summary: michael wants to take you out to celebrate the release of both of your albums, and an unexpected guest makes the celebration take a slight turn
themes/triggers: diana ross, fluff, smut, jealousy, praise kink, slightly sub!michael
author's note: reposted from my wattpad & ao3
1980
new york
You were excited.
Your new self-titled album had just dropped, your single Never Knew Love Like This Before was climbing and climbing the charts until it felt like you heard it everywhere, and even now, it hadn't fully settled in your mind that this was real. At the same time, your boyfriend's album, Off The Wall, had done the same, his voice spilling into every space, Don't Stop Til You Get Enough, Rock With You, songs you had heard in pieces before the world ever touched them, now living lives of their own.
Pride settled deep in your chest every time you thought about him, steady and warm, because you knew what it had taken to get here. You had been there for it. All of it.
Tonight, he wanted to take you out to celebrate you both. There was something about that, about the fact that after years of growing up together, creating music side by side from Motown to Epic Records, you were finally standing in the middle of everything you had worked for, that made the moment feel bigger than just a night out. Off The Wall played through your apartment as you got ready, his voice wrapping around you, grounding you in something familiar even as everything else felt like it was changing.
He had brought you the vinyl himself, placing it in your hands with that quiet sincerity of his, and even now the memory lingered, the weight of it still sitting with you.
This one is dedicated to you. Your belief got me here. I love you so much. â MJ
You had cried when you read it because of how intentionally he had given it to you, how plainly he had put something so big into words. You had done the same when your album was finished, your current single came from the way you felt about him, something you had let him hear before anyone else. You still remembered the way he had listened, the way his attention had settled completely on you like nothing else existed.
He had a key to your apartment now. It had felt natural to give it to him after you had been dating for a year. He was turning 22 this year, and you had just turned 21. Three years together, since ages 19 and 18, had turned into something steady, something built on years of knowing each other before anything ever changed, and even now it didn't feel separate from thatâit felt like a continuation, something deeper.
When Michael walks inside, the sound of Rock With You echoing through your apartment immediately pulls a smile from him, his own voice filling the space as the faint sound of the shower running tells him exactly where you are. There's an ease in the way he moves through your apartment, like it belongs to him just as much as it does to you, and in a way, it does.
He makes his way to your room, settling onto your bed, letting himself relax into it as he sings along under his breath, his voice blending with the track, the rhythm carrying through him as he waits without impatience.
After about 10 minutes, the water cuts off, and 5 minutes after that, you emerge from the bathroom to see a figure on your bed, and you scream.
"Baby, whoa, it's me," Michael's voice cuts through immediately, grounding you before the fear can fully take hold, your breath catching as the tension in your body slowly releases, your heart still racing from the shock.
"Jesus, Michael. You scared the hell out of me," you say, your voice still carrying that leftover adrenaline as he pushes himself off your bed and walks toward you, that small, knowing smirk sitting on his lips like he's not entirely sorry.
Wrapped only in your towel, your skin still warm from the shower, your curls damp and falling around your face, you're completely unguarded, and the moment he takes you in, something shifts in him. His gaze drags over you slowly, instinctively, his bottom lip caught between his teeth before he even realizes he's doing it.
"I'm sorry, baby girl, come here," he says, softer now, pulling you into him without hesitation, his arms settling around you as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. The warmth of him is immediate, familiar in a way that makes everything else fade just a little, and you lean into him without thinking, your head resting against his chest as the last of the tension leaves your body.
"You and this towel... we might have to be late tonight," Michael murmurs into your hair, his voice dropping just enough to make the implication linger, and the sound of your laugh comes easily, even as heat rises to your cheeks.
"Stop," you say, but there's no real resistance in it, only that soft embarrassment as you pull back, your fingers brushing briefly against his chest before you step away, your attention shifting as you finally take him in properly.
"You look good," you say, your gaze lingering now, slower, more intentional as you take in the details: the way the silk of his shirt catches the light, black and deep red running through it in a way that shifts with every movement he makes, the fabric sitting close enough to hint at the shape of him beneath it. The vest sharpens everything, pulling his frame into something structured and clean, while the fitted pants complete it, tailored in a way that makes every movement feel deliberate without effort.
Michael watches you watching him with a smirk on his face.
"Like what you see, baby?" he asks, and the way he says it lingers just enough to make your cheeks warm again, your attention slipping away from him as you turn toward your closet, needing something to ground yourself.
You know exactly what you're reaching for the moment you see it, that small, private smile forming as you take it down, already aware of him behind you, of the way his attention hasn't shifted at all. You don't rush, not when you can feel him watching, not when that awareness settles into something heavier the longer you let it sit.
Your movements are slow as your hands guide your underwear up your legs gradually, the fabric sliding against your skin in a way that feels deliberate, controlled, your awareness of him sharpening every second. By the time you reach for the fishnet tights, that tension has settled into something undeniable, the delicate pattern stretching over your legs as you smooth them into place, your hands moving slower than they need to, just enough to keep him watching.
Behind you, he's gone quiet, completely focused.
Michael feels his dick twitching, his pants getting tighter as he watches you, and he bites his lip, his breathing shifting just slightly as the weight of the moment settles into him.
When you step into your skirt, you let the fabric gather at your thighs before pulling it up, the leopard print stretching as it slides over your hips, settling high on your waist, hugging your curves in a way that makes his gaze drop before it drags back up again, slower this time.
Then the corset.
The black leather catches the light as you pull it on, glossy and structured, the zipper sliding up the front as it molds to you, cinching your waist and sharply lifting your chestâleaving nothing unclear about the fact that you're wearing nothing underneath. That realization hits him immediately, and he shifts slightly where he stands, the tension in him deepening, harder to ignore now.
You fasten your belt, thick and studded, grounding the look, then slide into your jacket, the dark fabric settling over your shoulders with an effortless weight. When you pull on your boots, the added height shifts the way you stand, the way you carry yourself, something more controlled settling into your posture.
When you turn around, Michael is completely still.
Whatever teasing had been there is gone, replaced with something quieter, something heavier as his eyes move over you slowly, taking everything in without rushing, the contrast, the confidence, the way every piece fits you like it belongs. The room feels smaller for a moment, like the space between you has tightened without either of you moving.
"Like what you see, baby?" You tease him back, your voice light but edged with something knowing as you take in the way he's looking at you: his jaw slightly slack, his gaze darker now, heavier, like something in him has shifted completely.
It's not subtle, the way his eyes move over you again, slower this time, lingering, and you don't miss the way his body has reacted either, the tension in him visible even through the way he's trying to hold himself together.
"You play a dangerous game. Imma get you back tonight," he says, his voice low, carrying that promise easily, and it only pulls your smirk wider, something in your chest tightening in anticipation rather than hesitation.
"I'm counting on it," you say, the words coming out softer than the look on your face suggests, like you mean it more than you're letting on.
Michael doesn't wait after that. He closes the distance between you, and the shift is immediate, the space between you disappearing as your bodies align, the warmth of him grounding and consuming at the same time.
"You look gorgeous... if another man even looks at you tonight," he says, his voice dipping just enough to carry something protective beneath it, something that makes you laugh even as you wrap your arms around him, your hands settling against him like they belong there.
"Don't worry, baby. I'm all yours," you say, and there's no teasing in that, just something steady and certain that meets the way he's looking at you.
Michael leans down, pressing his lips against yours, the hunger behind it clear in the way he holds you, the way his hand tightens at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer even though there's no space left to close. It's grounding and overwhelming all at once, the kind of kiss that makes everything else fall away, your breath catching as you melt into it without thinking.
When he pulls away, it takes a second for the world to settle back into place, your breath unsteady, your chest rising and falling just a little faster than before.
"Only mine," his voice comes out low and possessive, quieter than before but heavier, the words settling into you in a way that sends a slow shiver through your body, something that lingers rather than fades. "Ready to go?" he asks, his tone shifting just enough to bring you back to the moment, but the weight of what just passed between you is still there.
You nod, your smile returning easily, softer now but no less real.
"Let's go celebrate us," you say, and there's something about the way you say it, about the way your eyes meet his, that makes his own smile come just as naturally.
He doesn't let go of you when you move, his hand staying at your waist as the two of you leave your apartment together. The hallway feels quieter, the outside world waiting just beyond it, and when you step out toward the car, Bill is already there, ready and familiar, and it finally settles in.
Studio 54 was lively like it always was, but tonight it felt amplified somehow, like the energy in the air had sharpened just enough to match the one already buzzing through you. The line stretched out the door, a sea of bodies pressed together in anticipation, voices overlapping, music faintly spilling out every time the door opened. The moment Bill parked, everything shifted.
He came around and opened the door for you and Michael, and the second your feet hit the pavement, the noise swelled. Cameras flashed in rapid bursts, white light flickering across your vision as paparazzi called out your names, the crowd surging closer, louder, hands reaching, voices overlapping: some calling for Michael, some calling for you, and some calling for both of you at once.
"Kiss! Kiss!"
The chant builds, playful but insistent, and you can't help the laugh that slips out of you, the moment feeling almost unreal as Michael's hand tightens around yours, firm and grounding. There's a subtle shift in him when the crowd presses in, his grip more protective now, his body angling slightly toward you without thinking as Bill clears a path, guiding you both forward through the chaos and into the club.
The transition is immediate.
The noise outside dulls into something distant as you step inside, replaced by the deep pulse of music and the glow of colored lights cutting through the dark. Ladies Night by Kool and the Gang wraps around you instantly, the rhythm familiar, infectious, and you feel your smile widen without effort as you turn to look at him.
You don't even have to say anything.
The second your eyes meet his, his cheeks flush, that soft, knowing reaction settling over him because he knows exactly where your mind just went. A few months ago. The AMAs.
You both had been nominated that night. Favorite Soul/R&B Female Artist for you, Favorite Soul/R&B Male Artist for him, and everything else that followed for Off The Wall, but that wasn't what stayed with you. Not really.
It had been him.
Sitting there, completely in his own world, with a wide smile on his face as Kool and the Gang performed Ladies Night, his head bobbing to the beat, singing along like he wasn't in a room full of industry executives, like he wasn't being watched. Like he was just Michael.
And you had sat there, watching him, thinking how easy it was to love him.
"Dance with me?" he asks, his voice pulling you back into the present, soft but eager in that way he gets when music is involved.
You don't hesitate.
You take his hand and pull him toward the dance floor, your laughter blending into his as he follows easily, like he was always going to. The second you stop, his hands find your waist without thought, familiar and sure, grounding you as he spins you, the movement smooth, effortless, your body falling into rhythm with his like it always does.
The music shifts.
The opening beat of Get On the Floor hits, louder, deeper, and something in both of you responds instantly. You turn toward him with a smile just as he pulls you in, your bodies closing the distance naturally, like it's second nature.
"So get on the floor... and dance with me," Michael's voice echoes through the room, layered over the track, familiar in a way that sends a thrill through you every time.
You turn so your back is against his chest, your body already moving before you even think about it, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and you feel him follow immediately, his movements syncing with yours without hesitation.
His lips brush against your ear.
"I love the way you shake ya thing. Especially," he sings along, his voice low, close enough that you feel it more than hear it, and the heat that rushes through you is immediate, spreading from your chest down, settling low and heavy. His arm wraps fully around your waist, his hand resting flat against your stomach, firm and steady, holding you in place as your bodies continue to move together.
Time blurs.
One song fades into another, then another, until the air around you feels thicker, warmer, your skin slightly damp, your breathing just a little heavier. The energy doesn't drop, it just builds, each movement feeding into the next until you're both caught in it, lost in the rhythm, in each other.
By the time you step away from the dance floor, you're both flushed, slightly sweaty, your chest rising and falling a little faster as you make your way to the bar. The cool surface beneath your hands feels grounding after the heat of the floor, the bartender sliding water toward both of you before you order your drink, the first sip cutting through the warmth lingering in your body.
You sit there together, close, your knee brushing his again as you both take a moment, smiling at each other in that quiet, shared way that doesn't need words. You know him well enough to recognize it, the look in his eyes, the restless energy still sitting in him.
He's not done dancing, not even close, and you don't mind.
You're still smiling when it happens, your attention lingering on him, on the way his energy hasn't settled even though you've stepped off the floor, when the moment shifts without warning.
You don't see her as she approaches; you don't see her until it's too late.
"Michael! I thought that was you!"
The sound of her voice cuts cleanly through the space between you, and something in you reacts before your mind fully catches up, your jaw tightening just slightly as you turn alongside him, the movement controlled enough that it would go unnoticed by anyone who wasn't paying attention. But Michael is always paying attention to you in ways no one else is, and the subtle shift doesn't escape him, not even for a second.
He notices everything about you, the smallest changes, the ones most people would miss, and even though your expression hasn't fully changed, even though your posture remains relaxed, he feels it in the way your energy shifts beside him.
He knows how you feel about Diana, and you know how he feels about her.
You had seen it firsthand, growing up at Motown, watching the way his attention shifted when she was around, the way he looked at her like she was something untouchable, something larger than life. Back then, it had been easier to dismiss, easier to let it exist as part of who he was, because you were young, because everything was different.
But you had also seen the way she moved around him, the way she leaned into that admiration, how easily she blurred lines that shouldn't have been touched, taking advantage of something he hadn't fully understood yet.
Because while he may still carry that admiration, still see her through the lens of who she was to him, you see her for exactly what she is.
You see the shift in Michael immediately: the way he straightens just slightly, the way his smile comes a little easier, touched with something rooted in memory and admiration. Still, even as his attention turns toward her, his hand doesn't leave you, resting where it had been on your thigh just above your knee, warm and steady, grounding you in a way that feels intentional.
"Diana, hey," Michael says.
She leans in without hesitation, pressing a kiss to one cheek and then the other, her presence close, her body angled toward him as though you aren't sitting right there, as though the space beside him hasn't already been claimed. The familiarity of it isn't subtle, and neither is the way she settles into it.
"I didn't know you'd be here tonight," Diana says, and it takes more effort than you'd like to admit not to react, not to let the irritation that rises in you show, because you know she sees you, you know she's aware of exactly where you're sitting. Michael, though, doesn't shift away from you. If anything, the angle of his body keeps you included, his hand still where it was, his presence still anchored beside you.
"I'm here with my girl," Michael says, his foot hooking around your stool as he pulls you just a little closer, a subtle movement that doesn't break the flow of the conversation but changes the space all the same. "We're celebrating," he adds, and it's only then that Diana turns to you, her expression brightening as if she's only just noticed you.
"Oh, hi, sweetie. I didn't even see you there," Diana says as she leans in, mirroring the same greeting she gave him, her lips brushing both of your cheeks, and you keep your expression composed, even as the urge to roll your eyes presses at the edges of your control.
"Diana," you greet her respectfully, your tone even, measured, and she steps back just enough to take both of you in.
"Well, aren't you two just the sweetest couple... who would've seen it coming back during our days at Motown," Diana says, her voice light, almost amused, and you lift your glass to your lips instead of responding, letting the cool water settle you, letting the moment pass without giving her anything more than what's necessary.
Beside you, you feel Michael's attention shift again, softer this time, and when you glance at him, he's already looking at you, that smile on his face, the one that belongs only to you, unguarded, full of something deeper than anything else in the room.
"I knew," Michael says, his hand tightening slightly on your thigh as he says it, a quiet emphasis that doesn't need to be louder to be felt.
You meet his gaze, and despite everything, you smile.
The music changes, and you feel it before you fully register it, the familiar opening of Upside Down threading through the room, and the moment shifts again. Diana turns back to him instantly, her smile widening, her energy lifting with the beat.
"Come on, Michael! You have to dance with me, please?" Diana asks, her tone playful but insistent, and the second the words leave her mouth, your body tenses under his hand without you meaning to, the reaction automatic.
He feels it, of course, he does.
His eyes flick to you immediately, just for a second, searching, checking, but you already know what this is, already recognize the intention behind it, the subtle way she positions it like an invitation when it's something else entirely.
You shrug. He's a grown man.
"Come on, come on," Diana says, not waiting for him to fully answer before she's already pulling him from his seat, her hand wrapped around his arm as she leads him toward the dance floor. You watch it happen without moving, your fingers tightening slightly around your glass as you track them, your attention sharpening rather than drifting.
And then, just like that, he's in it.
The music takes over the way it always does with him, his body responding without hesitation, that familiar ease settling into him as he smiles, laughs, lets himself fall into the rhythm. It's natural, effortless, the same way it always is when he dances, and for a moment, it almost softens something in you.
Almost, because Diana isn't just dancing.
There's intention in the way she moves around him, in the way she closes the space between them, in the way her hands linger just a second longer than they need to, brushing against him in ways that aren't accidental. You watch closely, every detail registering, every movement noted, and what stands out isn't just what she's doing, it's what he isn't.
Every time she moves too close, too deliberate, you see it, the way he shifts, subtle but consistent, angling his body just enough to create space, to keep the interaction from becoming something else. It's instinctive, not performative, something he isn't even aware he's doing, and you catch every single one.
Then he looks at you.
Even from across the floor, his attention finds you, like it always does, his hand lifting in that familiar gesture, open and certain, an invitation meant only for you.
You don't rush.
You finish your drink first, letting the last sip settle before setting the glass down, your movements measured as you slide off the stool and make your way toward him. Diana notices immediately, of course she does, her attention snapping back to him, her hands reaching again, trying to pull him back into her space, to keep his focus where she wants it.
And every time she touches him, something in you tightens.
By the time you reach him, his expression has shifted completely, his eyes lighting up in a way that makes everything else feel secondary, his hand extending toward you without hesitation. You take it, letting him pull you in as the beat drops, your body aligning with his in one smooth motion as he spins you into him, closing the space between you until there's nothing left of it.
Your body melts into his naturally, like it always does, the music settling back into you as you let yourself move with him, your hips rolling slowly, deliberately, and he follows without missing a beat, his movements syncing with yours in that effortless way that always feels a little unreal. There's something electric in it, in the way your bodies respond to each other, in the way everything else fades the longer you stay there.
Behind you, you're aware of her. You don't need to look to know she's still trying.
You feel it in the shift of movement around you, in the brush of her hand along his shoulder, his back, in the way she circles, searching for a way back in. But when Michael turns to her, it's different now, his smile polite, brief, something that acknowledges her without inviting her closer.
And then the song begins to fade.
The beat transitions, Donna Summer rising through the room, and Michael's attention settles fully back on you as he turns you to face him, his hands finding their place without hesitation, his focus steady, grounded, entirely yours as he smiles.
Like nothing and no one else matters.
"Oh, Michael. I'm doing a TV special soon, and I want you to be one of my guests," Diana said, and the effect of it settles over him almost immediately, not exaggerated, not overwhelming, but present in the way his posture softens just slightly, in the quiet, genuine smile that forms as the offer lands.
It catches him off guard in the best way, because it matters to him, her approval, her invitation, the continued connection to something that shaped him long before the two of you became what you are now.
"I would love to," Michael says without hesitation, the answer coming easily, instinctively, because to him, there's nothing complicated about it.
Of course, there isn't.
From where you stand, it's not the offer itself that lingers, but everything surrounding it, the way Diana's attention moves, the brief flick of her eyes toward you before returning to him, like she's acknowledging your presence without ever truly including you in the moment.
When she steps forward and wraps her arms around him, pulling him into a hug that requires him to let go of you, you feel that shift more than you see it, the absence of his touch noticeable in a way that shouldn't matter as much as it does. You adjust your stance, not dramatically, just enough to create space for something you don't want to be part of, your attention sharpening rather than drifting as you watch.
He doesn't catch it: not the intention behind it, not the way she holds onto him just a second longer than necessary, not the subtle way her presence expands to fill the space. To him, it's familiar, rooted in years of history that don't feel complicated from where he stands. To you, it reads differently, layered with an awareness that hasn't left you since those early days at Motown, when admiration and boundaries didn't always exist separately.
Still, you don't let it grow into something larger than it needs to be, because whatever influence she once held over him has already shifted, softened by time and replaced by something steadier, something grounded in what the two of you have built together.
"You can sing some songs from your new album, and then I was thinking we should sing Ease on Down the Road," Diana says, and you see the way his expression lifts at that, the familiarity of it pulling at him, the memory of something shared resurfacing easily. When they separate, though, the distance doesn't fully return; her hand still lingering, his not quite withdrawing immediately either, and it's small, subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice.
But you do.
Your jaw tightens just slightly, controlled, contained, something you feel more than show.
"That would be great... how many songs from my album do you want me to sing?" Michael asks, already engaged, already leaning into the idea, his tone thoughtful as he considers it.
"At least two," Diana says, and he nods easily before turning back to you, and that shift, however small, grounds you again, his attention finding you like it always does, even in the middle of something else.
"And my girl can come too, right?" Michael asks, the question simple but deliberate, placing you back into the center of the moment in a way that leaves no room for interpretation.
You see it land, the way her expression tightens for just a fraction of a second before smoothing over, the smile returning in a way that's practiced, controlled, her gaze settling on you now with a kind of expectation behind it.
"Of course she can come, if that's what she wants to do," Diana says, and the phrasing lingers, leaving the decision in your hands in a way that feels intentional, like she's waiting to see if you'll remove yourself from the situation on your own.
Michael doesn't look away from you.
There's something in his expression: hopeful, but also aware, that tells you he feels the shift in you even if he doesn't fully understand it, and for a moment, everything narrows down to that, to the way he's watching you, waiting.
"Of course, I will come support you," you say, and the words are steady, but there's a strain beneath them that he catches immediately, even if no one else does.
He hears it, and he doesn't like it.
"Well, it was nice seeing you, Diana," Michael says, and the change in his tone is subtle but unmistakable, something firmer settling into it, something that closes the moment rather than continuing it. Diana catches it too, the shift registering in the brief pause that follows, the realization that he's not extending the interaction, that he's drawing a line.
"You two enjoy your celebration," Diana says before stepping away, her composure intact, but the energy she leaves behind is different than the one she arrived with.
The moment she's gone, his attention returns to you completely, immediate and unwavering, his focus narrowing in a way that makes everything else feel distant.
"I'm sorry, I didn't know she was going to be here," he says, and there's no hesitation in it, no defensiveness, just something sincere that settles into the space between you.
You shake your head slightly, the movement small but certain, not wanting him to take on something that isn't his.
"It's not you," you say, and even as the words leave you, he frowns, because it doesn't matter to him whether it's his fault or not; what matters is that you're not okay.
"You don't have to come to the TV special," he says, offering it easily, like your comfort outweighs everything else tied to it, and you study him for a second, the question forming before you can stop it.
"Why? Because you don't want me there?" you ask, and he shakes his head immediately, the answer already there before you finish.
"Baby... don't do that, I always want you there... but I know how you feel about her, and I don't want you to be uncomfortable," Michael says, and the honesty in it softens something in you, even as the tension lingers in the background.
You sigh, because you do love him for that, for the way he prioritizes you without hesitation, even when he doesn't fully see what you see.
"I can push my dislike of her aside to support you," you say, and he exhales quietly, the weight of it settling over him.
"Baby... I wouldn't be here without her. She did so much for my brothers and me," Michael says, and you shake your head, not dismissing it, not arguing the truth of it, but not willing to step into that conversation here, not now.
"I'm not going to go back and forth in the middle of a club with you about how you feel about Diana Ross," you say, keeping your voice even, steady, refusing to let the moment escalate into something it doesn't need to become.
He frowns, caught between wanting to stay in the night, in the celebration, and knowing that something in you has shifted in a way that won't settle if it's ignored, and when his hand finds yours again, the grip is firmer this time, grounding.
"How I feel? What are you talking about? You know you're the only person I love," Michael says, the words landing with more weight now, more intention, something steady and certain that doesn't waver.
You don't answer right away. Instead, you look at him, and in that look, there's more than one thing at once: trust, frustration, understanding, something unresolved, and he feels it, even if he can't name all of it.
He doesn't push. He just tightens his hold on your hand slightly before shifting his weight, already moving.
"Come on," he says, and you follow without hesitation, your fingers still wrapped in his as he leads you through the crowd, away from the noise, away from the moment.
"Where are we going?" you ask, your voice quieter now, but still steady as you keep pace with him.
"Home. Because if you're not gonna believe me when I say I only love you, then I have to show you," Michael says, and the way he says it settles into you immediately, not rushed, not impulsive, but certain in a way that makes your breath catch just slightly.
You bite down on your lip as you follow him, because you never said you didn't believe him, not out loud, not directly, but you also didn't say that you did. And now, with the way his hand holds yours, with the way he's already guiding you out of the night without hesitation, there's something else settling in its place.
You and Michael enter your apartment, and the silence that settles between you isn't emptyâit's thick, charged, filled with everything that wasn't said in the car, everything that's been building since the moment the night shifted.
When you close the door, Michael doesn't give the space a chance to breathe.
He's on you immediately, his hand pressing firmly against your back as he guides you against the door, his body following, closing the distance in a way that feels urgent but controlled. His eyes search yours, not casually, not passively, but with intent, like he's looking for something specific, something he needs to see.
"You still don't believe me?" he asks, his voice rougher, firmer, the softness from earlier replaced with something more grounded, more certain.
