Can u pretty pleaseee make an insane angst with a happy ending??? Like us having a big argument and mike being petty asf and not hearing us out then ignoring us?? But yk it backfires and him grovelling like a mf then having a crazy make up sesh??
Love love love ur works btw! And I adore ur theme💞😝
— ᨳଓ . No ordinary love | Michael x reader
⋆.˚ Summary : You're boyfriend has a bad habit of running away from his problems, so when you confront him about it he does the same thing you hate the most, this time leaving you alone.
⋆.˚ Warnings : Make up sex, p in v, no protection, creampie, fingering
ᝰ.ᐟ Riri's note : Ahh tysm ! I hope you enjoy MWAH this lowkey took me forever to do oops
“And that's the problem you're having now, Michael. I just don't get you sometimes. Why do you shut me out? Is it because you refuse to hear the truth?” The silence in your shared bedroom was almost sickening, the air thick with complete tension that seemed to suffocate the two of you. The weight of everything that had been building up from the past few weeks finally came bearing down quickly, at that.
Michael stood in front of the door, his jaw clenching tightly, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails were digging into his skin, marking the skin of his palms with deep crescents.
"I'm not doing this tonight." His skin was prickling with the heat of anger that started to make his head hurt.
“Are you serious? You can't just ignore this, Michael. "You threw your hands up, your own anger getting in the way of thinking rationally, because in all actuality you just want to finally shut your eyes for the night, to lie in the bed cuddling until you finally go to sleep, but here you are spending your time arguing with someone who is too hardheaded to just listen to you.
“I can; I'm not talking about this tonight. I'm done." His voice was harsh, a tone that would almost seem unbelievable if you weren't listening with your own two ears. You blinked slowly. You couldn't believe what was happening right now. You couldn't believe that your boyfriend was shutting you out once again. You watched as he walked out the room, leaving the door slightly cracked, your voice echoing through the halls as you called his name, your body instinctively following him down the hall as he made his way down the stairs, completely ignoring your calls.
"Michael! You know what? Fuck it, leave like you always do." Your voice shook with unfiltered rage, which made your skin boil with heat despite the air conditioning that ran throughout the house, but what pissed you off even more was the fact that he didn't look back at you; instead, he headed out the door, like you weren't even there, like you weren't sitting there calling his name, begging him to stop and be rational, pouring out everything you had left to give into making him stay, making him stop and listen for once.
The sound that followed, after the door slammed close, was an almost eerie silence. Suddenly you could hear every sound, like the sound of the clock ticking every few seconds and the air that pushed throughout the house during the midst of the summer heat; you could even hear the sound of his car's engine starting up before zooming off, now leaving you completely alone.
You knew he wouldn't tell you where he was going.
He probably wouldn't even answer his phone if you called.
And that's what ate at you.
You stayed up late, staring at the ceiling, the covers completely engulfing you as your brain raced almost a hundred miles per hour, way too full of replaying the moments of your argument and what you could've said better that would've eased the situation. Maybe if you'd just worded everything better—no, maybe if Michael learned to just listen, maybe he would be here right now; maybe he would be sound asleep, arm wrapped sweetly around you; maybe he'd be sleepily babbling something about a new song in your ear while you listened, but instead you were greeted by the cold silence.
The next day was even harder. You scrubbed at the counters that you'd already cleaned multiple times, giving them an extra shine. You reorganized shelves that were already organized, taking everything down before setting everything back up just to do it again. You mopped the floors that never had time to get dirty as you waited for that familiar ring to interrupt the bitter silence, but it never came.
Days passed, then it was a weeks, until you stopped thinking about reaching out, and after that, it was two. I could play that game.
Michael knew he was wrong; he knew it all too well, yet for some reason he couldn't bring himself to dial the house number until he finally did, only to get no answer. He couldn't even bring himself to show his face around you; the guilt of it ate at him until he couldn't bear it anymore. Then he decided it was time to go home, time to apologize and step up like he should've. So, he made his way home, his stomach twisting in sickly movements, making him nauseous with anxiety.
The house was quiet, except for the sound of the TV softly playing, an odd coolness falling over your shared home. The tick of the clock felt as if it were counting down to something. You were nowhere to be found as he peeked his head around the corner of the kitchen, then the living room, until he eventually made his way up the wooden stairs, each groan of the wood seeming to get louder with each step, the top of the stairs nearing as he made his way towards your bedroom.
Something about the silence that took over the house made his blood run cold and his body feel stiff. The bedroom door was already cracked, and his fingers took a moment to feel every wooden divot and groove before pushing the door open.
And there you were.
Sitting at your vanity applying whatever moisturizer you’d bought onto your face, you have this sickeningly calm look on your face. Maybe it was because you hadn’t noticed him coming in, but that wasn't possible because you knew the sound of his shoes against the floor like no other.
“Hey, baby." He spoke cautiously, like he was planning his next words out carefully, only to be met with silence that made him swallow thickly.
“Look, I know you're still mad at me and rightfully so, but I'm here to make things right, just…please talk to me." He was pleading for any sign that you were acknowledging him, that you understood him.
"Okay."
“Will you at least look at me?" He stepped closer, his frame coming closer as you stared into the mirror.
“Do you think you deserve to be looked at when you just up and left like that? Couldn't even be bothered to tell me where the hell you were when I was worried sick about you." You stood up, finally turning to look at him, anger rising in your chest; your vanity chair slid back against the rug.
“No, I don't know that, and I… I'm sorry."
“Sorry doesn't cut it anymore. Do you even understand how worried I was about you, and you have the nerve to show up and apologize like nothing happened?" Tears of frustration were falling down your face, ruining the skincare you worked so hard to put on, only for it to be running down your face.
He watched as you cried, fists balled up tightly at your sides while you tried your best not to raise your voice, but with everything he’d put you through, the intensity of everything was finally reaching its peak.
“I know, I know, I'm sorry, it's okay." Your hands covered your face, tears dripping down onto your palms, his arms wrapping around you, which felt comforting even though you were so pissed, but the thought of finally getting the comfort you'd so badly craved made you fall straight into his trap every time.
His chest heaved in a rhythmic pattern before his hands moved to your wrists, gently prying them from your face, finally taking a good look at your tear-stained face and pretty soaked lashes that fluttered as you looked at him.
"I'm so sorry, Mama, I know." His thumbs wiped your tears that stained your cheeks as they fell before pressing his lips to yours, moving in slow, deep waves, a soft hum falling from your lips.
“Let me make it up to you, please," he hummed against your lips, letting his hands fall down to yours as they intertwined with yours. You nodded, desperate just to feel him—to catch another whiff of his cologne as he ran his hands all over you.
He guided you towards the bed, hands still connected, as he sat down, guiding you to sit in between his legs. Your robe, hiking up slightly exposing your thigh as you sat down, his fingers trailing against the silk fabric.
“Spread your legs for me, pretty girl," he cooed, leaning closer towards your ear, your back pressed against his chest, doing exactly what he wanted you to do. The feeling of his fingers slipping between your legs, reaching your hot core, his finger running circles around your clit as you sighed, squirming under his fingers.
“Just let me take over," he cooed, taking a break from your clit to insert one of his long, slender fingers inside you, taking in the feeling of your walls against his fingers, before curling them, leaving your walls fluttering.
He moved slowly, letting his fingers reach as deep as possible, hitting that sweet spot that made your back arch off of his chest and your fingers grasp at his thighs.
"Mikey," you gasped, your hips desperately bucking upwards to get any bit of friction you could get.
“Yeah, baby? Does it feel good? Use your words." He slipped his fingers back inside you, curling them as he did so.
“Mhm, it feels good… I missed you so much," you whined, hips bucking again, his fingers, walls sucking him in repeatedly as he pushed his fingers in once again, the pad of his thumb rubbing circles around your sensitive bud, your eyes fluttering closed, taking in every little bit of his fingers pressed against that sweet spot.
“That's it, right there," you whined, squirming away from his touch almost instantly. His fingers are hitting that spot repeatedly, curling and moving his fingers in a scissoring motion to stretch you out.
“Gonna cum?” His free hand worked its way past your robe, rolling your nipple in between the pads of his fingers, adding extra stimulation.
"Mhm, please, Mikey," you whined, one of your hands placed in between your legs, sitting on top of his own, while your other hand grasped at his thigh, your back coming up off his chest.
"Yeah, baby? Take what you need; cum on my fingers." Another curl of his long fingers sent your body lurching forward, hips bucking wildly, body unable to help but lift off the bed, soft moans falling from your lips as you gushed around his fingers, making a sticky mess, babbling some random nonsense that barely made sense.
"C'mon, lie down," he spoke softly, laying you down gently against the soft cotton of the pillows. His fingers carefully untie the loose knot of silk fabric, exposing your skin to the air of the room, his eyes roaming over every bit of you before pulling his shirt over his head, tossing it to the side before he moved to take his pants off, pulling his underwear down with it, his dick springing out, hitting his stomach softly.
You already had your legs spread, the essence of your past orgasm leaking from you as Michael climbed between your legs, tip pressed nicely against your entrance.
“Mikey, put it in, please; I need you," you whined, hand reaching between your legs, helping to guide him.
“Whatever you want, love, let me make you feel good." Slowly he thrust into you. His hands digging into your hips, your body scooting deeper into the pillows, your pussy still aching from your last orgasm and desperate for more as he slipped himself inside you once again as your body adjusted to his size. Each thrust felt more and more desperate, with him moving in such a way that made your legs wrap around his, your arms tangled around the back of his neck, and your fingers messing with the already messy curls.
He leaned closer, connecting your sweat-slicked bodies together, the softness of his lips mashing with yours like it was something you needed to survive, when in all actuality it was his presence you missed and those soft touches that you didn't know you would miss until they were long gone.
Your mind was too hazy with the constant thought of his kisses and the way his hips would thrust slowly, forming that creamy ring around the base of his dick, showing the mess that you two created together.
The room was filled completely with the sounds of sex, the bed rocking heavily against its frame, a mix of both your moans and groans making sweet music, and that familiar sound of skin on skin.
“You’re so good, baby. Thank you for letting me please you." It came out as a breathy groan before his hips did that sputter it always did right before he was about to cum. That same deep, hot feeling tangling in your stomach, making your skin burn hotter than ever as you tossed your head back against the pillows, using them to muffle the strained moans that came from your throat.
“Mikey… going to cum."
“Go ahead, pretty girl, I got you," he spoke, kissing the sweat that built up against your forehead as you came around him, a more than loud cry coming from you, Michael soon following, filling you completely with him.
The lingering effects of your orgasms lingered in the air, your chest moving heavily in attempts to fill your lungs with the air it craved, and with your hazy brain, you could barely think properly, let alone form a sentence.
"I'm so sorry…I’ll never do anything like this again; please don't leave," he begged, tears welling up in those precious, bambi-like eyes.
“Mikey, I'm not going to leave you; I love you more than anything… I just wish you wouldn't shut me out like you do."
“I love you too. I'll work on it better for you, I promise."
synopsis: It's 2008 & Michael decides to take you to his friend's birthday party. After the both of you get served drink after drink, Michael decides it's the best time to socialize when you're in desperate need to use the restroom. Little did you know, he liked seeing the struggle, and you discover something about yourself as well.
warnings: established relationship, bladder control, dom!mike, age gap (30 & 49), no p in v, oral (m receiving), exhibitionism (if you squint), drunk sexual content, brat taming, light dacryphilia, pure filth, shoe humping for like one second, implied aftercare, dni if this isn't your thing
wc: 3.1k
Michael was invited to an event for his friend, and of course he couldn’t be more excited to show off his beautiful doll. You were dressed head to toe with everything he had bought for you, down to your panties.
“Mikey, do you love it?” You smiled, posing in front of him as he sat on the bed in front of you.
Michael looked at you starstruck, that’s always how he looked at you. “I more than love it.”
You giggled softly, cutting yourself off as you leaned down to kiss him, humming into his mouth. “Thank you for this baby.”
He grabbed ahold of your waist with a hand, making sure you kept standing between his legs. “No, thank you for coming with me. Y’know I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.”
“Aww come on- you don’t have to say that…”
“No, it’s true.” Michael moved his hand from your waist, instead grabbing your hands. He looked up into your eyes, “I would lose my mind without you at these events. Now, don’t be modest and repeat what I said.”
You felt his thumbs press circles into the top of your hands. An embarrassed smile reached your face, “You wouldn’t be able to go to these events without me.”
“That’s right my dear. Thank you.”
“Of course Mikey.” You finally gave in.
He pulled his hands away, “Now, we should probably get going, huh?”
You nodded with a smile.
⊹ ࣪ ˖꒰ঌ໒꒱.⋆˚࿔
You and Michael had arrived through a back private entrance, enjoying the party from a back room with about two dozen other people. Michael would be mobbed if he stayed in the main room with the rest of his friend’s mutuals.
At first, you guys were sitting on a couch, you were sitting next to him and multiple people you didn’t recognize were around the couch as well.
“Would you two like some drinks?” The host of the party asked.
You looked over at Michael for what felt like permission, even though he lets you do anything, it’s a habit you couldn’t quit.
He laughed quietly in disbelief at you, “Yea, we’ll take two drinks. Thank you, Christian. Don’t bother yourself with us, go enjoy yourself, ‘kay?”
“Don’t you worry man.” He signaled a waiter to walk over, “Make sure they’re taken care of for the rest of the night, alright?”
You smiled gently at the waiter, leaning down to let the both of you grab drinks off his tray. “Thank you.” You spoke.
You and Michael enjoyed your time, joking with everybody that came by and spoke to you guys. After a while the two of you had gotten up and started dancing within the crowd of the private section.
The two of you grooved together, if that’s what you’d like to call it. It was more like you attempting to keep up with him in heels that were killing you.
More drinks had come by, and by the third you’ve gotten while dancing, Michael leaned into your ear, “How many have you had?” He asked lowly.
You mumbled numbers counting under your breath, “Around… ffffive?” You giggled softly.
He hummed, bringing you closer, “You planning on slowing down?” He questioned giving you a curious look.
“Mmmm… Well I’m not driving. And neither are you so…” You pecked his lips.
“Okay, baby, you go on ahead and keep drinking. I’m done for tonight.”
“Why, Mikey?”
As a waiter walked by you grabbed another glass.
“You’ll see why in a few minutes when it catches up to you.”
“What are you talking-”
“I’ll be back in a second, ‘kay sweets? ‘M doing a favor for Christian.”
You kissed his cheek and pulled away. “Okay…” You huffed, “Don’t take too long.”
As he walked away you finished your drink, dancing gently with the song, careful not to do too much without him on your side.
When another waiter walked by you, you set down the empty glass and that’s when a big projector caught your attention.
You walked backwards, away from the crowd as you watched your man on screen.
Michael was currently wishing his friend a happy birthday on stage, girls screaming his name. You clenched your thighs together at the fact that he was yours and only yours, at how handsome he looked in the dark blue shirt you picked out for him.
You listened to the man you were dating give a speech about his friend, and soon you felt yourself not just clenching from the fact he was turning you on just by the way he spoke in front of people who admired him but also because you felt a familiar feeling in your bladder.
You tried your best to ignore the tingling feeling building up quickly, crossing your legs while standing. You rocked back and forth softly, hoping nobody could tell how badly you had to go.
As Michael’s speech came to an end, you waited patiently for him to come back stage, and after a while he did. A smile reached your face as you watched him say thank you to the surrounding bodyguards.
As he walked up to you, you opened your arms. Michael gladly accepted your hug. “You looked so good up there, Mikey..” You mumbled, your words beginning to slur. You quickly felt the alcohol you had drank earlier catch up to you.
“Thank you dear, missed me?”
You looked up at him, your arms wrapped around his neck. You nodded softly, “Mikey, I need to go..” His head tilted, a fake confusion appeared on his face, “D’ya know where’s the restroom..?”
Michael’s hands slid down to your waist, backing you up to the closest wall. His hand slid down your dress, you bit your lip, looking down to follow his hand.
His hand pressed softly against your bladder, causing a quiet whimper to escape. “Mike, stop..” You slurred, sounding defeated. You squeezed your thighs together.
“Ya feel that?”
You nodded quickly, “God… yes…” you breathed out, inhaling shakily as he pressed harder.
Michael’s hand moved lower, slipping under your dress and feeling your heat through your underwear. Your hands gripped his shoulders tight.
Embarrassingly, your hips bucked into his hand almost immediately.
He hummed in amusement. You could feel your heart pounding out of your chest, there was music and chatter all around you, people who could easily look over and see the Michael Jackson with his hand under your dress. Yet, it turned you on more and more.
“Michael-” his lips planted onto yours. One of your hands slid onto the back of his head, pulling him impossibly closer. It was messy, teeth clashing, tongues clashing, and the alcohol in you wasn’t making it any easier.
His free hand slid to your bladder, pressing down gently. You moaned into his mouth, the pressure of his hand and the soft circles he was making against your clit became too much and fast.
You pushed him away, gasping for air. You shoved his arms away, “Michael, not here.” You were panting, fixing your dress.
Michael had a smirk on his face, you looked at him flushed and embarrassed. Soon that turned into annoyance. “What were you thinking? Just fucking…” You felt yourself throb, you crossed your legs. “Show me the restroom, please.”
“Oh, that’s how you want to talk to me? Like you weren’t into that just now?”
“No- I’m sorry, I sounded like an asshole, I didn’t mean it.” You tried your best to reassure him.
He looked at you, crossing his arms. “What’d I tell you about swearing?”
“Mike-”
“You can wait.”
“Please.” You sighed, grabbing his arm. He attempted to walk away, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so.
Michael turned to you, “Someone’s gotta teach you a lesson.”
You bit your tongue, thankfully some people finally spotted Michael and began to have a conversation. You followed after him as he led the conversation elsewhere.
You could barely concentrate on what they were saying. All you could focus on was the throbbing from your bladder.
You were about to cross your legs again before Michael looked at you. He raised his eyebrows, ever so slightly shaking his head. You caught it though, of course you did. Almost instantly you stood straight, adjusting your fake smile.
You saw the corner of his lips turn into a smile, and like clock work he resumed talking to whoever these people were. A picture perfect man controlling when you were allowed to use the restroom, and yet, you weren’t furious, you weren’t throwing a fit, you were exactly where you wanted to be. No one could take that away from you.
A waiter happened to be passing by when you saw Michael take another drink, thankfully not two.
Your mental celebration was short-lived however, as he only drank around half of it before handing you the glass. You smiled softly, “Ah- No, Thank you.” You looked at him desperately.
Michael’s stare worried you enough, you grabbed the glass and stood with it in your hand. There was no way you were drinking that.
Some time passed when eventually, your ears practically perked up at Michael saying, “Well, it’s been a long night. We should really get going, shouldn’t we hun?”
A plastered smile reached you, “Yes. It was great getting to know you all.”
You squeezed the glass, trying your best not to think about any liquids at all.
You felt Michael’s hand behind your back, guiding you almost out the building. “Finish the drink.” Your head snapped towards him.
“I can’t..” You stuttered.
“Don’t want to be wasteful, do you now?”
You nodded, drinking the glass and setting it down on whatever nearby surface the two of you have passed.
“Good girl.” You faintly heard him say.
⊹ ࣪ ˖꒰ঌ໒꒱.⋆˚࿔
By the time you made it to the backseat of a private van, you were squeezing your legs together like your life depended on it. You focused on your breathing more than anything.
Michael’s hand slid onto your thigh, “How does it feel?”
You looked at him, “Horrible. Michael, you could’ve shown me where the restroom was.”
He chuckled, “Maybe you shouldn’t have spoken to me that way, dear.”
You felt a sharp pain in your bladder, at this point you don’t know how long you’ve been holding it for. You gasped and reached your hand in between your legs, holding on for dear life. You shuddered at the motion of his hands rubbing circles into your thigh.
“Wanna let go so bad, don’t you?”
“No- No I don’t! I really…” You breathed out, tilting your head backwards, “Don’t.”
Michael hummed, a smile on his face.
“Been holdin’ this in for me, such a good girl, aren’t ya? All this just for me...”
You nodded quickly. “Just for you.”
“Repeat it.” The nice tone he had earlier today was completely gone.
“I’m good- I’m a good girl, please Mike, I need to get out of here.”
Michael grabbed your jaw, turning you towards him, he pressed a kiss against your lips. “Little more baby.”
He grabbed your hand that was pressing between your legs, sliding it out. Michael replaced it with his own. You pressed into it, grabbing onto his arm.
It felt like an eternity when the both of you sat there, until finally you arrived. You got out of the car, stumbling around in your heels and into the hotel elevator, Michael following closely behind.
You were wiggling around and internally you hated Michael for ever putting you in this position.
When you heard the satisfying ding, it was almost better than going to the restroom yourself. You stumbled out quickly, Michael opening the door with the given keycard.
“Mike, hurry.”
The door opened, but he stepped in front of it.
“Michael. Jackson. Let me in that room, right. Now. Please, baby please.” There were almost tears in your eyes as you begged.
A laugh escaped him, “You’re gonna do something for me before you go.”
“Michael- god, please, I’m sorry.” You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for anymore, your brain was clouded in the need to go to the restroom.
“You sound so pretty begging.” He grabbed your wrist and opened the door, leading you into the bedroom. Michael sat down on the bed, you were about to follow before he cut you off. “Knees.”
“Michael.” You practically cried out.
“You talking back?”
“No. No, No. Never.” You lowered yourself down to your knees directly in front of him.
Michael was already semi-hard, just waiting for you through his slacks. His legs parted, making space for you to crawl between them.
As you did, you felt yourself leak, slightly pausing between each knee you moved forward. Blush crept onto your face, when you finally kneeled between him, you looked up at him.
Michael’s hand reached down, holding your hair up into a ponytail.
“Do what you do best and I’ll let you relieve yourself.”
You furrowed your eyebrows at him. You let out a whimper as you unzipped his slacks, pulling them down to his knees.
Michael let out a groan as you began to palm him through his boxers. “You’re sick, y’know that?” You mumbled.
“You like it just as much as I do.”
You scoffed, pulling his boxers down without a warning. You planted a kiss along his cock, slightly nudging his balls with your left hand, your right squeezing your own heat out of fear of leaking but also being incredibly turned on.
Michael licked his lips, looking down and watching what you did closely. His hand was closed tight around your hair, the other flat against the bed.
Your left hand moved to his shaft stroking at a slow pace. Your kisses came around to the tip, planting almost loving kisses where pre-cum built up.
Quiet moans escaped the man above you, which only excited you more and more. You felt arousal from what felt like your toes all the way up to your head.
You began licking from tip all the way down to the base of his shaft, planting wet kisses and sucking softly every few seconds. Eventually, you took his warmth into his mouth.
Michael moaned, feeling the heat of your mouth was consuming. You felt another sharp pain in your bladder, whimpering against his cock. You took him deeper, bobbing your head as much as you could.
You humped your hand, partially for how incredibly horny you were but also because you didn’t want to wet yourself there and then.
