I got inspired last night from the other freak tumblr.... i edited another twt account to try to sound like mj 😭 (WEAR HEADPHONES!!!! DO NOT BLAST THIS SHIT IN PUBLIC)
Synopsis: Working backstage at The Michael Jackson Company LLC was supposed to be simple: keep your head down, do your job, and go home. But when strange coincidences begin piling up, you're left wondering if they're really coincidences at all—or if one of the most famous men in the world has quietly been watching you all along.
Tags: Stalking, watching, no porn (yet), anon reader, mysterious Michael, Invincible era, mature Michael, young-ish reader, slow burn, creepy Michael and freakier reader.
Note: I literally wrote this at work lmao. I started it at work and finished it at 4 in the morning. worth. It's longer than the last, and it's starting to get more creeepyyyyyy. Guys, watch out for mike hes starting to slip up.
Wc: 2.4k
~ ~ ~
The sun streams through your window, spilling across your face. With a groan, you tug the covers over your head, trying to escape the light. Birds chirp relentlessly outside, and your useless curtains do little to nothing to block the morning sun from blinding you. Your head is groggy, your hair is a mess, and you got home late from work last night. Your hand blindly searches across the bed for your phone until your fingers find it buried beneath your pillow. Four missed alarms. At first, it didn’t register.
Then it hits you.
It’s Wednesday. You have work. As soon as you got home last night, you slumped in your bed, not setting your alarm. You shot upright from where you were lying on your stomach, launching yourself towards your closet.
“Shit, shit, shit,” you mumble to yourself, throwing on your pants from yesterday. It was 9:21. You were supposed to be there by 9:00. After messily fixing yesterday's makeup and throwing your hair up in a claw clip, you snatch your keys off of the counter and sprint to your car. You’ve never been this late before. Maybe one or two minutes, but twenty? Unheard of from you.
The drive felt twice as long. Of course there was traffic, cause why wouldn’t there be? Each light felt like an eternity, and every turn felt ten times slower. By the time you screeched into the parking lot, you barely remembered putting the car in park. You hurried inside, trying to smooth your shirt and catch your breath before scanning your badge in and pushing through the front doors. Work was required in the office today as there was no rehearsal this week. It felt strangely quiet, the air static. As you made your way toward your desk, a coworker caught your arm, leaning in just enough to keep their voice low.
“You picked the worst day to be late,” she muttered.
Your stomach dropped. “Why?”
Her eyes flicked toward the glass-walled conference room at the end of the office. “The big boss is here.”
“Michael is in the office today?” You frantically whisper, eyes darting around the conference room, trying to spot him.
“Mhm hm. Here on the dot.” She replied, scooting back over to her cubicle, pretending to be busy while eyeing the conference room as well.
Well, he must have noticed that some employees weren’t here. You didn’t note a meeting in the schedule today, but the worry that you were supposed to be in that meeting stayed in the back of your mind.
The meeting dragged on for what felt like hours. You barely heard a word of it. Instead, your foot bounced beneath the conference table while your mind replayed every possible excuse you could give if anyone asked why you’d been late. The car wouldn’t start. Really bad traffic. Car accident? Ideas zoom through your head. Of course you couldn’t be honest and tell them you woke up late, that would be unprofessional. Especially around the boss.
Just as you cleared your head, Ben from the department upstairs leaned over your shoulder, a worried and remorseful look splat across his face. Oh god, now what.
“He wants to see you . . .” He spoke quietly, like he didn’t want to say it. “In his office.”
You pointed a finger at your chest. “Me?” Surely he must be mistaken. Michael has never spoken a word to you. Besides the odd staring and appearances, you put aside your sure he doesn’t know you at all. “Are you sure?”
He let out a pitiful and nervous laugh, puckering his lip. “He pointed you out to me. Specifically. So yeah, you.”
Your heart picks up. You're for sure getting fired by Michael Jackson himself. You're done for. You forced a smile, “Did he say why?”
Ben shook his head. “No. Could be because you were late…” He shrugged. “Could be something else. He didn’t specify.”
That somehow made you feel worse. “Right. Thanks.”
The walk to the executive offices felt much longer than it actually was. Each step dragged on the floor, your short heels clicking with nervous steps. Michael’s office lay at the end of the hallway, a large wooden door blocked the office from the rest of the employees. You knocked twice against the door. Cold against your knuckles.
