otw!era mikey use of petnames!!!!! ik you have written abt the whole virginity thing before but what if this time roles are reversed, reader is the virgin, and michael is teaching her how to make him feel good :p you can get as graphic and long as you want about this one 🥸
teachers pet
✦ pairing: otw!michael x black fem!reader
✦ word count: ~3.3k
✦ warnings: 18+ minors dni, explicit sexual content, virgin!reader, experienced!michael, first time, oral sex (m receiving + reader receiving), guided oral, penetrative sex, masturbation/handjob, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names, daddy kink, instructional/teaching dynamic, light hair pulling/guidance, cum swallowing, external ejaculation, unprotected sex, michael being ridiculously patient and reassuring, enthusiastic consent + check-ins, aftercare, tooth-rotting sweetness buried beneath an ungodly amount of smut
✦ summary: three months into your relationship, an innocent night curled up on the couch turns into a confession: you’ve never done any of this before. luckily, michael doesn’t mind teaching his sweet girl a few things.
✦ a/n: brudda u handed me the keys and told me to drive lmaoooo smth about otw mikey being sweet and patient while also realizing he gets to be the one teaching her everything… yeah. terrible, terrible day to have thoughts. also the pet names requirement was taken VERY seriously as you can see. enjoy <3 mwah
the living room was dim, only the soft glow from the tv and the little lamp in the corner. michael had one arm wrapped around you, your head on his chest, his heart steady under your ear. his other hand moved slow up and down your back, fingers slipping under your shirt every now and then to trace warm circles on your skin. every so often those same fingers drifted up into your hair, gently twisting and playing with your curls like he just couldn’t help it.
some old comedy was playing that neither of you were really watching. you’d been talking for a while about nothing important, how weird the commercials were, whether the guy on screen looked like somebody from the studio, how michael still couldn’t believe you liked pineapple on pizza.
“i’m just sayin, mama,” he laughed soft, voice warm, “that’s a crime against fruit. gonna have to educate you one day.”
you smiled against his chest and he squeezed you a little tighter, still playing with a curl.
the conversation wandered after that, slipping from one stupid subject into another until neither of you were really talking anymore. the television filled the quiet instead, some commercial playing too loudly while michael kept absentmindedly winding one of your curls around his finger.
you shifted against him to get comfortable, your knee sliding a little higher over his thigh. it wasn’t anything. you’d laid like this with him plenty of times before. still, his hand hesitated against your back for half a second before settling there again.
you noticed.
“what?” you asked, already smiling.
“nothin’.” he stifled a laugh
“michael.”
he laughed under his breath, looking down at you. “why you always think i’m doin’ somethin’?”
“because you get quiet when you’re thinking too hard.”
“i do not.” he protested
“oh yes, you very much do.”
he shook his head, but the smile stayed. his fingers went back to your hair, gentler now. “just thinkin’.”
“about?”
he took a second before answering.
“us.”
that made you lift your head from his chest. “what about us?” concern must’ve flashed over your face because he was quick to reassure you,
“nothin’ bad.” his hand moved slowly over your back like he wanted to make sure you knew that before he said anything else. “just… we been together almost three months now.”
“mhmmmmm.” you said, happy that he remembered
“feels longer.”
you laughed. “is that supposed to be romantic?”
“you know what i mean, girl.” he squeezed your side, grinning when you laughed and tried to squirm away. “i mean i’m comfortable with you. real comfortable.”
you settled against him again, cheek returning to his chest. “me too.”
another little silence passed.
his thumb traced lazily over your side.
“i like that we ain’t rushed nothin’,” he said eventually. “you know? i like just bein’ with you like this.”
your smile softened. “yeah.”
“and kissin’ you.”
you felt yourself smile wider. “especially that part?”
“especially that part,” he laughed softly, but there was something shy underneath it now. you could hear it.
michael kept rubbing your back, suddenly very interested in the curl wrapped around his finger.
“sometimes when we kiss, though…” he started, then stopped.
you looked up. “sometimes when we kiss what?”
“nothin’.” he was blushing now
“you already started. you gotta finish now.”
“see! this why i don’t tell you stuff!”
“michael jackson!” you said, hitting him gently with a throw pillow
he laughed again, ducking his head before finally meeting your eyes.
“sometimes i don’t wanna stop.”
the teasing answer you’d been ready to give him disappeared.
his expression softened immediately when he saw yours change.
“not sayin’ we gotta do anything,” he added. “i’m just tellin’ you.”
“oh.”
“yeah.” his fingertips brushed lightly along your back. “i think about it sometimes. bein’ closer to you. touchin’ you…” he paused, suddenly looking almost embarrassed himself. “you touchin’ me.”
your cheeks were already getting warm.
michael noticed.
his mouth pulled into the smallest smile as he tilted his head at you.
“…you ever think about that, baby?” the second the words left his mouth he felt you tense.
your cheeks went hot against his chest. you tried to answer but it came out small and flustered, and michael’s hand in your hair stilled.
he shifted so he could look down at you properly, dark eyes soft but curious.
“…mama?” his voice dropped. “you gettin all red just from me sayin that?”
you tried to hide your face behind your hair, mumbling that you just… hadn’t really done anything before. not with anyone. not even by yourself. the words tumbled out awkward and apologetic.
“i’m sorry, i should’ve told you sooner, i didn’t mean to-”
michael cut you off gentle, both hands coming up to cup your face so you had to look at him. his thumbs brushed over your warm cheeks.
“hey… hey, no. don’t you apologize to me, sweet girl.” his voice was so soft it almost cracked. “you haven’t done nothin wrong. you hear me? nothin.”
he leaned in and pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose.
“i’m glad you told me.” he brushed another curl away from your face, studying you for a second. “can i ask you somethin’, though?”
you nodded.
