slim

[copineinterrupted]

𑣲　𓏼　𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘦𝘱𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘸𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘦    ⌣  .

𖧧 slim baby . ──〃 twenty. brown. future director. pescatarian. she/her. 𓀎. multifandom blog. i write with woc in mind. minors / ageless accounts dni. first time writer, sox 4 quality. jazz enthusiast — “ why jazz puts women in the mood for love. ”

masterlist. (coming soon !) ⧽ requests: open !

slim ┆@copineinterrupted © do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.

[angelofmikes]

mike’s dad bod 😮‍💨

[mikaylajacksonnn]

i love you black men.

#especially you michael 👀

[tegansoawkward]

in a world full of freaky bitches

i am no better

[prettyoungcee]

“who even thinks michael growling and chewing his gum is hot”

ooh i do!! it’s me!!!!

[kissmyglxck]

🪽— when I'm genuinely tearing up my mature era!michael x brattywife!reader meal but then they bring me brat tamer mature era! michael x model!reader so I start fucking that up too, but then they genuinely bring out pervybsf!michael otw era x shy reader so i start fucking ALL that shit up, but then they bring out handling your attitude after acting out Michael x reader as an entree so I genuinely just stuff my face, but THEN they lowkenuinely bring me any era of michael being an eater so i highkenuinely just pass out from eating too much on some chill shit.😂

[copineinterrupted]

੭ you look good on camera, baby — michael jackson x woc!reader 

context: everyone thinks your marriage to michael is just for show. you happily prove them wrong while dragging him from boutique to boutique in beverly hills. suggestive content ahead!

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . the california sun is a hot, greedy thing, bleaching the concrete of rodeo drive and bouncing off the impossibly large sunglasses perched on your nose. your gold bra is a constellation of rhinestones against your deep brown skin, catching the light with every exaggerated gesture. "cut!" you yell, not at the director, but at your husband, who is trying to surreptitiously fix the cuff of his crisp white shirt. "no, no, no, mikey, you're ruining my shot."

michael, looking like a dark-haired prince who’s wandered into a hip-hop video by mistake, sighs. it's a long-suffering sound you’ve come to know intimately. "honey, they're not shooting you right now. they're shooting the storefront."

"and i'm in the shot!" you counter, flipping your long, silky hair over your shoulder. you're aware of the cameras, of course. they're like another limb at this point. you've been followed by them for three seasons, your every tantrum, shopping spree, and hungover breakfast captured for the world to see. your marriage to michael jackson, the reclusive king of pop, has been the show's central mystery since your wedding a year ago. everyone thinks it's a publicity stunt. a cash grab. you're about to give them something to talk about.

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . “we’re starting at dior, people. let’s make it snappy.” you clap your hands, a little staccato rhythm that makes your assistant jump. michael offers the beleaguered-looking boom mic operator an apologetic smile. you grab his hand, your french-manicured nails digging into his pristine skin. “come on, daddy, buy me something pretty.”

his eyes darken at the pet name, a private flicker of acknowledgment that the cameras can't quite decipher. he lets you pull him into the cool, hushed sanctuary of dior. it smells of old money and new leather. you immediately zero in on a rack of jewel-toned evening gowns. while the camera crew sets up to get you "discovering" the perfect dress for the non-existent gala you're attending, you corner michael near a display of obscenely expensive handbags.

“what do you think?” you murmur, holding up a slinky emerald green number. “too much for a tuesday?”

“it’s beautiful, baby,” he says, his gaze dropping from the dress to the swell of your breasts pushing against the gold bra. he licks his lips, a quick, involuntary gesture. “but you’d look beautiful in anything.”

you preen, but the compliment isn't enough. you drop the dress back on the rack with a sigh. “it’s missing something. it’s missing… you.” you loop your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes to press your body against his. the tracksuit falls open completely, your bare skin against the fine wool of his suit. you can feel the heat of him, the solid muscle beneath the formal exterior. you know he's uncomfortable, that this isn't him. he's a private creature, and you've dragged him into your very public circus. but you also know he loves it, loves the chaos you bring to his quiet, structured world.

“honey,” he murmurs, his hands coming to rest on your waist, trying to gently push you away. “the cameras…”

“let them watch,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear. “let them see how much you love me.”

he shudders, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the arctic-level air conditioning. you've found your opening. you grab his hand and pull him toward the menswear section. "you need a new look, mikey. something a little more… me."

he looks at you with a mixture of dread and amusement. "what's wrong with my look?"

"it's too… boomer," you say, as if it's a disease. "we need to get you a little… 'girl gone wild'."

you spend the next twenty minutes dressing him up like your own personal ken doll. you force him into a pair of distressed leather pants that are so tight he can barely bend over. you make him try on a series of sheer, billowy shirts that do nothing to hide the lean, muscular body beneath. the camera crew is in heaven, capturing every awkward moment, every pained expression on michael's face, every triumphant grin on yours.

"this is it," you declare, holding up a black velvet blazer with silver embroidery. "this is the one."

he looks at the jacket as if it's a snake about to strike. "baby, i can't wear that. it's… it's not me."

"it's you now," you say, shoving it into his arms. "buy it. and the pants. and the shirt."

he does, of course, without another word of protest. he pays with a black credit card that doesn't have a name on it, just a series of numbers that signify a level of wealth most people can't even comprehend. you're already out the door, your tracksuit zipped up just enough to be decent, your mind already on the next store.

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . "next up, gucci!" you announce, pointing a finger at the storefront as if you're christening a ship. michael follows, a silent, long-suffering figure carrying two massive dior bags. the transformation is already beginning. the dior bags are a symbol, a tangible representation of your influence, of your ability to bend him to your will.

inside gucci, the vibe is different. it's louder, more chaotic, a riot of color and pattern. you feel more at home here. you immediately make a beeline for the accessories, your eyes landing on a pair of ridiculously oversized sunglasses with the gucci logo emblazoned on the side in gold. "i have to have them," you say, sliding them on. "what do you think, mikey?"

he looks at you, at the dark lenses hiding your eyes, at the confident tilt of your chin. "they look… very 'you'," he says, a small smile playing on his lips.

"damn right," you say, striking a pose for the cameras. then you turn your attention back to him. "now it's your turn."

you lead him to the men's section, a kaleidoscope of bold prints and even bolder colors. you pull out a pair of silk trousers with a vibrant floral print. "try these on," you command.

"baby, i can't wear flowers," he protests, but you're already pushing him towards the dressing room.

"yes, you can," you say, your voice firm. "and you will."

he comes out a few minutes later, looking deeply uncomfortable. the trousers are a little too long, pooling around his ankles, and the print is overwhelming, even for you. but you're not looking at the trousers. you're looking at the way the silk clings to his thighs, at the way it outlines every muscle, every line of his body.

"well?" he asks, his arms crossed over his chest. "what's the verdict?"

