⊹ about me ⊹
soulaan princess. michael jackson enthusiast. lowkey an og fic writer but im new to tumblr so bare with me if things aren’t always perfect !! i love meeting and interacting with mj fans. definitely a yapper so don’t be afraid to leave comments on my posts or message me. the fics i make usually have black love interests.
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⊹ DISCLAIMER ALL CONTENT IS FOR 18+ READERS ⊹
⊹ mini series ⊹
🜼 Quiet Authority
🜼 Siren— A Dangerous Desire
⊹ headcanons ⊹
🜼 The Quiet Game
🜼 Just For Him
🜼 If You Don’t Love Me Waiting Period
🜼 Waiting Period
℘ synopsis: You always try to be firm and stand your ground with michael but when he gives you those eyes? you’re convinced he can get away with anything.
℘Tags: fluff, headcanon, thriller era mike, sfw
A/N: Just a quick cute short writing whilst i’m planning my next fic <3
Doe eyes!Michael who made it literally impossible to say no to him—especially at Disneyland.
"Michael if you think i’m going on that rollercoaster you’ve officially lost it."
He turns to look at you with a slight pout, his eyes that are already naturally large somehow appearing even larger.
"please?"
His plea and eyes are the reason you were now thirty feet in the air in metal machinery with your eyes squeezed shut, stomach doing somersaults, screaming your lungs out whilst your boyfriend is laughing cheerfully beside you with his arms up.
"Woo hoo!!!"
Doe eyes!Michael Who always made it extremely difficult to stay mad at him.
"Minnie?” He pokes your side as you continue to ignore him on the bed, resting on your stomach kicking your feet behind you whilst your manicured fingers flip through the magazine.
"Baby cmon? i’m really sorry. I truly didn’t mean to forget about our date."
Earlier that day, Michael had promised to take you out to a new restaurant which had just opened. You were very excited since it’s been a while since the two of you had done something romantic, so you spent the whole entire day pampering yourself. He said he’d come home and pick you up around 8, but when it started to approach 9pm and you had heard zero whereabouts from him, you kicked your heels off and went back upstairs.
"Please my love? i swear i completely lost track of time, y’know how much of a perfectionist Quincy is when it comes to recording. He had me recording the same song like twenty times!"
Seeing that you’re still giving him silent treatment, he groans painfully as if it’s physically killing him.
"Honey c’mon you don’t even have to speak t’me just one look?" He pleads getting on his own stomach beside you, rested on his forearms as he lowers his head trying to meet your eyes that are glued to the words of your magazine.
"Please?"
don’t give in. don’t give in.
Your eyes betray you as they flicker to his. You're ready to cuss him out, but the words catch in your throat when you meet his gaze. His brown, almond-shaped eyes are fixed on yours with quiet patience, their softened edges unable to hide the desperation and guilt behind them.
Your heart hammers against your chest seeing the sight along with his eyebrows that are drooped in sadness. And you can’t take it anymore, it was like he had casted a spell on you because each time you saw those eyes you could never stay angry. You sigh closing your eyes feeling the last of your resolve vanish.
The sound of your sigh makes his eyes melt more in hope as he grabs your knuckles kissing them. "I'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry."
"Fine i forgive you."
Doe eyes!Michael Who loves to spoil you rotten despite you always begging him not to.
“Michael I have enough jewellery to last me a lifetime."
Your protest goes in from one ear and then immediately out the other as he holds up the new collection gold Cartier necklace against your neck with matching earrings in his other hand against your ear "Stay still baby."
"Mike—"
"This looks perfect against your skin my love, look at the way it compliments you" He continues to ignore your protests as he turns you to face the small mirror in the jewellery section.
You trail your eyes to the pieces of jewellery that he's holding up and your eyes widen seeing that they do in fact look incredible against you.
"Well...i mean they are pretty, but—"
"Excuse me sir? I'd like to purchase these two."
Your eyes widen turning to him but he's already pulling his card out.
"Michael!? No this is way too much."
He gives you that look, again. Wide eyed with hope, quietly pleading. The same look that drives you insane, the same look that's talked you into literally everything. "Please honey? You deserve the world."
You flicker your eyes to the jewellery that is being wrapped up and then back to his handsome face that looks so happy and excited at the fact that he gets to spoil his girl for the millionth time, your heart squeezes at the sight—you really were a lucky girl.
You cave in without hesitation "Okay."
Doe eyes!Michael Who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how his eyes affected you. But he will always pretend to be clueless.
Affection was his absolute favourite to abuse.
"Mike—" kiss "I'm gonna—" kiss "be—" kiss "Late!" you giggle managing to dodge the last kiss as he whines.
"You're cruel."
You gasp dramatically "Oh im cruel? Our mouths are practically like magnets! And you know exactly what you're doing when you look at me like that."
"Like what?" He replies with mock innocence as he continues to look at you with his wide eyes.
You roll your own playfully "Like you already know i'm gonna give in." Your body leans into his lips proving your point, he smiles into it pulling you closer by your waist.
the stores already pulling out the halloween decor..
GREATTT !! now i get to be reminded that I'll never get the chance to be his trick or his treat for halloween... wtf happened to empathy and compassion ?! a bitch is still grieving !! 🤧
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mature!michael jackson x black pregnant!wife!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a sudden late-night craving pulls you out of bed in the quiet hours of a rainy evening, you don't expect your husband to catch you red-handed in the kitchen. what starts as a sleepy midnight snack quickly turns into a tender, romantic interlude as he finds a far sweeter way to satisfy your appetite.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, slight suggestive themes, established relationship, domestic bliss, tease!michael, michael being a sweetheart to his wife (iktr).
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k
𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this came out of my head the other night and i couldn't go to bed until it was written out. for my mature!michael girlies, i hope this is what you need. as always, i've put myself on a schedule to post at least every other day. i am working on requests which is why i'm pretty busy at the moment, but part three of midnight at studio 54 will be coming out soon too! :)
The rain had a way of turning the estate into an island. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, the downpour hit the manicured grounds of Neverland in a low, continuous roar, drumming against the heavy glass and sealing the world off beyond the gates. Inside, the house was draped in soft, heavy shadows, smelling faintly of sweet vanilla candles, expensive cologne, and the crisp, clean scent of damp earth creeping in through the terrace vents.
It was 2:15 in the morning.
On the left side of the massive silk-draped bed, Michael stirred. His sleep was usually light and restless when the weather was like this, but his body had developed a new, hyper-sensitive radar over the last few months. His hand—long-fingered, warm, and instinctively reaching out through the dark—swept across the fitted sheet searching for the familiar heat of your body.
When his palm met only cool, empty silk, his eyes fluttered open.
“Hmm…”
He blinked against the gloom, pushing himself up on one elbow. He was wearing a button-down pajama top, completely unbuttoned at the chest and draped loosely over his frame, paired with comfortable, relaxed dark lounge pants that rested low on his hips. He sat up fully, tossing the heavy duvet aside. His het-black hair—naturally soft, shoulder length with a few soft, relaxed tendrils tumbling messily into his face shook slightly as he looked toward your side of the bed.
The pillows were still warm, but you were gone.
A tiny line of concern etched itself between his brows. You were firmly into your second trimester now—eighteen weeks, to be exact. The morning sickness that had plagued your first three months had finally passed, replaced by a radiant, glowing energy, a sudden roundness to your hips and belly, and an appetite that seemed to wake up at the most unpredictable hours of the night.
Michael swung his bare feet out of bed, resting his elbows on his knees for a second as he ran a hand over his face. He let out a low, sleepy exhale, a small smile already tugging at the corner of his lips as the realization hit him.
The kitchen.
He didn’t bother grabbing his slippers. He stepped quietly across the plush carpet, pushing open the heavy master bedroom door, and stepped out into the quiet, cavernous hallway.