“you ever wanted to?” he asked carefully. “with me, i mean. you ever think about us bein’ closer like that?”
your eyes dropped immediately, which was enough of an answer to make the corner of his mouth twitch.
“hey.” he tipped your chin back up. “don’t hide from me.”
“maybe.” you stifled a shit eating grin.
“maybe?” he repeated, smiling.
“yes, michael.” you said with your little eye-roll
he laughed softly, your quirks always seemed to make him giggly. “okay, okay.”
you buried your face against his chest again anyway. “i just wouldn’t know what i was doing.”
“baby, nobody said you gotta know.”
“you would.” you whispered, blushing into his shirt
“know what?”
“that i don’t know what i’m doing.”
“well, yeah.” he laughed
“michael!” you smacked his chest, “wait, wait! that ain’t what i meant!” he tried to save himself, “i mean i don’t care.” he caught your hand before you could hit him again, bringing your knuckles to his lips. “you think i’m gonna be sittin there grading you or somethin’?”
that pulled a reluctant laugh out of you. “but you’ve already- y’know. done that stuff. i don’t wanna mess up.”
“baby, i’m serious,” he said, softer now. “you don’t gotta impress me. and you definitely don’t gotta do anything just because you think i want it.”
“i know.”
“i need you to really know.” his thumb moved slowly over your knuckles. “if all you wanna do tonight is lay right here and argue with me about that nasty ass pizza, that’s what we do.”
“it’s not nasty.”
“see? ruined the moment.”
you laughed into his chest and he squeezed you, kissing the top of your head.
after a moment, you spoke again.
“but i do want to.”
his hand went still.
“yeah?”
you nodded against him. “i think about it too. i just get nervous because i don’t know what i’m supposed to do.”
something in his expression softened.
“you don’t gotta be scared of not knowin’ with me, mama.” he paused, cheeks turning just slightly pink before he added, “i can show you. if you want me to.”
you looked at him for a moment before nodding.
“yeah?”
“yeah.” you whispered.
his smile came slowly, shy and pleased all at once.
“okay,” he murmured, leaning in until his forehead rested against yours. “then i’ll teach you. that’s all. means i get to be the one who shows you everything. and i’m gonna take my time with you, okay? no rush. no pressure. just you and me.”
he searched your eyes, still stroking your curls.
“you feel ready to learn a little tonight? just the startin stuff. i’m gonna teach you how to make me feel good… and how to make yourself feel good too. we go as slow as you need. you say stop and everything stops. okay?”
when you nodded, still a little shy but trusting, michael smiled that soft crooked smile and kissed you once more, slow and sweet.
“that’s my girl,” he murmured against your lips. “c’mon… let’s go to the bedroom. i’m gonna take real good care of you, mama.”
he stood, tugging you gentle to your feet, and led you down the hall with your hand held in his the whole way. once the door clicked shut behind you he pulled you in close again, forehead resting against yours.
“sit right here for me,” he said, guiding you to the edge of the bed while he settled back against the headboard. he patted the space between his open thighs. “c’mere, baby… right between my legs.”
you climbed up and settled there. michael was already shirtless, black pants unbuttoned, but still on. his eyes were warm and focused entirely on you.
he reached out, long fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up.
“there she is… my sweet girl. you still nervous?” you nodded, and he brushed your curls behind your ear carefully. “that’s okay. i’m gonna teach you everything. nice and slow. you just listen to me, alright?”
he took your hand and guided it to the open fly of his pants, helping you push them further down. his cock sprang free, warm and thick, already starting to fill under your stare.
“go on, mama… wrap those pretty fingers around it. just like that… yeah…” he exhaled soft as your hand closed around him. “feel how hard it is? that’s all for you, baby. stroke it slow… up and down… use your whole hand. don’t be shy.”
he kept his hand lightly over yours at first, showing you the rhythm he liked, firm, unhurried strokes from base to tip, thumb gliding over the head to spread the clear precum that had already beaded there.
“mmm… that’s it… good girl. you’re doin so good.”
his free hand slid into your hair, gentle, just holding.
“wanna taste me, baby? stick your tongue out for me… lick right across the tip. get that precum on your tongue… yeah… just like that.”
you obeyed. michael’s hips twitched and a quiet moan slipped out of him.
“open that pretty mouth now… take just the head in. soft… use your tongue under the ridge… mmm, fuck… perfect, mama.”
he watched you with half-lidded eyes, voice staying soft even as it got dirtier.
“you’re doin so good already. take a little more… slow… breathe through your nose. that’s my girl… let it slide over that soft tongue…”
his cock thickened fully between your lips. michael’s fingers stroked through your hair.
“listen to me, sweet girl… i want you to try sayin somethin for me. look up at me with those pretty eyes and say, ‘i love suckin your cock.’ can you do that for me, baby?”
you pulled off just enough, cheeks warm.
“i love suckin your cock, mikey…”
his smile turned soft and filthy at the same time.
“again. louder. and keep strokin him while you say it.”
“i love suckin your cock, mikey…”
“good girl… now put me back in your mouth and say it around me. wanna feel the words on my dick.”
you took him deeper and mumbled the words around the thick shaft. the vibration made him curse under his breath, still gentle.
“shit… yeah… just like that. you’re learnin so fast, mama. now, every time you come up for air, tell me how much you love makin me feel good.”
you followed every quiet instruction. the room filled with wet sounds and michael’s soft broken moans.
“that’s it… deeper now… relax your throat for me… take a little more… good… look at you, takin my cock so well for your first time…”
his hand stayed light in your hair, guiding but never forcing.
“now tell me what you want, baby. use your words. tell me what you wanna do to this dick.”
you pulled off, lips shiny, voice shaky.
“i… i wanna make you cum… wanna taste it…”
michael’s eyes darkened, still soft.