“Come in.”
Michael sat behind his desk, reading over a folder before closing it and setting it aside. He looked up as you stepped inside. His office was exactly what you’d expect from someone in his position. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, filling the room with afternoon light. Shelves lined one wall, neatly arranged with books, awards, and framed photographs.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I did.”
He motioned to the leather chair across from him. The room's lighting was off except for the large glass windows behind him, illuminating his figure.
“Have a seat.”
You took a seat, smoothing your pants against your knees, evidence of yesterday's wear.
Michael folded his hands together, studying you for a brief moment before speaking.
“You were late this morning.”
The words landed exactly as you’d expected. You knew it, you were fired. One mistake in this large company and they let you go, just like that.
You nodded immediately. “I know, and I apologize for it. It won’t happen again.” You quickly get out, unsure if you should tell the truth. “I overslept, we got out late last night, and I forgot to set my alarm. I know that isn’t an excuse, and I promise this won’t happen again.” You start to feel hot, head burning up from anxiety.
“I know.” His answer was calm, almost reassuring. “You’ve always been punctual,” he continued. “One late morning isn’t enough for me to question your work ethic.”
Some of the tension left your shoulders. “Thank you.”
“I simply wanted to check that everything was alright.”
“It is.” Mostly.
“I appreciate the concern.”
A faint smile crossed his face. “I’m glad.”
Relief began to settle in your chest. Then he added, almost as an afterthought.
“I imagine getting here wasn’t any easier with the traffic on your side of town.”
You blinked before realizing what he had said. “…Yeah.”
He offered a small, polite smile before looking back down at the papers on his desk, picking up his pen.
“It happens.”
By the time you stood to leave, it almost felt ridiculous that you'd spent the last twenty minutes convincing yourself you were about to be reprimanded and fired. The interaction lasted less than ten minutes, and you were quickly on your way out of his office.
"Thank you for your time," you said, reaching for the door.
"Of course."
His smile was polite—practiced.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
What. Your side of town? No street names. No neighborhood. Nothing specific. But still, you couldn’t remember ever mentioning what part of the city you lived in to him or any coworker. Matter of fact, this is your first time speaking to this man.
Tomorrow turned into the next day. Then the day after that. Before long, it became difficult to remember a morning when Michael wasn't in the office. For someone whose schedule was notoriously unpredictable, he had become oddly consistent. Whether it was arriving before all the employees or staying late nights, he was there. He was there when you were there. At times, you were called into his office to discuss projects that were assigned to you. One of them involved working closely with Michael. Before you realized it, you were spending more time in Michael's office than in your own department. Of course, the other employees doted on you. They said you were Michael's favorite, or teased you about having a crush on him. But can you blame them? He is Michael fucking Jackson. The King Of Pop.
Weeks had passed, and most of your days in the office were spent near or with Michael. You still wouldn't call him your friend, though. His presence and demeanor had something off about him. You always felt his eyes burn on the back of your head.
Your mornings settled into a routine of coffee, emails, meetings... and Michael. Always Michael. Sometimes it was nothing more than passing each other in the hallway. Other times, he'd stop by your desk with a question he easily could've asked through email. Occasionally, he'd ask you to stay after a meeting while everyone else filtered out. None of it crossed a line. Not really. Still, there was something about him you couldn't explain. It wasn't anything he said, or even anything he did. It was the feeling. The strange certainty that, whenever you looked up, he'd already been looking at you, every time. It's like he knew something you didn't.
The drive home was silent, like every other night. Michael had stayed behind, seeing every employee out that night. The raindrops fell against your windshield, flying away just as fast. Your house was small. Nothing fancy, just enough for a small front and backyard. The sun was sill barley visbile as it was only 4:51 pm. You'd spent weeks trying to keep these damn hydrangeas alive through the heat, watering them whenever you remembered, which, lately, wasn't often. You made a mental note to grab the watering can after dinner. Inside, you kicked off your shoes, changed into an old T-shirt, and spent the next hour mindlessly scrolling through television channels while eating leftovers. It wasn't until you carried your plate to the sink that you remembered. Your flowers. You dropped your plate off in the sink before wandering towards the front of your yard. The flowers sat behind a concrete fence, dying slowly. The soil looked damp. Freshly damp. You frowned. It hadn't rained, there had been a drought for the last two weeks this month. You knelt beside the flower bed, pressing two fingers into the dirt. Someone had to have watered them. But you live alone. The thought alone sent shivers down your spine. You don't interact with any of your neighbors. Your family lives states away, and your friends don't care about your plants enough to travel across the city to water them. Your eyes wandered around the backyard. The gate was closed. The fence looked untouched. Nothing appeared disturbed. It was just… The flowers.
