30th anniversary special: a love of a lifetime series.
Summary: Y/N introduces Michael at his 30th Anniversary Special at Madison Square Garden.
Author note: I would have loved this for him. He looked so sad that night.
Fluff! Enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Madison Square Garden, New York City - 2001
The audience erupted the second Y/N stepped onto the stage.
Spotlights followed her across Madison Square Garden while applause thundered through the venue.
Michael watched from backstage beside the monitor, already smiling.
Then she reached the microphone.
And unexpectedly…
Her composure faltered.
Just slightly.
Because looking out at the crowd at decades of fans who had loved Michael through every era the reality of the moment hit her all at once.
She smiled emotionally.
The audience quieted immediately.
“You know, she began softly, “I’ve stood beside this man for most of my life.”
A murmur moved through the crowd.
Backstage, Michael looked stunned already.
Y/N laughed shakily.
“And somehow… after all these years… introducing him still makes me nervous.”
The audience laughed warmly.
But her eyes had already started filling with tears.
Because suddenly she wasn’t looking at the icon.
She was remembering: the shy young man from 1979, studio nights during Off the Wall, exhaustion during Thriller, hotel balconies after arguments, babies asleep in his arms, the loneliness fame carved into him, the joy music still gave him after everything
She swallowed carefully.
Then smiled.
“For over twenty years, I’ve had the privilege of loving the most extraordinary man I’ve ever known.”
The arena went completely silent.
Backstage, Michael stared at the monitor like he’d forgotten how to breathe.
“And while the world knows him as Michael Jackson…the King of Pop”
Her voice cracked slightly.
“I know him as my husband.”
The crowd erupted instantly.
Screaming.
Applause.
Pure emotional chaos.
Michael visibly covered his face backstage, overwhelmed immediately.
Y/N laughed through tears now.
“Yes” she smiled. “My husband of over twenty years.”
The audience somehow became louder.
“And the father of our beautiful children.”
Backstage, Michael looked genuinely emotional now.
His eyes glistened while everyone around him suddenly pretended not to notice.
Y/N looked toward the wings instinctively, even though the spotlight made it impossible to see him clearly.
But somehow she knew he was there.
Watching her.
The same way he always had.
“When people talk about his talent” she continued softly, “they talk about records, performances and awards.”
Her smile deepened.
“But the greatest thing about him has never been fame or musical talent.”
The room quieted again.
“It’s his heart.”
Michael closed his eyes briefly backstage.
Gone.
Absolutely gone.
“He loves completely” Y/N whispered.
“And if you’re lucky enough to be loved by him…”
Tears slipped down her cheeks now.
“It changes your life forever.”
The audience rose to their feet before she even finished speaking.
A full standing ovation.
Thunderous.
Overwhelming.
Y/N laughed softly, wiping at her face.
“And now…” she said warmly, voice trembling with emotion, “please welcome my favorite person in the entire world…”
Her smile turned impossibly tender.
“The legendary King of Pop, My husband… Michael Jackson.”
The arena exploded.
And backstage, Michael stood completely shattered in the best possible way.
~~~~~~~~~~
The roar of the crowd became almost unbearable.
Michael had stood in front of millions. Heard stadiums scream his name across decades.
But nothing— nothing— had ever compared to hearing Y/N call him her favorite person in the world after twenty years together.
Twenty years.
Twenty years of stolen moments backstage. Of surviving the impossible side by side. Of raising children together between tours, rehearsals, bedtime stories, and quiet mornings no one else ever got to see.
And somehow she still looked at him like he was magic.
Michael shook his head in disbelief, overwhelmed beyond words.
His musical director stepped forward. “Thirty seconds, Michael.”
Michael suddenly turned.
“Change the entrance.”
The crew blinked.
“What?”
“No lift. No blackout. No dramatic opening.” He smiled, emotional and breathless all at once. “Just play the music when I tell you.”
“Michael, we’re live—”
“I know” he laughed softly. “Trust me.”
Out in the arena, the audience waited for the familiar explosive opening.
But instead, the lights stayed up.
Confused cheers rippled through the stadium, Until Michael appeared from backstage and broke into a run.
The crowd detonated.
Screaming. Crying. Absolute chaos.
And Michael didn’t look at anyone except Y/N.
She gasped, laughing in pure shock as he crossed the stage and took her face in his hands like he’d been waiting twenty years to do exactly this.
Then he kissed her.
Fully. Openly. Without hesitation.
For the first time in front of the entire world.
The arena became deafening.
Y/N clung to him instantly, emotional and overwhelmed as the audience roared around them.
When he finally pulled away, both of them were laughing through tears.
Michael rested his forehead against hers for one brief second before turning toward the audience, still holding her hand tightly.
“You know…” he began, voice unsteady with emotion, “after twenty years… she still gives me butterflies.”
The crowd erupted again.
Michael smiled, glancing at Y/N with endless affection.
“We built a whole life together” he said softly. “We’ve raised beautiful children together… and somehow she’s still the first person I wanna see every morning.”
Y/N covered her mouth, visibly trying not to cry again.
“She loved me before the lights” Michael continued quietly. “Before the stage. Before any of this mattered.”
The stadium fell completely silent listening to him.
“And every single day, she reminds me what home feels like.”
A wave of emotional cheers rolled through the audience.
Michael lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles gently before grinning suddenly, that familiar spark flashing back into his eyes.
“Alright,” he laughed, pointing toward the crowd. “Now I gotta go sing for you people before I embarrass myself even more.”
The audience exploded with laughter and applause.
The opening beat finally slammed through the stadium speakers.
Michael squeezed Y/N’s hand one last time, gave her a dazzling smile full of history and love, then sprinted down the runway as the performance began and the entire arena shook beneath him.
Ugh, after all the thirsty TikTok edits I have seen of MJ, which btw were so good 🫠 I got the idea about a fic where he and his wife are being interviewed at their home or Neverland and where the interviewer basically asks about their life as a married couple and then somehow these edits are shown to him, and they watch it together and his wife which is a little bit younger, so she has an idea about what’s going on with social media, and she loves them, and secretly saved some of them, and he is both shocked about these edits but he loves them in secret, it would be such a fun fic to read 🤣❤️ here are some of my favorite edits on TikTok so you can see 😮💨👀 I hope you can see the vision🫠
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNR7h4CXG/
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNR7hv2Rh/
https://vm.tiktok.com/ZNR7honFP/
I got you bby!
𝑾𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑬𝒅𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒖𝒓 𝑯𝒖𝒃𝒃𝒚
(Also, for the purposes of this we're gonna bend time and space okay? Let's just pretend the internet was popping off in the early 2000's and Tiktok was a thing already. Just humor me)
Mature!Michael Jackson x Wife!Reader
Synopsis: You and Michael are being interviewed at the Neverland Ranch, and the interviewer slyly brings up to topics of edits. As his wife, you're so prepared to watch them while he is at a loss for words.
Content: Reader being a tease, embarrassed michael, fluff, swearing, you call michael dada as a joke
W.C. 1.7k
Masterlist
You stood patiently in the kitchen, watching your husband pace the tiled floors anxiously. You flipped the pancakes in the pan with ease, catching them with a smile. "Boom! Did you see that?" you looked over at him.
He looked up at you, "Hm? Oh yes, bravo darling."
You gave him a look, "I just flipped these pancakes masterfully and you didn't even seeeee." You whined slightly before putting the pancakes on his plate and covering it with syrup and whipped cream before sliding it over to him.
He came up behind you, sliding his arms around your waist and putting his head on your shoulder as you made yourself a batch. "m'sorry, baby girl. You know how I get before interviews, I just worry." He kissed your cheek.
"I know, Michael. But that's why you have me this time. You know I won't shy away from chewing people out." You placed a hand on top of his.
"I know, you're my fighter, it's one of the reasons I married you." He smiled into your neck.
You stilled slightly, before finishing up your own pancakes and turning off the stove. You turned in his hold, now facing him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, chest pressing into his as you looked up at him with big doe eyes, "Oh yeah? What are the other reasons?"
Despite the fact that you two had been married, he still got incredibly bashful around you, especially when you were looking up at him like that. "Well for starters, you're the most beautiful girl on earth." He pressed a kiss to your neck in between each compliment. "You're gentle with kids," kiss, "You show me so much love and compassion," kiss. You couldn't help the little whine that left your lips as he continued kissing your neck, "and you make the most gorgeous noises."
You pulled away from him slowly, "Mmh, you better be careful or we might have to reschedule this interview."
He was about to answer when Frank cleared his throat from the entrance to the kitchen. "As much as I'm sure Michael would love that, they're here."
Michael turned red and you smirked, giggling to yourself. He finally moved out of your space and leaned against the counter, inhaling the pancakes that were slightly cold now. Before either of you knew it there was a large camera crew in the foyer of the house. You grabbed Michael's hand dragging him into the large room to greet them.
Things went relatively smoothly, you all got set up in one of the side rooms of the house. The woman interviewing you sat in a chair set up across from the small leather couch that you and Michael sat on. There was easily room for both of you to sit and have your own space, but you sat flush up against him, leaning into his side with his arm wrapped around your shoulders. As the crew set up you talked casually with the interviewer. The more Michael knew the more comfortable he felt, he learned she had been doing celebrity interviews for awhile and was more focused on capturing the human side of such big stars. You could feel the tension leave Michael's shoulders as she spoke.
When the camera's started rolling you carefully squeezed his hand, letting him know it was going to be alright. He smiled at you gratefully. Things ran smoothly, the interviewer asked all the typical questions, like how did you meet, when did things become official, all that silly stuff. Then she turned to you, "So, Y/n, what's your favorite thing about your husband Michael?"
You looked at him, and he looked back at you. You scanned his face for a second, just admiring him, before smiling and answering, "My favorite thing about Michael is his soul. I know that's cliche to say, but it really is my favorite thing. He has the kindest soul on this earth, I genuinely believe that. It's like just being in his proximity you can feel how much love he carries for everyone. It's admirable, I've never met someone who cares so deeply for others." Your eyes never left him as you spoke. He smiled down at you, bringing your forehead to his lips.
The interviewer looked like she was going to cry, "And, Michael, the same question for you."
He smiled brightly, "I love how fiercely protective she is over the people she loves. She was the first person to show me that I was worth something, y'know. Before her, I spent so long feeling undermined by everyone around me, I didn't feel like I was worthy of anything I had achieved. But when I met her, she showed me my worth by standing up for me." His eyes lit up as he remembered something, "Oh can I please tell them about that one press conference?"
You laughed, "Really?? You're going to put me on blast like that?"
"Please!!" He begged.
You couldn't say no to him, so you let out a dramatic sigh, "Fineeee."
He got excited and sat up, leaning forwards, a laugh already bubbling in his chest. "So I was at this conference for the Bad tour, and Y/n here was off stage. I was answering questions when someone asked me if I bleached my skin. Y'know I was so shocked for a minute, I didn't know what to say. But this little monster was so mad she came out on stage and started berating the guy." He laughs at the memory, "Oh you were so mad! It was like I could see the steam coming out of your ears." He laughed more after looking at your unamused face.
"I stand by what I called him, that was so out of line." You crossed your arms.
The interviewer leaned forward trying not to laugh, "What did you call him?"
"I don't think I can publicly say on the air what I called him, but come up with the worst thing you can think of and multiply it times 10."
Michael was practically doubled over on your lap laughing at the memory. He sat back up and wiped a tear from his eye. "That was one of the first times I had seen her unleash her full power, it was frightening but incredibly attractive at the same time."
You eyed him, smiling to yourself. The interviewer chuckled, "Alright, I think we should play a little game. I'm going to give you who's most likely to and you are going to point at the person you think falls into that category."
You nodded, ready for a game. It started out playful, most of the time you agreed on what was said.
Most likely to lock themselves out of their own home? Michael.
Most likely to get banned from social media? You
Most likely to clap when their plane lands? Michael.
Most likely to be the first one out on the dance floor? You.
Most likely to make a playlist for the other? Michael
Most likely to get a tattoo of the other person’s name? You (And you did)
But there was one question that sparked a fierce debate.
Most likely to get hit on at a bar?
"Obviously it's Michael." You pointed at him and looked over to find him pointing at you. "Me??"
"Yeah you. Don't act modest, you're young and sexy." He defended his choice.
"Michael, my love, my sweet darling, my angelface. You're literally Michael Jackson, what are you talking about?" You raised an eyebrow at him.
"Well when we were younger you used to get hit on all the time, it drove me crazy." He leaned back on the couch.
"Baby, I'm not the one with fan edits, that would be your fine ass." You smirked as he stilled.
"What? What are fan edits?" He looked so confused, it was adorable.
Both your mouth and the interviewer's mouth dropped open. The woman looked at him, "You've really never seen a fan edit of yourself?"
"No? What are they? Are they bad?" He looked between you both helplessly.
"Oh god no, they're amazing!" You grabbed your phone eagerly. "I have like a whole folder on my phone dedicated to them."
The interview quickly turned into you and the interviewer making Michael watch edits of himself. The more you showed him the more provocative they got. You would make small comments about them, "I like the way they matched your hips to the music in this one, OH look at your hands in this one!"
Michael looked like he was going to short circuit, there was so much he was learning all at once. One being that people had taken clips of him and put them together to a song, two that you apparently knew about this and didn't tell him, three that you had seemingly liked and favorited every single one.
He squinted at the screen, reading the caption on one, "Who is dada?" He looked at you.
You looked back up at him, face so serious, "You're dada." He looked like he was genuinely going to pass away. You and the interviewer bursted into laughter, you fell off the couch, holding your stomach as you cried out with laughter. Michael sat there like a statue, trying to get his brain to work again.
His mind was racing before it came screeching to a halt and he smirked. He looked at the interviewer, "Are there any edits of Y/n?"
You halted on the floor, sitting up immediately, trying to snatch away your phone. The interviewer nodded, "Oh yeah, tons."
"Well I want to see."
"No no no no, this is about you being hot and sexy." You tried to switch the topic back to him.
But it was too late, the interviewer had handed him the phone which now had edits of you playing on repeat. Michael put on his glasses, watching the screen mesmerized.
"I think I get the whole appeal of these things now." He smiled and kissed you.
STAY SAFE!! [ID: the Gilbert Baker pride flag with the words “Happy pride to all those who are unable to celebrate openly and safely. You are loved and seen!” in all-caps black text over it. /end ID]
It should have been one of the happiest days of your life, seeing your boyfriend after spending nearly three months away from each other as he went away on tour, the nearly daily phone call having to suffice for his lack of presence. You'd gotten yourself glammed up, a fresh bouncy blowout, a light smokey eye and a shiny pink lipgloss decorating your lips. You had even used that super fancy lotion Michael had loved on you, and to top it all off, a cute pink babydoll dress under the champagne coloured silk robe. The candles had been lit around the house, creating a warm ambience, even the staff had gone home in order to leave you and your boyfriend to have some alone time.
Sitting impatiently in the living room by the door, you waited to hear the familiar sound of the key turning and clicking open. As soon as that key clicked, you were up on your feet, bound towards the front door, nearly slipping on the freshly polished tiles from your sudden movements.
However, what shocked you wasn't the sight of your beloved boyfriend with open arms, it was Bill holding him up with an arm around his waist as Michael's head dipped forward in complete and utter exhaustion. "Oh my gosh, Michael...", your hand quickly being placed over your mouth before rushing towards the two men in order to guide him towards the comfy couch you were previously sitting on.
Once he was situated onto the couch, you turned towards Bill, thanking him for his help before escorting him to the front door, gently closing and locking the door behind him. Running back to the living room, your heart broke to see your beloved boyfriend staring back at you with such a drained look in his eye, but still trying to smile at the sight of you. "Y/N, I missed you so much.." He tried to move his body to stop him from slumping on the couch, "Don't worry about me, I'll- I'll be fine"
You stared at him in disbelief for a second, fine? are you looking at the right person here? "Baby, you are totally drained! Let me just take care of you tonight.", you argued. He went to argue, he hated when people fussed over him. You cut him off just as quickly, "Please, Mikey.."
The finality in your tone made him surrender. Who knew his lady could be so serious when she's all dolled up for him. You knelt down, gently sliding his loafers off of his feet and placing them neatly underneath the marble coffee table so he wouldn't trip over them.
Hoisting him up by his large hands, you pulled his arm through your hooked elbow to help guide him up the stairs. "One step at a time, lovely. Careful, careful" you muttered under your breathe. Finally stepping through the threshold of your shared bedroom, you gently sat him down on the corner of the bed, pulling out his comfiest pyjamas from the dresser and carefully laying them out on the bed beside him.
"Let me run you a bath, just wait here a minute, okay?", you softly kissed his forehead before turning on your heel towards the en suite bathroom. You lit the candles, ran the warm water and added the lavender scented bubble bath into it, something you specifically bought him for his insomnia. You turned towards the small radio in the corner of the bathroom, turning the dial on and towards the radio station that specifically only played jazz music without any commentary.
"Michael, come now, the bath is ready for you", you smiled. He walked sluggishly towards you, gradually shedding his clothes with each step before stopping in front of you only in his trousers.
"Thank you for taking care of me and not leaving me behind" he whispered, his lips meeting yours in a soft, intimate moment. "Baby, it's not everyday you let me look after you like this, I'm taking advantage of it", laughing quietly whilst staring into his eyes. He smiled before walking past you into the bathroom, undressing and sliding into the bath which was fit for a king. His head tipped back against the porcelain as the warmth soaked into his bones, a relieved sigh of content released from his lips.
You quickly slipped downstairs into the kitchen, heating the water on the stove to make him lemon and honey tea to soothe his throat. The chef had made a vegetable broth and put it in the fridge incase of an emergency where Michael had worn out his voice. Thankful for their future thinking, you poured the soup into a pan and placed it on the stove to heat up. As the kettle began to whistle, you put the sliced lemon and honey into his Disney mug before pouring the boiling water over it, allowing the lemon and honey to blend together whilst you poured the broth into a soup bowl.
After placing it onto a tray, you carefully carried it up to the bedroom. Michael had already made his way out of the bath and into his pyjamas, resting on top of the covers on the bed, his back against the headboard as he scrolled through the television at the end of the bed, eventually settling on a old movie he enjoyed watching. He caught the movement at the door, turning his head towards you as you walked in, gently placing the tray on the bed.
"Oh, baby... You really didn't need to do this, I would have been fine just getting in bed and going to sleep", he said quietly.
"Oh hush, let me just do this for you"
Gently picking up the hot bowl, you lifted the spoon out of the bowl before guiding it over to Michael's mouth. The corner of his lips turned up before his mouth eventually opened, the spoon slipping past before he swallowed the broth. He hummed as the warmth travelled down his sore throat, the drowsiness really beginning to kick in. You picked up the warm mug, placing it into his hands, "Drink".
After the bowl of the vegetable broth had been mostly finished and all that was left in the mug was the sliced lemon, you picked up the tray before placing it on the table beside the bedroom door. Sliding into the bathroom to wash the makeup off and brush your teeth before getting under the covers beside your boyfriend.
"I really missed this, Y/N. I've not been this comfortable since before the tour began" he said quietly as he lowered his head onto your chest.
Your fingers slid into the soft, black curls on his head, gently massaging his scalp. "Just rest now, honey, you deserve it."
He began to doze off with your hands in his hair and the movie playing faintly from the tv. A happiness blooming through his chest as he smiled. His eyelashes fluttered shut as he felt the unfamiliar sensation of being pulled into a deep sleep.
"Y/N" he whispered quietly, in a state between consciousness and deep sleep. You hummed lightly in response, your fingers continuing to play with his curls.
⁀➴ on borrowed time, you and michael are tucked away in the solitude of his hayvenhurst home. as time mocks your momentary peace, he devotes those fleeting seconds to implant the words i love you without actually saying it. and when the time comes? well, he doesn’t want you to leave!!!
⁀➴ off the wall! clingy! michael x actress! secret girlfriend! reader
⁀➴ fluff , making out
The moon was nestled into the clouds as it shone onto the quiet house of the Jacksons. You two sat in the quiet glow of the starlight, cuddled with each other on the couch.
With you consumed by acting and Michael by music, it was rare moment of peace either of you get.
The quiet was occupied but the mindless hum of the tv, and the shuffling of you and Michael proving how much you love each other.
Sneaking over— it was routine.
Sure, you didn’t have to sneak over. But imagine the fans already awaiting at his front gate, the tabloids itching for a new story, the paparazzi ready to blind you when they discover you and Michael holding hands for too long. You two have so much going on in your lives, and having a “are you two intimate with each other?” on top of that by an invasive journalist is not something you want to worry about.
Of course you made you public appearances together, but keep them light. Simple. Friendly.
Besides— you were going public when Off the Wall releases. You can already imagine some eye grabbing headline like— “The Lucky Lady Behind Michael’s Biggest Hits is Revealed!!” You don’t know— and honestly you don’t want to think about it right now.
Hence, here you are.
The blanket pooled at your hips that straddle his own, fingers tangled in his curls, his own hands gentle but firm on your waist…
Your lips met softly at first, Michael giggling at something he heard on the TV before deepening into something hungry but tender. The rhythm of your lips against his was absolutely perfect! Slow and sweet one moment… then passionate the next.
And Michael was greedy. But gentle, of course.
Every time you kissed him, he never wanted to pull away. His arms would lock around your waist, or hands cup the back of your head— just to keep you close and feel you as your mouths moved together in a slow, lingering kisses that felt endless.
Warmth bloomed like flowers in the spring every time his palms blessed your skin. He’d breathe you in between presses of your lips, fingers tracing the curve of your jaw like you were something precious. And you were. You meant the world to him. And right now? Every second with you was cherished because it was all you both had.
“Michael…” you called out in a sweet whisper, barely audible over the sound of your shared breaths. He didn’t even hear you (or bother to hear you).
He was lost in you, drowning in the sweetness of your sweet lips dancing with his. His hands framed your face, thumbs brushing along your cheeks as he kissed you even deeper. Slow but with desperate. Every press of your mouths felt like a prayer: worship and all-consuming.
Your hands gave his shoulders a squeeze in an attempt to ground him, “Michael—“ he kissed you “I gotta go—“ another kiss.
Oh what the heck.
You reciprocated his kiss with that same desperate sweetness, cupping his face and twirling the curls at the nape of his neck.
Finally you speak again, a little louder this time, soft but persistent against the quiet hum of the room.
Michael finally registered it through the kiss-drunk haze. He blinked slowly before pulling back just enough to look at his woman properly— your lips slightly parted from yours separating, cheeks flushed agsint the dim light of the tv.
His eyes were glassy with affection as he studied the face he fell in love with. “Hm?” he humbled drowsily, that sleepy-sweet tone he only used for you when you’d be making out for ages.
“They’re gonna home in less than minutes…” you didn’t miss his flicker of disappointment, and you couldn’t help but feel it too. “I should be heading out.”
His face fell. He hated that he was being needy and begging you to stay. But he hasn’t seen you in weeks. He misses his girl.
“Nooooo,” he whined in denial like a petulant child, pressing his forehead to yours, “five more minutes… please?”
The clock on the wall mocked him— his family probably two streets away from Hayvenhurst… Yet Michael couldn’t find himself to care. He just wanted one more kiss, maybe two, maybe three, maybe ten.
Although he kissed you again— you didn’t dare to pull away. You both know you don’t want to. You giggled into the kiss, your laughter vibrating between your lips. Your hands slid up to cradle his face, fingers threading through soft coils. You melted right back into him despite knowing both of you were on borrowed time.
The world outside— the risk of being caught by his family (and the world in general) coming home— faded for just a few more blissful seconds.
Then Michael had the nerve to trail his lips down your neck. Your eyes fluttered shut momentarily and your head automatically tipped itself back. Every brush of his lips against yours sent little sparks though you. Yall knew you were pushing it— you knew the car could pull up any second now— but this boy addicted to kissing you.
“Michael— I seriously gotta go—“ you tried to be responsible while making no serious effort to leave.
His hands slide down to your hips, squeezing them gently in that way he always did when he was utterly smitten. The touch was warm and possessive, a silent I love you without words.
You hesitated on saying his name again— Michael could see it in the way your lips parted to speak but you held your tongue. With his stupid smirk you loved so much he kissed the hesitation away. Slow and teasing, refusing to let go.
“Mmmm… one more…” he whispered against your lips.
Then one became two.
Three.
Four.
You lost track of time as he kissed you back like a man starved. Each press of his lips was soft! But hungry. His node nudged against yours, breaths mingling,
Each peck was sweeter than the last: one of your bottom lip… then the corner… your cheekbone… the tip of your nose… that little space between your eyebrows… as he chased every inch. He didn’t care about anything else at the moment— not schedules, responsibilities, touring, his brothers, Joseph— just you. Right here, in his arms.
He mumbled without even thinking “Mine…” a quiet claim slipping out before he could stop it. You felt a tingle in your spine.
He swallowed your next gentle scold with a kiss, deeper this time. He didn’t want to hear about responsibilities or curfews… not when you tasted like cherry lip gloss and home. So, he kept kissing you. Slow… hungry… then soft again. Unfortunately you melted into him, arms wrapping around his neck and sighing softly.
“Shhhhh…..” he breathed against your mouth between kisses, fingers sliding to cradle the back of your head while the others held the arch of your back.
You finally put your foot down.
“Michael Joseph Jackson.”
He sat there, dazed and kissed-drunk, lips still puckered from the sudden break in your heated makeout session. Those big brown eyes stared at you with a mix of adoration and poutines.
The both of you look ridiculous. Cheeks flushed, hair messy from fingers running through it… and absolutely lovesick.
Michael looked like a puppy who’d just been scolded for begging too much. “Whaaaaaatt?” he rasped after a beat.
“I have to go,” a soft smile graced your lips as unhooked your arms, thumb tracing his jaw, “like— right now.”
His pout deepened as you found amusement in his heartbroken face. But he knew you were right, they would be home any second now. But damn it… he didn’t want you to leave! Not after you both have been lost in each other for so long.
With dramatic reluctance, he finally exhaled and leaned back on the couch, but not before stealing one last peck.
Your hands fell from his face, down his chest, to your own lap, while his own hands hovered over your hips, like he was determining if he was ready to let go or not. His fingers twitched like they had a mind of their own (something you can confirm.)
And then, in one last act of defiance, he cupped your face and kissed you fiercely. It was messy and desperate, and he didn’t miss the way your hands crept up to grasp his chest.
You two finally parted, chest rising and falling rapidly, what glassy with unspoken emotion.
You grinned, “you done?”
Michael exhaled dramatically, shouldering slumping in exaggerated defeat. He looked at you one last time with those pretty, soulful eyes. Maybe if you stared hard and long enough then you’d stay the night…
He didn’t anything. Then nodded once like a sulky child accepting defeat. “Yeah.. sure…” he muttered, voice low and resigned as he reached to tuck a stray curl behind your ear one last time before you left.