“say it dirtier for me, mama. say, ‘please cum in my mouth, mikey. i wanna swallow every drop.’”
you repeated it, cheeks burning. his cock jerked hard in your hand.
“that’s my sweet girl… back in your mouth. suck it nice and deep… use both hands… stroke what you can’t fit. i’m gonna talk you through it the whole way, okay? you’re safe with me…”
he kept guiding you, when to slow down, when to suck harder, how to hollow your cheeks, how to swirl your tongue just under the head the way that made his thighs tense.
“you’re doin so fuckin good, baby… i’m close… keep goin just like that… faster… suck the tip… yeah… fuck, mama, just like that-”
his voice cracked into a high sweet moan as he came, thick ropes flooding your mouth. he held your head gentle in place, hips twitching, whispering the whole time:
“swallow for me, sweet girl… that’s it… take every drop… good girl… fuck, you’re perfect… i’m so proud of you, baby…”
he pulled you up into his arms, kissing the taste of himself off your lips, petting your hair, murmuring soft praise against your mouth.
“you did so good for me, mama… so fuckin good.”
he nuzzled your temple, still catching his breath, then smiled soft.
“now it’s your turn, baby.”
you froze a little, cheeks going hot all over again. michael noticed right away and cupped your face.
“hey… look at me. you don’t have to do nothin you don’t wanna. but if you let me… i’m gonna show you how good it can feel. i’m gonna take real good care of you. you trust me?”
you nodded, still bashful, and he kissed you slow before guiding you to lie back against the pillows. he settled between your legs, gently pushing your thighs open, eyes soft the whole time.
“just relax for me, sweet girl… i’m gonna kiss you right here first…” he pressed soft kisses along the inside of your thighs, getting closer and closer. “and then i’m gonna lick you… right here…” his tongue flicked gentle over your clit and you jumped a little. he hummed, pleased.
“that’s it… feel that? i’m gonna keep my tongue soft… just like this… circles… nice and slow… you tell me if it’s too much, okay?”
he kept explaining everything in that low gentle voice while he licked and sucked, one hand resting on your stomach so he could feel every little shiver.
“gonna slide one finger in now, baby… just the tip… you’re so wet already… that’s good… means your body likes it… i’m gonna go real slow… in and out… feel how it stretches just a little?”
you started to relax under his careful mouth and fingers, soft sounds slipping out of you. michael praised every single one.
“that’s my girl… you’re doin so good… let it feel good… don’t hold back…”
after a while the heat built enough that the bashfulness melted into something hungrier. your fingers found his hair and you whispered, voice shaky,
“mikey… i want you… inside me… but i’m scared…”
he lifted his head right away, crawling up to kiss you soft and deep, tasting like you.
“shhh… i got you, mama. we can stop right now if you want. or we can go real slow… just the tip first… and if it hurts too much we stop. you say the word and i’m out, okay? i ain’t gonna hurt you.”
when you nodded he settled between your legs again, lining himself up and rubbing the head through your wetness.
“look at me, baby… keep your eyes on me… i’m gonna push in just a little… breathe for me…”
he pressed forward slow, just the tip at first, watching your face the whole time.
“that’s it… you’re takin me so well… so tight… fuck… i’m gonna go a little deeper…”
inch by inch he filled you, stopping every time you tensed to kiss you and whisper praise.
“you’re doin so fuckin good, sweet girl… look at you… takin my cock for the first time… i’m so proud of you… just a little more… almost there…”
when he was fully inside he stayed still, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.
“breathe, mama… you’re perfect… so perfect… tell me when i can move…”
“m-mikey… so big… sososo big..” you whined and nodded after a moment.
he started rocking slow, deep, careful strokes, never going too hard.
“that’s my girl… feel how full you are… you’re doin so good… i’m right here… i got you…”
he kept talking you through every thrust, praising how wet you were, how well you took him, how beautiful you looked under him. the stretch turned into pleasure and soft moans spilled from both of you. his hand slipped between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in time with his slow thrusts.
after a minute he leaned down close to your ear, voice soft and teasing.
“say ‘daddy’ for me, mama… just once. let me hear it.”
you hesitated, cheeks burning, then whispered it.
“daddy…”
the second the word left your lips, he felt you clench around him and get even wetter. a low, pleased laugh rumbled in his chest.
“ohhh… look at that. you got so wet just from callin me daddy. you like that, baby? say it again… louder this time.”
“daddy…” you whined,
he groaned soft, thrusting a little deeper.
“fuck… you’re drippin for me now. my sweet girl likes callin me daddy, huh? keep sayin it while i make you feel good…”
he kept the slow rhythm, thumb still working your clit.
“tell daddy how it feels… say ‘your cock feels so good, daddy.’”
your voice came out shaky and needy.
“your cock feels so good, daddy…”
“that’s it… again. tell me you love taking daddy’s cock.”
“i love takin daddy’s cock…”
he smiled against your cheek, still moving slow and deep.
“good girl… you’re so wet for daddy. say ‘please fuck me, daddy’… nice and soft for me.”
“please… p-please fuck me, daddy…”
every time the word left your mouth he felt you pulse and get slicker around him. he kept coaxing more out of you between soft kisses and gentle thrusts.
“say it again… ‘i’m daddy’s good girl.’”
“i’m daddy’s good girl…”
“mmm… fuck yes you are. look how soaked you are just from sayin it. you were made for this, mama… made to take daddy’s cock and call him that while you do it.”
he kept the pace steady, never too hard, thumb still circling.
“keep talkin to me, baby… tell daddy you’re close.”
“i’m close, daddy… please…”
“that’s it, baby… let it build… you’re gettin so close, i can feel it… don’t hold back…”
the pleasure coiled tight and then broke. you came hard around him, body shaking, a soft cry leaving your lips as your walls fluttered and clenched. michael’s eyes went soft and dark at the same time, voice full of wonder.