"I never said I didn't believe you," you say softly as you shake your head, your voice steady even as your chest rises slightly with the closeness of him. "I hate that she touches you like she owns you," you add, the words coming out quieter, but heavier, carrying something that's been sitting under your skin all night.
Michael's expression shifts at that, a small frown pulling at his features as his hand lifts to your cheek, his touch warm, grounding, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin while his body stays pressed to yours.
"She don't own me, baby... you do," Michael says, and the words land deeper than you expect, your breath stuttering just slightly as he leans in closer. "You own every part of me. My heart, my body, my soul, it's yours," he whispers as he kisses you.
There's no hesitation in the way you respond.
Your arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, your kiss meeting his with more force, more intention, like you need to feel it, not just hear it. The urgency in him meets the intensity in you, the two blending together until there's no separation between who's leading and who's following.
"I'm yours," Michael says to you.
"Say it again," you say, your voice lower now, edged with something more controlled, more deliberate, your fingers already moving to his shirt, undoing each button slowly, intentionally, your eyes flicking up to his as a small smile begins to form.
His reaction is immediate.
Michael's eyes close the moment your lips touch his skin, your kisses trailing along the newly exposed warmth of him, your touch making his breath catch, his chest rising a little quicker beneath your hands as you continue.
"Say it," you whisper.
"I'm yours, no one else's," Michael repeats, his voice softer now, but heavier, like the words mean more each time he says them, like he's settling into them as you pull his shirt fully open.
You don't stop.
Once it's unbuttoned, he shrugs it off, letting it fall without thought, his focus entirely on you, on the way your hands move over him, on the way your mouth lingers. You kick your heels off by the door, the sound barely registering before you step out of his hold, creating just enough distance to shift the dynamic.
You don't say anything at first.
You just turn, walking toward your bedroom with a quiet confidence, something controlled in the way you move, something that makes him pause where he stands. When you glance back over your shoulder, catching him still by the door, it's like he's waiting for direction, like he's already given that control over to you without question.
"Come on, Michael," you say.
He blinks, snapping out of it, and follows immediately, his steps quicker now, like he doesn't want to fall behind, like he doesn't want to lose whatever this is becoming.
This time, when the bedroom door shuts, the shift is unmistakable.
You're the one who presses him back, your hand firm against his chest as you guide him against it, the reversal immediate, natural. Your hands trail down his bare skin, slow, deliberate, feeling every inch of him beneath your palms, and he closes his eyes at the contact, his head tilting back slightly as he lets himself feel it.
"Baby..." Michael says, his voice softer now, but thick with need, like it's sitting just under the surface.
"I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this," you say, your tone steady, not raised, but certain, and when his eyes open to meet yours, there's no hesitation in his response.
He nods.
There's something in the way he looks at you now, something new, something that wasn't there before, or maybe something that's always been there but never fully brought out like this. He's used to you being steady, grounded, not reactive, but this? This possessiveness, this certainty in your claim over him, settles into him fast, and you can see it, feel it in the way his breathing shifts. It only makes him need you more.
"You're the only one I want to," Michael responds. You step back just enough to give him space, your hand dropping from his chest as you gesture toward the bed.
"Go sit on the bed," you say.
He doesn't question it.
Michael moves immediately, sitting where you told him to, his posture almost too still, his hands folding together in his lap like he doesn't quite know what you're going to do next but is completely willing to find out. His curls are slightly messy from your fingers earlier, his chest rising and falling a little faster than normal, his eyes tracking you as you take him in fully.
You let yourself look.
Shirtless, slightly undone, waiting.
There's something about that, about him sitting there like that, open, receptive, that pulls something deeper out of you as you move toward him again.
When you settle into his lap, his hands come to you immediately, instinctively, wrapping around your waist and pressing you closer, like he needs that contact, like he can't help it. Your lips trail down from his collarbone, slow and deliberate, your hands flattening against his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart under your touch.
You guide him back without force, just enough pressure for him to follow, and he does, lying back as you continue, your kisses moving lower, your presence lingering just enough to make him exhale softly beneath you.
You stop just above his pants, and then you shift again.
Your lips find their way back up to his, the kiss harder this time, more consuming, like you're reminding him who he belongs to, like you're grounding him in it again. His hands move immediately, hiking your skirt up, bunching the fabric at your waist as his palms find your body, gripping, holding, not hesitantly but with a growing confidence that mirrors the way you've taken control of the moment.
When your hips begin to move against him, slow at first, then more deliberate, you both feel it, the shift in him, the way his body responds, the tension building, pressing against the thin barrier of his boxers, the fabric of his pants tightening as his breath catches under you.
His hands tighten slightly where they rest on you.
"Baby... I need you," Michael whines in your ear, the sound soft but strained, like it's being pulled out of him instead of spoken. You feel it more than you hear it, the way it catches in his throat, the way his body tightens beneath you as if he's trying to hold himself together.
You press a kiss to his forehead, lingering just long enough for it to settle into him, and when you pull back, there's a small smile on your lips, something knowing, something controlled.
"I know... but not yet," you say with a smile.
The contrast of it, the softness of your tone against the restraint you're holding, only makes him more restless, and you feel it in the way his hands tighten slightly on you, like he's trying not to rush you, trying to let you take control even when everything in him wants the opposite.
Your hands move to the buckle of his belt, your fingers brushing against it as your eyes flick up to his, silently asking, and the response is immediate. He nods quickly, almost too quickly, like he's been waiting for you to touch him there, like even that small permission matters to him right now.
You unbuckle his belt slowly, letting the sound of it slide into the quiet of the room before you pull it free, your movements unhurried, intentional. When you move to his pants, undoing them just as slowly, he exhales, his chest rising under your touch, his body already reacting before you've even done much at all. You feel his arousal press into your thigh, and you bite your lip.
You stand from his lap, just long enough to pull them off of him, and the shift in distance is brief but noticeable, the absence of your body against his making him look up at you with something almost pleading in his expression before you settle back into him again.
When you sit back on his lap, the contact is immediate, the pressure of him pressing into your thigh, and you don't miss the way his breath hitches, the way his hands find you again without hesitation, like he needs to hold onto something.
Your hand lifts to your corset, your fingers working it open slowly, and the second it loosens, the moment your skin is exposed, something in him falters. His lip catches between his teeth, his gaze dropping and then lifting again like he doesn't know where to look first, like he's trying to take all of you in at once.
You feel the way he presses more into you, and his breath stutters. Seeing your chest bare, but still wearing the leather jacket, was making him needier. You could feel him throbbing against you.
"Baby," his voice catches in his throat, the word barely making it out, and there's something about the way he says it, soft, almost reverent, that settles into you deeper than anything else.
Your skirt is still bunched at your hips, and you lift up slowly, pulling it down and off your body, letting it fall away until there's nothing left but your leather jacket, the fishnet tights, and your panties. The shift in you is immediate, the air against your skin, the way his eyes move over you now without interruption, without distraction.
You lean down toward him, closing the space again, your lips brushing against his neck, slow, intentional, your voice dropping just enough to stay between the two of you.
"How much do you need me, Michael?" you tease.
The reaction is instant. You feel it in the way his body tightens, in the way his breath catches again, softer this time, almost breaking, and when he lets out that quiet whimper, it settles low in your chest, pulling something deeper out of you.
You don't stop.
Your lips move against his skin, pressing, dragging, your teeth grazing just enough to leave something behind, something that marks him, something that lingers. His hands tighten on you again, his grip stronger now, like he's holding on instead of holding back.
"Please..." Michael says lowly, his voice uneven, his control slipping just enough to show you where he's at. "Let me prove it to you," he adds, and there's something vulnerable in it, something honest, like he's not just talking about this moment, but everything that led up to it.
You lift your head just enough to look at him, one brow raising slightly, your expression teasing but unreadable. "Prove what, Michael?" you ask.
"There's no one else, just you," Michael says as he swallows, the words heavier now, more grounded, like he needs you to hear them, like he needs you to believe them. He doesn't know if you're still upset or not, but he wants to take you until you can't even remember why you were upset to begin with.
You don't answer right away.
Instead, you lean back in, your lips finding another place along his neck, slower this time, softer, and the moment you touch him again, his eyes close, his body leaning into it like he can't help himself.
"So do it," you say.
You shift off his lap, the loss of contact immediate, and take your place on the bed, the space between you opening just enough to change the dynamic again.
This time, he comes to you.
His hand lifts to your jaw, guiding your face toward his as he kisses you, deeper, more certain, like he's already stepping into what you asked of him. His other hand trails down your body, slow and deliberate, learning you again even though he already knows you, like he's proving it through touch.
The leather jacket is the first thing to go, his hands sliding it from your shoulders, his lips following immediately after, pressing against the newly exposed skin of your collarbone, your shoulders, each kiss slower than the last, more intentional.
He lowers himself in front of you, kneeling at the edge of the bed, and there's something in the way he looks up at you from there, something open, something given, that shifts the air between you again.
Your fishnet tights slide down your legs under his hands, the fabric moving slowly, deliberately, his fingers grazing your skin as he pulls them away. The barrier disappears completely, leaving nothing between his touch and you.
And the way he looks at you now, the way he stays there, right in front of you, it doesn't feel rushed. It doesn't feel uncertain; it feels like he's exactly where he wants to be.
He parts your legs with his hands, and licks his lips when he sees you glistening. Michael dips his head, his tongue diving into the slick folds in front of him. You lean your head back against the pillow as a moan spills from your lips. You feel Michael's lips attach to your clit, and your hips instinctively buck toward him.
His tongue swirls around, finding your clit, then your folds. Michael's mouth moves against you with slow, deliberate motions wrapped in something possessive, like he's grounding you in the truth that you are the only one he wants, the only one he's ever chosen.
Your fingers slide into his hair, threading through the soft curls, your grip tightening just slightly as your body reacts, and he feels it immediately, responding without hesitation.
"Just like that, Michael..." you murmur, your voice breathy but steady enough to reach him, and the effect is instant.
He leans into it. There's a subtle shift in him, something almost eager in the way he adjusts, in the way his tongue moves faster against you, sucking you harder, dipping his tongue deeper into you, letting your praise guide him.
Your hand moves again, softer this time, your fingers brushing through his hair in a way that feels both grounding and encouraging, and when you speak again, your voice dips just enough to carry something warmer, more intimate.
"That's it, baby..." He reacts to that, too.
When you look down, Michael's lifted his eyes to look at yours, but you still feel his tongue moving, his lips sucking on your clit. Your head falls back as his name spills from your lips, making him press harder, and when you lift your head again to look at him, a soft whimper comes out of you as you nod.
"Mm... you're doing so good, baby..." you breathe, the praise slipping out softer this time, but it lands just as deeply.
And that's what shifts everything.
He takes it in, all of it, the tone, the words, the way you're responding, and something in him deepens again, his movements growing more intense without losing that softness, that care that's been there from the start. It feels like he's chasing your reactions now, like every sound, every breath you give him only pulls him further in.
Your hand tightens slightly in his hair again, not pulling, just holding, anchoring him there as your body responds, your breathing uneven now, your chest rising and falling faster.
"Michael..." his name comes out softer this time, almost a whimper, almost praise on its own, and he leans into it like he always does, like he needs to hear it again. Your hand tightens slightly in his hair, your breath catching as the orgasm that's been building finally begins to crest, your body responding in a way you can't quite control anymore.
It comes on slowly at first, a tightening in your chest, a warmth in your stomach that spreads and gathers, and then all at once, it pulls through you, your body giving in to it as your fingers curl more firmly against him, your head tipping back slightly as his name falls from your lips again, softer this time, broken at the edges.
Michael stays right there with you, softly kissing you through it as you shake against his mouth. He wants you to feel every second of your release. Your breathing turns uneven, your chest rising and falling as the intensity lingers, slowly easing instead of disappearing all at once, your hand loosening slightly in his hair as the moment settles into something softer.
Michael gets on the bed with you, pulling you into his side, until your chests are pressed together. He kisses you, his mouth moving urgently against yours. Michael lifts your leg to rest it over his hip, and then he slides himself into you, easily slipping in through your slickness, and he can't hold himself back; his thrusts are quick and urgent, like he needs you to know exactly how he's feeling.
"You're so gâgood, baby," You moan breathlessly in his ear. Your praise encourages his movements. The louder you are, the faster Michael moves, fucking you harder. He wants you to feel it, and he wants to hear you. Your leg tightens slightly around his hip, holding him there, keeping him deep, and he answers that too, his mouth finding yours again, the kiss stronger this time.
His name slips from your lips, sounding breathless in his ear, and you feel his dick throb harder inside of you. The louder your moans get, the more it pulls from him.
Every sound you make, every shift in your breathing feeds into the way he moves with you, the way he holds you, like he's chasing it, like he needs to hear it again. Everything about him is right here, with you, responding to you, shaped by you.
"Right there, baby..." you whimper as he drives deeper into you, a gasp coming from your lips. "Y-You're doing so well." The sound of skin slapping against skin, combined with the way you kept moaning for him, made Michael need you even more. He thrust harder into you. Your orgasm was pushing through fast, and it felt like lightning was traveling through your veins.
You push Michael onto his back, straddling on top of him without breaking the connection between you, chasing the pleasure, chasing your orgasm. Michael's eyes closed as you moved up, then rolled back in pleasure as you moved down, bouncing on him hard. Michael grips your hips tightly, guiding your movements as he whimpers. He can feel how close he's getting.
"Baby," Michael whispers to you. You open your eyes and look down at him, seeing how badly he wants to release, and you lean down.
"Come for me, baby," you whisper as you kiss him hard. Michael's hips thrust to match your pace, and you feel him twitch before the warmth of his release spreads through you. You both slow your movements, your hips rolling slower, bouncing on him slower as you help him through his orgasm. You feel your legs trembling as you bounce against him, your own orgasm coming close.
Michael reaches between your legs, rubbing your clit with a relentless pace as you bounce on him. You throw your head back, his name spilling from your lips as your orgasm hits. Michael cups your face, tilting your head back down, and kisses you through it, the intensity of the orgasm riding through you both. He lies underneath you, thrusting just slightly enough for you to feel it before he slips out of you. Your breaths are erratic as you try to ground yourselves back into each other.
You look at Michael, and he's already looking at you, his gaze still carrying the weight of everything from the nightâthe tension, the need, the way he had held onto you like letting go wasn't an option. There's something steady in it now, though, something quieter, like all of that intensity has settled into something more certain.
Before you can say anything, he's pulling you into him again, his arms wrapping around you as he brings you flush against his chest. His face buries into the nape of your neck, and the feeling of his lips against your skin is softer than before, slower, the kind of touch that lingers instead of demands, each kiss pressing into you like something meant to soothe rather than claim.
"I'm sorry I got so upset," you say to him after a moment of silence.
The words sit between you for only a second before he reacts, lifting his head to look at you immediately, his expression shifting, his hand coming up to your face again like he needs to hold you there while he answers.
"Don't apologize, baby," he says as he sighs, the sound carrying more feeling than the words themselves, like he doesn't want you taking that weight on at all. "I shouldn't have let her pull me to the dance floor. God knows if any man would've tried that with you, I would've lost it," Michael says, and there's something in the way he says it, not aggressive or volatile, but protective in a way that feels grounded, like it comes from care rather than impulse.
You smile, because you understand exactly what he means, the way his protectiveness has always shown up for you, steady and present without ever crossing into something it shouldn't be.
"I love you," you say to him.
He responds instantly, leaning down to capture your lips again, his kiss deeper now but not urgent, not like before. This one is slower, more intentional, like he's holding onto the moment, like he's making sure you feel it fully. His thumb traces along your jaw as he kisses you, the motion soft and repetitive, grounding, and when he pulls back, he doesn't go far.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a second before pulling you in closer again, his arm tightening around you, holding you against him like that's where you belong.
"I love you more."
The words settle into you differently than everything else has tonight, because you can already feel it in the way he holds you, in the way he stays close, in the way he doesn't let distance creep back in. Your hand rests against his chest, feeling the rhythm of his breathing, slower now, calmer, and as you stay there with him, pressed into his warmth, everything else fades into the background.
The night, the tension, the interruptions, all of it feels distant now. Because right here, in his arms, there's nothing uncertain about where you stand with him.
18+ mdni! đ Ę đ â content ïč messing around with your brothers best friend while he's gone. very pwp, sawryy :c
brothers best friend!jaafar & you sneaking away to your bedroom whenever your brother leaves to mess around. youâve always had a crush on jaafar since he and your brother became friends. the way his eyes wandered to you coming in the kitchen for a snack while him, his brothers and your brother sat in the living room hanging out. lingering a bit too low as you made your way back up the stairs.
until one day, jaafar was left alone in the living room, seemingly because he didnât want whatever fast food his brothers and best friend were going to get. you decided to make small talk with him, watching his eyes ogling your ass in your yoga pants. that is until one thing led to another, and now he had you face down in your mattress.
your quiet moans and his hips slapping against your ass were the only sounds to be heard, knowing he had to be quick. âgod you feel so good baby..â he groaned as his big hands gripped onto your hips for more momentum. at this point, you couldnât conjure up the words to replyâhe was hitting your spot way too good. just the lewd sounds slipping from your mouth being your only reply to the dirty words he was spewing.
âfuck- iâm close.â his hips picked up some speed until you both heard the front door open, accompanied with the loud yet deep laughter from the both of your brothers. âshit.â he whispered under his breath, you covering your mouth to contain the loudness of your cries. but he didnât stop there. he flipped you onto your back in hopes of making not as much noise, your duvet on top of his back, which helped suppress most noise.
âiâm gonna cum papi..â you whined in a whisper into his ear as your arms were wrapped around his neck, the swell of your breasts pressed against his chest.
that was his signal to go harder, chasing both of your releases. his face rested in the crook of your neck while he whimpered at the twitch of his cock. moments after, you squeezed around him so sweetly as your juices covered his length that was still plummeting inside of you. he covered your mouth quickly as your moaned out his nameâa little too loud for comfort. but you didnât care, all you cared about was how good he was filling you up and how youâve imagined this for so long.
âfuck mami-â he moaned into your neck, while he thrusted a couple more times before filling the condom he had on. he pulled out and slipped the condom off quickly.
âcan i throw this out in here?â he asked while his curls stuck to the sweat on his forehead and his big puppy eyes watched you.
âmhm.â you replied as you watched him slip his clothes back on, running his fingers through his curls in your vanity mirror with a smug smile on your face. he turned around and placed one last peck on your lips while he whispered something to you.
âcan i come back later tonight?â he smirked softly and as your response you hit him lightly on the chest, but you didnât say no.
âget out of here.â
âiâm taking that as a yes.â his smirked turned to a little smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth, pecking your cheek before leaving your bedroom to meet up with the other guys.
âwhat were you doing dude?â you heard your brothers voice yell at him.
âgoing to the bathroom.â jaafar said quickly, coming up with the lamest excuse which made you giggle.
âyeah probably takin a fat shit.â jermajesty cut through, which made you laugh even harder.
and later that night, while your brother and his brothers were asleep in the room down the hall, jaafar was passed out in yours. letâs just hope his girlfriend doesnât find out.
synopsis: as michael is up giving his speech for his 8th grammy of the night, you notice a red lipstick mark on his jawline that you didnât put there, jealousy instantly filling your body, and michael finds out why youâre annoyed the hard way.
a/n: iâm a sucker for a lil argument. also i know it wasnât diana that kissed michaelâs cheek at the grammys, but itâs just for a lil fun.
the 1984 grammys award ceremony was a whirlwind of flashing lights, deafening applause, and the intoxicating scent of expensive perfume and hairspray that clung to the air.
michael had been nominated for 12 awards tonightâhe had won 8 of themâand by the time his name was called for the eighth and final win of the night, the energy in the room was electric, enough to power all of los angeles.
standing centre stage, bathed in the golden glow of the spotlight, michael adjusted his grip on the gold award. he looked every bit the superstar in his iconic blue and gold jacket, the sequins catching the light with every subtle movement he made. the audience erupted into a standing ovation, the roar of applause nearly shaking the walls.
âiâd like to thankâŠâ michael began, his voice smooth and confident, his eyes scanning the crowd. he thanked the grammy committee, his producers, his family, and his fans. but as he continued speaking, something caught your eye; a small red stain on his jawline.
your breath hitched. the lipstick mark was unmistakableâa perfect, crimson crescent pressed against his skin, just above his jawline. it wasnât yours. you hadnât worn red lipstick tonight; youâd opted for a subtle nude gloss that barely showed up under the harsh stage lights. so there was no way michael could have gotten that from you.
michael finished his speech, you didnât even hear the rest of it as you had zoned out thinking about the red lipstick. his smile was genuine and grateful. he turned to wave at the audience before stepping down from the stage, completely unaware of the turmoil brewing inside you. as he approached your table, he sat down, his arm automatically went to your waist, pulling you close as cameras flashed around you both.
âeight grammys, baby!â michael exclaimed, his eyes shining with excitement as he leaned in to kiss your cheek. but you turned your head slightly, so his lips landed on your jaw instead. your stomach churned as you caught another whiff of a unfamiliar perfume mixed with his cologne.
âyou okay, baby?â michael whispered, his brow furrowing slightly as he noticed your stiff posture. the cameras were still flashing around them, capturing their victory lap.
âiâm perfect,â you replied through a bright, practiced smile for the cameras. as soon as the nearest camera moved on, your expression hardened again.
âseriously, are you feeling alright?â michael asked again in a hushed tone but was genuinely concerned, his hand still resting at your lower back as you both waved off quincy jones and other people in the music industry. âyouâre actingâŠoff.â
âjust stop asking,â you muttered under your breath, forcing another smile at stevie wonder as he congratulated michael. âim fine.â you say as yous walk to the limousine.
âyou donât look fine,â michael pressed gently, sensing the icy wall you were quickly putting up between you. he leaned closer, trying to catch your eye as you both move through the throng of celebrities, your polite nods to them feeling strained and robotic. âbaby, talk to me. is it the noise? the crowd?â
âi said stop asking, michael.â
michael recoiled slightly, the genuine happiness from his historic night draining from his face at your sharp tone. he fell silent, but his hand remained hovering at your back, uncertain now, as you exchanged stiff goodbyes with lionel richie and diana ross. the congratulations felt hollow to your ears, your focus narrowed entirely on the red smudge mocking you from his jawline.
the rest of the after party passed in a blur of forced smiles and polite nods. michael hovered near you, occasionally reaching for your hand or squeezing your waist, silently trying to bridge the distance youâd created. but you remained tight-lipped, offering only monosyllabic responses when he spoke.
by the time bill pulled the limo around to the entrance, your jaw was set tight.
michael climbed into the backseat first, holding out his hand to help you in, but you ignored it, sliding across the leather seat as far from him as possible. the space between you felt charged and heavy with unspoken words as bill pulled away from the curb and merged into traffic.
michael watched you from across the seat, your body language screaming volumes of unsaid things. he unbuttoned the first button of his jacket, making himself more comfortable. âbabyâŠâ he tested the waters softly. but your response was tellingâyou hugged your jacket tighter around you and looked out the window.
âokay, thatâs it,â michael said firmly after five minutes of strained silence. he reached across the seat and gently turned your face towards him, forcing you to meet his gaze. âwhateverâs going on, just tell me now because this silent treatment is killing me.â
his thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, his touch gentle but his expression stern. his eyes searched yours intently, demanding an answer. the limos dim lighting cast shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the set of his jaw. he wasnât going to let this go until you spoke your mind.
âmichael, let go,â you whispered, your voice trembling slightly. but he didnât release your chin, his dark eyes boring into yours with that stubborn determination he got when he refused to back down.
ânot until you tell me whatâs wrong,â he insisted, his voice low and serious. âweâve been together two years, and youâve never given me the silent treatment like this,â he continued, his thumb gently caressing your skin. âso whatever it is, itâs big. and i deserve to know.â
âwhatever it is, just say it,â he urged, his expression softening slightly. âare you mad about something i did? soemthing i said?â he searched your face for clues, his brow furrowing when he didnât find any obvious answers.
âyou want me to tell you?â you snapped, suddenly turning to face him fully. your eyes flashed with anger and hurt, your voice rising slightly. âfine. iâll tell you.â you pulled away from his touch, crossing your arms over your chest defensively.
âthat red mark on your jaw,â you said, âwhose lipstick is it, michael? because it sure as hell isn't mine." you watched his expression carefully, waiting for the guilt to set in.
his eyes widened slightly before he instinctively touched his jaw. "what are you talking about?" he asked, his voice defensive.
"don't play dumb, michael," you bit out, pointing an accusing finger at the faint red smear on his skin. "its right there. some cheap perfume mixed with it too. you smelled like a different woman when you kissed me cheek earlier."
michael went rigid, his hand freezing on his jaw.
"baby, wait--" michael started, holding his hands up defensively. "its not what you think. i swear." he reached for your hand, but you pulled away, your chest heaving with frustration.
"then what is it? because unless lipstick grows on jaws by itself, someone put that there." you snapped, rolling your eyes.
"it was just diana ross," michael explained quickly, his brow furrowed. "she greeted me when i first arrived, gave me a kiss on the cheek. you know how she is--always so affectionate."