Not before he leaned forward to press his lips to yours…
what? during the filming of michael jackson’s private home movies, michael is shown a heartwarming video of you, giving him a chance to talk intimately about your relationship.
tags. fluff. lots of fluff. established relationship. reader is pregnant with their first child. timeline switches between 2003 (invincible) and 1989 (bad). childhood friends to eventual lovers implied. [name] is used a normal-ish amount, michael refers to reader as 'bunny' (nickname hehe). but there's very little description given for the reader for maximum immersion ッ
word count. 3.5k
notes. my first foray into michael fiction... i typically do mmorpg roleplaying so this is very different for me, but a great writing exercise. i love michael very much and getting to write him is fun! really not my best work ajkfhnak. not proofread!!
please be advised that this is a work of fiction. i do not claim to know the people involved or understand their inner workings. thank you!
IT WAS NO SECRET... that michael jackson was one of the most photographed, most filmed figures in modern history. from press conferences, tours, red carpet appearances, and arms full of coveted awards, even a blurry photo of him beneath a tattered baseball cap and oversized aviators would get a few hundred underneath the table. it was part of the business; soul-suckingly taking bits and pieces of the man in an effort to feed the tabloid beast. unfortunately, the consequence of fame that rising stars commonly fail to account for is that this beast is seldom satiated, equipped with a bottomless appetite fueled by curiosity and shock value.
michael learned this at a young age, the hard way, as a budding boy with enough wisdom to power all of gary, indiana. he looked to the world with open arms, with a kindness and heart for all it could give to him. perhaps it was his fault that he didn’t think of what the world could take away. perhaps it was his fault that the things the world slipped from him were intangible and invisible to the eye: privacy, protection, peace, and innocence. so it meant something when he agreed to a one-hour special of his private videos.
the scene was like any other day to him. the usual onslaught of cameras, crewmen without a name to rattle off to him, producers wanting the perfect commentary of each video he coughed up. michael felt the expectations to be inconsistent with how he truly perceived his memories, encased in amber film frozen in snippets of moments he’d hop into the delorean to go back to. from watching himself on the set of black or white, to his dearest friend elizabeth surprising him with an elephant, the smile that stretched across his face was genuine. it was warm and inviting and extended up to his eyes as they squinted with each laugh.
and even when the room was abuzz with faces most unfamiliar to him, full of life and an ambition to complete this project, the man was still alone, occupying one of many empty velveted theater seats. it felt awkward, but certainly not unfamiliar. he had been here before. he was at home in his solitude.
“alright, michael,” the main producer called out to him, the left side of his headset pushed behind his ear temporarily, “here’s your next video.” the man in question noted the way his blonde hair sprung out like weeds beneath the filming gear, and it brought a grin out of him, one that sat on the cusp of a soft laugh. a young woman behind the producer, no older than a quarter century at best, quickly switched out the tapes, her eyes flickering back and forth to ensure she didn’t break anything.
michael gave an affirming half-nod and a quiet ‘okay’, shifting in his seat rather uncomfortably. he’d been sitting here for some time now and could feel his body branding itself onto the cushion beneath. out of anxiousness or perhaps impatience did he begin tapping his foot. though as the video sprung to life on the projector before him, he couldn’t recall if his heart sank, or if it grew wings and fluttered into his throat.
“oh, i love this one,” michael’s voice lowered to just a hair above a soft whisper, hands clapping together. his eyes told the story much better than words could. they lit up at the sight of a shaky camera pointed downward to the tile of the neverland ranch home…
1989. -
the click of black loafers echoed against the high walls of neverland. sunlight made itself known inside, plastering itself on every surface it could find, the warmth of that july day pressed to permanent memory. towering over a bulky, gray camcorder stood michael, clouded pink button up and all. a sweat bead threatened to manifest on his right temple as diligent hands fidgeted with the tape. “come on now…” he didn’t want to hurt the poor thing, but life was happening outside, slipping by with every second that the camcorder refused to function. his curls hung just perfectly, framing his face in such a way that this frustration was not so easily revealed. but maybe if he just…
thud!
a little nudge of encouragement seemed to do the trick, bringing the temperamental device to life. the lens zoomed into the tile beneath michael, taking a moment to focus. “there we go.”
the backyard was a sight to behold, out of a storybook where princesses and fairies and proud knights came to play. streamers of pink and blue twisted and hung from poles installed just for the occasion. balloons decorated the sky as they poked to the heavens in clusters attached to chairs and tables. the laughter of children was as sweet as song whilst the jacksons and the [surname]’s mingled harmoniously. as evidenced by the smell of the grill, manned by none other than joe jackson, there was no shortage of food. a table nearby, covered with a dainty floral cloth, was but swallowed whole by an overwhelming amount of wrapped gifts, of pink and blue and yellow paper alike. a larger-than-life teddy bear sat slumped beside the presents.
the lens zoomed in again, a bit rough at first, but once it focused, a smile crept onto michael’s face. it creased into the camera, pushing the view upwards.
“…and there’s [name],”
he carried her name as if it were scripture, and gazed upon her with the hope that he’d forget tomorrow, all so he could see her face for the first time again. the video lingered on the woman as she sat in a painted chair adorned with pink and blue balloons, tassels, and frilly things. her hands idly wrapped around her stomach. it protruded from her rest of her body, though from the angle michael was recording from, it proved difficult to see. the dress she chose for that day made her appear almost ethereal; a pale green number whose frilled neckline scooped down past her collarbone, the fabric of layered tulle that moved with each hush of the wind.
her hair had originally meant to be down that day, but janet had so lovingly pinned it back for her in preparation for the heat. michael’s eye, through the camera, continued to persist on her, as if she was the only person there with a worthy story to tell. her gaze seemed to have latched onto her niece. whatever it was she had grabbed from her - a magazine it looked to be - the woman began fanning herself with it, a sigh bordering obnoxious rising and falling from her chest. behind the video, a gentle, low chuckle erupted from the director...
-
michael, from the theater chair, pointed to the screen. he was growing more and more giddy, like a child who had but brushed knuckles with their crush in the school hallway. “this was nineteen-eighty-nine… just before our first child was born. i felt so sneaky for getting that shot of her,” he shook his head, covering half his face with his hand. there was another grin tugging at his lips, “she hated being filmed, especially then.”
to hear him speak of his children was a privilege. he kept his wife close to him, shielded her as best he could from the ever-hungry public, and he did the same for their kids. to grow up as the child of michael jackson was a unique life to be given, a hand dealt to you with a multitude of thorns. and it was their mother and father that did their best to provide normalcy for them, to prick each thorn off and give them something they themselves never had.
“my kids — my family — they are everything to me. they are in the music i write and are part of my creative process, every step,” sincerity dripped from his voice like sweet nectar off a honeycomb, his body language opening up to the world. “fatherhood is a new journey every day for me. i’m learning things about the kids all the time. they love to read and to play outside and climb the trees, just like i do.”
he pressed on, “and doing it all with her is such a blessing.” a laugh bubbled and broiled from michael at the next shot, “oh, she still teases me for this…
-
“bunny…”
her back was turned to the camera, hands on her hips as she swayed side to side. she and latoya stood next to the pool, watching the kids show off their cannonballs and backflips. the conversation between the two women appeared passionate, well, on latoya’s end. [name] was simply nodding, giving the occasional input here and there, but otherwise resorting to that of a lent ear. as michael approached the duo slowly, it was as if his wife’s newfound motherly instinct had taken form prematurely, her head turning sharply to the camera.
“mike! stop that!” as annoyed as she was, there was nevertheless a smile on her face. her palm almost swallowed the view completely, holes of that day peeking through her fingers. michael’s laugh was all that could be heard as she pushed the camcorder down.
the culprit feigned a hurt pout, “you know i just think you’re pretty.” he readjusted the camera, “‘n’ i want everyone else to see it, too.”
she couldn’t tell if it was the heat of the july afternoon that had begun to pulsate on her cheeks, or the shade of crimson that was, oddly enough, always around when michael put her under the limelight. it had been that way since they were kids, a tale as old as time. he’d muster up the courage to say something sweet, almost too sweet, and she’d turn away and find the ground more interesting.
but it was the way she twisted her mouth from side to side, then keeping it on the left, that told michael all he needed to know. she was never great with receiving compliments, never great with having the attention. all the while, the undisputed king of pop lifted her to new heights. he built a foundation of confidence within her over the course of their lives, doing whatever he could to someday make her see herself the way he did.
the nickname “bunny” came from their childhood, too. her first pet, cautiously gifted to her on her seventh birthday after months of allowance money and beggary had been saved up. michael was the first to meet the lop eared animal. there was something about the young boy and animals, she noticed. there looked to be a language spoken between every one he offered a smile to. thus, he bestowed the title to her after watching the way her nose scrunched up at the smell of her mothers latest gelatin monstrosity.
needless to say, she hated it from the beginning. and it only served to bite her in the behind as time passed, as michael’s brothers picked the nickname up too. even janet and katherine slipped the name a few times, despite both pinky promising never to use it.
she didn’t know exactly when it was that the nickname suddenly changed to her. maybe when she heard michael whisper it to himself absentmindedly, or when he’d begin every letter and every call to her with it. it was something between them that remained consistent for a lifetime, and that was exactly what michael needed.
“you gotta show the gifts!” latoya unceremoniously interrupted the moment, taking it upon herself to turn the camera towards the table. michael’s eyebrows furrowed. his sister certainly had a delicate, heavy-handed touch. “you take it then!” he released his palm from the side handle of the camcorder, hoisting the equipment from his shoulder and onto latoya’s with one fell swoop.
[name] stifled a laugh, giving the woman a poke in the back, “didn’t think it’d be so heavy, huh?”
“oh, whatever!” latoya quickly made her way to the gift table, shooing one or two tiny jackson kids away from the camera’s view.
with the husband and wife left alone, michael made up for lost time in the directors seat, wrapping an arm around her waist and gently guiding her into his embrace. she didn’t fight it, letting her body lean into his side. the temporary feeling of weightlessness brought her bliss, something she hadn’t felt for close to eight months.
a firm kiss was planted onto her forehead, followed by a studious look upon her features. their time spent together had paid off in that words became less and less necessary. there were little long-winded explanations, few moments of true misunderstanding. it was a double edged sword at times, as neither of them could truly hide from one another. which is why…
“you smell like paint,” she blurted out.
michael’s eyebrows shot up, “what’re you talking about?”
“i can smell you,” she brought her hand to his wrist, pulling it up to her nose, “you know what they say about pregnant women.”
“i don’t actuall—“
she finished his sentence, or perhaps cut it short, “they can smell everything, heightened senses and all.” her head tilted to the side, eyes fixed on the curls that framed his face. they somehow stayed tight in the summer heat, “you were in the nursery again.”
“i just wanted to get it done,” michael brought his hands up to surrender, guilty as charged. “what’s the baby going to think when they come into their room and see an unfinished mural?”
[name] failed to suppress her smirk. he was cute when the determination set in, “it’s okay to ask for help, you know.”
“i’m doing it myself, bunny.”
there it was again.
“i want to help you,” she crossed her arms, opting to lean into his body again and peer down at his loafers. the baby shower went on around them, but they hadn’t a clue about it. stuck in their own bubble. “you do everything by yourself.”
michael dug his hooves in the ground, “and i’ll be doing this myself too.” he shifted his body weight a bit, straightening her up and wrapping his hands around her shoulders. “you are doing more than enough, look at you!” doe-eyes gazed upon her. delicate and tender was his stare, boring into every crevice of her skin. she looked just as she did when he first met her, on the steps of her front porch in gary, indiana. and despite wearing a worn expression, she had a light in her eyes none other than michael could conjure.
she threw her head back and let out a tired laugh to the sky. there was one lone cloud up there in the deep blue, and she took note of it, held onto it for the rest of the day. he was still there once she met his eyes again, still holding all the wonder in the world for her.
“you are carrying my child, our child,” michael pushed a stray hair out of her face.
“crazy to think about,” distracted, she poked her attention at the festivities. tito and jermaine had overtaken joe on the grill. katherine and her mother sat at a table alone, closely discussing the family happenings. they had been so engrossed in each other that she had nearly forgotten what everyone was here for. he was excellent at pulling her away from the noise, oftentimes absorbing it for himself just so she could get some quiet. “you know what else is crazy?”
-
from the projector, latoya’s voice could be heard commentating on what the camera captured. the picturesque view taken in by the grainy tape, comparable to that of a painting.
“there’s your mommy,” a slow zoom into [name]’s figure as michael engrossed himself in her presence, rubbing her shoulders. it slowly panned over to him, “and there’s your daddy.”
there was silence from the set, not a peep from michael as latoya brought the past to life. his head tilted oh-so slightly. surprisingly, he hadn’t known about this part of the video.
latoya continued, “they love you very much, and they can’t wait to meet you.”
the producer hesitated, “michael?”
he snapped out of his head, readjusting himself in the chair and smoothing out his jacket. “um, i’m sorry.” he waved his hand, “you can scrap that part. i just, you know, she was so beautiful here.”
he was borderline jealous. latoya had captured his wife so well. “she is beautiful every day, and i’ve known her for many days.” a dry chuckle crawled out of him while something bashful crept in. even years later did the man struggle to put comprehensible sentences together when speaking about her. it could’ve been voodoo magics at play, or just the unexplainable way she made him feel.
“she lived four doors down from me, and our mothers were friends,” the child within him reflected on his face, his cheeks pushing up and out whilst a wide smile emerged. “when i left school for the jackson five she was still there, buggin’ me about the homework they had.”
“i remember her getting me a jump rope one day,” michael continued, “she told me the girls at school made up a routine to ‘abc’! i didn’t know how to feel ‘bout it. that was the first time she brought up anything to do with my music.”
he didn’t look to care that the was rambling on, they’d take out what they needed to from the final cut anyway. “it was like she wanted me to forget about what was happening around me and how fast it was going. i never had a childhood like she did. she must’ve known that…”
was he getting choked up again? surely not. the lump in his throat was telling him otherwise. out of the corner of his eye, the timid girl that had put the tape in watched him carefully. like he was going to break at any moment. but michael pressed on, he knew what happened next. “keep going!” a small hitch in his voice broke the facade of confidence.
-
“what is it?” michael’s face folded into concern, fully prepared for her to say her water broke. but instead, a sly grin was given to him.
“got you!”
an army of children fully broke the tender moment the soon-to-be mother and father shared. supersoakers abound, the camera shook with latoya’s laughter as they ambushed michael with straight-shots to the chest and face. [name] narrowly escaped imminent death by stepping to the side. she couldn’t contain herself either, nearly howling with amusement while michael threw his hands up, doing a poor job of keeping his clothing dry.
“hey!” a shriek could be heard from the supersoaker victim just before he took off for the yard, rounding the pool and making for the grass. the kids, jackson and [surname] cousins alike, certainly put up a fight. they kept him on his toes, and soon did michael have no choice but to retreat into the trees.
his body moved swiftly and with ease. the muscle memory of every bend and branch of the tree served to pay off in the end, as he quickly settled into safety from the band of youth down below. panting like a dog, michael’s heart was racing and pumped with adrenaline. “you guys are crazy!”
“come down, mikey!” [name]’s nephew taunted. his watergun was already pointed to the trees, trying to find the popstar amongst the leaves. “we won’t hurt you!” a ripple of giggles ensued at that.
“liar!” he had become quite comfortable up there. no wonder it was one of his favorite places to write songs. nevertheless, he was having fun.
the grass crunched beneath heavier footsteps, a taller shadow joined the cluster of smaller ones, “not even for me?”
michael’s shoulders relaxed instantly. his favorite voice poking above the crowd of loaded supersoakers. if it was any other day, he’d be down in an instant, “that’s not fair!”
“they promised they wouldn’t hurt you,” she called out to him. she was fully under the tree then, her head craned up to him. thinking for a breath, she turned to the kids. her face lit up unexpectedly, “i heard they’re doing cake now. ask jackie.”
“what?!” “no way!” “let’s go!”
the last few shots of the video, before it cut to latoya’s precise viewing of each and every gift, was of the children stampeding their way back to the main area. it was rather trembly and unfocused, the last words a loud demand of, “i want a piece of chocolate cake!”
-
in hindsight, michael should’ve known the kids were plotting his doom from beneath the tree. but he always had a trust in them. hindsight also told him that his wife’s little white lie got jackie in lots of trouble with the little assailants, because the cake was in fact not happening when she said it was.
it had him wiping a tear from his eye in hilarity, “she always knows how to get me out of trouble.”
from the sidelines, the producer raised a hand, “let’s take five, everyone.”
as the crew scattered into their own directions, michael hoisted himself from the seat. he was on a mission, as evidenced by the smile that lingered on his face. “where’s my phone? i’d like to call my wife.”
fin.
concluding notes. again this really wasn't my best work :sob: so i apologize if it's a little weird. i just had this thought in my head and wanted to get it out! i really like the idea of childhood friends to lovers with michael (foreshadowing for later fics)... it's so cute...
Hi love!! I’ve been loving all of your Michael x Singer!Reader fics inspired by Sabrina Carpenter😩💕Could I request one where she is called up to sing in We Are The World?! But Michael isn’t told until a few minutes before she pulls up to the studio. So he’s internally freaking out and nervous because he’s a huge fan of her music. She’s worked with Quincy numerous times but her and Michael are just barely meeting. He’s always been too shy to formally introduce himself. But this gives them a perfect excuse to finally meet each other and speak. Reader also would keep her distance because of the rumors she heard of him and Diana Ross. But that all gets cleared up and can we have him ask her out on a date?? Thank you!! Feel free to tweak it if you need to❤️
we are the world recordings session
- your request is my command! i hope you like it <3
SUMMARY: Michal spirals when he finds out reader is attending the ‘We Are the World’ recording.
CONTENT: michael jackson x singer!reader. diana ross mentioned. silly and fluffy.
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭ .
There were very few things capable of making Michael Jackson genuinely nervous anymore.
Performing in front of millions? Fine.
Breaking industry records? Fine.
Winning eight Grammys in one night? Somehow fine.
But right now?
Michael was internally losing his mind because Quincy Jones had just casually dropped the worst possible sentence imaginable into the middle of the We Are The World session.
“Oh, Y/N’s coming by later.”
Michael blinked.
“…What?”
Quincy looked up from his notes.
“Y/N. She’s singing on the chorus.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Then:
“She’s WHAT?”
Quincy finally looked at him properly now, immediately suspicious.
“Why’re you yellin’?”
Michael’s brain completely short-circuited.
Because Y/N.
Y/N.
The tiny pop singer with the glittery voice and ridiculous lyrics and devastating smile.
The same Y/N whose records Michael secretly kept stealing from Jermaine’s stereo because he “wanted to hear the production.”
The same Y/N whose album he definitely did NOT listen to constantly while driving around Encino at night.
The same Y/N who’d worked with Quincy multiple times already somehow without Michael ever properly meeting her.
Mostly because every single time she visited the studio Michael suddenly developed the survival instincts of a frightened deer and disappeared instantly.
And now she was coming HERE.
In like—
Michael looked at the clock.
Oh God.
Twenty minutes.
“You know her already, don’t you?” Quincy asked suspiciously.
Michael immediately lied.
“No.”
Quincy stared at him.
“Michael.”
“I mean kinda.”
“You’ve literally never introduced yourself.”
“Because she’s always busy!”
“Mhmm.”
In reality?
Michael was just shy.
Painfully shy.
Especially around women he thought were pretty.
And unfortunately Y/N was very pretty.
Not in the intimidating glamorous Hollywood way.
Worse.
In the effortlessly funny, charming, impossible-to-ignore way.
The kind of girl who walked into a room and immediately owned it without trying.
Michael had seen interviews.
Award show clips.
Concert footage.
And every single one somehow made him more nervous.
Especially because Y/N had this habit of saying things completely unfiltered.
One time during a performance she’d forgotten her own lyrics and gone:
“What rhymes with me? …Bleeh. That’s peak lyricism.”
Michael laughed so hard orange juice came out his nose.
And now SHE was coming here.
To HIS studio.
Michael immediately panicked.
“Do I look okay?”
Quincy physically laughed.
“You are Michael Jackson.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
Unfortunately for Michael’s sanity, Y/N arrived looking adorable.
Tiny leather jacket.
Big curls.
Glossy lips.
A coffee in one hand.
And she walked into the studio already talking before the door even fully shut behind her.
“I just passed like four journalists outside,” she groaned dramatically. “If one more person asks me about Diana Ross, I’m joining witness protection.”
Michael froze instantly.
Oh.
Right.
That.
Y/N had never fully believed the tabloids.
She wasn’t stupid.
She knew how Hollywood worked, knew publicity stories got twisted into entire fake romances overnight.
But still…
Diana Ross and Michael had always seemed close.
Intimate somehow.
Enough that Y/N had quietly assumed there had to be something there at some point.
And honestly?
That tiny thought alone had been enough to keep her from getting too close to him before.
Because why would Michael Jackson ever look twice at somebody like her when Diana Ross existed?
Then Y/N noticed him standing beside Quincy.
And suddenly she looked startled too.
“Oh.”
Michael forgot every language he’d ever learned.
Because she looked directly at him and smiled politely.
Not flirty.
Not warm.
Just careful.
Like she wasn’t sure what to make of him yet.
Which honestly? Devastated him a little.
Quincy immediately clocked the weird tension.
Then, because he enjoyed chaos, he went:
“Oh my God, y’all have never actually met.”
Michael wanted to evaporate instantly.
Y/N blinked.
“…Seriously?”
Michael finally forced himself to function.
“H-Hi,” he managed softly.
And somehow THAT made her expression soften immediately.
Because Michael Jackson—
actual Michael Jackson—
looked terrified to be speaking to her.
It was weirdly endearing.
“Hi,” she answered carefully.
Silence.
Painful silence.
Then Michael blurted:
“I like your album.”
Y/N blinked.
“…You know my album?”
Michael immediately regretted being alive.
“Uh— yeah.”
“Which songs?”
Michael’s soul left his body.
Quincy physically turned away laughing already.
And then Michael Jackson, biggest pop star on earth, quietly answered:
“Most of them.”
Y/N stared at him.
Then slowly:
“Oh my God.”
Michael looked panicked immediately.
“No, I mean that in a good way,” she laughed softly now. “I just didn’t think Michael Jackson listened to songs about making out and emotional instability.”
Quincy lost it laughing.
Meanwhile Michael turned bright red.
“I— well—”
“She got you there,” Lionel Richie whispered passing by.
And suddenly the room felt lighter.
Because Y/N laughed.
Michael laughed too.
And immediately something eased between them.
Then the recording session started.
Which should’ve been smooth.
Should’ve.
Except half the room couldn’t sing on key.
And unfortunately Michael Jackson had the world’s most expressive face.
The first bad note hit.
Michael blinked slowly.
Looked at Quincy.
Looked at the ceiling.
Then physically turned away from the microphone trying not to react.
Y/N saw the entire thing.
And instantly had to bite her lip to stop laughing.
Another singer missed the harmony.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut briefly like he’d just been personally attacked.
Y/N physically wheezed.
Michael looked over immediately.
And seeing her trying not to laugh somehow made HIM laugh too.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Your face.”
Michael covered his mouth instantly.
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You absolutely are.”
Then came Cyndi Lauper.
And the second she launched into her line with that huge chaotic voice—
Y/N physically startled beside him.
Not in a bad way.
Just violently caught off guard.
Michael looked over at the exact same moment.
And the two of them exchanged this identical wide-eyed look of:
Oh wow.
Which immediately sent them both into silent laughter.
Michael biting his lip trying not to smile.
Y/N clutching his arm whispering:
“She scared me a little.”
Michael nearly collapsed laughing.
Years later that exact glance between them would become one of those clips people replayed endlessly.
Zooming in.
Adding captions.
Convinced they’d literally watched Michael Jackson fall in love in real time.
And honestly?
They weren’t completely wrong.
Because after that, Michael kept gravitating toward her instinctively.
Standing beside her between takes.
Leaning closer when she talked.
Laughing first whenever she made a joke.
Then finally Michael stepped up to record his solo.
The room quieted instantly.
Because regardless of fame, regardless of success, everybody knew Michael Jackson in a recording booth was a different experience entirely.
Y/N leaned back against the wall watching quietly while Michael adjusted the headphones over his curls.
Then the music started.
There comes a time…
And suddenly the entire room changed.
Michael sang softly at first.
Gentle.
Earnest.
Every word carrying this impossible emotional weight like he genuinely meant every syllable.
Y/N physically stopped moving.
Because hearing him live like this?
No screaming crowds.
No giant performances.
Just Michael and a microphone—it felt unreal.
His voice sounded warmer in person somehow.
Rawer.
And the little sounds he made between lyrics?
The tiny breaths and hums and instincts?
God.
Y/N felt something shift painfully in her chest.
Then Michael closed his eyes slightly while singing:
We are the world…
And Y/N actually got emotional.
Which was horrifying.
Because she did NOT cry over men.
Especially not men she’d technically only spoken to for forty minutes.
But something about him singing like that, with so much sincerity and softness, completely ruined her.
And then Michael glanced through the glass mid-line.
Straight at her.
Y/N forgot how breathing worked.
Meanwhile Michael immediately got nervous because now she was watching him.
Actually watching him.
And suddenly he became hyperaware of literally everything.
His hands.
His voice.
His posture.
The fact she smelled nice.
Quincy noticed instantly.
“Oh brother,” he muttered.
When Michael finished, the studio erupted into applause immediately.
Michael turned bright red all the way to his ears.
And honestly?
That was the exact moment Y/N stopped believing any rumors about Diana Ross or anybody else.
Because this man?
This shy, sweet, awkward man blushing over one compliment?
Clearly wasn’t some smooth Hollywood player.
He was just Michael.
And somehow that made her like him even more.
Later, during a break, they ended up alone near the vending machines.
Y/N leaned against the wall sipping her coffee while Michael stood beside her nervously holding orange juice.
Of course orange juice.
“I should probably apologize,” she admitted suddenly.
Michael blinked.
“For what?”
“I kinda avoided you.”
“Oh.”
Y/N looked embarrassed now.
“I just heard stuff.” She shrugged awkwardly. “And I know tabloids exaggerate but… you and Diana always looked close.”
Michael immediately shook his head.
“No, no, it’s not like that.”
Y/N looked at him carefully.
And Michael—sweet painfully earnest Michael—looked genuinely desperate for her to believe him.
“We’re just friends,” he explained softly. “People make things bigger than they are.”
Something about the sincerity in his voice made her chest ache a little.
Because underneath all the fame and spectacle he was just shy. Sweet. Nervous.
And very obviously trying to make sure she didn’t think badly of him.
Y/N smiled softly.
“Okay.”
Michael visibly relaxed instantly.
Then silence settled between them again.
Comfortable this time.
And Michael realized suddenly:
Oh.
Oh he was REALLY in trouble.
Because she smelled nice.
And kept smiling at him.
And every time she laughed his stomach did weird things.
God.
Finally, before he could lose his nerve, Michael blurted:
“Would you maybe wanna go out sometime?”
Y/N blinked.
Michael immediately panicked.
“I mean not like professionally— not that dinner’s professional— I just meant—”
Y/N started laughing softly.
Not meanly.
Fondly.
And somehow that made him even more nervous.
“You’re asking me on a date?”
Michael looked at the floor instantly.
“…Maybe.”
“Oh my God,” she whispered laughing.
Michael looked mortified now.
