him. You whined, cheeks flushed in timidity as he hummed behind the screen.
“Oh, that’s the fuckin’ money shot, girl. My baby’s a natural. Look at that pussy—fuck, yeah, doll, keep goin’.”
Michael’s words of encouragement had you crying out — moaning in pure lust as his cock continued to relentlessly nudge against the best spot inside you, one he never failed to hit each time. Michael’s hand cradled your hips dominantly, grinding you down with each movement, rubbing your clit onto his neatly groomed pubic bone, failing to hide the smirk that crept onto his face at the sound of your needy noises.
“That’s it — let me hear you, darling.”
“Mike.” You whined, hand coming up to grabs handful of your tits and the other holding yourself up on his chest, slick with sweat. Michael’s eyes could’ve popped out of his head at the sight of you — seductively playing with your perky breasts, nipples rolling between your fingers like he once did, head thrown back, mouth agape letting your slutty moans fall upon his perked up ears.
Now, this was the shot.
Michael couldn’t wait another moment. Throwing the camera down on the bed, he lifted you up with both strong hands, pulling you off his slicked cock, and laying you down gently on the bed with ease.
“Mikey.” You whinged, “Please.”
“I know, sweet thing, ‘m coming back, don’t worry that pretty little head.” He reassured, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth.
Michael slid you onto your side with ease, one shaking leg laying over the other, revealing your swollen cunt. He slid a soft hand over your skin, squeezing the plush of your ass, humming at the sight of you beneath him. He picked up the discarded camera once more, pointing it down at you once more.
“Now, this,” He started, “is the perfect position for when my baby’s gettin’ recorded. Y’know why, sweet girl?” He spoke, sliding the flushed head of his cock between your drooling folds, ignoring the way you whined loudly, peering up at him as if to beg him to shut up and just fuck you, “Because I can see this perfect ass, cute lil’ waist, beautiful titties, and most importantly,” He complimented cheekily, free hand sliding over each body part as he listed them, before gripping your chin between his index finger and thumb, “This pretty little face makin’ the cutest faces while I fuck her needy little pussy.”
Michael entered you in one swift motion — the cutest faces he was referring to filling your expression, a loud cry leaving your lips. His name fell from your mouth like a prayer, a chant, as he rocked into you deeply — his cock-end nudging your cervix each time, sending you clawing at the bedsheets. Pleased with himself, Michael smiled behind the camera once more, angling it down perfectly to capture every aspect of you he listed — tits bouncing, ass recoiling against his abdomen, face contorted into pleasure and his cock sliding in and out of your raw cunt, a white, milky ring forming around the base of him.
Michael was in heaven — knowing this video wouldn’t be your last as he watched you through the small screen, hand now clawing at his flexed arm, nails digging into the skin as he filled you.
“Michael, Michael!—fuck, Mike, please, God, fuc—“
“Hmm, that’s right, dollface, tell me all about it. Feelin’ good?”
You whined desperately, clit throbbing against his free hand that had slithered between your sweating bodies to rub tight, practiced circled onto the aching nub, “Gonna fuckin’ cum, Mikey, please, don’t sto—ah!”
“Wasn’t plannin’ on it, sweet girl,” He admitted, leaning down, not caring about the camera angle, as he pressed soft kisses to your face, some landing on your parted lips, now only bothered about your pleasure, “Cum around me, baby, wanna feel it.”
The nearing peak of your orgasm crawled down your body, nestling in your abdomen, body slowly igniting in fierce heat. The sheer explicitness of the intimate moment had adrenaline and lust pumping through your veins. Your trembling hand reached across the bed, taking a hold of the camera once more, holding it out for him.
“Want it to see you fill me up wit—ah!—with your cum, Mikey, please.”
“Oh, fuck.”
Your provocative declaration had him frantic — doubling over, one hand on the bed, the other steadying the camera, fucking you twice as fast. Your cries only getting louder as he pounded the sweet spot inside you over and over again, his name being screamed so loud you were certain the whole house could hear.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah—there! ‘M there!”
You orgasmed with a cry so loud it had Michael cursing under his breath at the eroticism — revelling in the way your cunt squeezed him, sucking him in further as you came around him, nails dragging down his tensed back.
Michael wasn’t far behind you, fighting every urge in him to throw the camera away and fuck his seed so far into you that you’d be swollen with him for days, but holding it firmly in his grasp, recording just how sweetly your cunt milked him for everything he had to offer, your slickness pooling beneath you. He, though, forced himself as deep into you as he could go — making sure the camera picked up on his your cunt accommodated the sheer size of him, his milky white cum now frothing around the base of his softening cock.
He slowly pulled himself out of you with a wince, “Hold still for me, babygirl.” He ordered, forcing your legs to stay open as he leant down between your thighs, groaning at the way his cum drooled out of your swollen cunt, sliding down your shaking thighs.
Feeling a sense of post-orgasm confidence, you slid two tentative fingers between your legs, dipping into your sopping cunt, collecting both your juices onto your digits. Michael could sense where this was going, softened cock twitching, threatening to harden as you slipped your slick fingers into your mouth — sucking the mix of your salty and tangy essences clean from your burning skin.
“Holy shit, baby,” Michael breathed, feeling as though he was capturing pure talent through the screen as you released your fingers with a pop, similar to how you did with his cock prior, eyeing the camera with a knowing smirk,