"she kissed my jaw, i didn't even realise it was there," he insisted, his expression earnest but clearly frustrated that you were jumping to the worst conclusion. "you really think id cheat on you? at the grammys? with diana?"
"you left it there all night," you countered, your voice trembling with jealousy and annoyance.
as you sit there stewing, your mind races with thoughts and insecurities.
he didn't wipe it off.
he apparently didn't even notice it was there.
does he not care that his girlfriend would see it?
what if he still has feelings for diana?
you glance at his jaw again, watching that bright red mark mock you from across the seat. it should have been wiped off. it should have been gone the second those ruby lips touched his skin. you feel your throat tighten. you're being irrational, you know it--but the thought of someone else leaving a mark on him, even accidentally, makes your chest ache with something ugly and possessive.
you remember the rumours, the old photos, the way diana used to look at him. the history between them is like a shadow hanging over your relationship. if it had been anyone else--any other woman--you probably would have let it go by now. but diana...diana was different.
"its diana," you practically hissed the name. "that's the problem, michael. you and diana...you have history."
the air in the limo felt thick. it wasn't just the lipstick; it was the years of connection between them, the way she looked at him like she owned a piece of him. anyone else you'd have laughed it off. not her.
"so what?" michael snapped, his patience wearing thin. "just because diana have history doesn't mean im going to cheat on you with her! you really think so little of me?" he ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "it was a kiss on the cheek. that's literally it."
"a kiss on the cheek that you left smudged on your jaw all night!" you shot back, your voice rising. "you didn't even bother to wipe it off. did it mean something to you? did you want her to know that you still care?â
âare you serious right now?â michael threw his hands up. âi didnât notice it!â
âyou didnât notice it,â you repeated, your voice dripping with disbelief. âmichael, youâre always so aware of every little thingâyour hair, your clothes, your fucking shoes. but a big red lipstick mark on your jaw? you missed that?â
âi was talking to people!â michael shouted back, his own temper flaring. âi didnât think of her leaving a lipstick mark because it meant absolutely nothing to me! you are blowing this way out of proportion just because of who she is.â he leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. âyouâre jealous.â
âi am NOT jealous!â you lied, your voice cracking slightly. you hated how weak you sounded, how transparent your insecurity was. but the truth was, you were. you were terrified of dianaâs hold on him, of the history they shared that you could never replicate.
âthen why are you acting like this?â michael challenged, his voice dropping low.
âbecause itâs diana,â you yelled back, throwing your hands up in frustration. âbecause everyone knows she used to have you. because when she looks at you, she acts like she still does. and you just walked around all night wearing her mark like a fucking trophy!â
michael stared at you, his mouth falling open slightly in disbelief. âit is lipstick,â he ground out.
âyes, and you shouldâve wiped it off the second you left her,â you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion. ânot worn it around like you were proud of it.â you looked away, unable to meet his eyes anymore. âdo you even understand how that looks? how it makes me feel?â the car was silent except for the low hum of the engine.
michael exhaled sharply, running both hands through his curls in frustration. âi understand that it hurt you,â he said, his tone softening slightly despite his frustration. âbut youâre twisting this into something itâs not. i didnât keep it there on purpose. i didnât even know it was there until you pointed it out.â
âthen why didnât you check your reflection?â you demanded, tears finally pricking your eyes. âyou check everything else, michael. youâre meticulous. the fact that you let her lipstick stay on your face tells me you were comfortable with it. you were comfortable with her mark on you.â
he stared at you, completely stunned by your logic. âthatâs genuinely ridiculous.â
âis it?â you asked quietly, tears escaping down your cheeks. âwould you have left some other womanâs lipstick on you? really think about it, michael.â
michael opened his mouth to protest, then stopped. he swallowed hard, lowering his face to the floor of the car. the silence stretched out between you, heavy and suffocating.
the car had slowed to stop at a red light, and in the silence, michael finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. âno,â he admitted. âi wouldnât have.â
your heart clenched painfully. you didnât want him to say that. you wanted him to fight back, to tell you that you were being crazy. but he was being honest.
âi didnât think it through,â michael continued, his jaw tight with self reproach. he finally reached his hand up and rubbed at the smudge, erasing it. âyouâre right. i should have noticed. i should have wiped it off the second it happenedâdiana or not, stranger or not. but i didnt. and thatâs my fault.â
he turned his hand over, looking at the lipstick now on his hand from wiping his jaw. the lipstick was gone of his face, but the damage was already doneâyou already believed that you come second to diana. you were crying, upset over something so stupid as a smudge of makeup. he felt like an asshole. âbaby, stop crying.â
âcome here,â he said softly, reaching for you. you hesitated before leaning into him, your shoulders shaking with sobs. he wrapped an arm around you tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. âiâm sorry,â he murmured against your hair.
âi didnât realise how disrespectful it looked to you, especially coming from her. i know thereâs history. i know that makes it sensitive. i should have been more aware.â you pulled back slightly, wiping your eyes, sniffling.
âtalk to me,â he prompted gently. âi know i messed up, but i need to understand whatâs really bothering you about this besides the lipstick itself. is it because it was her? is it because i didnât notice immediately?â
you took a shaky breath, gripping his hand tightly. âitâs the history,â you admitted quietly. âitâs that no matter how much time passes, she always acts like she has a claim on you. and tonightâŠtonight you let her have that claim. you walked around with her mark on you like you belonged to her.â
michaelâs face fell, the realisation hitting him hard.
âand that hurt you,â he said, understanding finally dawning in his eyes. ânot the fact that it was lipstick, but the fact it was her lipstick. and i let it stay there because i didnât want to upset her by wiping it off in front of her.â
âexactly,â you whispered, your voice cracking. âyou prioritised her comfort over mine. you didnât want to be rude to her, but you didnât mind insulting me.â you let out a big sigh, âit feels like she still comes first, michael. it feels like no matter what i do, iâll never outrank her history with you.â
michael looked absolutely stricken by your admission. he shook his head vigorously, reaching out to cup your face. âthatâs not true,â he said firmly. âshe does not come first. you are my reality. she was in a part of my past. there is a massive difference.â he searched your eyes, desperate for you to believe him.
âbaby, youâre not competing with her,â he said gently, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. âyou donât have to outrank her because youâre not even in the same category. youâre my partner, my present, my future, sheâs my past.â
you let out a shaky breath, leaning into his touch despite yourself. âi know,â you murmured, though the jealously still simmered beneath the surface. âi know you love me. i justâŠâ you trailed off, biting your lip. even as his words sank in, the image of dianaâs red lips against his skin still made your stomach twist uncomfortably.
âi get that it still bothers you,â he said softly, reading your body language even as you tried to hide your lingering jealousy. âeven if you understand logically, it still feels bad emotionally.â he kissed your forehead against gently. âand that matters.â
you nodded, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. âitâs stupid,â you admitted, âbut i keep picturing it. her leaning in, her lips on your skin, and you justâŠletting it happen. and then carrying it around all night.â your voice dropped to barely a whisper.
âiâm sorry,â you muttered against his chest, feeling foolish. âiâm being ridiculous. she probably didnât even mean it in that way. i just saw it as that, im being stupid.â
âhey, donât apologise for feeling hurt,â he said firmly, tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. âyour feelings arenât stupid. diana targeted something sensitive deliberatelyâthat doesnât make your reaction invalid. she knows exactly how to push your buttons, and she did.â he brushed his thumb across your cheek gently. âthe fact youre upset means you care.â
âi just hate feeling this way,â you admitted, your voice small. âjealous and insecure over something that probably means nothing to you. it makes me feel weak.â you looked down, embarrassed. âyou always handle things so smoothly, and here i am falling apart over a lipstick stain.â michael frowned, tilting your face back up to meet his gaze.
âfirst of all, falling apart over a lipstick stain means you give a damn about me,â he said firmly. âit means youâre not just sitting back and letting some other woman mark your territory without care. it means youâre human and youâre jealous.â
âso donât apologise for feeling jealous over something that actually matters to you,â he said softly, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. âbecause it matters to me that you care enough to get jealous. it means iâm doing something right.â
you just nodded your head, staring into space. michael notices this and grabs your chin softly, pulling your head towards his and connecting your lips together.
the kiss dissolved the remaining tension in your shoulders, the warmth of his lips chasing away the lingering insecurity. when he finally pulled back, his expression was soft and adoring. âweâre good?â he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. you nodded, letting out a final breath, the jealously finally fading into nothing. âweâre good.â
summary: you're supposed to fly out to michael while he's on the bad tour, but you get sick... really sick, and as soon as michael hears how sick you are, he flies back to the states and refuses to leave your side and resume the tour until you're better
themes: fluff, caretaker!michael, hopelessly in love michael, hurt/comfort, protective!michael, severe illness
author's note: reposted from my wattpad & ao3. and I lowkey went crazy with the word count because this is one of my favorites tropes and tbh had to stop myself from making it even longer hahahaha. hope you enjoy.
1988
neverland ranch
This was bad, really bad.
You knew something was wrong the second you woke up.
Pain pulsed through your entire body immediately, deep and overwhelming. It settled heavily into your back, your shoulders, your arms, and your neck. Every inch of you ached in a way that made your stomach twist uneasily. It wasn't soreness from sleeping wrong. It wasn't the kind of ache that disappeared once you stretched or moved around; it was sharper than that.
A miserable groan left your lips as you shifted beneath the blankets, your body protesting even the smallest movement. Heat clung to your skin uncomfortably, sweat dampening the back of your neck and the collar of your sleep shirt, the feverish warmth that had pulled you awake in the first place. You felt like your body was burning from the inside out.
Your eyes drifted toward the clock sitting on your nightstand: 3:00 a.m. blinked back at you. You were supposed to leave for the airport in three hours. You were supposed to be flying out to meet Michael in Rome.
Michael had already left the States days ago with the crew to begin preparing for the second leg of the Bad World Tour. Even though the Rome shows weren't for another two weeks, rehearsals and preparations had already started overseas.
You had stayed behind because of work obligations, but the plan had always been for you to join him early so the two of you could finally have a little time together before the chaos of touring swallowed him whole again.
Your packed suitcases sat neatly beside the bedroom door, ready to go, but there was absolutely no way you could get on a plane like this.
The nausea rolled through you next, sudden and vicious enough to make your stomach clench painfully. You squeezed your eyes shut as the sensation intensified, bile creeping up the back of your throat. There was nothing in your system to throw up, not at this hour after barely eating the evening before, but you already knew if you got sick, it would just be miserable dry heaving.
Your entire body hurts. Even breathing felt uncomfortable now, every inhale dragging against aching muscles and feverish exhaustion.
You swallowed hard before trying to sit up so you could reach your landline, but the second you lifted yourself from the mattress, dizziness slammed into you violently. Your vision blurred almost instantly, black spots flickering across your eyesight as lightheadedness crashed over you so hard it made your stomach churn.
"Shit," you muttered weakly under your breath before immediately forcing yourself back down against the pillows. Your heart pounded heavily from the effort alone.
Breathing carefully through the dizziness, you slowly scooted yourself closer to the edge of the bed until your fingers could finally reach the phone sitting on the nightstand. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.
You dialed Bill's pager because you knew he would recognize the number immediately, and you also knew it was already noon in Italy.
Three minutes later, the phone rang.
You grabbed it quickly despite the ache in your arm and answered weakly, your voice barely above a rasp. "Bill?"
"Hey, sweetie, you okay?" Bill's familiar voice filled the line warmly, but concern immediately lingered beneath it.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to gather enough energy to answer him properly. You had always considered Bill your real future father-in-law in every way that mattered. Michael loved him deeply, trusted him deeply, and over the years, so had you. Bill had become family long before the engagement ring ended up on your finger.
"Bill..." Your voice cracked painfully around his name. "Is Michael available?" On the other end of the line, Bill frowned instantly. Your voice sounded awful. It was hoarse and weak, every word strained like speaking itself was taking energy you didn't have.
"You don't sound good," Bill said immediately, his tone sharpening with concern as he listened closer. Even your breathing sounded shallow through the phone.
You swallowed thickly against the nausea crawling in your throat. "I don't think I'm gonna be able to fly... Michael should hear it from me." The sentence alone drained you. You let your head fall back heavily against the pillows afterward, your body feeling impossibly heavy beneath the blankets.
"Okay, hold on for one moment, I'll go get him," Bill said quickly. You nodded instinctively even though he couldn't see you.
The second the line muffled, you let yourself sink further into the bed, exhaustion swallowing you whole. A shaky breath left your lips, but the inhale immediately made pain flare sharply through your body again, another miserable groan escaping you before you could stop it.
Your body hurt so badly that even breathing was starting to feel like work.
"Baby?" Michael's voice filtered softly through the phone, pulling you out of the haze you had started drifting into. You hadn't even realized how close to sleep you had gotten again until you heard him. Everything felt foggy and heavy, your body sinking deeper and deeper into the mattress with every passing second.
"Bill says you don't sound good... what's wrong?" The concern in his voice immediately twisted painfully in your chest.
You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment because guilt hit you almost instantly. Both of you had been looking forward to this trip for weeks. Michael had been counting down the days until you got there. Every phone call lately had somehow circled back to Rome, to all the little plans he'd made for the two of you before the tour completely consumed him again.
And now this.
"I'm so sorry, Michael..." Your voice cracked weakly around the apology. "I don't think I'll be able to fly." The words sounded awful even to your own ears.
On the other end of the line, Michael immediately straightened where he was sitting. He could hear how hard it was for you to get the sentence out. Every few words were interrupted by another shaky breath, your breathing uneven and strained in a way he didn't like at all.
"Bill's right, you don't sound good," Michael said quietly, concern sharpening underneath every syllable.
You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head already, and that alone made your stomach twist harder. The last thing you wanted was for him to start spiraling while he was supposed to be preparing for tour rehearsals.
"Michael, I'll be okay... probably just..." You stopped, forcing yourself to breathe through the ache in your chest and the nausea rolling through your stomach. Even speaking was beginning to exhaust you. "Probably just need some more sleep."
Michael shook his head immediately. This was not "just tired." As you spoke, he was already turning toward Bill, panic beginning to settle quietly into his chest as he mouthed:Â Start looking for flights back to California.
Bill nodded instantly without hesitation.
"Baby... I really don't like the way you sound," Michael admitted softly. "You're straining to breathe just to say words." Your brows pulled together weakly at that because you had been trying so hard to conceal it.
"It's fine," you whispered. Another wave of pain crashed through your body suddenly, sharp enough to make your eyes sting. A soft sniffle escaped you before you could stop it, and the sound cut straight through Michael.
His entire expression changed. The exhaustion from rehearsals, the tour stress, the overseas travel, all of it disappeared beneath immediate fear. "I'm coming home."
Your eyes widened slightly at the firmness in his voice.
Ever since you had moved into Hayvenhurst with Michael back in 1985, the two of you had built a life together there naturally. But after he proposed to you last year, right before the first leg of the Bad Tour began, everything had changed. Michael had wanted something that belonged fully to both of you.
A place that existed outside of cameras and screaming crowds and tour schedules. The second he remembered Sycamore Valley Ranch from filming Say Say Say there years ago, he had known, and now it was Neverland.
Your home.
The home the two of you built together from the ground up, filling it with warmth and life and softness in all the ways Michael had always craved. Exotic animals roamed peacefully across the property under the care of trained staff. Children visited constantly, their laughter filling the grounds alongside carnival music from the amusement rides Michael had built. Every piece of Neverland carried both of your fingerprints on it.
It wasn't just Michael's dream anymore; it was yours, too.
"Michael... you're in the middle of the tour," you said weakly before another strained breath interrupted you.
"And the Italy shows don't start for another two weeks," Michael replied immediately. His voice had taken on that soft but immovable tone you knew well. The one that meant his mind was already made up. "I can't leave you alone in this condition, baby."
Your eyes burned with tears instantly. Of course, he was coming home.
That only made the guilt feel heavier because you knew how many people were depending on him right now. The tour was massive. Rehearsals were massive. Entire crews moved around Michael's schedule constantly, and now, because of you... All of that was getting interrupted.
"Baby, I'm okay..." Your voice trembled as exhaustion dragged at every word. "It'll pass in a few days, and I should be able to... to make it to Rome before the..." You paused again, trying to force enough air into your lungs to finish the sentence. "...before the shows start."
Michael's face tightened painfully as he listened to you struggle through every word. It only solidified the decision already settling deeper into his chest.
He was coming home; there was no discussion anymore.
"Michael, I found a flight that leaves in the next two hours," you heard Bill say somewhere in the background.
"Book it," Michael said with no hesitation in his tone. You closed your eyes with a quiet sigh as you heard movement on the other end of the line, Michael's attention returning fully to you again. "I'm coming home, and that's final, baby." The firmness in his voice told you instantly there was no point trying to argue anymore.
You knew Michael; once he made up his mind about something involving the people he loved, especially you, there was no changing it. Not when he already knew something was wrong. Not when he could hear it for himself every time you spoke.
You hated the idea of derailing the tour. Hated knowing how many people depended on him right now. But you also knew nothing you said was going to reassure him enough to stay in Italy while you sounded like this.
"Okay," you whispered quietly.
Another deep breath followed instinctively, but the uneven strain behind it was impossible to hide now. Michael heard it immediately, and the sound made his chest tighten painfully all over again.
"What are your other symptoms besides your breathing?" Michael asked softly.
You frowned weakly against your pillows; you didn't want to answer that. You could already hear the worry in his voice, could practically feel him spiraling from thousands of miles away, and the last thing you wanted was for him to panic while trapped in another country waiting for a flight home.
"I'm okay," you said automatically. There was a brief pause.
Then, instead of one of his usual endearments, he said your name, softly and gently like he always does, but there was a quiet firmness underneath it that immediately told you he was serious.
Michael rarely used your actual name like that unless he truly needed something from you emotionally. He needed to know. You sighed weakly before forcing yourself to speak again.
"It's 3 a.m., and I woke up this early because I'm really hot..." Your voice rasped painfully around the words. "And my body hurts... everywhere."
You swallowed thickly, squeezing your eyes shut as another wave of aches pulsed through you.
"My back... shoulders... my neck." You paused again to breathe carefully through the nausea twisting in your stomach. "My head is pounding... and my stomach hurts too."
On the other end of the line, Michael's expression tightened with helpless worry. He hated this. He hated being this far away from you while you sounded so miserable. Twelve hours suddenly felt unbearable. Entirely too long to be separated from you when you sounded weak enough that even talking exhausted you.
For one irrational second, he genuinely wished he could somehow teleport home.
"I will be home in twelve hours," Michael said softly but firmly, grounding both himself and you with the certainty in his voice. "And I'm calling my mother to come stay with you until I get there, and then I will call the doctor to come see you."
A small sniffle escaped you instantly for multiple reasons.
Because you loved him so much, it physically hurt sometimes. Because even from another country, Michael was still trying to take care of you in every way he could think of. Because he sounded terrified but was still trying to keep you calm, and because the guilt sitting in your chest felt overwhelming.
He was pausing the tour for you.
"Okay... thank you, Michael," you whispered softly.
"Get some sleep, baby. I love you." Another shaky breath left you automatically, rough and uneven from exhaustion and fever, and when Michael heard how difficult even breathing sounded for you now, his heart clenched so painfully it almost stole his own breath for a moment.
"I love you more," you whispered weakly.
Neither of you hung up. Instead, silence lingered softly between you for a moment before Michael's voice drifted quietly through the receiver again, he was singing.
Gentle and warm and achingly tender despite the exhaustion weighing on him. "You know how I feel, this thing can't go wrong, I'm so proud to say I love you..."
The familiar melody wrapped around you softly in the darkness of your bedroom, Michael's voice soothing something deep inside you, even through the fever and pain. Your body still hurt terribly, every inch aching beneath the blankets, but hearing him sing to you made some of the fear loosen slightly in your chest.
Michael kept singing quietly over the phone, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you, and slowly, your breathing started getting heavier and deeper as exhaustion was finally dragging you back under again.
Michael recognized it immediately. He knew your sleeping patterns too well not to. Sick or not, he could always tell the difference between your awake breathing and your sleeping breathing.
Even now, from thousands of miles away.
He hated knowing it wouldn't be restful sleep. Hated knowing your body was probably burning with fever while you slept alone in your bed.
"I love you," he whispered one more time after he was sure you were asleep. Then finally, reluctantly, he hung up the phone. The second the line disconnected, the exhaustion and fear he'd been trying to suppress settled visibly across his face.
Bill looked up immediately when Michael stepped back into the room. "When do we leave?" Michael asked quietly.
Bill nodded once. "In an hour." Michael nodded, already mentally somewhere else entirely.
"Okay..." He rubbed a tired hand over his face briefly before exhaling shakily. "I have another call to make." Bill understood instantly and stepped out quietly to give him privacy.
The second the door closed behind him, Michael sat down heavily and took a deep breath before dialing a number he had known by heart for years.
Several hours later, you were pulled out of an uneasy, feverish sleep by the sound of knocking against your bedroom door.
The noise barely registered at first through the heavy haze clouding your head. Your body felt impossibly weighted down, every limb aching worse than it had earlier in the night. Even opening your eyes felt difficult. You blinked slowly toward the clock sitting on your nightstand and saw that it was a little after 10 in the morning.
And somehow, you felt even worse now than you had at 3 a.m. Your fever had clearly climbed while you slept. Everything hurt.
Your head throbbed relentlessly, your body aching so deeply it felt embedded into your bones now, and your stomach still twisted unpleasantly every time you moved even slightly. Your skin felt damp and overheated beneath the blankets, yet chills still trembled through your body hard enough to make your teeth almost chatter.
"It's open," you managed to croak out weakly.
Your voice sounded awful, raw and strained, and barely recognizable even to yourself.
You weren't entirely sure who was on the other side of the door, but you knew Neverland security remained on the property whenever Michael traveled. The guards who didn't accompany him overseas always stayed behind with you when you weren't on tour with him, so whoever was knocking had already been cleared through the gates, so you knew it had to be someone you're familiar with.
The bedroom door opened carefully a moment later, and Katherine Jackson stepped quietly inside, carrying a tray assembled carefully with water, medicine, and a steaming bowl of soup.
The second you realized it was her, your head immediately dropped back against the pillow again because even lifting it had exhausted you.
"Mama Katie, what are you doing here?" you asked weakly through shallow, shaky breaths. The second Katherine got a proper look at you, her expression fell into immediate concern.
The blanket was tangled halfway over your legs and twisted beneath you from how restless you had clearly been while sleeping. Your body trembled faintly beneath the sheets despite the visible sheen of sweat coating your skin. Damp strands of hair clung to the sides of your face and neck, and your cheeks were flushed deeply with fever.
You felt miserable, too hot and too cold at the same time. Your back was damp with sweat, heat radiating off your skin uncomfortably, while chills still crawled underneath it.
"Michael called me and told me what was going on," Katherine said softly as she crossed further into the room. "Since his flight is twelve hours, he didn't want you to be alone, but as soon as he told me your condition, I was going to come over anyway."
A small sound escaped you then, somewhere between relief and a weak cry. You hadn't realized just how alone and miserable you'd felt until someone was finally there with you.
Your family was still back home in New York while you and Michael built your life together in California, and suddenly the distance between those two places felt very real. Normally, Neverland felt warm and alive and comforting even when Michael traveled.
But being this sick inside the massive house without him there had made everything feel strangely empty.
The mattress dipped gently beside you as Katherine sat down carefully on the edge of the bed. She placed the tray on your nightstand before turning all of her attention toward you fully, her expression immediately softening further with concern.
"I'm going to help you sit up so you can take this medicine and try to eat, okay?" she said gently. You wanted to nod, but your body felt so heavy and weak that you couldn't even convince your head to move properly.
Katherine noticed immediately. "Oh, honey," she murmured softly under her breath.
Carefully, she slid one arm behind your shoulders and helped ease you upright. Even that small movement made dizziness ripple through you instantly, your stomach twisting again as your body protested being moved.
Michael's pillows from his side of the bed were gathered gently and tucked behind your back so you could lean against them without straining yourself further. The familiar scent of him lingering faintly on the pillows made your chest ache suddenly because you missed him.
Katherine's hand moved gently to your forehead, then the back of her hand rested carefully against your overheated skin before she checked your flushed cheeks, too. Her face tightened with concern immediately.
"You definitely have a fever, honey..." she sighed softly. "The medicine will help bring it down."
For some reason, that almost made you cry. Maybe because she was taking care of you so naturally. Maybe because you felt so terrible. Maybe because, despite everything, she had still come immediately.
"Thank you," you whispered weakly.
Katherine gave you a soft smile before reaching for the medicine bottle. Knowing you probably wouldn't handle swallowing pills very well in your current condition, she had brought liquid Tylenol instead. The sweetness of it sat unpleasantly against the nausea already twisting in your stomach, but you forced yourself to swallow it down anyway.
The second you finished, Katherine handed you the glass of water. You drank gratefully, your throat painfully dry despite the fever. Then, once she was sure you had gotten enough down, Katherine carefully lifted the tray from the nightstand and settled it gently across your lap.