“You can say no—”
“No!” Y/N answered too fast. “No, I just…”
She smiled shyly now too.
Which nearly killed him.
“I didn’t think you even knew I existed.”
Michael stared at her in disbelief—
Then quietly:
“Are you serious?”
And the way he said it made Y/N realize something instantly.
Michael Jackson had been just as nervous about her as she’d been about him.
Which honestly?
Felt a little insane.
She grinned.
“Okay, yeah. I’ll go out with you.”
Michael froze.
Actually froze.
Then slowly smiled.
Small.
Bright.
Beautiful.
And across the studio, Quincy watched the entire thing unfold beside Lionel Richie with the satisfied expression of a man watching his own evil plan succeed perfectly.
Lionel narrowed his eyes immediately.
“…You did this on purpose.”
Quincy took a slow sip of coffee.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Quincy.”
“That girl’s been orbiting this studio for two years and every single time Michael hears her voice he vanishes like a woodland creature.”
Lionel burst out laughing.
“And you thought forcing them into one room would help?”
Quincy looked deeply proud of himself.
“Look at ‘em.”
Across the studio Michael was already smiling at Y/N so hard he looked physically incapable of hiding it.
Meanwhile Y/N was laughing at something he said while touching his arm absentmindedly.
Can you do reader Sabrina and Michael first meeting together or an interview of Michael talking about her.
looking at you got me thinking nonsense!
- your request is my command! i hope you like it!
SUMMARY: Michal recalls how he and reader met.
CONTENT: Michael x singer!reader. funny. fluff. sabrina carpenter inspired. nonsense outro inspired.
.・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・゜✭・. .・。.・.・。.・゜✭ .
The interviewer had expected Michael Jackson to talk about music.
Maybe touring.
Maybe the pressure after Bad.
Instead, halfway through the conversation, she smiled knowingly and asked:
“So… how did you and Y/N actually meet?”
And for the first time that entire interview, Michael Jackson completely lost his train of thought.
Not dramatically.
Just enough that he blinked once, smiled to himself, and looked down like the memory physically pulled him somewhere else for a second.
The audience noticed immediately.
Because suddenly this wasn’t Michael Jackson the global superstar sitting beneath studio lights in a perfectly tailored black jacket with gold buckles and dark curls brushing his cheekbones.
This was just Michael.
Embarrassingly in love
“Oh God,” he laughed softly under his breath.
The interviewer smiled immediately.
“That bad, huh?”
“No, no.” Michael shook his head, still smiling to himself. “It’s just…” He laughed again. “She was trouble immediately.”
The audience laughed.
Michael leaned back slightly in his chair.
“It was at an awards show back in…” He paused thoughtfully. “Late Thriller. Maybe right before everything got really crazy.”
And just saying that seemed to pull him fully into the memory.
Because suddenly he could see it perfectly again.
The ballroom.
The noise.
The lights.
And Y/N.
At the time she’d been this rapidly rising pop singer everyone in the industry couldn’t stop talking about.
Not huge yet.
But clearly becoming huge.
The kind of artist people described with phrases like “the future of pop.”
She wrote her own songs.
Performed with this glittery, flirty confidence that somehow still felt chaotic and unserious at the same time.
“And unfortunately,” Michael smiled helplessly, “she was really pretty.”
The audience immediately reacted.
Michael laughed shyly.
“She had this little sparkly black dress on. Big curls. Tiny little heels.” He paused thoughtfully. “…Still short somehow.”
The audience burst out laughing.
Michael grinned.
“She’s gonna kill me for saying that.”
“So you noticed her immediately.”
“Oh immediately.”
And God, he had.
Michael remembered walking into the ballroom already exhausted from cameras and executives and people constantly wanting pieces of him.
Then suddenly spotting this tiny girl at his assigned table aggressively arguing with a waiter over mozzarella sticks.
“Why can’t I get mozzarella sticks?” she’d asked dramatically.
“Miss, this is a formal event.”
“And formal people don’t deserve joy?!”
Michael had laughed before he could stop himself.
And unfortunately that made her turn around.
Their eyes met instantly.
And Michael remembered thinking:
Oh no.
Because she smiled at him immediately.
Not nervous.
Not intimidated.
Just amused.
Like she already had a joke ready.
“You’re Michael Jackson,” she said matter-of-factly.
Michael laughed softly at the memory now.
“I didn’t know what to say to that.”
“So what DID you say?”
Michael looked embarrassed immediately.
“…I think I said ‘yeah.’”
The audience exploded laughing.
“And then,” Michael continued, laughing too now, “she stared at me for a second and went—”
He pointed dramatically like Y/N had that night.
“‘Wow. They really do just let anybody in here.’”
The audience lost it.
Michael covered his face smiling.
“She made fun of you immediately?”
“Immediately.”
“And you liked that?”
Michael looked down smiling to himself again.
“…Yeah.”
Because nobody talked to him like that.
Especially during Thriller.
Most people treated him carefully.
Like he was glass.
Or royalty.
Or something too important to touch.
But Y/N.
Y/N treated him like a person within five seconds of meeting him.
And honestly? It completely disarmed him.
“She kept stealing food off my plate,” Michael remembered.
“You let her?”
“I didn’t know how to stop her.”
The interviewer laughed loudly.
“That’s not true.”
“No seriously!” Michael protested through laughter. “Every time I looked down another fry was gone.”
Then quieter:
“She kept talking to me like we already knew each other.”
And that part stayed with him.
Because throughout the entire night people kept approaching the table trying to talk to Michael Jackson.
Executives.
Artists.
Photographers.
Industry people.
And every single time, Y/N would lean over afterward and whisper something ridiculous.
“Oh my God,” Michael remembered laughing, “one producer walked away and she leaned over and said—”
Michael lowered his voice dramatically imitating her:
“Does he know he looks like a haunted substitute teacher?”
The audience screamed laughing.
“I almost choked.”
And the worst part?
She just kept getting funnier.
At one point during the ceremony, two celebrities started quietly arguing near the stage.
Not discreetly either.
Everybody at nearby tables kept pretending not to notice.
Except Y/N immediately ducked lower in her seat dramatically.
Michael noticed instantly.
“What’re you doing?” he whispered laughing.
And Y/N, still peeking cautiously over the table centerpiece, whispered back:
“I can barely see up there anyway, that’s none of my business.”
Michael BURST out laughing.
“Ain’t no way,” the interviewer wheezed.
The audience immediately lost it too.
“She was SO serious,” Michael laughed. “Like she genuinely thought being short exempted her from drama.”
“Well does it?” the interviewer asked.
Michael grinned instantly.
“She thinks it does.”
Then he added smugly:
“She kept asking me what was happening on stage.”
The audience laughed harder.
Y/N apparently kept whispering things like:
“Who’s fighting?”
“Is she crying?”
“Can tall people stop blocking history for me please?”
Michael physically had to bite his lip at one point to stop laughing during the actual ceremony.
“She got mad at me because I wouldn’t switch seats with her.”
The interviewer gasped dramatically.
“You denied her visibility?”
“I needed the aisle seat!”
“She told me,” Michael continued through laughter, “‘this is discrimination against little women.’”
The audience was screaming now.
“And then,” Michael added, laughing harder already just remembering it, “they brought dessert out.”
“Oh no.”
“She took one bite of this chocolate cake and grabbed my arm like she’d seen God.”
The audience laughed immediately.
“And she goes—”
Michael straightened dramatically, imitating her perfectly:
“Michael. If I die tonight, tell people it was because I loved too hard.”
The interviewer physically bent over laughing.
“She sounds so chaotic.”
“She IS chaotic,” Michael laughed.
Then quieter:
“But she makes everything fun.”
And there it was again.
That softness in his voice whenever he talked about her.
Because before Y/N, Michael had spent so much time feeling watched.
Observed.
Handled carefully.
Then suddenly this tiny pop singer walked into his life talking too loud, stealing his fries and acting like he was just a boy sitting beside her at dinner.
“She made me feel normal,” Michael admitted softly after the laughter settled.
That quieted the room immediately.
Because he sounded so sincere saying it.
“She didn’t care about any of…” Michael gestured vaguely around himself. “The Michael Jackson thing.”
“The fame?”
“Yeah.” He nodded softly. “She cared if I was laughing. Or if I ate. Or if I looked tired.” He smiled faintly. “Different stuff.”
The interviewer softened too.
“So what happened after the awards show?”
Michael immediately smiled again.
“I called her.”
The audience reacted instantly.
“You did?!”
“Yeah.” Michael laughed shyly. “I waited three days because I didn’t wanna seem desperate.”
The interviewer burst out laughing.
“MICHAEL.”
“I was nervous!”
“So what happened when she answered?”
Michael physically covered his face smiling.
“She answered the phone and immediately went—”
He snapped into her voice perfectly:
“Wow. Took you long enough.”
The audience screamed.
“And then she invited me to one of her shows.”
“Oh?”
Michael immediately started smiling again.
“And she was doing this outro thing at the time.”
The interviewer gasped.
“No way, she made YOU an outro?”
Michael nodded, already blushing.
“But she didn’t say it was about me.”
“Then how’d you know?”
Michael looked personally offended.
“Because it WAS.”
The audience laughed.
“So what did she say?”
Michael physically laughed into his hand first before answering.
“She looks over toward where I’m sitting for like half a second—”
“And immediately loses composure?”
“Immediately.”
The audience laughed.
“And then she goes—”
Michael switched into Y/N’s playful stage voice perfectly:
“Met a real cute boy, got me kickin’ my feet…”
The audience immediately reacted.
Michael grinned helplessly.
“And then she points vaguely into the crowd and says—”
“‘Got big brown eyes and he talks so sweet…’”
The interviewer clutched her chest.
“Oh my god.”
Michael was already red now.
“And then—” he laughed harder, “she starts pacing because she’s trying to think of the next rhyme.”
The audience laughed knowingly.
“And finally she just blurts out—”
Michael pointed dramatically:
“‘Might steal my heart and my oxygen too…’”
The crowd in the interview studio audibly awwed.
Then Michael buried his face in his hands laughing because he already knew the last line would kill everybody.
“And then she goes—”
He switched back into her voice one last time:
“‘Hee-hee… damn. I think I’m into you.’”
The studio exploded.
The interviewer screamed.
“NO SHE DID NOT.”
“She DID.”
Michael was laughing so hard now he could barely breathe.
“And the worst part is she looked so proud of herself afterward.”
“Oh my God.”
“She literally nodded like—” Michael demonstrated smug satisfaction perfectly. “‘Yeah. That ate.’”
▐ 𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮. when michael's and your sister relationship starts to fall apart, you begin to think about what the future brings, and if michael wants to be a part of it at all. ▐ angst with a good ending (and we cheer!) → porn with feelings — rough sex turned soft then turned desperate, switch!reader & switch!michael, spoiler: he cries, getting caught cheating, a lot of emotions and feelings, dry humping, kissing, cum eating, multiple sex positions. wc: 9854
i've never felt so in love before; just promise, baby, you'll love me forevermore
It was not hard to see that Michael and your sister had grown apart.
What used to be frequent visits, at least one time a week, turned into a month of not seeing each other. The short phone calls, filled with the kind of hurry that came from someone who had something to hide, someone who wasn't really truly present in the moment while it lasted. The forced "I love you's", the kind that left a feeling of unease long after he broke the call — the uneasiness that comes from the bottom of your heart, the one you don't pay much attention to until you're alone at night, thoughts spiralling, mind replaying each word, looking for a hidden meaning.
"Michael is busy," You tried to comfort her, hand on her shoulder, thumb rubbing against her skin in a comforting manner, even though there was a slight tension to your touch. "He loves you, you know it. You're looking into it way too much. He's filming a new music video, looking for the perfect cast, you know how he is. A fucking perfectionist. Besides, it's his favourite song on the album, no surprise he wants the video to be perfect," You say, your sister's back tensing in surprise as she turns towards you, brows furrowed, eyes narrowed in attention.
"I didn't even know he was filming a fucking music video," She shots up from her seat, accusing finger pointed in your direction as if she's suspecting something. "You talk to him, don't you?"
Your heart hammers in your chest, but it's not worry. It's the sweet satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you want to be, more important to Michael than this bitch standing in front of you could ever be.
You roll your eyes subtly, hands rising up in fake innocence as she studies your expression carefully, looking for something to hold onto, for an explanation.
"I talked to him for like, five seconds total a week ago," You lie. The soreness between your legs tells an opposite story.
Your sister takes a deep breath, sliding back into the kitchen chair, twirling the phone cord in between her fingers, eyes focused on the dial as if she could manifest his call just by thinking about him.
"I'm sorry," She whispers, and you let out a soft breath, looking at her with sympathy so faked it almost makes you gag. "I don't know what's going on. It's not like he's cheating on me, right?"
The question lingers between the two of you, both uncomfortable and deeply satisfying at the same time. You feign concern, moving a strand of hair from her face and behind her ear, whispering softly: "Michael could never."
𖧷 𓂃 ⋆｡˚
It's already well past eleven as you step out of your room, wearing one of your leather jackets with a seen-through top and a black, lace bra underneath. The skimpiest and shortest skirt you could find brushes the tops of your thighs, leaving no interpretation of what your intentions are. Your hair is blown out in a perfect way, your bangs fall across your face in a way that feels intentional and effortless at the same time. You know your sister is going to be asking questions, concerned in a way that makes you gag more than appreciate her worry, but you know exactly what to say to stifle her suspicions.
I'm just seeing some friends. Laura is not feeling well, you know she just broke up with Bry, right? She needs me there tonight.
The warm smell of your vanilla perfume follows you as you go down the stairs, each step careful and intentional, quiet despite you wearing some heavy wedges on your feet. Michael's gonna love them.
The living room is lit up by the TV screen, playing some old horror movie no one cares about anymore, and she's there, dead asleep on the couch, her loud snores muffled by the pillow. You breathe out, satisfied with the fact you don't really have to deal with her bullshit today. The less she knows, the better. You smile widely, opening the front door quietly, and, with a last, lingering look at your sister, you sneak out into the night.
Michael's driver is waiting a couple of houses away, hidden between the bushes and trees: not catching any unnecessary attention, waiting exactly where he said he would, punctual in that effortless, simple way. You smile as Bill opens the door for you, nodding in your direction, even though you can tell he's not looking at you.
"Ma'am," He says, ever so professional, before closing the limousine doors and sliding into the driver's seat.
"Bill, I told you to call me by my name," You smile, shaking your head in fake disapproval that earns a smile from the man.
"Alright, then," He says your name, having known you for more than two years now but never addressing you by it. "Mr. Jackson is waiting for you in Hotel 1."
One of the most exclusive hotels in Los Angeles — so Michael of him. It was also one of the most guarded ones, so the possibility of a fan sneaking in was slim to none. You assumed Michael trusted this hotel enough to not spread any rumours about the "mysterious woman" sneaking into his hotel room in the middle of the night. You hoped he thought this through enough.
The ride was short. Despite living in LA since forever, the lively streets and impressive buildings never failed to impress you. You wondered if Michael felt the same as he rode through the city in disguise — just watching normal people live their ordinary lives, wishing he could be as free and careless as they are. You wondered if anytime he saw a couple passing by, he thought of the future you two could have if things were different.
"And... there we are. Let me call the front desk and let them know you're here," Bill says matter-of-factly, and you nod, small smile spreading across your face. The hotel is impressive, and you assume whatever bedroom Michael had chosen is even more breathtaking.
The reality is, you would meet him in some underground, sketchy motel if he asked you to. The exclusivity didn't really matter to you — all that truly matters is him, his presence, his soothing voice whispering in your ear; sweet little promises that mean nothing as soon as the sun rises up.
You hear Bill's voice announcing that Michael is waiting for you, and that the staff will tell you exactly where to go. Your ears prick up at the news, heart pounding in your chest in excitement and anticipation.
This is it.
"Thank you, Bill. Truly," You emphasize, hand hovering over the handle, your words sincere. "I really... care about him. About Michael."
Bill nods before you finish, sunglasses sliding down his nose as he meets your gaze.
"I don't want to say anything I shouldn't," He whispers, slow and sincere, careful to avoid saying something he's not allowed to. "And I have no idea what's between you two. Michael is like a son to me," He emphasises, voice strong and more confident now. You nod. You know it. "But you're good for him. And best believe, he cares about you more than anyone. Don't let him slip away. Doesn't matter how many people you hurt in the process."
Your breath hitches, now sure that Bill knows more than he lets on showing.
"I love him," You whisper, voice small and unsure, curling deeper into your seat as the confession leaves you vulnerable.
"I know."
You finally press on the door handle, stepping out of the car, careful not to twist your ankle in these ridiculous, heavy shoes. You turn in Bill's direction one last time, nodding, and he nods back. It feels like a silent agreement between the two of you.
He drives off without another word, and you're left alone in the well-lit pavement. The silence suddenly feels more suffocating than ever.
And just like that, you're walking in the direction of yet another mistake hidden behind the eyes of a man you can't resist.
———————
The elevator ride is quiet. You're fidgeting with your fingers, leaning against the wall, the previous doubt replaced by the kind of nervousness that makes your stomach twist, the flames licking your insides in that sleazy, familiar way. Your bottom lip is stuck between your teeth, a tiny, bad habit you stole from Michael. Some soothing music plays on the speakers, soft, not in that annoying, blasting way, just simply there. You passed the eleventh, twelfth floor, tapping your foot on the floor to the slow beat, your mind occupied with thoughts that you don't let get to you unless you're left alone.
I love him. God, I love him. What if he simply rejects me? I should just keep it to myself.
The elevator stops on the fourteenth floor, the low ding! echoing through the otherwise quiet space, and you step out of the elevator, leaving any doubt and insecurity in the cramped space.
A gasp leaves your mouth as soon as you take a look around.
The apartment is beautiful. The panorama of Hollywood spreads right in front of your eyes, the glass windows and spacious balcony giving the perfect amount of room to just stand there, appreciate. You barely even notice the rest of the room, the expensive and perfectly polished furniture, the leather couch that's way prettier than it is comfortable, the marble kitchen counter with a tray of food and expensive wine.
Michael stands there, leaning against the wall, clearly waiting for you, but you don't notice him at first. He shamelessly looks you up and down, immediately noticing your skimpy skirt and the heavy wedges sitting on your feet. His mouth waters at the mere sight. The seen-through shirt and lacy bra don't help either.
"Hi," He says, grinning ear to ear as you jump in surprise, grabbing your shirt just above where your heart is in a dramatic manner. Michael laughs, then, a melodic, angelic sound that echoes through the otherwise quiet space.
He stands there, looking effortlessly beautiful in his red shirt and black, fancy pants, heavily layered with buckles and zippers. The first few buttons of his shirt has been undone, and his hair was falling loose on his shoulders. You quietly admire how your outfits seem to match without even planning it beforehand.
"God, you scared me!" You shriek, a soft chuckle escaping your mouth as you watch him laugh. His eyes crinkle with unspoken adoration as he bites his lip playfully. "Hi, Mikey."
He ignores the way the nickname makes his stomach twist.
"Well, don't you look beautiful," Michael muses, arms spread out, claiming the gigantic space without even trying. He winks slowly, eyeing you up and down with no subtlety, not trying to hide his interest. "My pretty little thing."
You bite your lip, spinning around once as if to show yourself off even further, lips pouting in that fake innocence he loves so much. "I tried my best."
"You don't have to try your best to look breathtaking," He says matter-of-factly, stepping closer and bringing you to him by the waist. You giggle softly, Bill's words echoing through your head once again.
Love. Love. Love. I love him. He doesn't love me. Does he love me?
"You don't look so bad yourself, handsome," You whisper anyway, noticing how the red, half-unbuttoned shirt fits perfectly on his body. Your fingers move down his torso, slowly, teasingly, not to start something, just to feel the slight hitch of his breath as you do. Michael's hand moves to your head, cradling your head in his palm, face so close to yours your breaths mingle together. It's intimate. Way too intimate. Yet you don't back off, leaning into the touch, your nose brushing against his in a way that leaves no room for interpretation. Michael smiles against you before taking a step back, eyes still soft but firmer now, as if he's putting an imaginary line between the two of you.
"Would you like some wine?"
"Yes, please," You answer quickly, shaking off the shivers running down your back at the sudden lack of his touch. Michael nods, grabbing your hand, leading you to the center of the room and onto the gigantic couch, so that you sit face-first to the floor-high windows and the beautiful view spreading across the land.
Despite that, your eyes stay on Michael the whole time. His back turned to you, hair loose and falling across his shoulders in a way that makes him even more attractive, grabbing a bottle of wine and two glasses and now heading in your direction. You nod slowly, getting comfortable, crossing your legs and shimmying lower on the couch, head resting on the back as you follow Michael with your eyes.
"Busy day?" You ask as he turns towards you, taking long steps towards where you're sitting and plopping on the spot right next to you — close enough for your arms to brush whenever you fidget on the couch.
He huffs, pouring you some of the wine before passing the glass to you, to which you nod in gratitude. "Yeah. We've been trying to find the perfect girl for The Way You Make Me Feel video, but none of them have what I'm looking for," He shakes his head, taking a considerable sip of the wine straight out of the bottle. You watch his throat bob as he swallows, and your body grows hot.
"Full day of auditions. Don't get me wrong, the girls? They were perfect. Gorgeous. Long legs, perfectly done hair, makeup in place, but..." He trails off, draping his arm around the headrest of the couch, his skin brushing against yours in the process.
"But none of them stood out to you."
"But none of them stood out to me."
You bite your lip, nodding in understatement as you take a deliberate sip out of your glass.
"Listen, Michael, I..." You turn towards him, meeting his dark gaze as he nods, encouraging you to continue. "My sister's been asking about you."
He visibly tenses, setting the wine bottle down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Why would she ask you?"
He doesn't mean the words to sound this harsh, but they still sting. You sigh, toying with your fingers as you think about how to lead this conversation.
"I kinda mentioned you filming a new music video? Listen, how could I know you didn't tell your beloved girlfriend about such important thing?" You explain yourself as he chuckles to himself, loudly, humourlessly, throwing his hands in the air as if all of it is your fault.
"Are you fucking stupid?" He hisses, eyes narrowing in your direction, jaw clenched in a way that's both dangerous and arousing at the same time.
"Am I fucking stupid? Me?" You stand up, so fast your vision blurs in anger, accusing finger already pointed in his direction before you can stop yourself. "You've been fucking me for a year and a half, Michael! And all of it went well until you pushed her away! Of course she suspects something! She's been crying about you not calling almost everyday now! Oh, she even asked me, 'Do you think he's cheating on me?'. And I had to comfort that bitch, make her think she was silly for thinking such things, when it should have been you taking care of this shit!".
You're fuming, barely even thinking about what you're saying, biting your tongue so hard it hurts. Your arms are wrapped around your chest as you stand in front of the window, looking straight ahead even though the view doesn't seem as impressive anymore.
"If you didn't jump into my bed — or should I say your sister's bed? — the first time you got me alone, none of this would happen."
Michael regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth.
You freeze, biting your bottom lip as it begins to shake. The barely contained tears flood your vision as you struggle to catch your breath, to keep the shaking of your limbs to yourself, trying not to collapse on your knees right there on the spot.
He says nothing, even though he wants to. A lump forms in his throat where he's sitting, waiting for any sign that you heard him, foolishly and selfishly hoping you didn't.
"We're done then."
You say firmly, gaze cold and distant as you turn towards him again, not meeting his eyes even when he stares at you, analysing your every move.
He sighs. "That's not what I meant, baby—"
"Don't— don't call me that!" You shriek, pathetic and high-pitched, barely keeping your sanity. Your head is in your hands as you stand there, heart broken in the most brutal way possible, legs shaking as you try not to faint. Michael stands from the couch, stepping towards you, hand reaching out to touch you, comfort you, explain himself, even though he doesn't know how.
Your sadness turns into rage as fast as you see him moving closer. Before he can react, your outstretched hand lands on his cheek — hard, cold, painful. He stumbles backwards out of pure surprise, and you freeze, realising that what you've just done wasn't a smart choice. Not at all.
Michael's eyes meet yours, cold, distant, dangerous. Before you know it, his hand grips your wrist, bringing you closer, closing the distance between you in the most painful way possible. You cry out, trying to fight, moving around as his arm closes around your waist, leaving no room for you to breathe, the closeness making your head spin and body shake in rage.
"Let go of me, you dick!" You scream, the pressure on your wrist so deeply uncomfortable it makes you move around even more, your free hand moving up to slap him again, probably take him off guard, confuse him to the level of letting go. You're not thinking rationally, trying to break free from something you don't truly want to run from.
Michael's hand catches yours before you can strike, twisting your body so that your back is pressed flat against his heaving chest. His hands stay gripping yours, not tight, just there, making sure you can't move. His breath tickles your ear in a way that makes you freeze, hair all over the place, eyes wide as you realise there's nowhere left to run. There's no point in fighting anymore. You already lost.
"If you try that again, I swear to God you're gonna regret this."
His voice is quiet, deeper than the usual tone he uses when he speaks both to the press and your sister. No, this is much more intimate — intimate in a way that makes you arch your back deeper into his chest, your own heaving with uneven breaths that have nothing to do with the fight you endured a minute ago.
Your ass accidentally brushes against the tent in Michael's pants, and then you feel it — the bulge, the heaviness of his hard cock brushing against your backside. His breath hitches, then, fingers tightening on your wrists just a fraction, just enough for you to press back even harder with a sick satisfaction blooming in your stomach.
"Mmm, I don't know," You breathe out, moving your hips in a way that catches his attention, and he frees your wrists now that he knows you won't try to run anymore. "You seemed to like it a little too much."
Michael grips your hips, then, dull nails digging into your skin as he leads you to grind back even harder.
"Maybe I did," He says back, teeth grazing the sweaty skin of your neck, and your head falls back against his shoulder in pure surrender. "Maybe I like it when you act like a bitch to get my attention. This passion burning inside of you, waiting to be seen, used in ways that only I can see. Fuck, it got me so hard," And with that, he bites on your earlobe, moaning deeply as his hips begin to match your rhythm, moving against yours in a way that feels like a fight for dominance.
You can't take it anymore. The rage still lingers deep inside you, turning into a desire so strong it makes your insides churn. You turn back faster than he can react, your hands tangling in his neatly styled curls and bringing your lips together.
The first brush of your mouth on his feels electric in the charged room, buzzing with rage and every unspoken emotion settling deep in your stomach. The kiss is intense, a mess of teeth and tongues crashing together as to prove a point. Michael's hands explore your body as if it's something valuable, squeezing your ass underneath the skimpy skirt with the kind of roughness that comes from someone who's trying to hide their true intentions.
"Take me," He whispers against your lips, pulling you flush against his body and stumbling backwards until you collapse on the couch together. "Ruin me until I forget my own name. Until the only one I can remember is yours."
Your wide eyes meet Michael's through the mess of curls all over his forehead, hand moving instinctively to brush the loose strands hair behind his ear.
"If you let me," Your voice is barely above a whisper, a shadow of your usual soft tone, replaced by something hungrier and more feral. "I'll definitely make sure you forget hers."