The house at night was peaceful in a way Michael cherished. The antique clocks ticked softly in the distance, and the soft nightlights along the baseboards guided his path. He padded silently down the grand staircase, his bare feet making no sound against the polished hardwood. As he rounded the corner past the dining hall, a faint, warm glow spilled out onto the floor from the archway of the main kitchen.
Michael slowed his pace, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, taking in the view before you even knew he was there.
You were standing near the island, illuminated by the warm, under-cabinet accent lights. You were wearing a loose, blush-pink silk chemise that draped over the lovely, pronounced curve of your bump, topped with a rich plush robe that hung lazily off one your shoulders. Your dark hair was gathered in a loose, cozy wrap, a few stray curls framing your neck. Your lips pulled into a frown as you stared down at a cutting board with intense, laser-focused concentration, a butter knife in one hand and a jar of chocolate hazelnut spread in the other.
Michael stood there for a long moment, just watching. His heart felt absurdly full, a quiet aching sort of affection swelling in his chest. You looked so soft, so domestic, so utterly his.
He leaned deeper into the woodwork, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice coming out as a low, raspy velvet murmur, heavy with sleep.
“You know… sneaking out of bed without a hall pass is a serious offense around here.”
You gasped, jumping slightly and turning around with the butter knife still mid-air.
Michael couldn’t help the low, breathy chuckle that escaped him—that signature, gentle laugh that bubbled up from deep in his throat. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly glided into the kitchen, his dark, soulful eyes dancing with quiet amusement.
“Michael! You scared me,” you breathed, putting a hand over your chest, though a guilty smile was already breaking across your face. “I was trying to be quiet.”
“Quiet?” He came to a stop right in front of you, his hands resting lightly on his hips over his low-slung pajama pants. He shook his head, a soft, teasing pout on his lips. “Applehead… you practically stripped the duvet off me when you left. I woke up, and my favorite part of the bed was completely freezing.”
He reached out, his long fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your neck. His touch was light, his thumb lingering against the smooth skin. His dark hair frame brushed against his shoulders as he leaned in slightly.
“What are we doing down here at two in the morning, huh?” he asked softly, his eyes dropping down to look at the cutting board, then sliding lower to the gentle, rounded swell of your stomach beneath the silk. “Is the baby bossing you around again?”
“It’s not my fault,” you defended warmly, holding up the jar of hazelnut spread like exhibit A. “Your child demanded chocolate. And strawberries. And… maybe a slice of that vanilla pound cake that your mother brought sitting in the breadbox. I tried to ignore it, Mike, I really did. But they were very persistent.”
Michael’s eyes lit up, a brilliant, wide smile breaking across his features. He let out another soft hee-hee under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you until the heat of his chest was wrapping around yours.
“Oh, so not it’s my child when they want late-night snacks?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, playful register. “I see how it is. Blame it on the baby.”
“Well, who else gave them this insane sweet tooth?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t use to raid the pantry at midnight before I met you.”
“Hey…” he put his hands up in mock defense, his dark eyes sparkling under the dim kitchen lights. “Don’t bring my reputation into this. I am a victim of circumstance. I just happen to appreciate the finer things in life… like sugar. And you.”
Before you could reply, he stepped fully into your personal space. He didn’t hesitate; his long, warm arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, long inhale of your scent—a delicious blend of warm cocoa butter, lavender, and the natural heat of your skin.
“Mmm…” he hummed against your collarbone, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. “You smell so good. s’warm.”
His hands slid down from your waist, smoothing over the plush fabric of your robe until his warm palms rested directly over the curve of your stomach. He held you there, cradling your bump with an absolute, reverent gentleness.
For a second, the playful banter faded into a quiet, profound stillness. The only sound in the vast kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic pour of the rain outside.
Michael shifted his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, beneath your ear, his warm breath fanning across your skin.
“How are you feeling tonight, sweet face?” he whispered, his tone shifting into that deeply gentle, protective cadence he only ever used with you. “No nausea? No cramping? The baby’s quiet?”
"No nausea," you answered softly, leaning back into his solid chest, resting your head against his shoulder. "Just hungry. And tired, but my mind was racing. They’ve been fluttering around all evening."
As if on cue, a tiny, faint sensation—like a little air bubble popping or a butterfly brushing its wings—fluttered against the right side of your lower stomach.
Michael went completely still.
"Did you feel that?" you asked gently.
Michael didn't answer with words right away. He slowly stepped around you, dropping down onto his knees right there on the hard, dark wood floor. He didn't care about the chill of the floorboards or his dark silk lounge pants dragging. He leaned forward, his hair spilling over his forehead as he pressed his cheek directly against your bump, his hands holding you securely at the hips.
"Hey there, little one," Michael murmured, his voice cracking slightly with a quiet, raw emotion. He pressed a warm, soft kiss straight through the silk of your chemise onto your bare skin. "What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be sleeping, helping your mommy rest."
He paused, waiting motionless. A second later, another soft kick struck right against his cheek.
Michael gasped softly, a high, breathless sound of pure joy. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his dark eyes wide, shining, and utterly luminous under the low light.
“They kicked me,” he whispered, a wondrous, boyish grin taking over his entire face. “Applehead, did you feel that? That was a strong one! Oh, my goodness…”
He leaned back in, pressing a rapid succession of sweet, lingering kisses all over your stomach—left, right, top center—making you bubble over with soft, melodic laughter.
“Michael, stop, that tickles!” you giggled, running your fingers through his thick, soft locks, feeling the familiar texture between your fingertips.
“I can’t help it,” he grumbled playfully against your skin, blowing a soft breath against your belly before standing up. “Our baby is talking to me. I have to answer.”
He rose back up to his full height, looking down at you with an expression so intense, so dripping with adoration, that it made your breath catch in your throat. He looked at you the way he always did—like you were the only person in the universe—but lately, with your body changing and carrying his child, that gaze had acquired a deep, possessive warmth that set your blood on fire.
“Now,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, returning to that smooth, silky tone. “Let’s take care of this midnight craving properly. You shouldn’t be standing on your feet on these cold floors anyway.”
“Michael, I’m perfectly fine standing—”
“Shh,” he cut you off gently, putting a finger to his own lips. “No arguing with the boss.”
Before you could protest, Michael reached out and placed his large hands firmly on either side of your waist. He didn’t give you a second to brace yourself; with effortless ease, he lifted you up off the ground and set you right down on the edge of the smooth, polished granite countertop.
You let out a small gasp, reflexively wrapping your legs around his hips to stabilize yourself. The action pulled you flush against his unbuttoned shirt, your chest resting against his, your eyes now completely level with his smoldering gaze.
His hands didn't leave your waist. He stepped directly into the space between your parted knees, closing every inch of distance between you.
"There," he murmured, his hands smoothing up your thighs, over the silk of your robe, resting warmly on the upper part of your legs. "Much better. Now you’re at my height."
The shift in the room was instant. The cozy domesticity of the kitchen raid suddenly melted into something far more magnetic, laced with a slow, simmering heat.
"Michael..." you whispered, your voice suddenly sounding small in the quiet space.
"Hmm?" He tilted his head, a faint, dangerous little smidgen of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He reached over with one hand, grabbing the bowl of freshly washed strawberries you had laid out, along with the jar of chocolate spread. He picked up a large, ripe berry, dipping it generously into the rich chocolate.
He held it up to your lips, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your mouth.
"Open up, sweet face," he instructed softly. "Let me feed you."
You complied, opening your mouth and taking a bite of the strawberry. The combination of sweet fruit and rich chocolate was incredible, but it was hard to focus on the taste when Michael was staring at you like you were the dessert.
A tiny drop of chocolate caught at the very corner of your lower lip.
Michael’s eyes tracked it instantly. His breath hitched softly.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice raspy, trailing off. "Making a mess..."
He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Michael leaned in slowly. His hand reached up to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling into your hair wrap, gently tilting your head back. He brought his thumb up, slowly smoothing away the drop of chocolate from your lip.