“fuck… look at you… you’re cummin for daddy… so beautiful… that’s my good girl… ridin it out… i’m so proud of you… feel how you squeeze me… perfect… so perfect…”
he kept moving through it, slow and gentle, praising every tremor until you started to come down, breathless and flushed, nails scraping down his back, the pain and pleasure mixed made his own rhythm start to falter.
“baby… i’m close… can’t cum in you the first time we make love… i’m pullin out, okay?”
he thrust a few more times then carefully pulled out and stroked himself fast over your stomach. with a broken sweet moan he came hard, thick ropes striping across your belly and up toward your chest.
he stayed hovering over you for a second, breathing hard, then leaned down and kissed you slow and deep.
you felt bold all of a sudden. still a little shaky, you reached down, dragged your fingers through the warm mess on your stomach, then brought your hand up and licked it clean, eyes on him the whole time.
michael’s breath caught. a soft, almost disbelieving smile spread across his face as he watched you.
“damn, mama…” he murmured, voice low and warm with pride. “look at you. five minutes ago you were all shy… now you out here cleanin me off your fingers like that. my sweet girl gettin all confident on me… i love that.”
he kissed you again, slower this time, then cleaned the rest of you up careful with a warm washcloth before pulling you into his arms, tucking you against his chest.
“i got you… always. you did so good tonight, baby. so proud of you.”
he kept stroking your curls and whispering soft praise until your breathing evened out against him.
tag list (mssg me or comment to be added) @apyr-b-mockbe @myeyesmustdecieveme @theladyinhislifeposts @painfullycalculatingsummit @y2k-angel @sincerelyybeloved
summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)
pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader
w/c: 9.8k
notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!!
boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS.
there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits.
michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker.
some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️
masterlist • ao3 • wattpad
DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.
It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night.
Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.
You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left.
You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history.
You’re good at this job, better than you had expected.
Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly.
You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.
You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode.
Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado.
Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.
Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.
You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.
Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”
“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.
”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”
His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.
Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.
You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing.
You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—
You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans.
You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”
Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?”
You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”
The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.
Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”
Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.
He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.
Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”
Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other.
The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately.
Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”
”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.
“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.
You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”
He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”
You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth.
He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something.
That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature.
You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too.
Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room.
But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.
Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”
“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.
”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”
You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside.
The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind.
You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked.
“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”
You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”
The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”
Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”
”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“
Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”
You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.
The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”
Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.
”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.
Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes.
You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”
The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.
Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—
No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince.
You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect.
They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity.
Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.
Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens.
They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering.
You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather.
The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”
Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”
You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise.
Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.
You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”
He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel.
To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.
This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)
A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.
“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”
You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“
“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”
Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first.
That’s your job. That’s what you do.
You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”
Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.
He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’
You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“
Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard.
“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own.
“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.”
You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.)
He cuts you off with a single look.
”You’re staying in here. With me.”
You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car.
The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated.
”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“
”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”
You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat.
It’s ridiculous, and childish.
You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult.
“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”
It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.
Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”
“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.
He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”
You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.
”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”
Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”
A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it.
You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch.
Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”
You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”
He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”
”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”
He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”
”That’s different.”
”It’s not.” He counters.
You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort.
The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.
You wince. “I’ll be fine.”
”No.”
”Michael, please—“
He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.
”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”
You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.
Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“
“No.”
”But—“
”No.”
You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception.
“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”
You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night.
At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”
Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard.
He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.
Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.
His smile returns—wide and toothy.
”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”
He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”
Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument.
You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.
You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable.
Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.
You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else.
You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing.
You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him.
You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss.
You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous.
You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt.
You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?
You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps.
You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume.
You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.
At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else.
You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.
You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument.
You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision.
You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply.
The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment.
Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!
You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.
You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.
Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.
But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming.
Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones.
He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.
Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.
The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy.
The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking.
“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.
“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.
He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”
You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom.
The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.
He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel.
(It doesn’t.)
You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical.
You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.
You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.
Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate.
You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.
He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.”
He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”
Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her.
“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall.
A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism.
”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.
Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room.
Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.
You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it.
You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.
“Michael? Everything okay over there?”
He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”
“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”
You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently.
”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”
You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.
Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”
You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged.
“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”
You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud.
“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”
Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues.
He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”
His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out.
Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”
“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…”
He trails off.
He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden.
Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.
“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“
You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson.
Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.
“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”
He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.
”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.
”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”
Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.
But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more.
And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.
Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.
As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met.
You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?”
You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.
He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects.
He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard.
At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.
Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world.
Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.
You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him.
You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.
He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.
Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—
He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—
But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.
And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.
He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.
He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.
But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him.
You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away.
He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air.
He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully.
His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm.
“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”
His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”
A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue.
He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.
He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core.
“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”
You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”
You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.
His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core.
The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.
”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.
He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room.
The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side.
He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.
His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.
He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.
Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.
He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”
The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.
That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision.
The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.
Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face.
He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever.
And you would let him.
You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you.
You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry.
You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers.
Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.
It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.
He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace.
“Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”
You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet.
”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.
You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.
It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you.
”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine.
Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.
Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean.
You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body.
You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.
Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.
“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”
”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“
He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity.
“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”
In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need.
You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.
”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”
”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”
He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”
Next time.
The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply.
But you don’t.
You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.
Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him.
You nod, surrendering to him completely.
A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.
His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.”
His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”
His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps.
You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily.
You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”
Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission.
In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.
”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open.
There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted.
You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare.
A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own.
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation.
His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.
You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.
He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“
”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”
At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave.
A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.
He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.
“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“
”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“
That’s all it takes.
He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary.
Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.
You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower.
Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.
Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets.
Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin.
Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips.
He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream.
He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath.