The next kiss is deeper, slower, tongues tangling together to feel each other deeper, skin brushing against skin each time you take a step back to breathe. You're so caught up in the moment you barely notice the dance of your own body on top of Michael's; your hips move on their own, lacy panties catching the rough fabric of his pants in a way that makes you not want to stop. You ground yourself harder, thighs threatening to close where they're obscenely spread around his. You swallowed each little moan that came out of Michael's mouth, grinding against his lap just to feel, chase the euphoria that came with being this intimate with him. Your leather jacket slipped down your shoulder and Michael's hands rushed to get it off you, throwing it to the other side of the room without a care in the world.
"Fuck, you're so beautiful," He groans then, low and broken, catching the sight of your cleavage and boobs practically spilling out of the lacy bra you chose just for him. "My beautiful girl. Always all dolled up, knowing damn well what it does to me."
You smile, biting your lip as your hand travels down his torso, nails scraping his soft skin and earning a low moan from Michael. His red shirt comes off next — you don't bother to open the buttons properly, instead ripping the silky fabric in half, impatient, sliding the expensive clothing off his shoulders. Your hands continue their slow path of exploring his body, lips finding place on his neck, licking the sweat off his skin and sucking hickeys you know he'll cover up later.
"Oh, fuck—" Michael groans, head thrown back to give you all the access you need to ruin him further. As you reach his collarbone, your hips stutter, and so do your movements on his lap. You're sweating, moaning into his neck as you steady yourself, humping the throbbing bulge in Michael's pants so desperately it makes him smile. He cradles your head in his hand, pushing your face into his neck as he begins to move with you, aggressive rolls of his hips into your dripping cunt that have you seeing stars.
It should be illegal just how fast Michael's closeness brought you to release. It should, but you care about nothing else than the euphoric feeling bubbling inside your stomach, your insides turning into knots as you let out a prolonged moan, unintentionally biting on Michael's collarbone, causing him to hiss.
"Does it feel good, Michael?" You manage to lift your head, thumb rubbing against his lower lip until he grants you access to slip it inside.
He growls, low and broken, stifling a cry as he feels that sweet release creep up on him. His dick is practically begging to be freed, throbbing and leaking in his pants as you ground yourself harder, panting and moaning just as loud as he is. He sucks your thumb into his mouth, nodding desperately as his abdomen tightens.
"Don't stop, please, oh—"
You barely understand his words, but the message is clear. He needs this just as much as you do.
"Are you about to cream your pants? Just like that?" You say provocatively, sliding your finger deeper into his mouth, and he whimpers, guiding your every move with grounding hands on your thighs.
"That's too bad."
You slip off his bulge in one, teasing move, hovering over Michael's thighs instead. Your finger pops out of his mouth, and you smear his own saliva all over his lips, licking your own as you watch his tongue rush after your thumb. The air between you is still charged with the sparkling energy.
"Wha— What is this?" He moans, frustrated.
"You're so used to getting everything you want. Maybe someone should teach you how to lose."
"I never lose."
"Oh, but you're about to." You whisper, trying to slip off his lap and stand up, but before you can, Michael's hands are on you again.
He stands up before you can truly understand what's going on, and your feet land on the floor with a loud thud that echoes through the spacious room.
"Oh, I don't think so, sweet thing," He says, frustration from his denied orgasm hidden under a blanket of mockery. He grips your wrist, and before you know it, he's dragging you towards — you're assuming — a bedroom.
You have no time to admire the ceiling-tall windows, or the city lights sparkling in the distance. Michael practically throws you on the king sized bed, soft enough not to hurt you, yet brutal enough to make your head spin and pussy throb.
"Stop fighting it," He simply says before crawling into the space between your open legs that wrap around his torso instinctively. The heels of your wedges dig into his bare skin in a way that's all too familiar, all too pleasurable. With you lying there beneath him, hair creating a halo around your gorgeous face, he can't help but soften at the edges. He sees the pleasure written all over your face, but there's something else hiding behind the mask. Hurt. Disappointment. Something he sees but can't quite name just yet.
"I didn't mean it."
His voice is quiet, sure, nose bumping into yours as he hovers above you, breaths mingling and chests heaving in the same rhythm. You know what he's referring to right away.
"It still hurt."
Your reply is simple. Michael breathes out against your lips, backing off just a fraction to look at you — truly look at you. Your wide eyes, pouty lips, reddened cheeks that he thinks are absolutely adorable. The way your nose scrunches when he looks at you for a fraction too long, as if you're scared he'll look deep into your soul and run away. The way your hair frames your face, the way mascara clings to your wet lashes in tiny clumps you notice only if you look too close.
I love you.
"I know, and I apologise." His knuckles brush against your skin in a way that's way too intimate and way too natural at once. "I wanted you since the moment I saw you. There's something about you, baby..."
He trails off, but his fingers continue their journey against your skin, thumb brushing against your lower lip in a way that doesn't feel sexual anymore.
It scares him more than he'd like to admit.
"Let me have it. Let me have you," He whispers, the previous fire returning to his gaze, and you simply nod. You're scared that if you open your mouth, he'll vanish into thin air.
Then, for the thousandth time this night, he leans in to kiss you. Michael takes his sweet time; not rushing, solely focused on exploring your mouth in ways he did many times before, catching every hitch of your breath and a desperate arch of your back.
"I promise I'll never hurt you again," He whispers in between the kisses, a string of saliva still connecting your mouth to his, and it makes his words feel and sound like a vow. His tongue slides against yours in all too familiar way, noses bumping as you deepen the kiss, grounding yourself in the moment.
Michael's palms slide down your body, playing with the hem of your top while his mouth moves down your neck; soft, lingering kisses that make your insides churn with desire and something stronger, so overwhelming it makes tears well in your eyes.
"May I take it off?" He whispers against your collarbone, greedy hands already lifting your shirt up, waiting for a permission that comes out as nothing more than a whimper.
You lift your upper body for Michael to slide the unnecessary fabric off your skin, and his mouth is back on you in an instant. His kisses turn into something feral as soon as he smells you, the sugary, familiar scent that makes his eyes roll back into his head each time. His teeth graze the delicate skin just above where your bra is, tongue rushing to soothe the sting in slow, steady flicks against your boob. You cry out, arching your back in a perfect bow, pushing your chest further into Michael's face, and he obeys your silent pleas.
His hands slither underneath your arched back, immediately undoing your bra and pulling the straps off your shoulders. He wastes no time; his perfect lips close around your left nipple faster than you can react, your bra already forgotten somewhere on the floor, your hands tangled in his curls as he sucks, hard, earning a load moan from your swollen mouth.
"These are perfect. You are perfect. God, you smell so good," He whispers, as if his words are sacred, only for you to hear in the darkness of the room. Michael's other hand slithers up your chest, playing with your nipple as he eagerly sucks on the other.
"I need you," You manage to moan out, legs locked on both sides of his hips as they thrust upwards in search of friction.
"Needy little thing, aren't you?" He teases, tugging on your nipple hard enough to make you wince in both pain and pleasure. "Need that big cock filling you up good, huh?"
You don't respond, instead you lift your upper body and reach for Michael's bulge, squeezing him through his pants with enough strength to make him hiss lowly. Your hands are on his fancy belt before you know it, rushing to unbuckle it. His hips thrust out in your direction, and your eyes meet as your finger grazes the button of his jeans softly, a silent ask for permission that he has no patience for. The soft moment turns into something more fierce as he pushes your hand away, unzipping his pants and taking them right off with his underwear.
You gasp as his cock springs free from the confines of his clothing. No matter how many times you see him in full glory, you still can't seem to get over how big he truly is. Slightly curved to the left, throbbing as the cool air of the room hits him so suddenly. Pretty veins adorn the length of his cock, and your mouth waters at the mere thought of the weight of him on your tongue. The tip of his dick is reddened, swollen and leaking pre-cum — a living proof of just how affected by the whole act he truly is.
"Like what you see?" He muses, his own hand rushing to wrap around his cock. He swallows, head tipping back as he lets out a prolonged, soft moan. His hand moves rhythmically, stroking up and down his length, and his eyes stay locked on yours, dangerous and tempting. His thumb brushes against the swollen tip of his dick, and his breath hitches in a way that makes your thighs rub together.
"Beg." He whispers, hips thrusting forward in your direction as his free hand reaches out, cradling your face as his thumb brushes against your lower lip.
"You know how much I want you, Michael," You respond, spreading your thighs wider around his hips, flashing him with a sight of your drenched panties as you do. You bite your lower lip, playing with the hem of your skirt, lifting it up to the tops of your thighs in a way that seems intentional, purposeful. "I want to feel every inch of you. I want to feel your cum drip out of me hours after I leave this place. I want my sister to find out about us, and I wish she could watch how hard you get for me. How you fuck me so good I forget my own name. How you moan my name as I let you claim every inch of me."
Michael chuckles, biting his lower lip to hide a smile threatening to spread across his face. The thought of getting caught in the act by his girlfriend, the one he's been running away from to shower his little sister with attention instead, arouses him so much he lets out a strangled moan. His hand movement comes to a stop, and his thumb slides into your mouth just as he hovers above you, his hair tickling your face as he moves your panties to the side and buries himself inside you in one, deep stroke.
You yelp around Michael's finger, unintentionally trying to move backwards to escape the stretch that ignites your every nerve on fire. He's so big; too big for you to take him like that; there's no foreplay to his thrusts, just one, brutal movement that makes your core tighten and eyes water. Your insides are on fire, and Michael just moans, head dropping between his shoulders as he hits that sensitive spot inside you without even trying. He doesn't move for a good minute, savouring the feeling of your walls getting used to his size, gripping him so tight he thinks he might faint if you keep that up.
"Take it, take me like a good girl, will you?" He babbles, thumb sliding further into your mouth just to feel your throat tighten as he does so. He grips your hip so tight it borderlines on painful, and you cry out, loud and unfiltered.
"S' too big, I can't—" You shake your head, eyes rolling back into your head as he gives you one, experimental stroke, so deep you feel his cock in your stomach. It hurts, but it hurts so good you don't want to stop. Your clouded gaze meets his just as Michael's pubic bone brushes against your clit in a way that makes your legs tighten around his hips.
"Oh, you can, and you will."
He doesn't give you any more time to negotiate. With his eyes still locked on yours, he begins to pound into you, hand still on your face to make sure you don't look away, don't run away from the pleasure only he's able to provide. His eyes follow every scrunch of your face, every little moan, every flutter of your lashes — and all of it only fuels him to move faster.
"You're everything," He moans, voice quiet but dangerous, hips snapping into yours with an animalistic force that knocks the air out of your lungs. "Look at how well you're taking me. That's it, just let me make you feel good."
Michael talks you through each press of his hips deep into yours, gripping your thighs and lifting them higher up until your legs lock higher against his waist. The press of your heavy wedges on his lower back is comforting, familiar, his greedy hand already travelling down the length of your calf just to throw your leg over his shoulder.
The new angle allows him to reach even deeper inside you. His eyes are glued to the place where you're connecting all over again, a creamy white ring at the base of his cock that only makes him chuckle under his breath. The wet slap of skin against skin, accompanied by your voices mingling together in a symphony of moans, whimpers and groans — all of it drives Michael crazy.
"Feelssogood," You moan out, muscles in your stomach tightening with every, deep stroke, eyes rolling back from the intensity. "I want to stay like this forever."
The confession feels personal, deep on a level you haven't explored with Michael — or anyone — yet, and your throat tightens as his eyes meet yours again. He doesn't stop, but he doesn't respond either, too busy chasing after the euphoria building deep inside his stomach.
And you feel it too. A sudden rush that begins to spread in your fingers, travelling all the way through your chest and lower abdomen. Michael mouths at the skin just over where the wedge sits perfectly on your leg, whispering profanities directed at no one in particular, his voice a breathy whimper that leaves your insides churning. You reach out for him, your body instinctively looking for comfort that is his touch. Michael obeys immediately, pushing your leg higher up his shoulder and leaning down, fingers of his free hand tangling with yours, pressing you harder against the mattress as he practically bends you in half.
"I've got you, my beautiful girl," He whispers, breath mingling with yours, lips parted as he watches your face closely. A strange feeling blooms in his stomach — and it has nothing to do with the unrelenting release begging to unravel. Michael's hips angle to hit the spot that makes your legs shake, his cock drilling into your ruined cunt restlessly, his whole body blanketing yours as he struggles to keep himself up.
"I'm so close, I don't think I can—"
"Inside." You cut him off, brows furrowing as you tug on his hair, earning a low groan from somewhere deep in his throat. You squeeze his hand, loving how big it feels compared to yours, slender fingers wrapped around yours in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
Michael's grip on your body tightens, and his knees give out as the first wave of pure, unfiltered pleasure takes over his body. He collapses on top of you, eyes threatening to close as you clench around him, hard, and oh God, he's right there—
"I'm gonna cum, oh, don't stop, Michael—"
He nods, offering you nothing more but desperate, little humps of his hips into yours, but it's enough.
With a loud cry, your walls clamp around his cock so tight it's hard for Michael to hold back anymore. His lips meet yours in a desperate clash of teeth and tongues just as the first rope of his hot, sticky seed shots deep inside you, and your walls tighten around his cock as waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure take a hold of your body. Your back arches into Michael's chest as your moans mingle together; the feeling of his cum filling you up to the brim, and your wet walls throbbing around his sensitive length only prolong your orgasms.
Your moans subside into something softer, breaths mingling together where your lips are still touching, your mixed arousal kept deep inside you where he's still buried to the hilt inside, stretching you out obscenely.
Michael moves first. He takes you off guard, his still-hard cock slowly slipping out of your drenched pussy, and before you know it, he's kneeling on the foot of the bed with your sex glistening just in front of his face.
"What are you..." You trail off as he practically presses his whole face into you, shallow, desperate licks at your entrance that have you wincing and arching your back all at once. Your thighs threaten to close where they shake, spread out in the air, but Michael makes sure you stay in the position he wants you in. He grabs your thighs, feral and clearly hungry, breathing in the smell of your joined arousal.
You realise what he's doing very quickly.
Your head falls back against the pillows with the first suck on your abused, stretched entrance. Michael's tongue joins his mouth, dipping inside you, licking deep into your cunt to collect as much of your mixed arousals into his mouth, and you relax your muscles to make it easier. Some of his own cum leaks out right onto his tongue, and he laps at it, keeping it in his mouth as he lets out the loudest moan of the night.
Your hands tangle in the sheets, your sweaty body glistening in the barely lit room, your lip is swollen from how hard you're biting on it to keep your moans at bay.
Michael moans against your pussy, mouth tightly closed to prevent any of your mixed cum go to waste. He lets go of your thighs and stands up from his kneeling position, now hovering over your shaking form. The previous softness of his gaze is gone; all that's left is a feral type of hunger that begins deep in his stomach and spreads across his whole body.
His fingers move in a 'come here' manner, and you obey immediately, speechless. Your eyes stay locked on his as you crawl towards him on your hands and knees, performative in such a provocative way, it drives him insane. His cock bobs in the air, swollen and reddened and drenched in your juices as you come closer, sitting on your calves at the edge of the bed where he's standing.
He doesn't have to tell you to open your mouth. You just do.
Michael smirks, satisfied, leaning down so that his face hovers a few centimetres above yours. Your hands rest on your lap, even though you want nothing more than to touch him, feel his skin on yours, burning and sweaty under your palms.
Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, obedient and submissive, and Michael's hand takes a hold of your face, squeezing your cheeks together and bringing you closer.
His lips pucker, then; his eyes stay locked on yours as he spits your mixed fluids right into your mouth, slow and teasing, making sure not a drop goes to waste with a firm squeeze on your face. You can't look away; you don't want to look away. The warm liquid slides down your tongue, making your insides burn with desire.
"Swallow."
You obey. Michael's grip on your face loosens as you do as he says without a word of complaint. Your mixed cum, along with his thick saliva slides down your throat, your mouth clicking in contentment as the taste lingers in your mouth.
He leans down to kiss you then. You can taste yourself and himself on his tongue, your hands reaching out to grab a hold of his hair to bring him closer. You both moan into the kiss as the evidence of Michael's arousal rubs against your stomach, seeking attention all over again.
"Don't we taste good?" He groans into your mouth, biting on your bottom lip.
"We fucking do," You whisper, pulling him back into the bed by his shoulders, pushing to get him to lay down in the middle of the bed. You straddle his hips, not wasting time for unnecessary foreplay before you align his weeping cock with your entrance, sinking down in one, swift move.
This angle feels much deeper. Your wetness spreads evenly across Michael's shaft, making it easier for you to sit down, bury his whole length inside you, the stretch making your eyes roll back into your head.
"Fucking hell," He groans, voice laced with a hint of desperation and utter devotion. "Ride my dick. Show me what this pussy can truly do to a man."
You smile, then, lifting your little skirt up your stomach to make sure Michael can see how your pussy swallows him whole. You arch your back, holding yourself up with your hand on the side of his head, surely giving him a show as your tits swing just in front of his face. The taste of your mixed arousal still lingers in your mouth, and you do nothing more than savour it, lifting your hips so that the tip of Michael's cock notches at your entrance.
"You're so big. Always taking such good care of me." You say softly, welcoming the warmth of Michael's hands on your ass, squeezing and pulling at the skin with an intention to drive you insane. "You deserve someone who treats you well too. Someone who understands you, sees you more than just a King Of Pop, someone who sees the true you, just as I do right now."
You roll your hips slowly on his lap with every word, sinking further down onto his cock and rising back up. Your eyes are half-lidded, focused on every little detail of his face, that sick satisfaction blooming in your stomach when his mouth hangs open, knowing that it's you that brought him to this state. He's an overstimulated mess, sweat beading on his hairline, doe eyes wide and pleading as your hands cradle his face, affectionate and gentle.
The steady pace you've set drives Michael insane. His breath bitches every time his cock disappears deep inside your tight cunt, little whimpers escaping his mouth each time your nipples brush against his arched chest.
"Let me take care of you, baby," You coo, thumb brushing against his cheekbone, the one you love so much.
You moan, loud and unfiltered. The feeling of his thick cock stretching you open leaves your mouth hanging, your upper body collapsing onto his chest as your hands give out under your weight.
Michael's arms are quick to wrap around you. He cradles your lower back, hips beginning to move underneath you in a rhythm that works, that is both unfamiliar and natural all at once. Your hips grind against his, arms wrapping around his shoulders, looking for that familiar warmth that is his body. You would've crawled underneath his skin if you could.
"Always take such good care of me, doll," He whispers, placing wet, deep kisses in the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of your sweat and sweet perfume. Embarrassingly so, Michael lets out a string of whimpers, soft little sounds that accompany the clapping of skin against skin. "I wouldn't want it any other way, I lo—"
He's cut off by the sound of a phone ringing.
Your head shots up in surprise, both at his words and the buzzing of the device on the bedside table, and so does Michael's, although the soft rolls of your hips never come to a stop. It feels way too good to stop, for the both of you.
Your intuition tells you who's calling before Michael even picks up the phone.
"Do you think that's—"
"Answer the phone." You cut him off, determination and frustration lacing your tone as his hips falter, stilling beneath your shaking form.
"I— What?"
"Don't stop. Just answer the fucking phone."
Michael stares at you, amazed. The pure determination in your voice causes his cock to jump and throb inside you, which you notice right away.
He uses all his strength to lift himself and you to a sitting position, causing his dick to slide even deeper inside your squelching hole. Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, bringing your bodies closer together until there's no space left.
Without looking away from you, Michael reaches for his phone blindly. He's enamoured by the look of pure dominance written all over your face. Your hips roll into his; that's all you can do in the position you're in. Michael plays along, thrusting upwards to match the aggressive pace of your body on top of his.
He answers the phone without as much a look on the screen. He brings it to his ear, stifling a moan that threatens to leave his mouth.
"Hello? Oh my God, Michael, why haven't you been answering my calls? I've been so worried—"
You roll your eyes so hard it causes Michael to smile silently, your nails digging into the skin of his back as you roll your hips over his, your clit grinding down against his pubic bone in the most delicious way.
"I've been— busy," He grits his teeth as you begin to hop up and down his dick with an intention to make him lose control. His eyes meet yours, wide and pleading, hand sliding down your ass to squeeze the skin there, shaking with restraint.
Your sister's annoying voice is a background noise, her complaints and pleas going silent in your ears as Michael puts the phone on his shoulder, both hands now busy with guiding your movements on his lap, smooth palms grabbing a good hold of your ass. He bites his lip, hard, holding in a string of moans threatening to escape, loving how perfectly your cheeks fit in his big hands, spreading you wider to make sure you feel every single inch of his cock filling you up.
That's when your mouth opens, and a silent whimper dies in your throat. Your thighs lock in, shaking in effort, the slap of wet skin against wet skin echoes through the room, but you don't stop. Your intention is to see Michael break, unravel completely underneath your touch.
"You've been talking to my fucking sister more than you've talked to me! Honestly, I don't know what makes you think she's trustworthy. She could never understand you like I do. She's too young, too—"
Your mouth hangs open in a silent challenge as the words reach your ears, legs locking in as you clench around Michael's cock, hard. He moans, loud and unfiltered, hips bucking into yours, eyes wide as the realisation draws on him.
Well. Fuck.
"Mi— Michael, what are you doing?"
You don't stop there. Your little bunny hops intensify, each slap of skin against skin louder than the last, surely audible on the other side of the line. Michael shakes his head, but it's too late — there's no turning back from that. A low moan escapes his mouth again, muffled by the sound of your lips pressing into his with force that knocks the air out of your lungs.
"Tell her." You whisper against his lips, loud enough so that she can hear, silent enough for the words to settle deep in his stomach. "Tell her or I'll stop."
You grind your hips down with more force, your hands resting on this strong thighs behind you to keep you up. Michael shakes his head again, nails digging into your skin with enough force to draw blood and leave marks, but you don't care.
"I'm— I'm a little busy right now," He says, voice shaky as he lets out another strangled moan, surprising himself by just how bad he gets off to the whole act. "Don't stop, fuck, you feel so—"
"What the fuck, Michael! Are you fucking someone right now?"
"More like I'm fucking him," You murmur underneath your breath, every nerve in your body burning alive, eyes possessive in a way that makes Michael's muscles tighten. Tears spring into his eyes as they lock with yours, a melody of whines and pleas leaving his pouty mouth as he hides his face in the crook of your neck. "And he loves every second of it."
You hear a breathless gasp leave your sister's mouth as she figures out exactly what's going on. Michael drops the phone onto the pillow, not caring enough to break the call, his back arching into your chest as he bites onto your shoulder, fresh tears streaming down his cheeks that he hopes to hide from you.
You coo softly, hands embracing his face until he looks at you, eyes watery and mouth wide open. His hips meet yours in a perfect pace, one that has you brimming on the edge of release, so powerful you feel it knock the air out of your lungs.
"Good boy. Just a little more, yeah? Can feel you throbbing inside of me. God, I love you, I love you so much—"
Michael's eyes snap open, but you're too lost in your own head to fully comprehend what you just said. His orgasm crashes over him, sudden, unexpected, taking him and you off guard. He cries out as your walls clamp in surprise, your own orgasm taking over your body so intensely your vision blurs.
You completely soak the sheets, your inner things and Michael's navel, feeling him unravel completely underneath you, a wave after wave of utter pleasure coursing through his body.
"It's too much—" He whimpers, cheeks soaked and lip trembling. You don't know whether he's referring to the feeling of your cunt milking him dry, or the amount of cum he pumps into your poor, abused cunt. Could be both.
His arms wrap around your back, pulling you so close together you're breathing the same air, pained whimpers and soft moans echoing through the hotel room in a perfect symphony.
As the last of your orgasm subsides, you collapse backwards onto the bed, taking Michael with you. You're not ready to let go of him just yet.
The reality of what just occurred sinks in in waves.
The previously forgotten phone, tangled somewhere in the sheets, its black screen staring right back at you. The closeness you just endured, the whispered praises and silent vows lingering in the air between you. The I love you that slipped out in the heat of the moment, the very one that could ruin everything.
Your whole body tenses underneath Michael's. He sighs, soft and content, nuzzling into your neck and breathing in your scent. Your frown drops to something softer at the edges as he wraps his arms around you tighter, his perfect nose bumping against your sensitive skin. He reminds you more of a puppy now more than ever.
"Michael, I have to go, I—"
He doesn't let go. He hums like a little kid, soft and unfiltered, his cock softening inside you but still stuffing you full.
"You're not going anywhere." He lifts his head slowly, blinking in a such a pure, delicate way that makes your heart flutter in your chest. "You don't get to run away from me anymore."
You sigh, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes as you avoid his gaze. The white ceiling suddenly becomes very interesting. He clears his throat, thumb brushing against your cheekbone as he studies you carefully.
"I love you too. I love you more than anything in this world. And I want nothing more for you to be mine. Not just here, now. I want you by my side when I go on tour, and when I'm in the studio, and I want you to hold my hand as I sing just for you. I want you to be the first person I see when I wake up, and the last one I see before I fall asleep. I can't sleep without you, baby," He whispers, soft and sweet, eyes wide and fully present in the moment. His hand brushes away a strand of hair from your face, and small, shy smile spreads across his beautiful face as he does.
You lay there, every muscle in your body going taunt, tears flooding your vision as Michael's gaze meets yours in the darkness of the room.
"Do you mean it?" You sob, soft and unsure, hands shaking as you reach out for him, and he grabs your hand, lifting it to his chest, holding it there for you to feel the unsteady beat of his heart.
"I wasn't so sure about anything in my life before."
You smile through the tears, letting out a choked-up laugh, curling your fingers tighter against Michael's chest.
"I love you."
"I love you, my pretty girl," He chokes out, lips meeting yours softly. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."
You finally have time to admire the beautiful view spreading in front of you. Curled up on Michael's lap, wearing nothing but one of his white shirts, you feel more at home than ever before. His arms are wrapped loosely around your body, holding you close as the honking and tires squealing dissolve into background noise.
The air is warm. Michael's body is warmer.
"You know, this shirt looks better on you than it does on me anyways." He hums, breaking the silence. You hear a smile in his voice, and it only makes you chuckle against his chest.
"Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything."
"Yes, you are."
"Maybe I am." He sighs, playfully slapping your thigh, and you let out a fake, pained sound, earning a laugh from Michael. You love his laugh.
"We could stay like this forever," He mutters after a while, lost in the thought as he stares down onto the busy streets and glimmering street lights. "I want you to move into my house. If that's what you want."
You smile, lifting your head to rest it on Michael's shoulder instead, meeting his warm eyes with a bit of playfulness in yours.
"I don't have a choice. It's not like my sister wants to see me ever again — forget sharing a house with me," You laugh, and Michael rolls his eyes, chuckling under his breath as you place a soft kiss on the underside of his jaw.
"I wouldn't accept no as an answer anyways," He lifts his eyebrows at you, "But a simple yes would be enough."
Your face hurts from smiling. You welcome the pain with open arms.
"And..." He trails off, "I think I found a perfect little angel to play in my music video."
He lets his words sink into your mind. You think about the consequences this will bring; the publicity, the judging eyes of Michael's fans, the backlash you will receive: how your name will be on headlines of every major magazine. The perks of dating the most popular person in the world that await you no matter what decision you make.