You loved how vocal Michael was, his groans and panting only egging you on. Michael added another hand to your head, still holding your hair up. “You’re so good…” He moaned out, almost sounding pathetic.
You looked up at him, he was watching the way your mouth went back and forth on his cock, how your drool was dripping down your chin and onto your chest. Michael’s eyebrows furrowed, that’s when you felt his hips buck into your mouth.
The hand that was stroking him stopped, moving onto his thigh so you could balance. Your thighs began to shake, that’s how badly you needed to go.
“Right there, ‘M so close sweets-” Michael could barely get it out, he began thrusting into your mouth and moving your head with it. You were holding back the urge to gag. Your eyes shut quickly, tears escaping almost immediately, until finally you felt warmth spill in the back of your mouth and down your throat.
You didn’t hesitate to swallow, pulling away immediately. Michael was whimpering, coming down from his high. Meanwhile, you were panting, moaning softly from the pressure you felt in your bladder plus the arousal you felt.
You dropped your head onto his thigh, not caring how disgusting you looked and felt in that moment. Your makeup was completely fucked up, and tears were still running.
“Michael, I really need to use the restroom.” You cried, looking up at him.
His hand slid down to your jaw, caressing it softly. “Let go, here. Right now.”
You shook your head, holding back the urge to sob. Michael was trying his best not to get immediately hard again. He loved the way you looked so broken and desperate.
Michael moved his foot, you felt his shiny shoe under your hand. You took it as a sign to move your hand, which you did. Your arms wrapped around his other leg that your head rested on.
Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, clenching as to not leak on his shoe.
His foot was tapping on your heat, and eventually it dragged up to your bladder, lightly tapping there.
You cried into his thigh, “I don’t want to make a mess.” Your tears were streaming down your face and onto his thigh now.
“I want you to.”
You sobbed, the words sending you over the edge. A steady stream escaped you. “I’m sorry-” you said brokenly, not even attempting to stop the stream.
A satisfied smile was on his face while you hid your face in his thigh. Whimpers were leaving your mouth, it felt so good to finally let go, and it was as close as you’ll get to an orgasm tonight.
You felt warmth drip down your thighs and pooling at your knees. When you finally stopped, you felt disgusting, sobbing into him.
Michael lifted you up, setting you on the bed. You were a mess, completely, wet with all the wrong liquids. He stood up, stepping away from the now pool of warmth on the floor. Michael adjusted his pants and boxers, pulling them up. He undressed you with care, not saying a single word.
It wasn’t sexual, it was more like care. He dragged your panties down and shifted you out of your dress. You were looking at him with tears still streaming down your face.
“ ‘M so sorry, I ruined the panties-” you hiccuped, “the dress..”
He shook his head with a smile, “My messy doll.” He tossed the clothes onto the floor, taking off your heels gently and setting them down. “Let me bathe you.”
You nodded slowly and sniffled. Michael picked you up and set you on the hotel counter, starting a hot bath.
While the bath was filling, he kissed you. You grabbed his jaw and forced him closer, “I love you.” You mumbled into his mouth.
“I love you more.” He smiled into the kiss.
You pulled away, smiling softly, feeling all the dried tears on your face. “You’re disgusting… and I kinda love it..”
“You’re disgusting too. And I love it.” Michael planted another kiss onto your lips.
synopsis: It's 2008 & Michael decides to take you to his friend's birthday party. After the both of you get served drink after drink, Michael decides it's the best time to socialize when you're in desperate need to use the restroom. Little did you know, he liked seeing the struggle, and you discover something about yourself as well.
warnings: established relationship, bladder control, dom!mike, age gap (30 & 49), no p in v, oral (m receiving), exhibitionism (if you squint), drunk sexual content, brat taming, light dacryphilia, pure filth, shoe humping for like one second, implied aftercare, dni if this isn't your thing
wc: 3.1k
Michael was invited to an event for his friend, and of course he couldn’t be more excited to show off his beautiful doll. You were dressed head to toe with everything he had bought for you, down to your panties.
“Mikey, do you love it?” You smiled, posing in front of him as he sat on the bed in front of you.
Michael looked at you starstruck, that’s always how he looked at you. “I more than love it.”
You giggled softly, cutting yourself off as you leaned down to kiss him, humming into his mouth. “Thank you for this baby.”
He grabbed ahold of your waist with a hand, making sure you kept standing between his legs. “No, thank you for coming with me. Y’know I wouldn’t be able to do this without you.”
“Aww come on- you don’t have to say that…”
“No, it’s true.” Michael moved his hand from your waist, instead grabbing your hands. He looked up into your eyes, “I would lose my mind without you at these events. Now, don’t be modest and repeat what I said.”
You felt his thumbs press circles into the top of your hands. An embarrassed smile reached your face, “You wouldn’t be able to go to these events without me.”
“That’s right my dear. Thank you.”
“Of course Mikey.” You finally gave in.
He pulled his hands away, “Now, we should probably get going, huh?”
You nodded with a smile.
⊹ ࣪ ˖꒰ঌ໒꒱.⋆˚࿔
You and Michael had arrived through a back private entrance, enjoying the party from a back room with about two dozen other people. Michael would be mobbed if he stayed in the main room with the rest of his friend’s mutuals.
At first, you guys were sitting on a couch, you were sitting next to him and multiple people you didn’t recognize were around the couch as well.
“Would you two like some drinks?” The host of the party asked.
You looked over at Michael for what felt like permission, even though he lets you do anything, it’s a habit you couldn’t quit.
He laughed quietly in disbelief at you, “Yea, we’ll take two drinks. Thank you, Christian. Don’t bother yourself with us, go enjoy yourself, ‘kay?”
“Don’t you worry man.” He signaled a waiter to walk over, “Make sure they’re taken care of for the rest of the night, alright?”
You smiled gently at the waiter, leaning down to let the both of you grab drinks off his tray. “Thank you.” You spoke.
You and Michael enjoyed your time, joking with everybody that came by and spoke to you guys. After a while the two of you had gotten up and started dancing within the crowd of the private section.
The two of you grooved together, if that’s what you’d like to call it. It was more like you attempting to keep up with him in heels that were killing you.
More drinks had come by, and by the third you’ve gotten while dancing, Michael leaned into your ear, “How many have you had?” He asked lowly.
You mumbled numbers counting under your breath, “Around… ffffive?” You giggled softly.
He hummed, bringing you closer, “You planning on slowing down?” He questioned giving you a curious look.
“Mmmm… Well I’m not driving. And neither are you so…” You pecked his lips.
“Okay, baby, you go on ahead and keep drinking. I’m done for tonight.”
“Why, Mikey?”
As a waiter walked by you grabbed another glass.
“You’ll see why in a few minutes when it catches up to you.”
“What are you talking-”
“I’ll be back in a second, ‘kay sweets? ‘M doing a favor for Christian.”
You kissed his cheek and pulled away. “Okay…” You huffed, “Don’t take too long.”
As he walked away you finished your drink, dancing gently with the song, careful not to do too much without him on your side.
When another waiter walked by you, you set down the empty glass and that’s when a big projector caught your attention.
You walked backwards, away from the crowd as you watched your man on screen.
Michael was currently wishing his friend a happy birthday on stage, girls screaming his name. You clenched your thighs together at the fact that he was yours and only yours, at how handsome he looked in the dark blue shirt you picked out for him.
You listened to the man you were dating give a speech about his friend, and soon you felt yourself not just clenching from the fact he was turning you on just by the way he spoke in front of people who admired him but also because you felt a familiar feeling in your bladder.
You tried your best to ignore the tingling feeling building up quickly, crossing your legs while standing. You rocked back and forth softly, hoping nobody could tell how badly you had to go.
As Michael’s speech came to an end, you waited patiently for him to come back stage, and after a while he did. A smile reached your face as you watched him say thank you to the surrounding bodyguards.
As he walked up to you, you opened your arms. Michael gladly accepted your hug. “You looked so good up there, Mikey..” You mumbled, your words beginning to slur. You quickly felt the alcohol you had drank earlier catch up to you.
“Thank you dear, missed me?”
You looked up at him, your arms wrapped around his neck. You nodded softly, “Mikey, I need to go..” His head tilted, a fake confusion appeared on his face, “D’ya know where’s the restroom..?”
Michael’s hands slid down to your waist, backing you up to the closest wall. His hand slid down your dress, you bit your lip, looking down to follow his hand.
His hand pressed softly against your bladder, causing a quiet whimper to escape. “Mike, stop..” You slurred, sounding defeated. You squeezed your thighs together.
“Ya feel that?”
You nodded quickly, “God… yes…” you breathed out, inhaling shakily as he pressed harder.
Michael’s hand moved lower, slipping under your dress and feeling your heat through your underwear. Your hands gripped his shoulders tight.
Embarrassingly, your hips bucked into his hand almost immediately.
He hummed in amusement. You could feel your heart pounding out of your chest, there was music and chatter all around you, people who could easily look over and see the Michael Jackson with his hand under your dress. Yet, it turned you on more and more.
“Michael-” his lips planted onto yours. One of your hands slid onto the back of his head, pulling him impossibly closer. It was messy, teeth clashing, tongues clashing, and the alcohol in you wasn’t making it any easier.
His free hand slid to your bladder, pressing down gently. You moaned into his mouth, the pressure of his hand and the soft circles he was making against your clit became too much and fast.
You pushed him away, gasping for air. You shoved his arms away, “Michael, not here.” You were panting, fixing your dress.
Michael had a smirk on his face, you looked at him flushed and embarrassed. Soon that turned into annoyance. “What were you thinking? Just fucking…” You felt yourself throb, you crossed your legs. “Show me the restroom, please.”
“Oh, that’s how you want to talk to me? Like you weren’t into that just now?”
“No- I’m sorry, I sounded like an asshole, I didn’t mean it.” You tried your best to reassure him.
He looked at you, crossing his arms. “What’d I tell you about swearing?”
“Mike-”
“You can wait.”
“Please.” You sighed, grabbing his arm. He attempted to walk away, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so.
Michael turned to you, “Someone’s gotta teach you a lesson.”
You bit your tongue, thankfully some people finally spotted Michael and began to have a conversation. You followed after him as he led the conversation elsewhere.
You could barely concentrate on what they were saying. All you could focus on was the throbbing from your bladder.
You were about to cross your legs again before Michael looked at you. He raised his eyebrows, ever so slightly shaking his head. You caught it though, of course you did. Almost instantly you stood straight, adjusting your fake smile.
You saw the corner of his lips turn into a smile, and like clock work he resumed talking to whoever these people were. A picture perfect man controlling when you were allowed to use the restroom, and yet, you weren’t furious, you weren’t throwing a fit, you were exactly where you wanted to be. No one could take that away from you.
A waiter happened to be passing by when you saw Michael take another drink, thankfully not two.
Your mental celebration was short-lived however, as he only drank around half of it before handing you the glass. You smiled softly, “Ah- No, Thank you.” You looked at him desperately.
Michael’s stare worried you enough, you grabbed the glass and stood with it in your hand. There was no way you were drinking that.
Some time passed when eventually, your ears practically perked up at Michael saying, “Well, it’s been a long night. We should really get going, shouldn’t we hun?”
A plastered smile reached you, “Yes. It was great getting to know you all.”
You squeezed the glass, trying your best not to think about any liquids at all.
You felt Michael’s hand behind your back, guiding you almost out the building. “Finish the drink.” Your head snapped towards him.
“I can’t..” You stuttered.
“Don’t want to be wasteful, do you now?”
You nodded, drinking the glass and setting it down on whatever nearby surface the two of you have passed.
“Good girl.” You faintly heard him say.
⊹ ࣪ ˖꒰ঌ໒꒱.⋆˚࿔
By the time you made it to the backseat of a private van, you were squeezing your legs together like your life depended on it. You focused on your breathing more than anything.
Michael’s hand slid onto your thigh, “How does it feel?”
You looked at him, “Horrible. Michael, you could’ve shown me where the restroom was.”
He chuckled, “Maybe you shouldn’t have spoken to me that way, dear.”
You felt a sharp pain in your bladder, at this point you don’t know how long you’ve been holding it for. You gasped and reached your hand in between your legs, holding on for dear life. You shuddered at the motion of his hands rubbing circles into your thigh.
“Wanna let go so bad, don’t you?”
“No- No I don’t! I really…” You breathed out, tilting your head backwards, “Don’t.”
Michael hummed, a smile on his face.
“Been holdin’ this in for me, such a good girl, aren’t ya? All this just for me...”
You nodded quickly. “Just for you.”
“Repeat it.” The nice tone he had earlier today was completely gone.
“I’m good- I’m a good girl, please Mike, I need to get out of here.”
Michael grabbed your jaw, turning you towards him, he pressed a kiss against your lips. “Little more baby.”
He grabbed your hand that was pressing between your legs, sliding it out. Michael replaced it with his own. You pressed into it, grabbing onto his arm.
It felt like an eternity when the both of you sat there, until finally you arrived. You got out of the car, stumbling around in your heels and into the hotel elevator, Michael following closely behind.
You were wiggling around and internally you hated Michael for ever putting you in this position.
When you heard the satisfying ding, it was almost better than going to the restroom yourself. You stumbled out quickly, Michael opening the door with the given keycard.
“Mike, hurry.”
The door opened, but he stepped in front of it.
“Michael. Jackson. Let me in that room, right. Now. Please, baby please.” There were almost tears in your eyes as you begged.
A laugh escaped him, “You’re gonna do something for me before you go.”
“Michael- god, please, I’m sorry.” You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for anymore, your brain was clouded in the need to go to the restroom.
“You sound so pretty begging.” He grabbed your wrist and opened the door, leading you into the bedroom. Michael sat down on the bed, you were about to follow before he cut you off. “Knees.”
“Michael.” You practically cried out.
“You talking back?”
“No. No, No. Never.” You lowered yourself down to your knees directly in front of him.
Michael was already semi-hard, just waiting for you through his slacks. His legs parted, making space for you to crawl between them.
As you did, you felt yourself leak, slightly pausing between each knee you moved forward. Blush crept onto your face, when you finally kneeled between him, you looked up at him.
Michael’s hand reached down, holding your hair up into a ponytail.
“Do what you do best and I’ll let you relieve yourself.”
You furrowed your eyebrows at him. You let out a whimper as you unzipped his slacks, pulling them down to his knees.
Michael let out a groan as you began to palm him through his boxers. “You’re sick, y’know that?” You mumbled.
“You like it just as much as I do.”
You scoffed, pulling his boxers down without a warning. You planted a kiss along his cock, slightly nudging his balls with your left hand, your right squeezing your own heat out of fear of leaking but also being incredibly turned on.
Michael licked his lips, looking down and watching what you did closely. His hand was closed tight around your hair, the other flat against the bed.
Your left hand moved to his shaft stroking at a slow pace. Your kisses came around to the tip, planting almost loving kisses where pre-cum built up.
Quiet moans escaped the man above you, which only excited you more and more. You felt arousal from what felt like your toes all the way up to your head.
You began licking from tip all the way down to the base of his shaft, planting wet kisses and sucking softly every few seconds. Eventually, you took his warmth into his mouth.
Michael moaned, feeling the heat of your mouth was consuming. You felt another sharp pain in your bladder, whimpering against his cock. You took him deeper, bobbing your head as much as you could.
You humped your hand, partially for how incredibly horny you were but also because you didn’t want to wet yourself there and then.
You loved how vocal Michael was, his groans and panting only egging you on. Michael added another hand to your head, still holding your hair up. “You’re so good…” He moaned out, almost sounding pathetic.
You looked up at him, he was watching the way your mouth went back and forth on his cock, how your drool was dripping down your chin and onto your chest. Michael’s eyebrows furrowed, that’s when you felt his hips buck into your mouth.
The hand that was stroking him stopped, moving onto his thigh so you could balance. Your thighs began to shake, that’s how badly you needed to go.
“Right there, ‘M so close sweets-” Michael could barely get it out, he began thrusting into your mouth and moving your head with it. You were holding back the urge to gag. Your eyes shut quickly, tears escaping almost immediately, until finally you felt warmth spill in the back of your mouth and down your throat.
You didn’t hesitate to swallow, pulling away immediately. Michael was whimpering, coming down from his high. Meanwhile, you were panting, moaning softly from the pressure you felt in your bladder plus the arousal you felt.
You dropped your head onto his thigh, not caring how disgusting you looked and felt in that moment. Your makeup was completely fucked up, and tears were still running.
“Michael, I really need to use the restroom.” You cried, looking up at him.
His hand slid down to your jaw, caressing it softly. “Let go, here. Right now.”
You shook your head, holding back the urge to sob. Michael was trying his best not to get immediately hard again. He loved the way you looked so broken and desperate.
Michael moved his foot, you felt his shiny shoe under your hand. You took it as a sign to move your hand, which you did. Your arms wrapped around his other leg that your head rested on.
Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration, clenching as to not leak on his shoe.
His foot was tapping on your heat, and eventually it dragged up to your bladder, lightly tapping there.
You cried into his thigh, “I don’t want to make a mess.” Your tears were streaming down your face and onto his thigh now.
“I want you to.”
You sobbed, the words sending you over the edge. A steady stream escaped you. “I’m sorry-” you said brokenly, not even attempting to stop the stream.
A satisfied smile was on his face while you hid your face in his thigh. Whimpers were leaving your mouth, it felt so good to finally let go, and it was as close as you’ll get to an orgasm tonight.
You felt warmth drip down your thighs and pooling at your knees. When you finally stopped, you felt disgusting, sobbing into him.
Michael lifted you up, setting you on the bed. You were a mess, completely, wet with all the wrong liquids. He stood up, stepping away from the now pool of warmth on the floor. Michael adjusted his pants and boxers, pulling them up. He undressed you with care, not saying a single word.
It wasn’t sexual, it was more like care. He dragged your panties down and shifted you out of your dress. You were looking at him with tears still streaming down your face.
“ ‘M so sorry, I ruined the panties-” you hiccuped, “the dress..”
He shook his head with a smile, “My messy doll.” He tossed the clothes onto the floor, taking off your heels gently and setting them down. “Let me bathe you.”
You nodded slowly and sniffled. Michael picked you up and set you on the hotel counter, starting a hot bath.
While the bath was filling, he kissed you. You grabbed his jaw and forced him closer, “I love you.” You mumbled into his mouth.
“I love you more.” He smiled into the kiss.
You pulled away, smiling softly, feeling all the dried tears on your face. “You’re disgusting… and I kinda love it..”
“You’re disgusting too. And I love it.” Michael planted another kiss onto your lips.
thriller!michael sitting on the edge of the couch, one hand gripping the cushions as the other came to rest on the side of your plushy cheek.
the slick sounds coming from the room could be mistaken as no other than giving thriller!michael head.. he was glad the house was empty beside the two of you. michael had invited you over at first to just watch a movie while the family was out, so innocently naive.
it started off simple at first, you’d gotten bored from the movie and began to pepper thriller!michael with small, little kisses against his cheek and his neck.
he squirmed and told you he was trying to watch the movie, but you weren’t having it. you kept going, small kisses peppering down his neck while your hand came to rest over his dick.
you could feel him tense at the sudden touch.
you pressed down, the kisses against his neck becoming more heated. “ah..please.” he whispered. you pulled back, watching him with a smile on your face, “please what michael?” you teased. he could only stare as heat poured to his cheeks.
next thing you knew, you begged to give him some pleasure, he’d told you that it wasn’t fair for you to do it if he hadn’t done anything and you told him not to worry, that you just wanted to make him “feel good.”
now, as he sat against the edge of his family’s couch, he watched the drool drip down your wrist as you held him in one hand, your mouth moving down the rest of his length. “oh baby— it feels so good.” he choked out.
you pulled back with a pop! licking your lips. “yeah? does it feel good mikey?” you said with a smile, all he could do was nod.
the drool had spread around your mouth and against those plump cheeks that oh, so adored. you gave his tip a small kitty lick before taking it back in, he was so thick that it’d made you go agonizingly slow.
michael’s thumb came to rub against your spit covered cheek as your nose came to his pubic bone. “ah- mama..” he trialed off. your eyes never left his as your hand came up in unison with your mouth. your lips rested against his tip before going back down once more.
his thumb never stopped moving against your cheek, “your cheeks, they’re so pretty.” his voice faltered as you moaned against him.
you batted your eyes, your long lashes coming to rest just against the curve of your cheekbone. he groaned, “i love watching the way they puff up when your full of me. so good.” his thumb pressed against your cheek.
you squeezed your thighs together, feeling the slick gather at your core.
michael never stopped dotting on how puffy your cheeks where. he loved them. whenever you’d be in the studio, your hand holding your face as you watched him work, he’d come up to you and pinch at your cheeks, telling them that you just looked too cute to resist.
some days, when he’d make you mad, or bailed because he hadn’t finished working yet—he’d whisper sweet words while his fingers rubbed against the smooth skin, never forgetting to dote on them, he’d say things like “you look so pretty when you pout like that. i love how it makes your cheeks look baby.” before kissing you and promising to make it up to you.
you pushed down further, nearly gagging as his length pushed past your throat. you were so full of him you could feel the stretch against the skin of your pudgy cheeks.
his other hand released his grip on the couch, coming to rest at the side of your face. his grip held you there, you were so full, stuffed— tears began to fall. “i’m almost there mama— just, ah, stay right there. right there.” he groaned.
you moaned against him, feeling him jolt at the back of your throat.
his fingers rubbed at the bulge pushing at the soft skin of your cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut before cumming. feeling the warm, salty substance glide down your throat made you slightly choke.
a deep breath came from him before he looked back down. he swore he could come one more time just from the sight of you alone.
tears rolled down your cheeks, your hand that rested against the base of him covered in spit alongside your mouth and cheeks. “okay, okay baby-“ he said before dropping his hands limp by his side.
you slowly slid off of him with another pop! your dry hand came to rub the residue off your mouth before you stood up and sat back next to him. a sigh leaving you as michael grabbed you spit covered hand and wiped it away at his jeans. “did it feel good mikey?” you whispered.
michael’s hands rested against your cheeks, again, before giving you a quick peck. “so good mama. you looked so pretty, with your cheeks stuffed full of me.”
a/n: hi something quick for @amnesia-sc !! i hope this is good enough, i didn’t proofread so sorry if it sucks. hoping that you’ll like it.. some justice somewhat done for us chubby cheeked girls! if it’s not good uhm, illjustneverwriteagain.
summary: you decide to pull a fun little prank on your family by giving elaborate details on how you expect everyone to react if you were to suddenly die.
themes: family fluff, birdie being dramatic as hell, family is just over it lol
author's note: from this request. with inspiration from this tik tok. hope you like it, i had fun hahahaha, the tik tok had me dying!
summary: where michael takes y/n and everything she does for him for granted until it’s too late
a/n: this is inspired by ‘unethical’ by faouzia, one of my favourite songs! if you don’t know her yet, i highly recommend checking her out <3 this will definitely not be the last fic based on one of her songs hihi. this is the longest fic i’ve ever written and i’m insanely proud of it so please give it some love (but proceed with caution!) <3
warnings: angst, love bombing (kinda), toxic relationship, michael being toxic (he doesn’t realize he is), emotional extortion, jealousy, gaslighting, reader not standing up for herself, unhealthy co-dependency, mentions of painkillers, substance abuse, mentions of pregnancy, slightly suggestive content, mentions of suicide, mentions of cheating (he kisses another woman)
“So, after many years away, you’re finally back on tour. What drove you to go back on stage?”, the interviewer asks with interest, wearing a smile that looks very forced. Later, she will undoubtedly twist your words, place them in a different context, and use them against you.