Someone had cared enough to water them. Who? Why? The thought should've comforted you. Instead, it left a strange, crawling feeling beneath your skin. Because whoever had done it had to have known they needed watering. Your gaze drifted toward the kitchen window. From here, someone standing outside could see straight into your house. They would've known when you weren't home. They would've known no one was coming back until after dark. You suddenly didn't feel like finishing the yard work anymore.
You hurried back inside and locked the sliding door behind you. You checked the lock twice. Then, almost embarrassed by your own paranoia, you reached over and closed the curtains, making sure no light cracked between them. For the first time since moving into the little house, home didn't feel quite as private as it used to.
The next morning, you convinced yourself you'd overreacted. You'd been working long hours, and you were tired. You probably had watered the flowers and forgotten. That had to be it. It wasn't until you stepped onto the porch, coffee in one hand and your keys in the other, that your thoughts screeched to a halt.
Your welcome mat. It was straight. Perfectly centered beneath the front door. You frowned. You never straightened it. If anything, it was always crooked. You'd step over it without a second thought every day coming home from work. It was one of those little things you always meant to fix and never did, just never important enough. You nudged it sideways with the toe of your shoe again.
"...Weird."
A few days passed and nothing happened. Or at least... nothing obvious. You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined the whole thing. Until another late evening at work. Most of the office had already emptied, leaving only a handful of lights glowing across the floor. You were gathering your things when Michael stepped out of his office.
"Heading home?"
You smiled politely. "Yeah."
"I won't keep you, then." He fell into step beside you as the two of you walked toward the elevators. For a while, neither of you spoke. Then he glanced at you.
He licked his lips. "How are your flowers?"
You looked over. "...My flowers?"
"The ones you've been worried about."
"Oh." You laughed softly.
"They're... actually doing a lot better."
"I'm glad."
The elevator arrived with a soft ding. The two of you stepped inside. Michael pressed the button for the lobby.
"You looked disappointed when you thought they'd died."
You frowned. "...I did?"
"So it seemed."
You searched your memory. You hadn't talked about your flowers very much. Just once, briefly. You had brought it up once to a coworker that someone had watered your flowers, but not to him. The pit in your stomach became bigger, not even realizing it was there in the first place. The elevator dings, bringing you back from your thoughts.
“Have a good night.” He says, nodding at you before heading out the sliding doors.
“Yeah, you too.” Your voice is barely above a whisper, hoping he hadn't noticed how nervous you got.
You sat the entire drive home thinking back on the conversation. What the fuck did he mean by that? Why does it feel like there are eyes all around you? As you reached your house, the presence just didn't feel the same. It feels like you're not alone. Your porch light remains on, but it doesn't feel protective. The car makes a beep as you lock it and make your way to your door, fumbling with the keys in your hand. Looking down, trying to find the right key, and there was just one more surprise waiting for you when you got home. The welcome mat was touched. Again. You look around you, to the left and to the right. Nothing. You've never unlocked your house and slammed the door shut faster in your life. Schizophrenia must be the answer because all of this is bullshit. Slowly, your eyes lifted toward the inside of your darkened house. Every curtain was exactly where you'd left it. Every window was closed. Everything looked normal. And somehow, that was the part that frightened you most.
Y'know MJ guilters will never fail to baffle me. Because they seem so desperate to prove they're right but there is literally. No evidence.
"Oh but the descriptions of his-" NOPE. Wrong. They weren't a match.
"Oh but the books-" that were not CP and were mailed to him by a fan? That he didn't even read? His finger prints were not found on the pages.
"Oh but he slept in the bed with children-" you mean the sleepovers that there is footage of with plenty of parents and nannies present in the room? People love to bring that one up for some reason. Sleeping in the bed does not mean sexual. People struggle to understand a lot of things. I mean who knows maybe i am crazy
Was browsing the anti-MJ tag out of curiosity, was generally disgusted but this one post stuck out to me: this video of Michael saying something along the lines of
"If there were no children, I would kill myself. I love them so much. They make me feel safe."