"The song's about you anyways. Everything I write is for you," He whispers, eyes wide and pleading in a way that has your heart melting. "I want the whole world to see you. I want them to know that you're mine, and I'm yours."
You shy away and nod once, then. The smile that spreads across Michael's face shines brighter than the lights illuminating the whole city.
He leans in for a kiss that, to him, is worth more than any money or fame in the world.
just kiss me, baby, and tell me twice that you're the one for me the way you make me feel
the phone call moment is heavily inspired by one of @ebonymuse fics !! whoa, this was a journey. i hope it doesn't get to boring and messy towards the end, and, as always, let me know what you think :)
tagging people who requested a part two: @luvsliars @pyt03 @lotuspetalss @mustanggbabyy ♡
Summary: Michael was shooting the later famous movie The Wiz, except Diana Ross didn't get her role as Dorothy.. instead the famous Broadway star Y/N. They both looked up on each other, both secret fan of each other finally getting to work together.. possibly building a future friendship.
Content: cute, shy, bunch of giggles and laughs, furious Diana Ross, first time meeting
The wiz, a musical produced by Jerry Wexler…. He had a vision for the film, that was until Diana Ross came to claim a role that was never promised to her.. Trying to steal the role from Y/N, a young prodige, her singing was unlike any other for her age, she's been on Broadway countless times making people gasp and cry for her talent, her singing, her dancing, her dancing.. And here was Diana Ross.. sure she knew how to sing, and dance a bit.. but she was no actor. And worse of all, she was nowhere near the teenage baby face the audience was looking for when seeing Dorothy on screen.. no she was much older than the age intended for the role. But here she was, begging, whining, trying to pay the producer big money to have the role until he finally gave in when she promised she'd bring Michael Jackson on set to play the scarecrow. He couldn't resist having such a talented young star on the movie.. even if that meant letting go of Y/N, which was simply unfair.. but Diana Ross' threats became unbearable.
Today was the first day filming the first scenes. Michael was sitting down looking around the set in awe, he's never played in the big screen so even though the guilt was aching his heart.. he knew the young actress Y/N was supposed to play the role, and he also knew she was much more fitted for this old than Diana. But he couldn't confront Diana with it.. I mean , she did get him a role in this film, she did so much stuff for him that it felt even more wrong to do so. But his eyes kept drifting down to the scrip in his hands, where in the first page Y/N''s name was scribbled out to be replaced by Diana Ross.
After a few moments, Diana's first scene was shot.. and it was.. a disaster.. The producer Jerry felt tears pool in his eyes as his dream of making such a big movie with a lot of budget was crumbling in pieces, here was Diana completely ruining his movie with her bad acting and her face.. not at all matching the cute face Dorothy was supposed to have.. This just didn't work.. no makeup or editing could fix it. The kept re-shooting the scene but it simply didn't work.
Weeks have passed, unbearable weeks for the producer, the other actors, the makeup artists.. so bad that the producer decided to quit on the project, letting another producer take over : Sidney Lumet. He knew the script, all the actors.. and he also knew that they absolutely couldn't keep Diana in the movie. He immediately walked up to her, who was sitting down on the makeup artist's chair, next to Michael who was getting ready to be the scare crow.
"Miss Ross ?" He called, the makeup artist stopping in her work as Diana looked back at him with a smile.. completely oblivious to the news that was about to fall upon her. Michael also looked ack at them through the mirror, not daring to move to mess up the artist's work.
"We've come to the unfortunate decision that we couldn't keep you in the movie anymore. We've seen the scenes so far and it's not at all the vision we had for this movie." he said in a low serious voice, Diana's eyes widen as she shot up from her seat, her lips parting to retaliate before the producer raised a hand to stop her in her track
"We've spent too much budget on the movie.. and we decided we'd re shoot the scenes instead of keeping on this track. So, we apologize for the wasted time and we're going to call back Y/N."
Diana scoffed, a frown on her face as she grabbed her stuff
"Michael. Let's go, we're leaving !" She said, furious. Michael's eyes widen, the makeup artist stopping her work on his face to let him look back at Diana.. he stayed silent.. he didn't want to leave at all.. this was the most fun he's had in a while.. but he didn't want to say no to Diana. Thankfully the producer shook his head in disapproval.
"No no.. Michael can stay, in fact we've love to have him in the movie." He said, Diana shot Michael a death stare.. he looked down at the ground immediately, swallowing hard
"i-i.." he mumbled, not daring to look up at her. "w-well.. the makeup artists has been working for hours.. it'll take a long time to take off.. and the costumes.." he said, trying to drag it
Diana simply scoffed and stormed off
"Fine ! Stay with them, abandon the one who's always been here for you !" she shouted as she left.. her screams fading in the hallway. Michael's heart ached, guilt creeping up his spine as he left out a deep sigh.. The makeup artist put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. The producer smiled up at Michael
"We'll be very happy to have you here.. you're very welcome to stay." he said, trying to convince him to stay.. Michael only looked away.. hesitating. Diana was right after all.. she did do a lot for him.. it felt so wrong to abandon her, but after she did do all that she did.. she snatched away a role that was promised for someone else.. It was all unfair. And he's always been dreaming about having a role in cinema.. could he really let such a chance slip away from him ? The occasion might never occur again.. It all felt so much.. the makeup artists worked on his face to undo his makeup so he could leave the set for today, he spoke with her.. ranting.. waiting for her opinion on it all, and so she did. She gave him advices.. listened to him.
And so he finally made a decision. He'll stay. He wanted to work with that famous Y/N.
A few weeks passed… the time to entirely re shoot the scenes, replacing Diana with Y/N. It all went much smoother, her acting on point, she was easy to work with, her bright and youthful energy filling the set and being so perfectly caught on camera. It was just what they all were working for.
After all that time.. Michael had fought with Diana about going back to the set.. she was strongly against, entirely out of anger and jealousy.. But Michael decided to go. He was today sitting down In the same makeup artist's chair, the one that had adviced him to come back. She happily did his makeup, both of them chatting.
The door of the makeup studio opened, a fresh smell of a flowery fragrance cutting through the hues of hairspray and powder. Michael looked in front of him at the mirror, to check who was that person. His eyes met hers, he felt his heart slightly jump.. And so did hers. She walked up to sit down next to him, a bright smile on her face as she looked back at Michael for a few seconds before introducing herself.
"Hi ! I'm Y/N, it's incredible to see you in real life ! I'm such a big fan !" She said excitedly. Michael glanced back at her shyly and let out a nervous chuckle
"H-hey, it's nice to meet you too" he said
Y/N was sitting next to him.. the girl he'd seen on TV, singing beautifully on Broadway about sad songs.. She was just around his age, 17 when he was 19. He felt nervous.. shy. Just like he was usually next to people he didn't know but this one was different, they didn't know each other directly but they'd both seen each other countless of times on TV.. She watched him perform with his brothers on MTV, meanwhile at the same time he was watching her cry on screen.. they were both talented in different categories yet so similar.
A makeup artist walked up to Y/N to start on her light makeup, just enough to look pretty for the camera.. opposite to Michael's crazy makeup that took hours
"Alright baby" the much older makeup artist said as she started applying fondation on Y/N's face, she sat there completely still like she was used to having this being done to her everyday. The two teenagers stayed completely still and silent while the makeup artists glanced at each other, sharing a knowing smirk
"You kids are awfully quiet" one said with a chuckle
"Why are you two acting shy ? You're going to be acting together in just a few minutes.. you should get comfortable with each other already" the second said, moving on to Y/N's blush.
Michael cleared his throat, a soft blush creeping up his cheeks being covered by the layers of makeup
"It's my first time on a movie.." he mumbled in his usual ysweet soft voice. Y/N looked back at him with a chuckle
"Feeling nervous ?"
""y-yeah.."
"Don't worry, it's super fun ! Plus this movie if goofy, no need to stress it out" she says, giving him a comforting smile, which he returned shyly.
When their makeup was finally done, they both stood up, Y/N looked at Michael up and down for a few second before she laughed
"Looking good" she said teasingly. Michael blushed and shook his head
"shut it.." he mumbled, a gentle chuckle escaping his own lips
When they finally arrived on set, they reviewed the script one last time before Michael got in position to shoot his first scene.. he felt nervous, but completely thrilled. They shot his first scene, among the crows that made fun of him for wanting to explore the world as a scarecrow.
It went just perfectly, no needing to re shoot the scene because one of the actors lost their lines, because they stuttered.. Y/N stood in the background as intended for the scene, watching them doing her best to stay perfectly in character and not smile as she watched literally her favorite singer in front of her. Was this man bad at anything ? When he started singing You can't win, she couldn't help but think.. It looked so natural for him. And it was ! He truly was as good as he looked on TV, no way around it.
When it was finally the time to come out of the background, to help the scarecrow down and scare the crows away.. Michael couldn't help but feel the shyness rise in him.. but he stayed focused as best as he could. Falling down like the script told him to, Y/N kneeling beside him to comfort him, gently rubbing his back.. It was perfect, just perfect ! The producer finally shouted cut, everyone on set easing up, Y/N chuckling as she helped up Michael
"You're a natural !" She said, Michael shaking his head and giggling nervously
"I've been rehearsing for weeks in front of my mirror.." he admitted, making Y/N laugh
"Well it definitely paid off !" she said, gently dragging Michael out the set and towards the small food buffet set for everyone to grab a snack during breaks.
She looked around the table, grabbing some chips and eating them before she looked back at Michael, not taking anything..
"You're not hungry ? Even after all those hours in the makeup artist's chair, filming.." she asked curiously. Michael looked up at her and shook his head
"i'm scared to ruin the makeup or something.." he mumbled
"aww don't worry, it's their jobs they can easily fix it ! Just eat" she said, grabbing a grape and holding it in front of Michael's mouth. He hesitated for a few seconds before leaning forward and eating the grape, making Y/N giggle.
A few minutes later, they were back on set to shoot the very famous song, Ease on down the road. Where Michael and Y/N would sing together.. And both of them were equally as nervous.. Michael, the rising super star, who's been singing ever since he started walking, his dance moves making everyone crazy for him.. and Y/N the young Broadway celebrity, who learned crazy riffs, followed intense classical training to work her voice and attitude.. two legends working together, yet they were still young nervous shy teenagers..
But it was perfect. Exactly what the producer and the audience wanted. They both shot the scene together.. the scarecrow finding the golden road, struggling to get up as Dorothy helped him walk. Then both starting to run towards the golden bridge, singing and dancing.
That's where Y/N and Michael felt most comfortable in. He grabbed her hand, like the script wanted but more out of his own deciding as they both started singing, their voice blending in each other so smoothly creating such an intoxicating melody that could make anyone smile and nod their head.
Michael started dancing, his feet moving instinctively as they both sang, Y/N glancing down at his feet, quickly picking up on him and matching him. They both made eye contact for a split second before letting go of their hand
to dance on their own to their only separated lines
"Pick your left foot up, when your right foot's down !" She sang, a wide smile on her face as she looked at Michael dance on the side
"Come on legs keep movin', don't you lose no ground" he responded, his nose slightly crunching in happiness.
Then they both went back to singing together, their legs mangling beautifully.. not like how it was apparently going to sound with Diana..
"You just keep on keepin', on the road that you choose !"
Their dancing separate as they slowly walked together, their smile on each other's faces only widening as this moment right here felt simply magical
"Don't you give up on walkin', cause' you gave up shoes !"
Not once stuttering their lines or singing, their acting immaculate. They were both trained to be perfect, and both their perfectionist behavior getting the best of them when ever they took part in anything !
Their hands tangled together as they both spun, dancing together as if their brainwaves synced together. So lost in the moment until suddenly, Y/N accidently stepped on Michael's foot
She tripped and fell over against Michael's back.. The cameraman stopping the recording. Y/N stood up, looking back at Michael, gently biting her lip nervous.. as if waiting for him to snap at her for making such mistake..
But none of that. He looked up at her, bursting into laughter as he stood up as well. His laugh triggering her own
"I'm so sorry guys !" she said, glancing back at the staff crew.
"You made a mistake before I did. Me a newbie to acting.." he said teasingly. Y/N looked back at him, playfully nudging his shoulder
"Shut up ! It's your fault for dancing like this.." she said, matching his playfull smirk as they both got back in place to shoot the scene again
"Right right.." he said with a giggle.
It's been ages he had such fun while working.. He secretly knew that he wouldn't laugh as much if Diana kept her role as Dorothy.. he hated himself for thinking that but, he secretly loved working with Y/N.
Y/N had always looked up to Michael, always dreamed of even just grazing his hand while he was on tour and she was in the crowd.. But here they were, both laughing together, working together. It was more than she ever could hope for..
And maybe.. just maybe they could become friends after this. Maybe more.. She silently hoped she'd get to work with him again, and without her knowing..
Ignorant people + white people still hating on Michael Jackson over old ass allegations that's proven to be 1000% false. Y'all are sick ass individuals hating on an innocent man that helped tons of people and yet those people betrayed him and made those allegations against him. And you choose to believe those people who took advantage of him.
Stay mad, antis 😂😂. Because you guys will never be relevant
synopsis: michael working on his new album ‘bad’ has him occupied all day, everyday for weeks on end. as his wife, you’re rightfully frustrated in more ways than one. so, when you hear a female voice in the background during a phone call to the studio — you can’t help but want to claim what’s yours.
warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+
Hayvenhurst had never been this quiet.
Usually, the large mansion was filled with noises of laughter, joy and, more often than not, pure ecstasy from you and your husband.
However, as of late, Michael had been occupied from early hours of the morning, to late at night, when he would trudge home in an exhausted state, curl up against your slumbered frame and fall asleep. And, by the time you’d be waking up, he was already gone. You understood that being the wife to a global superstar had its perks and drawbacks — and when it came to writing and producing an album, the drawbacks were more prominent.
It was late on a Saturday night when you found yourself more bored than usual.
Maybe you were overthinking it, or maybe it was because you hadn’t seen, heard from or touched your husband in 3 days. 3 long, excruciating days. Michael usually would call, but it seemed the concentration and focus the album needed was at the centre of his mind.
So, you had situated yourself in front of the television — a movie you’d already seen twice playing in front of your tired eyes. Barely focusing on what the actors were saying — you drifted off to a place where your husband was. Picturing him sat beside you — warm, salty popcorn in a bowl and a freshly squeezed orange juice in hand, giggling away at a movie he loved.
The soft smile that had crept onto your face slowly sank away into the depths of despair at the reminder your man wasn’t here, and you had no idea when you’d next see him.
You knew you could see him if you really wanted to by paying Westlake Recording Studios a visit, but, Quincy Jones was a perfectionist like Michael, and any unnecessary distractions this close to finishing the album were not permitted to enter the studio.
And you were definitely a distraction to Michael.
Despite being a busy man, whenever you did spent time together, by God did he make up for lost time. That man would spend 50 days and 50 nights making up for any time you’d spent apart by showering you in irrevocable affection to show you just how much he missed you too.
With an exaggerated yawn, you glanced at the glistening gold watch around your wrist, one Michael had gifted you for your 4th wedding anniversary. Mumbling about the time, the numbers 20:38 stared back at you.
‘Time to get ready to sleep alone, again’ You thought to yourself.
Sighing dramatically, you pushed yourself off the couch, switching off the television and dragging your tired feet towards the stairs. The house was always eerily dark and quiet at this time of night, especially being alone, leaving goosebumps down your arms as you reached your even quieter bedroom.
A wave of sadness hit you as you observed your cold, dark and pitiful bedroom — once filled with glistening low lighting, a bottle of Champagne and love-making all night, giggling with your other half. Now, the total opposite.
And the worst thought of it all — even when the album was finished, you knew he’d be touring, and you’d either be stuck at home alone permanently or living on the road for the next year. Either way, you’d do anything for Michael — which agitated you even more.
There was no one better — he was the one for you, the one you promised at the alter that you’d be there, sickness and in health, for better and for worse. This was the worse they were referring to. You loved him more than life itself to ever leave him — it’d break your heart more than this loneliness ever would.
For now, you’d wait for his call. Sit around all night, yawning and rubbing your tired eyes — awaiting a call that would never come, before succumbing to sleep and kicking yourself in the morning for not staying up for him.
Brushing away the negative thoughts that corrupted your mind, you trudged to the bathroom, deciding a floral scented body cream to flood your nostrils would hopefully cheer you up. Grabbing the large bottle, you squeezed a small amount out of the tube — rubbing the delightful smelling cream into your arms, your eyes locking on the phone on your nightstand.
‘If he didn’t call by 10 o’clock, you’d call.’ You decided, knowing that the next hour would be spend watching the time, feeling as though watching paint dry would be quicker. But, what else would a viciously devoted wife do?
Once your body was slicked with the fanciest lotion Michael could’ve possibly bought, just because, you slipped under the covers of your four-poster bed, the Emerald green, satin bedsheets sliding over your skin like water as you settled down.
21:05, Check the clock.
21:18, Sigh irritatingly at the ceiling.
21:25, Rest your eyes for a moment to pass the time.
21:29, Surely at least 10 minutes had gone by—oh, no, just 4 minutes!
"Oh, fuck this." You mumbled to yourself, ignoring the 21:34 on the clock metaphorically screaming ‘You’re weak’ at you as you picked up the phone and dialled the number to Westlake Studios.
The sound of the phone ringing droned on throughout the room — your nails tapping impatiently on the handle, your bottom lips being gnawed on as you waited.
"Hello, Westlake Recording Studios, this is Susie, how can I help?"
"Hi Susie. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you why I’m calling, huh?" You chuckled into the phone, knowing your voice was recognisable by now.
"Oh, good-evening, Mrs Jackson," She replied, a smile evident in her voice, "Let me check with Mr Jones that he’s available, okay? Give me a sec, sweetie."
"No problem."
A rustle, a click and the sound of the hold music indicated Susie, the receptionist at Westlake, was calling Quincy Jones to make sure your husband wasn’t knee deep in a song. Knowing your husband, he probably was.
Click! "Hey, sweetie, just gonna connect you now."
Butterflies erupted in your stomach like a lovesick teenager at the confirmation you were about to speak to your husband, having to bite back a smile at the thought of hearing his sweet voice.
Click! "Baby?"
Oh, Lord, it was better than you imagined.
You sighed a sweet relief, "Oh, darling, it’s so good to hear your voice." You admitted straight off the bat, "Hi, my love."
Michael laughed, a smile that hurt your cheeks creeping up onto your face, "Hi, sweet girl, are you okay?"
"I’m so much better now I’m talking to you." You spoke, clutching the phone in two hands in desperation, "Mikey, I miss you so much."
"I know, baby, I miss you too." Michael agreed, "I’m coming home tonight, so don’t fret that little head anymore, okay?"
"Really?"
"Yes, really, my baby, I can’t wait to hold you." His voice as sweet as sugar, echoing in your brain like an addiction begging to be tended to, "My beautiful wife all alone — makes me so sad."
"So alone." You pouted, craving to be babied, "Need you so bad, Mike." You whispered.
Michael breathed out a laugh, your grin deepening as you pictured his flustered face behind the phone — blush creeping onto his face at your suggestive words, "Oh, darling." He whispered, "I love you, I hope you know that."
"I love you so much more." You sighed, "The house is so quiet and boring without you."
"I know, I know. I’m sorry I’ve left you for so long — things have been hectic here. Y’know how Quincy gets when the album’s nearly finished, he just gets so excited and just wants to make that push to the finish line without stopping."
"I know." You mumbled, toying with the phone cord, "I just can’t wait to have you all to myself."
"Won’t be long, baby. Only a few hours."
"Mm, I can’t wai—" "Mikey, come back, the album won’t finish itself!"
Silence filled the room as your eyes widened, the smile wiped clean off your face as the reality of what you just heard hit you.
A female voice — calling your husband the nickname you have for him, beckoning him back to the studio. A voice laced with an undertone you didn’t like nor want to hear the other end of the phone knowing she was with your man and not you.
Absolutely the fuck not.
"O-Okay, Coming!" Michael called out, "Baby, I gotta go."
"Who was that?" You pressed, your eyebrows knitted together.
"Oh, just another producer. I’ll speak to you later, okay? Don’t wait up for me. Love you."
Click! Beeeeep!
Your jaw dropped, moving the beeping phone away from your ear as the line disconnected. You blinked, in utter shock at the conversation that just occurred in your ear without even a second to process.
Your brain ran a mile a minute as you replayed the scene in your head. An unfamiliar female voice, with a suspicious tone, calling your husband back to the studio, then being hung up on after being told to not wait up for him, ending with the ‘I’ missing from ‘I love you’, had you spiralling as you placed the phone down.
The silence that consumed the room was deafening — your heart beating out of your chest as your mind ran away with itself.
Michael, tired, lonely, and equally as sexually frustrated as you, alone with a musically talented woman who’s investing in his career and spending more 1-on-1 time with him than you, could easily lead to—
You’d never picked the phone back up quicker, speed dialling the Studio back, the mortifying thought of anything happening clouding your judgement, your foot tapping impatiently against the floor, now sitting on the edge of your bed cautiously.
"Hello, Westlake Recording Studio, this is—“
"Hi, Susie, it’s me again. I need you to connect me with Michael again right now please." You rushed through gritted teeth.
"Oh! Hello, again, I thought I already connected you, sweetie?"
"You did. But, I need connecting again, please. Now." You pleaded, your shaking fingers pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Let me check with Mr Jones, okay? One second."
Click! Before you even had chance to plead her to just put you through, the hold music sounded again. Groaning as you flung backwards onto the bed, phone still pressed to your ear, you could feel the anger growing inside you.
Click! "Hey, honey, I’m afraid I can’t put you through. Mr Jackson’s very busy right now."
Could worse words ever be spoken.
"Okay, I appreciate that, Susie, but I must speak to my husband right now."
"I’m sorry, Mrs Jackson, there’s nothing I can do."
"Please. Let me just speak to Quincy, I’m sure he’ll let me speak to him."
"I’m sorry, but Mr Jones has just left for the night, so Mr Jackson is with one of our other producers who has left me with strict instructions to make sure Mr Jackson has no distractions. Goodnight, Mrs Jackson." Beeeeep!
You placed the phone down once more — the beeping subsiding as you stared off into the distance, zoning out as the recollection of the past few minutes clouded your mind.
He’s in there, alone with her. Not even Quincy was there anymore. Your heart was in your throat as you remained perched on the end of the bed, chest heaving in pure adrenaline — visions of your husband doing things he shouldn’t polluting your thoughts.
How he didn’t even notice how concerned you sounded when asking who she was made anger and jealousy bubble in your chest. Knowing that you’d been dying to see Michael for days, not counting the past few weeks, months and even years he’s been busy working on music where you’ve missed out on marital business because of his work — and now she was getting to spend alone time with him without even having to lift a finger?
Furious didn’t even cover half of it.
Michael didn’t know what he was walking into when he pushed open the door to the Hayvenhurst mansion, sighing tiredly. It was just past midnight, his eyes were heavy and his feet were dragging against the floor as he trudged through to the kitchen, expecting an empty room to make himself a warm glass of milk and head up to bed, to hold you as promised.
What he didn’t expect to see was you, in a long sheer gown, feathers on the edges, barely covering the matching black and baby pink lacy lingerie set that adorned your delicious body. Your tits pushed up perfectly, and your hips, waist and glorious legs all on display, with your hair perfectly groomed and a glass of wine in hand, stood on the opposite side of the kitchen island.
His heart jumped into his mouth at the sight of you — in shock of not expecting you to be there and the vision of your beautiful body on full display for him.
"Baby, wow, you look— wow, incredible." He breathed, taking in the sight of you as a took a swig of your wine, "What are you doing awake? I told you not to wait up."
You didn’t answer straight away — just stared at him, taking sips of your wine as you remained in constant eye contact with him. After a few seconds of silence, Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.
"Honey, you okay?"
"Do you like what you see, Michael?"
Michael breathed out a laugh, "Like? Baby, I’m in love. You look breathtaking."
His eyes never left yours as you sauntered your way around the kitchen island, slowly heading towards him, your high-heels clicking against the floor.
"I called you back, did you get the message?"
"Sorry?" Michael questioned, utterly confused at your words.
"Earlier. I called you back — did someone tell you I called again?"
Michael scratched the back of his neck, puffing out air as he thought, "Uhh, no. Sorry, honey, I was really busy."
You hummed in response, standing before him, eyeing him up and down, "So I was told. Something about a new producer not wanting you to be disturbed, hm?"
"Oh, yeah, that’s Ester, she’s great. Been helping me and Q with the album." Michael innocently complimented, a smile on his face as he looked down at you, "God, baby, I can’t get over how amazing you look. I just wanna touch you all over."
You brushed past him before he got a chance to grab a hold of you, a waft of your sickly, addicting perfume clouding his nostrils, "Come get me then." You beckoned, heading towards the stairs, your gown traipsing behind you.
Michael trailed behind you like a predator to prey — his eyes glistening in desire at the sight of you, your plump ass and curvy thighs on perfect display as he practically crawled up the stairs like a rapid dog behind you.
"Come here, darling, wanna touch you so bad."
"Patience, Mikey." You dragged out the nickname, "Gotta catch me."
Playfulness glistened in his eyes as you turned around, walking backwards up the stairs slowly, as if assessing the threat that crawled slowly behind you, his eyes never once leaving yours.
After making it up the stairs without being ‘caught’, you waltzed into the bedroom with an aura radiating off you that Michael had never seen — your hair bouncing as you walked, along with the wobble of your perfect ass, which he couldn’t help but stare at, his cock twitching in arousal.
Michael remained behind you as he watched you slip your gown off, letting it fall of your body sensually, your half naked body now fully exposed to him. A shaky breath left his lips at the sight of you as you crawled onto the bed on all fours — your hips swaying while looking back to meet his eyes.
"Fuck." Michael groaned under his breath, his gaze not daring to look away from your frame, contorting into sensual positions.
You slid slowly onto your back, your arms holding you up and your legs pressed together, your eyes never leaving his own blown out ones — observing as his chest rose and fell quicker as he anticipated your next move. Fulfilling his undeniable need, you slowly parted your legs, revelling in the gasp that ripped from his throat at the sight of your crotchless panties, your gushing cunt exposed to him so suddenly.
"Oh, baby." He sighed, falling to his knees at the edge of the bed, his eyes locked on your glistening pussy.
"Is she pretty?"
"Mhm, the prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen." He mumbled, barely listening to you as he gawked at you.
"No — Is she pretty?"
That’s when it hit him — the reason you were awake, the outfit, the wine, the questions. It all finally clicked in his head what was going on.
"What? Ester?"
"Yes, her." You spat, a foul look on your face, acting as those even referring to her tasted vile in your mouth.
Michael breathed out a laugh, "Baby, no. Not at all. Never in a million years. She’s my producer." He answered, a playful smile on his face, "Enough of that — let me taste this sweet pussy that I’ve missed so much."
Leaning forward in attempt to press his face between your thighs, he was met with a forceful being stopping his path.
Your shoe — the heel pressing firmly on his forehead, stopping him in his tracks.