You have years of experience with this, so you put on your best smile, too. “Where should I start?”
1984
You first met Michael at the 1984 Grammy Awards. Your paths crossed for the first time on the very night he won a staggering eight awards. Of course, you knew who he was. Who didn’t back then? Thriller was that album. Everyone was talking about it. Michael Jackson was everywhere: on the radio, on televisions, on magazine covers. It felt almost surreal to be in a room with so many famous people – David Bowie, Lionel Richie, Bob Dylan, Stevie Wonder, to name a few. As a singer yourself, you had been invited because you were nominated for Best Pop Vocal Performance, Female. It was your first song to hit the charts so being nominated felt impossible to believe.
You didn’t win the award that day, which was hardly surprising at the time, given that you were still relatively unknown. Besides, everyone around you kept insisting that this was only the beginning. You would win next year, they said. And the year after that. You were destined for greatness. Destined to become a superstar.
And that might well have happened, had you not met Michael Jackson that night.
You vividly remember seeing him up there on stage, accepting one award after another, and wondering how a person could possibly be so incredible. Not only did he possess immense talent and stunning good looks, but everyone seemed to adore him. You had heard countless stories about how kind he was, how gentle, how thoughtful. You found yourself hoping he might look your way. Maybe, if you were incredibly lucky, you might even get the chance to speak to him.
But, in all honesty, why would he? He was Michael Jackson. And you were, well, you. Besides, he was there with Brooke Shields. Why would he have eyes for anyone else?
If you could have looked inside his mind that night, you would have known that he found you incredible, too. Although, to be fair, he hadn’t noticed you right away. He was still riding the high of the evening, eight Grammys, an overwhelming amount of attention, and more adrenaline than he knew what to do with. It wasn’t until the afterparty that his eyes finally found you.
You, on the other hand, had been considering going home almost from the moment you arrived. You didn’t feel entirely at ease. You were still trying to come to terms with the sudden attention that came with having a hit song and you hadn’t yet made many connections within the industry. Most of your conversations that evening had barely gone beyond a handful of polite comments like “Nice dress” or “I’m sure you’ll win next year”. You didn’t really mind. If anything, it allowed you to observe everyone from a safe distance.
That safe distance meant standing outside to ‘catch some air’, when, in reality, you simply wanted to escape the awkwardness of standing around alone while pretending you weren’t standing around alone. Not even your producer was with you. He had vanished into the crowd somewhere nearly two hours ago.
So there you were, all alone, outside, leaned against a stone railing, your hands resting loosely in front of you as you tilted your head back and gazed up at the night sky, admiring the beauty of the thousands of stars.
You only tore your gaze away from the sky when you heard a sudden sound beside you, similar to a startled gasp. You flinched, having expected to be completely alone outside. When you turned around, you found none other than Michael Jackson standing a few feet away. For a moment, you simply stared.
His jacket glittered in the light and his white teeth almost blinded you as he looked at you with such a radiant but slightly awkward smile. His eyes sparkled, rivalling the crystals scattered across his jacket. His dark curls framed his face like that of a beautiful statue, a faint lipstick mark adorning his jawline. He stood before you like a painting, leaving you entirely and utterly breathless.
“Oops. Sorry. I didn’t realize this spot was already taken”, he sheepishly admitted and was already about to head back inside, but you quickly stopped him.
“No, no, don’t worry”, you smiled, suddenly worried that you might have sounded too eager. “Trust me, there is room for two people avoiding socializing.”
Michael’s face shifted into an expression of something akin to gratitude that you weren’t sending him back inside. He offered a bow of thanks, as if this outdoor area belonged to you. His eyes travelled over your entire body then – from your face, beautifully accentuated by makeup, down the fabric of the glittering dress hugging your figure, to the high heels adorning your feet. That appraising, intent gaze of his stayed with you forever; he had looked at you as if you were a goddess who had descended from the stars and had somehow chosen to stand beside him. And he wanted to make it his future task to worship you like one.
Your cheeks quickly flushed as you felt his eyes on you.
“You look beautiful.” Those words did nothing to help cease the colour in your cheeks. Quite the opposite. You suddenly felt so hot that you hid your face behind your hand, overcome by embarrassment.
Michael was incredibly nervous when he spoke to you — or at least, that’s what he would always tell you years later. He would confess that he’d almost lost his nerve and went back inside but decided he had to seize the opportunity, because he had felt a connection between the two of you from the very beginning.
“Do you really think so?”, you asked, almost unsure. After all, you were still so young and naive, and you would have loved nothing more than to bottle up that compliment and keep it somewhere safe, because it meant far more to you than he could possibly know.
That evening, up until that point, you had felt invisible. Almost everyone in the auditorium had ignored you. Because you lacked fame. Because you weren’t a big star yet. Because associating with you simply made no sense, there was no profit to be gained from associating with you. Because you hadn’t won an award.
Unlike Michael, who had won so many that he couldn’t keep up with the conversations surrounding him. He longed for conversations that went deeper than “Thriller is amazing”, “When are we collaborating?” or “What’s your secret?”. He was, quite frankly, overwhelmed, but played along because he knew he was supposed to. That was why he had to slip outside, he simply couldn’t stand it in there anymore. His family was having a wonderful time and seeing them celebrate with him made his heart swell. Michael was overjoyed by the many awards he had won, but deep down, he was already worrying about how to top this and take home nine or ten awards next time.
And so, for vastly different reasons, two people found themselves in this extraordinary place on a day that — as you would later realize — was both memorable and fateful, feeling a spark between them that would grow into a passionate flame over the years to come.
“I think you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, Y/N”, he told you as he stood right next to you by the railing, a soft smile on his lips. A flush immediately spread across your face. He knows my name was what went through your head first before you could even register his compliment.
“You.. you know my name?”, you asked, almost in disbelief. A shy laugh escaped him as he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Of course I do. You were nominated”, he smiled, which turned almost bashful, as though he were embarrassed to admit he’d been paying attention. How couldn’t he? You were breathtaking.
“And you remembered it?”, you couldn’t help asking, thinking of all the people inside the auditorium who definitely didn’t remember. He looked at you with genuine confusion, as if he couldn’t understand why that surprised you.
“Shouldn’t I?”
You couldn’t help but laugh at that and Michael thought he wanted to bottle it up and listen to it forever, reminding himself that there were still beautiful things in the world. His words sounded so genuine, as if it were a given that he had remembered your name. The fact that he was speaking to you at all bordered on a miracle. All evening, you had been led to believe – subtly, but unmistakably – that you didn’t belong here or among this crowd. Michael Jackson, however, clearly saw things quite differently. He seemed completely unaware of the effect his words had on you. His gaze drifted back toward the city, elbows resting lightly against the railing.
“You looked.. lonely out here”, he admitted after another moment, not wanting to impose because he damn well knew how that felt like. For a second, embarrassment crept back into your expression.
“I just..”, he paused, searching for the right words, his voice so gentle it almost hurt. “You looked like you wished someone would talk to you.”
“You’ve seen right through me”, you said, your eyes falling to the sparkling lights above. A comfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the applause that erupted inside, muffled by the distance. Neither of you turned around.
“I don’t really belong in there”, you confessed, barely above a whisper.
“Me neither”, Michael smiled sadly, causing you to look up at him.
“You?”, you asked, unable to hide your surprise. “But you’re Michael Jackson. Everyone in there loves you.”
“They love the name Michael Jackson”, he let out accompanied by a humourless chuckle, shaking his head. “They don’t really know me.”
The way he said it made you pause because there was not even a hint of arrogance or bitterness in his voice, just exhaustion and sadness. The way he looked down at his hands for a brief moment as if he regretted saying this made your heart ache for a man you knew for only a few minutes. For the person behind the name. Behind the sequins and the awards and the impossible expectations.
Michael wanted to tell you so much more because you had that something in your eyes that made him feel safe, that made him feel seen and like he could tell you everything. He wanted to tell you how exhausting it all was, how everyone wanted something from him, how, despite everything he’d achieved that night, a part of him was already terrified that it wouldn’t be enough.
The words rose to his throat. He swallowed his last thoughts before they could leave his lips, too scared to utter them. Instead, he replaced them with a small smile as he said: “I suppose that’s why I came out here.”
You still studied him quietly. Until that moment, Michael Jackson had been a figure larger than life. When he had won all those awards, standing on that stage, he had seemed like someone who was untouchable. Standing beside you now, he suddenly seemed human. Just a twenty-five-year-old man carrying more expectations than anyone should.
“You can talk to me”, you offered softly. The words slipped out before you had time to question them, regretting them immediately. Why would he even want that? You were nobody to him. You were already preparing to take the words back when Michael turned toward you, simply looking at you like you’d hung the moon, like you’d just offered him something immensely precious.
“I’d like that”, he murmured with a small smile.
And so you talked, for hours upon hours. You talked until most of the guests had left the party or moved on to a less formal setting. When the night eventually grew colder, Michael noticed you shivering. Without saying a word, he slipped off his ridiculously expensive jacket and draped it over your shoulders, not batting an eye. “You’ll catch a cold.”
Sadly, the night had to end at some point, even though neither of you wanted to part ways. You had connected on a level unlike anything you’d ever experienced before.
“When will I see you again?”, Michael asked as you slowly made your way toward the exit. Your heart leapt, as you had assumed this was just a one-time thing, one extraordinary night, that he would go back to his life and you to yours. Michael was looking at you expectantly, his expression suddenly a little nervous again. You quickly grabbed a napkin from a nearby table, scribbled down your number, and tucked it into his sash after handing back his jacket.
“Call me”, you said with a smile, placing a soft kiss on his cheek to leave another lipstick mark there before reluctantly letting go of his hand. Michael watched you leave, knowing your lives would be intertwined from now on.
And Michael did call, in the early morning hours when you had returned to your hotel room and beginning to drift off. He wanted to continue your conversation. No, he needed to continue your conversation, as if he would suffocate otherwise.
From that day on, you wouldn’t spend a single day apart for quite some time.
The next day, you met up near the observatory, where you sat in his car for hours, enjoying the cool summer breeze. With every conversation, every laugh, every lingering glance, you found yourself falling a little deeper. Judging by the way Michael looked at you, he was doing the same.
The following day, he took you to dinner at an exclusive restaurant, where you were seated away from the other guests. After all, he was still Michael Jackson. Privacy was a luxury he couldn’t offer. The day after that, he invited you to his home for the first time. Which wasn’t supposed to be a family introduction, but turned into one nevertheless. When you arrived, Katherine happened to be outside, directing a few workers as they carried and stacked heavy sacks in the yard. She loved you from the very first moment and you spent a wonderful day at Hayvenhurst, talking, eating, laughing.
It felt very ordinary, like you were simply two young people falling in love.
Since you weren’t based in California, living in New York instead, and had only flown out for the awards ceremony, your time together was slowly coming to an end after a whole month of spending every single day with him. At least, that was the case until the final morning of your trip to Los Angeles.
You were rudely awakened by a knock on your hotel room door. Groggy and confused, you stumbled out of bed and made your way toward the door. When you opened it, Michael was standing there, dressed in dark clothing, sunglasses covering his eyes and a cap pulled low over his curls in an attempt to avoid being recognized. He looked slightly out of breath. And nervous.
“Stay with me”, were the first words he said as you opened the door.
“W-What?”, you stammered, not fully awake yet, stepping aside to let him in. He immediately tossed his sunglasses and cap onto your bed and wrapped his arms around your elbows.
“Stay with me. At Hayvenhurst”, he said again, this time with even more intensity.
“B-But Michael..” You were completely taken aback and overwhelmed to say the least.
“No”, he interrupted immediately, brushing his hand across your cheek before cupping it. “You can’t leave.”
“Michael, I have to go back to New York. I have to get back to the studio and work on new songs”, you said, offering a pained smile, because leaving him was hard for you, too. The last few weeks had been the best of your life and you didn’t want it to end. It had felt like a dream. Michael had felt like a dream. But dreams ended eventually, didn’t they? It was time to return to reality.
“You can record them at my place”, he argued instantly, his eyes darting back and forth, almost frantically, as if trying to discern what argument would finally convince you to stay. “You can move in with me at Hayvenhurst. I can give you everything you need.”
“Michael, listen”, you said, gently slipping out of his embrace just enough to catch your breath. You kept hold of his hands though, your fingers intertwined with his. “It’s really sweet of you to say that. But we’ve only known each other for a few weeks.” You let out a nervous laugh, shaking your head in disbelief because you felt so connected to him too. “My life is back in New York, my family, my friends, my team. Besides, you’re leaving for tour soon.”
“Come with me.” His words came so quickly that they almost overlapped with your own.
You blinked. “What?”
“Come with me on tour.” His fingers instinctively tightened around yours, afraid you might pull away completely. “I don’t care what my family says. You can come.”
“You can’t just invite someone you’ve known for a month to travel around the country with you”, you told him, a stunned laugh escaping you.
“Why not?” His earnest expression made it impossible to laugh at him. He stepped closer again, carefully, giving you every opportunity to move away if you wanted to. You didn’t. Because you understood. You understood exactly what he was feeling. You felt it, too. Every second with him was exciting, thrilling, intoxicating. The thought of no longer being able to be with him made your heart ache.
“I can’t explain what you do to me”, he said quietly. “But you make me happy. When I’m with you, I don’t feel like Michael Jackson. I just feel like.. me, Michael.”
The sincerity in his voice tugged painfully at your heart. You searched his face as his eyes met yours, wondering if he truly meant it. If he really felt the same as you. Because how was that even possible? How could you have known someone for barely a month and already feel as though losing him would mean losing a part of yourself?
“You’ve just had the biggest night of your career. Everything is exciting and overwhelming”, you told him, trying to find a reason why both of you felt this way so suddenly towards each other. Because you couldn’t wrap your head around the intensity of emotions you felt for him. This couldn’t last longer, that would be silly. Later that night, you would realize that you were trying to lie to yourself. Maybe you did it for self-protection, you couldn’t tell. “Maybe I was just there at the right place, right time. So, I’m convenient.”
“What? No!”, Michael instantly barges in, his expression falling. “That couldn’t be farther away from what you are to me.”
The confession stole the air from your lungs. You were caught between the urge to run away and the urge to throw yourself into his arms. He brushed his thumb across your knuckles.
“I know I sound crazy”, Michael chuckles slightly, tipping back his head for a second. “But I’ve spent my whole life following what others wanted me to do. For once, I just want to listen to my heart.”
“And what is it telling you?”
An impossibly gentle smile spread across his face then, your eyes filling with affection at his words.
“I think.. I think I’m falling in love with you.”
“You have never been on tour before, have you?”, the interviewer asks you after jotting down your previous answer on her notepad. Or whatever it is she’s jotting down there, because it certainly won’t be your answer. At least not the way you just gave it.
“No. I haven’t.”
1984
The Victory Tour was a resounding success. Although you were initially afraid, you ended up having the time of your life. You travelled across America by Michael’s side, waking up in a different city every few days, discovering new places, meeting new people, and trying new foods you’d never even heard of before. Aside from kissing you, Michael’s favourite thing to do with you was go shopping. He bought you everything your heart desired and dressed you in the most beautiful clothes, so that you could stand by his side in public without being overshadowed by him.
Most importantly though, you saw Michael and his brothers perform on stage every single day. You got to witness magic being created, night after night. Fifty-five shows. Always by his side: in bed together in the morning, backstage during rehearsals and concerts, and back in bed together at night.
Your relationship with Michael blossomed into something truly beautiful. After he had convinced you to join the tour continue working on your own music while you travelled, you simply couldn’t bring yourself to say no. Looking back, you were glad you hadn’t. The tour gave you the opportunity to discover countless sides of him. You saw him exhausted, excited, frustrated, angry, sad.
And you loved every version of him, even the more difficult ones.
Perhaps that was why, despite his family’s initial reservations about your constant presence, they eventually began to understand why Michael wanted you there. His brothers and especially his father hadn’t exactly been thrilled when you started travelling with them. To them, the tour was business. Michael was the star. Anything that might distract him was a potential problem. But eventually, even they had to admit what you were doing for him. They realized that you were Michael’s anchor and a source of inspiration that drove him to greatness. Had you not been there every night to catch him when he collapsed into bed, utterly exhausted, or to comfort him after an argument or to cheer him up when he wasn’t satisfied with his performance, the tour would never have been what it ultimately was. A success.
It was also during this tour that you noticed something that worried you. Michael had a problem with coming to rest and, most importantly, sleep. He didn’t tell you outright, but when you sleep next to someone night after night, you eventually notice when they’re tossing and turning constantly, unable to fall asleep. Sometimes he took pills to help him sleep, but that scared you. He was already taking medication for pain he was experiencing after the Pepsi accident and the thought of him adding sleeping medication on top of that made your stomach twist.
When you asked Marlon about it, wondering if this was normal and if his brothers all struggled with sleep in the same way, he said no. He didn’t even know what you were talking about at first. Michael had kept it a secret and that led to your first real argument. Though you couldn’t really call it an argument since Michael simply withdrew into himself and punished you with the silent treatment. This happened just one day before the tour took you to New York, where you had finally planned to officially introduce him to your family as your boyfriend, the man you’d fallen hopelessly in love with.
Michael was a good actor. So when you arrived at your family’s home, he put on a smile and played the part perfectly. They adored him, welcoming him into the family with open arms. They knew you were in good hands and saw how happy you were with him, even though, on that specific day, you weren’t happy at all. Because while everyone else was laughing and talking, you were painfully aware that Michael still hadn’t properly spoken to you. When you returned to the hotel that evening, nothing had changed.
Eventually, though, you managed to get through to him after apologizing. You knew it had been wrong to go to his brother about his personal problems, but you had only wanted the best for him and to help him. You didn’t believe your concern had been wrong. You were just scared. After all, you couldn’t have known he was keeping it a secret. Michael accepted your apology since he hated nothing more than not being able to speak with you. As a result, neither of you slept that night, spending hours talking about everything.
You spent the following nights much the same way: chatting about all your dreams and fears and weaving imaginative stories together. More often than not, Michael was the first to fall asleep. His sentences would trail off and you’d realize he was breathing deeply against your shoulder, completely unaware that he’d finally drifted off. Without any pills.
You didn’t see him take them again for a while after that because you were always there to help him fall asleep, to quiet his mind. You were always there when he needed you.
He began associating you with peace and safety. Home. As long as he had you, he didn’t need anyone else.
Because you missed singing and being on stage yourself, Michael found little ways to give that part of you back. During rehearsal breaks, he would sometimes pull you onto the stage and let you sing. Sometimes you performed songs you already knew. Other times, you simply experimented, together. You would hum a melody, change a line, try a different harmony, and suddenly stop because you’d thought of something, running to write it down somewhere.
On the tour bus, you worked on songs for Michael and, occasionally, for yourself. He had advised you to fire your producer, since the two of you would be handling that yourselves from then on. It also played a part that the producer had once called you in the middle of the night (due to the time difference), shouted at you, and asked for new songs as well as a date. Michael had been furious. He couldn’t stand him and was relieved when you listened to his advice and cut ties with the man.
After months on the road, the Victory Tour finally came to an end. Michael’s final show with his brothers had been accompanied by his public announcement that this would be the Jackson 5’s final tour, bringing an emotional end to an era. Returning to Hayvenhurst should have felt like coming home, but it felt strangely unfamiliar. You hadn’t expected the crowds at the estate to be even larger than those outside the hotels during the tour, but they were. And they were not just screaming for Michael anymore, but for you, too.
At some point during those months on the road, the press had inevitably caught wind of Michael’s mysterious companion and had an absolute field day with the story. Who were you? Were you just friends? How long had you been together? Rumour after rumour appeared and suddenly you were being inundated with interview requests. You declined every single one, following Michael’s advice. Michael had advised you not to speak to the press about your relationship, and, truthfully, you didn’t need much convincing. You had no desire to sit in front of a camera and discuss Michael when he wasn’t sitting beside you. Whatever existed between you belonged to the two of you. Nobody else needed access to it.
At that point, there was little more than kissing between you.
Michael was, in many ways, an old-fashioned romantic. He wanted everything to feel meaningful and after the emotional and physical exhaustion of the tour, neither of you had been in any particular hurry. He was so stressed that the thought simply didn’t cross either of your minds. But one day, when his family was out of the house, you walked into the garden without knowing what awaited you. You stopped dead in your tracks when you saw a small table stood beneath the open sky, two chairs positioned opposite one another, with thousands of roses surrounding it. Michael was standing there in a suit, waiting for you, bouquet in hand. That was when you knew you had found the right man.
Your little date was everything you could have wished for. You ate together, laughed together, and, as always, talked for hours. You talked until the food had gone cold and the sun had begun to disappear. Eventually, Michael stood up and led you to his room, where his bed was covered in rose petals.
That evening, he made love to you for the first time. You were his first time ever and to you it felt like he was yours, too. You have never felt so cherished and desired in your life. You were so completely captivated by him that you couldn’t have been happier, with all the little troubles of the tour forgotten. Everything felt perfect, like a dream.
Michael quite literally became your entire world.
It was only years later that you realized that that wasn’t healthy at all.
“Why did you decide against pursuing your career as a singer back then?”, the interviewer asks with a carefully practiced smile. She almost certainly already has an answer in mind that she wants to hear. If she doesn’t get it, she’ll simply twist your words to make them fit her narrative.
“There were more important things in my life”, you explain calmly. “I simply wasn’t ready for the spotlight.”
You kept it matter-of-factly and polite. You’ve played this scenario out so many times that putting on the mask comes easily now. You know exactly how much to give these leeches and, more importantly, how much to keep for yourself.
“Looking back, do you ever wonder what might have happened if you hadn’t stepped away from music?”, she asks almost immediately, apparently not satisfied with your answer. “You were incredibly successful, with your first song immediately receiving a nomination.”
“Of course I wonder”, you offer her a small smile. “I think everyone does. You always wonder about the roads you didn’t take.”
It’s vague, but you don’t want to give her more since you’d really rather move on. You don’t quite understand why she’s so interested in a decision you made decades ago, especially when you’re standing here now, releasing music again.
“But you made that decision yourself?”, she follows up and you’re not entirely sure what she wants to hear from you as you study her expression that gives away nothing.
“Yes.”
“Nobody else influenced you?”
A beat.
“No.”