While he's on the rides at Neverland with this kid with cancer. And the post was like "how can people defend this?"
Ah yes how dare we defend a man who saved millions of children's lives globally and dedicated his life to bringing them joy and keeping them safe from the real abusers in the industry. Shame on us amirite
Got into a mini debate recently where people were comparing him to Trump, and I find it funny how Trump is a known abuser, has been convicted of felonies like 34 (?) times, appears in the Epstein files thousands of times, and there has been no investigation, no anything, and he is still the president.
While police searched Neverland from top to bottom, conducted a strip search (where they physically assaulted Michael but that leads to another conversation), analysed everything they could because they were so desperate to make this man look bad, yet found NOTHING. Michael was convicted of NOTHING, they have NOTHING on this man, yet he is the one the media constantly tries to paint as a predator.
Idk I've said it twice and I'll say it again if MJ was really a pedophile they would've protected him like they're doing now with allll the other fuckers.
Anyways. Rant over. I love Michael Jackson and I will defend him forever
Synopsis: Working backstage at The Michael Jackson Company LLC was supposed to be simple: keep your head down, do your job, and go home. But when strange coincidences begin piling up, you're left wondering if they're really coincidences at all—or if one of the most famous men in the world has quietly been watching you all along.
Tags: Stalking, watching, no porn (yet), anon reader, mysterious Michael, Invincible era, mature Michael, young-ish reader, slow burn, creepy Michael and freakier reader.
Note: This is my first Michael fic. I write fanfic on AO3, but it's lowkey abandoned. This is ongoing, and I do work, so hang in there with me. I have a trailer edit to go along with this fic, so let me know if you want to see that. There will be a happy ending depending on whether you think it is happy, and there WILL be smut later on >:)
wc: 1.3k
~ ~ ~
Your job isn't important in the long run. Or at least it doesn't feel like it. You work for The Michael Jackson Company LLC., helping behind the scenes, filing paperwork, helping with costumes and props, running errands, and making sure rehearsals stay on schedule- the things the famous pop singer Michael Jackson wouldn't notice. You work tirelessly and endlessly. Not quite making minimum wage, but feeling like you are. The amount of work you do goes unnoticed in such a large company. Not that you aren't grateful for this position; you really are. But the days move fast and quickly. Work, home, sleep, repeat. Just another face in the crowd of production, an already oversaturated field.
As Michael Jackson's new album Invincible is in the works to be released, work picks up. Back and forth picking up costumes, paperwork, and things needed for important people. You've seen Mr. Jackson only once or twice in passing. He certainly doesn't know your name or even knows that you work under his company. The first time you saw him, it was passing in the hallway of the company building, somewhere he rarely is. You pass him in the long, bland hallway; he smiles politely at everyone, including you. His eyes pass over you once before moving on. You think nothing of it. Obviously, your nerves are off the wall; he is still Michael Jackson after all. But that small interaction went on, and so did your day. The second interaction was behind the stage. You had just entered the arena building to help work on the set. As you went to pull your I.D badge out, security waved you through without checking it. Confused, you walked through the metal detectors. Someone in security says, "Mr. Jackson requested another assistant." Which is weird because the last time you checked your schedule, he already had twenty assistants that day. He couldn't have requested you specifically. Michael never spoke to you that day. He was on stage for hours rehearsing, voice echoing through the building as he prepared his vocals. You look up during rehearsal while managing some plugs and extensions, feeling like someone is watching you. Your back burns with notice. Across the hundreds of people walking, their own lives busy with work, across the room on stage, he's looking. You don't want to look. You don't want to make things weird. You don't want to assume everything is about you. But the moment you look up and your eyes meet, he looks away at inhuman speeds. He's probably looking past me, at someone important. But the more you work, every time you come into work while he is there, you notice that you've never once initiated eye contact with him. Every single time, it feels like he's already looking before you happen to glance up. And every time he looks away. As time passes, you feel like it isn't a coincidence anymore. Maybe you're crazy; it's all in your head. There are thousands of employees under his company. Why does it feel like he's just looking at you?