"the verdict is," you say, closing the distance between you, "that you need to take them off."

you don't give him a chance to respond. you lead him back into the dressing room, ignoring the protests of the sales associate and the excited murmurs of the camera crew. you lock the door behind you, the click echoing in the small, confined space.

"what are you doing?" he asks, his eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and excitement.

"showing you how much i love you," you say, your hands on the waistband of the silk trousers. you slowly sink to your knees, your gaze locked with his. "and how much you love me."

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . you can't do it here. not like this. it needs to be bigger, better, a spectacle worthy of your love. so instead of unbuckling his belt, you smooth your hands down the silk of those ridiculous trousers and rise, a slow, deliberate movement that has him holding his breath.

"not here, daddy. not yet," you whisper, your lips a hairsbreadth from his. "this room isn't big enough for what i'm about to do to you."

you turn, unlock the door, and stride out, leaving him to shuffle back into his own leather pants, a dazed and confused look on his face. you grab the floral trousers and the matching jacket, a chaotic explosion of color. "we'll take these," you announce to the stunned sales associate, handing the pile to michael without a second glance. "and the sunglasses."

michael pays, his movements a little less fluid than before. you can feel his eyes on you as you lead the charge out of the store, the camera crew scrambling to keep up. "chanel next!" you call over your shoulder, a general to her troops.

chanel is another world. quiet, elegant, smelling of camellias and old hollywood glamour. it's a world michael understands, a world that fits him like a second skin. you can see the tension ease from his shoulders as he steps through the door. he's in his element here, surrounded by timeless classics and understated luxury. and that, of course, will not do.

you ignore the racks of tasteful, expensive little black dresses and head straight for the fine jewelry. you're drawn to a display of brooches, delicate, intricate things that cost more than a small car. you pick one up, a beautiful diamond-encrusted cc monogram.

"this," you say, holding it up to the light. "this is what you're getting me."

michael, who has been watching you with a look of fond exasperation, steps closer. "it's beautiful, honey," he says, his voice soft. "but you don't wear brooches."

"i'll wear this one," you say, turning to face him. you step in close, your hand on his chest. you take the pin and, instead of placing it on the lapel of your tracksuit, you reach up and carefully fasten it to the crisp white collar of his shirt. it's a startlingly intimate gesture, a reversal of roles that makes the cameras zoom in, capturing the flicker of surprise in his dark eyes.

"there," you murmur, your fingers lingering on the skin of his neck. "now everyone will know who you belong to."

he looks down at the brooch, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. it's a real smile, not the polite, public one he usually reserves for the cameras. this one is just for you. "i think they already know," he says, his voice low and husky.

"good," you say, but the thrill is gone. you've marked him, but he's still too comfortable, too at ease in this cathedral of good taste. you need to shake him up again. "now, shoes. i need new shoes." you lead him to the shoe section, a wonderland of tweed and leather and delicate patent heels. you pick out a pair of classic black pumps with the iconic double c logo.

"i'll take these," you say, sitting down in one of the plush velvet chairs. you extend your foot, a silent command.

michael, without a word, kneels before you. he takes your foot in his hands, his touch gentle, reverent. he slides the pump on, his fingers brushing against your ankle. it's a scene straight out of a fairytale, the prince and the princess, if the prince was the king of pop and the princess was a reality tv star with a penchant for chaos. the camera crew is eating it up, the director mouthing "gold" to his assistant.

but as michael looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of love and surrender, you realize you're the one who's been captured. you're the one who's been tamed. and you don't like it. not one bit.

you pull your foot away, a sharp, sudden movement. "they don't fit," you say, your voice cold. "they're too tight."

he looks at you, bewildered. "but they're your size, baby."

"they're my size, but they're not my style," you say, standing up and walking away. "i'm bored. let's go."

you storm out of the store, leaving michael to deal with the sales associate and the abandoned shoes. you can feel the frustration radiating from him, the tension in his shoulders as he follows you out onto the street. you're pushing him, testing him, seeing how far you can go before he breaks. you're not sure what you'll do when he does, but you're eager to find out.

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . "versace!" you declare, pointing to the storefront like it's the promised land. "this is more like it."

versace is everything chanel isn't. loud, glamorous, unapologetically sexy. it's a riot of gold and black and neons, a temple to excess and hedonism. you feel your spirits lift as you step inside, the thumping bass of the store's soundtrack a welcome change from the hushed silence of chanel.

"now this is what i'm talking about," you say, running your hand over a rack of skin-tight leather dresses. you pick one out, a bright fuchsia number that's so short it's barely a dress at all. "i'm trying this on."

you head to the dressing rooms, a series of gilded stalls with heavy velvet curtains. you don't bother closing the curtain all the way, leaving a gap that's just wide enough for a camera lens. you strip off your tracksuit, letting it pool at your feet, standing in just your rhinestone bra and a tiny thong. you can hear the sharp intake of breath from the cameraman, the rustle of fabric as someone shifts position.

you pull on the fuchsia leather dress, the material cool and smooth against your skin. it's so tight it's a struggle to get it on, but once it's on, it's perfect. it clings to every curve, every dip and swell of your body, ending just below the curve of your ass. you look in the mirror, and for a moment, you don't recognize yourself. you see a stranger, a woman who's confident, powerful, and undeniably sexy. a woman who's in control.

"what do you think, mikey?" you call out, your voice a low purr.

he pushes the curtain aside, his eyes widening as he sees you. he doesn't say anything for a long moment, just stares, his gaze a physical weight on your skin. you can see the desire in his eyes, the raw, unadulterated want. it's a heady feeling, knowing you have this effect on him, knowing you can make michael forget his own name with just a look.

"it's… a lot," he finally says, his voice a little hoarse.

"it's not enough," you counter, turning to face him. you walk towards him, the click of your heels on the marble floor a rhythmic counterpoint to your beating heart. "i need more."

you loop your arms around his neck, your bodies pressed together. you can feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his chest against the soft leather of the dress. you can feel the stirrings of his desire, the growing hardness against your thigh.

"you look beautiful, baby," he whispers, his hands coming to rest on your hips. "you always do."

"but you want to see me out of it, don't you?" you murmur, your lips brushing against his ear. "you want to peel this leather off me, inch by inch."

he shudders, a full-body tremor that has you smiling against his skin. you've got him. you've got him right where you want him.

"we have to go," he says, his voice tight with strain. "the cameras…"

"let them watch," you whisper, echoing your words from dior, but this time, the meaning is different. this isn't about proving your love to the world. this is about a raw, primal need that's been simmering between you all day, a need that's about to boil over.

you pull away, a slow, deliberate movement. you turn your back to him, presenting him with the zipper of the dress. "unzip me," you command.

he hesitates for a fraction of a second, then slowly, carefully, lowers the zipper. the leather falls away, pooling at your feet. you step out of it, standing in front of him in just your bra and thong. you can hear the cameras whirring, can feel the eyes of the crew on you, but it's all just background noise. all you can see, all you can feel, is him.