1985
“I don’t want you to take the deal”, Michael’s voice cut through the room and the giddy smile on your face disappeared instantly. You nearly dropped the letter in your hand, caught off guard by his words. The letter contained an offer for a recording contract with the same label Michael was signed to. You could hardly believe it when you’d first opened the letter. After everything – the silence, the songs you’d written and never released, the part of yourself you’d put away – it felt like someone had finally opened a door you’d been staring at for years. It could kickstart your career again and the awards would come raining down on you, just as everyone had predicted last year.
You had written so many songs since then, both for Michael and for yourself. Dozens of melodies and lyrics were sitting in notebooks, tucked away in drawers and forgotten on scraps of paper. Songs that could finally see the light of day.
“W-What?”, you asked uncertainly, hoping you had simply misheard.
“I don’t think you should accept the deal.”
“Why not?”
“Look at me”, he said, stepping closer as he cupped your face in his hands, different colours on his skin that only you were allowed to see. “Don’t you see how much pressure they put me under? Don’t you see what they’ve done to me?”
His words made you pause because you did see it. You’d watched it happen right in front of your eyes. Thriller had become a phenomenon beyond anything anyone had expected and with that success came expectations that seemed impossible to satisfy. He was constantly under pressure to release an even better album with even better vocals and even better performances. You watched how he succumbed to the task completely, how it sometimes broke him and you had to put him back together. All the stress, all the pain, all the sleepless nights, it was all because of his career.
“I don’t want you to go through the same thing”, he told you genuinely, his thumb caressing your cheek as he looked deep into your eyes. “I couldn’t bear to see you like that. I need you to be there for me when it gets too much. It wouldn’t work if we’re both falling apart.”
You remember vividly how his words got into your head because yes, you didn’t want that for yourself. You wanted to write your songs and sing them to the world, but at what cost? You already had so much on your shoulders. You were the only one who was there for Michael when he couldn’t sleep, when he was overwhelmed or hurting. How could you risk becoming so overwhelmed yourself that you couldn’t be there for him anymore?
“You don’t like the tabloids. You don’t like the paparazzi”, Michael continues, his voice gentle but insistent. “You always complain about the people around me because you feel like they don’t have my best interest at heart.”
“Because they don’t.”
Even though he chuckled at that, it was true. You didn’t trust the people around Michael as far as you could throw them. They wanted to use him, for fame, for money, for publicity, for their own profit. They wanted his name, not him. You were convinced that only a handful of people truly cared about the man behind the superstar. Namely his mother and you.
The rest of them could go to hell.
Did you really want those same people around yourself? No. You didn’t. You had Michael and that was enough for you. If you weren’t there, there wouldn’t be anyone to protect him from these evil people, from this evil world. They would probably use you, too. You couldn’t let that happen.
Years later, you wondered whether he had really done it all solely for your own well-being, or if there had been some sort of malicious intent to it. Whether he’d genuinely been afraid of seeing you suffer under the same pressure he’d endured. Perhaps he was afraid you might become more famous than him? That you would knock him off his throne and become the Queen of Pop?
You could never know for certain. Maybe there had never been any malicious intent at all. Maybe he really had believed he was saving you from a life that had nearly destroyed him. You believed he loved you too much to watch the industry swallow you whole. No matter what it ultimately was, one thing was certain: He had gotten inside your head that day, stopping you from potentially making a huge mistake.
You would never find out for sure if the mistake was believing him.
“Congratulations on your new album, by the way”, she congratulates you with that fake smile, one you return just as insincere. “What is the album about?”
You can already tell she’s not particularly interested in the answer. Which is a shame, because the album is the entire reason you agreed to this interview after all these years. It’s something you’re genuinely proud of, something you poured your heart and soul into. For once, you would actually love to talk about your work.
“It’s fundamentally about finding your voice again”, you explain and smooth the fabric of your dress over your lap before crossing your legs. “I wanted to explore different emotions. I hope people can take something from it, because I think there’s something in there for everyone. Whether you’ve lost someone, you’re falling in love for the first time, you’re trying to figure out who you are, or you’re simply going through a period of change.. I think there’s a song for all of that on this album.”
This time, your smile is genuine as you think back to the process of creating this album. It was very close to your heart. “It means a lot to me. I’ve put so much of myself into it and I’m incredibly proud of how well it’s been received.”
“Do you speak from personal experience in your songs? I mean, were there relationships in your life that influenced them?”
You hesitate for a moment because you know exactly what she’s getting at, where she’s trying to steer the conversation. But you’re not going to make it easy for her. If she wants to know something, she can ask directly. You’re not going to sit here and hand her little pieces of your private life just because she’s hoping you’ll accidentally let something slip.
“Of course. Quite a few factors go into songwriting, including my own experiences”, you explain, and seeing her quickly jot something down, you hastily add: “That doesn’t mean my songs are a one-to-one reflection of what I’ve actually lived through. There’s a lot of creative freedom involved, too.”
“Let’s talk about ‘Unethical’ for a second”, she almost cuts you off, as if she can’t make sense of your previous answers. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Nothing has really changed in all these years. You watch her flip through her notes as you turn a ring on your finger.
“It’s the main track on the album and such a beautiful but heartbreaking song. How did you come up with it?”
1986
You went everywhere with Michael. And when I say everywhere I mean everywhere. Doctor’s appointments? You were there. Award shows? You were there. Filming his short film for Disney? You were there for every single second of it. You were by his side through almost every public appearance, always dressed beautifully, always smiling, always standing close enough that he could reach for your hand whenever he wanted.
You learned to ignore the nasty comments from fans and the media, simply living in the bliss that defined the relationship between you and Michael at the time. Michael never denied you a single wish and took care of you in every way possible, showering you with affection and gifts and making sure you were always surrounded by beautiful things. For events, he’d buy you the most expensive dresses he could find or have something custom-made specifically for you.
Even when you didn’t particularly like the clothes, you wore them with pride because you didn’t want to hurt Michael. After all, the one time you told him an outfit didn’t suit your style at all, he immediately took it personally, viewing it as a rejection of him. He hadn’t said it outright, but you could see it in his face. So from then on, you let him choose exactly what you would wear in public when you were with him, simply because it made him happy. Wasn’t that what mattered?
“Are you sure you like it?”, he asked once, scanning you from head to toe. There was a sparkle in his eyes because he thought you looked stunning and the dress framed your figure perfectly.
“Of course. I love everything you pick out for me”, you said with a smile, even though it wasn’t entirely true. You liked the fact that it made him happy more than the dress itself, but that was just a small compromise you had to make. There was nothing you wanted more than to see Michael happy and if that meant wearing a dress you would never have chosen for yourself, then so be it. Making sacrifices and compromises was simply part of a relationship.
Unfortunately, you realized way too late that you were always the one giving and giving, while Michael was always the one taking.
You rarely went out in public alone anymore. The paparazzi terrified you and being swarmed whenever you stepped outside had become exhausting. So, whenever you went somewhere with Michael, he chose what you wore. It was safer that way, you told yourself.
You also gradually stopped making new friends because being Michael Jackson’s girlfriend came with a lot of advantages but also disadvantages. How were you supposed to know whether someone genuinely liked you or simply wanted to get closer to him? People in the industry knew who you were. Others knew who you were because you were with him. The more famous you became by association, the harder it was to tell the difference. So you did what was easiest and withdrew.
You preferred to stay inside your little bubble, with him always by your side.
Your relationship had ups and downs, but the highs were so high they outweighed the lows and overshadowed them. It was so easy to forgive Michael. Whenever he couldn’t sleep and you helped him drift off, sacrificing your own rest in the process, he would simply surprise you with three huge bouquets of flowers the next morning. If he had to reschedule one of your dates because something important came up, you’d end up with a new piece of jewellery that very same day. He knew how to make it up to you.
What you were always waiting for, though, was an apology.
Sometimes Michael became so consumed by work on his next album that days could pass with you seeing little more than fleeting glimpses of him in the morning and at night. Yet, he always made sure to see you. He couldn’t bear going a single day without you, which is why he’d happily come home at two in the morning after yet another studio session.
One of those nights, you woke unexpectedly. You had apparently developed an internal radar for him over the years, a strange instinct that always seemed to wake you whenever he was nearby. Or maybe it was just the front door slamming shut in the distance. A glance at the clock revealed the late hour, yet you got up and left his room. You were still living at Hayvenhurst because Michael simply couldn’t bring himself to part with it. Even though you had asked him time and again, explaining how much more freedom you two would have without his family watching all the time, he disregarded your wishes. All his brothers had already moved out, married, some of them with children. You lived with his mother, La Toya and Janet. For the life of him, he simply could not and would not leave Hayvenhurst.
Yes, you were his home, but Hayvenhurst was, too.
As you opened the door and leaned against the frame, Michael came walking down the hallway and stopped abruptly when he saw you. Completely oblivious to your anger, a smile spread across his face at the sight of you, as though seeing you at two in the morning was the most wonderful surprise imaginable.
“Hi beautiful”, he whispered as he stood in front of you. Before you could respond, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You didn’t smile, just stepped aside, allowing him into his room. You followed him inside and quietly closed the door behind you, not wanting to wake anyone up.
“Where were you?”, you asked, even though you already knew the answer, of course.
“At the studio”, he said, though it sounded more like a question as he could hear the irritation in your voice but couldn’t quite understand where it was coming from. He immediately stepped closer, his hands resting on your hips. “What’s wrong, mama?”
“Have you looked at the time?”
Michael’s eyes flickered toward the clock on his nightstand before returning to you.
“It’s late”, he admitted softly, rubbing his neck.
“Late? It’s almost three in the morning.”
“I know”, he said, letting go of you because now he felt the anger within you and apparently didn’t feel like dealing with it. He sat on the edge of his bed as he slipped out of his shoes.
“No, Michael, I don’t think you do.” Your voice was quieter than you intended, which somehow made the frustration behind it even more obvious. “Because this keeps happening.”
“What keeps happening?”
You stared at him in disbelief. “You disappear.”
“I don’t disappear”, he said immediately, his brows drawing together.
“You do.” You stepped closer. “You get so wrapped up in everything else that I barely exist for days. And then you come home in the middle of the night, kiss my forehead, and act like everything is fine because you’ve managed to give me five minutes of your time.”
“That’s not fair.”
You blinked. “Not fair?”
“No.” His voice softened and that almost made it worse. “Because you know how hard I work. You know how much pressure I’m under.”
“I do know.”
“Do you really?” The question stung. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t get angry. He simply looked wounded and suddenly you felt like the cruel one.
“I’m not saying you don’t work hard”, you whispered.
“Sometimes it feels like you are.”
You opened your mouth, but no words came out. It always seemed to happen this way. You came to him because you were hurt, and somehow, within minutes, you found yourself worrying about whether you had hurt him.
“You know I’m trying”, he continued, standing up as he unbuttoned his shirt. “Everything I do is for us. For our future.”
“I know.”
“I’m doing this for us. You are doing this for us, too. You know that, right?”
“I know.”
“You know I need you, right? I can’t live without you.”
“I know.”
“Then why does it feel like nothing I do is enough?”
Your anger faltered because there it was. That familiar sadness in his eyes, that insecurity you knew so well. The part of Michael that always made you forget the reason you were upset in the first place.
You sighed, looking away. “I just miss you.”
His expression softened immediately. “I’m right here.”
“But sometimes.. I feel like I have to fight for your attention.”
That hurt him. You saw it and immediately, you regretted saying it. Not because it wasn’t true but because you knew how deeply he took every criticism, especially from you.
His voice cracked slightly. “You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing I think about when I fall asleep.”
Your eyes softened.
“I know I’m not perfect”, he whispered. For a moment, you waited. Waited for the words you always wanted to hear. I’m sorry. But they never came. Instead, he reached for your hand. “I just wish you could see how much I love you.”
And that was the thing about Michael. He loved you so fiercely that sometimes it was easier to focus on the love than the hurt. You looked at him, at the tired eyes and the exhaustion written all over his face. The man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and still came home because he couldn’t sleep without knowing you were there.
Your anger slowly dissolved. Michael pulled you into his arms, pressing his face into your hair. And that was all it took. The argument disappeared beneath the warmth of his embrace, beneath the familiar safety of him holding you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. Later, when he kissed you so passionately, when he whispered your name like a promise, when he made love to you so deliciously, when he held you as though he was afraid you would disappear, you stopped thinking about the fact that he had never actually said he was sorry. You stopped thinking about all the nights you had waited. All the conversations that ended unfinished.
Because Michael loved you and you loved him. The next morning, there would be flowers waiting for you. Three enormous bouquets. A grand gesture. A reminder that he cared. But not an apology. Never an apology.
“You were in a yearslong relationship with none other than the King of Pop himself, Michael Jackson.” Ah, there it is. The reason they wanted an interview with you in the first place. “Do you think the relationship changed you?”
You take a moment to consider your answer, not wanting to give her any unnecessary fuel. You can’t help yourself but narrow your eyes at her because of course they are all the same, only wanting the gossip. You know this game by now. They all ask the same questions, always circling the same subject, hoping you’ll eventually say something they can turn into a headline. Unfortunately for her, you’re not the right person for that. You will never speak badly about him.
“Our relationship lasted for many years so of course he would leave a lasting impact on me”, you say, not entirely answering her question.
“Was your relationship with him difficult?”
Now you really have to try hard not to sigh out loud and show her your irritation.
“Every relationship is difficult sometimes”, you state, seeing no point in lying about something the public knows. They have spent years picking apart your relationship, searching for cracks, turning every disagreement into evidence that something must have been terribly wrong. They loved dragging your relationship through the dirt for years on end.
“Did you fight?”, she asks and you could swear there’s the faintest smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. So that’s what she's hoping for: A villain, a scandal. Something she can sink her teeth into.
“Rarely.”
“About his work?”
“About everything. We were normal people with normal problems.”
1987
“What is this, Michael?!”, you yelled at him, the orange prescription bottle rattling violently in your hand, the sound of it echoing through the room. His eyes widened ever so slightly, barely noticeable. But it was enough to tell you what you needed to know, namely that he’d recognized the bottle.
You had found it in his dresser, tucked away in the back, where it was clearly meant to be kept hidden. You had stumbled upon it by accident, but your stomach had instantly dropped, as if you were falling a long, long way down. You knew Michael had been taking painkillers since the Pepsi accident. You’d watched him struggle with the pain, watched the doctors prescribe medication, watched him swallow pills on the worst days. These weren’t the ones you’d seen before. That was why you were so upset. You normally hated raising your voice at him. You’d always swallow the anger, lower your voice and try to approach him gently. But this bottle of pills terrified you. It wasn’t anger, but fear. Fear of what this meant.
“Don’t give me that look right now, Michael”, you told him off when he started staring at you with his wide, wounded eyes that usually made your resolve crumble within seconds. Not this time though.
“They’re just pain medication”, he answered with a sigh, looking at the bottle you were holding up between the two of you. There was so much pain in his eyes because he hated seeing them in your hands.
“Just?”, you said, staring at the label before looking back at him. “Michael, these are not the ones you’ve been prescribed.”
“Mama, you don’t need to scream at me”, he blocked off, switching his weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. “I was in a lot of pain, so the doctors gave them to me.”
“Then why were you hiding them?”, you asked genuinely and were met with silence.
He rubbed a hand over his face, searching for the perfect answer to give you. When he couldn’t come up with anything plausible, a tear rolled down his cheek. Upon seeing it, a piece of your heart cracked.
“I.. I don’t know”, he stuttered, hiding his face in his hands so you wouldn’t see him cry. Your pulse was hammering in your ears but seeing him like this made you throw the pills onto the dresser, sensing that he needed you to comfort him right now and not scream at him.
“Baby, look at me”, you told him, gently prying his hands away from his face, the tape on his fingers a reminder of the constant dance sessions he’d been doing these days in preparation for the Bad release. It was then, when you really looked at him, that you realized Michael might have a problem with his prescribed painkillers. The accident had literally left him with scars, deeper than those visible. On top of them came all the stress and you saw your man break down quite literally in front of you.
“Michael!”, you said in pain, crouching down to his level after he fell to his knees, probably bruising them in the process. “I’m here, baby. I’m here. Talk to me.”
“It’s not w-what it looks like”, he sobbed, his hands shaking as you held them close to your heart. “I-I can stop whenever I want.” His statement didn’t sound very convincing, but you were so overwhelmed with the whole situation and what it all meant that you accepted it like a lifeline thrown your way.
“I know, baby. I know”, you tried to calm him down, sneaking your arms around him to pull him into a tight hug. You stayed like that for a while, a soothing hand running over his back as you made a promise to yourself.
That night rewrote the rules of your relationship. Before, leaving after an argument had simply meant taking space. Afterwards, leaving meant wondering whether he’d be alone with a bottle of pills. So you stopped leaving, being there for him through it all. Not every fight had been resolved, not even close, but fear had quietly destroyed all your boundaries. You stayed because you were afraid.
The problems in your relationship kept piling up after that, especially when it came to those damn pills. Neither of you was strong enough to talk about it, because talking about them would mean admitting that something was wrong. And admitting something was wrong meant asking the terrifying question neither of you wanted to answer: What happens if we can’t fix this?
So instead of talking about it or taking a break from each other or leaving altogether, you did what the two of you had always done when something felt too frightening to confront: You moved forward. You did something anyone would have done: You got married.
“You were married to Michael Jackson.” You’re literally seconds away from standing up and walking out. You don’t care what kind of image that might create. Let them call you difficult. Let them call you rude. Let them say whatever they want. Neither you nor Michael would have stood for this. Not now and certainly not back then. You are so much more than your relationship with him. For God’s sake, you’ve finally released a new album after years of silence, poured your heart and soul into it, and all she can think about is Michael? Pathetic.
“I was.”
“Could you maybe describe what that was like? Being married to the most famous person in the world?”, she smiled and, irritatingly, sounded sincere as though she genuinely wanted to know what it was like, as though she thinks she is asking about the dream life. If only she knew that, in hindsight, your wedding day felt more like a funeral than a celebration.
“He was a wonderful person”, you begin carefully. “He was also a very complicated person. And so was I. The fact that millions of people were interested in us didn’t-”
“Were you happy?”, she fully interrupts you now.
“Excuse me?”
“Were you happy in your marriage?”
Your eyes flicker toward the camera. You know exactly what she wants, what she’s waiting for: A yes or a no. Something she can print on the front page of her magazine, something she can strip of all context and sell as the truth. So you give her neither.
“We loved each other.”
“That wasn’t my question”, she smiles, looking a bit confused by your answer.
“I know”, you smile politely. “And that’s all I’m going to say about that. It’s none of anyone’s business what our marriage looked like.”
The interviewer leans back, visibly disappointed, and you genuinely couldn’t care less. Let them say you are bitter, let them say you are a bitch. You’ve heard it all before. For years, you allowed strangers to decide what your life was supposed to look like. They decided who Michael was, who you were and what your marriage meant. They decided whether you were supposed to be happy or sad, whether you loved him or not. Whether he loved you.
They took pieces of your life and turned them into stories that belonged to everyone except you. You spent too many years letting other people tell your story. You aren’t going to let them do it again.
1988
You and Michael were incredibly happy once you were married, a picture-perfect couple. Once again, your life felt like a dream. Your wedding had been intimate and beautiful, only the closest people in your life attending. Michael hadn’t thought it possible for you to look even more beautiful or for him to love you any more than he already did, but that day, you proved him wrong. You were the best thing that had ever happened to him and he said exactly that in his vows: he wanted to love and cherish you for the rest of your lives.
For a while, everything really did seem perfect.
You had a wonderful honeymoon. Bad had been released late the previous year and was an enormous success – not quite on the level of Thriller, but that was an almost impossible standard to live up to. Michael’s performances were becoming increasingly elaborate, longer, and more spectacular. He wasn’t spending quite as much time locked away in the studio anymore, but in exchange, his schedule was packed with interviews, appearances, award ceremonies, rehearsals, and performances. Additionally, the Bad Tour was in full swing and as his devoted wife, you were there for every single show.
It had taken little more than a quiet “I really need you with me on tour” for you to agree. You always did.
Even before your marriage, and increasingly afterward, there had been endless rumours about the two of you. People claimed it was all an act, not real. That it wasn’t genuine love but merely a boost for his image. That you were only after his money. They knew how long you had been together, yet it didn’t change how they viewed you. Neither did the fact that anyone who had ever seen the two of you together could see how deeply you cared for each other.
Every day, there was a new rumour. Michael was cheating on you. Some other woman would be better suited for him. You were holding him back. You weren’t good enough for him. New headlines every morning. Over the years, you had learned not to let it get to you, yet there were moments, quiet ones, when you would withdraw and let yourself fall apart. Quietly and alone. You never wanted to burden Michael with it. He already had more than enough on his plate.
Unfortunately, yours was beginning to overflow, too. No matter what you did or tried, it was never enough for the public. There was always something to criticize: Why did you look so miserable beside him? Why couldn’t you let him enjoy his fame instead of following him everywhere? Why were you covering your stomach? Surely you couldn’t already be pregnant after less than a year of being married? Or perhaps that was the reason he’d married you? Because you’d baby-trapped him? Why did he love you at all? You don’t have anything going for you, no job, living off his money?
Something inside you would shatter every time you had to read things like that. Because you knew exactly where you stood and how deeply you loved him. You knew how happy you were together.
Yet, according to Michael, there was no point in fighting those headlines, as it would only make matters worse. Responding would only give them more attention. The more you tried to defend yourself, the more they would twist your words. So, you endured it.
Michael wasn’t blind to how it made you feel and it hurt him to see you hurt. Sometimes he’d hear your quiet sobs from behind the locked bathroom door and stand helplessly on the other side, knowing there was a reason you’d shut yourself away and not wanting to violate that privacy. His heart would shatter every time.
Michael cared so much about you, so deeply, that it overwhelmed him. He just didn’t really know how to show that love in the way you needed. From your perspective, his silence looked exactly like indifference. So he promised himself he would love you harder, show you more affection and make sure you never doubted how important you were to him.
He loved you so much that he could sometimes be a bit overbearing and he was aware of it. But he hated what the world had done to you, and, by extension, what it had done to the two of you. He loved having you by his side, yet he absolutely couldn’t stand it when anyone so much as glanced in your direction for too long. The thought of anything happening to you terrified him. He genuinely believed he wouldn’t survive losing you.
You were his driving force, his partner, his best friend, his anchor, his saviour. If he could have had things exactly his way, he would have shut the entire world out and kept you somewhere safe, somewhere nobody could hurt you, somewhere it was just the two of you and nothing else existed. Just like when you first started seeing each other. But those days were long gone and they would never return.
Slowly, your name was forgotten. You were known only as Michael Jackson’s wife.
Mrs. Jackson. That was all. A name you had dreamt of for so long and when it finally was yours, you hated it.
You were gradually stripped of all identity and only the worst traits were attributed to you simply because you were the woman standing beside him.
The Bad Tour brought its usual mixture of highs and lows. At times, Michael was so stressed that he struggled with sleep again and his pain became unbearable. At least he didn’t have to resort to sleeping pills anymore; he had you. But you were powerless against the pain.