"Ah, ah, ah! No touching for you, Mikey." You teased, "Or is it only her that’s allowed to call you that?"
Michael groaned, a hint of a pathetic whine threatening to blend with the gruff of his voice, the severity of the situation really setting in for him now.
"Baby—"
"No. Beg."
"Honey, please," He wasted no time, his eyes meeting your own challenging ones from between your legs, all of his wrong-doings becoming apparent to him now he was being denied your pussy, "I don’t know why she called me that — that name is reserved for you and you only. You, my beautiful, loving, perfect wife. Not her." He rambled, his eyebrows curved upwards in despair as his voice threatened to break, desperation dripping off him more than the slick from your wet pussy at the submissive sight of him, "And I am beyond sorry at the fact I didn’t say ‘I love you’, I was in a rush and I didn’t think. But, I should’ve thought. How dare I deny my gorgeous sweet little one the words of my true love. And I should’ve answered your second call, and I should’ve been here to begin with. I hate leaving you alone for so long, but I’m an idiot husband, please, please, forgive me."
You stayed silent as your high-heel, the Armani ones he’d bought for your birthday, still remained pressed against his warm forehead. His puppy dog eyes, now a silent plea of desperation as he looked at you, his face a complete wreck at the pure fact that he was being denied your glorious pussy.
"Hm." You spoke finally, lowering your foot off of his face, "I suppose I’ll forgive you."
"Thank you, thank you, thank you." He chanted, grabbing a hold of your ankle, craving any sort of touch at this point.
"If."
"Yes, baby, anything." He rambled, "Anything — just let me feel you, please."
His obvious built up sexual frustration was manifesting itself in the most submissive, pathetic manner you’d ever seen — his voice cracking and stuttering as he begged you for physical contact.
"You let me use that pretty mouth and cock of yours until I decide you’ve made up for it."
He could’ve cum on the spot at the pure erotica that left your pretty pink lips, swallowing hard as his cheeks flushed, trying to ignore the way his cock throbbed in his boxers.
"Jesus, sweetheart." He breathed, "You’re killing me over here."
"Is that a yes?"
"Yes, absolutely, 1000%, yes."
"Lay down then."
Michael wasted no time doing what you asked. Usually, he would dominate in the bedroom, and he knew deep down the second he slid his achingly hard cock into your tight little cunt, that you’d submit to him that millisecond, but right now, he’d humour you — secretly enjoying letting you take the reigns for once, especially if it meant getting to devour your pretty pussy.
You crawled up his body, before hovering over his face, your legs either side of his head — your clenching cunt just centimetres above his eager mouth that had him twitching in excitement at the thought of the taste of your sweet pussy, one he’s missed for so long.
"Lemme take care of you, sweet girl. Make everything alright again." He promised, two firm hands coming to grab a handful of your shaking thighs.
Without giving him a second to prepare, you lowered your pussy down onto his face — both of you moaning at the feeling of one another after so long.
"Oh, Michael." You cried out, your hands flying to the headboard above your bed, as his tongue wasted no time in delving between your lips.
His tongue slithering its way around your quivering sex — the tip of the warm muscle swiping over your throbbing clit, eliciting the most needy, pornographic whine from your lips. Michael couldn’t help but smile into you — knowing the dominant act was going to wear off pretty soon with that way he was devouring your cunt like his last meal.
The erotic noises that filled your once depressingly quiet bedroom had Michael twitching uncontrollably in his pants — his cock screaming to be freed as you began rocking your hips back and forth on his face, moaning like a bitch in heat at the feeling is his nose nudging your sensitive nub.
"O-Oh, baby, yes! Yes, God, baby, so good." You whined, your voice a high-pitched strain of undeniable ecstasy as you rode his face.
Michael was in heaven — after weeks of not even seeing you naked let alone having his face stuffed full of your pussy, he couldn’t be stopped from devouring you even if anyone tried. He didn’t even care that his dick was begging to be touched — he wanted, no, needed to be forgiven, to make things right. Prove to you that you were the only woman he needed in his life.
A devilish hand slid up your thigh to grab a handful of your ass, earning a moan of delight into your pussy as Michael sucked your aching clit. Nearly buckling over at the vibrations of his noises — you hunched over, knuckles turning white as you gripped onto the headboard for dear life at the feeling of his swollen lips wrapping around your clit like his life depended on it.
It was only when two of his long, slender fingers dipped suddenly into your hole, reaching such depths so quickly that you came on the spot — crying out deliciously as you coated Michael’s face in your juices.
"Michael—ah! God, yes! Don’t stop!"
Your hips rocked back and forth faster than before, denying him of oxygen, not that he cared, but prolonging your orgasm as his slicked nose repeatedly abused your extremely overstimulated clit.
Lifting off his face with a whine, your legs threatened to collapse before Michael caught you, two strong, reliable hands holding your waist and legs before they gave way. Michael picked you up with a smile, before laying you gently on the bed beneath him.
"You’re such a good girl for me, baby." He whispered, leaning down to press a sweet, gentle kiss on your forehead, cheek and nose, "Did so good for me."
You hummed tiredly, looking up at him innocently — one side of your bra strap had fallen down in the bustling of your orgasm, revealing your rounded left breast, your erect nipple on show for him, as well as your now dripping wet pussy one buck upwards away from meeting his thick bulge as he situated between your open legs.
He knew your dominatrix act would let up after he made you cum.
"Look what you did to me, sweet girl." Michael revealed, guiding your hand gently to grab a handful of his despicably hard cock, a loud gasp ripping from your throat, "So fucking hard for you baby. Missed feeling you cum against me so fucking bad."
"Mikey." You whined, irresistibly desperate beneath him.
"Fuck, I only love it when you say it, darling."
You wrapped your arms swiftly around his neck, pulling him down to connect your lips in a fiery, needy, frantic kiss. You hummed into his mouth, the taste of your tangy release still evident on his tongue. Michael kissed you with a burning passion that had you rubbing your legs together once more — the feeling of irrefutable arousal radiating off you like heat.
Michael, without needing to be told, freed himself quickly from his boxers, hissing into your mouth at the contact of his warm hand around the base, guiding it towards your slick cunt.
"Legs up, baby." He mumbled into your mouth, not daring to break the intense kiss.
Michael hummed in pure delight at the feeling of your heeled feet wrapping around his waist and forcing his hips closer to you — his leaking tip now colliding with your clit.
Michael cursed under his breath as his positioned his cock at your hole, his hands shaking at your sides, as he pushed in slowly. The feeling of his pulsating tip, dribbling with anticipatory pre-cum, stretching your pleading pussy had both of you crying out in euphoria — your moans already growing louder before he’d even filled you to the brim.
"Oh, my fuck — this pussy is to die for, Jesus." Michael whined as he pushed further into your tight cunt, inch by inch, his cock stretching you so perfectly.
Once bottomed out and fitted perfectly into your abused cunt — Michael began to set a brutal pace. One that you seeing stars and moaning beyond control underneath him — your sharp nails dragging down his muscular back as he ploughed deeper.
"Mhm!, Mikey, right there!" You gasped blissfully, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he slammed perfectly into your G-Spot, brushing your cervix perfectly.
Michael was a piece of string held taut and being sawed at — ready to snap at any given moment. You hadn’t had sex this good in months — the build up frustration and lack of communication had you both needing each other like water in the desert.
"M-Michael?"
"Yeah, baby?" He panted above you, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek, and down your neck.
You whined, "Pass me the phone."
"What?"
“Don’t stop. Just pass me the phone."
Michael obliged reluctantly, unsure of where this was going. He reached over, his thrusts slowly slighly, one handed to grab the phone, handing it back to you.
"Dial her number."
Michael’s face drained of colour as his thrusts slowed to a stop, which earnt him a slap on the ass from behind, like a jockey on a horse, "Don’t stop, I said. Now, dial her number."
Michael’s swallowed thickly as he searched your face for any sign of humour, but your knitted eyebrows in pleasure paired with your oh so serious eyes had him reaching over to the phone and dialling Westlake Recording Studio.
This late at night had the calls connecting directly to Michael’s studio, Susie long gone, and the only person left in the Studio, was the one person you wanted to answer the phone the most.
"Hello, Ester from Westlake Studio speaking."
A wicked smile flickered over your face as her muffled voice filled your ears. You took the phone from Michael’s hand, sneaking out from under him, pushing him onto the bed and climbing on top of him, guiding his slicked, hard cock back inside you — now riding him just how you knew he loved. Michael strained a loud moan that threatened to escape his lips.
"Hello?" Her voice sounding more confused at the rustling and whispering on the other side of the phone.
You handed the phone back to Michael who eyed you confusedly. His only instruction was the word ‘Speak’ that you mouthed at him, before lifting your cunt off his throbbing cock and bouncing straight back down, his cock nudging your cervix perfectly now.
"H-Hi Ester, it’s M-Michael."
"Michael? What are you doing calling this late?"
Michael looked at your fucked out face for answers — as your beautiful frame and gorgeous complexion stared right back at him, your wedding ring glistening in the moonlight as you grabbed a handful of your tits, he knew exactly what he needed to do to make things right.
"I’ve decided your actions at the Studio are wildly inappropriate and disrespectful to my wife." He started, his voice huffed as he bucked his hips up into you, "Using a personal and private nickname that is reserved for my wife and my wife only is—ah, baby! unprofessional and calls for immediate dismissal."
"What? A-Are you firing me over a nickname?"
"Yes, e-exactly." Michael breathed, "My w-wife is the most important thing in my life, and anyone who upsets her will be—o-oh fuck—banished effective immediately."
Michael positioned the phone to be held up with his shoulder as he gripped your hips — slamming upwards into your tightening pussy, forcing your moans and whines to grow deliberately louder.
"What the fuck? Are you having sex?"
"Pack your stuff and be gone by tonight," Michael breathed, biting his lips momentarily at the sight of your tits bouncing as he fucked up into you, "And never disrespect my wife again."
Not even bothering to hang up, knowing the embarrassed woman on the other line would, Michael threw the phone onto the floor and thrust up into your drooling pussy like he had seconds left to live.
"Oh, Michael, I love you—I love you so so much. Thank you, baby—mmhm!!— thank you, you’re so good to me!"
"I love you, sweetheart, god, M’love you so much."
With a tentative hand crawling down your body to rub tight circles on your clit, to the way it made you clench around his twitching cock — the both of you came with a strangled cry.
"Yeah — cum on my cock, baby, give it to me." Michael coaxed, a whine following shortly after as he forced his cock as deep as it would go before letting his much needed release fire up inside of your oh so willing cunt.
Whining on top of him, juices flowing down his length, coating his tightened balls, your orgasm subsided and you crashed onto his chest, heaving as he, too, came down from filling your cunt up to the brim with his hot seed, before slipping out as he softened.
His gentle hand came up to caress your head, the other taking a hold of your left hand, lifting it carefully to display your wedding ring to the both of you, the 24 Carat gold rock glistened in front of both your eyes, a smile creeping onto your face as it remained a reminder of your dedication to one another no matter.
"This will get you anything you want and more." He admitted, "Just say the word and I’ll go to the ends of the Earth for you, darling."
You peered up at him, your eyes a hazy, fucked out mess, "Will it get me a week alone with my husband?"
Michael smiled, pressing a kiss to your jewelled finger, a boyish giggle leaving his lips before he spoke, "I’d have to check with Quincy—“
DISCLAIMERS: This is my first ever try at fanfiction and I hope it's okay, but if it's terrible, you know why. This is not an accurate portrayal of anyone depicted in the story. I do not know these people. It's strictly a work of fiction.
PAIRING: Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader.
GENRES: Fluff / Smut / Angst.
SUMMARY: The year is 1984 and she never asked for this, but when you fall in love with Michael Jackson, life becomes loud. For an entire year, they've built this loudy, messy, tender life together. For the first time in a long time, she was happy, believing that despite the whirlwind that came along with the Jackson craze, Michael's love was unwavering. But the road to fame has many victims and she just might be one. Whispers she tries to ignore, nights when he doesn't come home and the gnawing feeling that she's not the only one he gives himself to continue to grow. When a tabloid photo splashes across the morning headlines, proving what she always feared, she has no choice but to call him from a thousand miles away and hears the truth in the silence.
WARNINGS: Angst. Can't lie, this is going to hurt. Infidelity. Arguments. Strong language. Diana Ross. NSFW scenes. Minors do not interact with this post.
WORD COUNT: 13.2k (oops... sorry everyone.)
Sunlight peaked through the crack of the otherwise blackout curtain, spawning a direct beam of light against her face. The warm glow arose a mild irritation as she stirred awake with a gentle huff, the only comfort of the early wake up call being that of a familiar weight of muscle slung across her waist.
It seems that in the night, he'd attempted to fuse himself against her, like he could somehow merge them into one with nothing but stubborn determination and a strong set of arms.
If it weren't so damn restrictive, she'd have found it sweet. Then again, everything Michael Jackson did somehow warmed her heart. The hold (both physically and metaphorically) he had over her wasn't fair, but she never complained. Being with Michael was like orbiting close to the sun. Warm and bright, but if you stepped too close, completely devastating. That was the risk she ran. People had always warned her about the price that came along with his lifestyle, but a year of being considered 'his' had taught her that he was multi-layered. You couldn't put him in a box.
Yes, with fame came harsh consequences, even more so with the jolt in status that had been unleashed with the release of Thriller, but he was so much more than the persona his celebrity had inflicted. Beautiful. Charming. Hilarious. And most unknown to the world that was so quick to slap a label on him, was his heart. The playful consideration, that longing to be wanted. He was so much more than the pop legend they portrayed him to be. Still, the title suited him well and he had no complaints about playing the role. It served a purpose and he relished in the power bestowed on him. After all, he hadn't put all those hours in to come up empty handed.
But the Michael she knew, underneath the bravado made her feel safe and loved. As she turned in the iron clad grip of his arms, she didn't note the stray Spiderman comic book on the bedside table, nor the empty glass of orange juice from the night before. Her focus fell to the man beside her, the mess of dark curls spread across his forehead and the peaceful look splashed over his face as he basked in the much needed sleep he'd been lacking with the pressure his career dictated.
If she tried hard enough, she could pretend this was the way they lived their lives everyday. Comfy, in her apartment, with only the sounds of the birds chirping echoing through the open window, letting a cool sweep of fresh air leak into the once stuffy room. Still, she loved him and embraced all the challenges that came along with being involved with a man of his stature.
With that thought in mind, she knew she had to get up. He was due to attend rehearsals with his brothers soon. The Victory tour was fast approaching and while Michael had begrudgingly had no choice but to agree to be present, he was a professional and wouldn't settle until he completed the thing he set out to do. The sake of his sanity relied on a shower before he left for the day and that thought alone presented itself loud and in charge until she did something about it.
Struggling to free herself from the restrictive hold he had over her waist, a small laugh escaped her lips as she pried his large hands from her hips and managed to successfully plant her feet on solid ground.
The air was cool, goosebumps rising against her soft flesh. So much so, that the chill forced her hand to reach down and throw a white over-sized t-shirt over her bare frame.
It was Michael's. Or to be more precise, it had been Michael's.
Their first night together, after the echoed praise, unholy chants of each others names and the joining of bodies, she'd slid out of bed and stole the shirt from his closet. The soft fabric, the stretched neckline and the scent of him warmed her so much, she never quite had the heart to give it back.
She didn't want to wake him.
Seriously, she didn't. Michael barley slept as it was, quoting himself to be somewhat of a night owl. She knew there was more to it.
Sleepless nights plagued with a mass of over thinking. Insomnia had got the best of him and so those rare nights when he did find himself drifting into a dream filled slumber, like last night, reluctance ached her bones, with a tender need to allow him to stay tucked neatly in her bed, away from the destructive world outside her doorstep.
But like clockwork, it happened again.
The action of it amost instantaneous, the subtle shift of his body against the mattress as the ivory material settled against her thighs, like his body ached with a fear of abandonment when she wasn't around. His head lifted, dark eyes narrowed in a tired squint he didn't try to hide, but his tense form eased once he spotted her just out of reach.
"What's the time?" He grumbled, voice rasped from sleep and much deeper than he had ever allowed the public to hear.
"Seven fifteen." She spoke softly, brushing her hair back from her face.
With a longing whisper of her name, Michael carelessly threw himself back against the pillows. "Come back to bed, please."
Michael was good at that. Tempting her into bad habits. Truthfully, it didn't take much. Just a glance at the coffee tinted hues flickering in her direction and she was an utterly gone.
Mostly.
"I wish I could, but you have rehearsals this morning. And I'm not dealing with Jermaine if you're late." She pouted almost too naturally and then stretched her arms above her head, the hem of his old t-shirt skimming her upper thighs. "You know how irritated he gets."
"Oh boy." As though she'd personally offended him, Michael allowed a frustrated groan to fall from his lips and dragged a heavy hand across his face like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. Those wandering eyes of his not once leaving the long expanse of her legs, his jaw clentched while his usually tame thoughts ran wild. "You can't mention my brothers name when you look like that."
"Like what?" She feigned innocent, ignorance despite feeling the burn of his gaze.
"Like you're beggin' for trouble." His voice dropped, almost impossibly low. Giving her no time to react, he was on her, arms snaking around her waist, tossing her back against the mattress with a lazy form of dominance. "An awful distraction." He husked, his weight pressing her into the sheets as he continued to mutter against her ear. "One day, I'm taking this shirt back. You look better without it anyway."
Barley catching her breath, a teasing grin rose against the corners of her mouth. "That's cruel of you. I'm attached to this shirt."
Lips curling into a smirk, his mouth ghosted against her own, voice thick with familiar sense of desire. "Yeah, well... I'm attached to you, baby. A bad habit I can't kick." Then without missing a beat, he kissed her. Slow at first, then rough enough to make her forget about the rehearsals and his brothers entirely.
There was something about each kiss they shared. All that time they'd spent together and she'd never grow tired of it. With his body against her own, Michael's intoxicating warmth crowded her in the most delicious way. This was something far from innocent and the more it transpired, the more she lost herself in the moment. Time began to blend together, so much so, it became blaring obvious that not even a full scale hurricane could draw her away.
With expert ease, his tongue slid into her mouth, brushing against her own. Michael then pushed a knee between her own, a hand beside her head holding him up as the other grasped at the swell of her hip like he could keep them in this moment forever, if he only held her tight enough. It was almost dizzying, the way he hummed in triumph as he sucked on her tongue and got a real taste of her first thing in the morning. Suddenly any exhaustion he felt evaporated and all that remained was his a blazing need for her.
"Well, good morning to you too." She spoke, breathless once the kiss broke, as the heat simmered between them.
Michael smirked, fingers pinching at her delicate waist while not so subtly dragging his eyes over her body. Flushed skin on display covered by nothing other than that distracting shirt. "It's 'bout to be."
Before she could come up with a response, Michael had already brought his head back down to seal their lips together again. The familiar flick of his tongue against hers prompting a pathetic whimper to vibrate against their mouths.
Now, she knew him well enough to know that if she could see him, that cocky smirk wouldn't just be felt, it would be on proud display. The undoing of her by his hands was one of his favourite things.
Michael was always been that way inclined. He didn't want to be good at something, he wanted to be great. The best. The same could be said from a career standpoint or something as simple as winning a game of twister when he finally convinced his family to play. He had a competitive streak and that definitely followed him into the bedroom.
"You know I love it when you make those sounds." He muttered softly, pulling back only slightly so he was able to kiss down her jawline and along her neck.
"You-" She wanted to speak. Really, she did. But the attack against her sensitive skin, the bruising movement of his mouth proved to be a consuming distraction. "Fuck."
"What was that?" Michael paused his movements, breathing heavy as he looked down at her like prey. His already obscenely pink lower lip had deepened in colour, the smug grin still prominent and growing wider by the second. The familiar tone of his eyes darkened, the blown pupils leaving only a small ribbon of brown to surround it. He was gorgeous. He didn't know it all the time, but she certainly did, having fallen victim to that look one too many times in the past.
A moment of clarity seemed to catch up.
"You-" Her breath hitched while her fingers trailed the exposed expanse of his chest. "You have rehearsals. "
"Yeah, well..." Assured hands inched against her thighs, lifting the white fabric higher, exposing more of her to the cold air that had encouraged her to place it on in the first place. "They know I didn't want to agree to this tour." There were layers to his words, a heated frustration he tried to bury deep. Michael wanted more for himself, no longer wanting people to associate him the days he needed a group to keep him relevant.
Ambition clawed at him like a vice, telling him he had more to give and prove to the world that doubted the legacy a black man could hold. He's proved he'd earned his spot at the top billing order with his latest solo project and now he couldn't help but begrudge the fact he was still playing band of brothers with the same group he'd been forced into from the age of five.
Brushing the tip of his nose against her own, his voice dipped into a whisper. "They can wait a little while longer." And like a starved man seeing food for the first time, Michael's eyes gleamed in delight as he finally ripped the offending material over her head. "There she is."
Michael dipped down, his hands cradling her face in an almost possessive hold as he stole a kiss. It was common for him to be gentle, but this time, it didn't last long. Before either of them could gage the change, his mouth descended lower. A mirage of movement. All teeth and lips. The inability to remember her name had suddenly kicked in as he lapped his tongue against her nipple, tugging it almost painfully between his teeth only to sooth it with a lingering lick while a hand busied itself with her neglected breast.
No one could get her off the way he could. He knew her body, the way it worked and the things that she loved. He'd learnt the art of bringing those tempting moans to the surface and that was almost reward enough. Every time they did something like this, it was like they switched roles. With an open mouth, she'd sing him sweet lullabies and he knew exactly what to do to bring those high notes to the surface.
"You like that, don't you?" His voice thick with desire, knee barley pressing against her centre with a clear agenda. The goal was to drive her crazy, he was good at that. His mouth curled into a satisfied grin against her breast, knowing he had her right where he wanted her. There was no coming back from this. No clarity that could break through that incredible mind of hers to remind her to be responsible. Michael loved seeing her like this. How she tried her hardest to be rational, only for that to be utterly ripped from her with every indecent lick gracing her abdomen. It only made him want her more.
Hips rising off the mattress, desperate for some real fiction, she hated herself for how easily she fell for his little games. Her mind begged for her to come to her senses, but fogged over in a lustful haze when she found herself in this state. It was no use. She wanted him. Anything he was willing to give her. His fingers. His mouth. His cock. So long as he was the one touching her this way, she didn't care about anything else that was happening in the world beyond her bedroom. "You're an asshole." She muttered, half breathless, knowing he wasn't going to make this easy for her.
A soft spout of laughter fell from his lips, a hand falling to her hip to pull her closer. "You should be a lot nicer to me." He suggested with a demonic arch of a brow, his face coming up and aligning with her own.
"Why's that?" The muttered whisper kissed his mouth, his dark hues drinking in the sight of her in the early hours of the morning.
"Because..." He started, lips brushing against the soft pillows of her own, a dimpled grin taking over his features. "I have the power to make you feel real good right now." Surging forward, he didn't wait for a response, lips claiming hers in a heated echo of dominance, one that warmed her from the inside out. Long fingers clawed the meat of her thigh, guiding her leg up and around the slim apex of his waist.
Michael was bare under the covers, having fallen asleep that way the night before. If her eyes were open, she would see the smooth skin, the slightly uneven blotchiness he'd grown so insecure about despite her protests of how beautiful he was. The heat from his body trapped her against the mattress, a breathy hitch of a sound falling from her lips.
There were so many divine creatures in this world. Michael had taken the time to appreciate so many from afar, but he swore to himself, the heavens must have taken their time when it came to the craft of the women beneath him.
"You want me to make you feel good?" He pulled back briefly to mutter against her mouth, hand cautiously caressing her ribs, higher and higher until she felt his tumb grazed the underside of her bare breast. She arched instantly, a desperate plea for more and Michael couldn't stop it, the lively groan, low in his throat, casting vibrations where their bare chests met. His lips descended, lower, a leisurely trail of his mouth against her jaw and with an instinctive tilt of her head, she easily allowed him the access he silently asked for. The sharp sting of his teeth against her pluse illicited an addictive gasp, and in the next moment, his tongue flicked out, soothing the redness he'd created.
Michael laughed then nipped against her earlobe. "You're so beautiful like this."
"Stop teasing me." She protested, trailing her nails up the delicate line of his spine.
Again, he laughed, breathing hot air against her skin. "I'm sorry."
He wasn't sorry at all. He got off on this, enjoyed knowing the effect he had over her entirety. With a surge of confidence, she caught his mouth again, relilish in the way he opened up, a messy collide of tongues and teeth, breathless whispers churing into one.
"I want you." She breathed against his lips, pulling back enough to see the blowout, depraved look tainting his usual kind eyes. "What are you waiting for?"
"You have no idea what you do to me, do you?" His voice soft for the first time since he woke, large hand sliding to her waist like he was trying to map out her body from touch alone.
A shiver ran down her spine, the effect he had over her wasn't just physical but deeply rooted into the essence of her being. She knew a life without him, but it felt so long ago now.
"No." She breathed out, eyes fluttering at the feel of him so close.
For a long beat, he studied her, his tumb tracing maddening circles against her skin. "By now, you definitely should. Can't you feel it?"
A soft pink glow rose against the apples of her cheeks because yes, she very much could. The hardened length prodding against her hip, ready to take her as she was. He wasn't her first, but he had become her everything and time spent tangled in the sheets together always felt like more like a celestial event than a simple shared moment.
His gaze was searing, but then he leaned in and kissed her again, heavy but slow, as though he didn't have any time restraints when they both knew the truth. "I'm gonna take care of you."
Holding himself up, Michael allowed himself a glance, starring down in unadulterated awe at the sight below him. It didn't matter how many times he's seen her like this, she would always set his heart racing. Sometimes, he still failed to understand how it was possible he got the luxury to see her like this, how she trusted him so intimately. If divinity lived in a person, it would be this women. Michael felt like he could write albums of content with her as his muse, but no words would do her justice. The burning ache for more built up and with an aching sigh, he pulled away only brief enough to reach into her nightstand draw and and take out a familiar, foil wrapper.
Baring his new found possession, his slender fingers handed the item over. "Put it on." He muttered, lips teasing nipping the sensitive flesh of her collarbone. Holding himself up, he watched in wondement, the way she feverishly ripped into the packaging and with a quite kind of precision, rolled the latex onto his hard length. The touch of her hand already setting his body alight. With a heavy sigh, Michael's forehead dropped against her own, a shared smirk settled on both their features.
"Don't get shy now." She teased, but the words lost momentum the second he reached between their bodies, taking the base of his cock in hand to line himself up against the sticky, sweet entrance he's come to adore.
The second his tip pushed into her opening, a gasp was torn from her lungs. Like their brains worked on the same wavelength, their eyes found each other, a burning gaze as he surged forward with his skilled hips and pushed fully into her, stretching her walls with ease, like she was made for this, made for him specifically.
Time wasn't on their side, just outside, they both knew they would find a car waiting. Bill (Michael's trusty bodyguard) would be checking his watch, wondering what was taking them so long, but neither of them seemed to take note.