Although your entire body hurt, you pushed through it and reached for the spoon anyway. Even lifting your arm felt exhausting.
Your hand trembled faintly from weakness as you scooped up a small amount of soup, the steam curling softly against your flushed face. You managed two spoonfuls before your stomach twisted hard enough to make you stop completely.
The nausea hit almost immediately.
You swallowed thickly against it before slowly shaking your head and looking over at Katherine, your eyes glassy with exhaustion and fever.
"I can't," you whispered weakly. Even those two bites felt like they had taken everything out of you.
Your body ached terribly from simply sitting upright this long, your muscles heavy and sore beneath your skin, while dizziness lingered faintly at the edges of your vision. The warmth from the soup should have been comforting, but instead, your stomach rolled harder in protest, making you feel dangerously close to getting sick.
Katherine didn't push, but the concern in her eyes softened immediately instead. "That's alright, sweetheart," she said gently.
Carefully, she lifted the tray from your lap before setting it aside, then moved back toward you to help ease you down against the pillows again. The second your head touched the mattress, you let out a shaky breath of relief. Even sitting upright for those few minutes had exhausted you so badly that it felt like your body was shutting down all over again.
Katherine quietly carried the tray to the bedroom door and handed it off to one of the staff members waiting outside before disappearing briefly into the bathroom.
You could hear soft movement inside through the haze clouding your head: running water, cabinet doors opening and closing quietly. When she returned, she had several cold, damp cloths folded carefully in her hands.
"Let's try to cool you down," she said softly. You nodded weakly. At this point, you didn't have the energy to fight anyone anyway.
Katherine moved around the room with the same gentle calmness she always carried, settling one of the cold cloths carefully across your forehead before placing another lightly against the back of your neck. The coolness against your overheated skin made you exhale shakily, your body instinctively relaxing into the relief despite the chills still trembling through you underneath the blankets.
Your fever made everything feel strange. You felt too hot and too cold simultaneously. You were sweating while shivering. You felt miserable.
Katherine adjusted the blankets carefully around you afterward, making sure you were comfortable before brushing another damp strand of hair away from your forehead.
"Try to get some sleep," she murmured gently. "I'll be downstairs, but I'm going to keep checking on you, alright? You don't need to try to call out for me." The tenderness in her voice almost made your chest ache.
You had spent years around the Jackson family now, long enough that Katherine's warmth toward you no longer felt formal or polite. It felt real. Genuine. Maternal in a way that wrapped around you softly, even now, while you lay feverish and exhausted in bed.
"Thank you, Katie..." you whispered weakly. "You didn't have to do this for me." Katherine's face softened immediately. She reached down instinctively, smoothing your hair back from your damp forehead with the same tenderness she showed any of her children whenever they were sick or hurting.
"Sweetheart..." she said quietly, her voice full of affection. "You've been my daughter-in-law in my heart for years. I was just waiting for Michael to make it official." Something warm bloomed painfully in your chest at her words. Even through the fever and exhaustion and body aches, emotion tightened suddenly in your throat, because she meant it, she genuinely loved you.
Katherine lightly brushed her fingers through your hair one more time before finally standing from the bed, leaving the room quietly so you could rest.
And less than five minutes after the bedroom door closed behind her, exhaustion dragged you back under completely.
When Michael got back to Neverland, the second Bill pulled the car to a stop in front of the house, and Michael was already halfway out the door before the engine had even fully settled. Exhaustion clung heavily to him after the long flight from Italy, his body aching from jet lag, readjusting to the new time, stress, and lack of sleep, but none of it mattered the moment his feet hit the ground.
His entire mind had been consumed by you for the last twelve hours. Every mile between Rome and California had felt unbearable, knowing you were here alone and sick enough that even speaking had exhausted you.
He moved quickly through the front doors of Neverland, his eyes immediately scanning the house as staff members moved quietly throughout the downstairs like normal, though there was an unmistakable tension lingering beneath everything.
Then he saw his mother sitting in the living room. "Mother, how is she?" Michael asked immediately.
Every instinct in him had screamed to run upstairs the second he walked through the door, but he forced himself to stop long enough to ask first because if you were asleep, he didn't want to wake you unnecessarily. Katherine had been here with you the entire time he was in the air, helpless and terrified.
Katherine looked up the moment she heard his voice, and the expression on her face made Michael's stomach drop before she even spoke.
"Not good, Michael," she said softly, and Michael felt something inside his chest tighten painfully at the words. "She has a fever. Her forehead and face are very hot, nearly burning to the touch. I put wet cloths over her forehead and body to try to bring her temperature down. She had medicine, and she drank water. She tried to eat, but I don't think she can keep anything down. She stopped after two bites, but it was taking a lot out of her just to try."
Every word hit Michael like a weight pressing harder and harder against his chest. He pictured you trying to force yourself to eat while barely able to sit upright. Pictured you feverish and trembling in bed while he was trapped on a plane thousands of miles away. Pictured you trying to hide how sick you really were from him over the phone because you didn't want him to worry.
The guilt alone nearly made him sick.
"Thank you for staying with her, Mother... I'll take care of her now," Michael said quietly, leaning down to press a kiss to Katherine's cheek. Katherine smiled softly at him, though concern still lingered heavily in her eyes.
"I know you will, baby... but do call me if you or her need anything, okay?" Michael nodded immediately before escorting her back outside, where Bill waited to take her home to Hayvenhurst. The second Katherine was settled into the car, and Bill pulled away, Michael turned and headed back into the house, his pulse pounding harder with every step he took toward the staircase.
By the time he reached the hallway upstairs, his chest already hurt from anticipation and fear. The bedroom door opened quietly beneath his hand before he carefully shut it behind himself, trying not to disturb you if you were sleeping.
But the second his eyes landed on you, something inside him shattered.
You were asleep, but even from across the room, Michael could immediately tell it wasn't restful. Your blanket was tangled halfway off your body like you had spent hours tossing feverishly beneath it, and your body trembled faintly every few seconds despite the visible sheen of sweat dampening your skin. The cool cloth his mother had placed across your forehead had slid slightly crooked during your sleep, damp strands of hair sticking to your flushed cheeks and neck.
But what broke his heart the most was the position you were curled in.
You had folded completely into yourself beneath the blankets, curled tightly into a fetal position with your arms wrapped around your own body as though you were trying to physically hold yourself together through the pain.
And Michael knew what that meant immediately. You only slept like that when you were hurting badly.
When your cramps were so severe during your monthly cycle that you swore it felt like someone was twisting knives into your stomach. When you had gotten sick before and curled inward because every part of your body hurt too much to stretch out normally. Whenever the pain became overwhelming, your body instinctively folded into itself, as if protecting your stomach and chest might somehow lessen it.
So seeing you like this now, curled so tightly inward, trembling weakly in your sleep while trying to comfort yourself because your body hurt that badly, made something inside Michael ache so violently he could barely breathe through it for a moment.
You looked small, fragile, and miserable. And all Michael could think about was the fact that he hadn't been here.
Slowly, he crossed the room and knelt carefully beside the bed. His movements softened instantly once he was close enough to touch you, all urgency melting into tenderness the second he reached out. Gently, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the top of your head since the cool cloth still covered most of your forehead.
His hand slid carefully into your hair afterward, fingers combing slowly through the damp strands with heartbreaking gentleness.
The touch made you stir weakly beneath the blankets.
Your eyes fluttered open slowly, unfocused at first from exhaustion and fever, and for a brief moment, you genuinely thought you were dreaming him. Michael had been in Italy twelve hours ago. Your fever-clouded brain couldn't fully process how he could suddenly be kneeling beside you now, looking at you with tears nearly gathering in his eyes.
But then your vision cleared enough for recognition to settle in. "Michael," you croaked weakly, your voice rough and painfully hoarse.
The sound alone made Michael's expression crumple further. "Hi, baby... I'm home," he whispered softly. His hand continued moving gently through your hair as he watched your eyes flutter shut again almost immediately, like even keeping them open for more than a few seconds hurt.
The sight devastated him.
"And I will be home for as long as you need me," he whispered quietly, the promise settling heavily between you as he looked at you curled weakly beneath the blankets, already knowing there was nowhere else in the world he could possibly be right now besides beside you.
"Michael... your tour," you whispered weakly as you tried to shake your head. Or at least, you thought you were shaking it.
Your body was so exhausted and feverish that you barely moved at all, the effort stopping somewhere between your brain and your muscles. Even trying to protest took too much energy now, your voice rough and strained from dehydration and sickness.
Michael's expression softened immediately as he looked at you lying there, and you were still worrying about him, even now.
Even curled into yourself with a fever burning through your body and exhaustion dragging at every breath you took, you were still thinking about his tour before yourself.
"That doesn't matter right now," Michael said quietly, his voice low and unwavering as he gently brushed another damp strand of hair away from your forehead. "Only you do."
Your eyes slowly opened again at his words, glossy and heavy with exhaustion. "Michaelâ" He cut you off gently before you could continue trying to convince him to leave.
"Hey..." His thumb stroked softly across the back of your hand as he held it carefully in both of his, his voice full of quiet emotion. "You turned down a huge clothing contract after the Pepsi incident because you wanted to stay by my side..."
The memory hit both of you immediately: the burns, the pain, and the terrifying aftermath of nearly losing him.
You had dropped everything without hesitation back then because the only thing that mattered to you was being beside him while he recovered. Michael still remembered the way you refused to leave the hospital for hours at a time, remembered you sleeping in chairs beside his bed because you couldn't bear being away from him while he was hurting, and now here you were trying to apologize for him doing the same thing for you.
"So if I have to postpone the tour to stay by yours," Michael continued softly, "then that's what I'm going to do."
His fingers slowly slid over your hand, finding your engagement ring, then gently turning it against your finger as he stared down at it for a moment. The gold caught softly in the afternoon light filtering through the bedroom windows, and emotion tightened visibly across Michael's face as his thumb traced over it carefully.
"I gave you this ring with the intention of promising you for better or for worse," he whispered.
Your chest tightened painfully at the emotion in his voice.
Michael had never taken commitment lightly, not with you. Everything between the two of you had always been deep and consuming and real in a way that grounded him beneath all the chaos of fame and touring and public scrutiny. Neverland existed because of the life the two of you were building together. The ring on your finger existed because Michael always saw forever when he looked at you.
And right now, forever meant this too: sickness, caretaking, and staying.
"We've been through my worst..." Michael murmured softly as he lifted your hand closer, pressing a lingering kiss against your knuckles near your ring. His voice cracked slightly around the next words despite how gently he spoke them. "Now we're gonna get through yours."
Emotion burned behind your eyes instantly.
You managed the smallest nod before exhaustion pulled at you again, your eyelids growing impossibly heavy as another wave of feverish fatigue settled over your body. Michael noticed it immediately, the way your breathing deepened slightly as your body started slipping toward sleep again.
Carefully, he leaned forward and pressed another kiss against the top of your head, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary as his fingers continued smoothing gently through your hair.
"Get some rest, mama..." he whispered tenderly. "I'll be right here."
And for the first time since waking up sick and alone in the middle of the night, some of the tension in your body finally eased, because Michael was here now, his hand still wrapped carefully around yours as sleep slowly pulled you under again.
The next time you woke up, it was because of the overwhelming pressure in your bladder pulling you out of another feverish, restless sleep.
For a moment, you just lay there trying to orient yourself through the heavy fog clouding your head. Your body still ached everywhere, deep and relentless, the kind of ache that settled into your bones and made even breathing feel exhausting. You had no idea how long you'd been asleep this time. The room remained dim, the lamps turned low enough that you couldn't tell whether it was daytime or nighttime outside the windows.
What you noticed first, though, was that Michael wasn't beside you.
He had only stepped out briefly to call his private doctor and return one of Frank's increasingly worried calls about the tour, but in your exhausted state, all you processed was the empty space beside the bed.
You swallowed thickly before slowly forcing your legs over the edge of the mattress. The movement alone made your head pound harder. Your muscles protested immediately, soreness radiating through your back, your shoulders, your stomach, even your legs. You paused there for a moment, sitting hunched slightly forward while you tried to steady your breathing through the dizziness already creeping into your head.
You hated this. You hated how weak you felt; you hated that even something as simple as standing up felt like preparing for something physically demanding.
But you needed the bathroom.
Taking a slow breath, you carefully pushed yourself to your feet, but the second you fully stood upright, the room tilted violently around you. Your vision blurred at the edges as another rush of dizziness hit hard enough that you instinctively grabbed for the wall beside you before your knees could buckle completely beneath you, and a shaky breath escaped you.
The bathroom wasn't far. Under normal circumstances, it would've taken seconds to cross the room. But now, feverish and exhausted, your body trembling from weakness, it felt impossibly distant. You forced yourself to take another step anyway, then another.
Each movement drained you further, your breathing turning shallow from the effort alone. Michael had left the lights low before stepping out, enough that the room glowed softly without the brightness hurting your head, but the shadows around you only made the dizziness feel worse.
Another wave hit suddenly. Your hand slid harder against the wall as your body sagged with it, your forehead nearly brushing the surface while you tried to keep yourself upright. You barely even heard the bedroom door opening. The only thing you could focus on was the terrifying feeling that your body was giving out underneath you.
The second Michael walked back into the room and saw you half collapsing against the wall, his heart pretty much stopped. "Babyâ"
He crossed the room so quickly it barely registered before his arms were around you, carefully catching you before you could slide any farther. One arm wrapped securely around your waist while the other steadied your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest as he held your weight for you.
"Baby, what are you doing out of bed?" he asked softly, panic buried beneath the tenderness in his voice. Your head fell weakly against his shoulder almost immediately, too exhausted to even fully hold it up anymore.
"I have to pee..." you whispered hoarsely.
The words alone made humiliation crash over you so hard it almost hurt more than the fever itself, because this was Michael.
Michael, who had seen you dressed beautifully on red carpets, laughing beside him in interviews, dancing around Neverland with him at two in the morning, planning your wedding with stars in his eyes whenever he looked at you.
And now he was carrying you to the bathroom because you were too weak to walk there by yourself.
Michael didn't react to any of that embarrassment, though. He only tightened his hold on you gently and carried you into the bathroom without hesitation, helping lower you carefully onto the toilet before quietly stepping outside to give you privacy.
The second the door clicked shut behind him, the tears started. At first, you tried to stop them.
You pressed your lips together tightly, swallowing hard against the lump forming in your throat, but the humiliation kept building anyway because you felt trapped inside a body that suddenly couldn't do anything right anymore. Everything hurt: standing, walking hurt, and talking too much left you breathless. Even trying to use the bathroom by yourself had nearly ended with you collapsing against the wall.
You felt helpless, weak, and worst of all, you felt ugly in your suffering.
Michael had already seen you sweating through your clothes, feverish and disoriented, curled into yourself in pain, barely able to eat without getting nauseous. Now he was carrying you around the house because your body physically couldn't support itself for long enough to cross a bedroom.
The tears slipped harder down your cheeks, a choked sob coming from your lips before you could stop it and when Michael hears it... when he hears you crying from outside the bathroom door, his heart dropped instantly.
He pushed the door open without hesitation before immediately kneeling in front of you, concern flooding his face the second he saw the tears running down your flushed cheeks.
"Baby, what's wrong?" he asked softly.
You shook your head weakly before squeezing your eyes shut, more tears slipping free.
"This is... so humiliating, Michael..." Your voice cracked apart around the words as another shaky breath left you. "I can't do anything because everything hurts so much."
Talking was already exhausting you again. You had to pause to catch your breath before continuing, your chest tightening painfully as you tried not to cry harder in front of him.
"And you have to see me like this," you whispered brokenly. "It's embarrassing." Michael felt his own eyes sting almost instantly.
The sound of your ragged breathing between every sentence, the way every tear seemed to physically exhaust you further, the humiliation written all over your face while you sat there crying in front of him, it shattered something inside him completely.
Because none of this was embarrassing to him.
It devastated him that you genuinely thought he could ever look at you like this and see anything shameful, when all he saw was the woman he loved hurting so badly she could barely stand on her own, apologizing for needing care when all he wanted was to protect her from every ounce of pain he possibly could.
Without thinking, Michael reached up and cupped your face carefully in both hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears spilling over your cheeks.
"You don't have to be embarrassed, baby," he whispered, his own eyes beginning to water as he looked at you. "Never with me." His voice was impossibly soft, steady in the way he only became when he was trying to hold someone else together emotionally. "I will always take care of you, no matter what."
The sincerity in his voice only made fresh tears fall harder because you knew he meant it completely. There wasn't hesitation or obligation in him. Michael loved with his entire heart, and right now every ounce of that love was wrapped around you so carefully it almost made your chest ache.
Once you had calmed enough to stand again, Michael helped you carefully back to your feet so you could fix your clothes and wash your hands at the sink. He stayed just outside the bathroom doorway the entire time, close enough that if your legs weakened again, he could catch you immediately.
And the second you opened the door afterward, Michael stepped forward without hesitation and lifted you back into his arms again.
"Michael..." you whispered softly as he carried you back toward the bed.
He leaned down instinctively and pressed a gentle kiss against your temple, immediately frowning against your skin when he felt how warm you still were beneath his lips. Your fever hadn't broken at all. If anything, you still felt overheated despite the medicine, and Michael silently made a mental note to wake you for another dose later, even though you could barely keep your eyes open now.
"I'm right here, baby," he murmured as he settled you carefully back beneath the blankets.
"You shouldn't stay... in here too long..." You whispered hoarsely, your eyes already drifting shut again from exhaustion. "You can't get sick."
The words hit him deeply because even now, even feeling as miserable as you feel, you were still worried about him first.
Michael brushed his fingers gently through your hair before answering softly, "If I get sick, then I get sick. I'm not leaving you."
At some point while he sat beside you, your body instinctively shifted closer to him beneath the blankets. Without even realizing it consciously, you wrapped your arms loosely around his forearm, where it rested beside you on the bed, clinging softly to him in your exhausted state like your body recognized him as safety before your mind even fully could.
The sight made Michael's chest ache with love. A small smile finally touched his face for the first time since getting home as he looked down at your arms wrapped around him.
Carefully, he settled closer beside you before softly beginning to hum under his breath, his voice quiet and soothing as he sang gently to you the same way he always did whenever you were upset, hurting, or unable to sleep.
And slowly, curled beside him with his voice wrapping softly around you, your breathing deepened again as sleep finally pulled you back under.
The next few days melted together so completely that eventually you stopped being able to tell where one ended and another began. Everything became centered around the same miserable cycle that your body refused to break out of.
You slept for hours at a time only to wake up feeling just as awful as before. The fever never fully left you, lingering stubbornly beneath your skin, no matter how many cool cloths Michael pressed against your forehead or how carefully he kept track of your medicine schedule.Â
Your body ached constantly, deeply enough that even lying still hurt after too long, but moving hurt worse. Every muscle in your back, shoulders, neck, and legs felt exhausted and inflamed, like your body was fighting itself from the inside out.
Most of the time, you drifted in and out of sleep because staying awake required too much energy. Whenever you did wake up, Michael was there.
Sometimes he sat beside you quietly reading while keeping one hand absentmindedly against your leg or arm so he could feel if your fever changed. Sometimes he hummed softly under his breath while changing out the cold cloths on your forehead after they became warm against your skin. Sometimes you woke up to find him simply watching you with exhausted eyes, his expression heavy with worry, he tried desperately not to let you fully see.
You tried to eat because he asked you to, and that alone was usually enough to make you try.
Michael would sit beside you, carefully holding a tray while encouraging you softly through every bite, his voice gentle and patient, even though you could see the concern tightening behind his eyes whenever you managed only a few spoonfuls before your stomach started turning again.
And every single time, guilt hit you immediately afterward, because you could see how badly he wanted you to improve. You could see the hope that flickered briefly across his face every time you attempted to eat something, only for it to quietly disappear again when nausea forced you to stop.
The doctor Michael brought to Neverland, had explained everything gently after examining you. A viral infection. Antibiotics wouldn't work; there was no instant fix. Just hydration, medicine for the fever, and rest while your body slowly fought through it on its own.
You understood, but that didn't make it easier. If anything, hearing there was nothing either of you could do except wait somehow made the whole thing feel worse, and Michael took that helplessness harder than he ever let himself admit aloud, because he hated seeing you in pain.
And not in the casual way people said it when someone they loved got sick for a few days, but in a way that visibly affected him every hour he spent beside you. Michael absorbed the suffering of the people he loved deeply, and there was something quietly devastating about watching someone he adored hurt this badly while being unable to truly fix it.
Every time you stood up and your body immediately swayed from dizziness, his entire face tightened with panic before he moved instinctively to steady you. Every time you curled into yourself beneath the blankets because stretching out fully made your body ache too much, he looked at you with the same wounded expression he'd worn since the moment he came home and saw you lying there trembling in pain. Even hearing you speak hurt him now because your voice remained weak and strained, every sentence clearly costing you energy you didn't have.
And still, he kept himself together for you. He stayed gentle, patient, and soft.
But sometimes, usually late at night after you fell asleep again, Michael would sit quietly at the edge of the bed with his head lowered while exhaustion and helplessness settled visibly across his face, tears slipping from his eyes. Because now he understood exactly what you must have felt after the Pepsi incident.
Back then, when he'd been lying in the burn unit with pain radiating through his scalp every time he moved, you had looked at him the same way he looked at you now. He remembered the way your face used to crumble every time he winced despite trying to hide it. He remembered waking up during the night and finding your head resting on his bed near his thigh because you couldn't bear leaving him alone while he was hurting. He remembered how helpless your eyes looked whenever the doctors explained how bad the burns had been and how extensive the treatment afterward would be.
Now he understood why you used to cry quietly afterward when you thought he couldn't hear you, because loving someone while watching them suffer felt unbearable.
When you woke up this time, your body still felt heavy with fever and exhaustion, but before you even fully opened your eyes, you heard Michael's voice across the room.
He was trying to keep his tone low, trying and failing.
"I don't care, Frank... I told you I'm not coming back until she's better and able to travel with me."
Your eyes slowly fluttered open at the sharpness in his voice.
Michael stood near the windows with the phone pressed tightly against his ear, one hand rubbing frustratedly over his face while tension radiated through his entire posture. His hair looked slightly messy from repeatedly dragging his hands through it over the last few days, and exhaustion sat heavily beneath his eyes from barely sleeping since he'd gotten home.
He was talking to his manager, Frank DiLeo.
Everyone else remained in Italy, preparing for the tour, while Michael stayed here with you. The rehearsals, interviews, photoshoots, and scheduling meetings, all of it was still continuing overseas while Michael delayed everything from California because he refused to leave you in this condition.
Michael went quiet for a moment while Frank responded on the other end, but whatever he said only made Michael's frustration finally snap through completely.
Your chest tightened painfully listening to him. Michael rarely got truly angry. You'd seen him serious before, firm before, upset before, but genuine anger almost never surfaced because Michael hated confrontation. Usually, when something upset him deeply, he became quieter rather than louder.
But this was different.
Because Frank wasn't just talking about tour dates to Michael right now. In Michael's mind, Frank was asking him to leave you while you still couldn't walk across the room without nearly collapsing.
"You work for me, not the other way around," Michael said sharply, his voice low and controlled in that dangerous way it only became when he was genuinely furious. "I will call you when we make our way back to Italy. Goodbye, Frank."
The line disconnected hard enough that you could hear the sound from across the room. For a moment, Michael just stood there breathing heavily through the frustration, one hand still gripping the phone tightly.
Then he turned around, and the second his eyes landed on you awake in bed, every trace of anger disappeared from his face so quickly it almost felt surreal. His shoulders softened first, then his expression.
The tension left his jaw almost immediately, replaced by concern so gentle and immediate that it made your chest ache as he crossed the room toward you.
"Hey, mama," he said softly the second he reached the bed, his voice completely different now, warm and careful as he sat beside you and immediately brushed the back of his hand against your forehead to check your temperature. "Did I wake you? I'm sorry."
"No," you whispered as you shook your head weakly before letting out a slow breath.
Your body still felt exhausted, heavy beneath the blankets, but at least the pain wasn't as sharp as it had been a few days ago. The fever still lingered inside you, though. You could feel it every time another chill rolled through your body, despite how warm your skin remained.
"Michael, I don't want you to get in trouble..." you said quietly. "I'm sure your Mom can come back and stay until I'm better."
Another cold shudder passed through you hard enough that your body trembled beneath the blankets, and instinctively you pulled them tighter around yourself as though you couldn't decide whether you were freezing or overheating.
Michael's expression softened immediately, but there was still an unmistakable firmness behind his eyes.
"Baby... I'm not having this discussion again," he said gently as he settled himself more comfortably beside you. "I'm not leaving until you're well enough to come back to Italy with me."
Before you could protest again, he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against the top of your head, his lips resting there long enough that he could immediately tell the fever wasn't nearly as high as it had been before.
Your forehead was still warm, too warm, but not burning anymore, so that was a good sign. Relief loosened something quietly inside his chest at that realization. It was the first real sign your body might finally be starting to fight through the worst of it.
"I need to shower..." you murmured softly after a moment, your voice rough from days of sickness and sleep. "I've been sweating and sleeping for days."