And during this time, you quickly realized that a third party had entered your marriage: painkillers. Hardly a day went by without them becoming an issue. You hated what they were doing to him. You hated what they were doing to you. You hated what they were doing to your marriage. You didn’t want Michael to suffer, yet it felt like even the strongest medication wasn’t helping anymore. Sometimes he would take three or four pills in a day, taking extra doses “Just in case” because he started to feel unable to function without them. Whenever you suggested that perhaps he’d had enough, that he needed to cut back and take it easy, that he should speak to his doctors about it, he’d brush you off. Because “I can stop whenever I want. No problem, angel. Don’t worry”.
You worried though, you worried very much. They took its toll on your relationship and with everything else going on during that time, you slowly but surely came to the conclusion that it couldn’t go on like this. Not if you wanted to live happily ever after.
But Michael just wouldn’t listen.
The icing on the cake was when Michael kissed another woman on stage in front of an audience of millions, and, most painfully of all, in front of you, his wife. The next morning, the papers were full of it. They didn’t report the kiss, they celebrated it, raving about how much more beautiful and glamourous and over all better she was than you. Every photograph seemed designed to make you feel like an intruder in your own marriage.
That was where the rumours about your supposedly failing marriage truly began.
The moment the kiss happened, you didn’t know any of that yet. You only knew what you had seen right in front of your eyes: Michael kissing another woman. Then having the audacity to smile shyly, looking almost happy, is what made something inside you snap. You’d finally had enough and simply walked out. Out of the backstage area, out of the stadium. That was the first time you turned your back on him and left, prioritizing yourself. He didn’t realize it until much later. After all, he still had a concert to finish and the show had to go on. It wasn’t until he got back to his dressing room that he noticed you were gone and panic set in. Pure, unaltered panic. The thought that you might have walked out of his life for good nearly stopped his heart. He thought you had left him for good because he hadn’t appreciated you the way you deserved. My God, what had he been thinking, kissing that Thumbtzen girl? He didn’t love her, he didn’t want her, he loved you. So why had he done it?
He felt sick. He genuinely thought, for a moment, that he might collapse right there. Which was why he was all the more relieved, then, when he found you in your hotel suite. You were there. You hadn’t left.
But the sight that greeted him was far from pleasant: You were asleep in the enormous hotel bed, curled in on yourself. Michael saw the tissues you had carefully disposed of in the trash can. Apparently, you had eventually run out of tears and fallen asleep.
Michael stood there for a long moment, staring at you. And he hated himself, hated what he’d done, what he’d turned you into. Because looking back, you would realize that during that first year of your marriage, you’d cried almost every day. Or, at the very least, you’d spent almost every day fighting back tears.
Michael had no idea how to fix that. It didn’t help that he had never been particularly good with words. So when you woke and realized he was there, everything escalated almost immediately.
“Mama, why were you crying?”, he asked as your swollen, red eyes met his exhausted, sad ones. You looked at him with an expression that suggested you might either lash out at him or say nothing at all. Michael didn’t know which prospect was more unnerving.
“I don’t want to sleep in the same bed as you tonight, Michael”, was your only reply, your heart pounding so hard it hurt but your voice came out steady either way. You were finally drawing a line, yet there was some small, traitorous part of you that still wanted to hold him and comfort him. Comfort him for something he had done.
“W-What? No!”, he stammered as he climbed onto the bed and reached for your hand. You let him hold it for a few seconds before pulling it away. “You can’t do this”, he said, fighting back tears himself, though you could only stare at him. You had run out of tears. “You know I can’t sleep without you.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to learn tonight”, you replied coldly.
“No, no. I love you so much, angel”, he persisted and stopped himself from reaching for you again. “The kiss didn’t mean anything. I promise. You’re the only woman in my life. It was a mistake.”
For one brief second, you almost laughed because once again, you were waiting for something that never came. An apology. A sorry. It hurt that he couldn’t even fully grasp what he had done. The kiss itself was terrible for you, no question. But the implications and the image it projected to the outside world – that was what hurt the most. The world didn’t want to see you by his side anyway, and now he had given them every reason to believe your marriage was actually falling apart. The next few months were going to be hell for you.
“You know what it’s like when you’re on stage. There’s so much adrenaline and it was just an electrifying moment and I didn’t even think and suddenly I felt her lips and.. and..”, Michael rambled on, desperately trying to explain himself, but every word only made the situation worse.
Because no, actually, you didn’t know what it felt like to stand on a stage anymore.
You had given that life up for him.
Somewhere along the way, your own career had quietly slipped away, replaced by role of being Michael Jackson’s girlfriend and wife. You had never truly regretted that decision. Not then. You had believed you were building something far greater together. And for a long time, it had felt that way.
There had been so much to look forward to. When the tour ended, the two of you would finally settle down. Michael wanted children just as much as you did and after plenty of conversations, you had both agreed – though he did so rather reluctantly – to wait until the tour had ended. A baby simply didn’t fit into the chaos of life during a tour. In hindsight, you are certain that it likely wouldn’t have worked anyway even if you had tried, given all the stress you were both under. Your love was immense, but you later had to realize that it probably wouldn’t have been enough to create a new life.
Love alone couldn’t always create the life you’d dreamed of.
That night in New York, Michael promised you that life again: that you would build a life together, away from the constant presence of paparazzi and the media. It was everything you had ever wanted for yourself and for him, too, because you were well aware of the toll it was taking on him.
He stayed awake with you until the early hours of the morning, his voice growing quieter as the city outside finally fell asleep. He didn’t ask you to forgive him anymore. Instead, he painted a picture of the future the two of you had always dreamed about. “I want us to finally be happy.”
He needed you so much in his life. The thought of not having you by his side was unbearable.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. But when exhaustion finally overtook you, you let him stay beside you. Not because you had forgiven him, but because some small, stubborn part of you still wanted to believe him. Because you wanted to finally be happy again, too.
It wasn’t long before Michael finally bought Neverland Ranch after that, the place you had visited the year before. You had fallen in love with the vast estate the moment you’d seen it, easily picturing a home, a garden, a family, the sound of little feet running across the grounds. A life that belonged to neither the press nor the public. You couldn’t wait for the tour to finally end so you could settle down and enjoy a quieter life within your own four walls. You believed that was the future he’d promised you.
If only Michael had kept his promises.
“There were a lot of rumours surrounding your marriage”, the interviewer states and you look at her, silently encouraging her to go on because you honestly don’t have anything to say to that. “That you broke up entirely. That you took a break. That he was cheating on you.”
“We had a very public relationship. So yes, there were always rumours. Try finding a public relationship that doesn’t have any”, you let out an incredulous laugh, shaking your head slightly. You still can’t quite believe that this is what she’s chosen to focus on. You agreed to this interview to talk about your album, your music, your return.
Somehow, within minutes, you’ve become Mrs. Jackson again.
“Were you ever worried he was having an affair?”
“No”, you say, making a conscious effort not to sound offended by the question.
“Never?”
“Never.”
1989
Fame had turned Michael into someone who believed distancing himself protected the people he loved. Every time he got close, he sabotaged it. He cancelled dates, disappeared into work, convincing himself if he just worked a little harder, made one more album, one more tour, everything would settle down. All while you kept sacrificing pieces of yourself trying to understand him. You didn’t want to give up on your marriage, you couldn’t because you loved him with every fibre of your being.
You stayed because you were in love with the man who, on his best days, made you feel more cherished than anyone ever has. The man who could make you feel like the centre of his universe with nothing more than a look. The man who could still make you forget everything that hurt whenever he held you.
Years later, you would ask yourself if maybe not only Michael wasn’t good for you, but that you weren’t good for him either.
At some point, he stopped wearing your wedding ring in public. He told you that his image fared better, that his image sold better if people thought you were no longer together, that he was a single man. You both knew that that wasn’t the case, that you were still happily married, so it wasn’t really a big deal, right? At home, he was still your devoted husband and you were his beloved wife; nothing would change because of it!
Except it did. It changed everything.
Eventually, he even stopped wearing the ring at home. There were no more public appearances together. Not only because Michael didn’t invite you, but also because you simply couldn’t stand it anymore. You could no longer bear people’s stares or listen to their cruel words. So you spent your time at Neverland, looking after the animals and walking through the estate’s empty halls.
And when nobody was around, you started writing songs again in secret, rediscovering a part of yourself you’d abandoned years ago. Meanwhile, Michael was somewhere else, consumed by work on Dangerous.
The pills were still a constant third entity in your marriage. You had tried to fight them. You had argued and pleaded. Eventually, you simply didn’t have the strength anymore. And if you were being completely honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you even wanted to fight anymore.
Michael had become emotionally unavailable. There were weeks when you barely saw him. Sometimes, you wouldn’t see him at all for an entire month. Instead, you learned about your own husband from magazines, when he was once again spotted with another woman. He didn’t cheat on you, you knew that. He loved you too much to do something like that to you and he wasn’t interested in these women, but they were important for his public image. Knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.
To no one’s surprise, the tabloids weren’t sure anymore if you two were still a thing and neither were you.
Unfortunately, whenever he did come back, it was like nothing had ever changed and he loved you like he did on the very first day. He would hold you, kiss you, tell you he loved you, ignoring the weeks spent apart, ignoring the photographs, the rumours, the unanswered questions.
The man you’d fallen in love with was still there.
“Do you still love Michael?”
For the split of a second, you are caught off guard. Is she seriously asking you something like that right now, with the cameras rolling?
“Of course I do”, you say without an ounce of hesitation, hating the way this interviewer keeps reducing you to one thing: Michael Jackson’s wife. As though there had never been anything else to you. “When you spend so much time with someone, you can’t not love them. They’ll always be a part of you.”
“Even after everything?”, she watches you carefully, almost as if she’s waiting for you to take it back.
“Yes.”
There is no hesitation in your answer this time, either. Because that is the one thing you have never lied to yourself about. You loved him when you moved across the country for him. You loved him when the tabloids tore your marriage apart one headline at a time. You loved him when you found the pills. You loved him when you were angry enough to hate the sound of his voice.
Love had never been the problem.
1990
It was your second wedding anniversary. Two years of being married, two years of constant pain trying to make it work. And Michael forgot.
“I’ll make it up to you”, he said, not even using a cute nickname like he would’ve done before. He brushed it off like it was some assignment he forgot to hand in. But no, this was your marriage and he not only forgot about this stupid anniversary but also about you.
“No, you won’t”, you stated, speaking nothing but the truth. He could show up with the most beautiful flowers, the most expensive jewellery. It wouldn’t work anymore, not this time.
“What do you mean?”, he asked, putting his pen down as he was working on yet another song, deep in preparation for his Dangerous album. Your tone made him realize that this was serious. For the first time in what felt like forever, you had his undivided attention. It almost made you laugh.
“I’m just stating the truth”, you said, shrugging because you had no more fight left in you. You were so quiet it scared him.
“Please, love”, he began, the nickname returning when it served him right. “You know I’m working so hard on this-“
“Don’t!”, you immediately interrupted him, not loud, not angry, but firm. “Please stop asking me to understand.”
Michael’s eyes grew wide ever so slightly and stood up from his position on the couch, instinctively moving toward you. You knew what he was about to do. He was going to hug you, comfort you with his soft voice and his impossibly sad eyes. He was going to give you another explanation, another promise. You couldn’t let him do that so you took a step back before he could reach you.
“I understood for so long, Michael”, you stated, your voice almost pleading but painfully stable. There were no tears left to cry, only those to mourn that have been shed over the course of your relationship. “I really, really did. God, I tried so hard to keep us together, but I can’t anymore.”
Your voice broke on the can’t. Your heart couldn’t even break anymore when you saw his face, the pain in his eyes, because it lay there, in front of him, shattered into a million piece. Michael has been breaking for a long time and thus he has been breaking the both of you in the process.
You couldn’t keep sacrificing yourself to keep him whole.
Years before you would’ve stayed, but you were finally ready to prioritize yourself. After blaming yourself for not being able to leave, to just walk away, for holding on to him for far too long, for holding onto a relationship that was unfixable. After you’ve already started to feel ashamed for not leaving much sooner, for being weak. After you’ve stopped asking why he hurt you so much when he supposedly loved you so deeply, you’ve started asking yourself why you stayed. Why you stayed, time and time and time again.
The pattern had to be broken someday, for both of your sakes. You had to find that out the brutal way.
You broke.
“I don’t recognize myself anymore, Michael”, you said, quiet but firm. “I’ve spent so long trying to make this work that I forgot what I wanted. Who I am.”
Michael’s already wounded and battered heart broke a little more with every word you spoke. Crack after crack spread through his heart; the pain in his chest became unbearable as the fissures opened into deep chasms, threatening to swallow him whole. In that moment, Michael realized that you were leaving. And that this time, you wouldn’t be coming back. For one terrible moment, every selfish instinct in him screamed at him to stop you, to beg, to promise.
He had done it before, he could do it again. But when he looked at you, he realized he didn’t even want you to stay anymore because it would cause both of you only more pain and suffering.
“I moved to California. I quit my career. I stopped seeing my family and friends because I was always with you”, you listed off and it felt like you’re dealing him a blow every time. “I learned to ignore the tabloids. I defended you. I forgave you. I stayed.”
“What else do you need from me?”, you asked, your voice breaking. “Tell me, have I not given you enough?” You didn’t want an answer to that because there was nothing left to give. Michael had no answer because he knew that. Because he never asked for those sacrifices. But he had accepted every single one.
Michael didn’t want to let you go for the life of him. He wanted to be selfish, like he had been so many times in the past, but he couldn’t anymore. He knew he had to let you go even if it would break his heart. He had to realize, brutally and honestly, that he couldn’t make you happy anymore.
Somewhere along the way, he forgot how to love you right. Somewhere along the way, he didn’t question you always being there for him anymore because you just were and he took it for granted. The realization, however, came too late.
“I’m eternally grateful for everything you’ve ever done for me”, he finally found his voice again, a tear running down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away, almost ashamed of it because it didn’t feel fair to cry. Not when you had spent years crying because of him. You deserved a proper goodbye. “I love you.”
Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You had imagined this moment so many times, wracking your brains over it for sleepless nights on end. In some versions, he begged you to stay. In others, you screamed at each other until there was nothing left to say. You had imagined packing your suitcase while he stood in the doorway, imagined him finally realizing what he was losing and promising you that he would change, making another one of those promises he couldn’t keep.
I love you.
The simple three words shattered your entire world. Because you loved him too, deeply and truly. You still loved each other very much. But sometimes love wasn’t enough anymore and at some point, even the most broken heart could no longer be mended.
“If you ever loved me, let me go”, you whispered, fighting the tears you thought had long abandoned you, the words slipping out easily. Almost as though some part of you had been waiting years to say them.
For a moment, you thought Michael might reach for you. He had always reached for you. Whenever things became too much, whenever he was frightened or exhausted or simply needed to know that you were still there, his hand would find yours without him even thinking about it. And yours had always found his. But this time, neither of you moved.
You looked away, pressing your lips together because you couldn’t bear to watch him cry. You had spent so many years taking care of him, calming him down, holding him through the nights when sleep wouldn’t come, sitting beside him when the world became too loud, telling him everything was going to be alright when you weren’t sure of it yourself. You hated yourself that, even now, some instinct inside you wanted to cross the room to wipe the tear from his cheek, to take him in your arms and make this pain disappear.
But you couldn’t. You wouldn’t allow yourself to because that was exactly how you had gotten here. You had spent so long making his pain smaller that there had eventually been no room left for yours. You’ve broken all your bones, trying to hold him close. You bended your entire life to fit into his and he just accepted it. You cut your heart right out of your body. You gave up opportunities, friends, and, worst of all, parts of your identity.
For a man who loved you so much but couldn’t show it in the ways you needed.
Michael looked at you then, really looked at you like the first time in forever, and there was something different in his expression. Not fear of losing you, not anymore, but understanding. Which was much much worse because, after all these years, he finally saw it.
You had given him everything you had and somewhere along the way, there had stopped being a you outside of him. He had never asked you to stop being a singer. He had never ordered you to stop seeing your friends. He had simply needed you. Every request had sounded reasonable. Every request had come from love, sometimes from fear, sometimes from pain. You had loved him enough to keep saying yes. ‘Yes’ to one more tour, one more sleepless night. To staying home, to putting your own plans on hold. To him. Until eventually, there was nothing left of your life that wasn’t built around his. Until suddenly, you turned down opportunities without him even asking anymore.
Michael thought you had been choosing this, but all along, all you’ve been doing was choosing him. Choosing him over yourself. He had needed you, was that the same as love?
You, on the other hand, had to painfully realize that you had been willing to give so much because you loved being the person he needed. You liked knowing that when the whole world became too much, he came home to you. You felt important and had a reason in life. Michael was your reason. Was being needed the same thing as being loved?
He reached for your hand then, gently. One last time, your fingers curled around his, instinctively, familiar. For one fleeting second, everything felt normal.
“I’ll let you go if you let me go”, you croaked, voice barely audible, holding his gaze, both of your eyes full of tears neither of you wanted to show. Not anymore. There have been too many tears over the years.
Michael nodded once.
All of a sudden, that tiny gesture set you free. For one brief, impossible moment, you felt as though you could breathe again, as though shackles you’d forgotten were even there had finally fallen away. You could almost fly. You didn’t know what you would’ve done if he had shaken his head. You weren’t sure you would have been strong enough to leave. You had never imagined that he would actually let you go.
This sense of freedom only lasted for a few seconds. Then you felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore. You couldn’t live without him, but you knew you had to try. For your own sake.
His fingers loosened even though he could have held tighter, could have asked you to stay. He could have reminded you of every beautiful thing you’d shared. He didn’t want to be selfish anymore so this time, he let your hand slip from his. Your fingertips lingered against his for one final second.
Then, because you didn’t trust yourself one bit, you nodded as well and quickly turned to leave. Michael stood completely frozen, as if he were no longer breathing, as if his heart had stopped beating. And it almost had. Watching you walk away hurt more than anything he’d ever known.
He hated himself for the tiny flicker of hope that sparked in his chest when you turned around one last time in the doorway.
“Promise me you’ll get help, Michael”, you said, your eyes locking onto his, hurting. “Not for me, but for you.”
You didn’t elaborate and you didn’t need to. Michael understood, his hands clenching to fists at his sides. You were right. He desperately needed help.
“I promise”, he replied, softly, his voice wobbly. You desperately hoped that this time, he would finally keep his promise. You turned then, walking away. For the first time since you’d met him, he was letting you walk away from him without reaching for you. Somehow, that was the most painful proof of love he’d ever given you.
“I’m sorry.”
The words you had waited years to hear. Hearing them now hurt more than if he had never said them at all. A sob caught in your throat as you hurried to make your way out of the house and out of his life.
“Do you regret getting a divorce?”, the interviewer leans forward, listening intently to your previous answer like you’ve just handed her a piece of gold. You don’t even want to know what she will say about you in her article, but you also don’t care. You stopped caring long ago.
The divorce itself had gone by surprisingly quickly. Michael signed the papers almost immediately because he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting you for any longer than necessary. By the beginning of 1991, you were a single woman. Two years later, Michael finally went into rehab, just as he promised.
When he started the Dangerous Tour, you had assumed he’d broken that promise, too. You’d watched from a distance as the tour unfolded, quietly wondering how much longer he could keep going. But then he publicly announced that he had become dependent on prescription pain medication and entered treatment after cancelling the remainder of the tour. It had been your last wish for him and he had finally fulfilled it.
You were incredibly proud of him. You wanted to call him, but you didn’t. It wouldn’t have been good for either of you. So you continued watching from a distance, quietly keeping an eye on him without stepping back into his life.
“No”, you state, clearly. “I don’t regret it. I don’t regret loving him either. Or marrying him. I don’t regret what we had.”
You had been happy with Michael. At least that’s what you told yourself the longest time. It wasn’t until you were divorced and truly separated from him that you realized something you had never allowed yourself to consider before: You were happier without him. The realization had hurt, made you feel numb, but it was the truth.
To people like this interviewer, that truth was probably incomprehensible. How could you have ended the relationship? How could you have left Michael Jackson? In the eyes of the press, you had naturally become the villain – the wicked wife who had abandoned him, who had supposedly broken his heart and sent him spiralling. After all, he’d gone downhill after the divorce. He’d eventually entered treatment. All because of you, of course. They simply couldn’t grasp how you could have left him. But what they didn’t know is that you hadn’t left him because you no longer loved him. You never stopped loving him, to this day.
You left because you finally understood that loving him was costing you too much. It took you years to realize that you confused loving someone with sacrificing yourself for them. You had believed that if you were just patient enough, understanding enough, forgiving enough, eventually you’d find your way back to each other. And you did find your way back to each other again and again and that was ultimately what broke you.
“People always say you sacrificed your career for love. Is that how you see it?”
“Also no”, you shake your head, a flicker of irritation creeping into your voice. “Listen. I made my own choices. I could’ve released new music if I had wanted to. I could’ve gone on tour if I had wanted to. It was my choice. Michael always supported me. I didn’t sacrifice anything.”
Maybe not all of that was entirely true, but she certainly didn’t need to know that. None of them did. They would never know what it had actually been like and they certainly weren’t entitled to that part of the story. Not now, not ever. You refuse to sit here five years later and pretend you were some helpless woman who didn’t know what she was doing. You knew what you were doing. You had known exactly what you were choosing. You loved him and wanted to be there for him. You had chosen that life.
“So, if you could go back, knowing what you know now, would you do it differently?”
You sit quietly for a moment. “I don’t think so.”
“Even knowing how it ended?”
You look down at your hands.
“Especially knowing how it ended.”
“Why?”
A faint smile touches your lips.
“Because I wouldn’t be who I am without him.”
After that answer, the room falls silent, the only sound the scratching of her pen against the paper. Then, she abruptly rises from her chair, that same impossibly artificial smile returning to her face. Apparently, she has heard everything she needed. Enough ammunition for whatever she’s planning.
“Thank you so much for taking the time for this interview, Ms. Y/L/N”, she says with a smile, extending her hand. You shake it reluctantly, raising an eyebrow but remaining seated in your chair.
“You’re welcome”, you reply, smiling politely. As she gathers her things and prepares to leave, you feel a strange little ache in your chest. It feels almost foreign after all these years, hearing your maiden name. But it also feels strangely comforting.
No longer just someone’s wife, but simply yourself.
You open your eyes, the spotlights trained directly on you dazzling against the darkness. One of your hands reaches tenderly for the microphone as the soft melody of your song drifts through the air. There you stand, dressed in a beautiful white wedding gown and veil, an embodiment of everything the song represents, singing for your fans again after all these years.
The song tells the story of your relationship with Michael: the love, the heartbreak, the sacrifices, the moments of happiness, and the ones that nearly broke you. Through it, you have finally found a way to process everything you once couldn’t put into regular words.
The wedding dress represents what could have been. It is one of three dresses you had designed for the performance: white, red, and black. One for what might have been, one for the pain, and one for the funeral of a love that had once felt eternal. Tonight, you chose white. Perhaps you would choose it again for the shows to come. You weren’t entirely sure yet.