It's the small things. You're convinced it's confirmation bias until it keeps happening. You change departments for a week. Somehow, he starts rehearsing in that building instead. You start intentionally standing in different places during rehearsals just to prove you're imagining it, making things up. Somehow, his eyes still find you. None of his security or close assistants watch you. They go on helping Michael, ignoring you as every other member of staff does. You don't tell anyone, of course. Not your mom, not your friends. Especially not your coworkers. It would make you look like every other crazed fan. “Michael Jackson looked at me! He's in love with me!” But you're not in love with him. He's a very handsome man, even at the age of 42. But you're not convinced he's in love with you. You're hoping he noticed your work and is impressed. But that couldn't be the case; he only sees you during his rehearsal. Any time in the office, he is never there. Brought up in meetings, on the phone with one of your many bosses, but never physically there.
There are moments when you feel like you're actually going crazy. Losing your shit with some crazy conspiracy theory that you have in your head. The rain doesn't start until the last hour of your shift. By the time you clock out, it's 11:34, and the rain is coming down in sheets, bouncing off the dark parking lot. You sigh, patting your bag anyway, hoping an umbrella had somehow found its way inside when you rushed to get ready for work that morning. Nothing. How convenient. It's only a short walk to your car, so you pull your jacket over your head and step under the awning, debating whether it's worth waiting for the rain to stop. A voice beside you makes you jump.
"Miss."
You turn. One of the security guards is standing a few feet away. You've seen him before—always somewhere behind Michael, you've never spoken to him the entire time you've had this job. He holds out a large black umbrella.
"For you."
You blink. "Oh—no, it's okay." You smile politely, waving a hand. "I'll be fine." You're far too shy and polite to accept anything. A kind protest, if you will.
But he doesn't lower it. "Mr. Jackson insisted."
Your smile falters. "...I'm sorry?" You think you misheard him. Michael? As in Michael Jackson?
The guard only gives a small nod, as though that is supposed to explain everything. You glance over his shoulder instinctively as if this is some prank. Three black SUVs are already pulling away from the curb. You squint through tinted windows; you can't see inside.
"I think you've got the wrong person," you say, half laughing, tucking a hair behind your ear, a nervous habit.
His response is a deadpan stare. "I don't." The reply is calm. Certain. He places the umbrella in your hand before you can protest again. "Have a good evening."
Then he's gone. No explanation. No conversation.
Within seconds, he's climbing into the last SUV, the door shuts, and they disappear into the rain. You stand there under the awning for another moment, the unopened umbrella feeling strange in your hand. Maybe they had extras. Maybe someone told him an employee forgot theirs. Maybe he did this for everyone. You look around the parking lot. Everyone else is sprinting through the rain. Huh.
By the time you reach your car, your shoes are soaked anyway. You toss your bag onto the passenger seat and fold the umbrella closed. For a moment, you just sit there. The windshield blurs beneath the rain. The sound calming.
"Mr. Jackson insisted."
The words replay in your head. It doesn't make any sense. He doesn't know you. You've never spoken to him. You're one of hundreds of employees who disappear into the background every day. There is no reason he should have noticed you. You shake your head and laugh quietly to yourself. It was a nice gesture, nothing more.
You start the engine. As your headlights sweep across the lot, they catch the line of three black SUVs waiting at the exit. One by one, they pull onto the road. The last SUV pauses just for a second. The rear passenger window was lowered almost all the way down, not enough for anyone else to notice at this time of night, not enough for you to clearly see inside, but enough. You catch the outline of a pale hand resting against the edge of the window. An outline of a man. Then the window glides shut, the last SUV driving off into the night. No one seems to have noticed.
You drive home trying to convince yourself that it was just another normal day at work. A kind gesture from the boss. Key word is try. You don't believe yourself.
Context: You’re a 2000s socialite, the cameras and gossip blogs love you. Most people want you at their events, to make sure the cameras follow, that their names or brands make it into the tabloids. The most recent even you went to was an album release party. Some up and coming hip hop artist. You had little expectations for the party.
Except, you meet someone. Not just anyone. It’s The Michael Jackson. A legend in the flesh. He’s older, mature, very glamorous. And he’s taken an interest in you. Unexpectedly, you hit it off, so you invite him back to your hotel. Shocked… when he actually says yes.