"get out," you say, your voice sharp and clear, directed at the crew. "get out now."

there's a flurry of activity, a muffled scramble for the door. you don't turn to watch them leave. you keep your eyes on michael, watching as he slowly, deliberately closes the velvet curtain, sealing you both in your own private world.

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . michael emerges from the dressing room first, a faint flush on his high cheekbones and a look in his dark eyes that's a potent cocktail of satisfaction and complete, utter bewilderment. he's holding the fuchsia leather dress with a delicacy usually reserved for antique lace, as if he's afraid it might bite him. you follow a moment later, a triumphant, cat-who-got-the-canary grin on your face, your brown tracksuit zipped up as demurely as if it were a habit. the cameras, which have been waiting outside like hungry wolves, immediately swarm you, the director yelling for a close-up on your face.

"so," the interviewer, a perky blonde with a clipboard, asks, her voice a little too bright. "did you find anything you liked?"

"oh, i found something i loved," you say, your gaze sliding over to michael. he doesn't look at you, just stares straight ahead, a muscle working in his jaw. "but i think mikey's going to have to break it in for me before i can wear it in public."

michael clears his throat, a discreet, almost inaudible sound. he pays for the dress, the credit card slipping from the slot with a quiet beep that sounds like a starting pistol. 

back in the cavernous cool of the limousine, you immediately claim your territory. you kick off your heels and swing your legs up, plopping your feet squarely in michael's lap. he flinches, then settles, one hand coming to rest automatically on your ankle, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. the camera crew, crammed on the opposite jump seat, is trying to act casual, but you can feel the hum of their anticipation. they know something happened. they just don't know what, and it's killing them.

"so, that's versace done," the interviewer chirps, leaning forward. "is that it for the day? are you all shopped out?"

you look at michael, a slow, deliberate sweep from his still-flushed face down to the hand on your ankle. you begin to move your foot, a languid, stroking motion up and down his thigh. the fine wool of his trousers is warm under your sole. you can feel the tense muscle beneath, the coiled energy. "shopped out?" you repeat, your voice a low, throaty murmur. "honey, the day has barely begun."

you trail your foot higher, tracing the seam of his pants, your toes brushing against the rapidly hardening length of him. he sucks in a sharp, silent breath, his fingers tightening on your ankle like a vise. you can see the reflection of the crew in the dark tinted of the window, their faces rapt, their lenses pointed at you like hungry mouths.

"what's next?" the interviewer presses, oblivious. "more jewelry? shoes?"

you laugh, a low, wicked sound. you slide your foot away, leaving michael breathless. you sit up, leaning across the space between you, your breasts nearly spilling out of the rhinestone bra as you brace a hand on his chest. you can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your palm.

"we're not done," you whisper, your lips so close to his they're almost touching. "not even close."

you look directly into the main camera, a slow, deliberate challenge. "we're going to one more place. a little boutique i know. very exclusive. very private."

you lean back, a satisfied smirk on your face as michael shifts uncomfortably, adjusting himself with a subtle movement that you, and only you, notice. "floor it, jerry," you say, rapping on the partition. "last stop."

the limousine glides to a smooth halt in front of a storefront that is the antithesis of rodeo drive. it's small, discreet, with no name on the door, just a single, ornate gold lock. you don't wait for the driver. you push the door open and step out, michael and the bewildered crew trailing behind you. the inside is dim, lit by a single chandelier that throws fractured rainbows across the walls. it's not a clothing store. it's a lingerie store, but not like any you've ever seen. the pieces on display are less underwear and more works of art, concoctions of silk and lace and chains that look like they were designed by a fallen angel.

"welcome back, miss," a woman with a severe black bob and a measuring tape draped around her neck says, emerging from behind a velvet curtain. she doesn't even glance at the cameras. "we have the piece you requested."

she gestures to a mannequin in the center of the room. displayed on it is a web of black straps and tiny, strategically placed swarovski crystals that barely passes for clothing. it's obscene, it's ridiculous, and you've never wanted anything more in your life.

"it's perfect," you breathe.

michael, standing beside you, looks like he's about to pass out. he's gone from mortified husband to willing participant to a man on the verge of a complete public meltdown in the span of an hour. you can see the sweat beading on his upper lip, the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"you like it, mikey?" you ask, turning to him, your hands on your hips. "think it'll look good on me?"

he opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. "it's… very… creative," he finally manages, his voice strangled.

"i'll take it," you say, ignoring him. "and that one too," you add, pointing to a white lace corset that looks like it was carved from a cloud.

while the saleswoman carefully packages your new purchases, you circle michael like a shark. you run your finger along the embroidered collar of the dior shirt he's wearing, tracing the line of his shoulder. you lean in, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

"i'm going to try this one on," you whisper, your breath hot against his skin. "and i think i'm going to need some help."

you disappear behind the velvet curtain, leaving him standing there, a statue carved from pure, unadulterated panic. you don't bother to call for him. you wait. you know he'll come. you can hear the muffled whispers of the camera crew, the shuffling of feet outside the curtain. then, you hear the soft swish of the velvet as he pushes it aside.

he steps into the small, private space, and the air immediately crackles with an unspoken tension. the room is lit by a single, warm bulb, casting everything in a soft, intimate glow. you're standing with your back to him, your tracksuit a puddle on the floor at your feet. you're wearing only the rhinestone bra and your thong, your skin glowing in the dim light.

"help me with this," you say, your voice husky, holding up the intricate web of straps and crystals.

he moves forward, his movements stiff, robotic. he takes the garment from you, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you. he's so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell the faint, clean scent of him mixed with the lingering aroma of expensive stores and your shared arousal.

"it's complicated," he says, his voice rough. "i don't know how to…"

"you'll figure it out, daddy," you murmur, turning to face him. you reach up, your hands on his chest, and push him gently against the wall. "you're a smart man."

you stand there, your bodies inches apart, your gaze locked. the air is thick with expectation, with the weight of everything unsaid. you can see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his desire for you and his desperation for privacy. you know you're pushing him to his limit, testing the boundaries of his love, of his patience. you also know you're about to win.

"i can't," he whispers, his hands coming to rest on your waist, his grip tight. "not here. not with them right outside."

"yes, you can," you whisper back, your lips a hairsbreadth from his. "and you will."

you close the remaining distance between you, your lips crashing against his in a hungry, desperate kiss. it's not a gentle, loving kiss. it's a battle, a war of wills, a raw, primal declaration of ownership. he responds in kind, his hands tangling in your hair, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you. it's a kiss that says, "you win," a kiss that promises a delicious, devastating surrender.

you break away, your breathing ragged, your body humming with a restless energy. you take the lingerie from his trembling hands. "never mind," you say, your voice a low, husky purr. "i've got it."

you pull on the web of straps and crystals with a practiced ease that surprises even you. it's a perfect fit, the delicate chains accentuating your curves, the tiny crystals sparkling against your skin like a constellation of stars. you turn to face him, a slow, deliberate movement, your chin held high.