Your eyes drift over the audience as you sing.
So many girls and women are standing before you, some singing along, others watching you with tears in their eyes. Perhaps some of them have lived through something similar. Perhaps they recognize themselves in your lyrics – the way you once lost yourself trying to hold on to someone else, the way love can become indistinguishable from sacrifice, the way leaving can hurt even when staying hurts more.
The thought stirs something deep inside you, giving you strength. Every single person in this room gives you strength. Because now, through your music and your voice, you can tell them what you once needed someone to tell you. Let him go. Let your Michael go.
Your fingers tighten around the microphone as the music swells around you. For the first time in years, you aren’t standing in someone’s shadow. You’ve finally found your voice again and it is more powerful than ever.
Hi angel! How are you?…I absolutely love your fics and your writing style so much!🩷
Could I please do explicit Michael × Reader fic ..where Michael and Reader are doing a joint TV interview about their relationship. Michael is completely overwhelmed with lust, constantly biting his lip and staring at her body, totally distracted by how drop dead gorgeous and sexy she looks
And the second the host says “We'll be back after a quick break,' Michael grabs her wrist without a word and drags a confused Reader straight into the backstage green room. locks the door and gives her a filthy, desperate quickie (in detail🤭)
When the commercial break ends, the crew can't find them on set, and the desperate stage managers have to keep banging on the green room door while they're still inside finishing up😭😂
Thank you so much love you🩷
— ᨳଓ . 'cause I wanna sexplore you | Michael x reader
⋆.˚ Summary : While at an interview, Michael just cant help but think how perfect you look.
⋆.˚ Warnings : We using protection, P in v, almost getting caught kinda
ᝰ.ᐟ Riri's notes : tysm you're too sweet !! I hope you enjoy!!
If there's one thing the public wanted to know, it was his somewhat private relationship with you, and that hint of privacy only made the people wonder even more just what was going on behind the scenes, which is precisely why you were sitting in front of the heavy lights of the studio, sitting next to your soon-to-be husband as his hand fell on top of yours, watching your every move as the interviewer prepared her questions, the crew completely engulfed with getting the right lighting and angles.
He wasn't really paying attention to what you were telling him, your words falling on deaf ears because he was too focused on the way your dress hugged your body, showing just a hint of cleavage. Your dress riding up your soft thighs, keeping them exposed; the pretty jewelry that sat against the skin of your neck, putting everything together; and the gloss that sat on your lips—you looked absolutely stunning, and he couldn't help but imagine all the things he could be doing if he weren't sitting in front of these cameras.
“Hello, earth to Michael." You waved your hand in his face, snapping him out of whatever daze he was in.
“Huh? Sorry, what were you sayin?” He blinked a few times, coming back to reality.
“I asked if you were ready."
"Yeah, I'm ready." He nodded, eyes landing back on your body once again, returning to his senses when the interviewer sat in front of him, clasping her hands together with a smile on her face.
"Welcome, you two; thank you so much for agreeing to be here today." She sat comfortably in her chair, eyes darting between the two of you.
“Thank you for inviting us." You spoke up first, smiling before squeezing Michael's hand as you spoke.
"Well, I'm sure a lot of people are surprised to see you two together. How did you two meet?”
Okay, finally a normal question.
“We actually met through Quincy; she just so happened to be in the studio recordin her own album, and I thought to myself, wow, she's gorgeous," he spoke up, his eyes barely focused on the interviewer and more on you, who flashed him one of those pretty smiles of yours that always seemed to make his knees go weak.
“How cute, I'm sure Quincy is proud knowing he made such a power couple." She shifted slightly, laughter falling from her lips, mixing with your own.
“Now, you know we have to get into the real stuff, so there are rumors that you're pregnant. Is that true, and have you heard of them?”
“Oh wow, yeah, I have, but no, I'm not pregnant." You shook your head, your eyes locked on Michael, who was already staring at you, his teeth sinking into the flesh of his bottom lip.
“Would you like to start a family?”
“Oh, yes," Michael spoke up almost too quickly, like he'd been waiting for the question to be asked, making you laugh.
“I guess we should look forward to that in the near future." She nodded, her hair falling in her face as she tucked it back behind her ear.
“Alright then, we'll be back after a quick break!” She spoke once again, the cameras cutting, finally ending Michael's pure torture.
He barely gave you time to shift in your seat before his hand was grasped on your own, pulling you up from your seat with a gasp, confusion written all over your face as he dragged you to the green room, your heels clicking against the floor of the studio.
“Mikey? "What's wrong?" you asked, confused; his lack of answers only made you more anxious as he slammed the door behind you two, barely giving you time to process anything before he latched onto you, his lips pressed roughly against yours, smudging the gloss that was on your lips.
“What's gotten into you?” You hummed, your lips ghosting against his, taking in the warmth of his body being so close and his hands roaming all over your waist with you sitting on the arm of the couch.
“You look so good, I could barely concentrate out there, and that smile—I need you so bad, baby, just real quick," he groaned, lips moving from your smudged glossy lips to your neck, leaving behind that sticky residue.
“So needy already; we have to be quick, we don't have that much time." You turned around, bending over so that your elbows were resting on the arm of the couch, just barely exposing the outline of your pussy through your panties as Michael stood behind you, his hands quickly moving to the hem of your dress, hiking it up towards your waist before his fingers tangled with the waistband of your panties, dropping them down to your ankles.
“Wait a minute." You pulled a spare condom from your bag, handing it to him.
“I don't want you making a mess." You giggle watching him slide it over his length.
“I'll be quick, baby, I promise," he cooed, his hand on your hip as he lined himself up with your entrance, slowly sliding himself between your slick folds, a groan ripping from his throat louder than he wanted it to be, his hips snapping against your ass desperately.
"Mhm, you feel so good around me, so pretty." He leaned down, his chest against your back, his free hand wrapped around your jaw, getting you to look at him before placing a sloppy kiss on your lips, his slow pace turning brutal quickly.
“W-wait, too fast," you whine, shutting your eyes from the sudden wave of stimulation.
“I know, love, I know, but we have to be quick, remember?” He didn't slow his pace; it only became more wild—more desperate. The sound of skin slapping filling the space of the green room.
“Oh fuck, right there," you moaned, the tip of his dick hitting that sweet spot inside your walls that made you want to instantly crumble under him, your knees feeling almost weak.
"Tell me how good my pretty girl feels," he moaned, hips bucking up into you wildly like it was his first time.
"You're making me feel so good; please, Mikey, don't stop," you cried, moving one of your arms so that you could grab at his hand that dug tightly into the fat of your hips.
While you two were too busy fucking each other like rabbits, the break had long ended, and the crew desperately searched for you two, panic starting to set in.
"Mikey, do you think the break is over already?” You moaned, your fingers moving to circle around your clit.
“I hope not." Another moan ripped into the air uncontrollably. His brain turned into a complete mess with the feeling of your walls fluttering against him, clenching tightly down on him, his dick twitching inside of you from how close he was.
Then a knock came, yet Michael didn't stop—he wouldn't when he was this close.
“Are you guys in there? Breaks up” a muffled voice came from the other side of the door.
“Mhm! Sorry, just touching you up; just give us a second," you called out, voice cracking, waves of pleasure washing over you as Michael buried himself deeper in you as you gushed around him, tossing your head back, pushing yourself against him.
“Almost there, baby, just a little longer." He thrusted up into you a few more times before the gush of warmth filled you up, getting trapped inside the condom.
"Mmm," a pleasant sigh coming from you, your body almost giving out on you if it wasn't for Michael holding on to you.
“Are you guys done? We really have to get going." One of the crew members knocked once again, speaking more impatiently this time.
"Yes, sorry!” Michael called out, finally slipping himself out of you much to his dismay.
⊱ you fall asleep on pervybsf!michael's lap.
18+ mdni, consensual somnophilia, reader wakes up but pretends she's still sleeping, michael is dirty, groping, nipple play/ball play, some descriptions of reader being thick/curvy, big dick mike, oral (m!receiving), face fucking, fingering, you cum at the same time, half swallow, half facial.
michael was in a sticky predicament.
it was a typical movie night for the two of you– but your job had worn you down so much that you'd fallen asleep within an hour of the first. in any other situation, that would be fine. really, it would have. in fact, he would have curled up beside you and went to sleep himself; or maybe even waited patiently for you to wake up, pretending like you hadn't fallen asleep in the first place.
but you were spread on your side across the couch, and instead of your head being on the armrest, it was perched right in his lap. and sure, michael could still just sleep this way; sitting upright, back against the couch cushion and head hanging to the side. he could even lift your head and shift over, freeing himself from the confinements of being your personal pillow.
but then he ran the risk of you waking up, inches from the semi-hard tent in his pants.
and he couldn't sleep anyway, because every so often you would shift and your cheek would nuzzle closer, deeper into the fabric of his pajama pants– and his dick would give a little twitch and throb. he'd have to throw his head back and take three deep breaths in an attempt to push the urge away, but then he'd raise his head and his eyes would instinctively drift back to you.
deep breaths be damned, because the sight of you was straight from a wet dream.
you wore a loose tank– so loose that if he tilted his head to the right even a little, he could see that you weren't wearing a bra; could see the beginnings of your dark brown areolas in the divot your tank top created. and if he blew air from his mouth over you, causing goosebumps to rise on your shoulders, he could see the hardened peaks forming through the thin fabric. but that was only if he tilted his head to the right. only if he blew air from his mouth. and who's to say he did?
because he didn't! he was a good best friend, focused purely on the movie, and only that.
at least until you pulled your knees closer to yourself, your hips shifting up and then down as you get comfortable; causing a slight ripple throughout the fatty flesh peaking from the bottom of your pajama shorts. he only looked for a few seconds before his eyes drifted further down– to the bare press of your thick thighs. with every inch of skin his gaze traced, he could feel the blood rushing straight south, raising the tent of his pants more and more.
yeah, michael was in a very sticky predicament.
he leaned his head back again, getting through two and a half deep breaths before his body jerked slightly at the feeling of something wet. when he leaned over your body slowly, peering at how your mouth was squished open from the way his hard dick dug into your cheek, he could see a string of drool trailing down the corner of your mouth and creating a puddle over the front of him. and when enough gathered, he watched your spit trail down and down, starting from just below the top of his covered length and to the base of him.
michael sits back again, with a soft "o-oh," as he squeezes his eyes shut– attempting to erase the visual from his mind. though he freezes when you shift once more...
and when you continue to move for longer than usual, he rests a hand on your side, hoping to stop you from the way you're rubbing against him again– but it's a mistake; because when you finally settle with a contented noise, he can feel the warm and smooth expanse of your bare stomach from where his long fingers sit.
that little taste is the switch he'd been trying his hardest to avoid.
eyes peeled, he trails his hand from your stomach and over the hill of your hip– then down to the curve of your ass. michael pauses here, eyes flickering to your face to check if you're still sleeping, before he begins to softly grope you; groaning when he spreads his fingers wide and grips, not even holding half of the fat of your ass in his big hands. he does the same to your other cheek before moving, pulling the waistband of your shorts up until your ass is swallowing most of the fabric– ignoring each pulse and throb and twitch coming from his dick.
he moves again, slowly, back over your hip and side and forward, until his palm is covering your breast. michael pauses again, watching the rise and fall of your chest and the way your eyes stay closed, plump lips still parted. when he feels he's in the clear, he continues his administrations on your breast– kneading and rubbing, thumb flicking over your nipple and watching in fascination as your thighs press together, even in your sleep.
well, in what he thinks is your sleep– because you're very awake; hiding behind closed eyes and parted lips. you'd been awake from the first twitch of dick against your cheek, from the moment your head was pushed further as he grew harder with each touch. you fought not to bite your lip, drool still spilling from your mouth at the way he pinches your nipple between two fingers and rolls.
and michael planned to stop there, really. he wasn't that much of a freak. but when he moves so that his hand is resting flat against your breast, you pretend as if you're shifting in your sleep again– letting a quiet moan fall from your lips as you slowly arch your back into his hand, as if you're stretching. he only had so much self control.
michael waits until you're finished repositioning before he moves himself, fingertips teasing the top of your tank top and pulling down, salivating as more of your bare skin is exposed. he keeps his eyes on your breast as it finally slips free from the restraint of your top. within seconds his hands are back on you– everything feeling ten times better now that there's no fabric blocking your skins from touching.
your eyes roll back behind your eyelids as you force your body to stay still, clenching your thighs as discreetly as you can. soon after, the faded lights from behind your eyes grow darker, and the smell of his cologne grows stronger. you peek one eye open –the one closest to his lap– to see him beginning to touch himself.
you deserve a fucking medal from the way you bite your moan back down. he's so turned on from playing with your tits that he's started to palm himself, and if you strain your ears hard enough, you can hear the staggered breaths he lets out. really, you don't know how much longer you can pretend, because the wet growing between your thighs is becoming excessive. uncomfortable.
luckily, it doesn't take long for him to shift his hips forward, and slouch his back slightly further down the couch cushion so that your head falls towards his stomach– revealing the button on the crotch of his pajamas. one hand works to unbutton it in seconds before he's reaching inside and pulling himself out.
this time, you have to bite your lip to keep the sounds and saliva in as you peer at the perfection in front of you. from where your head rests, you can only see a little more than half of his length, and can only see glimpses of velvety brown and veins as he pumps himself slowly.
you shift again, unconsciously, because the hand at your breast is still working overtime –switching between nipples, pinching, rubbing, flicking– and the feeling is so overwhelming. a whimper leaves your lips.
michael freezes again– stopping both of his hands as his heart pounds, thinking of ways he can explain his way out of this. he almost can't believe his eyes as he watches your mouth part again, pink tongue darting out to lick at the base of him.
you're both silent, waiting for the others' next move. and when michael stays still, you figure the ball must still be in your court.
raising your head slightly, your tongue leaves your mouth again– this time licking a trail from where his fingers still grip to the ridge of his tip, swirling around it before you take his whole head into your mouth and suck; still giving kitten licks as you do.
michael's hand leaves his dick, shooting straight for the back of your head as he throws his head back and moans. the hand on your breast tightens with the pleasure he feels, trapping your nipple between his ring and pinky fingers– which in turn, makes you whine around the head of his dick. it's a non-stop chain reaction, because the vibrations has his hand pushing your head down to take him deeper.
you're unprepared, choking sounds ringing throughout the air and tears filling your waterline as his tip hits the back of your throat– but you recover quickly, tongue cupping the underside of him as you suction your cheeks and move up, then back down, creating a rhythm.
"ohh… oh, god…" he cries out, fingers gripping the strands of your hair. your hand flies up to cover the inches of his length that your mouth can't take, twisting and following the wet trail you leave with every bob. you watch through lidded eyes as michael's legs straighten, toes curling each time you reach his tip and give a harsher suck. he moves to plant one foot on the floor as his hand pushes down at the same time as his hips shift up, pushing himself deeper into your throat again. "m'sorry— too good—" he moans as you sputter, a pool of spit sliding down his balls when he pushes holds you down at the base of him, bringing the hand from your breast to wrap around your throat; feeling the bulge through the thin skin of your neck. "—breathe, baby, breathe… doin' so good for me."
when he finally lets you go, you pull your mouth from him– gulping down air as you work him with your hand. "so good, so good…" he sighs when he feels the wet heat of your mouth again, the vibration of your moan as he moves one hand back down your body, dragging your useless shorts down– just far enough for him to reach that sweet spot between your thighs. "don't worry your pretty little head, your best friend is — mmmm, just like that — gonna take care of you, okay?"
michael cups you from behind, all four fingers pulling away with a string of your arousal attached. "god, you love this just as much as me… you're s-so dirty, mama…"
he trails a finger through your folds, collecting your juices before probing at your hole at the same time as you bob your head up, licking at the sensitive skin where his head meets his shaft. his hips jerk up and his finger slips inside of you. you pull away from his dick to moan when another finger follows immediately, but he stops you with the hand planted on the back of your head– gently urging you back to him with a "shhh".
you continue like this for minutes more, your mouth filled with his heavy weight and his two fingers switching between shallow and deep pumps. but michael grows frustrated with the angle quickly, ignoring your whimper as he removes his fingers and grips the thigh resting on top, pulling it up until your legs are spread like a 'v'.
the upper half of your body stays the same, still sideways in his lap, but with your ass now against the couch cushion michael can sneak his hand over your stomach and right between your legs– wasting no time returning his fingers to where you need him the most. his palm presses firm against your clit as his fingers curl inside you, satisfied now that he can easily hit that spot that makes your whole body tense. you mewl around his dick, the vibration making him hiss through his teeth as you start grinding against his hand in pure desperation.
it doesn't take long for that knot to tighten deep in your belly– and wanting so badly to bring him there with you, you drop your hand to his balls and fondle them. you cup your hand around them and bring your mouth down to suck them in quickly, before going back to bobbing along his length, making sure your tongue licks at his balls with each drop.
"f-fuck yes— m'close," he groans, muscles of his stomach tightening at that familiar feeling. "this s'what our friendship needed, h-huh, mama? —be so much closer after."
you can't answer with words, only with a muffled moan as your grinding becomes more urgent– and when michael adds one last finger and presses his palm against your clit harder, the knot in your belly snaps, wave after wave crashing over you as your pussy clenches around his fingers. the squelching grows louder as he fingers you through your release.
"g-gonna," is the only warning he can give you as you feel the first pulse of his seed on your tongue. you swallow around him, taking what you can, but there's almost too much. you pull him from your mouth with a 'pop!', stroking him with your hand as the last few spurts cover your face. his cum drips down your cheek, across your chin, and you keep your mouth open– tongue hanging out to catch what you can.
michael's fighting to keep his eyes open, whines falling from his lips and chest heaving, as he watches his release paint your face.
if he thought the sight of you earlier was a wet dream– then the sight of you now was heaven on earth; shorts pushed all the way down to your ankles and his fingers still buried deep inside you, pussy lips glistening, bare breasts spilling out of the top of your tank, and your face flushed and covered in him as you meet his eyes.
𓏲﹕ history!michael x heavy chested!reader ﹕⸝⸝ — req !
your husband michael is obsessed with your amazing rack ! iss. 026 the twinloves
p.s. i am SO sorry for going awol. thank yall for 600 followers, might do a face reveal later today in honor of it. i am about to upload so many fics, so watch out…also, mama’s a itty bitty warrior, so let me know if this is right.
husband𑁤michael : who met you at a grammy afterparty, and he couldn't keep his eyes off your chest. not in a creepy, lecherous way, but with a kind of awe, like a pilgrim who'd finally reached the holy land. you were wearing a deep crimson gown with a neckline that plunged daringly, and your full, natural breasts were a stunning, breathtaking sight. he spent the whole night trying to have a conversation with your cleavage.
husband𑁤michael : who, after you finally got him to look at your face, confessed with a blush that he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. he was shy, stammering, a far cry from the king of pop on stage. he asked, in a near whisper, if he could… well, if he could touch them. you laughed, took his hand, and placed it right over your heart. the feel of your warm, soft skin under his palm, the weight of you in his hand, it was his undoing.
husband𑁤michael : who loves to buy you clothes, but only one specific kind. he'll spend hours in the most expensive boutiques, not looking at elegant gowns or designer suits, but at the most revealing, most daring tops and dresses. "try this one on," he'll say, holding up a silk camisole with lace trim that offers very little support and even less coverage. he loves the way you look in them, the way the fabric drapes and clings to your curves, the way it makes you look both elegant and scandalous at the same time.
husband𑁤michael : who gets a visceral thrill when he sees other men looking at you. you'll be at a restaurant, and you'll lean over to grab something from your purse, and the deep v-neck of your dress will gape open, giving the table next to you an eyeful. he'll watch them, their jaws practically on the floor, and he'll have to fight the urge to puff out his chest like a proud peacock. because he knows. he knows that while they can look, they can't touch. they can look, but he gets to take you home.
husband𑁤michael : who has a specific ritual when you get ready to go out. he'll sit on the bed and watch you get dressed, his gaze dark and intense. you'll put on your bra, a lacy, flimsy thing that barely contains you, and then you'll start on the outfit. a low-cut blouse, a tight-fitting dress. he'll wait until you're fully dressed, and then he'll get up, walk over to you, and very deliberately reach down and cup your breasts, lifting them, adjusting them, making sure they're displayed to their best advantage. "perfect," he'll murmur, giving them a gentle squeeze. "jus’ perfect."
husband𑁤michael : who can't keep his hands to himself. at home, he's constantly touching them. you'll be washing dishes, and he'll come up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist, his hands inevitably finding their way up to your chest, kneading them like a contented cat. you'll be watching a movie on the couch, and he'll rest his head on your lap, one hand idly toying with the plump swell of your breast, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your shirt, back and forth, back and forth, until you're squirming.
husband𑁤michael : who loves to fuck your tits. it's one of his favorite things. he loves the feel of your soft, warm skin wrapped around him, the sight of your huge breasts enveloping him, the way your nipples pebble as he strokes himself between them. he'll hold them together, his hands squeezing, massaging, as he thrusts, his breathing growing ragged. and when he comes, he'll paint your chest with his release, a pearly white mess that he'll lovingly rub into your skin, marking you as his.
husband𑁤michael : who is obsessed with your nipples. he loves the size, the color, the way they get hard at the slightest touch. he'll spend hours just playing with them, pinching, rolling, tugging, until you're arching your back and begging for more. he loves to lick them, to suck them, to feel them tighten in his mouth. sometimes, when he's feeling particularly possessive, he'll use ice, tracing the sensitive skin around your nipple with the cold cube, watching it pucker into a tight, hard peak, then warming it with his hot mouth, a shocking, delicious contrast of sensations.
husband𑁤michael : who has a particular weakness for you in a simple, white t-shirt with no bra. the way the thin, wet fabric clings to your breasts after you've had a shower, the dark shadow of your areolas clearly visible through the cotton, it's a sight that makes his mouth go dry and his cock harden instantly. it's the paradox of it that gets him: the innocence of the white shirt combined with the raw, primal sexuality of what's underneath.
husband𑁤michael : who loves to watch you get undressed. he'll lie back on the pillows, propped up on his elbows, and just watch. he loves the slow reveal, the way your breasts are finally freed from the constraints of your bra, the way they bounce slightly with the movement, the way they settle into their natural, heavy shape. it's like a private show, a performance just for him, and he's always the most attentive, appreciative audience member.
husband𑁤michael : who, when he's on tour, will call you late at night, his voice a low, husky whisper. "what’re you wearin’, baby?" he'll ask. and you'll know exactly what he wants to hear. "a lil’ silk nightgown," you'll say. "n’ nothin’ else." he'll be quiet for a moment, and you can hear his breathing change. "touch ‘em f’me," he'll command softly. "touch your breasts. pretend 's my hands." and you will, describing every sensation to him, your fingers pinching and pulling, until you can hear him come on the other end of the line, a low, guttural groan that makes you ache for him.
husband𑁤michael : who loves to fall asleep with his head pillowed on your chest. it's the ultimate comfort for him, the ultimate security. the soft, warm weight of your breast against his cheek, the steady, rhythmic beat of your heart beneath his ear, the gentle rise and fall of your breathing. it's his anchor in the storm of his life, a simple, perfect, peaceful moment where he is not a performer, not a celebrity. he is just a man, with his head on his wife's chest, and everything is right with the world.
husband𑁤michael : who, during arguments, will get distracted. you'll be in the middle of a heated discussion about finances or a scheduling conflict, and you'll gesture emphatically, and he'll just… stop. he'll watch the way your breasts move under your shirt, the way the fabric pulls taut across your chest, and all the anger will just drain out of him, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated lust. "what?" you'll snap, noticing his vacant expression. he'll just shake his head, a slow, guilty smile spreading across his face. "nothin’," he'll say. "jus’… forgot what we were fightin’ about."
husband𑁤michael : who loves it when you wear his shirts. one of his crisp, white button-downs, worn with nothing underneath. the fabric is too big for you, and it hangs off one shoulder, gaping at the front to give him a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. he'll unbutton it himself, slowly, one button at a time, kissing the skin he exposes. he'll leave it on you, open, as he makes love to you, the soft cotton a stark, innocent contrast to the raw, passionate act.
husband𑁤michael : who has a photo album hidden in his private study, and it's full of pictures of your breasts. close-ups, artistic shots taken in black and white, candid photos of you sunbathing topless, polaroids from your more adventurous nights. he'll look at it when he's feeling stressed or lonely, a private gallery of the one part of you he can never get enough of. it's his secret, guilty pleasure, a tangible reminder of the most beautiful, most perfect, most beloved part of his world.
husband𑁤michael : who, in the throes of passion, will talk to them. he'll bury his face between them, muttering incoherent praises, "god, i love you... you're s’perfect... you're all mine." it's as if they're separate entities, with their own personalities, their own power over him. he'll look up at you from his position on your chest, his eyes dark with adoration, and he'll say, "they're th’ reason i breathe, baby. th’ reason i get up in th’ mornin’."
husband𑁤michael : who loves to see them in motion. he'll watch you go up the stairs in front of him, the gentle sway and bounce of your unrestrained breasts beneath your shirt, and it's the most erotic thing he's ever seen. he'll watch you jog on the treadmill, or dance in the kitchen while you cook, and he'll be mesmerized, completely captivated by the simple, beautiful physics of it all.