Then, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he slowly brought his thumb to his own mouth, licking it clean.
Your heart did a violent, fluttering backflip against your ribs.
"Michael..." you breathed out, your hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, feeling the smooth black silk of his open pajama top under your fingers.
"You have no idea," Michael whispered, his voice vibrating right against your skin as he leaned in closer, his nose grazing along the shell of your ear, "how beautiful you are right now. How breathtaking you look carrying my baby."
He slid his hands under the edges of your plush robe, slowly, deliberately pushing the thick material off your shoulders. The robe fell away, pooling around your elbows and down onto the cold granite counter, leaving you exposed in just the delicate blush-pink silk chemise.
The cool air of the kitchen hit your shoulders, but you barely noticed it because Michael’s hands were immediately there to replace the cold with intense, radiating heat. His large, calloused palms mapped the line of your collarbones, sliding down to gently cup the sides of your breasts—fuller now, sensitive and warm—before tracing the curve of your waist and settling back over your bump.
"Mike..." a soft, helpless sigh escaped your lips.
"I mean it," he murmured against your throat. He pressed his lips to the spot right beneath your jawline, holding the kiss there, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse against his mouth. "You glow. Every single day, you just get more gorgeous. I can't keep my hands off you. It’s driving me crazy."
He shifted his mouth, trailing a line of slow, wet, velvet kisses down the column of your neck. His hands on your hips squeezed gently, pulling your lower body even closer to his chest.
Your fingers tightened in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. "You're supposed to be feeding me..." you teased weakly, though your breath was hitching with every touch of his lips.
Michael hummed against your collarbone, a low vibration of satisfaction. "I am feeding you," he whispered playfully, his lips moving up to graze your jawline again. "I'm feeding your soul, baby."
You let out a soft laugh, but it was cut short when Michael finally brought his lips to yours.
The kiss wasn't rushed; it was deep, unhurried, and intoxicatingly sweet. He tasted like vanilla and dark chocolate, his lips soft and full, pressing against yours with an effortless, practiced passion that made your head spin. His tongue swiped gently against your lower lip, asking for permission, and when you opened to him, he took his time exploring, turning the simple midnight encounter into a slow, electric fire.
His hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers spreading wide across your back, pulling you flush against his chest so that there was no air left between you. You could feel the steady, heavy thump of his heart beating against your own ribs—wild, fast, and completely out of rhythm.
When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming in shallow, heavy hitches in the dim light.
"Mmm..." He breathed out, a soft, dazed smile touching his lips. He ran his thumb gently across your bottom lip, which was now plump and flush from the kiss. "God, you're sweet."
You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the smooth rise and fall of his breathing. "Michael... we came down here for a snack."
"I know," he chuckled softly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that irresistible, mischievous warmth. "And I got one."
He nudged your nose with his, giving you a quick, playful peck on the tip of your nose before turning his attention back to the counter. He picked up a slice of the vanilla pound cake, breaking off a small, soft piece with his fingers.
"Here," he said gently, his voice returning to that tender, loving cadence. "Eat some cake. I don't want my two favorite people getting hungry."
You smiled, taking a bite from his fingers. He watched you chew with a look of unadulterated devotion, resting one hand over your bump while the other absentmindedly stroked your thigh. You spent the next fifteen minutes sitting on that counter, sharing bites of cake and fruit in the dim light, talking in hushed, soft whispers about the nursery, about names you were secretly considering, and about how much life was going to change in just a few short months.
Every few minutes, Michael would lean in just to steal another soft kiss, or to whisper some low, sweet nonsense into your ear that made you blush like a teenager.
Finally, when the plate was cleared and your appetite was thoroughly satisfied, you let out a long, heavy yawn, your eyelids growing heavy.
"Alright," he said softly, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Time to get you back to bed."
"I can walk, Mike," you murmured, though you were already leaning your head against his shoulder.
"I didn't ask if you could walk," he teased gently.
He pulled your robe back up over your shoulders, wrapping it securely around you to keep the night air off your skin. Then, with smooth, practiced care, he slid one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, lifting you cleanly off the granite counter and pulling you into his arms.
You let out a soft sound of surprise, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into the warmth of his chest.
"Michael, I'm heavy now," you murmured quietly as he began walking out of the kitchen.
Michael paused in the middle of the hallway, looking down at you with a mock look of sternness.
"Don't ever say that," he scolded softly, his dark eyes brimming with tenderness. "You are carrying my world in there. You're light as a feather to me, sweet face. Always."
He carried you down the quiet corridor, his bare feet padding softly against the floors, up the grand staircase, and back into the dark sanctuary of the master bedroom. The rain outside was still steady, creating a cozy cocoon of sound against the glass.
He laid you down on the silk sheets with absolute precision, making sure the pillows were stacked comfortably behind your back and side to support your bump. He pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking the edges in like he was preserving a priceless treasure.
Then, he climbed into bed beside you.
He didn't stay on his side. He slid immediately over, pulling you back against his chest so that you were spooned flush against him. He wrapped his long arm over your waist, his hand coming to rest firmly, possessively over your lower stomach, holding both you and the baby close.
He buried his face into the nape of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin.
"Goodnight, my beautiful girl," Michael whispered into the dark, his voice a low, raspy velvet murmur that washed over you like a warm blanket. "Goodnight, baby..."
You rested your hand over his, lacing your fingers with his long ones over your stomach. As you drifted back to sleep, wrapped in his heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against your back, you felt another soft flutter from the baby right beneath Michael’s palm.
Michael felt it too. He squeezed your hand gently in the dark, letting out a soft, contented sigh, and held you tight until the rain lulled you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.
I just read your first fanfic and it’s giving overuse of AAVE, I get that it’s his older era but there’s truly no need to whitewash him simply because of the color of his skin, it lacks taste and inclusivity in your writing.
personally i think we're both confused on what you're mad at...
bro faawwwkkk !! i hate college almost back in session !! how am i gonna explain to these ppl all i did with my summer was write erotic fics abt michael jackson ?!
also why tf at our big ass age are we still doing "ice breakers" i truly don't care who my classmates are...like pls i already have to pay to come here !! haven't i suffered enough !?!
“That Virgo sun makes him strict. If you’re his woman waiting on him at home, he expects you to answer the phone when he calls. And if you don’t…well…”
or
After making the mistake of not answering your man’s phone call, he verbally cuts you off. Of course you’ll do anything to get back into his good graces.
warnings ~ explicit content, plot is involved but my heart is in the porn, established relationship, no use of y/n, toxic Michael activities, silent treatment, arguing, oral sex, unprotected sex, dada is strict in this one, orgasm denial, wet & messy
A/N ~ Mature era Michael because I need that
MINORS DO NO INTERACT
It was a mistake. Honestly.
The time hadn’t been on your side. You’d just wanted a quick bath. Your ears didn’t catch the familiar ringing of the phone somehow. He was just a minute late with his call but it didn’t matter.
You failed to pick up.
The consequence of your folly is swift and silent.
When Michael finally returned home no more than three hours later, you tried to greet him with sweet sensuality in hopes it would spare you from his disapproval.
“There he is. Are you okay?”
Michael didn’t react to the sight of you like he normally would; satisfaction laced with the exhaustion of the day on his features. Apathy takes its place this time around.
“Mhm.” Is his low response. You try to assist him in shrugging off his jacket but you’re left stunned as he takes a quick step backwards. “I got it. Gone get to bed.”
You’d nearly forgotten how rejection felt.
“Okay. I’ll wait up for you.”
Michael doesn’t respond to that but it doesn’t deter you. Fine. Let him get through his passive aggressive rut. It won’t last forever. When he crawls into bed beside you later on he’s careful not to touch you, keeping to his side, not bothering to wish you good dreams.
The sting of it keeps you up through the night, mentally crafting up ways to get back in your man’s good graces.
You hadn’t a clue that they would all be rebuffed.