That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany:
“Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“
The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you.
You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words:
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.
You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
The world outside has ceased to exist.
The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.
His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin.
He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.
You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications.
For tonight, nothing else mattered.
a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️
summary — in which you attend the World Music Awards with your boyfriend Michael Jackson, where Diana Ross suddenly sits on his lap right in front of you, causing you to feel jealous and hurt…
18+ mdni ✦ angst, the mention of d*ana ross, jealousy, avoidant asl, unprotected sex, p in v, usage of the word ‘mommy,’ michael is a pro yearner, reader kinda easy
authors note: personal shoutout to @invinciscream for giving me my motivation back
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Sitting in the crowded auditorium that held more talented artists than you could count, you tapped your fingers on your thigh, anticipating Michael’s name to be called, marking his third win of the night.
A soft smile settled on your face, excitement for your partner budding in the pit of your stomach.
“And the award goes to—" For a second, it is so quiet that it feels as if the entire room stilled. “Michael Jackson!” The entire room erupted into applause, including you as you watched your beautiful husband travel to the stage, a smile on his face that could only display his gratefulness.
The music was loud and the applause was deafening as Michael swept his third award of the night, his acceptance speech full of gratitude, but not only the appreciation for his fans but also his appreciation for you.
As he padded back to the seat that held its spot next to you, his focus was no longer on the award but on you. He shifted closer, angling his head down toward your shoulder to whisper a sweet joke that eased the tension within your shoulders. The quiet moment that once overtook them both is interrupted by the opening notes of ‘Ain’t no mountain high enough,' and within seconds, Diana Ross is commanding the floor.
She glided onto the stage, her bleach blonde hair & the red suit she chose to wear bringing everyone’s attention to her. The smile you held dropped immediately, a look of disgust falling on your face.
You acknowledged that Michael and Diana once had a past—a past that you were incredibly disturbed by. As he was clearly taken advantage of by this grown woman—she stayed the love of his life for many years.
Well—until you came along.
Diana’s eyes locked onto our row, her eyes calculating– a look that revealed all too well her low down dirty intentions.
She glided off stage, her body moving gracefully as she stopped right in front of your seats, a smile resting on her face. Diana playfully sat right onto Michael’s lap; his arm went around her waist to steady her, his face now a deep crimson that almost resembled the outfit Diana wore.
He ducked his head, covering his mouth as he let out his signature giggle. He glanced sideways at you, eyes wide with a mix of shock and pure embarrassment.
You too were shocked and embarrassed as you watched as she stepped off his lap, gliding her ass somewhere else. The anger that you felt seemed to be literally incomprehensible.
The sudden suffocating weight of the crowd's whispers rings violently in your ears, making you ready to bolt for the exit at any second
‘Did Diana really just do that right in front of her?’
‘Why isn’t she doing anything?’
The night blew by in painful ripples. You spent the next few hours forcing a fake, agonizing smile, pretending to be happy as he swept a total of five awards.
But the cold sting of betrayal refuses to leave your chest; every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way he reacted to Diana. The blush on his face, his hands wrapped around her waist; the fire in your chest burned hotter.
The ceremony ends with a celebration, which you take as a sign to leave. Anger is blooming stronger within your heart. You grab the purse that once sat in your chair, slipping it around your arms as you allow your feet to carry you to the limo that awaits your presence outside.
Stepping outside into the humid air only did so much to relax the tension in your chest.
You hear footsteps trailing after you, familiar ones, and before you could turn around you hear a soft voice.
“Baby, where are you going? They’re celebrating in there.” Michael says his presence rested uncomfortably behind your back. You responded with silence, crossing your arms.
“Baby?” He says once more, trying to get the attention that you craved all night, yet his focus was more so on his weird ass ex. “You can’t call me that. Not right now." The attitude in your voice, something he’d rarely heard, especially to him, takes him aback; he flinches in response.
“What’s wrong? What did I do?” The confusion written all over his face insinuates the idea that he did nothing wrong. But yet, the feeling of a crushed heart still rested between them.
“How could you let that woman... the woman that has hurt you many times, led you on, and said countless rude shit about me sit on your lap like that? In front of everyone?” The anger in your tone never fades; the words spill out like rapid fire, and you still hold your back to him, the inability to even look at him highlighting your anger.
"Sweetheart—I'm sorry. I was in the heat of the moment, and I… I didn’t know how to resp—" Your voice cuts him off. “By pushing her off!” You shake your head, finally making the decision to turn to face him. Bad decision.
“It was embarrassing, Michael. If you cannot… If you will not leave what you had with her in the past, I will not make you choose. Nor will I let you embarrass me like that in front of everyone.” Your voice is now shaking, shaking in the pain of having to let him go, shaking in the pain of having to walk away.
He stood there. Frozen, the words that should’ve left him stuck in his throat. The only words he could mutter were the words 'I'm sorry,' but that didn’t count right now.
You began walking to the car. The security guard opens it with gentle care as if respecting your surroundings before giving Michael a reassuring look. One that you were just not able to give him at the moment.
So that’s how it started.
The purposeful dismissing of his calls and ignoring the messages he’d send through the voices of others and God, this man was persistent.
The anger settled, but it was still there but in the form of hurt. The press had already twisted the situation into a worse narrative that insinuated the idea that Michael Jackson was cheating on you with his old love.
And although the pain was still lingering, you knew yourself better than to just accept it, so you’ve been throwing yourself into your job, investing your time and energy into something that was worth it—ignoring every sign of Michael that there possibly was and finding ways to exist without his presence.
Months pass, and eventually that did become easier for you. And slowly, but surely the calls slowed down.