Michael nodded immediately, understanding the discomfort behind your words. Your hair still felt damp most of the time from the fever, and despite how exhausted you were, he knew you probably felt miserable physically after being stuck in bed for days.
"How about a bath?" he suggested softly. "You're still wobbly when you stand, and with the steam and heat from the shower, I don't want you to pass out."
The protectiveness in his voice made your chest ache softly. Even now, he watched every movement you made carefully, constantly anticipating what might exhaust you too much or make your dizziness worse.
"Okay," you whispered.
Michael stood and disappeared briefly into the bathroom to start the water while you slowly pushed yourself upright in bed. Your body still protested the movement, soreness flaring through your muscles as you sat up, but the pain wasn't nearly as unbearable now as it had been during those first few days. The worst of the body aches had dulled slightly, though every so often, sharp waves of pain still pulsed unexpectedly through your back or shoulders hard enough to make you wince.
Still, this was better.
Weakly, you managed to peel yourself out of the oversized shirt and shorts you had been wearing since the morning you woke up sick. Even that small effort left you breathing a little heavier afterward, exhaustion still clinging stubbornly to your body despite the slight improvement.
When Michael came back out of the bathroom, he already had a towel waiting in his hands. Without saying anything, he wrapped it carefully around you before helping you slowly to your feet, one arm immediately sliding around your waist to steady you.
You noticed the difference instantly.
You still felt weak, but you weren't immediately collapsing into dizziness anymore. You could stand for longer now before the lightheadedness crept in, and although your legs still felt shaky beneath you, at least you could walk the short distance to the bathroom without your vision going black.
Michael noticed the improvement, too.
He didn't say it aloud because he didn't want to overwhelm you or make you push yourself too hard too quickly, but quiet relief settled visibly across his face as he carefully walked beside you into the bathroom.
The warm water was already filling the tub with soft steam by the time he helped you over. "Easy," he murmured gently as he helped lower you down into the bath.
The second the warm water touched your body, a deep breath escaped you automatically.
Relief spread through your aching muscles almost instantly, the warmth soothing places in your body that had felt tense and sore for days. Slowly, you leaned your head back against the tub wall and let yourself sink slightly deeper into the water, your eyes fluttering closed as some of the tension finally eased from your shoulders.
Michael watched you carefully the entire time.
Even now, after days of caring for you almost nonstop, his eyes tracked every little expression crossing your face, every shift in your breathing, every sign that something hurt or exhausted you too much.
When he saw some of the tightness leave your body, his own shoulders softened slightly, too. He lowered himself beside the tub afterward, kneeling near you so he could stay close in case you needed help.
"Do you need help?" he asked quietly.
You shook your head softly. Right now, you just need a moment to sit there in the warmth and let your body breathe for the first time in days before trying to move again.
"Thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you whispered softly, your eyes still closed.
The warmth of the bath felt incredible against muscles that had been aching relentlessly for nearly a week now, and just being clean again already made you feel a little more human.
Michael's expression softened immediately at your words.
"You never have to thank me for that, baby," he said quietly. "I'm going to get you some soup... hopefully you can hold something down."
You nodded faintly. You hadn't properly eaten in days.
Not because you didn't want to, but because every attempt ended the same way: nausea twisting violently through your stomach after only a bite or two until you physically couldn't force yourself to continue. For days now, your body had survived almost entirely on medicine and water because it was the only thing you could consistently keep down.
Michael lingered beside the tub for another moment, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead before finally standing and quietly stepping out of the bathroom.
Once he was gone, you slowly started washing yourself, everything still took effort.
You had to pause occasionally to breathe through sudden waves of soreness or dizziness, but eventually you managed to wash your hair and body completely, the warm water easing some of the lingering ache from your muscles with every passing minute.
And once you finished, you simply stayed there soaking quietly in the warmth, your body finally beginning to feel just a little less miserable than it had been the last few days.
When Michael came back upstairs about thirty minutes later after making the soup, he balanced the tray carefully in his hands as he walked back into the bedroom. The house had gone quiet again while he was downstairs, the only sounds coming from the distant hum of Neverland outside and the soft creak of the floor beneath his feet as he crossed the room.
He set the tray down on the nightstand before making his way toward the bathroom, pushing the door open gently. The sight waiting for him immediately softened his entire expression.
You had fallen asleep in the bathtub.
Your head rested against the cool tile behind you, your damp hair clinging slightly to your skin while the rest of your body remained submerged beneath the water. The steam had long since faded from the room, leaving only the lingering warmth of the bathwater around you, and Michael could already tell from how long you'd been asleep that the water was probably cold by now.
A quiet smile tugged softly at his lips despite the lingering worry that had been sitting heavily inside him for days.
You looked exhausted.
Even sleeping, he could still see it written all over you; the fatigue had settled deeply into your face and body after nearly a week of fever, pain, and barely eating. But at least now, for the first time in days, your body looked more relaxed than miserable.
Michael lightly shook his head to himself before grabbing the towel he had wrapped you in earlier and kneeling beside the tub.
"Baby..." His voice came out soft and warm as his fingers carefully slid through your wet hair. "You have to wake up really quick, baby girl."
Your eyes fluttered faintly at the familiar touch before slowly opening. For a moment, your gaze stayed unfocused, heavy with sleep and lingering exhaustion as you blinked through the haze, but then your eyes landed on Michael kneeling beside the tub.
"Did I fall asleep again?" you asked quietly. Michael chuckled softly under his breath as he nodded.
"Yeah," he murmured. "The water must be cold by now, so let's get you back into bed."
You nodded sleepily, and Michael reached over to pull the drain plug, letting the water slowly begin draining from the tub before he helped you carefully to your feet once the water lowered enough. His hands stayed steady against you the entire time, one supporting your waist while the other held your arm gently in case your legs weakened again.
The bath had helped. You still felt weak, but not in the same unbearable way you had a few days ago. Michael dried you off carefully before wrapping the towel around your body again and helping you back into the bedroom. By the time you reached the bed, you felt tired in a different way now, cleaner and more comfortable instead of feverishly miserable.
And for the first time since getting sick, you were able to stand long enough to get dressed on your own.
Michael had already picked clothes out for you and left them on the bed: a pair of soft cotton shorts exactly like the ones you always loved sleeping in, and beside them sat one of his oversized Bad Tour shirts, freshly washed.
A small smile finally pulled at your lips when you saw it.
The shirt swallowed you completely once you pulled it on, the familiar softness and faint scent of fresh laundry making something inside you relax further. It felt comforting in the way Michael always felt comforting, and by the time you climbed back into bed afterward, your body already felt calmer than it had earlier.
Michael immediately handed you the soup once you settled yourself upright against the pillows.
You still couldn't eat much.
Your stomach remained sensitive, and the exhaustion lingering in your body made even holding the spoon feel draining after too long, but this time, you managed more than just two or three bites before the nausea finally started creeping back in again.
When you eventually looked over at Michael and slowly shook your head, silently telling him you couldn't manage anymore, Michael glanced down at the bowl and immediately took note of how much more was gone compared to the last few days.
Relief softened visibly across his face.
"Hey... this is more food than a few days ago," Michael said softly before leaning forward to kiss your forehead gently. "I'm proud of you, mama." The praise made a small smile tug weakly at your lips again, and the second Michael saw it, his entire expression warmed.
"There's my girl," he murmured softly.
The tenderness in his voice made your chest ache.
You had missed this version of yourself. The version that could smile at him instead of only curling inward from pain and exhaustion. You still felt weak, and your body still hurt in waves, but for the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt like maybe you were slowly coming back to yourself again.
"Will you lie down with me, please?" you whispered.
Michael nodded immediately.
He stood long enough to carry the tray to the bedroom door and place it outside so the staff could take it downstairs later, once they saw it, then he came right back to you without hesitation.
"Do you want me to hold you?" he asked softly as he slipped back into bed beside you. "I know you're going back and forth between being hot and being cold."
You nodded. You never minded warmth when it came from Michael. "Yes," you whispered.
Michael's arms wrapped carefully around you from behind, slowly pulling your body back against his chest until you were fully settled against him. The warmth of him immediately surrounded you, steady and comforting in a way that made your entire body slowly unclench. You rested your hands over his, where they lay against your stomach, lacing your fingers through his as your eyes drifted closed again.
Everything about this felt better.
You were finally clean after days of fever and sweat clinging to your skin, dressed in soft, comfortable clothes, wrapped safely in Michael's arms. Even the bed felt different beneath you now because while you had been soaking in the bath, Michael had changed all the bedsheets too, replacing them with fresh, clean ones before going downstairs to make your soup.
The clean sheets, the warmth of Michael behind you, the lingering softness from the bath easing your aching muscles, all of it combined into the first genuine sense of comfort you'd felt since getting sick.
"Your fever is going down, baby... it shouldn't be too much longer now," Michael said softly against the top of your head.
You nodded faintly where you were tucked against his chest, his arms still wrapped securely around you beneath the blankets. The warmth of him had become grounding over the last few days, especially during the moments when chills rolled through your body hard enough to make you shiver despite the lingering fever still heating your skin.
For the first time since getting sick, though, your body didn't feel like it was fighting itself quite as violently anymore. You still felt weak, exhausted, and achy in ways that made every movement slow and careful. But there was relief beginning to settle underneath it now, too.
"Will we still be able to get to see some of Italy before your shows?" you asked quietly. Michael let out a soft little chuckle at that, leaning down to kiss the top of your head again as his fingers absentmindedly traced along your arm beneath the blankets.
"I will make sure we do," he murmured. A small smile tugged at your lips.
Even now, exhausted and half-asleep against him, the thought of finally getting to Italy with Michael still made warmth bloom softly in your chest. The trip had meant so much to both of you before you got sick. It wasn't just about the tour. It was about finally having a little time together away from cameras and schedules and rehearsals before Michael became swallowed by work again.
Very slowly, you turned in his arms so you could look at him properly. The movement alone visibly worried Michael.
His expression shifted immediately as he watched you carefully, noticing how much energy even that small adjustment seemed to take out of you now. Your breathing deepened slightly from the effort by the time you settled facing him, and his hand instinctively slid along your back gently like he could somehow steady the exhaustion still moving through your body.
"Easy, baby," he murmured softly.
You looked up at him quietly for a moment before speaking again. "Can we get married in Italy?" Michael's eyes widened instantly. Of all the things he thought you might say, that wasn't one of them.
For a second, he just stared at you, searching your face to make sure the fever wasn't making you delirious or emotional in a way you'd regret later, but then he saw it clearly in your eyes. You meant it.
"We can get married wherever you want, baby," he said softly. You nodded slightly against the pillow.
"I want to..." You paused briefly, your voice still rough from days of sickness and sleep. "When we're in Italy... I want to get married there, even if it's just legally, and we have an actual ceremony later so our families can come."
The softness that spread across Michael's face at your words was immediate and overwhelming; it wasn't hesitation or uncertainty. It was pure love.
"You know I'd marry you anywhere, mama," he whispered, smiling down at you so warmly it made your chest ache softly. "Let's do it."
Your eyes widened slightly. You had wanted him to say yes, obviously, but part of you still hadn't fully expected him to agree so quickly, especially with everything surrounding the tour right now.
"Really?" you asked quietly.
Michael nodded immediately before leaning down to press another gentle kiss against your forehead. "Really."
Emotion swelled so suddenly in your chest that you instinctively buried your face against him, inhaling deeply against his skin. The breath shuddered all the way through your body in his arms, and Michael felt every bit of it.
He tightened his hold around you immediately, his hand slowly smoothing up and down your back beneath the oversized shirt you wore.
"I'm really glad you came home, Michael..." you whispered softly.
The words settled heavily between you because both of you knew exactly what it had cost him to leave Italy so suddenly. The tour. The rehearsals. Frank is practically losing his mind over postponements, interviews, and schedules.
And still, Michael had gotten on a nonstop twelve-hour flight without hesitation the second he realized how sick you really were. You knew he was frustrated with Frank, but you also knew part of him worried about delaying things.
But sitting here in his arms now, finally feeling some small sense of comfort after days of pain and exhaustion, you couldn't stop yourself from admitting how grateful you were that he had come home anyway.
Michael's arms tightened around you slightly at your words.
"I couldn't stay away after hearing you like that, baby," he admitted quietly. "I just knew I needed to be here." Your eyes fluttered closed briefly because you understood that feeling completely.
You had felt it after the Pepsi accident. You had been working when Jackie called you from the hospital to tell you what happened, and you immediately left, not caring if you got in trouble; the only thing you felt was the overwhelming certainty that there was nowhere else in the world you were supposed to be except beside him while he hurt.
And you would do it again without hesitation.
"I love you, Michael," you whispered softly before another yawn slipped from you, your body instinctively curling closer against him underneath the blankets. Michael smiled faintly against your hair before kissing the top of your head once more.
"I love you more, mama... get some rest," he whispered.
You nodded weakly against him, already feeling sleep beginning to pull at you again, but this time it felt different.
For the first time since waking up sick that morning days ago, you finally felt truly safe enough to rest deeply instead of just collapsing from exhaustion. Michael's arms remained wrapped securely around you, his heartbeat steady against your body while his fingers continued moving slowly through your hair.
And somewhere between the warmth of him, the clean sheets beneath you, and the lingering comfort still relaxing your muscles from the bath, hope finally settled softly inside your chest that maybe you were going to start getting better soon.
Over the course of the next few days, you slowly began to come back to yourself.
The changes were so gradual that neither you nor Michael fully realized how much better you were getting until he caught himself no longer panicking every time you stood up from the bed. Your fever finally disappeared completely, leaving your skin warm instead of burning beneath his touch, and little by little, color started returning to your cheeks again. The dark exhaustion still lingered beneath your eyes, but you no longer looked pale and feverish in a way that made Michael's chest tighten every time he looked at you.
You were finally able to eat more, too.
Not full meals yet, and Michael was careful not to push your body too hard after nearly ten days of barely keeping anything down, but now you could manage soup, toast, crackers, and small portions at a time without your stomach immediately turning violently afterward.Â
Every time you finished a little more than the day before, Michael tried not to look too visibly relieved, but you always noticed it anyway. The softening in his shoulders. The little smile he tried to hide. The way he'd kiss your forehead afterward, like he was proud of you for something as simple as eating.
And honestly, after feeling so miserable for so long, it made your chest ache every single time.
The biggest difference, though, was that you could move again.
You could walk across the room without your legs giving out underneath you. You could stand in the bathroom long enough to brush your teeth without gripping the counter for balance. You could hold conversations without needing to pause every few words just to breathe through the exhaustion crushing your chest.
The only thing that still clung stubbornly to you now was the fatigue.
Your body had fought hard against the virus, and now that the worst of it was over, all the exhaustion left behind seemed to settle deep into your bones. You slept heavily every night, sometimes drifting off in the middle of conversations with Michael simply because your body still needed rest so badly.
And throughout all of it, Frank never stopped calling.
Rome was getting closer and closer, and every single day, the pressure mounted more from overseas. Rehearsals had to be rescheduled. Interviews postponed. Photoshoots rearranged. Every time the phone rang, Michael's expression would tense before he answered because he already knew what the conversation would be.
Frank wanted him back in Italy, but every time Michael looked at you, all he could still see was the first night he came home: you curled tightly into yourself in pain, too weak to even properly hold yourself upright.
That image had stayed lodged painfully inside him ever since.
So now, seeing you improve day by day affected him more emotionally than he knew how to explain aloud. Watching you walk into the bathroom on your own for the first time had nearly made him emotional. Seeing you shower by yourself again without nearly collapsing afterward had filled him with such overwhelming relief that he'd had to look away for a second just to compose himself.
For days, Michael had genuinely been scared, and now, finally, he could feel that fear beginning to loosen its grip on him too.
When you woke up that morning, Michael was already awake beside you.
You had fallen asleep tucked against his chest again sometime during the night, your body naturally seeking him out in sleep now after days of him holding you through fevers, chills, pain, and exhaustion. One of his arms remained wrapped securely around your waist beneath the blankets while the other rested lazily across your back, his fingers occasionally tracing soft patterns there absentmindedly while he watched you sleep.
He couldn't help it, you looked peaceful again: not feverish, trembling, or hurting anymore. Just resting. After how terrified he'd been seeing you sick like that, watching you sleep peacefully against him now felt healing for him, too.
"You're staring at me," you mumbled sleepily, your voice rough with sleep as you slowly started waking up. A soft laugh escaped Michael immediately before he leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss against your forehead.
"Because you're so beautiful," he murmured.
A sleepy smile spread across your face almost instantly, and without even opening your eyes fully yet, you tucked yourself closer against him beneath the blankets. Over the last several nights, you had stopped sleeping, curled into yourself in pain. Now you slept curled around Michael instead, your body instinctively seeking comfort from him even while unconscious, and every single time he woke up with you wrapped around him like this, it affected him deeply.
"When's the flight?" you asked softly after a moment. "I know you have to get to Italy... I feel a lot better. I can survive a twelve-hour flight." Michael's expression softened immediately, though concern still flickered behind his eyes.
Of course, he wanted you there with him.
He had missed you terribly before all of this happened, and honestly, after spending the last week terrified and attached to your side almost nonstop, the idea of leaving you behind again sounded unbearable to him.Â
But at the same time, he could still see how exhausted you were. Even though the fever was gone and your strength was returning, your body still tired easily, and Michael hated the thought of pushing you too hard, too fast, after how sick you'd been.
"Baby... are you sure?" he asked quietly, his fingers brushing gently through your hair. "I don't want you to push yourself too hard while you're still recovering."
At that, your eyes finally fluttered open fully so you could look at him, and immediately, Michael's breath caught slightly, because you looked so much more like yourself now.
Your eyes weren't clouded with fever anymore. Your cheeks held real warmth and life again, instead of that flushed, sickly heat that had haunted him for days. Even tired, even still recovering, you looked alive in a way that made relief wash through him all over again.
"I want to go," you said softly. "I know we probably won't get to spend as much time together because you have to make up rehearsals, but I want to be there, Michael."
The sincerity in your voice softened him instantly. Michael leaned down and kissed your forehead again before pulling you a little closer against his chest.
"Okay," he murmured softly. "Bill arranged the flight already... We'll leave later tonight." A smile spread slowly across your face at that.
Very carefully, you pushed yourself up onto your elbow so you could look at him better, the oversized Bad Tour shirt shifting against your shoulder as you moved closer toward him in the bed.
"I know I already said it, but thank you for taking care of me, Michael," you said softly, the sincerity in your voice making Michael's expression immediately melt into something warm and affectionate.
He smiled while lightly shaking his head, his fingers still absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your back beneath the blankets. "In sickness and in health..." he murmured. "It's in the vows."
A quiet laugh escaped you as you rolled your eyes playfully, the sound soft and still slightly sleepy from just waking up. "We're not married yet," you pointed out.
Michael's smile only widened at that. "I know," he said softly, his eyes moving across your face with that same overwhelming tenderness he'd been looking at you with for days now. "But we will be soon."
The warmth in his voice settled deep into your chest.
You smiled before shifting closer to him until your foreheads rested together, your breath mingling softly between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Michael's hand slid gently along your waist while your fingers rested against his chest, and suddenly the thing you had missed most over the last ten days settled heavily between you both at the exact same time.
Kissing him.
Not feverish kisses pressed to your forehead while you drifted in and out of sleep, or exhausted, little touches while he checked your temperature or helped you back into bed.
A real kiss.
You could see Michael wanting it too in the way his eyes softened the closer you got to him, the way his breathing shifted slightly before he leaned in to meet you halfway. He had held himself back for days because you'd been too sick, too weak, too exhausted to even think about something like this while your body fought through the virus.
But now you were here, warm in his arms instead of burning with fever, looking at him with clear eyes again. Your lips met softly, and immediate warmth spread through your body that had absolutely nothing to do with being sick anymore.
Michael kissed you carefully at first, almost reverently, like he was still worried you might break if he touched you too hard after everything your body had just gone through. His hand came up slowly to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushing gently across your jaw while your lips moved together softly.
And the second the kiss deepened even slightly, you melted into him completely. You had missed this, missed him.
You were the one who eventually pulled back first, your breathing growing slightly uneven from lingering exhaustion more than anything else.
Michael noticed immediately. His hand stayed gentle against your cheek as he pressed another soft kiss against your forehead while you steadied your breathing.
"You okay, mama?" he asked quietly.
You nodded almost immediately, smiling at him softly. "I love you."
The words made Michael's entire face light up. His full, wide, and genuine smile that's so full of love, it made your chest ache just looking at him.
"I love you more," he whispered.
And for the rest of the day, the two of you stayed wrapped up in each other like that.
The heaviness that had hung over Neverland for the last ten days finally began lifting now that you were recovering, and for the first time since Michael had flown home from Italy, things started feeling normal again between you. You spent hours lying together, talking quietly about your wedding plans once you reached Italy, both of you getting increasingly more excited the more real it started to sound.
The thought of marrying Michael in Italy made your stomach flutter now in an entirely different way than sickness had.
Since your suitcases had already been packed before you got sick, there wasn't much left to prepare before leaving. Instead, the day became about simply being together again without fear hanging over either of you.
You and Michael made lunch together slowly, Michael still hovering slightly every time you stood too long or moved too quickly, though now it made you smile more than anything else. He still watched you carefully while you ate too, quietly relieved every time you managed to finish food without getting nauseous afterward.
Later, the two of you showered together, not out of desperation this time, but simply because after spending days caring for you so intimately, neither of you wanted distance from each other anymore.
And when it was finally time to leave for the airport that evening, Bill drove both of you there while Michael kept one arm wrapped around you almost the entire ride.
The second you boarded the private plane and settled into your seats for the long flight ahead, exhaustion immediately started creeping back into your body again. Recovery still weighed heavily on you, even though you felt infinitely better now than you had days ago.
Michael noticed instantly.
"Get some sleep, baby," he murmured softly as he pulled you against his chest again beneath the blankets provided on the plane.
You curled into him easily, your head resting against his shoulder while his arms wrapped securely around you, warm and familiar and safe in the quiet cabin.
Even now, with Italy finally ahead of you again and the tour waiting overseas, Michael still remained conscious of your health in every little thing he did. He adjusted the blankets carefully around you, pressed soft kisses against your hair, and kept his hand slowly rubbing along your back until your body relaxed fully against him.
Tucked safely into his arms in the back of the plane, surrounded by his warmth and the steady sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you finally let yourself drift off to sleep again.
jaafar jackson x f!reader ââââàšà§ââââ ⥠wc: 2.5k
synopsis: reader gives jaafar a handjob (and edges him :p)
cw: smut, sub!jaafar, maybe switch!jaafar if u squint?, edging, handjob, teasing
ib: @prettyangeliczz
guys this is like my first ever post/fic so like...be nice pls
rain pattered softly against the apartment windows while the tv played quietly in the background, long forgotten by now.
you were sprawled on top of jaafar on the couch, your head resting against his chest while one of his arms stayed wrapped loosely around your waist. his other hand traced absentminded patterns up and down your back, fingertips warm through the thin fabric of your white tank top.
he looked so good like this.
grey sweats hung low on his hips, the fabric bunched slightly where your legs tangled with his. his black shirt clung to him just enough to outline the shape of his arms and shoulders, sleeves stretched snug around his biceps every time he shifted beneath you.
your fingers drew lazy circles against the middle of his chest while you looked up at him quietly, observing his features.
the tiny mole above his eyebrow.
his lashes resting low against his cheeks every time he blinked sleepily.
the curve of his jaw.
his lips.
god, his lips.
jaafar looked relaxed in a way he only ever did around you. hair messy, cheeks slightly flushed from the warmth of the apartment, eyes half-lidded while he played with the hem of your tank top absentmindedly.
you didnât even realize how long youâd been staring until his gaze finally dropped to yours.
a slow smile pulled at his mouth.
âyouâre staring.â
you hummed softly, still looking at him. âyouâre pretty.â
his entire face changed immediately.
a blush spread across his cheeks so fast it almost made you laugh, and he let out a quiet groan before dropping his head back dramatically against the couch cushion.
âstop.â
âitâs true.â
âyou say it like every day.â
ââcause every day i look at you and think âheâs so pretty.ââ
âbaby,â he mumbled, embarrassed now, one hand sliding up to cover part of his face.
you grinned and pulled his hand away gently, intertwining your fingers with his before leaning up to kiss him.
it started soft.
slow.
jaafar kissed you like he was sleepy and addicted to you at the same time, lips warm and lingering against yours while his grip tightened unconsciously at your waist. your hand slid higher up his chest, fingertips brushing over the fabric stretched across him, while your other hand settled along his jaw and neck.
his hands moved instinctively up your back, fingertips pressing into your skin beneath your tank top. the other drifted lower, resting just above your ass while he kissed you deeper, slower.
needier.
you shifted slightly closer against him without thinking.
jaafar inhaled sharply.
the movement dragged you right against him through the fabric of both your sweats, and a low groan slipped from his throat before he could stop it.
your lips curved instantly against his.
the second he realized the sound he made, his cheeks burned again. he let out a breathy laugh under his breath and buried his face against your shoulder like he was suddenly shy about how affected heâd gotten.