Michael stopped calling from that day, a clear retaliation for your mistake which you took on the chin. He was still your husband and you both lived under the same roof. He couldn’t ignore you being physically present.
And he proves your assumption to be foolish because he does just that. Any chipper beginnings of conversation started by you were met with a tired glance from him. The look made you feel like an annoying little sibling, even more so when he’d get up and leave you where you stood without a word. On the other side of the coin he’d happily respond to small talk from anyone else. Nannies, maids, guests. Even answered phone calls with enthusiasm. Some days you’d hear him blabbering for hours about god knows what.
It doesn’t just sting, it hurts.
You conclude that sweet talk wouldn’t get you anywhere, but what a mouth can’t fix, a tempting body could. You plan accordingly, booking appointments to tend to your feminine care. The results of this is what any man would fold over; your body soft and inviting, skin shimmering, hair and nails done just the way Michael liked them. Delicate clothing that flowed in certain places while hugging you in others, showing off the flirtation that were the tops of your breasts and curve of your behind. You kept these special pieces for his eyes only, ensuring that the first thing he saw was you whenever he entered the bedroom.
The first night of it failed.
And the second night.
You thought he would fold by the third, heart picking up speed when he actually paused to look at you, all for it to fail as he left you pretty and dolled up on the bed without a compliment.
The hurt starts to vibrate with irritation, but you swallow it down to see through your last attempts at getting your man.
Gestures of course.
Knowing Michael, he was old school when it came to his woman. No, he did not expect you to take on the duties of a traditional wife as he respected your autonomy, but there’d been moments in the past when you did something as simple as cook one of his favorite meals and watched him melt with adoration when he saw it.
You dismiss the staff for the night and get busy in the kitchen, feeling like a five star chef as you prep. This would work. It’s not very often when you prepare a meal because you didn’t have to, but Michael would appreciate your dedication and effort despite the convenience at your fingertips. He always appreciated hard work.
Your plan is meticulously carried out. By the time Michael returns home, the dining area is glowing with a romantic golden ambiance, the table is set properly, and two piping hot plates rest atop the white cloth.
Michael wanders in, not looking as exhausted as he usually did. You admire him for moment, insides lurching at the sight of his casual wear- a simple black tee with matching joggers, his hair pulled back into a half messy ponytail while the rest was left to frame his face. You can tell his curiosity pulled him towards you and his brows raise when you greet him.
“Baby.” You croon softly, watching a flicker of adoration cross his features before he schools himself. “It’s been forever, you know. Come share dinner with me. I made your favorite.”
You gesture behind yourself to the table, taking a hopeful step backwards. He meets you with one step forward but pauses.
You look him in the eye, watching the little shimmer in them fade away to onyx before he squares his shoulders.
Then he turns his back to you, making his way to the fridge without a word.
A slap in the face. A heavy handed one as he simply grabs a bottled water from the fridge and opens it, back still turned to you. Your heart sinks into a vat of defeat and most definitely, rage.
You splutter, turning to look at all your hard work sitting on the dining table growing colder by the second.
Fuck this.
“Don’t eat it then. I’m useless to you as a wife, aren’t I? I’ll just go.” You say quietly, hauling your ass away from the kitchen because you know he won’t answer, probably didn’t care. You’ve never moved through this house so fast, set on packing a bag and get missing.
You don’t hear his arrival to your shared bedroom as you do so.
“What are you doing?” Oh he speaks now. You don’t even glance in his direction, the room a blur as you pack with haste.
“You ain’t hear what I said? Of course not. You keep ignoring me.” You snap, shoving away two of your favorite shirts.
“You’re not going anywhere.” He mutters but you’re too animated to hear him.
“All this over the fucking phone, Michael? Really? You’ve ignored me for almost two damn weeks without listening to anything I had to say to your ass!” You continue, voice trembling with every word. “So listen to this. I’m leaving, and you’ll never have to worry about me picking up any more phone calls!”
He’s at your side in the blink of an eye, snatching the luggage from your grip and letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. It stops you in your tracks, chest heaving with your tantrum and surprise.
“Put it down and watch your mouth.” His brows are knitted tightly together, the corners of his mouth down in disapproval. “You know why this is even happening? Because you don’t listen.”
You pay close attention to the furious curl of his lip as he speaks, blinking away the visions of kissing him. He’s angry. You’re angry. And you want to kiss him.
“I don’t ask you for anything but to answer that phone when I call. Answer the phone. Not jump off the damn Eiffel Tower.” He emphasizes this with a harsh kick to your luggage, sending it skidding across the floor. You try to turn and look but he grips your wrist, forcing you to focus.
This aggression was subtle and new. It left you tingling more than it alarmed you.
“Instead you play me, knowing I was going to call you. For what?” He pulls you closer and cuts in before you can fix your lip. “When my wife doesn’t answer the phone I get worried like any other normal husband. You knew that though. Wanted to fuck with me on purpose while I’m all stressed out.”
“I didn’t-?”
But he’s caught up in his own rambling, brows still furrowed, a dangerous look of irritation and want on his features. “Can’t do what I tell ya. Can’t answer the phone, you don’t listen. Now I gotta make you listen.”
The frustration and isolation boils over. The two of you are heated and pulsing, feeling the effects of no contact despite not being far from one another all this time.
“Close the door and lock it.” He grits out, releasing the grip on your wrist. “Do exactly as I say. Don’t get cute.”
You suck your teeth, pretending to be angry even though it’s dimming quick as you move past him to do as he says. Shut the door. Lock it. You do it slowly, turning around to give him a phony nasty glare that falters immediately.
Because he’s right there, crowding you against the door, his cologne making your joints buckle.
“I’m leaving,” He actually mocks you, fingers teasing at the hem of your blouse. “When you’ve been begging for my attention this whole time. Showing that pretty ass out knowing I’m mad at you. I got you.”
“Fu-“
His free hand darts up to cover your mouth. It’s not aggressive in the slightest but it still shocks you to silence.
“We gone fix that potty mouth of yours, girl. One day at a time.” He mutters. “Get down.”
Michael was strict, not like those exes of yours. The look in his eyes left no room for disobedience. You only exhale with a hint of attitude, sinking down slowly and assuming the requested position. You actively ignore the twitch of interest in his track pants and the heartbeat between your thighs.
“Keep actin like that. You know you’re right where you wanna be.” Michael says, his lengthy fingers teasing the elastic hem of his pants, enjoying how you focus on such a thing. His thumb does the trick, tugging them down and allowing his dick to spring forward with excitement. It brushes your cheek all hot and heavy and you can’t resist turning to kiss it him in greeting.
He gives a heavy pulse of approval, shuddering when your tongue darts out to trace the swollen vein that runs under him.
“Look at you, this what you wanted?” He’s cut off by his own soft grunt as you suck him in wetly, already drunk off the taste of him. He’s so heavy in your mouth, throbbing and flexing with each slow bob of your head. It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve had to suck the attitude out of him, but he’s not the usual whiny mess this time. He keeps himself quiet, a grunt here and there, and soon the low and wet schlick schlick schlick as he fucks your mouth.
It’s still got you dripping wet, every shift of your thighs revealing how your panties cling to your pussy. Curiosity has you glancing up his lithe frame, moaning around his dick at the sight of his eyes already on you. His gaze is low lidded, his pretty bottom lip trapped between his prettier teeth, his cheeks and neck twinged with the slightest red. You moan again, louder, an unspoken plea for him to come in your mouth.
He pulls away instead, exhaling shakily.
“Bed. On your back.”
He gives you space to scramble away and make it to the bed, his approach behind you quick and eager. You play like a ragdoll, letting him manhandle you until you’re naked for his viewing pleasure.
“You’re dripping.” Michael remarks quietly, met with a quiet sigh in response from you. “Needed my attention that bad, mama?”