The house was too quiet, save for the low hum of the television playing in the background as you leaned against the kitchen counter cradling a warm mug between your hands. The only moment of peace you had all day.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound cracked through the silence, sharp and deliberate, breaking the peaceful moment you were finally having. You froze, your fingers tightening around the mug; you wasn’t expecting anyone this late. Setting the mug down on the counter, you stepped into the hallway, your heart beating a little faster than before.
Your hand grasps the doorknob, slowly opening the door; it turns with a heavy click that surprised both you and Michael.
Michael Jackson stood right outside your home, flowers and the food he knew you enjoyed in tow. "Hi." His voice trembles as if nervous to be in your presence again after the situation.
The stoic reflection that settled on your facial features made his nervousness ever so worse. “Can I come in?” He smiles, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. You open the door the tiniest bit wider, and he immediately rushes in.
“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for months now.” He says settling into your home with an unusual feeling in his stomach. Your silence not only frightened him, but made him realize the severity of the situation.
“I’ve missed you, sweetheart.” His voice softens, setting the flowers and takeout bags on the kitchen counter. You instantly tore your eyes away from him, fixing your gaze on a suddenly fascinating spot on the ceiling as you fought to calm your racing pulse.
“You’re not even going to look at me?”
You finally look him in the eye, the anger that was once forgotten now flickering in your chest. “It’s hard to look at you, Michael. Especially when I don’t even know what this is anymore.” He flinches slightly, his eyes softening with genuine hurt. “What do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean.” You cross your arms, your gaze sharp with disappointment. “You’re still chasing after what you and Diana had, and I won’t be the bridge in between that, Michael. I’m sorry." The pain in your own voice only infuriates you more, causing your gaze to falter.
Michael once again flinched as if you had physically struck him. The mention of Diana’s name hung in the air like a solid wall between you two.
For a second his lips parted, but no sound came out, just a sharp intake of his breath.
He took a couple steps forward, his hand reaching out automatically, but you instinctively took a step backwards. “No, no. Please don’t say that." He whispered, his voice cracking slightly, his eyes searching yours wide and desperate.
“Diana is… that is the past. That’s a completely different part of my life, and I am not looking for a bridge, and I am never looking at you and seeing someone else. I am here for you because I want you.” You soften at that; you feel a pang in your heart. You soon realize that all the running that you’ve done could’ve been a simple conversation—you redirect your eyes to the floor in quiet embarrassment.
“I just felt so embarrassed, Mike. One moment you were whispering sweet nothings in my ear; the next you’re giggling, Diana Ross in your arms.” For you, being vulnerable was something you’d rarely done. You were used to being a cutthroat businesswoman who used your assertiveness for your benefit. But with Michael—that was all put to rest.
“I understand, baby. I understand." He slowly inches closer to you; before you could pull away further, he closed the remaining distance between them. He reached out, his hands wrapping firmly around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.
He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his fingers clutching at the fabric of your shirt as if afraid you may let go. “I love you so much, my love. No woman, no feeling from the past can ever replace that.” He uses his free hand to caress her arm.
You both remain silent for awhile. As if drowning in the moment of silence and true peace.
The warmth of his chest was comforting, but the urge to see his face took over. You slowly pushed back, your palms now resting against his shoulder.
Michael's eyes were still widened, full of worry. His brow furrowed as he looked down at you, taking in the raw beauty that you carried. Without giving yourself time to think or let the anger rush back in, you leaned up on your tiptoes, tilted your chin, and pressed your lips to his.
The kiss started off soft and sweet and slow, painfully slow. You could feel Michael’s hesitation as his hands travel to the small of your back. The kiss began to deepen; what was once meant to be an innocent kiss quickly spiraled into something much deeper, fueled by the raw emotion of the situation. You readily take initiative, sucking on his tongue, which has him leaning into you, letting out an involuntary moan.
“I’ve missed these lips so much, sweet girl." His hand flies up to your cheek, his eyes searching for confirmation that this is truly what you want. The tension between you two settled into something much deeper and more intimate; you could feel the hardness of his groin against your leg, which only made you so much needier.
“Mike.” You let out a breathy moan, leaning into his chest.
“Use your words, my baby. What do you need?” The gentleness of his words sent a sharp shiver straight down your spine. Your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, and the warmth of his breath hit your skin.
“I need you, Mikey.” You whisper. The words hadn’t even begun to settle in the air. In one swift, commanding motion, his arms scooped you up against his chest. A breathless gasp escaped your lips as you became dumb with want.
Your thighs are wrapping instinctively around his hips. Michael tucks you right against his warmth—his stride purposeful as he carries you from the kitchen to your bedroom.
He softly lays you on the bed, settling above you. His lips found your neck; a sharp gasp left your lips as he nipped lightly with his teeth, followed by deliberate sucking. The intense heat of his mouth sent an intense jolt to your core as you arched into his warmth.
“Gonna mark my baby so everyone knows you’re mine.” He groans, taking in your scent that now dominated the room. He places soft kisses along your jawline before moving back up, his forehead resting against yours.
His large hand that once rested against your waist slid down. His hand hooked under the elastic waistband of the shorts that did nothing to conceal how wet you were. His finger immediately finds your aching clit, coaxing a soft whimper from your lips. “So wet for me." He groans, butting his clothed cock into your thigh.
Michael applied pressure to the bundle of nerves, using a slow circular motion that makes your hips instantly hitch off the mattress.
The only noises in the room were your instantaneous moans and the lewd sounds of your wetness.
His thumb kept up the heavy, torturous friction against your clit, driving you right to the edge until you were completely breathless… Then with a sudden shift in pace, his fingers traveled lower— “Gonna get you ready for me, baby." His finger presses against your slick entrance before sliding one long finger completely inside of you; the feeling was almost intoxicating as you were drowning in unbelievable pleasure.
Your pussy clamps down on his finger, earning a groan from his lips. “Missed Mommy's tight pussy, too.”