"well?" you ask, your voice a challenge. "what do you think?"

he looks at you, his dark eyes burning with a hunger so intense it almost frightens you. he doesn't say anything. he just looks, his gaze a physical caress, a silent promise of the things to come.

"good," you say, a triumphant smile on your face. "i'm glad you approve."

you turn and, with a flick of your wrist, pull the velvet curtain aside. you step out into the main room, a vision in black leather and crystals. the camera crew freezes, their cameras whirring as they capture the spectacle. the saleswoman, a professional to the core, simply raises an eyebrow and begins to package the white lace corset.

michael follows you out, his face a mask of carefully controlled composure. but you can see the cracks in the facade, the fire in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. you've pushed him too far, and you're about to reap the rewards.

"we'll take it," you say, your voice bright and cheerful, as if you're just discussing the weather. "and the corset. and," you add, your gaze sweeping over the room, "that little black number in the corner."

michael pays, his movements stiff, his jaw tight. he doesn't look at you, just stares at the saleswoman as he signs the receipt, his name a scrawl on the dotted line. you can feel the crew's eyes on you, their excitement a palpable thing. they know. they all know.

with the speed of a seasoned performer, you dart back behind the velvet curtain, a flurry of limbs and sequins. the rhinestone bra and thong are swapped for the comforting familiarity of the brown tracksuit, now feeling like a costume for a character you're about to shed. you emerge a minute later, your hair curled, your lips glossed, a satisfied smirk playing on your face. michael is waiting by the door, a mountain of shopping bags at his feet. he looks at you, and for a split second, you see something new in his eyes. it's not just desire or frustration. it's pride.

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . you lead the procession out of the store, the camera crew in your wake, a bizarre, little parade of hollywood excess. the california sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. it's beautiful, but you don't notice. all you can see is the black, gleaming limousine pulling up to the curb, a chariot waiting to take you to your next, and final, destination.

the crew is ready to swarm, their cameras poised to capture the final scene of the day. the interviewer, her clipboard clutched like a shield, steps forward, her face a mask of professional enthusiasm.

"so, that's a wrap on beverly hills!" she chirps, her voice a little too loud in the sudden quiet of the street. "any final thoughts on your shopping extravaganza?"

you ignore her. you turn to michael, your hand resting on his chest. you look up at him, your expression softening, the hard edges of your public persona melting away to reveal the woman beneath. you can feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, a slow, reassuring rhythm that grounds you.

"not so fast," you say, your voice quiet but firm, cutting through the interviewer's cheerful babble. you turn to the crew, your gaze sweeping over them, a dismissal. "you guys can take the other car. we'll send one for you."

the interviewer blinks, her smile faltering. "the other car? but, we were hoping to get a few more shots of you and michael in the limo, talking about your day…"

"my husband and i would like some alone time," you say, your voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. you lean in, your lips brushing against michael's ear. "wouldn't we, daddy?"

he doesn't answer, but you can feel the shudder that runs through him, the way his body tenses with anticipation. you smile, a slow, triumphant curve of your lips. you turn back to the crew, your eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and desire.

"we're done for the day," you say, your voice a final, irrevocable pronouncement.

you don't wait for a response. you open the limousine door and slide inside, pulling michael in behind you. you give the crew one last, triumphant look, a queen retreating to her chambers, and then you slam the door shut, the thud echoing in the sudden silence of the street.

the tinted windows seal you in your own private world, the sounds of the outside world muffled, the prying eyes of the cameras finally gone. you turn to michael, a slow, deliberate movement, your eyes locking with his. the air in the limousine is thick with unspoken words, with the promise of a release that's been building all day.

"now," you whisper, your voice a husky, triumphant purr. "where were we?"

ꕀ ﹑ slim’s letter⠀⑅ ⠀ ֺ i want to make this a series. thoughts?

slim ┆@copineinterrupted © do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.

[king-mila]

♡ — villains

pairings: bad era!michael x actress!reader

summary: you’ve always had a niche for villains, and you love playing villains, and you loved maleficent in sleeping beauty. so when disney announces they’re doing a live action of sleeping beauty, you know exactly which role you want to audition for themes: fluff, no use of y/n authors note: from this request. i hope i did it justice.

1989 neverland ranch

you had always loved villains.

as an actress, your favorite roles had always been the ones that let you disappear into someone darker than yourself. there was something endlessly fascinating about playing a woman with complicated motives, someone who kept audiences guessing until the very end. but every now and then, there was something equally thrilling about a villain who didn't need a tragic backstory or a grand justification. sometimes evil simply existed because it wanted to, and there was something deliciously theatrical about embracing that without apology.

so when your agent, amelia, told you they were casting for a live action adaptation of sleeping beauty, you knew exactly who you wanted to audition for.

maleficent.

an evil queen whose revenge stemmed from something as petty as not receiving an invitation to a christening. she cursed an innocent princess over wounded pride, wielded magic with effortless elegance, and commanded every room she entered without ever raising her voice.

it was perfect.

your fiancé michael loved disney movies just as much as you did, and he had been genuinely excited when you told him you were auditioning for sleeping beauty. even so, he never missed the opportunity to tease you about the fact that you somehow managed to root for the villains more often than the heroes.

he'd grin every time you passionately defended one of them, looking at you like you were impossible to figure out. thankfully, there was one disney opinion the two of you never argued over; captain hook.

even you had to admit he was just... the worst.

you were home at neverland ranch when amelia finally called.

michael was wrapping up the final stretch of the bad world tour with two closing shows in los angeles, and you were already in the middle of getting ready for tonight's concert. your outfit had ended up being almost entirely black, an oversized leather jacket thrown over a fitted black romper with sheer tights and knee-high leather boots, the kind of look that felt effortlessly bold without trying too hard. you had decided to leave your hair down, letting it fall freely over your shoulders, knowing michael would inevitably smile the second he saw you. it matched his style in a way that felt intentional without being obvious, something only the two of you would really appreciate.

your phone rang from the vanity, and the second you saw amelia's caller id on the receiver, you smiled before answering. "hey lia, what's up?" you ask with a smile.

"i know you're getting ready for michael's show so i won't hold you for long. just wanted to tell you, congratulations ms. maleficent, you got the role," she says. an excited squeal escapes you before you can stop it, your free hand immediately flying to your mouth as your heart leaps into your throat.

"i got it?" you ask and amelia laughs.

"you got it. production starts in a few months, congratulations again," she says and you smile. the smile that spreads across your face is so wide your cheeks begin to ache, and you find yourself pacing across the room because standing still suddenly feels impossible.