“mmmm right there mikey yessss…!” you whine out, pushing your ass back on his arousal coated dick, nearly fucking yourself on him.
he chuckles at the sight, his grip on your hips becoming tighter, leaning down his chest to your back, skin to skin, “my baby loves her dick yea?” He teases whispering in your ear.
His thrusts becoming more deep and precise. His hips grinding against your ass, your core tightening with each thrust.
“mhmmph love it s’muchh daddy” you moan out, laying your head back on his shoulder. One of his his hands snaking up to your breast.
Twisting the nipple, before grabbing it full in his hands snaking kneading it.
His thrusts pace increasing, his grinds turning into pure thrusting, his tip hitting your sweet spot so perfectly just to pull out to only his tip filling you up, repeating it all over it again
“oh my! michael! yesyesyessss” is all that comes out, your head removing itself from his shoulder, dropping down, staring down at your hands gripping the sheets underneath you.
His mouth instantly latching onto your neck, marking you up like an empty canvas.
“you feel that baby?” He says, licking the shell of your ear.
you nod furiously, “my daddy makin me feel so fuckin gooddd—so closeee” you whimper out, feeling his thrusts getting deeper with each breath.
His teeth sinking into your shoulder, nearly enough to taste a metallic taste, “whose makin mama feel so good?” he asks, pushing your braids to the other side of your neck.
“youuu—oh fuck….mikey’s makin me feel so damn good yessss!” you moan out pornographically, his hand removing from your breast to your neck, holding your head up.
“Mikey—oh daddy m’so closee!” you whimper out, placing a hand on his wrist that’s holding your neck up.
a smut ff where reader has an insane kink/thing for michael’s fedora and after weeks of sexual tension reader tells him just how badly he’s affecting her and reader begs michael to fck her with his fedora on the whole time 🙏🏼 I need this PLEASE. also it can be any era but cough cough bad era specifically is always appreciated…
Rehearsal - Michael Jackson x Reader
Warnings: 18+, smut, sub!reader x dom!michael, light use of daddy, crying, praising, condescending praise, begging, overstimulation, thigh/belt riding, pet names
EN: sorry took me so long, I’ve been so sick this past week. But I LOOOOVED this idea because that fedora really does things for me. please send more requests!! this was so fun
It’s the third week of rehearsals for your boyfriend, Michael’s BAD Tour. Day after day you watched him slide his hands down his chest and tilt his fedora down, running his fingers across the brim of it. And day after day, you’d watch from the front row right in the middle where he wanted you and cross your legs tightly while gnawing on your bottom lip.
It was too much… the way his long, slender fingers delicately tilted the hat exactly where he wanted it to be for each dance. You felt like an animal in heat.
Your favorite was when he’d perform Smooth Criminal. Watching him place his hand on the back of his head and tilt his hat slightly to cover half of his face before moving his body from side to side was almost enough to send you over the edge right there in your seat.
Michael wanted you front and center right where he could watch you squirm. He’d watch you push your hair over your shoulders revealing your flushed neck and chest, he’d watch you pull at the bottom of your tight miniskirts and short dresses as if you were afraid of accidentally revealing how needy you were for him. Most of all, he loved watching the way you’d peer up at him through your lashes while tracing your lips with your fingers.
Before rehearsals today, he dressed you in a low cut white tank top and a black leather miniskirt with sheer black thigh-high tights underneath.
And just like many times before, he watched you. He rolled and rotated his hips while sliding his hands down his torso before grabbing his crotch and continuing to thrust his hips into his hand - all while keeping his eyes glued to you. He watched you shift in your seat and your breath deepen.
He noticed once he put the fedora on your demeanor changed completely. Your hair was swept past your collar bones and tucked behind your ears revealing the deep rosy color dancing along the sides of your cheeks, all the way down your chest and into your top. Your nipples hardening underneath the thin fabric of your tank top and goosebumps blooming along the surface of your soft skin. Your teeth sunk into your bottom lip hungrily and your eyes glossed over watching him move across the stage.
In that moment he was dancing just for you and only you. He swayed his hips more provocatively and sang in the lower register you liked. He felt a familiar ache in his lower abdomen watching you get so flustered at his performance.
As the rehearsal was coming to a close, you got up and led yourself to his dressing room, your black patent leather heels clicking behind you. You leaned against his vanity waiting for him to come in.
Distant laughter and muffled, overlapped speech creeped its way towards the door as your heart began racing in anticipation. The door knob twisted in what felt like slow motion and you finally had him all to yourself. He still had his Smooth Criminal outfit on: his shiny silver/iridescent, zip-up long sleeve tucked into his black pants covered in belts clasped onto his waist and thighs underneath his white striped suit jacket with blue accents and your favorite… that damn white fedora.
A knowing smirk spread across his face as he entered the room, “Hey, baby..” he trailed off as you placed yourself in front of him, his hands immediately finding your hips. “You disappeared-“
He was cut off by your hands reaching for the collar of his jacket and pulling him down to your lips. Your mouth met his eagerly as his large hands slowly slid down your lower back and squeezed the plush of your ass hard enough to deepen the kiss.
He melted into your mouth immediately, his tongue working its way past your lips impatiently. His large hands roamed your body, almost completely covering any surface he touched. He slid them underneath the back of your shirt and down the back of your skirt desperate to feel your soft skin and pull you as flush against him as possible.
The tips of your fingers swept across the back of his hat as your hands found the back of his neck through his damp curls causing you to moan quietly into his mouth. Touching the hat that had you unbelievably hot and bothered just a few minutes prior caused a pool of neediness to find its way into the crotch of your panties.
He began placing hungry kisses to the corner of your mouth, making his way down your jawline and sucking on the sweet spot right below. He inhaled deeply feeling intoxicated off your scent.
You tilted your head back to give him more access and pushed the back of his head slightly into your neck more. His hand slid down your outer thigh, pulling it up to his waist as he worked his soft lips against your sensitive skin.
“I was- oh, Michael.” You began trying to bring up an idea you’ve had for weeks but the shock waves of pleasure making its way down your spine was making it incredibly difficult to focus.
“Michael, I-“ you cut yourself off with a desperate whine.
Your whimpers and moans filling the room caused the previous ache in his lower abdomen to find its way to his throbbing bulge rubbing against your thigh.
He quickly dropped your leg and spun you around with your back pressed against his chest. Your head immediately fell back on his shoulder feeling his stiff length press against your backside.
He turns his head to the side before burying his face in your neck once again, this time flattening his tongue against your throat and licking all the way up to your ear whispering softly, “What were you trying to say, baby?” Before repeating the action.
Your hands lifted above your head and found the back of his neck again.
His greedy fingers grabbed your hip so tight you were sure his nails would break skin. His other hand was busy sliding up underneath the cotton fabric of your shirt and groping your perky breasts.
A loud moan escaped your lips at the feeling of his warm, rough skin grazing over your erect and sensitive nipples.
“I was just think… thinking- I want- I-“ Your ability to express yourself became slimmer as his hand that was on your hip found the hem of your skirt with his fingertips just barely poking underneath.
“Yeah, baby? Thinking what?… Hm?” He hummed, his warm breath tickling your ear and sending chills down the back of your neck.
“You just- you look so good up there, Michael.” You finally piece together a coherent sentence.
He chuckles into your neck, “You look good right here, baby.”
His hand slides down your skirt completely, cupping it over your underwear feeling how warm and needy you are for him already.
A low growl rumbled in his chest as you began rocking your hips into his hand which in turn caused your plump ass to rub against his hard length.
You whimpered feeling the double sensation. “You- you just looked so good on stage, and… and I-“
His fingers pushed your soaked panties to the side, placing his middle finger in between your folds and collecting your arousal.
You gasped at the sudden contact, bringing your hand down to his forearm and clutching to it desperately.
He removed his hand and spun you back to face him, his other hand holding firmly onto your lower back.
“And what, baby?” He teases before sticking his middle finger in his mouth, sucking your sweetness off. He moaned around his finger at the taste of your desire.
“It takes everything in me not to jump on that stage and fuck you in front of everyone.” You confess breathlessly.
A grin tugs on the corner of his lips watching your fantasy play out behind your eyes.
“The way you wear that hat does something to me, baby. The way you touch it and grab it… your silhouette with it on.. it makes me feel crazy.” You feel yourself growing red at the desperate admission.
He scrunches his eyebrows together before pouting at you endearingly as a pleased giggle escapes his lips.
He leans down brushing his lips against your ear, “You want me to fuck you with the hat on, is that it, baby? Is that what you think about when you watch me perform?” He whispers tauntingly, placing wet kisses down your neck and tightening his grasp around your waist.
“Y-yes! Yes, Michael. Please. I need it… I need you, so bad.” You whimper.
“Come here, baby.” He pulls away and grabs your hand, leading you to the large sofa in the middle of the room.
He settles into the middle of the couch before patting his thigh, motioning you to sit on it.
You straddle one of his thighs, placing your hands on his chest to balance.
He cups the back of your head to pull you into another passionate make-out session, your hands rubbing up and down his sweaty chest. You unzip his shirt all the way down to the large silver belt around his waist and run your warm, eager hands across his stomach.
You whimper into the kiss feeling his tight abdomen and chest underneath your touch. Impatience began rushing through your body causing you to pull him as close as possible into you, biting his lip and sucking on his tongue hungrily. His hands only rested on your waist but you needed his touch everywhere, you were craving it. And he knew this.
Michael enjoyed feeling you get worked up on top of him and use your body to beg him to fuck you, he knew what you needed but he wanted to see you suffer a little bit first.
“Michael, please.” You cried against his lips. You grabbed his hand and led it to where you need him most, but he didn’t soothe that ache throbbing in your clit. Instead, he told you to sit up.
You sat up straight on his thigh and through a grin he said, “I have something that’ll feel even better, baby.” He grabbed the bottom of your skirt and hiked it up around your waist, revealing your white cotton panties drenched in your arousal.
He gripped your hips tightly in his palms and rocked you forward, grinding your weeping sex against the leather belt wrapped around his thigh.
“Oh, god!” You cried out, gripping desperately to his shirt for stability.
You hooked your fingers inside the belt around his waist and placed your other hand firmly on top of his thigh next to you to get a better angle.
You grind desperately onto his thigh, needy pathetic moans slipping past your lips. The ridges of the belt below you hitting the perfect spot on your swollen clit over and over.
He brings his hands up to the neckline of your shirt and pulls it down, letting it rest underneath your breasts.
His large hands cupped each of your breasts, kneading and massaging the softness underneath his palms.
His fingers pinched your nipples gently, earning a high pitched moan from you, “Michael, please… I can’t. Feels too good, baby.”
He continued twisting and rolling the stiffened nubs in between his fingers as you humped feverishly on top of his thigh. Your clear, slick arousal began leaking through your underwear and onto his belt and thigh below it.
“Aw.. look what a mess you’re making. Good job, baby… I’m so proud of you.” He cooed tenderly.
Your grinding became more erratic as your stomach flexed, the cord in your lower abdomen tightening with each thrust.
The harsh movements caused his hat to begin sliding off his head. He brings the rim of his hat between his fingers and traces around to the back before using his whole palm to push it forward just slightly, just like he did between dances.
You watched him with lust brimming at the corners of your eyes. His hat now sat perfectly, just like you always imagined. It covered majority of the top half of his face but you could see his bottom lip tucked in between his teeth.
You closed your eyes for a split second, watching him glide across the stage in your mind. He moved so provocatively with such precision. You opened your eyes and the man beneath you was the same man in your head, and it was too much to handle.
“You’re so- oh, baby it feels- it’s-“ Nonsense mumbled past your lips beautifully.
His hands gripped into the fat of your hips pushing you further down onto his thigh, helping to guide your movements as you began coming undone on his thigh.
You reached for his aching bulge in desperation as you neared your peak. You squeezed his hardened length over his pants and felt him twitch under your touch instantly. He hissed at the neediness of your movements.
“I’m so- so close, Mikey. I’m gonna-“ You whined.
“That’s it, baby. Give it to me… cum all over me.” He whispered breathlessly, grinding you relentlessly over his belt.
With his sweet words, the cord in your belly snaps, your orgasm hitting you full force almost knocking the wind out of you. You scream his name and claw at his chest, your failing attempt at trying to ground yourself through your high.
His hands wrapped around your neck and pulled you close, brushing his lips against yours.
“You look so pretty like that ..” he whispered. “Your sweet pussy dripping all over my thigh… look what you’re doing to me.”
The grip he had around your throat wasn’t letting up, making it difficult for you to tilt your head. You were only able to look down with your eyes, the sight below you caused your mouth to water. His cock twitched and pushed against the black pants clung to his legs.
Your eyebrows scrunched together and your teeth sunk into your bottom lip, “Mmm.. baby, don’t tease.” You whined.
He fumbled with his belt with one hand, keeping a tight grip on you with his other. Your pulse quickened in anticipation as you heard his zipper open.
“This is what you want?” He rasped.
You nodded eagerly, licking your lips and rubbing your hands up his thigh.
A smirk spread across his face tauntingly, “Say it.”
“Yes! Yes, baby. I want it so bad, I need it. Please, let me make you feel so good.” You blurted out in a breathless rush.
“Come.” He demanded, curling his fingers towards himself.
You shuffle your way off his leg and almost land on your knees when-
“Mm-mm,” He shook his head. “Up here.” He pats his lap before reaching his hand out and helping you back up.
His fingers hooked around the lace waistband of your underwear and slid them down, the slick of your arousal reflecting along your folds and down your thighs.
His fingers dig into your hips impatiently as he guides you back down towards his lap. He hisses as he feels your wet folds kiss his tip. You whine in needy annoyance just wanting him to push his full length into you, but no. He keeps you settled right above it, his tip slipping in between your folds just barely.
“Michael..” You whimper, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
“What do you say?” He whispers.
“Please, Michael.” You cry.
“Please what, baby?” He wipes the tear burning a streak down your cheek.
“Please.. fuck me. I need you, baby. I need to feel you inside, I’m so wet.. please feel it. Please.” You whine, gripping the fabric on his shoulder.
A satisfied smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, “Here you go, baby.”
In one swift movement he slides you down along his length, making you take him in whole. A loud gasp escapes your lips as you grip onto his biceps feeling them flex beneath the clothes as he bounces you on top of him with ease, thrusting his hips underneath you.
You try to grind your hips a little bit to help but he pushes you down harshly, stopping your movements.
“Shh.. let daddy do it.” He grunts before leaning forward and reconnecting your lips.
He moves one hand from your hip and slides it in between you, continuing to grind upward into you. He rubs tight, deliberate circles over your aching clit with the pad of his middle finger as his length continues hitting that sweet spot so deep inside you he’s the only one who’s ever been able to hit it.
Your bottom lip trembles at the overwhelming sensation, tears flow from your eyes continuing down your cheeks and onto your neck.
“I- …. M-…” Your mouth falls open silently, struggling to express how good he feels inside of you. Your eyes are squeezed shut and your body’s feeling weak with overstimulating pleasure.
“Poor baby, you can’t even talk. Am I really making you feel that good?” He whispers condescendingly, pouting his lip at you.
You tilt your head to the side as you look at him with pleading eyes, “Baby, I- I’m-“ you stutter out.
Your walls clench around him and your thighs vibrate around his lap. The same cord from before tightening in your stomach with an undeniable burn.
His finger works faster on your clit as his strokes inside you get deeper and harder, “Are you gonna cum, Bambi? For me?”
You bury your face in his neck as he continues grinding into you, crying out his name and gripping onto his jacket like it was all you had.
Your walls pulsate around his dick as you hit the peak of your orgasm. The sensation of your wet, throbbing pussy sucking him in with the sound of you pathetically crying his name made his own dick begin to twitch inside of you. His thrusts quickened as he neared his own released.
“Baby, you’re so tight.” He grunted as ropes of his hot cum shot into you. “Fuck.. you feel so good, baby.”
Your whole body tingles with euphoric pleasure as you both come down from your high.
You kiss up his neck, whispering, “I love you.” Between each desperate kiss.
When you reach his lips he grabs the back of your head and kisses you passionately. He praises you for taking him so well and being such a good girl for him.
“You made me so proud, baby.” He whispers into your mouth. “I love you so much, my sweet girl.”
You sit up and he smiles at you pitifully, your hairs a mess and your eyes are blood shot and any attempt of eyeliner is now smudged underneath your lashes.
“Aw, baby.” He coos. “You’re a mess. Come on.” He points towards the vanity in the corner of the room.
You nod and follow behind as he leads you to the chair. He sits you down gently and faces you toward the mirror.
“You’re such a pretty girl.” He says, smiling at you through the reflection.
“Thank you, baby.” You sniffle and tilt your head back to give him a kiss.
He leans down and pecks your lips tenderly.
He brushes your hair with his fingers and admires your delicate frame in the reflection. An adoring smile spreads across his face, “Now let’s get you cleaned up.”
The soft, rhythmic sounds drifting from the living room were heavenly.
Michael sat behind the piano, eyes closed as he lost himself in the music, feeling every note beneath his fingertips as he pressed each key.
You stood quietly behind the doorframe, watching your husband in admiration, completely captivated by the way he played.
As the song progressed, you decided to sneak up behind him and surprise him with a few playful kisses along his neck.
Startled, Michael immediately turned around, stopping the music as he caught you and playfully pulled you into his arms, his fingers finding your sides and sending you into a fit of laughter.
“Mike! Sorry!” you cried between giggles.
“What were you tryna do, huh?” he teased, laughing as he pulled you onto his lap.
Both of you eventually settled, catching your breath. You rested the back of your head against his shoulder, still recovering from your little ambush.
“Don’t stop playing on my account,” you murmured. “Go on…”
And so he did.
Michael returned his hands to the piano, his fingers moving across the keys with effortless precision. You watched them closely, mesmerized by every movement, while the gentle rise and fall of his chest pressed against your back.
Every now and then, you could hear him humming softly along with the melody.
Everything about the moment felt almost poetic.
The two of you swayed gently together, moving side to side in perfect rhythm with the music, as though the song had somehow become your own little world.
When the final notes finally faded, Michael leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss against the side of your neck.
He breathed you in for a moment, smiling against your skin.
“You smell so beautiful,” he murmured.
݁♬⋆.˚𝄞
He continued pressing soft, lingering kisses across your neck, his big hands finding your waist and pulling your body closer to his.
You softly arched your back as the heat in your panties grew dangerously intense. “Michael…” you softly moaned.
Catching the hint of what you wanted, you shifted slightly, turning your body around to straddle his legs.
His attention remained fixed on your neck, while one hand moved to your back, caressing it in slow, loving circles before traveling upward until it found the back of your neck.
He grasped it with a loving firmness, causing you to squirm beneath his touch.
His mouth, once fixed against your neck, parted slightly, his tongue tracing a slow, delicate path from your collarbone toward the soft, plush curve of your lips.
And almost immediately, you gave in.
He kissed you with the hunger of a man desperate to consume every bit of your sweetness. No words needed to be spoken. The soft groans and moans escaping you both were enough.
Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer, both of you clinging to each other as though desperately trying to become one.
In one swift motion, he tilted you upward and placed you gently on the piano he had been playing moments before.
The sudden movement sent a loud mixture of keys echoing throughout the room.
Never taking his attention from your lips, his hands found the hem of your dress and slowly began pulling it upward around your hips.
Both of you pulled away from the drunken kiss, breathless as you tried to catch your breaths.
Your hands found his waist, fumbling with his belt as you pulled him closer.
His briefs and pants sliding down— his hard dick with an angry tip, already leaking precum jumped out.
He looked at you, his breathing heavy, the tension between you almost unbearable.
“I need you, Michael,” you whispered.
݁♬⋆.˚𝄞
“Oh baby,” he whispered before diving back into the sweetness of your kiss.
Without looking away from your lips, he slid two fingers down your lace panties, causing you to flinch at the sudden pressure against your clit.
Then, both his hands moved down to your heatness, ripping the panties in half with a loud tearing sound.
Without warning, he slammed his girth inside your weeping cunt. “MIKE!” you almost yelled at the sweet burn of the stretch. You whined against his lips as his hands gripped your hips to hold you in place.
His movements fastened up, refusing to slow down, causing you to screech and squirm beneath him.
The piano notes rang out beneath you, playing like messy background music for the lewd act.
“S-slow down,” you managed to muffle while your eyes rolled back.
His hands gripped you tighter, pulling you flush against his body. “Don't move, mama,” he whispered in your ear, followed by a loud moan. “Y'feel so gooood,” he groaned, lolling his head back.
You gripped his arms harder as you felt your climax growing, the pressure building behind your eyes.