You nod as he bends down to take a long, slow lick at you, gathering your arousal on his tongue. He moans softly as he straightens his back and takes the spot between your thighs, feeding his dick to you with insistent pressing.
“So deep!” You let out a shattered gasp as he strokes within you sensually. The blunt head of him forces you open in ways that has you reeling between pleasure and pain, knocking repeatedly against your most inner parts. His big hand reaches down to press against your belly, fingers pressing just underneath your belly button.
“There he is, right there.” he murmurs, hips jolting forward harder. “And you’re just takin it.”
He snatches one of your smaller hands down to press against your own tummy, making you feel just how deep he was, invading your soft walls.
“Baby, yes!” You pout, body ricocheting against his strong hips. The quiet of the room is interrupted by your whiny moans, his mumbles of admiration, and the wet plap plap plap of his pelvis meeting your soft thighs and ass. He’s fucking you so hard and full you feel the beginnings of a liquid rush building inside, threatening to spill over and soak him.
You claw at his shirt, fingers digging into the firmness of his abdomen and watch his dick disappear within you. Each reappearance of him was slicker than the last and your heart begins to race with the intensity of it all.
Tears prick your eyes, moans turning to quiet sobs and hiccups of his name, and in between, little warnings that you were close.
“‘M cumming!” You sob, the heat just about there. “Mikey…please baby-“
But Michael fucks into you two more times, then with a whimper half hidden behind the bite of his lip, he buries himself deep. You can feel his dick spazzing within your walls, wet heat painting the inner pink, pushed much deeper as he gives you wild, orgasmic thrusts. You’re almost right there with him, the pulsing of his dick stimulating but not quite enough. Michael goes still with a whimper of relief, hips still flush against you.
“Baby…” you moan, quivering when his thumb finds your clit to rub in tight circles. You clench around his half hard dick, desperate for whatever to get that orgasm you needed.
Your back arches in warning, the heat tumbling over.
And you’re left shuddering weakly on the bed as he pulls himself away entirely, leaving you to ride through the weakest of orgasms by yourself.
“Come Saturday I’m calling you at nine twenty pm. Saturday. Nine twenty pm. You gonna answer the phone when I call?” He asks your trembling body, tugging his pants up and not moving until you manage to give him a weak nod.
“Good. Stay right there.”
You’re still pulsing weakly by the time he returns to you, running a cool towel over your hot skin. He takes delight watching you jerk when the fabric rubs against your puffy pussy.
“I could go for some of that dinner you made. Join me?” Michael tilts his head with a dazzling smile, the hair framing his face following elegantly. The nerve of him.
But you nod your head without a word, satisfied but not quite, knowing that this was your man’s way of getting his point across.
Preview: Voicemails exchanged between you and Michael while he's on tour.
Content: Fluff, comfort, spice
Word count: 3.3k
A/N: Another one based in the same world as Security Breach and Great Craving Getaway. I just might give these two a series cause I love them that much! Shoutout to my mutual bestie @bawdylanguageee for the inspiration behind this fic 😘 with this post here! As always, enjoy!
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July ‘92, Los Angeles, 2pm (PST):
Not even a full two months and you were already going through withdrawals. Only 45 days had passed since Michael left for the start of his ‘Dangerous’ world tour.
You missed the feel of his hands, the kisses he gave whenever you two were in the same room, the sound of his voice singing lullabies to your son.
It was a random Tuesday afternoon and you'd just put Jaden down for a nap. Sure it was probably late in the evening on the other side of the world, but hell you needed to talk to your husband.
DESPERATELY!
Propped up against a couple of pillows on your bed, you grabbed the telephone from your night stand, picking up the receiver you dialed Michael’s room.
RING. RING. RING.
Patiently waiting for the other end to be answered, you knew it was a lost cause as you heard the 5th ring sound in your ear. Waiting for the voicemail to pick up, you sighed.
‘The person you have reached is currently not available and can’t take your call right. Please leave a message after the beep.’
BEEEEEP!
“Hey baby, I miss you and wanted to hear your voice. Please remember to eat, stay hydrated with water and not just orange juice. Rest when your body tells you to so you don’t get a flare up. I love you Bambi.” Your smooth, melodic tone chimed through the phone, leaving the brief message.
Italy, 12am:
Exhausted wasn't even the word. Michael was in pain, his feet were throbbing and his hands were on fire.
He knew he'd pushed himself too hard and now, sadly his body was paying for it big time.
Throwing his hat and sunglasses on the dresser, Michael slowly laid back against the pillows on the bed. Reaching for the glass of water and pill box containing the mini cocktail of different meds, Michael tossed each one back with a gulp of water.
Placing the glass back on the night stand, he gently rested his head against the headboard and released a long deep sigh. The tension he held in his back and shoulders easing just slightly.
Out of his peripheral vision, he noticed the blinking red light on the telephone. Although he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone at the moment, his mood brightened a fraction at the thought that you could’ve left him a message.
Grabbing the telephone, he propped it against his side and picking up the receiver he pressed the buttons to retrieve the waiting voicemail.
‘You have one new message’
Closing his eyes, Michael felt his spirits instantly lift and hearing your voice brought a sense of home and comfort over him that he couldn’t describe. He missed you and Jaden so much that at times he was tempted to cut the tour short and rush back home.
He listened to the message two more times, before ending the call. Not caring that the dial tone droned on in the background, Michael clutched the receiver to his chest and wasn’t ashamed to let the tears fall.
October ‘92 Romania, 9am:
Fall was in the air and it now marked 5 months on the tour. Michael slept in, at least what he considered “sleeping in” and laid in bed beneath the covers for a moment.
Running a hand over his rumpled curls and brushing a few haphazard strands out of his face, he rubbed his other hand over his t-shirt clad chest.
The beginning stirrings of his morning wood alerted him of its presence and he softly groaned.
Damn, I wish Tink was here. Michael thought dejectedly.
Spreading his legs he weighed the thought of doing nothing and willing it away or literally taking matters into his own hands.
Now, he was no stranger to having to take care of himself and stroking one or two out while on the road. However usually you'd be with him on a long stretch and happily assist him to satiate his healthy sexual appetite.
Shifting his legs and feeling the heavy weight of his erection, a blatant reminder it was still there, Michael rolled his head to the night stand and glanced at the phone.
“She's probably not even up yet.” He mused out loud.
Dropping his hand, burrowing under the the sheet, Michael tugged on his turgid flesh twice before pulling the waistband of his briefs down.
Heavy and flushed a pretty mauve, the head of his dick slapped the air, standing fully at attention.
Pearlescent drops leaked from the tip. Stroking a hand down the shaft, Michael drew the foreskin back revealing his long, thick and veiny erection.
Using his pre-cum, he smeared the clear fluid along his dick in slow, tight strokes. After a few minutes, the decision was set and Michael was reaching his free hand to pick up the receiver.
Dialing out, he waited for the call to connect.
RING. RING. RING. RING.
‘You've reached the Jacksons, we're not able to get to the phone, so leave a message and we'll return the call soon as we can.’
BEEP.
“Mornin’ baby. Ooooo I miss you and needed your hands and that pretty mouth of yours. Mmmm shit Tink I want to be buried in you so bad right now. U-ungh got me gripping my dick so tight girl and thinkin’ bout ya. Shiiit, I'm cumming baby! Oooo yesss TINK!”
With a deep groan, Michael finished hard with his release spraying on his stomach, over his hand and on the sheet.
Hanging the phone up, Michael inhaled much needed air and flopped his head against the pillow. A slow grin took over his face as he thought of your reaction to his latest voicemail.
Los Angeles, 10am (PST):
A yawn escaped as you set up in the rocking chair next to your son's changing table and near his crib.
You'd already been up for a few hours, having to feed Jaden and then debating on starting breakfast early before you'd taken a cat nap. Now you were back in your son's room and getting ready for another feeding soon.
October was here already and that meant Jaden's first birthday would be coming around the corner in no time.