With little thought and ample need, he barley gave her time to adjust before he found himself moving against her, sliding almost completely out before spearing back in, knocking the air from her lungs with each precise thrust. The sight of Michael lost in pleasure burnt into her brain, something she didn't want to lose sight of, but each movement brought a new surge of pleasure which made it impossible to keep her thoughts straight. Rolling her eyes to the back of her head, he showed no signs of stopping, if anything, his pace grew faster and in an attempt to keep a hold of him, her nails scratched into the brown flesh of his back.
The consuming weight of his body against hers, the force of his thrusts, it was too much and not enough all at once. Her hips moved against his, finding a perfect rhythm in the intimacy of her bed. A large hand encased one of her own, lifting it above her head, fingers intertwined with the sound of his desperate pants echoing down her ear. With their bodies pressed so close together, a beading sweat slicked their skin, her lips pressed to his jaw as he whined her name.
"You're so pretty. So... so pretty." The muttered words barley escaped his lips, like he wasn't aware he was saying them in the first place.
"So are you." She urged, pressing her lips against his protruding collarbone, earning a deep groan from him as Michael moved to nip at her earlobe. With a tentative twinkle in his eye, he stopped his movements, buried deep with the slick warmth of her walls, to his own detriment as much as hers. Impatient for more, her hips attempted a desperate wiggle, but with a fierce determination, Michael pinned her hips, keeping her perfectly still.
It never used to be like this. Their first time, three months into dating, after some coaxing on her part, they finally let go of their inhibitions, but he had been painfully shy. So much so that she had questioned if he's ever done this before or if she had been the unknowing soul to deflower Michael Jackson. Never quite answering her question, he assured her he knew what he was doing, but definitely allowed her to take the lead.
Nowadays, his confidence had improved tenfold and that was only made more apparent by the hungry gleaming gaze those dark optics of his shined with.
"Who's making you feel this good?" He uttered, brushing the bridge of his nose against the delicate arch of her jawline.
"You." She whimpered, body aching and ready to go.
The mocking laugh that he released shouldn't have lured her in the way it did, but arousal pooled, staining the sheets beneath her.
"You gonna be a good girl?" Michael husked, unmoving, relishing in the immediate nod she gave, but it wasn't enough. "I know you can speak, baby. Tell me."
"I'll be good." She whimpered, the ache between her legs growing by the second. "I promise. Please, Mike... I need you."
A hot sigh of relief feel from her swollen lips once his hips began to move again. The movement almost sob inducing as the sound of their bodies pressing together set the soundtrack for the morning, overshadowing the sophisticated bird song just beyond the window.
A strong hand grabbed against the meat of her hip, harsh and bruising, but so deliciously addictive that the uttering of his name soon followed, over and over like a broken record or a sort after prayer. Burning and so fucking delicious.
With the tilt of his head, his mouth devoured her own, pouring every thought and emotion into a hazy kiss. Messy and a little off kilter as his tongue moved against her own, forcing her to move her own head and an angle that ached, but she wouldn't dare correct.
Sweat gathered at his hairline as he pulled her thighs tight around his hips, gasping as the slight movement helped him slide further into her warmth, his tip hitting that designated spot bound to drive her crazy.
"Michael!" She gasped, face flushed and twisted from the overwhelming surge of ecstasy, like she could feel everything all at once and yet, nothing at all.
"Come on, darlin', let go, I wanna feel you." He urged, quickening his pace in a manner she always found impossible.
"Fuck - ah..."
The burn ripped through her, his name the sin on her lips as her orgasm tore through her body, possessing her with the inability to control her limbs as she thrashed and withered beneath him. Her voice hoarse with praise, clinging onto the last waves when suddenly her release triggered his own.
His formally precise movement, the ones that came from a dancers hips, turned sloppy, thusts falling out of a rhythm to a well timed groan as he spilled himself inside the latex and eventually fell against her warm body.
Ragged breaths and rapidly rising chests filled the space around them. When was the last time she's felt so fulfilled?
Sweaty and satisfied, the temptation to forget the world around them was easy enough. If either of them thought they could avoid consequences, maybe they would. In the safety of her bed, Michael felt normal. She's seen versions of himself he'd forever hidden from public viewing and stayed. She valued him not for his status, but for the man that lay beneath it.
A small, soothing hand cradled the back of his neck, careful to avoid the tender flesh that lived a few inches North. She was good that way, knowing what he needed and when was the right time to put those actions into practice.
"Baby, we need to get up." She gently encouraged once she had finally caught her breath, pressing a soft kiss to his hairline, completely unphased by the dampness clinging to his skin after their earlier escapade.
A hard groan could be heard, the sound bouncing off the four walls around them and landing deep in his throat. "Girl, why'd you gave to remind me? I was at peace pretending for a while."
A light giggle passed her lips, his attitude, as bratty as it was, somehow still charmed her. Nudging his shoulder, she watched in amusement as he pulled himself from her and flung his body down on the empty space beside her, honey brown eyes narrowed in mild irritation both of them knew to be a lie.
"I'm sorry, Michael." And she was, he knew that. "If I could keep you here forever, you know I would."
"Yeah..." He nodded, lips quirked into a small grin. "I know."
"But you can come back tonight and you know..." Brows arched, her voice dipped in tone. "my bed will always be waiting for you."
"It had better be." Pouncing forward, Michael trapped her against the mattress, prepping a series of well throughout kisses over every inch of skin he could get to and relishing in the delightful laugh he recieved as a reward.
Eventually, she managed to tear away with a playful push against his shoulder. "Go and shower. You stink."
Sliding out from the warmth they'd created, her gleaming eyes watched as he moved across the room with a gentle, "Stop looking at me." To which she rolled her eyes, but found it hard to follow his order. In fact, her eyes stayed trained on his retreating figure until he hid himself behind the ensuite bathroom door.
With him out of sight, her bare feet touched the cold ground for the second time that morning. Picking the white shirt from where it had been thrown, she pulled the comforting piece of fabric over head and exited the safety of her own room.
In the main space of her apartment, she moved gracefully towards the other bathroom where she cleaned herself up before she started with her day.
Back in the kitchen, busy hands moved to make breakfast. Michael wasn't much of an eater, he never had a big appetite and unless reminded, he could go days at a time forgetting the fuel he needed to keep up with the energy his twenty five year old body held. As much as she tried talking to him about it, the worry of her words never got her anywhere. Pretty quick into their realtionship, she'd taken note that nagging only laid the foundations of his own stubbornness. To get Michael to do something, you had to physically place the thing in front of him and make it seem like it was his idea.
Slicing fruit and filling a bottle of orange juice was the least she could do to ensure his day started as well as she hoped it would continue. Gutting the seeds of a fresh pomegranate plucked from her fruit bowl, her actions were placed on a temporary pause when a knock at the door alerted her to a guest.
It was no surprise as she crossed the room and flung the door open, the face that greeted her back was the harded, worn exterior of an overworked bodyguard.
"Hello, Bill." She spoke politely with a smile.
"Hey, kid." He acknowledge with a stern nod. "Where is he? He's going to make us late." As if to make a point, Bill raised his arm, kind eyes falling to the face of the watch strapped to his wrist.
With a small laugh, she invited him in with a gentle promise that she would go and find him so they could go on their merry way. She knew the pressure he was under. Working for the Jackson's really should have been something that came with a manual, but Bill navigated the challenge well and frankly, she didn't know what Michael would do without him. Having troubles with his own father, Bill had somehow became a surrogate for the life he could've had.
Closing the door behind her as she entered her bedroom, her soft voice called out to her boyfriend as her gaze fell to the door of her ensuite, opened a few centimeters to reveal a small stir of steam developed from the shower he must have taken.
With no sound of running water and with the assumption he must be getting ready, she crossed the floor as quietly as she possibly could, carefully sliding into the room and allowed herself to oggle glorious the sight that greeted her.
The well toned muscles of his bare back, strong and flexed, proof that the body of a dancer would always triumph. His skin smooth and taut, a mouthwatering shade of brown, marbled with a contrasting lightness where the pigment had been stripped, but still looked as perfect as the rest of him was. He hated it. She knew that and as she trained her eyes upwards, the view of him covering the lighter spots on his face with a darker foundation shade in the mirror was made visable.
As if sensing her presence, his gaze met her own stare in the reflection and the beautiful smile he was known for began to curve against his lips, a subtle, but very real flush rising against his cheeks, flashing a peak at those famous dimples she adored so much.
"Hey, stop watching me." He laughed, though she could hear the subtle insecurities lay deep within his tone. "I'm shy."
"After what we just did?" She teased, giggling as the redness of his cheeks flared further.
With the initiative to step towards him, she found herself standing in front her lover, jumping up onto the bathroom counter and sitting with her back pressed to the mirror. As she reached to take the foundation bottle and sponge from his hands, Michael's large, protective grip instantly fell to her waist, further elongating that breathtaking smile. All perfect teeth and lips. She found herself questioning how she got so lucky.
"You're so pretty." She spoke offhandly, not realising she's said it until his forehead came down to rest of her shoulder, hiding his flaming face from view. "None of that, come on, let me help."
Eventually, Michael pulled back and allowed her to pile a light layer of make up on his face, something he used to be deeply insecure about until he realised she loved him exactly as he was. If it were up to her, he wouldn't have to hide away like this, but Michael refused to go outside without it and so she helped when he allowed it.
With a squeeze against her waist, the depth of his dark eyes focused entirely on her, the way she looked and felt, so heavenly and entirely his. She took over all of his senses and Michael didn't mind one bit. "You smell good." He muttered, doe eyed and in love.
"I smell like you." She countered, tilting his chin down so she could cover a small spot beneath his eye. "Look up."
He did as he was told with little argument, but laughed. "I like that you smell of me. Makes me feel like I marked my territory."
"Yeah? I always knew you were an animal." The laugh he gave was reward enough and then she remembered why she was rushed off to find him in the first place. Clearing her throat, her hand rest against the apples of his cheek, thumb carefully brushing the delicate skin beneath his eye. "Bill's in the living room."
"What?" His voice rose in pitch, eyes wide as he took into account the thin white t-shirt barley covering her tempting frame. "And he saw you? Like this?"
Before he could spiral further, the sound of her merry laughter broke through the surface and his eyes softened almost instantly.
"Relax, would you?" Pressing a soft kiss to his jaw, she finally finished with the make up she'd been applying to his face and neck when she jumped down and handed him the long sleeved, Mickey Mouse sweater he'd picked out for the day. "We're grown. I think he knows what goes on between us when he isn't around."
"Yeah, but..." Michael's voice carried low while he shrugged into the magenta material, smoothing the fabric over with large hands once his head poped out the neck of the fabric. "I don't want him to say anything."
"You're over thinking, baby. You know he cares too much to embarrass you on purpose." With a simple peck to his lips, she felt his smile against his own and then playfully nudged him. "Brush your hair. I'll finish cutting your fruit and then you can leave."
So that's what they did. Fifteen minutes later, she found herself standing in her doorway, sending him off with a simple kiss, a soft promise to see him later and a tub of cut up fruit and a bottle of fresh orange juice.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder.
Wasn't that the bullshit phase a Roman poet spewed once up a time and it stuck? Well, she supposed it must true since she had found herself resonating with the saying more and more in recent days.
Since embarking on the Victory Tour, she had barley seen Michael. It wasn't through a lack of longing on either of their part, their situation simply dictated that it wasn't something that could happen easily for the two of them. While he was out, commanding stages night after night, she still had a life of her own, a career she'd grown passionate about and responsibilities she couldn't wiggle out of at the drop of a hat.
Although all of the shows for this tour were hosted in the States or Canada, she couldn't tear herself away from her job in order to follow him around, even if his brothers wives expected her to exactly that, just as they had.
Independence clung to her body, stubborn but admirable. It was one of the many qualities Michael had constantly praised her for. She didn't need him to be her own person, she existed in a reality where she didn't rely on someone else to lead a fulfilling life, but stuck by his side because he elevated every aspect.
Days passed by in a relatively similiar manner. Wake up, get ready, work, come home, dinner and if she was really lucky, Michael could sneak away for an hour or two as she settled down for the night and they would talk until one of them into a peaceful fell asleep, though it was usually her on account on Michael's persistent insomnia keeping him up at all hours.
With a hectic day at work finally drawing to a close and having caught up with all the tedious household chores she had been putting off, all that was left to do was relax. A foreign concept with how busy life had proved to be within the past couple of weeks. It was beginning to feel like the universe had purposely been conspiring against her.
The warm, comforting weight of a checkered blanket sat across her lap as she lost her mind in some other world ― her latest read divulging into a welcome distraction from reality. The words lingered, painting delicate landscapes of a place far away from earth, one she could lose herself in for hours with no repercussions.
Page after page, consumed by captivating dialogue and complex character, then it all came crashing to a halt by a shrill ringing breaking through the quiet. With the beginnings of a smile etched against the corners of her lips, she made quick work to slide her bookmark into the correct page before she darted forward to retrieve the phone up off the hook.
Leaning back against the plump sofa cushions, she brought the landline to her ear while curling a single finger around the curved wire. "991 emergency, how can I assist you today?"
Sharp, melodic laughter broke through the silence and without so much as a word, it would have been impossible to mistake the sound for anyone else. "You're so silly."
"Me?" A dramatic gasp filled the space between them. "Never."
"Yes, girl, you." His delicate hum warmed her from the inside out and with the futtering close of her eyelids, she could imagined him sprawled out on his hotel bed, all sparkling eyes and beaming grin. "I miss you."
"Hmm... me too. You always were my favourite distraction." She found herself admitting, tucking her legs beneath her body.
"Distraction from what?"
"The terrors of the mundane."
He was the total opposite, but perhaps that was what drew her towards him. Opposites attract and his life was so vastly different from her own.
The first day the met, he's been running, running like he was born to do it his whole life. Legs moving with vigor, leaving little room for breath and yet, he hadn't seemed to have broken so much as a sweat. His frantic actions, a mission to hide away from a small crowd that had gathered had him running straight into the first building he could see with a tired head of security flanking him.
It had been there, in the middle of a forgotten library that they first set eyes on each other.
The laboured breathing of his companion had been the first thing to draw her eyes to the new comers. Being one of the few people actually using library at the time, Michael was quick to meet her gaze and offered a shy smile with a quite apology. Did she recognise him? Of course and she knew he knew she had, but she brushed it off and went back to searching the shelves.
It was then that a little voice echoed in his mind, urging him forward and giving him a small burst of confidence to ask what she was searching for. Things escalated quickly from there. She asked why he's entered the library in the first place and he sheepishly had no choice but to admit his car had broken down, leaving him no other option but to get out. Instantly, he was recognised and before he really knew what was happening, he was running from a surge in the crowd.
The library had offered him not only solitude as his head of security made a few important calls to send a new car their way, but companionship that went beyond a simple conversation. What bloomed that day had grown into something that surpassed both of their expectations and had lead to her sitting idly by on a random Tuesday evening, grinning like a fool into the phone as he recounted life on the road.
Jermaine was still driving him crazy, no shock there, but he wasn't much trouble when his wife was around. Tito and Randy bickered a lot and when they weren't too loud, Michael found their little spats pretty amusing. He noted cautiously that he's gotten closer with Jackie since they started back up, how Randy constantly stole everyone's fresh socks and mostly, how he wished Joseph would leave them alone.
The tumultuous relationship he had with his father had become somewhat more contentious as Michael had grown into his adulthood. No longer shackled by his father's control, but somehow still entirely under his thumb. He hated it. Michael was a lover by nature and his family meant the world to him, but had also been his breaking point. The abuse, the taunts, the never ending cycle that brought on the feeling of not being enough.
He wanted more for himself.
Craved it like the air he breathed.
As he spoke, she offered him loving reassurances of how she cared, how she knew he was destined to do more. The Thriller album was really just the beginning for him and how he already had changed the aspects of the world, not just with his talent, but his heart too.
"How is it you always know what to say to make me feel better." He mused and she could practically picture the way in which he was dragging his hand through his curls.
"Comes from a year of loving you." Her voice soft, leaving no room for arguments as she curled up against herself, holding a pillow close as if it could mimic the press of his body against her own. It didn't work, but it didn't hurt either.
"I love you too. I really wish you were here right now." He admitted. "Everything has been so crazy. At least if you were here, I would have something solid to hold onto."
"I wish I was there too." She confessed. "I hate knowing you're so unhappy."
"It's not that I don't love our fans, you know I do. I just thought that by now, with everything I've done, with the success of the last album, I might have been given the opportunity for a solo tour."
He wanted it, more than he wanted anything. A chance to prove himself as not only an artist, but a performer away from his brothers, where he called the shots and had all the creative liberties. He wanted to be hands on, to shine as MJ rather than the child from the Jacksons.
This wasn't something he discussed openly with most people, but with her and the trust they had build, confessing his deepest thoughts had been a relief he'd been craving for years now. She never judged, never cut in, only ever encoruaged his passions and offered comfort he'd been denied for years.
She had her own personal grievances with the Victory tour. While, yes, it has stripped him of the solo projects he had been actively seeking out, it went beyond that. She thought it was too soon to get back on stage after the Pepsi incident, he had yet to full recover and was still expected to perform every night.
If that wasn't bad enough, everything that went wrong suddenly became Michael's fault. The ticketing system, the lack of Jackson music in the shows, the ticket pricing. It seemed he had a target on his back and she was the only one there to comfort him.
"It's going to be your day soon, baby, I know it." She said, innocently, like it was a fact and not an opinion. "How about I fly out and see you soon?"
"Really? Don't play games with me."
The excitement inched in his tone provoked and onslaught of butterflies to form in pit of her stomach. This silly, brilliant man had no idea what he meant to her.
"Yeah, of course. I can clear it with work." She laughed. "I feel bad. Your brothers all have their wives, kids and friends flying out constantly to see them. I hate that you don't have that."
"Well, that's not entirely true." He mused.
"Huh?"
"Didn't I tell you?" Michael breathed a delicate sigh, raising an arm above his head to fluff at the pillow beneath him. "Diana said she'd come out and see a show next month."
"Diana Ross?"
The women Michael had idolised since he was a mere child, far too young to be raised in a world to cruel. He latched onto those around him that brought a form of solace he lacked in his day to day life. Diana had been a source of comfort, someone he not only looked up, but longed for.
She knew of the childhood crush he had on the brilliant pop legend, had witnessed first hand as he got gooey eyed whenever she entered the room. She tried not to make a habit out of jealousy, but it couldn't be helped when your boyfriend looks at another women like she crafted the sun just to make his days burn a little warmer.
Still, she never made a scene. She trusted Michael and so naturally, he never sensed any of the discomfort his relationship with his mentor may had caused.
"Yeah, the very one." He sounded almost giddy, retelling the conversation he'd indulged in only a day ago. "She currently has a break between her Vegas shows and said she would fly out next month to come and watch us. Isn't that great?"
"Yeah, that's wonderful, Michael." She nodded and if he noticed her tone fell flat, he didn't draw attention to it. "I'm really happy for you."
"Me too." He practically beamed. "Maybe you could come the same night? Or the show after? You know I'll be putting on my best perfomance for you."
"You'd better."
Eventually their conversation turned to her, how her job was, if her boss was still a hard-ass and if she hid from her responsibilities by indulging in a new read.
Cuddled up against in her blanket, wrapped tightly in a familiar white shirt, she recounted the vast details of the latest book to capture her attention. Michael hummed with appreciation as she told tales of a world different from the one they lived in, packed with adventure, magic and longing.
Cutting in, he eventually asked if she would read a chapter to him. Instantly, she obliged, picking her book up from the coffee table and skipping straight back to the first page. One chapter became two and eventually, she stopped reading as the sounds of his deep breaths evening out signalled he'd entered the dream state.
Loving Michael had always come with consequences, mostly through no fault of his own. He couldn't control the screaming fans or the intrusive paparazzi. In fact, he'd gone out of his way to keep her name out of headlines and reporters mouths. She wasn't a secret, but she wasn't all that public either. His management thought it would be better that way. Maintain the single image to keep the fans invested. While it certainly made going outside their houses challenging at times, she could handle it.
What she couldn't handle, however, was the tense silence that seemed to build while he was away. The calls hadn't completely came to a devastating end, but they had become few and far between. When he did get the chance to call, it was brief, rushed, like it was more of an obligation than a privilege.
She tried not to take it to heart and told herself he was busy and she knew that was true. The tour was in full swing and Michael was being pulled in all directions, but suddenly, it felt like he was slipping from her grasp and the tighter she tried to hold on, the quicker he fell.
He wasn't cruel, she knew that to be a fact and so maybe somewhat foolishly, she continued to give him the benefit out the doubt. Not wanting to badger him while he was working, she allowed him to take things at his own pace, on his own terms, but even she admit, the lack of communication was growing somewhat tiresome now.
She missed him, probably more than she was supposed to and in a days time, she was set to be flying out to New York to see him. The tickets were booked, a bag was half packed and for a brief period of time, she was excited.
Soon, that exciment turned to dread.
Would he want to see her at all? What if he'd decided he wanted to call it off and was too kind to do it over the phone?
Doubts swarmed her already overcrowded mind and with a dismissive sigh, she forced herself to shake them away.
She loved Michael. Michael loved her and she trusted him enough to be honest with her.
Early morning passed and before she knew it, mid afternoon hit. Taking a break from packing for her trip, she told herself to go out and get some fresh air. Maybe being cooped up all day had been a contributing factor to misery and so she left the warmth of her apartment, telling herself a brief walk around the park would calm her nerves, but she didn't make it that far.
Sat on the floor, just opposite, the apartment right across from her, she saw it. The newspaper her neighbour must have subscribed to and hadn't be home to take it inside their own place yet. And like it was mocking her, she found her eyes drawn to the black and white print, an unmistakable image burnt on the front page.
Now, usually, tabloid gossip was of no interest to her. She really had very little interest in what celebrities were getting upto in their free time. Then she realised she must have been a hypocrite because when the picture showed the undisputable snapshot of her lover, pressed tight against a beautiful goddess, sharing a sly smile she thought he had reserved just for her, she suddenly changed her mind.
People had warned her, men like Michael don't do monogamy. He's too young, too famous, the world was at his feet and settling down would be a disservice. How idiotic had she been to call them cynical, to push aside any doubt and run straight towards him with nothing blind trust?
She remembered asking him about it once and how he replied innocent enough, assuring her that he wasn't like that, that women throwing themselves at him made him uncomfortable. He was too shy, too nervous.
But then again, this was no ordinary women. No, those dark eyes and beautiful curls were brunt into her memory.
'MICHAEL AND DIANA: FROM MENTOR TO LOVER?'
She wanted to throw up.
Every trace of rationality left her body as she watched her hands pluck the paper from her neighbour's welcome mat, stealing the item with very little thought and instsntly turning on her heel to let herself back into her apartment.
Back in the safety of her own home, she gave herself a second or two to calm her nerves, not yet noticing the shaking foundation of her hands or the rapid beating of her heart against her ribcage.
It couldn't be true. He wouldn't do it.
Would he?
For a few minutes, the entirety of her weight leaned carelessly against the door, eyes cletched shut as she willed herself to relax. She couldn't break before she knew the truth, so with a deep breath and a strong thirst for gospel, she forced herself to move, to sit down and read the entire article from beginning to end.
The words hit like lightening against water. Painful and damaging as the writer detailed the events of the night before. How Diana Ross had been spotted at the Jackson's Victory tour, polished and proud for the boys she'd watched grown into stars, how she sang and dance along, then slipped backstage mid-performance and ultimately found herself leading Michael up to her hotel room straight after curtain call.
Flaky witnesses reported seeing them close, all hands and flirty exchanges. Of course, this could be nothing more than a fabrication. After all, the photo didn't show anything outwardly damning, but she knew Michael, she knew that look and it was far from friendly.
Ice filled her veins, a sudden coldness deverstating her from the inside out. Had this been the reason he's been so agonisingly distant with her lately?
He wanted Diana. She's known that and like an idiot, she had allowed fate to make a victim of her. Just like Stephanie Mills had.
Like her, Michael had dated the young Broadway star not too long before he'd been cast in 'The Wiz' alongside Diana. Stephanie (who played the leading role on stage) had been the expected to take the role of Dorothy in the movie production and then suddenly, she was out of the picture, the rug pulled from under her feet. Diana got the part and brought Michael into the picture with the promise of making him the Cowardly Lion.
Shortly after the contracts were drawn, his realtionship with Stephanie fizzled out and the two went their separate ways.
Once, she had asked him if the end of that particular realtionship had anything to do with Diana. At the time, he smiled shyly and denied it, but the recent article had her rethinking every word he had ever spoke to her.
Had he love her at all? Was she just a place holder until the real thing came along?
It hit like a punch to the gut and before she even had time to process when she had just read, she felt a familiar streak of wetness trickle down her cheek. She was crying and she hated herself for not being able to stop.
Despite not yet having lost him, she knew this couldn't last and it hurt. The first man she had ever truly loved and he played her just as easily as he played his favourite song. Was that all she was to him? A temporary distraction?
Time stretched. Crying herself into a heavy migraine, she didn't move an inch. The newspaper still sat on her lap forty five minutes later and with one last lingering glance, she knew what she had to do.
Until now, she hadn't bothered calling Michael. It was a difficult process while he was on the road, but not entirely impossible. Before he had left, he's passed along numbers, given her code words and fake names to bypass any security in case she really did need to talk to him and at this point, she absolutely needed to hear his voice.
Standing on shaky legs, her body stiff from sitting in the same position for too long, she forced her feet forward, the walk across the room feeling more like a marathon than a simple five second journey. Reaching for the landline, her body slid down the wall, knees coming to her chest as she dialled.
The process to speak to Michael on the phone was a lengthy one, and truthfully, she hadn't processed or remembered most of it. Time seemed to drag as slow as possible while simultaneously passing by in a distinctive blur. Whoever had been playing security in the measures of Jackson phone calls eventually let up and told her they would be passing the call forward.
Nerves began to bubble before she fully registered what was about to happen. Her mind a swirl of printed words and painful glimpses of a smile that should have been hers.
The ringing that once whould've provided hope, only brought along dread and for one brief, tempting moment, she seriously contemplated hanging up and dealing with the issue another day. She didn't have to do this now. Before she could even attempt to bring the reciever down, the ringing stopped and for a second, she was greeted with clumsy rustling.
He'd picked up.
"Hello?"
The familiarity of his voice only aided in furthering the devastation she felt, the welling of tears she stubbornly refused to let fall. When he heard no reply, Michael spoke in greeting again. As the silence lingered, he seriously considering hanging up but then he heard the subtle heavy breath and realised, he knew exactly who that was.
A soft call of her name was all it took and suddenly she felt like a scared child during a nightmare, lost, confused and needing to tackle the beast head on.
"Baby, are you there?" To his credit, Michael actually did sound concerned.
And she hated it.
Did he not know? He seemed entirely oblivious to headlines currently making their way into the average American household. Maybe he really hadn't seen it, but she couldn't be sure she trusted anything he said or did anymore.
"Yeah." She spoke for the first time, clearing her throat and resting her chin against her knees. "I'm here."
"Hey." She could hear the smile in his tone. "Are you all packed? I can't wait to see you tomorrow. Bill will meet you at the airport and you ca-"
Unable to listen to his ramblings of a visit she wasn't sure would happen, she found herself cutting him off. "Is it true?"