(Brief notes for the timeline: this is set in the early 2000s, and won’t be fully historically accurate. Michael is in his pre-invincible era, freshly divorced, still writing a new album. This little fic will include some mad disrespect (from the FMC’s POV because she’s a BRAT) to some people involved in Michael’s real life so if you’re sensitive to that, please don’t read.)
Warnings: graphic sexual content. breeding and praise kinks. This is just a filthy fic, okay. MDNI AT ALL.
Enjoy!
His cologne envelopes my nose, musky and delicious. My head swims with desire as I pull back from the kiss.
“I haven’t been with an older man before,” I say softly, perched on his lap in the back of his white limousine. I run my fingers over the details of his fine suit, the embroidered vest… god, his style. He's so sexy.
Michael hums, hands gently resting on my hips. “And… how old are you again?” He asks quietly, so reserved and polite, I can’t believe I managed to convince the Michael Jackson to come home with me. I’m practically purring in his lap, rubbing on him like a cat in heat. And all he’s done is kiss me.
“Twenty five,” I say, gazing at his face. I tilt my head, and my long soft honey blond curls slip to the side. “Am I too young for you, baby?” I tease, tilting his chin up to meet my lips. I kiss him again, and he groans quietly, so embarrassed that he can’t resist me.
Our lips move together, softly, but passionately. I moan into his mouth, pulling myself closer to him, pressing my breasts into his chest. A soft sound escapes him as the limousine glides through New York city to my hotel, car horns sounding outside as R&B gently plays from the speakers.
He's so old school, it's crazy hot. Such a gentlemen. I couldn't name how many of these big artists or rappers would just outright ask me to fuck, knowing damn well they wouldn't call me the next morning, or even learn my name.
But Michael? God.
He'd asked my name, asked what I did. Held eye contact as I talked about the artist we were both here to support, mentioned how I knew him. He was so soft spoken it was driving me crazy. When I'd just had enough and asked if he wanted to take the conversation back to my hotel, he'd agreed. Softly saying, “lead the way, Daphne.”
God.
I wondered if he had understood what I meant, but from the way his hand slid down my back to almost touch my ass as we walked to where his driver would meet us...
I pounced the moment that door car door shut.
I didn't even care if anyone saw us leave together.
I kiss his throat, then nibble on his earlobe. He sighs, holding my hips, gently squeezing. "I don't usually do this," he murmurs.
"No?" I purr, kissing his jaw. He's already hard, I can feel him between my thighs. I smile coyly, cupping his face as I kiss his neck again. God, he smells so delicious.
"I got divorced… recently."
I sit up and look him in the eyes. I didn't even know he was married, or rather... still married. Him and his wife hadn't been seen in public for a while.
"I'm sorry," I say gently, pouting my bottom lip a little, "when?"
"A month ago."
My head tilts. He still has his hands me, holding me firmly. "You wanna stop?" I whisper. He glances over me, swallowing, gaze lingering on my low cut rich brown dress, how my breasts peak out from the gap, glistening with glittered body oil. He shakes his head and I smile slowly, "I can make you forget for a little bit," I murmur, grinding on him gently. "If that's what you want."
"I do," he murmurs.
"Yeah?"
He nods, swallowing again, and I gently bite my lip as I feel his grip on me tighten. "You're beautiful," he practically whispers. I bask in the praise, goosebumps skittering over me. I kiss him, cupping his cheeks. I can't quite believe I'm straddling Michael Jackson's lap right now, but I am. And he wants me.
His hands slide over my ass, taking a firm grip of the flesh. I moan, then squeal as he slaps me gently. I bite his bottom lip, then kiss him harder.
We pull up to my hotel not long later. The street outside is quiet, and so is the foyer. Michael's security does a quick sweep of the hotel and my room after I give them the key, then we're on the move. I'm so excited, i’m practically vibrating out of my panties as we wait, standing separately in the elevator. He watches me with those pretty doe eyes and I watch him back, still in disbelief that I get to fuck him tonight.
I take him to my room, and the moment the door is shut, I slide off my silk dress and reveal my body to him. His eyes graze over me, and he slowly slides off his long coat. His outfit is so finely put together it would be a shame to take it off, but... I want him. I want him bad.
He loosens his tie as I smirk and sway my hips to the bedroom, bending over purposefully and sliding off my thin black thong.