A ragged, broken gasp leaves your lips as you cross the edge. Your hips instinctively arch off the bed, an involuntary drawn-out whimper leaving your lips as your body dissolves into your climax. Michael drank the noises in—his fingers staying deep and steady inside of you. “Mikey, fuck…”
“You want me to—" He grimaces at the word before saying, “fuck you, baby? Want me to fill this tight pussy with my cum?” Facing the aftermath of your original orgasm, your weeping cunt still ached for more. You ground yourself into Michael's cock, awaiting being full of more than his fingers.
“Such a needy girl.” He slips back on the mattress, teasingly slipping off his pants, disregarding them on the floor, watching your reaction as you await the fullness you missed so much.
Before you could even breathe, his warmness was back over you, his bare thighs parting yours as his thick, hot length rubbed against your slit before settling at your entrance.
“Please, Michael. Stop teas— "He slid inside of you with a startling thrust that had you gasping for air.
He grips your hips as he pumps deeply into your tightness. The room is filled with the whimpers and groans and the lewd slapping of skin, “Taking me so well, sweetheart.”
He uses his grip on your waist to slide you down his cock, the way your tits moved up and down and the way his cock slid in and out of you only turning him on further. “Baby, you’re perfect," he whispered. “So, so perfect. Nobody can make me feel this good. Only you.
His thrusts began to falter, a key sign that his climax was near—and so was yours. “I’m going to cum for you, baby. Gonna make you mine forever.” He whimpers helplessly, his thrusts becoming sloppier; your pussy clenches so tightly against his member that he feels as if he is seeing stars—He abruptly spills his seed inside of you, pulling out shameless and completely shattered moans from the both of you.
He collapses on top of you, not bothering to pull out from your heat. His chest heaves heavily against yours as you both fight to catch your breath, the room completely silent.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his muscles completely relaxed as if he had found his home.
Eventually, Michael lets out a soft sigh, gently sliding out of you. Before you could miss his warmth, he shifts onto his side, carrying you with him. He tucks his chin over the top of your head, his hand tracing lazy circles across your stomach—humming a sweet song.
“I meant what I said earlier.” Michael whispers in the dim room, his voice raspy and stripped of the fire he had earlier. “You aren’t a bridge, my love. You are my life. I was wrong; I shouldn’t have let her get close to me—but that doesn’t negate the fact that I am yours and you are mine.” His voice was so gentle it cracked the tension in the room like an egg.
“I’m sorry, baby. But please don’t ignore like that again.” You could hear silent sniffles, as if he were crying, which only made your chest tighten. You shift your body so that you are looking directly into his eyes.
His dark hair was a mess against your pillow; the mullet he had been rocking now looked as disheveled as he did. His eyes glistened with unshed tears in the dim light of the room. Reaching up, you gently cupped his cheek, wiping a stray tear that fell.
“I’m sorry too, Michael.” You whispered, your voice catching, “I will not. I was just so hurt. And I didn’t know how to handle it. But I’m right here; I’m not going anywhere.”
The silence stretches, but it was a comfortable silence, a silence that they both needed.
In here they were safe, safe in the quiet sanctuary of your room. From the press, from the world, from Diana. In this moment you realized—
A/N : the reader is doing a hickey prank on jermajesty, lol.
“Hi youtube, welcome back to another video” you waved at the camera as it sat on your vanity.
“Yall today’s video is a prank on maj” you laughed biting your nail.
“He really gon beat my ass, but i’m doing a hickey prank” you gasp looking around sarcastically.
“i know i know im so funny, but right now im about to start the makeup and then text him asking him what time he will be home” you showed the morphe palette.
You picked the colors you wanted and started blending it into your neck, making a few spots.
but then you got a idea “oouu, i think imma put one right above my breast, he gone be heated”
You blended a purple bruise splotch right above your tit, enough where he can see it with your tank top on.
once done you had about 2 marks on your neck and 1 on your chest.
You knew jermajesty was going to go crazy about this but his reaction would be hilarious so you really couldn’t wait.
You picked up the camera showing them the marks.
“already guys im finished andd they look real in my opinion.” you nodded your head in admiration.
“now i’m about to text jermajesty and ask him what time he’s coming home” you said grabbing your phone off the counter and going into your messages.
Once done typing you looked back up at the camera “ok guys i said what time you think you will be home?” you said, just then your phone vibrated.
“damn he texted back fast” you opened up his message.
“He said in about 10 minutes, why?, what i should i sayyy” you made a thinking face, putting your finger on your lip.
“oh i know” you typed back fast “ok i said i need you to stop by target, i need stuff to cook dinner” you smirked.
“yall i told him we were getting take out tonight because i was tired of cooking, he gone be confused” you said chuckling.
You felt your phone buzz again making you narrow your eyes.
“like he honestly heard me when i said he need to text back before the message even send” you laughed shaking your head.
“okay he said i thought you weren’t cooking but okay send me a list” you typed back fast then sat your phone upside down on the counter.
“i had to sit my phone down because i want to make it seem like im stalling, but i said i changed my mind, just get whatever you want to eat and i’ll cook it”
“and he is worst then me when it comes to making decisions so he will for sure take ten years, now it’s time to make it more believable” you moved your fingers in a quotation movement.
You went to his side of the room to get an old cologne of his.
“ok yall so this cologne is one of his old ones, he hasn’t even touched it— its still full” you looked into the dark blue bottle.
“so imma spray it around the house and a little on me so it can have a faint smell when he get here” you said then turned the camera off.
Once you were done, you went back into the bathroom and grabbed your phone.
Seeing you had 5 messages and 2 missed calls from jermajesty your mouth fell open.
you picked up your camera starting the video back up.
“oh my god yall, i think he on his way home, i totally forgot to check my phone he called me two times and i didn’t pick up…oopsie.”