"i can't wait to tell michael!" you exclaim. you and amelia say your goodbyes, and after hanging up, you stand there for another moment, phone still clutched in your hand as the news settles over you. 

all the auditions, callbacks, rehearsing lines in front of the mirror, and obsessing over every little detail had been worth it. even michael had spent countless hours helping you practice whenever he had a break between rehearsals and shows, reading opposite you until he had your scenes practically memorized himself. every bit of hard work, yours and his encouragement alongside it, had led to this moment.

you were going to be maleficent.

with renewed excitement buzzing beneath your skin, you finished getting ready for the concert before making your way down to dodger stadium, unable to stop smiling because you already knew the person you wanted to tell first.

when you get to dodger stadium, michael's crew is already familiar with you. after three years together, they had seen you countless times between tour rehearsals and being on set during the short films michael was always dreaming up. by now, you weren't just michael's fiancée, you were part of the routine. they greeted you with warm smiles, waved you through without hesitation, and handed you a backstage badge to slip around your neck before sending you toward the dressing rooms.

bill spots you almost immediately, a grin spreading across his face as he walks over. "hey sweetheart," bill greets you and you smile.

"hey bill, did he eat?" you ask and bill chuckles before nodding.

"i made sure," he says and you smile. knowing michael, if someone hadn't reminded him, he probably would've been too busy rehearsing to think about it.

bill leads you through the familiar maze of hallways until he stops outside michael's dressing room. he gives the door a couple of easy knocks, waiting only a second before michael's voice drifts through the other side. 

"come in." bill opens the door for you, and you smile before stepping inside.

the moment michael looks up and realizes it's you standing there, his entire face lights up. his eyes immediately travel over your outfit, lingering for just a second as an unmistakable smile spreads across his face.

"baby!" he exclaims, crossing the room so quickly you barely have time to brace yourself before he's wrapping his arms around you. he lifts you effortlessly off the ground, spinning you around as your laughter fills the dressing room and your arms instinctively wrap around his shoulders. "i missed you," he says.

"you just saw me last night," you tease with another giggle.

"i know but i had to leave so early this morning, i wasn't even there when you woke up," he says with a pout. your heart melts at the sight. after three years together, michael had never stopped missing you the moment you were apart, even if it was only overnight.

"it's okay, baby... guess what? i have some exciting news," you say and michael's eyes light up.

"are you pregnant?" he asks, suddenly as giddy as a child and you can't help laughing.

the excitement on his face is so sincere that it makes your heart ache a little. his eyes sparkle with the kind of hope he has never tried to hide from you, because from the beginning michael has talked about the family he dreams of building together. you want that future just as much as he does, but not yet. there are still dreams the two of you are chasing before little footsteps fill the halls of neverland.

"no, you silly man," you say and his playful pout is so exaggerated that you know he's putting it on just to make you feel guilty, and you roll your eyes affectionately before cupping his face between your hands. the moment you kiss his pouting lips, the performance crumbles and his pout is replaced by the smile he always seemed incapable of hiding whenever you kissed him.

"amelia called this morning... i got the role in the live action sleeping beauty. i am maleficent," you say with a smile. michael is still holding you against him, your legs wrapped comfortably around his waist, and he immediately pulls you even closer until you're practically tucked against his chest.

"baby! that's amazing! oh im so proud, mama," he says, his excitement bubbling over so naturally that you can't help laughing. there wasn't a hint of jealousy or competition in his voice, only pure pride, the same unwavering support he'd shown while helping you rehearse your audition scenes between his own rehearsals and concerts.

you feel your cheeks warming beneath his praise. unable to resist, you straighten slightly in his arms, letting your expression harden as you slipped into character without warning.

"she shall prick her finger on the spindle of a spinning wheel... and die!" you exclaimed dramatically, but fully in character. the playful warmth disappears from your face so completely that michael actually stills. it's always amazed him how easily you could switch on and off.

for just a heartbeat you're no longer his fiancée he's holding in his dressing room. you're the woman who cursed a kingdom without an ounce of remorse. by the time you finish the line, he's staring at you with wide eyes, almost forgetting to blink before a disbelieving laugh finally escapes him.

"you're definitely going to terrify everyone," he says and you immediately soften as you start laughing. the cold, commanding queen vanished as quickly as she'd appeared, leaving only you smiling back at him.

"good," you say.

michael laughs before leaning in again. the kiss is gentle, lingering just long enough for the excitement buzzing inside you to settle into something warm. when he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours for a moment, both of you smiling like children who'd just been handed the greatest surprise. between the role you had dreamed of playing and the man celebrating it like it was his own accomplishment, you couldn't remember the last time your heart had felt this full.

you couldn't wait to start filming.

a year later, you stood beneath the flashing lights of the red carpet at the premiere of the live action sleeping beauty. the black gown custom designed for you flowed elegantly with every step you took, dramatic without overwhelming you, and resting atop your head was a delicate crown inspired by maleficent's iconic headpiece. it was subtle enough to feel regal rather than costume, but anyone who had seen the film immediately understood the tribute.

michael never let your hand leave his as the two of you made your way down the carpet together.

camera flashes erupted from every direction while photographers called both of your names, asking for one more picture, one more smile. michael leaned down every few moments to whisper something into your ear that was just ridiculous enough to make you laugh, earning exactly the candid reactions the photographers were hoping for. every so often, he'd glance at you with that unmistakable softness in his eyes before pressing a quick kiss against your cheek, completely unfazed by the thousands of people watching.

it wasn't an act for the cameras, this was simply how he loved you.

before long, the two of you were gently ushered toward the line of reporters waiting for interviews. after answering a few questions about your preparation for the role, the physical demands of portraying maleficent, and your lifelong fascination with disney villains, one interviewer smiled before asking what was your favorite moment on set.

"oh, definitely when michael came with some of his nephews and his nieces. when they saw me in full costume, bless their hearts, they were in awe of me but also terrified of me. when i was done for the day and my look was deconstructed, his niece said... auntie, you're never gonna be mean to us like that, are you?" you ask with a small laugh.

the memory still made you smile.

beside you, michael chuckled to himself, already knowing exactly where the story was going as he shook his head. "they kept clinging to me whenever she was filming scenes because they had never seen her like that before," michael says.

you laughed again, remembering how every time you walked onto set in full costume, the children would instinctively drift toward michael, peeking around his legs just enough to keep an eye on you. they wanted to watch, fascinated by the towering horns, dark robes, and piercing stare, but they weren't entirely convinced you weren't actually the evil fairy.

"but i assured them that auntie was just pretending and they know who i really am and they know i'd never treat them the way maleficent treats aurora," you say and the interviewer nods.

"why do you love playing villains so much?" she asks.

you paused for just a moment, considering the question even though you'd been asked some version of it countless times throughout filming.

"i guess because i like stepping into another character's shoes and figuring out how their mind works. what are the circumstances that got them here? what are they thinking about while constructing these plans? what are they thinking during the moment? it's all so complex and fun to explore," you say with a smile.

the interviewer nodded thoughtfully before turning toward michael.

"and mr. jackson, we know you also love disney movies but have more biased to the heroes, what's it like to see your fiancee taking on villainous roles?" the interviewer asks.

michael looked over at you first, smiling in that quiet, affectionate way that always made your heart flutter before turning back toward the microphone.