"God damn," he mutters from behind me as I climb onto the bed and wait for him, lying on my back.
His fine embroidered vest slides off, then his shirt, then those tailored pants. "You sure about this?" he asks me gently, moving over to the bed, so hard beneath his boxers I suddenly can't really think. My body burns, sex pulsing.
"Take them off, and fuck me."
He smiles, teeth latching gently onto that bottom lip briefly. He eases his cock out from his boxers, then beckons me over with a twitch of his long fingers. "Come here."
I gasp, excited, and shift onto my front, crawling over to the edge of the bed where he's standing, hard and ready. I know what he wants. My lips are one of my best features. Or at least People Magazine seems to think so.
I kneel, then ease his cock into my mouth, gazing up at him and pout my lips whilst sucking on his tip. His eyelids flutter as I suck harder, slathering him in my saliva. His hand rests gently on my head, then slides down to hold my cheek as I slide his length in and out of my mouth. "Beautiful," he murmurs, and I feel him pulse in my mouth as I moan for him.
His lustful sighs are so intoxicating that my own arousal drips down my inner thigh. I squirm, pressing my thighs together I ease Michael's cock deep into my throat and hold him here. He pulses, precum oozing so much I can taste him. "That's it," he praises softly, caressing my cheek with his thumb, "that's it, baby."
My eyes water as I slide him out, gasping for air. I blink the moisture away and lick my lips, gazing up at him.
"Lie back."
I do as he asks, completely entranced by him. My heart races as my thighs spread, revealing myself to his eyes. I slide my fingers down my stomach, towards my pussy. I'm soaked, completely, and I might've been embarrassed if it had been any of those random guys but Michael seems so into it that I'm into it too.
He touches me, grazing those long fingers through my slit before easing one inside of me. Pleasure tingles through me, but I want more. Right now.
"Please," I whine, spreading my thighs further, "Please, please, please."
He smiles, still so reserved despite his focus being locked in on my cunt. Then he's moving over me, positioning himself at my entrance, sliding inside. I gasp as my toes curl, my back arching as he fills me.
"Jesus," he hisses, using his forearms to hold himself over me as he stills between my thighs. I whine more, squirming against him, wanting more friction. Then he's moving, hips thrusting into me, pleasure spreading all over my body.
"Oh, fuck," I moan, caressing my hands up his arms to his shoulders. My legs bend and press back into the mattress, spreading myself wider for him. He groans, noticing my flexibility, pushes himself deeper, thrusts faster, more eager.
Obscene sounds leak out of where our bodies connect. I'm so wet, I can hear each movement. But I don't care, this man is insanely hot. I've never been this turned on before. I whine, wanting his lips and pout my own, "Kiss me,"
He does, and I wrap my arms around his neck as his hips continue to pound himself into me.
Then he's pulling out, motioning with a flick of those long fingers for me to turn over. I do so, eagerly pushing my ass in the air as he holds my hips.
This is exciting, so exciting. I'm keening, blushing and smiling as he pushes his cock back inside me, groaning as my wet heat envelopes him again. From this angle he hits a sweet spot inside of me, sending fireworks up my back. "God," I moan into my pillow, gripping the sheets as he grips my ass, smoothing a palms over the flesh then lightly slapping it.
"Feel good, baby?" he asks, voice hushed and so gentle I press myself back into him.
"Yes," I reply, glancing at him over my shoulder, "so so good. You're a king, baby."
His thrusts harden, grip tightening on my hips. An orgasm begins, tingling up from my toes, making me whine needily. "Don't stop," I plead. He groans, quickening his pace. "Just like that," I gasp, tingling rising faster and faster.
"Inside me," I beg, so overcome with desire and pleasure I don't want anything else but to feel this man release inside me. "Cum inside me, please."
His groans turn into a moans, thrusts hard and fast. My own orgasm hits me, and my vision whites out. I cry out, trembling, pulsing around him. With one last thrust, he cuts, pressing himself deep, holding himself there.
I can feel him throbbing, moisture sliding down my inner thigh. I'm panting into my mattress, dazed and relaxed as Michael caresses my hips, then slowly pulls out of me. I squeak when he pops free, surprised at how tightly my sex was holding onto him.