“He texted me and said, it don’t matter what we eat it’s up to you, Do you want chicken and rice?, nevermind we had that a few days ago, you pick i don’t know, hello are you there?”
“he is hilarious” you laughed shaking your head
“i’m about to look at his location to see where he at” you swiped off your messages going find my.
Scrolling down a little from having almost everybody in your contacts location you found jermajesty.
After seeing he was pulling up you sprinted into action.
“yall this boy finna pull up, oh shit” you said running into the living room, you sat the camera on the shelf, hiding it behind some decoration.
you made sure it could see you before you jumped on the couch turning on the tv.
As soon as you clicked on a show you heard the front door open.
Jermajesty walked in, with one bag in his hand.
You looked up from the couch, your expression completely blank.
Once he saw you he sucked his teeth, “so you’re on your phone but didn’t see me calling you” his voice laced with irritation.
You raised an eyebrow, acting confused.
“no, i’m sorry bae i didnt get your call” you said, in the sweetest voice ever.
All he did was nod his head, not wanting to argue.
“well i got your groceries, im gonna go take a shower” he walked over to you giving you a quick kiss on the lips.
He turned back around heading to the room making you let out a sigh of relief, just as you thought he didn’t notice that fast he stopped in his tracks.
Your face dropped and you quickly glanced over at the camera.
You heard him let out a small sniff making you press your lips together.
He turned around with his eyebrows furrowed, then he walked back over to you leaning down.
He put his nose to your cheek and let out another small sniff, then leaning back up straight and repeated his actions.
You furrowed your eyebrows at him, “um maj what the hell you doing?” your face full of fake confusion.
He narrowed his eyes at you before shaking his head “nah what the hell were you doing, why does it smell like a man in here, especially on you” his head tilted.
You raised an eyebrow “did you not just walk in? it’s probably you”
“i didn’t put any cologne on this morning”
“oh… i don’t have a clue then” you went back to scrolling on your phone.
Jermajesty looked you up and down before going over and snatching your phone out your hand.
Your head shot up, the hickeys almost noticeable.
“give me back my phone boy” you said reaching up just for him to move back.
“who the hell was here, (name)?”
“nobody, give me my phone” you said standing up seeing he was opening your phone.
You sucked your teeth reaching for your phone but he pulled back once again.
“bro ain’t nothing in there, you wasting your time, go get in the shower” you said crossing your arms.
He looked up from the device, his eyes landing on your neck, specifically the purple bruises.
His eyes widened a little.
“Bro what the fuck is that on your neck” he walked over grabbing your chin and tilting your head up.
“what are you talking about” you acted clueless.
Jermajesty rubbed the spots, luckily you put setting spray on them or the whole prank would’ve been ruined.
“Why do you have hickeys on you? and it’s one on your tittes” he said rubbing the one on your chest also.
You pushed him off you of you before rubbing your own neck.
“oh that i burned myself with the curlers earlier” you came up with a lie quickly.
“you have your bonnet on though take it off and let me see the curls” he said reaching for your bonnet but you moved away quickly.
“unt unt, the curls dropped already”
“it would still be a little curly, let me see” before you could move he snatched the bonnet off.
Your wig was pin straight, not a sign of a curl in it. You made a face as you grabbed your bonnet back slipping it back on.
All jermajesty did was look at you, you almost stopped the prank right there once you seen his face.
His eyes were dark and narrowed, and his jaw was clenched— he looked sexy as fuck.
“so you cheating now? what the hell (name)”
“No i didn’t cheat, i told you the curls dropped bae” you reached to wrap your arms around him but he pushed you away.
“i don’t want you to hug me after you been letting another nigga suck on your neck” he said shaking his head.
“you sure you didn’t put these on me? i mean we did fuck last night” you said in a “duh” tone.
“I didn’t do them, he didn’t even get your sweet spot, you fucking on a lame” his voice rough.
You almost let out a laugh but you quickly held it back.
“what are you talking about maj, go take your shower and hurry up so i can cook” you said waving him off making your way into the kitchen.
“unt unt bring yo ass back here, now what nigga was sucking on your neck!” he said following you.
You let out a chuckle waving him off before grabbing the bags to see what he bought.
“(name) don’t play with me, you hear me talking to you” he said grabbing the back of your neck turning you to face him which causing you to gasp.
“Am i not fuckin you good enough or something, why you had somebody else here?” he voice now low and seductive.
oh he a bird, you thought.
“ i just told you ain’t nobody was over here, these came from mosquitoes” you avoided his eyes.
He let out a low chuckle.
“first is was your curlers, then it was me but now it was mosquitoes? make up your mind”
You shook your head pushing him away “well i don’t know what it was but i know it wasn’t a nigga”
Jermajesty nodded his head with a small smirk “well since you don’t know what it was, imma go let another girl suck on my neck so we can compare it, got it?” he suck up his middle finger before making his way out the kitchen.
You sat in disbelief for a moment before looking up at him.
“Jermajesty don’t play with me” you said through gritted teeth.
“i ain’t playing baby” he disappeared down the hallway.
You sucked your teeth and made your way to the camera grabbing it down then made your way into your room.
“yall if he back here talking to a bitch imma crash out” you said as you pushed the door open, you seen the bathroom light was on.
You walked inside seeing jermajesty shirtless and standing by the mirror on his phone, typing away.
“aye bro, you better be texting that group chat and not no female!” you said loudly making him look at you.
He had a fat ass smirk plastered on his face.
“nah shorty, you go find out what them marks is on your neck” he played the game right back making you suck your teeth once again.
You snatched his phone out his hand, looking down you seen he was texting some random girl on instagram making you gasp.
“JERMAJESTY JACKSON” you yelled which made him laugh and back up.
“it was a fucking prank bro!” you felt your eyes tear up, jermajesty finally noticed the camera in your hand making his jaw fall.
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