"it's incredible. i know i tease her about it all the time, but she really does incredible work. she brings a sort of humanity to these villains where even if you don't fully understand their motives, or even if you don't agree, you want to try to understand, im very excited for everyone to see this, to see her," michael praises.

your eyes drifted toward him as he spoke, your smile growing softer with every word. after all these years together, hearing him talk about your work with so much admiration never became something you expected. he celebrated your accomplishments as though they were his own, and somehow managed to make you feel just as proud of yourself as he already was.

the interview wrapped up soon after, and with one last wave to the cameras, you and michael made your way inside for the premiere.

sitting beside him in the theater, you found yourself stealing nervous glances at the audience throughout the film. every laugh landed exactly where it was supposed to, every gasp rippled through the room at just the right moments, and by the time the credits began to roll, the theater erupted into applause that seemed to go on forever.

only once you were finally back in the car, leaving the lights of the premiere behind as the drive to neverland stretched out before you, did you finally let yourself breathe.

the adrenaline slowly melted away, replaced by a quiet exhaustion that settled comfortably over you.

without saying a word, michael reached for you, guiding you against his side until your head rested over his chest, his arm wrapping securely around your shoulders as his fingers lazily stroked your arm.

"just like i told that interviewer. you're incredible," he says.

you smiled to yourself, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear as the words settled warmly in your chest. of every compliment you'd received that evening from critics, directors, and reporters, somehow his was the only one that made your eyes sting.

"i love you, michael, thank you for always believing in me and supporting me," you say.

michael's hand gently found your chin, encouraging you to look up at him. the pride in his eyes hadn't faded since the moment you'd told him you got the role a year earlier, and it was still there now as he leaned down, brushing his lips against yours in a slow, lingering kiss that said everything words couldn't.

when he pulled away, he rested his forehead lightly against yours, smiling so softly it made your own smile impossible to hide.

"i love you more, mama."

taglist: @daddysporsche @hawtstreet @neverstreett @humannaturess @ghosteras @0ffth3walll @raefoxiegirl @a-motherfcking-fish @lauren7050 @lestatress@prettygurljo @daddytillerrr @thesecretvaultt @doveduh @mvkas @ooooglymoooogly @immultifandom16 @iwasntreddieforthis

[copineinterrupted]

੭ baby, can you call me back? i miss you — michael jackson x woc!reader

context: after a heated argument with michael, he disappears without a word for three weeks. when you hear he’s been hiding away in a beverly hills hotel, you decide you’re done waiting and go to find him yourself. 18+ MDNI

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . the hotel room smells like expensive linen and fresh wine when you get there, your stilettos clicking softly across the marble floor. you’ve been sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed for what feels like hours, dressed in the black lace lingerie set he bought you in paris last year—the one with the sheer panels that barely contain your full breasts, the thong that disappears between the round globes of your ass. your fury is a cold, hard thing in your chest, burning behind your eyes. three weeks. three weeks without a single word, not a call, not a note, just him vanishing like you were nothing. the media had a field day, of course. pictures of him exiting clubs with faceless women, rumors flying. each one a fresh cut. your manicured nails dig into your palms.

the door clicks open. you don't move, just watch as he enters, shoulders slumped, looking utterly exhausted. he tosses his jacket on a chair, running a hand through those curls, still damp from the evening's mist. he doesn't see you at first, just heads for the bar, pouring himself a glass of amber liquid. it's only when he turns, glass in hand, that he freezes. his eyes lock onto yours, and the glass slips, shattering on the marble floor.

“what… what are you doing here?” he whispers, his face paling.

you rise from the bed, a slow, deliberate movement. “is this where you’ve been hiding, michael? while i was at home, waiting? wondering if my husband was dead or just done with me?”

he takes a step back, genuinely frightened by the ice in your tone. “i… i just needed space. things were getting…” he trails off, swallowing hard as you stalk towards him. you stop inches from his face, the scent of your anger mixing with your perfume. “don't you dare. don't you dare stand there and lie to me. i saw the papers. i saw you.” your voice cracks on the last word, but you refuse to let the tears fall. not yet. he flinches as if you've struck him, his dark eyes wide with something that looks alarmingly like panic. he's never seen you like this. never seen this particular brand of quiet, deadly fury.

“i wasn't with them, not like that. i swear, i was just… i was lost. i was trying to figure things out in my head.” he's pleading now, his hands coming up as if to touch you, then dropping to his sides. you grab him by the front of his silk shirt, yanking him closer until your faces are inches apart. “three weeks. you left me alone for three weeks to 'figure things out'?” you shove him back, and he stumbles, falling into an armchair with a soft thud. you stand over him, your shadow falling across him. “get on your knees.” your command is quiet, absolute. he looks up at you, utterly bewildered, but there's something else there too. a spark. a flicker of that dangerous excitement you bring out in him.

“baby, please…” he starts, but you cut him off.

“don't 'baby' me. not after what you did. you don't get to call me that. not tonight. get. on. your. knees. now.” your voice is a low growl. he hesitates for a fraction of a second longer before slowly, almost reverently, sinking to the plush carpet in front of you. his gaze is fixed on the floor, his breath coming in ragged little pants. he's submitting. the realization sends a dark thrill through you. you've been his wife, his partner, but tonight… tonight you are his god.

“look at me,” you command. he does, lifting his head slowly, and the sight of him—this man who commands stages and millions, now on his knees before you, shaking with a mixture of fear and anticipation—makes your cunt clench with a possessive heat. you reach down, your fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tight. he whimpers, a soft, broken sound. “you're going to make this up to me,” you whisper, leaning down, your lips brushing against his ear. “you're going to beg for my forgiveness. you're going to worship me until i say you're done. and if you're very, very good… maybe i'll let you taste me again.”

a shudder wracks his body. “please…” he breathes, the word a desperate prayer. “let me… please let me make it right.”

you tighten your grip in his hair, pulling his head back just enough to make him wince. “we'll see,” you purr, your other hand trailing down your own body, over the sheer lace of your bra, teasing him with what he abandoned. “but first, you have to remember who you belong to.”

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . “start with my shoes,” you order, your voice dripping with condescension you've never used with him before. it feels powerful. it feels right. he looks up at you, confusion clouding his dark eyes for a moment before understanding dawns. you extend one foot, the sharp stiletto heel inches from his face. he swallows audibly, then leans forward, his hands trembling slightly as they cup your ankle. his thumbs brush against the sensitive skin there, and you have to fight back a shiver. you won't give him the satisfaction.

he fumbles with the tiny buckle at your ankle, his fingers clumsy. it takes him longer than it should, and each second of his struggle feeds the cold fire in your belly. when the shoe finally comes loose, he places it gently on the floor beside him as if it's made of glass. you extend the other foot, and the process repeats, a little more smoothly this time. when both shoes are off, you're left in your bare feet, towering over him still.