For a second, there was nothing. He didn't speak or hum in confusion, he stayed so quite. So quite, she could barley hear the small breaths of air pass through his mouth
"Huh?" He eventually spoke, though the word lacked conviction.
"Is it true?" She repeated, eyes screwed shut, voice completely void of emotion.
"Is what true?"
He played the fool well, she would give him that.
"Last night." Her voice wavered. "You and Diana. Is it true?"
He paused and it was heavy. No playful taunts or amused laughter. Just a hefty silence where his voice should have been.
"I mean, she came to the show." Michael eventually confessed and she could hear the distinct sound of his black loafers hit the floor as he paced back and fourth. "I told you she would."
"Yeah." A bitter laugh passed through her lips. "What you didn't tell me was how you would find yourself in her hotel room by the end of the night."
A painful gasp tore through his throat and only further perpetuated the ache in her chest. He knew now and he hadn't denied it, he couldn't. She could picture the way he looked when he was stressed, brows furrowed inwards, begging to be soothed with a gentle touch, but she wasn't there and even if she had been, she no longer felt obligated ease his tension when she could feel the pain of her own heart breaking.
"H-how?" His voice cracked. Quickly clearing his throat, Michael closed his eyes and then found the courage to speak again. "How did- how did you know?"
With an unflattering chuckle, her head hit the wall behind her, eyes snapping open to view the plain, white ceiling above her. "And here I thought you were always so vigilant of the paparazzi."
For a moment, Michael forgot how to breath. They'd seen, she'd seen and he's always promised himself, he would never hurt her. Shuffling on his feet, usually he knew what to do to make tense moment fall into laughter ― it was the way he survived, but right here, right now, he was met with the realisation that there really was nothing funny to laugh about.
"Just tell me ―" The words in her throat broke before she was able to form a full sentence. With an unsteady breath and tears welling against her waterline, she tried again. "Just tell me, did something happen between you two last night?"
What greeted her wasn't a confession. He didn't grovel or admit he was at fault, but the heavy silence that lingered between the phoneline told her everything he refused say with words. He'd done it, been intimate with a women that wasn't her and now he didn't have guts to confess his sins.
Before she could stop it, a tear slipped and anger swelled, ugly and unwelcome. Michael hadn't uttered a word and somehow, that felt worse, like he was running from responsibility or hoping she was too stupid to call him out on it.
"Tell me, you coward!" Her voice seethed, but while the angry was present, there was no mistaking the deverstation that lingered beneath. "Tell me why! Why would you do this to me?"
No matter how hard she tried, she could never imagine a situation where things would have transpired this way. They'd been happy, she knows they had been.
Every time they were together, a beacon of hope suddenly lit the world around them. That gorgous smile of his rarely fell and he trusted her enough to keep his secrets. That must mean something. Michael didn't really trust anyone.
At some point, he must have loved her, for all that was worth.
Eventually, the shock wore off and he found himself able to talk. "I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" She mocked with an cruel scoff. Picking at the loose thread on her jeans, her gaze fell still. "Why? Tell me."
Like the air had been vacuumed out of the room, she suddenly found it hard to breath. Every inhale burnt, every exhaled required too much effort. Wiping the wetness from her cheek, she felt the weight of the conversation breaking her down.
"I don't have a good answer." Michael breathed out, frozen like stone as he looked out the window of his hotel to a beautiful view of New York. It did nothing for him. How could he admire anything after huring someone he held so dear? "Not one that will make sense."
"I don- I don't care. I d-deserve to know." Suttering and fumbling over her words, she vowed to get an answer out of him one way or another. "Why did you do this? A-all I ever did was love you."
"I don't want to make excuses." His voice had never sounded so fragile before. "For as long as I've known Diana, she..." Like he didn't know how to continue his sentence, the words lost momentum and came to a sudden halt.
"She?"
Releasing a small whimper, Michael closed his eyes. "Please don't make me say this."
"If you don't tell me," she started, her voice hoarse but serious in tone. "I'm hanging up."
"No!" Panic and desperation mixed into a deverstating plea. "No. D-don't hang up."
"Then stop stalling."
"Okay." He found himself nodding, though she couldn't see. Pacing back and fourth once again, Michael finally convinced himself to bare the truth. "Since I've know her... I don't know, it's like she has me under a spell. People thought it was some childhood crush, I tried to tell myself the same, that it would fade with time, but it didn't."
And it had been true.
The harmless crush he had on Diana in his youth had never been a secret. They'd joked about it plenty of times, in the press or on TV. At the time, it seemed sweet, a little boy infatuated with his mentor.
Then seasons passed and he grew older. So had she, but suddenly the age gap didn't seem quite so large. The crush hadn't faded, but certainly felt forbidden, so Michael kept his thoughts and strong emotions to himself, assuming she would never want him.
That was until last night.
"Keep going."
"I don't know what to say." He admitted. "She means something to me."
"You love her." She spoke flat. Not in a questioning tone, but as though it was a straight fact no one could deny.
"I d-don't know." And as Michael said it, he hated himself for it.
Here he had this beautiful, incredible, funny women and she liked him, truly liked him as Michael and not the big star the world had built him into. She comforted when he was upset, held him when he was lonely, she told him stories of other worlds to read him to sleep and loved him more purely than anyone else ever had.
She wanted nothing from him and here he was, breaking her heart.
"You wouldn't have done this if you didn't." He heard the exhaustion in her voice, but nothing could have prepared him for what she asked next. "What happened last night?"
The world tilted on it's axis. Did she want him to relive it?
His heart pouted, hot tears threatening to fall loose as he recounted the night in his mind until the physical need to vomit presented itself.
"You're not serious." He muttered.
"Not the gory details." She assured, wanting to spare herself more than him from that particular aspect. "Just the build up. I want to know why. What lead you to follow her when you knew I was waiting for you?"
Michael uttered her name, delicate and precise. Maybe if he said it soft enough, she would take mercy on him, but he knew he didn't deserve it and that thought alone provoked the first tear to fall.
"I really don't want to talk about this."
He was shy in nature and she knew it. Talking about the intimate details of his late night escapades would've been hell, but she didn't let up. If she did, she provided him an out and that was something she couldn't afford.
"You owe me this much, Michael."
With a quivering sigh, he found himself submitting entirely to her request. To deny her would only cause more heartache and he couldn't stand it. Her pain brought more tears from the both of them as he explained the lead up to the night before.
How Diana appeared before the show and met with him backstage. It was fun and playful. A little flirtation back and fourth was nothing new with the two of them, but this felt different. Her touched lingered, her gaze had darkened. She had been zoning in like a wild animal hunting its prey. When he noticed, Michael excused himself to get ready for the show, shy and awkward with the thought of his lover back home.
While he was getting dressed, she'd taken it upon herself to speak with his brothers, light banter, nothing like it had been with him and then when Michael came back out, she hugged him for good luck and pressed a kiss against the corners of his mouth. Not necessarily any indication she wanted anything more and from a distance, it would have looked innocent enough, but he had noticed the longing gleam in her eyes and knew there was nothing holy about the thoughts she'd been having.
He turned towards her, confused but excited as she promised she would be waiting for him backstage after the show.
The particular perfomance was full of energy. Michael had always been on top form, but there was a very distinct spring in his step that night and once he left the stage, dripping in sweat and desperate for a shower, there she was: waiting for him just as she promise.
One thing lead to another. Excited hands, a first kiss and then the invitation to her hotel. It was like the world had closed off and they were the only two people in the world.
So blinded by a childhood fantasy coming true, Michael forgot all about the paparazzi swarming and the women waiting for him in LA.
Once the deed was done, guilt swarmed and he politely excused himself and later vomited in the bathroom, but he couldn't take it back, no matter how hard he tried.
As he concluded the tale in deveratating detail, a tidal wave of misery washed over both of them. A sob of agony ripped from her lungs and Michael, sitting on his bed with her head hung low, wanted nothing more than to die in that moment.
What had he done?
"Funny thing is, she doesn't even want me." He admitted with a bittersweet laugh as if that would make up for his indiscretions.
"What?" She spoke for the first time in what felt like hours, voice rough from the tears she'd spilt.
"She told me after..." he began, squeezing his eyes tight at the memory. "that i-it meant nothing to her, no one could know, that it was embarrassing she even went there with me."
For reasons even she couldn't comprehend, her heart broke for him despite what he had put her through because on some level, she understood Michael.
He wanted to be loved, craved a life where he was treated as more than a prize horse and was accepted by those around him, not only as an equal but as a human being.
He's been used by the industry from the age of five and treated like nothing more than a shiny trophy for the world to gawp at. Having Diana dangle her love just to snatch it away would have broken him in ways he never thought possible, but if she comforted him, she would have nothing left for herself. For the first time in over a year, she had to be selfish.
The ache in her chest felt worse than it ever had before and with an ugly sniffle, she resisted the urge to tell him things would be okay.
Whiping a neverending stream of tears, she responded with a simple: "Well, I hope it was worth it."
And it was in that moment, he heard it. The lack of emotion now tainting her words. Every ounce of warmth she had ever held for him blown out by the cold truth of his betrayal and Michael felt the air leave his lungs when he realised what that meant.
He didn't want to lose her. He couldn't.
"Please." He spoke in a desperate attemmpt to win her back. "I love you."
"No you don't." Her laugh barley had any bite to it, but still stung from miles away. "You love how I love you. That's not the same."
There had been no real harshness in the words she spoke, but his blood ran cold, like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over his head and he was expected not to shiver.
It wasn't true, he did love her. She had to know.
She had to.
"No, I love you." He furiously protested.
"You wouldn't do this to someone you love."
"It was a careless mistake! I don't want to lose you." Michael rarely raised his voice, but there are exceptions to every rule. "Fly out tonight like we planned. We-we can talk it over. I can- I can make this right." He spoke fast, like if he could get enough words in, she would see reason and he wouldn't face a version of reality where she didn't exist.
"Are you crazy? Listen to yourself." She scoffed. "Why the hell would I fly out? We're done. Don't contact me again."
With a harsh slam, the phonecall ended and with it, so did any hope of the two of them as a couple.
Finally, she let it all go. If she had been sobbing before, it was nothing compared to the barrage of tears now streaming at an alarming rate. Her heart pounded, her throat ached with heavy cries, but nothing could've prepared her for the loneliness that descended over her like a dark cloud.
This wasn't as simple as losing a boyfriend, Michael had been another part of her and now they didn't even have the trust of a friendship to fall back on.
Alone in her apartment, she allowed the sadness to overwhelm her, refusing to move as she cried against the wall with her knees tucked to her chest and her face buried in the stiff denim. Her arms wrapped around herself as if that could protect her from a devastating fate that had already happened, but it was too late. You can't change the past.
An inky black hue stained the sky over Los Angeles, not a single star gleaming in sight, but there was no denial that night time had finally fallen.
In the early hours, the last thing the quite halls of a tired apartment bulding had expected to hear was the deafening sound of frantic, pounding knocks ricocheting from apartment twelve.
No one had the courage to step out into the hallway, but if they had, they would've been greeted with a rather peculiar sight of a desperate Michael Jackson, exhausted from an impulsive six hour flight, calling the name of his girlfriend through the door like a prayer.
He hadn't thought things through properly. The moment she hung up, he had rushed to his feet and ran to find Bill. His bodyguard confused, but unable to refuse the restless pop stars request to go back home.
He had a show that night. His brothers would've been livid and he dreaded to think the repercussions he would face with Joseph's wrath once he returned, but none of it seemed to matter in the large scale when he realised he was about to lose the best thing thst happened to him.
Ten minutes of unanswered knocking and aching calling of her name, Michael didn't know what to do. He couldn't force his way inside, that would only worsen the situation and so instead, he did the one thing that scared him more than anything. He became vulnerable.
"Please." He called out, the palm of his hand settling on the wood grain of her door. "I know you're in there. I saw your car in the lot."
Nothing.
His heart clentched painfully in his chest, fear rooted deep with the knowledge that if he couldn't get her to open the door, he might never see her again.
"Come on, you know me." A string of tears fell beneath the black aviators he wrote depiste the darkness of the night. "I'm not malicious and I would never want to hurt you. You've been so good to me, so good for me. I don't like who I am when you're not around."
His pleas went unanswered, but little did he know, only an inch or two away, she sat against the door in a pair of oversized pyjamas, a hand covering her mouth and nose to muffle the cries that broke lose. She was there, she was listening and he had absolutely no idea.
"Remember when you kissed me for the first time?" He cried, head hanging low while recounting that moment twelve months prior. "I'd been too scared to do it. My brothers had been teasing me for weeks, calling me a chicken and they were right because I was scared... not of you, but what it meant if I were to kiss you and have you reject it. It would've meant I'd lose you... really lose you, not as a partner, but as a friend too and I couldn't risk that."
"But I didn't need to." He continued, lips quivering with each breath he took. "Because you were brave enough for both of us, you took the leap and I remember thinking, 'wow, she's going to change my life.' And you did... from the very first time I saw you in the library, wearing that awful grey sweatshirt. For the first time in a long time, I felt human again."
Still, nothing, just the aching sound of his own stubborn tears refusing to let up and who was he to deny them? He's never felt a sadness so strong and entirely consuming. She was slipping from him, he could feel it and every second felt like a year without her voice.
"Please, just- just open the door." He tried one last time. "We can fix this. I can. I'm so sorry I hurt you. You mean everything to me."
When he was young, Michael had promised himself he would never turn out like his father, he would never purposefully hurt the people he loved. He had been so sure of himself too. In hindsight, looking on at the devestaion inflicted by his actions, maybe he was Joseph's son after all.
With no indication that she was even inside, Michael stepped back, arms around his stomach like he could hold himself together through willpower alone even as the pieces of him crumbled from within.
Until now, Bill had remained quiet, but slowly he inched closer and placed a comforting hand on the younger man's shoulders.
"Come on, kid, let's get you home." He spoke in a kindness only Bill held. "You can try again tomorrow."
And while he knew that to be true, he also realised how low the probability was that she would actually hear him out of she had already refused.
Allowing the safety of a man he regarded as a father to lead him outside, Michael could barley remember stepping into the car nor the exhausting journey back to Hayvenhurst. One second he was standing at her door and the next he was walking into his own home.
What he hadn't expected was to find his oldest sister, Rebbie to be awake at this hour. She turned to face the door, unable to see his eyes behind the glasses but she could sense the cruel pain plaguing her brothers half breathless frame.
"Get some sleep, Mike." She muttered after giving him a brief hug, telling him they could talk about this in the morning once he had caught his bearings.
Michael nodded and began to walk down the hall to find his own room when his sibling called his name once again.
Turning on his heel, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to lock himself away for the rest of eternity, he gave Rebbie a small nod of acknowledgment. "Yeah?"
"You're friends stopped by earlier... gave me a box of your stuff. I put it in your room."
Eyes widening with in inpending terror, Michael took off as fast as his feet would carry him and tore through his bedroom.
Everything looked the same. He hoarded books and albums, his room was never the most organised, but everything had a place that made sense to him. He knew where things were, which is why the cardboard box sitting on his bed felt so out of place.
Heavy legs carried him forward and with a shaking hand, he reached out to inspect the contents.
A stray comic book or two, a sketchbook he would doodle in from time to time, a key chain from his last trip to Disneyland and then he saw something painful enough to knock the breath from his lungs and bring his world crashing down.
He never thought that in the absence of her presence, the thing that would truly cause his heart to break would be what remained.
There it sat, folded neatly at the bottom of the box, stretched neckline and still smelling just like her ― his old white, t-shirt, the same one she stole the first night they shared together. She'd claimed it along with his heart... and now she'd given it back.
It felt wrong, like it no longer belonged to him.
Then he heard it again, those words echoed through hus mind, sure to haunt him for the rest of his life.
"You love how I love you. It's not the same... We're done. don't contact me again."
He's lost her and there was no one to blame but himself.
summary ⋆ a late-night grocery run turns mildly catastrophic when michael gets recognised in the produce section. while security suffers in the background and the crowd outside keeps growing, his spouse is far more concerned with determining which pasta sauce has the best volume-to-price ratio. somehow, arguing over tomato percentages ends up calming michael down more than anything else could.
content ⋆ 2.05k words, married! michael jackson, gn! reader, domestic fluff, grocery store date, humour, paparazzi, mildly overwhelmed michael, famous people trying to be normal, i need more fluff for my man
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader
author's note ⋆ guys that bio-pic has really taken over my life, i need to get a job. I HAVEN'T HAD A CRUSH ON MICHAEL JACKSON SINCE I WAS 5 WHY DID IT HAVE TO RELIVE IT NOW. I HAVE STUFF TO DO WHYYYY.
every once in a while, you insist on grocery shopping yourselves. is it practical? fuck no. but there was an incident in 1999 where you watched an assistant confidently purchase twelve avocados that were somehow simultaneously rock hard, bruised, and expired. you had stared at the bag in silent anguish before declaring, “i refuse to become so far up my own ass that i forget how to pick fruit.” from that point onward, despite constant protests from security, management, and anyone else logistically responsible for your safety, you and michael occasionally snuck out to buy groceries late at night. adorned in hoodies, baseball caps, sunglasses at objectively unreasonable hours, face masks — basically anything that looked like it would hide your identities when in reality it just made the two of you look significantly more suspicious. note to self, next time, consider trying the clark kent glasses approach instead.
nonetheless, usually it worked.
the important word is usually.
as tonight, it did not.
you stand in the pasta aisle, skin pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, holding two jars of marinara up at eye level with the unwavering concentration of a surgeon evaluating donor organs. the glass feels cool against your fingertips as you tilt each bottle slightly, watching the sauce slide sluggishly against the sides. one boasts a higher tomato percentage and fewer preservatives, its deep red colour rich and velvety beneath the artificial supermarket lighting. the other is cheaper by nearly two dollars, though its thinner consistency and suspiciously orange undertones suggest a much lower quality. you narrow your eyes at the ingredients list, lips pursed in thought. too much water. too much sugar. not enough garlic.
i mean what even is ‘arrabiata’ anyway…?
around you, the supermarket hums quietly. refrigerators buzz, the sound reverberating against the tiled floors, lights flicker faintly overhead, and somewhere nearby a trolley with a most definitely broken wheel squeaks with irritating persistence. the scent of bakery bread and industrial floor cleaner mixes together strangely in the cold air. somewhere in the distance, a small commotion begins to stir near the front entrance of the store, voices rising faintly above the mechanical drone of refrigerators and rattling carts, but you barely register it. right now, your full attention is devoted entirely to determining which pasta sauce offers the most financially efficient ratio of authenticity to price.
then suddenly one of your security guards speed walks past the aisle looking visibly stressed. immediately after, another one. you glance up briefly. “…hm.”
from somewhere in the distance you hear it: “oh my god, that’s michael jackson.”
ah. there it is.
you sigh lightly to yourself and continue examining labels. honestly, this is why you told him not to wear those sunglasses.
“michael, nobody wears massive black aviators inside a grocery store at eleven o’clock at night unless they are either famous or actively shoplifting.”
“they complete the outfit.”
“you’re going to get mobbed or arrested.”
“that’s mean.”
five minutes later, you hear the unmistakable squeak of your husband’s rubber soles against the linoleum floor before michael appears at the end of the aisle, moving with the cautious restraint of somebody trying very hard not to attract attention while already knowing it is far too late for that. the brim of his baseball cap sits low over the dark curls spilling out beneath it, oversized sunglasses still stubbornly fixed across his face, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as though he could physically fold himself smaller against the growing awareness around him. his expression is carefully composed, deliberately neutral, though you can still recognise the faint tension lingering beneath it immediately; the slight stiffness in his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly whenever too many strangers begin looking at him all at once. behind him, somewhere near the frozen foods section, the ordinary rhythm of the supermarket has started mutating into something far more discordant: trolley wheels screeching abruptly to a stop, hurried whispers multiplying into overlapping voices, the unmistakable plague of public recognition spreading from person to person with an incomprehensible speed. like dominos falling one after another, somebody gasps, “oh my god, that’s him,” followed almost instantly by another voice insisting they shouldn’t stare while very obviously continuing to do exactly that.
you don’t even look up immediately.
“hi, love,” you say absently, still studying the labels with furrowed concentration. “which one do you think gives you more sauce per dollar without sacrificing its integrity?”
michael blinks behind his sunglasses.
“…what?”
you hold up two jars of pasta sauce.
“this one’s nearly twenty percent more expensive per ounce,” you explain, squinting at the sticker, “but it actually lists real tomatoes first. the other one is basically tomato-flavoured water. i’m trying to determine whether the extra dollar ish justifies purchasing it over the one with the questionable tomato origins.”
for a second he just stares at you. then he visibly exhales, the tight line of his shoulders softening slightly as his attention shifts away from the growing noise near the front of the store and toward the jars still balanced carefully in your hands.
“baby,” he says finally, somewhere between the worlds of amused and bewildered, “we can afford the extra dollar.”
you look up at him like he’s fundamentally misunderstood the point.
“that’s not the issue,” you say immediately. “it’s the principle of the thing. if we keep letting them get away with this, eventually we’re all going to end up eating ‘tomato sauce…?’ yes, the question mark comes with the jar.”
you hold up the cheaper bottle, thrusting the thing toward michael with the indignation of a prosecutor presenting exhibit A.
“like this one has corn syrup in it.”
michael leans in, peering at the tiny print. “…is that bad?”
you stare at him.
for a single beat you are genuinely speechless.
“…michael.”
“what?” he asks, all wide eyed in innocence.
“it’s pasta sauce.”
“yes?”
“why is there corn syrup in pasta sauce?”
he glances back at the sticker again with a sincere, thoughtful expression, as if the ingredients list might suddenly rearrange itself into something reasonable. “…to make it sweeter?”
“that is not the point,” you say, voice climbing slightly with the full weight of your emotional investment. “if i wanted sweet tomato sludge, i’d just go buy ketchup.”
michael’s shoulders begin to shake beneath the hoodie. he presses his lips together in an attempt to prevent its escape, but the laughter is already winning, spilling out in soft, helpless bursts that make his comically large aviator glasses slide down the bridge of his nose. the growing chaos surrounding the rest of the store—the rising voices, the hurried footsteps of security—fades even further into the background. right now the only crisis in the universe is the culinary crime happening in your hand, and michael is looking at you like you are the most fascinating, unicorn-esque thing he has ever seen.
“…maybe they’re balancing acidity,” he offers, clearly fighting for composure.
you look at him in outright betrayal, eyes wide with theatrical horror.
“oh my god,” you whisper, “not you defending big pasta.”
that does it. michael’s quiet laughter breaks fully into something warm and unguarded, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him duck his head slightly under his hat. he reaches out and gently lowers the offending jar in your hand, as if removing the evidence of the crime.
“you’re being ridiculous,” he says softly, though the grin still lingering across his face ruins any possibility of genuine criticism.
“it’s called having standards,” you reply, tilting your head with mock severity. “you should try it sometime.”
michael’s quiet merriment breaks into another laugh as he dabs at the corner of his eye, drying an unapologetic, stray tear. his loafers click audibly against the linoleum as he shifts his weight to shield you from the surrounding aisle. “standards,” he repeats, letting the word roll off his tongue with a playful reverence. “i married you, baby. i’m pretty sure that fulfills my excellence quota for at least the next decade.”
the words hit you like warm honey poured straight into your chest. heat floods your face so fast you actually feel your ears burn. you open your mouth, close it again, suddenly unable to find a single clever comeback while your heart does an embarrassing little flip behind the prison bars of your ribs. he’s looking at you with that half-smile — the one that made the entire world fall in love with him while somehow making your own world feel briefly, completely irrelevant. and all you can think is how unfairly charming he is even in a hoodie and baseball cap, standing in the middle of a damn grocery store.
flustered beyond recovery, you forcefully blurt out, “just choose something already or we’ll be here all night.”
“alright, alright,” michael says through lingering chuckles, reaching for another jar from the shelf with exaggerated seriousness. he turns it slowly in his hands, scanning the marker, suddenly becoming emotionally invested in the outcome too. then, triumphantly: “…this one has basil.”
you stare at him flatly.
“all pasta sauce has basil.”
“but this one says imported basil,” he counters, tapping the word with a long finger.
you narrow your eyes immediately. “propaganda.”
“it sounds fancy.”
“it SOUNDS like a large carbon footprint.”
his smirk widens, brows raising upwards in entertainment as he studies the ingredients again. “…maybe the basil travelled a long way.”
a horrible strangled noise escapes you, a mix of a laugh and genuine despair. “baby, please be serious.”
“i am serious,” he insists, though the tickled look on his face gives him away completely.
“no, because now i’m imagining little passport stamps for herbs,” you mutter, pressing a hand to your forehead.
and there it is again.
that shift.
beyond the aisle, the commotion continues swelling into something increasingly unmanageable — whispers multiplying into growing shouts at a volume that absolutely should not exist at eleven o’clock at night, all held back hysterically by a team of large, burly security guards frantically blocking the entrance to the pasta aisle. every few seconds the noise threatens to pull michael back into that familiar guardedness the world is constantly demanding from him, shoulders tightening instinctively beneath the careful disguise he’d donned on. but somehow, every single time it begins creeping back in, you pull him straight out of it again with absurdly passionate debates about fraudulent tomatoes and internationally travelled basil. and so he keeps looking at you instead, the chaos surrounding him fading into little more than distant static compared to whatever ridiculous thing you’re saying next.
you shake your head, fighting your own smile as you take the jar from his hands and set it firmly back on the shelf. “we’re getting the one without corn syrup and without basil that needed a visa. end of discussion.”
“yes, ma’am,” michael murmurs, lips still curved as he nudges the cart forward with his hip. his hand finds yours on the handle, warm and steady.
“oh my god.”
“what?”
“michael.”
“what?”
you point toward the shelf ahead in genuine disbelief.
“this pasta is six dollars.”
he leans slightly closer to inspect the price.
“…that’s insane.”
“who are they trying to impress with noodles?”
michael laughs again, low and quiet, the sound entirely his own. a moment later one of the security guards appears at the end of the aisle, face flushed and exhausted from dealing with the hordes of teenage girls and ogling mothers pressing against his barricade.
“sir,” he says with a noticeable tinge of desperation, “we should probably head out soon.”
michael gives him a small, polite nod. you, however, are still glaring at the shelf like it’s insulted your entire bloodline. “six dollars. for noodles. this country is insane.”
michael slips his fingers between yours beneath the cart handle. for a beat the noise of the crowd recedes. the two of you linger there — him in his ridiculous gargantuan sunglasses, you still clutching the decently priced jar — before he leans down and presses a brief kiss to your temple.
“next time,” he says against your hair, voice soft with amusement, “we’re definitely getting the corn syrup, imported basil one. i want to do a taste test.”
you huff a laugh despite yourself. “deal.”
author's note ⋆ WHOO THIS WAS WAY LONGER THAN I ANTICIPATED IT BEING, it started off as a little "imagine if michael and you went grocery shopping" and somehow turned into this. i mean its not that long way but its way longer than a drabble should be. anyway ENJOY!