Damn, that was quick as hell! You thought in disbelief. Time really does fly and Michael was missing a lot.
Peeking a glance into the wooden slats of the crib, a warm smile graced your face as you marveled at the beautiful little person you and Michael created.
Figuring this was your chance to slip away for some quick mama time, you quietly stood up from the rocking chair and made your way to the door.
Stepping out into the hallway, you left the door slightly ajar and walked to your bedroom. You pulled the red button down shirt tighter around your stomach and inhaled Michael's scent.
Dropping onto your side of the bed, you pulled the covers up and settled on your side. Still drowsy, you blinked a few times and finally the red light on the answering machine caught your attention.
Reaching a manicured finger out, you pressed the play button.
Rustling sheets. Husky tone. Labored breathing.
Michael's voice fully came onto the phone and your lips slowly parted into a perfect O. Closing your eyes, you imagined being there in bed with him, your lips wrapped around his length and licking along those thick veins.
Feeling your core get heated and hands starting to roam, you closed your mouth, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Whew, girl you need to chill.” Huffing you tossed your head back on the pillow.
Later that week, Los Angeles 7pm (PST):
A baby free night was rare and when your sister offered to watch her nephew, you jumped at the chance for some ‘me time.’ After gathering a few things in his diaper bag, you safely deposited Jaden at his TT’s house and took advantage of having the house to yourself.
Food was ordered and since delivered. You were chowing down on a carton of chicken fried rice, broccoli and general tso’s chicken. Draped across your short frame, was a black silk night shirt and underneath you were rocking a pair of midnight blue bikini cut panties. Of course the shirt smelled like Michael and swallowed you up, but it was the closest thing you had to feeling as if his arms were wrapped around you.
Your mind got to wanderin’ and the Chinese food became a distant memory as you sat your fork against your plate and pushed it to the side. Moving out of the kitchen, you grabbed the cordless phone and walked into the living room sinking into the plush comfort of the couch.
Laying with your head propped against a pillow and knees bent, you reached inside the partially buttoned pj top and tweaked a nipple, rolling it between your fingers gently. Eyes fluttering, you pictured Michael hovering above you, the heat from his body wrapping around you and his strong, slightly callused hand testing the weight of your breast.
Moaning, you raise the phone to eye level and peeked one brown orb open. Dialing the number for this week’s hotel, you waited expectantly for the message and the beep that followed.
BEEP!
“House quiet and baby free for the night and I got nobody to share all my time with mmmm. Papa I wish it was your hands rubbing down my body, pinching my nipples oooo and squeezing my thighs before you lick this pussy. Damn, I’m so wet baby and my fingers just don’t feel like yours. Ahhh I’m so close Mikey, ooooh shiiiit! Mmmm, tastes so good papa.”
Fingers, two deep thrusting inside your velvet walls, thumb rubbing fast circles against your clit. You came with Michael’s name on your lips and breathless whimpers. Bringing the phone down from your ear, you heard the dial tone but paid it no mind as you came back down from your temporary high.
Turkey, 12pm (TRT):
One more country and Michael was taking a break in the tour to go home and surprise his wife. He couldn’t wait to hold his son and catch up on all that he’d been missing. The pictures and letters you’d sent gave him a lifeline while out on the road and he cherished each one.
It was a rare afternoon where he’d had a break in his schedule and decided to come back to the hotel room and get a nap because he was starting to feel that familiar ache in his bones. Lupus was a pain in the ass and the constant aches and pains were tiresome.
Stopping in the small kitchen, Michael pulled out a pitcher of water from the fridge and poured himself a glass. Continuing to his bedroom, he picked up the pill box and shook out the day’s meds before ingesting a gulp of water and downing the pills. Setting the glass on the night stand, the glowing red light caught his attention.
Picking up the receiver, Michael pressed the button for voicemail and sat down on the bed while waiting for the message to play.
Toeing his loafers off, he listened to your silky, seductive voice as you told him you missed him and wished his hands were touching you and making you feel good. Michael felt his dick stir and started stiffening just from the sounds you were making.
Palming his length through his slacks, he firmly applied pressure and groaned.
I’m coming home soon Tink, real soon. Michael couldn’t wait to make that thought a reality as he replayed the message and imagined you spread open and his favorite meal ready and waiting just for him.
Once he’d gotten his fill, he pulled the phone from his ear and ended the call. Only to dial the familiar number of home.
RING. RING. RING.
“Hello?” Your low rasp filled the line as you tucked the phone between your shoulder and ear.
“Hey baby.” Michael sighed happily, excited to finally hear your voice and not over voice mail.
“Hiiii papa! OMG I miss you so much baby.” You exclaimed.
Squeezing the phone tightly, Michael briefly closed his eyes for a beat and felt the knot in his chest start to loosen.
“Oh I miss you like crazy girl! How you doing Tink? Why you still up mama?”
Chuckling, you didn’t know which question to answer first. Of course your husband was a worry wart, but you loved him anyway.
“I’m good baby, I promise. Picked up Jaden from my sister’s earlier today, so just cleaning up a little bit. Gonna pump in a few and then enjoy a nice glass of wine, it’s not even midnight here yet.”
“Don’t do too much now Tink, you know I don’t want you overexerting ya’ self.” Michael stated. Unbuttoning his shirt, he pulled the arms free and tossed it on the other side of the bed.
“Please, like your sisters and mama, let me lift a finger. They've been over every week and always helpin’ round the house, so I’m pretty much left to my own devices cause they refuse to let me do anything in my own damn house.” Chuckling at the thought, you went into the kitchen to gather what you needed to pump milk.
“Good, I wouldn’t have it any other way. So um… does that mean you're alone and Jaden’s sleep? Cause I wanna have mama and papa time girl.” Michael worked his slacks off and laid back against the bed in just his black briefs.
“Oooh is that so? Yes, your son is asleep and I’ve got nothing but time at least for the next few hours. My other baby needs me right now papa?” You cooed into the phone saucily.
“Hell yeah! I been feenin’ for you girl and my mornings just don’t hit the same without you next to me. I can only pretend so much until I need the real thing.” Michael groaned into the phone stroking a hand against his bare chest.
“Mmm, missing your wake up call hmm? I know I miss giving it to you baby,” Grinning you leaned against the kitchen island, a hand traveling to rest lightly against your throat.
His roaming hand found its way to the waistband of his briefs and dipping a couple fingers beneath the band, Michael grazed the pubic hair resting there. Taking his time, he was gonna enjoy being able to hear your voice in real time.
On the other end of the line, you could hear the change in Michael’s breathing. The slight huskiness, the thick layer of arousal coating his moans and the light sighs.
Clenching your thighs, you could feel the beginning of your arousal flooding your kitty and the slight pressure could only assuage the ache for so long.
“Damn, if you weren’t thousands of miles away I’d ride you til we both couldn’t take it anymore. Feel you cum inside and until I’m so full it just oozes out my pussy.” You whimpered, moving your free hand to rest on your lower stomach.
“Yesss mama, I wanna fill you up so damn bad. Got me stroking this dick just thinking about how wet you get for me. Ooooo, touch yourself for me Tink.” Michael whispered into the phone, voice thick with desire.
Gripping the base of his length, Michael continued stroking slowly. Building up the anticipation, keeping his release from erupting too soon.
Slipping your hand past the waistband of your shorts, you widened your stance and plucked your clit with your index and middle fingers. Your slick made it easy for your fingers to glide and soon wet squelching sounds filled the kitchen.
“Miiichael, ooo papa feels good but I need your fingers. It’s not enough.” You cried, only a little sexually frustrated.
“Ooh I know baby, but be a good girl and listen to my voice. I’m here baby, just use me.”
Leaning against the kitchen island wasn’t providing the room or position for the relief you needed. Moving into the sitting room, you laid on the couch after stepping out of your shorts. Bending a knee against the couch, you put the phone on speaker and placed it on your chest.