“good boy,” you murmur, the words tasting like acid and honey. “now my stockings.” you turn your back to him, presenting him with the lace tops of your thigh-highs. you hear him let out a shaky breath before his hands are on you again, slowly, reverently rolling the delicate silk down your leg. his fingers ghost over the back of your knee, and you have to bite your lip to keep from moaning. not yet. he hasn't earned it.

he removes the second stocking with the same careful attention, and when you turn back to him, you see the unmistakable bulge straining against his trousers. he's enjoying this. of course he is. you always knew there was a submissive streak in him, a part of him that craved to be taken apart, to be overwhelmed. you just never imagined it would take your absolute fury to unleash it.

you close the distance between you, standing so close that the lace of your panties brushes against his cheek. he instinctively turns his face into it, inhaling your scent, a strangled groan escaping his throat. you slap him. it's not hard, not really, but the shock of it makes him cry out. he looks up at you, his eyes wide with hurt and something else—something dark and hungry.

“i didn't say you could touch,” you remind him, your voice dangerously soft. “i didn't say you could breathe my air without permission. now take off my bra. with your teeth.”

his eyes widen further, a flicker of panic in their depths. he knows this is a test. he knows that if he fumbles, if he pulls too hard and tears the expensive lace, there will be consequences. he leans forward, his breath hot against your skin as he searches for the clasp. it takes him a moment, a few clumsy nudges of his nose and lips, but finally, the hooks give way. the black lace falls away, and your breasts are free. he stares at them, transfixed, his lips slightly parted.

“you like what you see?” you taunt, cupping them yourself, offering them to him but not letting him have them. “you like knowing this was waiting for you at home, every single night, while you were out 'finding yourself'?”

“no,” he chokes out, shaking his head frantically. “that's not... i wasn't...”

“shut up,” you cut him off, releasing your breasts and hooking your fingers into the waistband of your thong. you slide it down your hips, stepping out of it and tossing it aside. now you're completely naked before him, save for the diamond choker he gave you for your anniversary. a reminder of promises broken. “you lost the right to speak. the only thing i want to hear from you now is you begging for me.”

you spread your legs, giving him an unobstructed view of your glistening cunt. “look at me,” you command again. “look at what you threw away. touch me. but only with your tongue.”

he doesn't hesitate this time, surging forward to bury his face between your thighs. he's clumsy at first, desperate, licking and sucking with an urgency that betrays his three-week deprivation. it's messy and it's wet and it's not enough. you tangle your fingers in his hair again, pulling him back slightly.

“slow down,” you command, tightening your grip. “show me you remember how i like it. show me you haven't forgotten everything.”

he whimpers against your flesh, the vibration sending a jolt through you. then, he gets to work. his tongue finds your clit, tracing slow, deliberate circles around it. he's remembering now, remembering the rhythm that makes your thighs shake, remembering to alternate between the broad flat of his tongue and the pointed tip. he slides a finger inside you, then another, curling them just so, stroking that spot deep inside that makes you see stars. your anger is still there, a simmering ember, but now it's mixing with a white-hot pleasure, a dangerous cocktail of fury and lust.

“that's it,” you breathe, grinding against his face. “right there. make me come. make me come and maybe i'll forgive you for being such a fucking coward.”

his movements become more precise, more focused. he knows he's close to earning his redemption. he adds a third finger, stretching you, filling you, while his tongue works your clit with a feverish intensity. the coil in your belly tightens, your muscles tensing. the orgasm crashes over you, sudden and overwhelming, stealing your breath and making your legs buckle. you cry out, a raw, guttural sound, your grip on his hair the only thing keeping you upright.

he laps at your release, cleaning you with a reverence that borders on worship. when you finally push him away, your chest is heaving, your skin flushed. he looks up at you, his face glistening with your arousal, his eyes pleading.

“please,” he whispers, his voice hoarse. “please, let me... let me make love to you. let me show you...”

you look down at him, at the man who broke your heart, now kneeling at your feet, completely undone by you. a slow, predatory smile spreads across your face.

“not yet,” you purr, your voice laced with cruel delight. “you think one orgasm makes up for three weeks of silence? you think a little tongue work erases the pictures i had to see of you with those... women?” you stalk over to the bed, sitting on the edge and patting the space beside you. “get up. take off your clothes. slowly. and then you're going to lie down on this bed and let me have my way with you. you're going to take whatever punishment i see fit to give you. and you're going to thank me for it.”

he scrambles to his feet, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, his hands shaking so badly he can barely get them undone. when he's finally naked before you, his cock standing proud and erect, you push him onto the bed. he lands with a soft bounce, looking up at you with a mixture of fear and adoration.

you straddle him, but not to take him inside you. you hover over him, your breasts just inches from his face. “do you want this?” you ask, your voice a silken threat.

“yes,” he breathes, his eyes dark with need. “god, yes.”

“then you have to beg,” you say, lowering yourself just enough to let him feel the heat of your skin. “beg for it like you begged me to marry you. beg for it like your life depends on it. because right now, michael, it just might.”

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . he doesn't hesitate. the words pour out of him, a torrent of desperation and desire. "please," he starts, his voice cracking. "please, baby... i need you. i need you more than air. i was a fool, a stupid, arrogant fool. i was lost without you, i was drowning in my own shit and i pushed away the only thing that keeps me afloat. please... let me touch you. let me feel you. let me prove to you that i'm yours. body and soul. i'm yours. i've always been yours. i was just too damn stupid to see it."

his pleas hang in the air, thick with emotion. you can see the sincerity in his eyes, the raw vulnerability. it's exactly what you needed to hear. but you're not done with him yet. not by a long shot.

"that's a good start," you say, your voice cool and detached. "but words are cheap, michael. you're going to have to do better than that. you're going to have to show me."

you lower yourself onto him, not onto his cock, but onto his chest, your pussy grinding against his hard stomach. you can feel the heat of him through your own arousal, and it takes everything you have not to just take him inside you and ride him until you both forget the last three weeks ever happened. but that would be too easy. too forgiving.

"you're going to lie there," you command, your hands on either side of his head, pinning him down. "you're not going to move. you're not going to touch me. you're just going to feel. and when i'm done with you, you're going to tell me who you belong to. and if you say anyone's name but mine, i'm going to get up, walk out that door, and you will never see me again. do you understand me?"

he nods frantically, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and excitement. "yes," he whispers. "yes, i understand."

"good," you say, and then you begin to move. you rock your hips against him, slow, deliberate circles, building a friction that has you both gasping for air. you can feel him hard against you, his muscles tensing with the effort of staying still. you lean down, your lips hovering over his, so close but not quite touching. "you feel that?" you whisper. "that's what you left. that's what you threw away."

you kiss him then, a hard, bruising kiss that's all teeth and tongue. it's not a kiss of love, but a kiss of possession, a claim. he kisses you back with equal fervor, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, a strangled groan escaping his throat. you can feel his control slipping, the desire to touch you overwhelming him. you pull back, a triumphant smirk on your face.