âyou okay?â you teased softly.
âno,â he muttered into your skin.
you laughed quietly, fingers slipping into his curls again. you smiled softly, brushing your nose against his temple. âyouâre cute.â
he lifted his head just enough to look at you again, all flushed cheeks and messy curls and swollen lips from kissing you. he looked completely wrecked already.
just from this.
your thumb brushed lightly over his jaw while you watched his expression soften under your touch.
âdonât start,â he murmured, though there was no real complaint behind it.
his eyes dropped immediately to your lips.
then he kissed you.
hard.
the sound you made got swallowed by his mouth as his hands slid firmly to your hips, pulling you down against him again. your bodies fit together too perfectly like this, warm and tangled together on the couch.
you shifted experimentally against him.
jaafar groaned low into the kiss.
his grip tightened instinctively, fingers digging into your hips while he guided your movements without even thinking about it now. slow at first. then, a little rougher when another soft moan slipped from your mouth.
âfuck,â he breathed quietly against your lips.
you could already feel how affected he was through the fabric of his sweats. the way he reacted to every little thing you did was addictive.
your kisses drifted from his mouth to his jaw, then lower to his neck while he tipped his head back against the couch for you. a shaky breath left him the second your lips brushed against the sensitive skin there.
his hands stayed locked on your hips, still guiding you against him steadily while soft sounds kept slipping from both of you.
âbaby,â he whispered, voice rough now.
you hummed innocently against his neck before kissing lower, down the center of his chest. your fingers trailed after your lips slowly, dragging over the fabric stretched across his stomach and pushing his shirt up slightly, before settling near the waistband of his sweats.
jaafarâs stomach tensed beneath your touch.
his eyes stayed glued to you while you toyed with the edge of the waistband, fingertips dipping the fabric down. his black boxers did very little to hide the outline straining beneath them, the dark fabric already damp where precum had started to leak through.
it was truly unfair.
jaafar already had the face, the body, the personalityâ and was this big too.
thick, flushed, fully hard beneath the fabric, and twitching slightly when your hand draws close.
a soft curse slipped under his breath.
you swallowed hard.
god, he was so fucking fine.
you peeled his boxers down next, trying to keep your expression composed even while your stomach tightened at the sight of him. the second the fabric cleared him completely, his dick sprang free against his stomach, twitching once as more precum gathered at the tip.
your hand wrapped around him gently.
the hiss he let out made heat rush straight between your legs.
you stroked him once.
twice.
then stopped.
âbaby,â Jaafar groaned, head tipping back against the couch before his eyes dropped to your hand again.
you ignored him entirely and started moving again, slower this time. deliberate. your hand barely twisted as you stroked him, just enough pressure to make his breathing start breaking apart.
his hips pushed forward unconsciously, trying to chase more friction.
you let go.
his eyes snapped shut.
âyouâre killing me,â he breathed out, voice rough and wrecked in a way that made your stomach flip.
you smiled sweetly. âaw, baby. Iâm sorry.â
jaafar let out a short, strained laugh under his breath at your tone, one hand dragging down his face before falling back limply on the cushion below him.
you were going to be the death of him.
you wrapped your hand around him again before he could say anything else, stroking him a little faster this time. a soft sigh slipped from him instantly, his lips parting while his head fell back.
âyouâre so hard, j,â you teased quietly.
his eyes snap to yours, fully aware now that you were teasing him on purpose.
usually, he was the one doing this to youâ teasing you until you were squirming in his lap, until you were whining into his neck and begging him for more while he took his sweet time giving it to you. and when he finally fucked you, he never let up until you were completely gone for him.
now the roles were reversed.
you could practically see the moment he started connecting the dots.
in all honesty, you hadnât even planned on teasing him like this. but the way he reacted to every little thing you did kept giving you new ideas, making you improvise as you went.
jaafar ignored the comment at first, jaw tightening slightly like he was trying not to give you the satisfaction.
so naturally, you pushed further.
as your hand slid back up his cock, your thumb brushed slowly over the slit at the tip.
jaafarâs hips jerked sharply off the couch, and a whine slipped out before he could stop it.
the sound punched straight through you.
his head fell back against the couch, throat exposed, chest rising unevenly, while both hands gripped tightly onto the cushion beneath him. you watched his jaw flex, watched the muscles in his stomach tense every single time your thumb brushed over that sensitive spot again.
and every single time, he reacted just as hard.
a sharp inhale.
a curse muttered beneath his breath.
his fingered drumming once against the cushion before curling tighter into it again.
his dick was twitching harder in your hand, leaking steadily enough that your strokes had turned slick.
his moans had also become more consistent.
a telltale sign he was getting close.
you brought your other hand up slowly, twisting both hands around him now as you stroked him more firmly.
jaafar bit down hard on his lower lip, clearly trying to contain the noises leaving him and failing miserably.
the second his hips started lifting more insistently into your hands, and his grip tightened sharply against the couch cushion, muscles flexing beneath your touchâ
you let go again.
jaafar whined, hips jerking helplessly upward as he searched for your hands again. for friction. for anything
âno, no, noââ
his hands flew down instinctively, reaching for himself, and you caught his wrists before he could touch himself properly, laughing softly at his genuinely offended look that flashed across his face.
âbaby,â he groaned, frustrated now.
you shifted quickly before he could recover, moving until you were straddling his hips beneath him to keep him from bucking upward properly.
jaafar dropped his head back against the couch with a curse, chest heaving while his hands landed uselessly at your waist instead.
âyouâre mean,â he muttered breathlessly.
you tried to hold back your smile for maybe half a second before leaning down toward him, peppering soft apologetic kisses across his face. the corner of his mouth. his cheek. the little mole above his eyebrow. his jaw.
jaafar exhaled shakily through his nose at that, eyes fluttering shut for a second while his hands settled more firmly against your body.
âthere,â you whispered against his skin. âbetter?â
his head shook weakly enough to make you laugh quietly.
your hand slid back down him, fingers wrapping around him again while your lips hovered near his. his dick twitching in your hand as another strained breath left him.
one hand slid up the outside of your thigh before settling firmly on your ass, squeezing once through the fabric of your sweats. the other slipped beneath your tank top, warm palm spreading against your bare skin before moving higher until he was cradling your chest in his hand.
you sighed softly at the touch, the sound mixing with the uneven breaths leaving jaafarâs mouth as you continued stroking him.
he was unraveling faster now.
the teasing from earlier had left him sensitive enough that every movement pulled a reaction from him immediately. his groans had turned rough and consistent, slipping out every few seconds while his head rested back against the couch.
he breathed out your name shakily.
your hand twisted slightly around him again and jaafar cursed under his breath, grip tightening hard enough against your body to almost keep you still. his stomach flexed beneath you while his hips fought the urge to jerk upward again.
âso sensitive now,â you murmured teasingly.
âitâs your fault,â he shot back instantly, though the words came out strained around another groan.
you smiled against his jaw, still stroking him steadily while his breathing grew more uneven by the second. his dick kept twitching in your hand, leaking enough now that your strokes had turned slick and easy.
jaafarâs composure was hanging by a thread.
you could tell by the way his thighs kept tensing beneath you.
by the way his fingers dug into your skin every few seconds.
by the fact that heâd stopped trying to hide his noises entirely.
âfuck, baby,â he breathed, his eyes squeezed shut.
then your thumb brushed over the tip again.
his body jerked.
a low sound tore from him as his grip tightened sharply on your ass, the hand beneath your tank top flexing against your chest at the same time.
âoh my god,â he groaned, eyes squeezing shut. âdonât do thatââ
you did it again anyway.
and again.
and again.
a higher moan slipped out of him this time, his head dropping back down against your shoulder as he shuddered into you. the sound alone sent heat rushing straight through you, your stomach tightening at how completely wrecked he sounded.
your hand picked up the pace slightly, enough to make jaafarâs hips start jerking upward again before you pulled away all at once.
his entire body jolted.
âbabyââ the word came out broken.
jaafarâs hands tightened desperately against you while his breathing fell apart completely, little tremors running through him from how close heâd been.
âplease,â he breathed, voice rough and wrecked. âplease, baby, let me cum,â
âi was so fucking close,â he whined, âfuck, please.â
and how were you supposed to deny him after that?
You leaned down to kiss him softly, and jaafar melted into it instantly, kissing you back like he needed it. your hand wrapped around him again, stroking him steadily this time.
he broke the kiss with a moan, eyes fluttering shut while his brows furrowed deeply.
âyouâre doing so good, jaafar,â you whispered against his mouth.
a shaky breath left him.
âcâmon, baby. you wanna cum, donât you?â
he nodded quickly, too needy to pretend otherwise.
âlook at me.â
his eyes opened slowly, gaze locking onto yours before drifting lower, watching where your hand moved against him.
the sight alone dragged another helpless sound from him.
his hips stuttered upward into your hand while his grip tightened hard against your waist.
âdonât stop,â he breathed quickly. âdonât stop, donâtââ
you kept your pace steady, watching him come apart beneath you piece by piece, broken curses slipping from him between uneven breaths.
âfuckâfuck, baby,â he whimpered. his entire body tensed suddenly, hands gripping you tighter as he buried his face against your shoulder with a low groan.
you smiled softly, leaning down to kiss his cheek while he caught his breath shakily against your skin.
âsuch a pretty boy,â you murmured
jaafar let out another shaky breath, still breathing hard as you started shifting off him.
his hands gripped your hips immediately.
you looked back at him and your stomach dropped.
the wrecked look on his face was gone now. he still looked flushed and messy, but his eyesâ
his eyes had sharpened, fixed on you with that look that made heat crawl up your spine instantly.
he pulled you back against him.
âyou had your fun?â he asked quietly.
the calmness in his voice was terrifying.
a slow small smile tugged at his mouth when you didnât answer right away.
âyeah,â he murmured. âthatâs what i thought.â
before you could say anything, he stood, lifting you with him effortlessly. a surprised gasp left you as your legs wrapped around his waist automatically.
jaafarâs hand slid up your thigh as he carried you toward the bedroom.
summary - after a producer flirts with you, michael canât help but want to claim whatâs his.
warnings - smut, profanity, michael is all possessive and jealous oral (reader receiving), p in v, pet names, praise kink, reader is kinda oblivious to someone elseâs flirting towards her. dom!michael, sub!reader exhibitionism/voyeurism themes, hair pulling, backshots, missionary, aftercare mentioned + a little choking, overstim and fingering.
A/n : i got inspired by @michaelsfavgirl fic called word to the jealouss and decided to write this đ
As you and Michael walked in, you smoothed your dress the black silk clinging softly to your frame, simple but elegant, the kind of fabric that hugged without trying too hard his arm stayed around your waist as you two walked in together.
His new album had done exactly what everyone expected it had been a massive success, breaking records. So his team threw a party to celebrate its success.
ౚà§
The first hour passed in a blur of introductions and polite smiles. Michael kept his hand on your lower back the entire time, the kind of touch that said sheâs with me.
âYou okay?â you asked, turning your head to face him.
He was watching something over your shoulder, his jaw moving slightly, a muscle ticking under his skin.
âMichael?â
His eyes snapped back to you, and the tension in his face softened. âYeah, baby. Iâm fine.â He said, kissing your forehead. âYou need another drink?â
âIâm good,â you said, shaking your head slightly.
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was against your spine.
ౚà§
âYouâre Michaelâs girl, right?â a producer said, sliding in beside you while Michael was pulled into a conversation with Quincy Jones near the piano. âIâve seen you at his recording sessions.â
You gave a polite smile. âYes.â
âI can tell,â he said his eyes dropping to your mouth, lingering there a bit too long.
You let out a small, nervous laugh in response.
For the rest of the night, he kept finding reasons to stay near you.
He brought you a fresh drink when yours was half-empty, leaning in close to explain the background of another producer you didnât really care about he yapped away letting his hand brush your waist when he gestured toward the bar.
You didn't think much of it. You were friendly by nature always had been and the champagne had made you warm and loose tongued. You laughed at his jokes. You nodded along when he talked about the label's upcoming projects.
Across the room, though, Michael went quiet as he watched you both laughing together, trying to figure out why he felt so damn comfortable with his girlfriend.
ౚà§
Michael was laughing with Quincy, nodding at something a dancer said, accepting a congratulations with a soft smile but his eyes kept drifting towards you everytime time you turned back to check on him, he was already looking at you.
Over the next few minutes, Michael made his way back towards you.
He excused himself from a conversation mid-sentence, irritated he was so tired of seeing you laughing with another man. When he reached you, his hand slid around your waist, gripping you possessively as his eyes flicked to the man beside you.
âHey, baby.â
He kissed you on the lips before you could even respond, right there in front of him.
"Hey." You smiled up at him, tipsy and happy. "Quincy done with you?"
"For now." He pulled you close enough to press your hip against his. "You having fun?"
âI am.â You smiled, motioning to the man beside you. âHe was just telling me about-â
âI know.â His words came out as if he was annoyedâŠbecause he was. âCome sit with me.â
He didn't wait for an answer. As he guided you toward the far end of the lounge, where a curved love seat sat half-hidden behind a marble pillar. He sat first, then pulled you down onto his lap.
In front of everyone.
You laughed softly, surprised. âMikey, people are watching.â
âLet them.â His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles against the silk of your dress. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. âYou were too far away over there.â
âI was right across the room.â
âToo far, sweet thing,â he mumbled, his eyes scanning the room for the producer who had been too damn close to you.
ౚà§
He somehow made his way back over to you again ten minutes later. When Michael stepped off to chat with a choreographer, you now stood near the windows.
âAnother one?â he said, appearing beside you with two glasses in his hand. He offered one to you with a wink.
âIâm cut off,â you said, smiling. âMichaelâs been watching my intake he doesnât want me to get too tipsy.â
âSmart man.â He kept the glass out, though, waiting. âOne more wonât hurt. Iâll take the blame.â
You hesitated, then laughed and took it. âYouâre trouble.â
âThatâs what they tell me.â He leaned in slightly. âYou know, Iâve been trying to figure you out all night.â
âOh.â
He looked at you, his gaze warm, a little too intimate for a man youâd met hours ago. âHow does a pretty girl like you end up with someone like him?â
His question caught you off guard, a hint of offense slipping into your voice. âWhat do you mean, someone like him?â
âI mean.â He shrugged. âHeâs Michael Jackson. Heâs not exactly available to the world, I guess. I just wonder how you fit.â
You opened your mouth to answer, but a hand closed around your wrist before you could speak.
âSheâs done with this conversation,â Michael said, pulling you away.
âMichael-â
âNow,â he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
His fingers tightened around your wrist but not enough to hurt. âExcuse us.â
ౚà§
The hallway outside the lounge was empty. Soft light from the wall lamps cast a glow against the walls, and the sound of the party faded to a low hum behind the closed doors. You and Michael had ended up leaving early.
He walked fast, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, until he reached a door marked Private Suite.
Michael let go of your wrist as the two of you walked into the room. He stood with his back to you, shoulders tight, hands sliding into his pockets as he took a deep breath.
â What was that with him?â
His voice was terrifyingly calm. You knew he was mad.
You closed the door behind you, frowning.
âWhat?â you added. âHe was asking me a question.â
"You know what."
"I don't."
He stared at you, then laughed a short, breathless sound that didnât match the tension in his body.
âYou donât even realize,â he said, shaking his head as he paced toward the window.
âBaby.â
âYou let him touch you,â he said, stopping and turning back to face you. âYou let him stand that close. You laughed at his jokes, you took his drink.â
âI was being polite.â
âYou were being friendly,â his voice dropped, softer now and somehow that was worse. âToo friendly.â
âIâm friendly with everyone, babe.â
"That's the problem."
âMikeyâŠâ you said, stepping toward him. âI donât even remember his name. He was just some producer. I didnât-I wasnât trying to-â
"I know."
"That's what makes it worse. You don't even know what you do to me."
âEvery time another man looks at you, I lose my patience,â he said.
âEvery time you laugh at someone elseâs joke, every time someone touches you, I have to stand there and act like it doesnât bother me.â
âYouâre mine. I canât help it.â
You reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into your palm, needing the contact more than heâd admit.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
âYouâre okay, mama. It was him he wants whatâs mine.â He said pressing a kiss to your palm.
â Michael. I donât give a fuck about that producer.â
His hand tightened at your waist as he pulled you in and kissed you slow at first, then deeper. His hands moved to your face, cradling you with both hands, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you, his tongue in your mouth and everything.
This was the kind of kiss that made your knees weak.
âMm mikeyâŠâ you breathed against his mouth.
âFuck, I love kissing you,â he said, backing you toward the bed until your thighs hit the edge.
âMy girl,â he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your throat. âWanna hear you say it.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were all wild.
âYouâre mine arenât you?â
â Yes i'm yours,â you whispered.
âAnd who do you belong to?â he asked as his hand slid up your neck, his fingers squeezing.
âYou.â
âI belong to you, Michael im all yours forever.â
When you said that its like the tension in his shoulders released, and he exhaled like he'd been holding his breath all night.
âThat's what i wanted to hear princess.â
ౚà§
The air left your lungs in a soft gasp as your back suddenly hit the duvet, his body following yours. His hands were already moving pushing the silk straps off your shoulders, dragging the black fabric down until your breasts spilled free.
He didn't stop to admire them. Not yet. His mouth was already lower, pressing hot, open kisses down your sternum, your ribs and your belly.
He took his time you were something truly precious in his hands.
His hands followed the curve of your hips, your thighs.
âDon't wear that dress again.â
âWhy?â
âBecause itâll remind me of him.â He said biting the skin just above your navel, not hard enough to break, but enough to leave a mark.
"And i won't be nice about it next time." He said hooking his fingers into your panties pulling them down your legs. Tossing them somewhere behind him without looking.
Then he pushed your thighs apart.
âYouâre so gorgeous.â
You moaned softly at his words, threading your fingers through his hair.
He pressed kisses to the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, before shifting to the other side. He took his time, working his way upward his lips tracing over every inch of your skin avoiding where you wanted him most.
âMichael...â
âBe patient.â
âNo, Michael, please.â
âI want it now.â
He smiled against your skin a slow, wicked smile. âThat's not how this works. You spent all night giving another man your attention. Now you're gonna give me every sound you got.â
âI wanna hear every sound.â He said and then his mouth was on you.
His tongue pressed flat against your cunt dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, but he didn't let up. He did it again. And again.
Each pass slower than the last, his tongue pressing harder, until you were gripping the sheets, gasping his name without thinking who might hear.
âTaste so fucking good,â he murmured against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.
âBeen starving all night thinking about this pussy.â
He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked with full force, causing you to see white in your vision. His tongue flicked rapidly against the sensitive nub, while his fingers found your entrance and slid one, then two inside you without warning.
âShit baby,â you breathed.
âYou feel that?â His voice was like silk against your skin.
âThat's me inside you. Nobody else is ever gonna be inside you.â
âNobody else-fuck-nobody else, Michael-â He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made you see stars.
âThatâs my girl.â He said humming in response as he held you down with one hand on your stomach.
He didnât slow down, though. He fucked you with his fingers while his mouth worked your clit relentlessly and possessively, as if he was trying to crawl inside you through your pleasure.
Every time you got close to coming, he pulled back just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, and then he dove back in harder.
âYou gonna come for me sweetheart?â
âYes-yes-â
âThis pussy is entirely yours, Mikey.â
âGood girl.â
"Come for me." His voice was muffled, rough. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."
He pressed his tongue against your clit, flattening it as he rapidly circled it.
Simultaneously, his fingers fucked you deeper and rougher.
He groaned against you, savoring the sensation, and the sound of his groans, mixed with the vibrations, pushed you over the edge.
Your back arched off the bed as you cried out his name, and he drank every second of it as if he were dying of thirst.
Your thighs clamped around his head, your body shaking through wave after wave. He didn't stop he kept licking, kept sucking, kept drinking every drop of your release like he was claiming it, marking it as his.
When you finally stopped trembling, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His face was wet, his lips swollen his eyes burning with satisfaction.
"You even taste like you're mine," he said.
He lowered his head again, spreading you open with his thumbs as he buried his face between your trembling thighs, his tongue plunging inside you once more.
The second orgasm hit you harder and faster. As you screamed his name, he pinned your hips down and continued licking until you were crying begging him to stop.
Only then did he pull away.
He crawled up your body afterward, kissing you and letting you taste yourself on his lips. He was still fully dressed, his shirt damp from your release.
âBetter?â you managed, still gasping for breath.
âNot yet,â he replied, kissing the corner of your mouth. âIâm not done.â
He rose from the bed and sat up long enough to remove his shirt, pants, and boxers. You watched him in the dim light the lean lines of his body, the smooth skin, and the way his dick stood firm against his stomach.
He settled over you the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance, âFeel it baby?â He said pushing just barely inside just enough to make you gasp.
âAll this is just for you.â
The stretch was perfect as he slowly moved in, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. You could feel him everywhere. He lingered there for a moment, allowing you to adjust. His forehead pressing against yours.
âUh uh, look me in the eyes while I fuck you,â he whispered as he began to move. You tried to maintain eye contact, but your eyes were about to roll back.
He slowly fucked you, with deep, rolling thrusts that hit that spot inside you.
His rhythm was hypnotic as fuck, his breath hot against your neck, as his hands gripped your hips.
He pulled out slow so slow you felt every ridge, every inch then he slammed back in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.
âFuck-â
"Yeah. That's it.â
âWhose girl are you?â he asked.
âIâm Michaelâs girl,â you moaned.
âYes, you are, baby,â he said, picking up the pace. He drove into you harder and faster the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room.
He set a punishing rhythm. Hard, deep strokes that drove you further into the mattress with every thrust. The room filled with the wet sound of him fucking you, your breathless moans, his guttural grunts.
âYou like this hm sweet girl?â He said, rubbing tight circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. âYou like being fucked like this, huh?â
You just kept mumbling incoherent words as he fucked you stupid.
âKeep those pretty eyes on me,â he gripped your chin, forcing your gaze to his. âI want you to see whoâs fucking you. I want you to remember.â
âI wonât forget,â you said.
âGood,â he kissed you, sloppily and hungry.
âBecause Iâm not gonna let you.â
He flipped you onto your stomach without warning, pulled your hips up, and entered you from behind. The new angle made you gasp, made you claw at the sheets.
âAll mine.â
âTell me,â he thrust deeper, harder. âTell me you understand.â
âI understand,â your voice broke on a moan. âI understand, I understand-â
âThatâs right.â
He moaned as you tightened your pussy around him. He drove deeper and faster, his rhythm losing control. You were close, and he could feel it building.
And then
A knock at the door.
Three knocks.
"Shit." You tensed.
"Don't you stop." His hand clamped down on your hips, holding you in place. "Keep throwing that perfect ass back on me.â
He stopped moving for half a second, his head lifting. His eyes cut toward the door.
âMichael?â You were breathless and trembling. âWho is that?â
"Shh." He resumed moving, slower now, but no less deep. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, holding you steady. "You feel so good around me i donât wanna stop."
The knock came again, louder this time. A familiar voice, slurred with alcohol, followed it.
âHey, hello? Is this the wrong room? Is anyone in here? â He asked.
"Oh my gosh, that's-"
"I know who it is."
It was the producer who had flirted with you.
He didn't stop.
The door wasnât locked either. You realized that when he started fumbling with the doorknob. He pushed the door open and stumbled inside. Michael didnât care as he continued to pound you into the bed.
"I was told suite 4-"
He stopped in his tracks suddenly sobered up.
The room was dimly lit by only two lights, but that was enough for him to see the two of you on the bed. The light revealed Michaelâs silhouette moving against yours, your body arching beneath him.
The wet sounds of sex filled the silence.
He froze. His mouth opened. Closed.
You turned your head the other way in fear, scared that heâd realize it was you two. But Michael didnât stop; he wanted him to see that heâd never have you.
His eyes locked onto his as he wrapped his large hand around your neck tilting your head back.
âDon't hide,â he murmured, loud enough for him to hear. âLet him see.â
âOh fuck im-â You were shaking, humiliated and aroused in equal measure. âPlease.â
âPlease, what?â He pressed further, and you couldnât help but moan, despite feeling embarrassed. âPlease stop, or please donât?â he teased.
âKeep going,â you moaned, completely ignoring his presence at the door. You didnât care as long as he kept fucking you.
He stood frozen in shock, watching Michael move his hand from your neck to your hair, using it to pull you back as your ass rippled against him.
His gaze fell to Michaelâs cock as it disappeared into you. It was wet and glistening, with a white ring forming at the base.
He smiled and asked, âSee something you like?â
âSheâs all mine youâll never have her.â Michael said, his eyes never leaving the man.
âYou understand me?â
The producer swallowed and nodded.
âThen get the fuck out.â
The door slammed shut.
Michael didn't slow down. He leaned forward, his chest pressed against your back.
âHe saw us. He saw me fucking you. He really knows youâre mine now.â
His pace quickened. His breathing grew ragged, his control slipping. He buried his face in your neck and continued fucking you like he was trying to brand himself onto your bones.
âIâm so close.â You said.