Pushing your panties to the side, you inserted two fingers inside your warm, gushy walls and began thrusting back and forth. Tossing your head back, you let Michael’s voice wash over you.
“That’s it my pretty baby, stroke that pussy for me and play with your nipples too. I know how you like when I suck those gum drops while I’m inside your tight walls.”
Picking up speed, Michael began stroking faster and watching the pre-cum drip down his shaft. The tightening in his sac was stirring and he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.
“Papa, I’m so wet right now. Drippin’ and making a mess just from the sound of your voice. Adding another finger and rubbing my clit. Oooo it feels so gooood!” You whimpered in pleasure.
“Mmmhmm, keep on rubbing baby. I’m so close and I want you to come with me Tink. When I get home I’m livin’ between your legs, my girl been missing me and I need to show her some love.”
“Yesss papa, so bad, been needing you. Ugggh, I’m bout to… to cum baby.”
Michael gave a few more sharp and fast tugs to the head of his dick and just as his release hit, he heard your moans filling the phone line. The symphony of your joined releases was just as sweet as any #1 song Michael has created in his lifetime.
Silence filled the air as you both came down from shared ecstasy and heartbeats were returning to normal.
Chuckling into the phone, once your voice returned, you exhaled. “Baby, I may need to hop on a flight and pop up for a visit cause that was sexy as hell. Damn papa.”
Dick now soft and flaccid against his thigh, Michael clenched the sheets between his fingers. Letting out a deep breath, he grinned.
“I needed that so bad Tink and don’t worry baby, we’ll be face to face soon enough.”
Taking the phone off speaker, you placed it back to your ear. The dopamine hit was coming down and softened around the edges, allowing room for melancholy to latch on.
“I’m serious though baby, it’s nothing to hop on a flight especially when it comes to my husband. You taking care of yourself since that last flare up, right? We need you as healthy as possible Michael. I can't make all them babies you want by myself love.” You inquired and teased all in one go.
Michael couldn’t help but cover his face and laugh in embarrassment about the well known fact of him wanting 18 children.
“Girl you know I’m gone make sure I’m home to you and Jaden. Since you wanna play so much, be ready to start making them babies Tink. I’m so serious too, mama. You gone be in that bed for a week when I get home.” Michael lowly growled.
Fanning yourself, you felt that knowing ache try to make a comeback.
“I’ll be naked and waiting for you in our bed Mr. Jackson.” You remarked saucily.
“Yeah, soon enough Tink, we’ll be together soon. I love you, wife.” Michael proclaimed softly.
“I love you too, husband.” You replied with a dreamy look on your face and gentle smile.
The conversation trailed off to updates about your son and what you’d been up to since the last letter and pictures you’d sent. Not even 15 minutes later and soft snores were heard from Michael’s side of the phone while your eyes had slipped closed, you two lovebirds, falling asleep while talking softly on the phone.
nearly maxed out tags cus i’m crazy and just have so much love in my heart i wanted to tag everyone but i had to condense so i’m sorry if i missed anyone also but just know i love you all so bad
also a lot of you i haven’t interacted with in a long time and i feel bad abt that🙁 and some ppl that i tagged haven’t even been active since last year or longer like omg pls come back soon i miss you guys 😣😣
OMG THANK YOU SM BABY I MISS INTERACTING WITH YOU TOO<\3
my most favourite people here🙂↕️: @cherryvvave @moviecritc @bloomcissa @cryptic-doe @rh1nestcned @lechelovestoyap @luviery @vianawaits @scissorhvnds @dreamersentity @kamislop @batwngs @sakunai @mystiquevoid @1nsignia @patientofarkhamasylum @arfemiz @froggibus @tinafication @bitemysin @torupng @brinawing @biovomit @evilmanhater @gr0und-zer00 (i'm sorry if i didn't tag someone, but know that you're very dear to me too<3)
i feel like i don't say it enough, but i love you all, and y'all are very very dear to me. here on tumblr i found the community i feel sort of belonging to and with who i have experienced peak girlhood♥️
GAH STOP THIS IS SO SWEET siri how do i tag all of my 150+ mutuals-
i'm going to tag some of my babygirls and if i miss some PLEASE DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY i love and cherish all my lovely mooties :( even if we don't interact much
wait a minute !!! it's nearly 500 of y'all following me im— 🥹👉🏾👈🏾 thank you for fuckn with my shenanigans !! im thinking i might drop a face reveal or sumn to celebrate... i love being apart of this fandom and finding ppl who are just as in love with michael as i am. love ya downnn.
note: this is based on the doc series michael did with bashir. ummm thick dad bod michael was sumn so serious !! he just looks yummy.
In the studio, the air was stifling, thick with the suffocating heat of the camera lights and the relentless, disorganized demands of Martin Bashir's crew. It had been a grueling day of filming, and you could see the malicious picture he was trying to paint; beneath Michael's composed exterior, a dark, turbulent anger was fiercely brewing .
Every time he managed to steal you away into a quiet corner, the tension rolling off his warm body was palpable. He was already starting to take his frustrations out on you in the only way he could during these brief breaks...with sudden, punishing intimacy. Each stolen kiss he pressed to your lips was hungrier and much more aggressive than the last.
Finding a momentary respite from the incompetent crew, he cornered you once more. His brows were drawn together in a fierce scowl, his dark eyes stormy, and his breath carried the faint, sharp bite of alcohol.
"I'm sorry this is taking so long, baby," he groaned, dragging a large, heavy hand down his face in pure exasperation. He was visibly agitated, ready to snap, rambling under his breath about every little thing that had angered him on set.
Without asking, his long fingers expertly hooked into the waistband of your skirt, his heavy-handed grip uncompromising and tight. With a sudden, forceful pull, he dragged you flush against his body. The solid, full heat of him radiating through your clothes elicited a quiet gasp from your lips as you leaned into him. He dipped his head, his lips brushing right against your ear, making it clear with his body language that he was in no mood for games.
"I know it's late, but I need you here so I have something to ground me," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register.
His grip tightened almost painfully on your waistband, the unspoken promise of a relentless release hanging heavy in the air between you. He needed an outlet for his anger, and you knew exactly what was coming the moment he finally got you alone. His eyes burned into yours as he delivered a final, thrilling warning of what to expect behind closed doors: "You'll have to wait just a little longer for bedtime tonight; I need to calm down before I can sleep".
Your eyes looked up at his, nodding as he spoke. Or rather, as he talked at you. He was rambling under his breath about every little thing that had angered him in that moment, his frustration boiling over. You knew better than to run from it or try any antics; he wasn't messing around, and you already knew that when he was this mad, his dominant, heavy-handed nature was fully taking over. With a final, possessive growl, Michael crashed another few bruising, aggressive kisses onto your lips, before tearing himself away to find his seat on the couch to continue filming.
The suffocating camera lights flared back to life, illuminating the carefully composed mask Michael slipped onto his face. Bashir began again, his questions laced with that same insidious, calculating tone meant to build a picture that wasn't in Michaels favor.
Michael answered them with practiced grace, but you knew the turbulent truth of what was brewing underneath. As he spoke, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes kept darting past the miserable, incompetent crew to lock onto yours. Every time he was asked a particularly intrusive or unorganized question, Michael's jaw would tick, and his burning gaze would instantly seek you out in the shadows of the studio.
Those heated, stolen glances across the room weren't just seeking out a grounding presence; they were a predatory promise. His eyes would darken as they dragged over your form, visually undressing you while he casually answered Bashir, silently reminding you of his uncompromising, tight grip on your waistband just moments ago. With every subtle flex of his large hands resting on his knees, you could feel the demanding energy rolling off him.
You already knew exactly what was coming once the cameras stopped rolling. His piercing looks held you captive, conveying a clear, unspoken message: the madder they made him right now, the harder and more relentless his inevitable release on you was going to be. Every time his eyes flicked back to yours, it was a thrilling reminder that you were his only outlet.