"nuh-uh," you taunt. "no touching. not yet."

you continue your assault, your hands roaming over his body, your nails leaving red trails on his skin. you bite his neck, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to leave a mark. a brand. you want him to look in the mirror tomorrow and see the evidence of your anger, your possession. you want him to remember this night, to remember what it feels like to almost lose everything.

you work your way down his body, your tongue tracing the ridges of his stomach, your teeth nipping at his hipbones. he's writhing beneath you now, a constant stream of pleasepleaseplease falling from his lips. you ignore him, taking your sweet revenge. when you finally reach his cock, standing proud and erect, you look up at him, a cruel glint in your eye.

"you want this?" you ask, your breath hot against the sensitive skin.

"yes," he chokes out. "god, yes. please, baby..."

you take him into your mouth then, but you don't give him the pleasure he's craving. you give him pain. you scrape your teeth along his length, your grip tight on his balls. he cries out, a mixture of pleasure and pain, his hips bucking up to meet you. you pin him down with your forearm, holding him in place.

"stay still," you growl. "or i'll stop."

he forces himself to be still, his whole body trembling with the effort. you continue your assault, a painful, pleasure-filled torment that has him begging for release. and when you finally feel him tense up, when you know he's about to come, you pull away, leaving him hanging on the precipice.

"no," he cries out, a desperate, wounded sound. "please... don't stop..."

you climb back on top of him, straddling his hips, your wet cunt hovering just above his throbbing cock. "who do you belong to, michael?" you ask, your voice a low, dangerous purr. "say my name."

"you," he gasps, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "i belong to you. only you. always you."

"that's right," you say, and then you sink down onto him, taking him inside you in one smooth, fluid motion. the sensation is overwhelming, a perfect, painful pleasure that has you both crying out. you start to move, slow at first, then faster, harder, riding him with a ferocity that matches your anger. his hands fly to your hips, his grip tight, guiding you, pulling you down harder with each thrust.

"that's it," you pant, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with each movement. "take it. take what you deserve."

he meets your gaze, and for a moment, you see it all. the love, the regret, the desperation, the raw, unadulterated need. it's a silent plea, a promise, a prayer. and in that moment, you know. you know that no matter how angry you are, no matter how much he's hurt you, you can't live without him any more than he can live without you.

˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . you ride him with a punishing rhythm, your hips rolling and slamming down, taking him impossibly deep with each downward thrust. his cock, thick and unforgiving, pounds into you, battering against your cervix. the sharp, jarring pain sends a jolt through your entire body, but it's a pain you crave, a pain that feels like absolution. "ah, fuck," you gasp, your nails digging into his chest as you grind down harder, deliberately seeking that deep, bruising pressure. "right there."

he's watching you, his dark eyes hooded with a mixture of awe and terror as he feels your cunt clench around him, the walls spasming with the overwhelming sensation. he's hitting that spot inside you now, that special, gummy patch of tissue on your front wall that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. each drag of his cock against it sends waves of intense pleasure radiating through your pelvis, so intense it almost hurts. you can feel your slickness coating him, making the sounds of your fucking obscenely wet, loud in the quiet hotel room.

"you feel that?" he grunts, finally breaking his rule to stay silent, his voice ragged. "that's you taking me back. that's her forgiving me."

you slap him again, harder this time, leaving a red mark on his cheek. the sting of your palm against his skin makes him twitch violently inside you. "shut up," you snarl, but there's no venom in it anymore, only raw, desperate need. you lean down, your lips crushing his, a messy, open-mouthed kiss that's more about shared breath than finesse. you're both panting, sweating, lost in the primal rhythm of your bodies.

you can feel your orgasm building, a tightening in your core that promises to be devastating. "don't you dare come," you warn him, your voice a breathless command. "don't you fucking dare come before i do."

his response is a choked sob, his hands moving from your hips to grip your ass, pulling you open wider, changing the angle so he's even deeper. the new position is too much, too intense. it sends you over the edge. you scream as you come, your entire body convulsing, your cunt milking his cock in rhythmic waves. it's a violent, earth-shattering orgasm that rips through you, leaving you shaking and spent.

you collapse onto his chest, your heart hammering against his. for a moment, you just lie there, both of you breathing heavily, the anger finally spent, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and a strange, tender ache.

"please," he whispers into your hair, his hands stroking your back in a slow, soothing motion. "let me come now, baby. please. i need to."

you lift your head, looking down at him. his face is flushed, his lips swollen from your kisses, his eyes pleading. you can see the desperate need in him, the raw vulnerability. and in that moment, you know you've won. not just this battle, but the war. he's yours, completely and utterly.

"yes," you whisper, your lips brushing against his. "yes, my love. come for me."

with a cry that's part relief, part surrender, he thrusts up into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills into you. you feel the hot flood of his release, the rhythmic pulsing of him as he empties himself inside you. it's a claiming, a sealing of your reunion. he holds you tight, his face buried in your neck, his body trembling with the force of his release.

you lie like that for a long time, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat and tears, the silence in the room punctuated only by your ragged breaths. the anger is gone, replaced by a fragile peace. the three-week void is still there, a raw wound between you, but for now, it's bandaged. covered by the overwhelming physical proof of your connection.

finally, you lift yourself off him, a soft wet sound as his cock slips out of you. you lie beside him, on your side, watching him. he turns to face you, his dark eyes searching yours.

"i'm sorry," he whispers, the words barely audible. "for everything. for leaving, for not calling, for making you worry... for breaking your heart."

you reach out, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "don't do it again," you say, your voice soft but firm. "ever. if you need space, you talk to me. we figure it out together. you don't get to run away and leave me in the dark."

"never again," he promises, his hand coming up to cover yours. "i swear. i was a fool. i thought i needed to be alone to figure things out, but i was wrong. i was lost without you. you're my home, baby. you're my everything."

he leans in, kissing you gently, a soft, tender kiss that's a stark contrast to the brutal passion of earlier. it's a kiss of forgiveness, of understanding, of renewed commitment. when he pulls back, you can see the sincerity in his eyes, the depth of his remorse. and for the first time in three weeks, you let yourself believe him.

"i love you," you whisper, the words feeling both strange and right on your tongue. "even when you're being an asshole."

a small smile touches his lips. "i love you too," he says, his thumb stroking your cheek. "even when you're being a terrifying, vengeful goddess."

you can't help but laugh, a genuine, carefree laugh that feels like coming up for air after being underwater for too long. "you deserved it," you say, swatting him playfully.

"i know i did," he agrees, pulling you into his arms. "and i'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

you snuggle into his embrace, your head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. it's not over. there are still things to be said, still wounds to be healed. but for now, in this hotel room, with the smell of sex and forgiveness in the air, you're home.

ꕀ ﹑ slim’s letter⠀⑅ ⠀ ֺ first time writing and publishing, hope you enjoyed ! edit: yes, i did delete my original account . i got a bunch of spam and think i got shadow banned.

slim ┆@copineinterrupted © do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.