âCome on, baby, come for me then,â he urged. âCome on, your dick.â
You came apart, a shattered cry tearing from your throat. Your body clenched around him, and he followed a second later, his body shuddering against yours as his groan was muffled against your skin.
âFuck-â He buried himself deep, his hips flush against your ass. You felt him pulse inside you, all hot and thick, a claim that went beyond words.
He stilled inside you, gasping for breath, his forehead pressed against the back of your head.
Afterward, he collapsed beside you.
âNow, your pussy is marked too.â
You nodded, you were exhausted.
The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing.
âMichael?â
âYeah.â
âI canât believe he saw us!â
A soft laugh escaped him. âHonestly, Iâm glad he saw us. Thatâll teach him about flirting with my woman.â
âAre you okay though?â he asked quietly.
âI feel good, and also thoroughly fucked.â
âThatâs what I wanted,â he said as he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you kissing your forehead.
ౚà§
The aftercare was gentle and thoughtful. He brought you water, a warm washcloth, and even kissed the marks heâd left on your hips, apologizing softly.
âI got all carried away,â he said, tracing patterns on your skin
summary - after a producer flirts with you, michael canât help but want to claim whatâs his.
warnings - smut, profanity, michael is all possessive and jealous oral (reader receiving), p in v, pet names, praise kink, reader is kinda oblivious to someone elseâs flirting towards her. dom!michael, sub!reader exhibitionism/voyeurism themes, hair pulling, backshots, missionary, aftercare mentioned + a little choking, overstim and fingering.
A/n : i got inspired by @michaelsfavgirl fic called word to the jealouss and decided to write this đ
As you and Michael walked in, you smoothed your dress the black silk clinging softly to your frame, simple but elegant, the kind of fabric that hugged without trying too hard his arm stayed around your waist as you two walked in together.
His new album had done exactly what everyone expected it had been a massive success, breaking records. So his team threw a party to celebrate its success.
ౚà§
The first hour passed in a blur of introductions and polite smiles. Michael kept his hand on your lower back the entire time, the kind of touch that said sheâs with me.
âYou okay?â you asked, turning your head to face him.
He was watching something over your shoulder, his jaw moving slightly, a muscle ticking under his skin.
âMichael?â
His eyes snapped back to you, and the tension in his face softened. âYeah, baby. Iâm fine.â He said, kissing your forehead. âYou need another drink?â
âIâm good,â you said, shaking your head slightly.
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was against your spine.
ౚà§
âYouâre Michaelâs girl, right?â a producer said, sliding in beside you while Michael was pulled into a conversation with Quincy Jones near the piano. âIâve seen you at his recording sessions.â
You gave a polite smile. âYes.â
âI can tell,â he said his eyes dropping to your mouth, lingering there a bit too long.
You let out a small, nervous laugh in response.
For the rest of the night, he kept finding reasons to stay near you.
He brought you a fresh drink when yours was half-empty, leaning in close to explain the background of another producer you didnât really care about he yapped away letting his hand brush your waist when he gestured toward the bar.
You didn't think much of it. You were friendly by nature always had been and the champagne had made you warm and loose tongued. You laughed at his jokes. You nodded along when he talked about the label's upcoming projects.
Across the room, though, Michael went quiet as he watched you both laughing together, trying to figure out why he felt so damn comfortable with his girlfriend.
ౚà§
Michael was laughing with Quincy, nodding at something a dancer said, accepting a congratulations with a soft smile but his eyes kept drifting towards you everytime time you turned back to check on him, he was already looking at you.
Over the next few minutes, Michael made his way back towards you.
He excused himself from a conversation mid-sentence, irritated he was so tired of seeing you laughing with another man. When he reached you, his hand slid around your waist, gripping you possessively as his eyes flicked to the man beside you.
âHey, baby.â
He kissed you on the lips before you could even respond, right there in front of him.
"Hey." You smiled up at him, tipsy and happy. "Quincy done with you?"
"For now." He pulled you close enough to press your hip against his. "You having fun?"
âI am.â You smiled, motioning to the man beside you. âHe was just telling me about-â
âI know.â His words came out as if he was annoyedâŠbecause he was. âCome sit with me.â
He didn't wait for an answer. As he guided you toward the far end of the lounge, where a curved love seat sat half-hidden behind a marble pillar. He sat first, then pulled you down onto his lap.
In front of everyone.
You laughed softly, surprised. âMikey, people are watching.â
âLet them.â His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles against the silk of your dress. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. âYou were too far away over there.â
âI was right across the room.â
âToo far, sweet thing,â he mumbled, his eyes scanning the room for the producer who had been too damn close to you.
ౚà§
He somehow made his way back over to you again ten minutes later. When Michael stepped off to chat with a choreographer, you now stood near the windows.
âAnother one?â he said, appearing beside you with two glasses in his hand. He offered one to you with a wink.
âIâm cut off,â you said, smiling. âMichaelâs been watching my intake he doesnât want me to get too tipsy.â
âSmart man.â He kept the glass out, though, waiting. âOne more wonât hurt. Iâll take the blame.â
You hesitated, then laughed and took it. âYouâre trouble.â
âThatâs what they tell me.â He leaned in slightly. âYou know, Iâve been trying to figure you out all night.â
âOh.â
He looked at you, his gaze warm, a little too intimate for a man youâd met hours ago. âHow does a pretty girl like you end up with someone like him?â
His question caught you off guard, a hint of offense slipping into your voice. âWhat do you mean, someone like him?â
âI mean.â He shrugged. âHeâs Michael Jackson. Heâs not exactly available to the world, I guess. I just wonder how you fit.â
You opened your mouth to answer, but a hand closed around your wrist before you could speak.
âSheâs done with this conversation,â Michael said, pulling you away.
âMichael-â
âNow,â he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
His fingers tightened around your wrist but not enough to hurt. âExcuse us.â
ౚà§
The hallway outside the lounge was empty. Soft light from the wall lamps cast a glow against the walls, and the sound of the party faded to a low hum behind the closed doors. You and Michael had ended up leaving early.
He walked fast, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, until he reached a door marked Private Suite.
Michael let go of your wrist as the two of you walked into the room. He stood with his back to you, shoulders tight, hands sliding into his pockets as he took a deep breath.
â What was that with him?â
His voice was terrifyingly calm. You knew he was mad.
You closed the door behind you, frowning.
âWhat?â you added. âHe was asking me a question.â
"You know what."
"I don't."
He stared at you, then laughed a short, breathless sound that didnât match the tension in his body.
âYou donât even realize,â he said, shaking his head as he paced toward the window.
âBaby.â
âYou let him touch you,â he said, stopping and turning back to face you. âYou let him stand that close. You laughed at his jokes, you took his drink.â
âI was being polite.â
âYou were being friendly,â his voice dropped, softer now and somehow that was worse. âToo friendly.â
âIâm friendly with everyone, babe.â
"That's the problem."
âMikeyâŠâ you said, stepping toward him. âI donât even remember his name. He was just some producer. I didnât-I wasnât trying to-â
"I know."
"That's what makes it worse. You don't even know what you do to me."
âEvery time another man looks at you, I lose my patience,â he said.
âEvery time you laugh at someone elseâs joke, every time someone touches you, I have to stand there and act like it doesnât bother me.â
âYouâre mine. I canât help it.â
You reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into your palm, needing the contact more than heâd admit.
âIâm sorry,â you whispered.
âYouâre okay, mama. It was him he wants whatâs mine.â He said pressing a kiss to your palm.
â Michael. I donât give a fuck about that producer.â
His hand tightened at your waist as he pulled you in and kissed you slow at first, then deeper. His hands moved to your face, cradling you with both hands, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you, his tongue in your mouth and everything.
This was the kind of kiss that made your knees weak.
âMm mikeyâŠâ you breathed against his mouth.
âFuck, I love kissing you,â he said, backing you toward the bed until your thighs hit the edge.
âMy girl,â he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your throat. âWanna hear you say it.â
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were all wild.
âYouâre mine arenât you?â
â Yes i'm yours,â you whispered.
âAnd who do you belong to?â he asked as his hand slid up your neck, his fingers squeezing.
âYou.â
âI belong to you, Michael im all yours forever.â
When you said that its like the tension in his shoulders released, and he exhaled like he'd been holding his breath all night.
âThat's what i wanted to hear princess.â
ౚà§
The air left your lungs in a soft gasp as your back suddenly hit the duvet, his body following yours. His hands were already moving pushing the silk straps off your shoulders, dragging the black fabric down until your breasts spilled free.
He didn't stop to admire them. Not yet. His mouth was already lower, pressing hot, open kisses down your sternum, your ribs and your belly.
He took his time you were something truly precious in his hands.
His hands followed the curve of your hips, your thighs.
âDon't wear that dress again.â
âWhy?â
âBecause itâll remind me of him.â He said biting the skin just above your navel, not hard enough to break, but enough to leave a mark.
"And i won't be nice about it next time." He said hooking his fingers into your panties pulling them down your legs. Tossing them somewhere behind him without looking.
Then he pushed your thighs apart.
âYouâre so gorgeous.â
You moaned softly at his words, threading your fingers through his hair.
He pressed kisses to the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, before shifting to the other side. He took his time, working his way upward his lips tracing over every inch of your skin avoiding where you wanted him most.
âMichael...â
âBe patient.â
âNo, Michael, please.â
âI want it now.â
He smiled against your skin a slow, wicked smile. âThat's not how this works. You spent all night giving another man your attention. Now you're gonna give me every sound you got.â
âI wanna hear every sound.â He said and then his mouth was on you.
His tongue pressed flat against your cunt dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, but he didn't let up. He did it again. And again.
Each pass slower than the last, his tongue pressing harder, until you were gripping the sheets, gasping his name without thinking who might hear.
âTaste so fucking good,â he murmured against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.
âBeen starving all night thinking about this pussy.â
He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked with full force, causing you to see white in your vision. His tongue flicked rapidly against the sensitive nub, while his fingers found your entrance and slid one, then two inside you without warning.
âShit baby,â you breathed.
âYou feel that?â His voice was like silk against your skin.
âThat's me inside you. Nobody else is ever gonna be inside you.â
âNobody else-fuck-nobody else, Michael-â He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made you see stars.
âThatâs my girl.â He said humming in response as he held you down with one hand on your stomach.
He didnât slow down, though. He fucked you with his fingers while his mouth worked your clit relentlessly and possessively, as if he was trying to crawl inside you through your pleasure.
Every time you got close to coming, he pulled back just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, and then he dove back in harder.
âYou gonna come for me sweetheart?â
âYes-yes-â
âThis pussy is entirely yours, Mikey.â
âGood girl.â
"Come for me." His voice was muffled, rough. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."
He pressed his tongue against your clit, flattening it as he rapidly circled it.
Simultaneously, his fingers fucked you deeper and rougher.
He groaned against you, savoring the sensation, and the sound of his groans, mixed with the vibrations, pushed you over the edge.
Your back arched off the bed as you cried out his name, and he drank every second of it as if he were dying of thirst.
Your thighs clamped around his head, your body shaking through wave after wave. He didn't stop he kept licking, kept sucking, kept drinking every drop of your release like he was claiming it, marking it as his.
When you finally stopped trembling, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His face was wet, his lips swollen his eyes burning with satisfaction.
"You even taste like you're mine," he said.
He lowered his head again, spreading you open with his thumbs as he buried his face between your trembling thighs, his tongue plunging inside you once more.
The second orgasm hit you harder and faster. As you screamed his name, he pinned your hips down and continued licking until you were crying begging him to stop.
Only then did he pull away.
He crawled up your body afterward, kissing you and letting you taste yourself on his lips. He was still fully dressed, his shirt damp from your release.
âBetter?â you managed, still gasping for breath.
âNot yet,â he replied, kissing the corner of your mouth. âIâm not done.â
He rose from the bed and sat up long enough to remove his shirt, pants, and boxers. You watched him in the dim light the lean lines of his body, the smooth skin, and the way his dick stood firm against his stomach.
He settled over you the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance, âFeel it baby?â He said pushing just barely inside just enough to make you gasp.
âAll this is just for you.â
The stretch was perfect as he slowly moved in, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. You could feel him everywhere. He lingered there for a moment, allowing you to adjust. His forehead pressing against yours.
âUh uh, look me in the eyes while I fuck you,â he whispered as he began to move. You tried to maintain eye contact, but your eyes were about to roll back.
He slowly fucked you, with deep, rolling thrusts that hit that spot inside you.
His rhythm was hypnotic as fuck, his breath hot against your neck, as his hands gripped your hips.
He pulled out slow so slow you felt every ridge, every inch then he slammed back in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.
âFuck-â
"Yeah. That's it.â
âWhose girl are you?â he asked.
âIâm Michaelâs girl,â you moaned.
âYes, you are, baby,â he said, picking up the pace. He drove into you harder and faster the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room.
He set a punishing rhythm. Hard, deep strokes that drove you further into the mattress with every thrust. The room filled with the wet sound of him fucking you, your breathless moans, his guttural grunts.
âYou like this hm sweet girl?â He said, rubbing tight circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. âYou like being fucked like this, huh?â
You just kept mumbling incoherent words as he fucked you stupid.
âKeep those pretty eyes on me,â he gripped your chin, forcing your gaze to his. âI want you to see whoâs fucking you. I want you to remember.â
âI wonât forget,â you said.
âGood,â he kissed you, sloppily and hungry.
âBecause Iâm not gonna let you.â
He flipped you onto your stomach without warning, pulled your hips up, and entered you from behind. The new angle made you gasp, made you claw at the sheets.
âAll mine.â
âTell me,â he thrust deeper, harder. âTell me you understand.â
âI understand,â your voice broke on a moan. âI understand, I understand-â
âThatâs right.â
He moaned as you tightened your pussy around him. He drove deeper and faster, his rhythm losing control. You were close, and he could feel it building.
And then
A knock at the door.
Three knocks.
"Shit." You tensed.
"Don't you stop." His hand clamped down on your hips, holding you in place. "Keep throwing that perfect ass back on me.â
He stopped moving for half a second, his head lifting. His eyes cut toward the door.
âMichael?â You were breathless and trembling. âWho is that?â
"Shh." He resumed moving, slower now, but no less deep. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, holding you steady. "You feel so good around me i donât wanna stop."
The knock came again, louder this time. A familiar voice, slurred with alcohol, followed it.
âHey, hello? Is this the wrong room? Is anyone in here? â He asked.
"Oh my gosh, that's-"
"I know who it is."
It was the producer who had flirted with you.
He didn't stop.
The door wasnât locked either. You realized that when he started fumbling with the doorknob. He pushed the door open and stumbled inside. Michael didnât care as he continued to pound you into the bed.
"I was told suite 4-"
He stopped in his tracks suddenly sobered up.
The room was dimly lit by only two lights, but that was enough for him to see the two of you on the bed. The light revealed Michaelâs silhouette moving against yours, your body arching beneath him.
The wet sounds of sex filled the silence.
He froze. His mouth opened. Closed.
You turned your head the other way in fear, scared that heâd realize it was you two. But Michael didnât stop; he wanted him to see that heâd never have you.
His eyes locked onto his as he wrapped his large hand around your neck tilting your head back.
âDon't hide,â he murmured, loud enough for him to hear. âLet him see.â
âOh fuck im-â You were shaking, humiliated and aroused in equal measure. âPlease.â
âPlease, what?â He pressed further, and you couldnât help but moan, despite feeling embarrassed. âPlease stop, or please donât?â he teased.
âKeep going,â you moaned, completely ignoring his presence at the door. You didnât care as long as he kept fucking you.
He stood frozen in shock, watching Michael move his hand from your neck to your hair, using it to pull you back as your ass rippled against him.
His gaze fell to Michaelâs cock as it disappeared into you. It was wet and glistening, with a white ring forming at the base.
He smiled and asked, âSee something you like?â
âSheâs all mine youâll never have her.â Michael said, his eyes never leaving the man.
âYou understand me?â
The producer swallowed and nodded.
âThen get the fuck out.â
The door slammed shut.
Michael didn't slow down. He leaned forward, his chest pressed against your back.
âHe saw us. He saw me fucking you. He really knows youâre mine now.â
His pace quickened. His breathing grew ragged, his control slipping. He buried his face in your neck and continued fucking you like he was trying to brand himself onto your bones.
âIâm so close.â You said.
âCome on, baby, come for me then,â he urged. âCome on, your dick.â
You came apart, a shattered cry tearing from your throat. Your body clenched around him, and he followed a second later, his body shuddering against yours as his groan was muffled against your skin.
âFuck-â He buried himself deep, his hips flush against your ass. You felt him pulse inside you, all hot and thick, a claim that went beyond words.
He stilled inside you, gasping for breath, his forehead pressed against the back of your head.
Afterward, he collapsed beside you.
âNow, your pussy is marked too.â
You nodded, you were exhausted.
The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing.
âMichael?â
âYeah.â
âI canât believe he saw us!â
A soft laugh escaped him. âHonestly, Iâm glad he saw us. Thatâll teach him about flirting with my woman.â
âAre you okay though?â he asked quietly.
âI feel good, and also thoroughly fucked.â
âThatâs what I wanted,â he said as he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you kissing your forehead.
ౚà§
The aftercare was gentle and thoughtful. He brought you water, a warm washcloth, and even kissed the marks heâd left on your hips, apologizing softly.
âI got all carried away,â he said, tracing patterns on your skin
âč àŁȘ Ë Off the wall â The cutest sub and inexperienced boy like ever. Poor baby would barely know what to do with you or himself and would just beg you to take over and make him feel good. :(( Heâd always be so sensitive, turning into a whimpering, stuttering mess just from a few touches. SUUPER shy. Will literally blush and hide himself so much just being shirtless around you. Donât even get him started when you dirty talk. Just hearing you say these filthy things just for him has him twitching and aching despite his whimpers telling you how dirty your words sound.
âč àŁȘ Ë Thriller â Switch but subby leaning. Heâd be more experienced but would put your pleasure way over his. Heâd want his angel to feel so good all because of his touch. Heâs still a little shy, but not so shy that he wouldnât whisper little praises on how beautiful you look with his cock or fingers stuffed inside of you âĄ. Sometimes heâll let you take control and use him however you want, mostly riding him so he can still see the pretty faces you make when he hits that spot deep in you. No matter what, he still turns into a whimpering and moaning mess when you have your hands on him.
âč àŁȘ Ë Bad â Soft!dom. He loves praising you, telling you how good you feel and how well youâre taking him. That shyness he used to have almost gone when youâre both alone. Heâs not rough with you though, always a gentleman. He LOVES missionary. Seeing how your tits bounce and head leans back while he fucks you. Heâs such an EATER. He craves to have his head between your legs and using that skilled tongue to lap at your dripping cunt. He would make sure to look up at you with those pretty eyes and see how blissed you look whenever he shoves one of those long fingers in your hole. đ”âđ«
âč àŁȘ Ë Dangerous to Mature â Dom. Holy fuck this man would be so dominant during these eras. Remember that shyness that he used to have before? Yeah forget about it. Heâd, not even whisper, say the most filthiest things while ramming his cock inside of you. Heâd be such a good degrader too, especially when itâs been a frustrating day with the press on top of you teasing him. Heâs much rougher with you, having you borderline in tears from how good heâs making you feel. Heâs a heavily oral fixated guy, loving how beautiful you look trying to take all of him in your mouth while gagging with tears rolling down those pretty cheeks.
(I need every era of him inside of me asap.)
à«ź ††àŸàœČá A/N : first drabble kinda nervous !! this is barely proofread so im sorry about any mistakes ,, icl this is the first time ive wrote explicit smut b4 đ
âč àŁȘ Ë Off the wall â The cutest sub and inexperienced boy like ever. Poor baby would barely know what to do with you or himself and would just beg you to take over and make him feel good. :(( Heâd always be so sensitive, turning into a whimpering, stuttering mess just from a few touches. SUUPER shy. Will literally blush and hide himself so much just being shirtless around you. Donât even get him started when you dirty talk. Just hearing you say these filthy things just for him has him twitching and aching despite his whimpers telling you how dirty your words sound.
âč àŁȘ Ë Thriller â Switch but subby leaning. Heâd be more experienced but would put your pleasure way over his. Heâd want his angel to feel so good all because of his touch. Heâs still a little shy, but not so shy that he wouldnât whisper little praises on how beautiful you look with his cock or fingers stuffed inside of you âĄ. Sometimes heâll let you take control and use him however you want, mostly riding him so he can still see the pretty faces you make when he hits that spot deep in you. No matter what, he still turns into a whimpering and moaning mess when you have your hands on him.
âč àŁȘ Ë Bad â Soft!dom. He loves praising you, telling you how good you feel and how well youâre taking him. That shyness he used to have almost gone when youâre both alone. Heâs not rough with you though, always a gentleman. He LOVES missionary. Seeing how your tits bounce and head leans back while he fucks you. Heâs such an EATER. He craves to have his head between your legs and using that skilled tongue to lap at your dripping cunt. He would make sure to look up at you with those pretty eyes and see how blissed you look whenever he shoves one of those long fingers in your hole. đ”âđ«
âč àŁȘ Ë Dangerous to Mature â Dom. Holy fuck this man would be so dominant during these eras. Remember that shyness that he used to have before? Yeah forget about it. Heâd, not even whisper, say the most filthiest things while ramming his cock inside of you. Heâd be such a good degrader too, especially when itâs been a frustrating day with the press on top of you teasing him. Heâs much rougher with you, having you borderline in tears from how good heâs making you feel. Heâs a heavily oral fixated guy, loving how beautiful you look trying to take all of him in your mouth while gagging with tears rolling down those pretty cheeks.
(I need every era of him inside of me asap.)
à«ź ††àŸàœČá A/N : first drabble kinda nervous !! this is barely proofread so im sorry about any mistakes ,, icl this is the first time ive wrote explicit smut b4 đ
âč àŁȘ Ë Off the wall â The cutest sub and inexperienced boy like ever. Poor baby would barely know what to do with you or himself and would just beg you to take over and make him feel good. :(( Heâd always be so sensitive, turning into a whimpering, stuttering mess just from a few touches. SUUPER shy. Will literally blush and hide himself so much just being shirtless around you. Donât even get him started when you dirty talk. Just hearing you say these filthy things just for him has him twitching and aching despite his whimpers telling you how dirty your words sound.
âč àŁȘ Ë Thriller â Switch but subby leaning. Heâd be more experienced but would put your pleasure way over his. Heâd want his angel to feel so good all because of his touch. Heâs still a little shy, but not so shy that he wouldnât whisper little praises on how beautiful you look with his cock or fingers stuffed inside of you âĄ. Sometimes heâll let you take control and use him however you want, mostly riding him so he can still see the pretty faces you make when he hits that spot deep in you. No matter what, he still turns into a whimpering and moaning mess when you have your hands on him.
âč àŁȘ Ë Bad â Soft!dom. He loves praising you, telling you how good you feel and how well youâre taking him. That shyness he used to have almost gone when youâre both alone. Heâs not rough with you though, always a gentleman. He LOVES missionary. Seeing how your tits bounce and head leans back while he fucks you. Heâs such an EATER. He craves to have his head between your legs and using that skilled tongue to lap at your dripping cunt. He would make sure to look up at you with those pretty eyes and see how blissed you look whenever he shoves one of those long fingers in your hole. đ”âđ«
âč àŁȘ Ë Dangerous to Mature â Dom. Holy fuck this man would be so dominant during these eras. Remember that shyness that he used to have before? Yeah forget about it. Heâd, not even whisper, say the most filthiest things while ramming his cock inside of you. Heâd be such a good degrader too, especially when itâs been a frustrating day with the press on top of you teasing him. Heâs much rougher with you, having you borderline in tears from how good heâs making you feel. Heâs a heavily oral fixated guy, loving how beautiful you look trying to take all of him in your mouth while gagging with tears rolling down those pretty cheeks.
(I need every era of him inside of me asap.)
à«ź ††àŸàœČá A/N : first drabble kinda nervous !! this is barely proofread so im sorry about any mistakes ,, icl this is the first time ive wrote explicit smut b4 đ
content/warnings: quickie smut, jaafar's in his michael makeup, wife! reader, they're currently in tension bc theyre mad with each other, so it lowkey starts angsty but ends steamy and redemption, short but sweet, sub and whiny jaafar YES, dry humping into unprotected sex (hints at breeding kink), fem anatomy described
WC: 4.1k
A/N: i knew as SOON as i saw him post this picture... a fic was incoming LOL. also, i've been getting lots and lots of questionable and hate comments under my account and i'm here to tell all the haters that this is not the page to do so. i will cuss you out AND block you!