“I'm-" you managed to moan out, your body tensing as you neared the edge.
“Don't you dare,” he commanded, his voice rough with authority. “I got a long way to -Fuck!-to go, princess.” He continued at a fastening pace, driving deeper with every thrust.
The piano keys clattered under your combined weight as he refused to let you release. You didn't know how long you'd be able to hold it in.
The desperation in your chest was overwhelming, your hips bucking instinctively against him as you begged for the release he was cruelly withholding.
Every thrust sent waves of pleasure through you that threatened to shatter your control, but his grip on your hips was iron, anchoring you to the moment while he pushed you further to the brink.
"Please, Mike... I can't-" you gasped, your voice breaking as your inner walls spasmed around him.
"Shh, shh," he moaned against your throat, his own breath coming in ragged, desperate bursts. "Stay right there with me. Don't you let go yet."
He increased the tempo, his cock hitting your sweet spot with punishing accuracy. The piano keys beneath you let out a discordant crash as he drove harder, his movements becoming more needy and uncontrolled.
You were suspended on the edge of a cliff, teetering between ecstasy and agony, your body shaking with the force of holding in your orgasm.
"Look at me," he commanded gently. When you forced your swollen eyes open to meet his blown out pupils, he gave one final, devastating thrust that seemed to reach your very soul. "Now."
the piano keys crashed beneath you as he drove into you one last time, but just as you reached the breaking point, he abruptly pulled away.
The sudden absence left you feeling hollow and desperate, your body twitched while you orgasmed around nothing.
"No, Mike, please-" you sobbed, your hips still bucking involuntarily against the empty air where he had just been.
His own cock, hard and desperate for release, could no longer be held back. He gave himself a few lazy strokes before slamming back inside you.
He maintained that same fast pace, but now he sounded more needy, his breaths coming in ragged gasps as if he were painfully close to his own release.
You felt your own orgasm grow once more after only a few thrusts. His hand came down between your bodies, rubbing your clit faster and harder, sending electricity straight to your core.
The combination of the friction inside you and the relentless stimulation above pushed you to the edge.
“C-Cum with me, baby, please,” he whined against your neck, his voice breaking with desperation. “I want you to feel us.”
His hips bucked harder against yours, the piano keys beneath you continuing a discordant chorus to your moans. "Mike mpf oh godd” you screamed as the dam finally broke.
Your climax hit with devastating force, your walls clamping around him in tight, rhythmic spasms that drew a desperate loud moan from his throat.
The orgasm tore through you, leaving you gasping and helpless as waves of pleasure crashed over your consciousness.
Seeing you break was the final trigger he couldn't resist. "Fuck, yesss " he choked out, his eyes rolling back as he buried himself as deep as possible. With one final, powerful thrust, he came hard inside you, his body stiffening as he poured himself into your heat.
For several long moments, the only sound in the room was your ragged breathing and the fading echoes of the piano keys settling beneath your weight.
He collapsed against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder while his heart hammered against your chest.
You brought your hand lazily to the back of his neck.
“You play the piano very, very well, Mikey,”
you said with a giggle, still struggling to catch your breath from the high you experienced earlier.
SYNOPSIS: an abrupt end to the dangerous tour takes a toll on michael. noticing his exhaustion, bill decides to take him to a massage spa, the one michael has been going to for years seeking out one massage therapist.
or alternatively, he pops a boner while you're giving him a massage and you do something about it.
CONTENT: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff if you squint, sub!michael, hand job, oral (m receiving), he gets vocal
AUTHOR'S NOTE: based off of this request 🫶
WORD COUNT: 4,509
Michael found the plane ride back to the US quite stuffy. Despite him being in a private jet catered just for him, the air just didn’t seem to move at all where he sat. Usually, he would use his travel time as a means to get away from the world, maybe play some games and read some books. Sometimes he’d even pull playful harmless pranks on his staff. But right now, all he wanted was to get home right away and rest.
He leans his head back on his seat and lets out a big sigh as he closes his eyes, exhaustion radiating off of him. The Dangerous Tour had just ended. Quite early, actually. Not because he wanted it to, but because he had to. The physical and mental toll of constant traveling and performing show after show had got to him. His body was starting to hurt in places he didn’t even know could hurt and the jet lag started to get too much to handle.
Michael loved to perform. It was his whole life.
But even the King of Pop can only handle so much.
“We landed, Joker.”
His eyes snap open at the sound of Bill’s voice and he turns to face the man to his right. He smiles at him and with his hoarse voice, he utters, “Thanks, Bill.”
The man pats his shoulder. “Time to get up so you can rest up.”
He nods and moves to get up from his seat. He stretches his limbs out, grunting as his joints crack. The ache in his legs and back was almost too much to bear and he fights the urge to wince every time he takes a step towards the exit of the plane.
“Forgot your hat,” he hears Bill say from behind him. Before he can even turn around to grab it, the older man has already situated the accessory right on top of his head.
Michael chuckles, adjusting the hat. “Thank you.” Bill hums in acknowledgement and goes to lead him out of the aircraft and down the stairs.
He’s met with a cool breeze of wind as he steps down onto the concrete floor. He scrunches his nose up as the sharp scent of jet fuel greets him. He supposes he’s glad to be back in his home country after the absolute hell that his body has been put through these past months. Honestly, he felt like he was about to collapse.
“Let’s go,” Bill says from beside him. Too exhausted to say anything more, Michael nods and continues on to walk to his car.
—
Not even a few seconds after Michael had sat down in the backseat of the car, he falls asleep. Bill decides not to wake him as he drives, aware of how much physical and mental exertion the star had to go through.
Truthfully, he’s been very worried about him. He sees how much he overworks himself, how much he drives himself to exhaustion. It was hard to watch, having been Michael’s bodyguard since he was a child. He was almost like a son to him and he hated seeing him this fatigued.
He's at a red light now and he taps his fingers on the steering wheel as he thinks. An idea pops up into his head and he checks his watch.
9:23 PM, it said.
He hums. Not too late. There’s still time.
Then the stoplight turns green and instead of driving in the direction of Neverland, he makes a different turn.
—
“Bill, this isn’t home.”
“I know.”
“…Why are we here?”
“Figured a massage would help you.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up into a small smile. A massage does sound really good. In fact, it was just what he needed. Bill knows him too well now. “Thank you,” he says.
Michael stares at the building outside the car window. He’s been here before. A lot of times, actually. He always comes to this place whenever he felt like his muscles were getting too tight. And he always knows just who to go to whenever he’s here.
“Alright, come on, kid.” Bill then steps out of the car and opens the door for him before the both of them jog towards the entrance. Most times, fans would be swarming him and give Michael no room to even walk but right now it was oddly very calm. He makes a mental note to thank his team for not leaking any information this time around.
They walk through the door and immediately, the smell of eucalyptus and peppermint is noticeable. The lights were dim and a relaxing tune plays in the background. The woman at the desk perks up at the sound of the door opening and smiles immediately when she sees who has entered.
“Mr. Jackson, Mr. Bray! We weren’t expecting you tonight.”
The older man chuckles and pats Michael on the back lightly. “Just thought Joker here would need a little relaxing time after his tour.”
Michael smiles and immediately, he says, “Good evening, Elise. Is she here?”
The woman nods excitedly. “She is! Your usual package then, sir?”
He nods in response and Elise goes to write something down in her log book before looking back up at the two. “I’ll be right back, let me go get her. Please have a seat,” she says as she gestures to the cushions behind them before disappearing through the doorway behind the desk.
Michael sits down on one of the seats and Bill follows shortly, sitting down with a little huff. “You want a massage too, Bill?”
The man in questions winces and shakes his head, moving to grab one of the newspapers set on a nearby table. “Nah, I’m alright. Not really in the mood for it right now. I’ll just wait out here.”
“You sure?”
“Positive, Joker.”
Michael hums and nods his head, running his hands up and down his thighs as he waits. He can’t deny that he’s started to feel a little excited. He loved getting massages from this place, they always seemed to know what he needed work with the most.
He also really liked his massage therapist. You, for that matter. You with your soft and delicate hands, your gentle voice, and your breathtaking smile. You knew just where to poke, prod, and knead. You knew his body almost like the back of your hand and Michael knows he can completely put his trust on you.
“Michael?”
His head snaps up at the sound of your voice and when he looks up, he can already some of the stress leave him just at the sight of you. “Hey,” he says, standing up from his seat.
You beam and wave at him before looking over at the man seated next to him. “Hi, Bill. No massage for you tonight? We have other therapists available.”
Bill shakes his head. “Not tonight, kid. Just for Mike here.”
You nod and look back at Michael. “Let’s go?” You gesture down the hall and he hums in response.
He turns back to Bill for a second and says, “Be right back!” The older man only waves him off with a smile.
You lead him to his designated room which he was very familiar with. With how much he’s been getting massages at this place, the spa had reserved a private room for him and him only.
It wasn’t too big of a room but the ambience was nice and cozy. It was dim with orange lights and plants scattered around. There was a single massage bed situated right in the middle while a soft tune played in the background. It had all the essentials for a typical spa room but this one had its own bathroom and shower behind the door in the corner.
Michael doesn’t really care much about the extravagance of the room. All he wanted was to be able to unwind and relax his sore muscles. But the thing was the massage had to always be done by you. And it wasn’t because he might have a little crush on you (a huge one really), but because he knows you’re the only one he can trust with seeing him in his most vulnerable state.
You’ve been his friend and massage therapist for years. Since before his skin condition had started to slowly take over his body. You never spoke a word about it, never stared at him in judgment, and that’s why he feels as though he could only trust you.
“You’re back early. I thought the tour would go on for a little longer?” you ask as Michael takes a seat on the bed and you rummage around the room for the essentials.
He shrugs. “Had to end it sooner… don’t think I can handle doing any more shows right now,” he replies, taking his fedora off his head and fixing his curls.
You hum in response. “Anything I should be worried about? Injuries? Pain?” You crouch down to search through one of the cabinets.
He shakes his head. “No injuries, really. But my back’s been killing me. Legs too.” He winces when he reaches over his shoulder to rub on a particularly sore spot on his back.
“Must’ve been from all that dancing.”
“Yeah… getting too old,” he says with a slight smile.
You snort at that. “You’re thirty-five, Mike. That’s still your prime.”
He chuckles humorlessly and looks down at his fingers. “Doesn’t feel like it…”
“Hey,” you call out. You tsk and let out a sigh as you straighten yourself back up, now with a few towels in your hands. You go to walk towards him and stop once you’re stood directly in front of him. He looks up at you and you point your finger. “No talking like that in here. This is a place of relaxation and peace.”
A grin creeps up onto his face. “Right, sorry.”
You nod in approval and reach over to gently squeeze on his bicep. “I’m gonna make you feel better, okay? Like I always do.” You then place the towels you’ve brought out on the edge of the massage bed and place your hands on your hips. “Towels are right here. I’ll wait outside while you undress and I’ll knock after a few minutes.”
Michael nods and hums in response, watching as you make your way out the door, closing it behind you. He turns to look at himself in the mirror hung up on the wall on the other side of the room.
He looks tired. Spent. Drained. There were dark circles forming around his eyes. These were the side effects of touring and traveling from country to country. There wasn’t any time for sleep. If there was, he’d barely get a few hours in anyway with the leftover adrenaline from his shows.
He lets out a sigh and gets up, starting to shed his clothes off.
—
A few minutes go by rather quickly. As soon as he’s situated himself on the massage bed with his face resting down on cradle and a towel covering his lower half, he hears you knock on the door. “All good?” he hears you say from the other side.
“Yeah,” he calls out.
Then he hears the door open and shut as well as your footsteps padding across the floor. He feels your presence right beside him and he listens to you open a cap. He raises his head a little to peek at you and grins when he catches your eye. “Keep your head down and relax,” you say as you rub some oil on your hands.
“Is that jojoba oil?”
“Of course, your favorite.”
He smiles and goes to rest his face back down again on the cradle. He hears you move again, then you ask, “Pressure?”
He grunts, shifting a little. “Go all out, please.”
“Anywhere you want me to focus on?”
“Uh… my upper back and legs.”
“Mkay, I’m gonna start now.”
He hums in response and closes his eyes in anticipation. A deep sigh escapes him when he feels your soft hands slowly press down on his back, rubbing up and down as the heels of your palms pushes against his flesh.
It’s how you always start off the massage, he’s come to notice. You always start with feeling out and kneading his muscles, checking for tight spots and knots, your thumbs pressing down on the space near his spine. He breathes out another sigh and lets himself relax into your touch. He can already feel himself getting some relief.
Your hands then move to his upper back, still gently kneading but he notices the deepened pressure of your fingers. You’re onto his shoulders now and he lets out a quiet moan when you press down and swipe your thumb around a knot.
See, one thing about Michael was that he was a vocal man. From his playful adlibs in the studio, to voicing out his opinions, to when he feels sensations in his body. He can be really loud when he wants to be, and a massage is no exception.
At first, he was a little shy about it. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable so he’d choke down the moans and whines that would threaten to erupt from his throat. You ended up noticing how tense he was and made it clear to him that you were fine with whatever noises he made as long as he was relaxed. He appreciated your sentiment and from there, he allowed himself to fully let go.
And now, as you work on some knots on his upper back, he lets some noises out. A little whiney grunt when you press a little harder down on his skin, a sigh when you move to a different area, and a low moan when you hit just the right spot.
You press down on a particularly tight spot on his back. “Ah…” he moans, his voice all breathy.
“Am I hurting you?” he hears you whisper as you soothe the ache in his muscles.
“No… feels nice,” he replies.
Then you continue on massaging his upper back, occasionally using your knuckles to deepen the pressure. You stay on that spot for a little longer before you move to the lower part of his back. Again, applying more pressure to tight spots.
When you move on to his legs, he sucks in a breath and hisses when you maneuver a particularly sore spot on his left calf.
You notice and pause for a second. “Too much?”
“No just… could you be a little gentler on my calves? Yeah- mm…” He lets out a sigh when you apply just the right amount of pressure.
You use your fingers to gently stretch his skin and then you press the heel of your hand onto the muscle, slowly running it up and down his calf. Michael lets out tiny whimpers as you do. He just loved the way your hands felt. It was as if you could see all his weaknesses and all his aches.
He then feels your hands travel up to his thigh. He shudders a little at the feeling. Michael always did feel like the skin around his thighs was more sensitive. He usually didn't have a problem with you poking, prodding, and kneading around that area. But right now, he feels as though that he was more delicate than usual. He chalks it up to the fatigue.
You knead around the meat of his thigh for a bit, going higher and higher but stopping just below where the towel covering him ends. He whimpers again. Suddenly, all he can think about was how much he wanted you to go higher. Maybe go under the towel. Maybe even take the towel off entirely and-
His eyes snap open in realization.
Fuck.
No, he can't be having these thoughts about you.Why was he even thinking about this?
Was it because of how tired he was? It can't be. Because when he felt exhausted, just the thought of doing anything that strenuous would make him cringe. And also, not only was he your client, but you were his friend too.
His very attractive and gorgeous friend that he might have wanted to ask out on a date before but didn't because he was scared. That's besides the point, though.
He can't be thinking about you like this. Especially not now.
Not when he was completely nude under the damn towel.
You've moved on to his other leg now and Michael struggles to keep his thoughts at bay as he bites down on his lip to keep his moans down. What if …. What if you just ask him to flip over and crawl over him to-
Oh no.
He just felt his dick twitch. He's getting hard. This is bad.
And the fact that you were still massaging his thigh wasn't helping. He feels scummy, you're just doing your job and now he's having these perverted thoughts. But no matter how hard he tried to close his eyes and keep his dirty thoughts away, they only came back stronger and worse.
No, he should stop the massage right here before it gets out of control.
He lifts his head up and calls your name. "…Um, could we… maybe end early?"
He sees you blink up at him in slight surprise, lifting your hands off of him. "Why? Did I do something?"
He shakes his head. "You didn't, it's just… I'm so tired… I don't wanna fall asleep accidentally…" A bullshit excuse. Even he knows it.
You furrow your brows in confusion. "You've fallen asleep during sessions before, it's not a problem."
Shit. "…I think I wanna head home now, if that's okay… I'm just really exhausted…"
You stare at him, studying and scanning his face. He gulps. It was a long shot, you always did manage to see right through him. "I mean that's fine, but if I did something wrong, just tell me-"
"You didn't."
"Michael, you got really tense when I was working on your thighs. I'm just worried that I made you uncomfortable or something."
Of course you noticed that. Of course, you did.
"You didn't, okay? I promise, I'm just…" Hard. Excited. Turned on. He can't bring himself to look at you now so he puts his head back on the face cradle and groans. "I'm embarrassed to say…"
"Hey, come on it's just you and me in here."
"Don't laugh."
You raise a hand and do a zipping gesture on your lips as a response. There was a silence for a bit as the anticipation in the air strengthens.
Then he lets out a big sigh. "…I have an erection."
A beat.
He sees you roll your lips in, as if trying to surpress a laugh. He huffs and points at you.
"Don't."
"I'm not!"
"I see you holding it in!"
You smile at him and he glares at you. You giggle slightly and shrug, replying with, "I mean I kinda noticed something was off… you were trembling a little."
Michael sighs and pushes himself up to sit on the massage bed properly, carefully maneuvering the towel so that he wouldn't expose himself. He shifts, covering his crotch with his hands. "Okay, so now that I've made you uncomfortable, I think it's best if-"
"Who said I was uncomfortable?"
He blinks. "…What?" He brings himself to look you in your eyes and notices how much they've changed. They're lidded now, a little darker than before. You're staring at him so intensely and it's making his heart race.
You shrug. "It's not a big deal, I mean… If you want I could help you with it…"
He pauses. You wanted to help him with his boner. He knows what you're offering, obviously. He's a grown man. And quite frankly, just the thought alone has made his dick twitch again. But you're his friend, he doesn't want you to feel forced just because he couldn't control himself.
"…I don't want you to feel like you have to…"
"I don't, Mike. Think of it as like… a friend helping out a friend."
A friend helping out a friend. Ridiculous. This was going to complicate things a lot. But you're just so pretty, and he's just so hard. And with the way you're looking at him, how the hell was he supposed to resist?
He swallows again. "…Okay," he utters.
You tilt your head and grin. "Yeah?"
He nods. "Yes… yes, please…" He doesn't even register the plea that comes out. But you seemed to really like it because your eyes practically sparkled at his response.
His heart hammers in his chest as he watches you make your way closer to him. And when you get down on your knees, he has to suck a breath in to calm down his nerves. But then, he realizes something.
He looks around for a moment and spots the fluffy towels that you've placed on the edge of the massage bed. He reaches over for it and hands them to you. You take them with a raised eyebrow. "For your knees," he says. "I don't want you getting hurt."
You smile at that. "Aw, such a gentleman," you say as you situate the towels under your knees. You fix your positioning and gaze up at him. Then your eyes shift down to the tent in his covered crotch for a moment before you return your stare back up. "May I?" you ask, your hand coming up to fiddle with the towel covering him.
"Yes," he breathes out. Your fingers then wrap around the soft material of the towel and you lift it off, placing it to the side.
Michael lets out a sigh when his thick cock is finally fully unrestrained. It stood tall, with slick already oozing out of the tip. He glances at you and feels his cheeks warm up at the sight. You were staring at his dick so intensely with your mouth slightly agape. It's like you've been wanting this just much as he did.
You look back up at him. "Can I touch?"
He nods slowly. He was practically shivering with anticipation now. A hiss escapes his lips when you wrap your hand around him. It feels warm, still a little slippery from the oil that you used on his body earlier. "You have such a pretty dick…" you say, almost like you were in a trance.
You press your thumb onto the tip and Michael gasps. You glance back up at him and smile. "You like that?" you ask as you slowly start to stroke him up and down. Swiping your thumb over the tip whenever your hand goes up.
"Yes," he whines out, leaning back on his hands as he looks down at you. He bites down on his bottom lip as you continue to stroke his cock. He can't let himself be too loud. He can't risk people from outside the room hearing him moan pathetically.
You notice his strained whines and say, "Mike, you don't have hold back."
"But-"
"It's okay, baby, no one's gonna hear. We're far from reception."
He mewls at the nickname."But what about- I don't know- ah- the- the other customers?"
"It's late. You're the only one here right now."
That's good enough for him. He lets himself moan out loud when you give his dick a little squeeze. "A-Ah! Please-" he squeaks out. It all feels so surreal. He's secretly wanted you for so long and now you were on your knees in front of him with your fingers wrapped around his aching cock.
Suddenly, you reach your other hand up to play with his balls and his hips jerk up at the feeling. "Fuck!" He groans, throwing his head back in pleasure.
Too lost in the feeling, he doesn't notice how wide-eyed with desire you've become as you watch him writhe under your touch. "Oh, I didn't know you were so sensitive, Mike." Your voice comes out sultrily. "Was this what you were thinking about earlier?" you ask, tilting your head and smiling seductively.
He whimpers out, "Y-yes, yes- ah!" His hips jerk up again when you press your thumb against his slit.
"Yeah?"
"Mm- Mhm- yes- yes." he gasps.
"Dirty," you remark, continuing to pump on his leaking cock. You lick your lips as you stare down at it, his pre-cum spreading all over your hand. "Would you like it if I sucked you off?"
Michael's eyes go wide as he looks down at you and immediately he says, "Please- please, I need it- o-oh…!" His moans are cut off when you lean forward lick a strip from the base of his dick all the way up to the tip.
And the view. Fuck, you look so good looking up at him like that.
Your eyes stay on him and he's just unable to look away. And he damn near loses it when you wrap your lips around the tip. He shudders, letting out shaky moan of your name. You swirl your tongue all over his tip and he shivers. "Oh fuck, oh fuck!"
He feels like he's going hysterical. He'd never ever thought that this would happen. You always just seemed so out of reach despite him consistently showing up at your workplace for years. But now, with how eager you were to please him, with how your eyes are sparkling up at him as you take him further into your mouth, he knows now. You were just as desperate for this as he was.
You start to bob your head up and down now with one hand simultaneously still stroking on him and the other still gently toying with his balls. You're slurping all over him, slobber and spit starting to mess up your face. His hands fly to your head as his fingers start to tug on your hair. "Bab- Baby- please." He can't handle it anymore, he's getting closer to the edge.
He closes his eyes and lets his mouth drop open as he gasps out your name. "I'm so close. God, please, I'm… fuck!"
.
.
.
Meanwhile…
Bill stands up from his seat and walks down the hall in search for the bathroom. It's been roughly around forty-five minutes since Michael had disappeared with you. And quite frankly, the drinks that the people at the spa had given Bill while he waited was starting to go down quick.
He spots the bathroom near the end of the hall and goes to walk towards it. It just so happened that he would have to pass Michael's designated room and when he does, he takes a pause.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck!"
He tilts his head in confusion and stares at the door for a second. He knew you were a skilled massage therapist but this was something else.
After a moment he shrugs and sighs as he continues on his way to the bathroom.
"Must be a damn good massage," he mutters to himself.