I flop forwards, then twist onto my back, looking to the man who made me orgasm harder than I have done before. "Where're you going?" I ask softly as he stands, reaches for his boxers, cock still hard and glistening.
He glances at me, face calm, despite the slight flush in his cheeks. "What do you mean?" he asks.
"Stay," I command in a light voice, patting the bed beside me. There is more than enough space, and I plan on having him again before dawn. I hold eye contact, knowing I'm going to get what I want, since I usually do. He watches me for a moment before he moves back onto the bed, lies next to me.
I smile, pleased, then get up, heading to the bathroom to clean up, wash my make up off and everything else. "Don't go anywhere," I tease, padding nude to the bathroom. He smiles a little, though I can see it in his face he can't quite believe we fucked.
When I reemerge, clean and ready for bed, he's still there. I climb into bed beside him, smiling at him. "What is it?" I ask.
"You're so young," he mutters.
"I'm twenty five. A full adult, actually."
"I mean in comparison to me."
I grin, and he glances away from me, lifting his hand to rub at his brow, as if he is genuinely stressed about this. I giggle at him. "Oh stop fretting, old man," I grasp his wrist, pulling his hand away from his face, "our age gap isn't that bad, I've been approached by eighty year olds."
He looks at me, frowning, "And you accepted?"
"No! I'm not a hoe."
He sighs, looking back to the ceiling. I want to laugh at him so bad because I can still see him thinking about our age gap. Which is not even that bad. Only fourteen years.
"Want to take me out to breakfast tomorrow?" I ask. He glances at me. "If it'll make you feel more like a gentlemen."
"Sure," he agrees. I yawn into my hand and snuggle close him, deciding in that moment, as he puts his arm around me, that I think I'd like to keep him. I've been thinking about getting a boyfriend for a few weeks now, actually.
"Are you on birth control?" Michael asks once we've been quiet for a few minutes.
"Yes," I say sleepily, eyes closed as I rest my head on his chest. "Disappointed?" I ask the quiet. He huffs, and I smirk.
We fuck again when morning comes, finishing inside me when I ask him to, then he does as he said he would, and takes me out for breakfast. I'm smiling like crazy at the odd romance of it all. He chooses a nice place for breakfast that gives us a private room so we can drink mimosas and eat smoked salmon.
I kind of half expect him to bid me farewell for good when his limousine drops me back at my hotel, but when I'm about to get out, he says: "wait."
I glance back at him, fluttering my eyelashes. "Yes?"
"Your cell phone."
I bite my lip as I grin, sliding the device out of my little pink purse. I hand my phone to him, and he gives me his, though frowns when he sees my rhinestone covered device.
When he hands me my phone back, I smirk at his contact. "Michael Jackson," I say, as if I wouldn't know who it is. The fact he put his full name is hilarious. "Cool," I grin, "call me, okay?"
He nods, so serious and so reserved. I'm giddy as I step out of his limousine and head back into my hotel, heels clicking with a big fat smile on my face.
Yeah, I know that man is mine now.
____________________________________________
End notes:
Okay so what did we think?! I’m low key in such a mature Michael Jackson phase that I’ve been devouring all content like a maniac omg.
That person who was asking if Bill reads any letters to his fans is really creepy.. Even they asked Mortox 😭
Yeah i saw that😅 I’m just confused as to why they would think i would know if he reads them. I don’t know Bill personally, why/how would I know he even gets letters🙃 I saw Mortox’s story too, that’s wild.
Yes I do! It's Hannimite as well, but I haven't posted on it in over a year, and I don't plan on it either. It's a thing in the past, good while it lasted.
omg, that "letter mailbox" person is EVERYWHERE, I see them ask the same question on every tiktok, tumblr... what do they expect ? that they will write a letter to bill and he will magically fall in love with them ?
I don't even know, nor do I know why they would think I would know the answer lol. I ended up blocking them on instagram cause at this point it's creepy and annoying.
Why tf are you so angry? She literally asked once and you’re going crazy? Maybe she thought you knew because you’ve been a fan of Bill for a while. Can't you just answer normally?
childish.
I posted on my instagram, this isn’t the first time she has asked me this. It's about her 4th time. She asked me 3 times on tumblr, I only answered her once, then she got to my instagram acc.
pixelskylines
izzy806
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
vaporwave
areudirty
dailybridgerton
gummygunk
turnnoffyourmind