Youâve been gnawing at your lip for what seemed the entire car ride- 45 minutes to be exact. You were unsure whether even coming to see your husband at work was the right idea, especially right now. But it was a tradition you both had built since he began filming, and you werenât planning to break it just because you happened to be mad at him.Â
The argument started two nights ago over something that shouldâve been small but has grown slightly. Due to Jaafarâs new movie, Michael, being a family-oriented production, much of the funding came directly from the Jackson family. Thankfully, most of the older family members had their wealth secured and set, and didnât dig too deep when investing their funds. The second generation, such as the Jacksonsâ kids, including Jaafar, werenât as wealthy. They had their privileges, of course, but most of the money they made was earned individually. Jaafar had built his wealth through music production and occasional film score composing.Â
When you got married, you agreed that any major financial decisions would be made together. That was the smartest and most conscious decision. For the five years you two have been married, that deal has been kept. A couple of days ago, however, you received a phone call from your accountant, who let you know that a very large sum had been removed from your account and transferred to someone else. When you double-checked with her to assure it was a mistake, she let you know that Jaafar had signed off on it. You looked into it, and it turns out, Jaafar had contributed his own investment into the film, without double-checking with you. It made your stomach twist with irritation and hurt, but you chose to brush it off till he got home that evening.Â
You were at the kitchen table, dinner in hand, as the front door opened. Jaafar walked in, throwing his hoodie on the coat rack before making his way into the kitchen. âHey, baby.â He muttered and reached to press a kiss on your face. You turned slightly, lips hitting your hair instead.Â
His eyebrows rose in confusion, but he brushed it off, turning to the sink to wash his hands. He took a quick glance at you, searching for anything that could alert him to why you hadnât greeted him back. âHow was your day today?âÂ
You shrugged, food no longer looking appetizing. You set the fork down and picked up the glass of juice. âCouldâve been better.â Jaafar sets his plate down, arms holding his upper body up against the marble-grained countertop. âWhyâs that?âÂ
âWhy did you take 1 million dollars out of our account and give it to the Estate?â You curtly say, pivoting your body towards Jaafar. You point to the flat screen of your phone against the table, lip twitching in uncertainty. You hated confrontation, and doing it with your favorite person made you hate them even more.Â
He sighs, shaking his head. He parts his mouth, ready to give an explanation even he knows isnât enough for you to just leave it alone. âYou know my familyâs all giving their own shares. I thought itâd be necessary if I did too.âÂ
âWithout checking with me?âÂ
âI didnât think I needed to. With filming going on, we needed more funds for some reshoots weâre doing. I thought it was obvious.âÂ
You scoff, standing from your chair. You stride towards the kitchen, across from Jaafar as he keeps his gaze on you. âWe have been asking each other about that kind of stuff for 5 years, Jaafar. Why would it change now?â
He shrugs his shoulders, and his unwillingness to even pretend he canât see where youâre coming from begins to make your blood boil, but you cross your legs, holding onto the counter for some sort of support, at least.Â
âI get you want to help your family out, and it is your movie, but you have to let me know. I cannot see that kind of money just being transferred out of our account with no explanation.âÂ
âItâs just money. Weâll get it back, I promise.â
âThatâs not the point Iâm trying to make, Jaafar, and you know it. Itâs the fact that you did it without checking with me first.â
Jaafar picks up his plate and fills it with food. You stand, baffled, unsure whether he was done talking to you. He walks behind you, taking his seat in the chair at the table. You turn, hands raising in confusion. âAre we done discussing this?â
âWeâre not discussing anything. Youâre arguing with me about it while Iâm trying to explain my side.â
âNo oneâs trying to argue, babe. Iâm just letting you know I didnât feel comfortable with that happening.âÂ
He sighs, eyes closing as he rests his head in his palms, breathing without structure. You cross your arms, feeling defeated. âAnd Iâm letting you know what itâs for. Iâm not asking for the money back; we need it. The movie needs it. I need it.â
Thereâs a slight crack in his voice as he speaks, and you know the pressure of everything is on him. Itâs in the tired creases around his melancholy eyes, under the plumpness of his chapped lips. Itâs in the small bruises in his hands and knees, dancing for hours till his toes bleed in pleas for a break.Â
But that doesnât change the fact that heâs belittling your side of the conversation, so you muster all the courage inside you to shake your head, foot tapping against the tiles under your slippers. âI understand that. I do, I really do. But that amount of money is huge. Thereâs no excuse for that. Weâve been talking about wanting to try for children soon, yet you make decisions like this behind my back without consulting me first. That hurts, J.âÂ
âItâll play out when the movie comes out. That money will come back, and more.â
You suppress an eye roll and shrug your shoulders. âCan you even try to apologize and see where Iâm coming from?â
âI do see your side, baby, I do. But please, for the sake of peace, see mines too.âÂ
Your heart hurts. You understand heâs deflating the way he is because of pressure, exhaustion, and confusion. But you know youâre right, too. And neither of you is willing to recognize each otherâs explanations right now. You take a deep breath and raise your hand. âFine, then. For the sake of peace, sleep in the guest room.â And with that, you give him one last disappointed look before walking away. For a second, you think heâll apologize and come after you. But in the next second, your steps stay lonely.Â
The next morning, Jaafar doesnât say anything to you before he leaves. He brews you a mug of coffee, but doesnât leave a note or even bother sending a text message throughout the day to check up on you, like he usually does. You knew the argument couldâve been fixed with a simple apology from him, and maybe a rational thought from you as well, but it was puerile behavior from the two of you now. You reciprocate the same energy by not making him dinner that evening and staying by the pool until he falls asleep. You walked by the guest room and took a quick peek inside. Heâs asleep, still dressed in his clothes, even having his shoes on. Heâs shivering, and heâs holding the throw pillow tight in his hands. The sight makes your insides turn, in regret and empathy. You shake your head to yourself and walk inside, softly pulling the pillow to the floor. You reach to take his shoes off, and hold his sole carefully, aware of the blisters covering his toes. You throw the blanket on his body, giving his thigh a squeeze before walking away.Â
âI love you.â His voice is dazed, interrupting your attempt to quietly leave the room.Â
You hold onto your chest before breathing softly. âI love you. Night.â Your voice is fragile, and even as Jaafarâs hardly awake, he heeds the pain in your voice. It makes the guilt soothe him even more, and he closes his eyes, afraid that if he keeps them open, heâll shatter into a million pieces.Â
âąââ
You park your car in the parking garage, taking a deep breath and holding onto the bag youâve brought with you. You brought one of Jaafarâs favorite foods, a crispy chicken sandwich from the Honor Bar. It was where he took you for your first date, and youâve been bringing him lunch every week, as a way to see him amid all the busy hours throughout the work days.Â
The crew members greet you as always, giving you polite gestures as you walk through the halls with your bags in hand. Your pass is wrapped around your neck, and you check the time on your watch before stopping in front of Jaafarâs door. You bring a hesitant hand to the door before taking a breath, knocking softly against the wood. You wait a beat before opening the door, and feel the breath youâve been holding in release on its own. Your occupied hand trembles, and you feel your body betraying you as you force your mouth shut.Â
Jaafar is in front of his vanity, a small mirror mounted on the wall, with bright, intense lights highlighting the details of his face. Heâs dressed so elegantly, still in costume. His makeup and hair still intact, and despite visiting him for so long, youâve never actually seen him in costume. Not so still, at least. And alone.Â
You hate the fact that thereâs a flicker of disbelief in his face, one that he masks with relief. You give him a small smile and clear your throat. âHi.â
âHi, baby.âÂ
âYou look shocked to see me here. Not sure I like that.â You close the door and turn the lock as you take a seat on the couch across from Jaafar.Â
He opens his mouth, gazing into your eyes as he removes the sparkling white glove from his hand. âI figured weâd still be⊠you know. I think I didnât want to get my hopes up.âÂ
Thereâs a small scoff that escapes from you, but you follow it with a tut. You cross your legs, tapping your fingers against your knee. âHow are your hopes now?âÂ
Jaafar bites his inner lip, tugging at the tag on his pants as a distraction. âUndeserving.âÂ
You take his mutter into consideration, cognizant of the tone as he waited for your response. You hum, dipping your head as your eyes remain locked with his. âWe have to talk about it eventually. Now, preferably. I donât want our food to get cold.âÂ
He softly breaths, an attempt at expressing a sense of humor, but heâs too emotional to do so. âIâm sorry for my behavior these past few days. For a while, actually.â You give him a nod, an acknowledgment of the understanding of what he means.Â
âThe process for creating this film, and bringing it to life, has become such an overwhelming process. I got so wrapped up in trying to figure things out the way all these experienced people have done before that I thought I could do it, too. In doing so, I went against our core vows and have hurt you in the process. That was never my intention, baby. I truly am so sorry for the way I've acted over the past few days. I gave you space because I know we both needed that more than anything. But I missed you so fucking much, I was going crazy.â Jaafarâs voice cracks numerous times, and he feels the top of his lip wet with several tears. He doesnât care to let the emotion come to life, because he deserves to feel the regret he came to terms with the moment he saw you walk away.Â
Thereâs no sound in the room besides your heavy breathing, and it takes every restrictive power in you to stop you from standing and shoving Jaafarâs delicate face into your chest. The tears streaming down his face break you so gently. You taste the sweat under your chin as you bring it to your lips, moving anxiously under Jaafarâs red eyes.Â
âIâm sorry for not being willing to see your side, baby. I think I always did, but I was mad at you for being so stubborn.â You whisper, eyes slightly dipping in mendacious tautness as your husband gives you a concurring nod.Â
He dabs at his face, attempting to wipe any tears off his prosthetics before he continues speaking. âYou wouldnât have to feel that way if it werenât for me. Iâm so sorry, sweet girl.âÂ
The nickname breaks you of any restraint, and your body rises before your mind alerts you. You close the short distance between the two of you and wrap your arms around Jaafarâs sequenced shoulders, rubbing at any previous rigidness with consoling devotion and pardon. He feels the way only your unique and soothing touch can bring him back to life fully, and he closes his eyes, a quiet moan escaping him. It was quiet under the heavy breathing that was transpiring from his mouth, which you almost didnât catch. Almost.Â
âNow, now, I forgive you, baby. I missed you, too.â Thereâs a commanding intonation in the manner you hum against Jaafarâs styled hair, and suddenly the friction between the two of you grows desperate. This was secretly your favorite part after all the worries are no more, and the things you have said to one another are gone. Somehow, it always got to that point. Where sincere apologies are made, and you drop the authoritarian act, and become authoritative. The anger is no longer quiet screaming, but instead moans of passion. In some way, you sometimes wonder if this unbreakable habit is wrong, but it always gets to that point somehow. Where your clothes become half-off, and all the pent-up frustration becomes released through ruts and rushed kisses. Â
Thereâs a twitch in Jaafarâs hardening cock as he hears the tone in your seductive syllables, and he forces his hand against the pinch of your waist to relax. He slightly pulls his head away from your chest and throws his head back. âWeâre done filming for the day, in this costume. Iâm âposed to be taking this makeup off, actually.âÂ
You hum in reply to his piteous mumble and bring your fingers across Jaafarâs face, fixating on every detail of his features. The makeup team took their time in ensuring his face was exact to what his uncleâs details were, and you ran your fingers extra carefully on the parts you noticed were made with additional caution. It was something so alluring about seeing Jaafar in this costume and makeup- it was almost like it was another version of him you never knew you could access. But having him under your touch, legs on either side of his perfectly built thighs, made your core begin to moist with seduction and satisfaction- a guilty pleasure, if truth be told. âIs that so? And here I was, having some time to watch how beautiful you look in that makeup.â
Jaafar would never get used to the way you would confidently call his beauty out. He knew he was a pretty man, but hearing the words come out of your lips, the ones he loved to run his tongue against, was another form of a tantalizing rush down his cock, quickening his pulse until his mind would become foggy, control no longer his. âCan you help me take it off, then? Please, baby?âÂ
A double glance at the locked door is all it takes for your lips to crash against Jaafarâs. Your tongue swirls against his, desperate savoring evident in your hoarse exhales. Your hands run along the back of his head, textured curls tangled in between your fingers. Thereâs a soft piece caught between your ring as you pull, which makes Jaafar whine. The cry is frenzied, and a smirk crawls on your lips. His hands began to fondle with whatever plumpness of your body he could find, wanting to capture whatever he could knead.Â
Every clash against your mouth is an unspoken plea Jaafar begs for sonorously. He needs more, and despite the wetness of his pre-cum you feel against the material of your bottoms, the distance is too much. He knows thereâs a time limit that the two of you have to fool around before work begins again, and the warmth that circulates throughout his body is enough sampling to thrill him for more. He takes a shameful swallow before lifting his hips up, readjusting himself in the chair, and gripping onto your hip bone. He laps at your lip as he moves your body against his own, the drag of your clothed cunt against his own cock melting flawlessly. You grind onto his lap with erratic snaps, eyes rolling back with elation. The thrums against your skin become too much, and you pull off your top, crashing Jaafarâs face into your chest. He does his job in nipping at the softness of your breasts, ensuring a mark is left with a desperate lick. His patterns become overstimulating, so you pull down your bra and keen in roil as his teeth graze over your nipples.Â
Jaafar silently begs to whoever is listening to his intoxicating mind to allow him to remain in this bliss forever. His eyes trace over the transfer of his makeup against the sweat on your skin, and that sight is the most captivating thing heâs ever seen on you. He feels his hair stick onto his skin, but his focus remains on the bounce of your breasts, every hump against the curve of his cock enveloping him in a trance he never wants to snap out of, not even when he feels his release begin to build up.Â
You feel the metal of his zipper hit your clothed pussy, and the sensation makes your button tingle with electricity. You feel your slick continue to swell, pleating against your folds. Your jerks are intense, like a personal workout your body appreciates youâve decided to take. Your eyes open for a slight minute, stuck on the way, Jaafarâs eyes remain riveted on your body. You let out a sharp intake of breath, feeling a tiny bit of drool threaten to escape from the side of your mouth. The consciousness only grows because Jaafarâs eyes begin to well up with tears. Overstimulating tears, the ones that you know heâll let out the second your walls enclose around his bare cock.Â
He gives a soft croak as his eyes dip, greed entering his body as he cups your breast. âMore, more, more.â Every whine is hasty, yearning for a release. He doesnât care that his underwear will be sticky once he pulls it down his legs, or the fact that the very expensive costume pants heâs wearing will be ruined with your slick. Jaafarâs only focus is on the rapid darts of his tongue on you. He watches the way your mouth parts open, your head bobbing with every lap he gives you. Â
He feels the release threatening to snap, so he uses all his force to grip onto your hips even harsher, approving of every pornographic bounce you lay on him. âI need to cum.â He whines against your skin, and you bring your mouth to his ear, softly licking his lobe as your hand runs down his neck and onto his jacket, gripping the material beneath it. The small conscious part of your mind is aware heâs still in costume, and will most likely have to return it once heâs done using it.Â
The bigger portion of your consciousness, however, only cares about the intense throbs of your cunt, because you give him a laudatory nod, melting at the way your skin burns so perfectly under Jaafarâs reckless hold. Your husband instantly uses his green light and cries, moaning like an animal in heat as his release fills his pants, wet and slick, and begins to run through onto your thighs. Your release comes seconds after, and your bounces slow down, legs spasming with exhaustion.Â
Your heavy breaths blend, and you bring your hand hurriedly to his pants, unzipping the material, fingers wetting with Jaafarâs cum. You bring a finger rapidly to your mouth and lick it, humming at the taste. Jaafar swears he feels more spill out of his tip, so he brings his hands to help pull his cock out as you stand and step out of your pants, not caring to do the same with your panties. You pull those to the side and keep one hand on Jaafarâs shoulder, breath hitched as you sink down on his cock. Every inch is an eyeroll you give, and before you know it, youâre both immediately swallowed by warmth. Thereâs a hint of pain, so you use the adjustment to his size to bring your lips to his neck, licking at his sweet spot.
âThank you, my sweet girl. Thank you.â The tightness disappears into pleasure, and you move slowly. You begin to grind against his shaft, building up slick before you begin to quicken your pace. His hands come up to your face, and your features fit so perfectly against his large palms.
âYouâre doing so good for me, for us, my baby. I love you. You always do so great. I admire you, my sweet love.â Every word hits you deeper than his cock, and your body instinctively begins to build an unrelenting tempo, every ride against his perfect cock massaging your walls. It makes your body yearn for more, more than what youâre bucking for.
Every bounce on him becomes a precise beat, hips smacking against one another at the same time. Your fingers run under Jaafarâs eyes, tears slickening them as you softly smirk. âAll these tears, just for me, hm?âÂ
He nods without hesitation, cock hitting every spot so perfectly. âYes, mâam.â Oh god, could he be any more perfect for you? You hum against his skin, watching the ways his curls move against the rhythm youâve both set, and it makes you fuse grow even quicker.Â
Jaafar grips both sides of your hips, eyes focused on the way his cock slips in and out of you. Watching the way your cunt is so perfectly stuffed by him, it makes his hunger grow. He takes hold of the control, thrusting himself into you with pounds so heavy and filling, you feel it penetrate you mercilessly. His mouth opens before he can think about what heâs about to say, yet he feels no regret. âI want to cum inside you and put a baby in you. Can I do that? Please? Will you let me stuff you full, sweet girl?â Your moans become inconsolable, and you nod your head, unwilling to care about the reality of what this will mean for both of you. Your legs begin to shudder, and you give warning taps against Jaafarâs face as he nods.Â
His thrusts become frantic, wanting to make sure you feel the need in every vein inside you, in every rut as he begins to fill you. He directs your hand to your nipple, and you pinch it, and your vision becomes spotty. Your mouth parts, and your back arches as Jaafarâs hips jerk against you. His whines grow louder, and you take every single one in memory as he spills inside you, painting you like a piece he wishes to admire forever. His tired eyes come down to your opening, and he watches in awe as his release spills outside your cunt and down your legs.Â
You fall onto his chest, knees limp as Jaafar brings his hands to your back, soothing it in a familiar pattern. A wave of aftershock washes over you for some time, so youâre silent, body slightly twitching from the sputters undone.Â
Jaafar pulls your head off his chest with care, pressing kisses against your face as he whispers comforting praises. It makes you melt, and your walls begin to flutter as he softly twitches inside you. His pupils are dilated, and the sight of his wet, dark, beautiful eyes makes you lean forward, relaxing your mouth against his.Â
âSweet girl.â He mutters against you, stroking the softness of your neck as your breathing calms down, no longer past the normal beat.Â
There are no words, no sound. Just breaths, just nearness. Just Jaafarâs familiar hand brushing his thumb over your knuckles, just existing quietly in a now sacred space youâll both remember for a lifetime. Itâs a moment you begin to already detail your mind over, resting your open palm calmly over your husbandâs even heartbeat, a pulse that he gentles with passionate vulnerability.Â
contains: sexual themes, p in v, childhood bestfriends, michael calls reader âbabyâ and âmamaâ, slight degradation, smut
1982
hand in hand, the both of you walked through the dimly lit parking lot. twirling and spinning as michael held one of your hands in the air. your skirt flowing in the cold night wind.
âcmonâ girl, show em what you gotâ he teased, earning a giggle out of you.
you let go of his hand, and turned to face him. âwell thank you,â you bowed, âi love all of my fans.â
he scoffed loudly, âpfffftt, me a fan of you?â
âmhm.â you paused, âmy biggest.â
he laughed, before opening the car door for you. âokay then, mâlady.â
you turned to him, âmâlady?â you questioned. he smirked, âyou heard me.â
turning back to the car, you got in as he closed the door behind you. walking to the other side of the car before getting in.
âhome?â he asked, looking at you as he started the car. you sucked your teeth, âcanât i go to yours?â
he rolled his eyes playfully, before putting the car in reverse and pealing out of the parking lot.
click
the front door unlocked as you two slowly crept inside, michael quietly shutting the door behind you. he pointed up the stairs his finger on his mouth, gesturing for you to be quiet.
you headed up the stairs, michael walking slowly behind you. the night stars through the window the only think illuminating the house.
you both walked into his bedroom, as he shut the door as quietly as he could. you headed straight to your favorite spot on his bed, kicking off your flats and laying down.
he looked over at you, before setting down his keys and wallet on his desk.
âyou act like you own the place.â
âi do not.â you snapped back.
âyou do.â
ânot.â
he sighed, walking over to you and sitting down next to you.
he looked stressed, his eyes having slight bags under them, his hands fidgeting slightly. âwhatâs up?â you asked, taking one of his hands into yours.
he shook his head, laying back, resting his head on the headboard. ânothing.â
âsomething.â you used your free hand to grab his chin, forcing him to look at you.
he smiled softly, looking deeply at your face before pulling away.
âiâm just stressed.â he ran one of his hands through his curls, âwork, parents, public.â
you squeezed his hand softly, âcan i help with anything?â your voice quiet and reassuring.
he looked at you again, his eyes full of something you couldnât quite grasp. âno, y/n, you do enough for me.â
âare you sure?â
âyes.â
âi can help you with, anything.â
he went quiet, his mind leading him places he didnât want to go. shaking his head once more, âno y/n, seriously.â
you subtly began to run your fingers across his hand, and up his arm. âplease, michael, let me help.â
goosebumps formed on him as your soft fingers traced every vein on his arm.
he pulled his arm away, âwhat âre you doing?â
you moved closer on the bed, your knees touching his thighs slightly now.
you get up, slowly lifting your leg so you are now on his lap straddling him. you rest your hands on his chest looking down at him.
he doesnât say anything, or stop you. his hands finding their way to your waist.
âcan i help you now?â you ask, leaning down, your lips hovering over his.
he nods slowly, before closing the space inbetween you two. his lips press hard against yours, like he needs this, heâs been waiting for this.
his hands stay still on your hips, gripping you harder as the kiss got messier.
you begin to move slowly, grinding against him.
âplease, mama, i need more.â he brings his hands down to his belt, struggling to unbuckle it.
as he gets it off, he lifts himself up and pulls down his pants slowly. his bulge pressed against his boxers.
you bring your hand to his bulge, pressing down slowly, small whimpers leave his mouth.
âgive me more, please.â he whines, pushing down his boxers to expose his hard dick.
you sit up, sliding your panties to the side. michael lifts up your skirt, watching you do so.
âattaâ girl.â he whispers, eyes following as you hover your pussy over his ready dick.
you slowly begin to lower down, his tip entering you. âm-michael.â you cry, the sudden contact breaking you.
âso fucking tight fâ me, hm?â he grab your waist, pushing you down onto him more.
you moan, his length stretching you out in all the right places.
"fuckkk baby," he groans, tilting his head back, âtaking me so good.â
you whimper softly as your body adjusts to his size, your walls tight around him.
he begins to lift your hips slowly, making you to slide up and down his length.
you let out a broken moan, your thighs trembling as you start to roll your hips, grinding down against him.
he groans, âfuck, yeah baby... just like that" he mutters, his grip on your waist tightening.
he pulls you down to his chest. "gotta feel you," he murmurs against your neck, teeth grazing your skin. "can feel how wet you are every time i move."
he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you as close as humanly possible as he buries himself deep inside you.
broken groans leave his mouth, his face buried deeper in your neck.
âi canât-â you cried out, tears forming as he thrusted deep again.
ât-take me-â he choked out quietly, slamming his hips into you once more âf-fuck take me all.â
his grip tightened painfully on your waist, as hot cum filled you up completely. you clenched around him one more time, your own release following.
both of you sat there for a minute, trying to catch your breath.
michael rubbed tiny circles on your back slowly, placing a soft kiss to your ear.
_
note: okay idk how to finish it so thatâs the end i need to work on my story telling and not just straight smut ;( i hope u all enjoyed hehe & tysm for all the support<3
contains: fluff, michael calls reader âangel faceâ and âmamaâ
1983
âcmon, mama.â michael says, pushing your hands out of your face, âlemme see your pretty face.â he whines. you straddled his lap, covering your face giggling. ânooo.â
michael giggled, bringing his hand down to tickle your side causing you to pull your hands away from your face. âmm there we go.â he says, bringing up one of his hands to caress your cheek softly.
you smiled when his thumb brushed over your cheek. âyouâre so annoying.â you mumbled even though you were smiling. michael laughed and squeezed your waist gently. âand you love me.â
you rolled your eyes. âshut up.â he smirked âmake me.â you placed a tiny kiss on his cheek, before looking at him again. âyou know, youâre so cute when you get shy.â he grinned.
your cheeks got hotter, and before you could stop yourself, you dropped your face into his shoulder again. âstop.â
ânope,â he said immediately, wrapping his arms tighter around you. he began to rub tiny circles on your back, âi want to see you baby, please?â he whispers quietly in your ear.
after a minute, you lifted your head just enough to look at him. he was already staring at you. âwhat?â you asked, your cheeks already getting warm again.
ânothing, i just love looking at my angel face.â you groaned and covered your face again. âmichael.â he grabbed your wrists before you could hide again, âabsolutely not,â he said, holding your hands gently in his. âyouâre not doing that again. i wanna look at you.â his thumbs rubbed over your knuckles.
your cheeks burned, and you let out a little groan. âmichael, stop,â you whined, even though you were smiling so hard it almost hurt. you tried to look away, but he gently tilted your chin back toward him. his eyes softened, scanning every inch of your face.
âi mean it,â he said quietly, brushing his thumb across your cheek again. âi could look at you forever and still think youâre the most beautiful girl iâve ever seen.â you laughed shyly and leaned over to hide your face in his shoulder once more.
michael wrapped his arms around you, and pressed a soft kiss to your hair. âokay fine.â he said with a grin, âmy angel face.â
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