The oppressive heat of the studio felt even heavier as the interview dragged on. You continue to watch from the shadows as Michael reached down, his large hand wrapping around a bottle of liquor sitting just to the side of his feet. He took a quick, desperate shot, trying to loosen up and numb the mounting irritation from Bashir's relentless, grueling production. You knew he already had a hint of alcohol on his breath from earlier, and seeing him so flustered broke your heart, but you also knew exactly how these people operated. You couldn't let them spin his drinking into something malicious to use against him, knowing the picture they were trying to build wasn't in his favor at all.
Catching his eye across the room, you frowned in deep disappointment and explicitly mouthed, "The cameras."
The moment the words left your lips, you instantly regretted it. The flash of dark, unfiltered fury that crossed Michael's features was terrifyingly thrilling. It was bad enough that this highly unorganized crew was irritating him, but having you silently reprimand him? That pushed his already paper-thin patience right to the edge. You knew firsthand how relentless he was going to be later that night.
Instead of hiding the bottle, he responded with a blatant, breathtaking display of dominance. His position on the sofa shifted abruptly, his long legs spreading wide open in a predatory sprawl. Your breath hitched, your eyes instantly drawn to the thick, heavy bulge resting between his spread thighs. It was a stark, visual reminder of the heavy-handed, aggressive release he was promising, and the realization that he wasn't even fully hard yet made your pulse pound everywhere.
Bashir droned on, asking another calculated question. Michael answered smoothly, but his dark, stormy eyes kept darting back to you as he spoke. Every time he glanced your way between answers, it was a heavy, commanding stare that practically stripped you naked where you stood. You could see his jaw ticking as he rambled slightly under his breath, a clear sign of how much every little thing was frustrating him in that moment.
Those piercing, stolen looks weren't just seeking you out to ground him anymore...they were a silent, thrilling threat. With his legs spread wide and his eyes burning into yours mid-sentence, he was visualizing exactly how he was going to slut you out the absolute second he got you alone. The unspoken promise of punishment hung thick in the stifling air.
Your legs squeezed together instinctively; seeing him this mad was terrifying, but in the absolute sexiest way possible. The heavy, pooling honey between your thighs was entirely for him. Desperate to soften the blow of what was coming, you tried to catch his gaze, giving him those wide, pleading doe eyes you always used to lighten his mood and ensure his inevitable punishment wouldn't be quite so unforgiving.
Ignoring your silent plea, Michael stood up, his large hand casually but deliberately brushing over his slacks to adjust the heavy, straining bulge pressing against his zipper. As the grueling interview finally came to a wrap for the night, you immediately scrambled into action. You desperately tried to keep busy by herding the miserable, disorganized crew toward the door, knowing it was your only way to stall. You knew the second you were alone, Michael would order you upstairs, he never hesitated to fulfill the promises he made to you.
Just as you thought you'd successfully avoided him in the chaos of the packing crew, you felt the sudden heat of his warm, thick body press flush up against your back. You froze, letting out the quietest gasp as his solid frame caged you in against a nearby table.
The lingering crew members were still peppering him with final, annoying wrap-up questions about tomorrow's schedule. Michael casually made small talk with them, his public mask firmly in place, but his dark, heavy-lidded eyes kept cutting sideways to glance at you as he answered their questions. Every time he responded to a producer, he cast another heated, predatory look your way, visually promising that your little stalling tactic had only made him madder.
While smoothly answering a question about the lighting setup, he leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear so only you could hear him over the chatter. "I didn't tell you to talk... I told you to wait," he murmured, his voice a low, commanding rumble that sent a shiver straight to your core.
His heavy-handed grip slid onto your hip, his long fingers unapologetically tight and uncompromising as he kept up the conversational facade for the crew. He didn't even bother to ask for permission; his body language made it perfectly clear that he was going to take his frustrations out on you the moment the room was empty. As he casually answered Bashir's last question, his thumb stroked your hip bone in a silent, thrilling warning. He was already rambling under his breath about every little thing the incompetent crew had done to anger him today, and his stolen glances promised a session of backshots to help him calm down before he could sleep. You knew better than to try and test him again, because that would only get you spanked. His piercing looks held you captive, silently assuring you that you were going to be completely slutted out the second the front door clicked shut.
His grip on your hand was uncompromising as he dragged you down the hall, completely ignoring your breathless, nervous pleading. He wasn't in the mood to hear your reasons for speaking out of turn earlier; his paper-thin patience had completely snapped, and the time for reasoning was over.
He roughly pushed his bedroom door open, shooting you a dark, commanding look that signaled for you to get inside. The moment you nervously crossed the threshold, his large hand came down in a sudden, stinging smack against your ass. The hard spank drew a sharp gasp from your lips, a thrilling physical reminder that he was heavy-handed as fuck when he was mad, and he was ready to take all his built-up frustrations out on you.
That stinging slap wasn't the end of it. The heavy click of the lock sealing you in echoed through the room. Michael needed an immediate release from the grueling hours of filming, and you were the only one who could help him with this task. His dark, stormy eyes locked onto yours as his long fingers eagerly began unbuttoning his shirt, silently signaling for you to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for him.
You knew exactly what that heavy gaze meant: your mouth was going to be his first outlet. As he stripped his top off, he began a low, punishing lecture about your defiant mouth on set, his voice a deep, vibrating rumble. His reprimand seamlessly bled into him pacing the floor rambling about every little thing that had angered him today and how utterly ignorant Bashir's miserable, incompetent interview was.
"Do you have any idea how unorganized this whole production is?" he growled, stepping closer to you. "You know the picture they're trying to build isn't in my favor, and then you decide to give me attitude in front of the cameras?".
Suddenly, a soft knock came at the bedroom door. "Michael? Sorry to bother you, just a quick final question about tomorrow's wardrobe," a muffled producer's voice called out from the hallway.
Michael didn't miss a beat, entirely unfazed by the interruption. He stepped right between your parted knees at the edge of the bed, his imposing, warm body towering over you. As he smoothly called back through the closed door, casually answering their mundane questions with his practiced, polite tone, his dark eyes kept darting down to glance intensely at you.
The juxtaposition was intoxicating. While he politely answered the producer's questions, his large hand reached down, his long fingers threading roughly into your fresh silk press to forcefully tilt your head back. Every time he paused to give an answer to the person on the other side of the door, his burning gaze would visually undress you.
As soon as the producer's footsteps finally faded down the hall, his public mask vanished, replaced by raw, predatory hunger. He looked down at you, his grip tightening in your hair as he prepared to effortlessly slut you out. His eyes darkened with undeniable intent as he issued his final command: "Open your mouth for me."
The producer's voice called out again through the heavy wood of the door, asking another intrusive, unorganized question about the filming schedule.
Without hesitation, your trembling fingers reached for the waistband of his slacks. You quickly unbuttoned his pants and freed his heavy, strained erection, eagerly taking him into your mouth to give him the immediate release he so desperately needed. Michael’s breath hitched, a low, guttural groan rumbling deep in his chest, though he was incredibly careful to keep the sound muffled so the crew outside wouldn't hear.
"Yes, we'll start at eight tomorrow," Michael called back through the closed door, his voice remarkably smooth and steady for a man whose hips were currently caging you against the mattress. But as he spoke, his dark eyes glanced down at you, burning with a mix of fiery frustration and intense physical pleasure.
You kept your gaze entirely focused on him, your eyes locking with his stormy stare before tracing down the hard muscles of his stomach to fixate on his happy trail. As you took him deeper, your nose brushed against his warm skin, gently tickled every now and then by the dark, coarse hair as he did shave as much as he used to down there.
The producer outside carried on with questions becoming increasingly ridiculous and outrageous, further proving how incompetent Bashir's crew truly was. With every outrageous question that came through the door, Michael’s grip in your hair tightened, and his hips snapped forward, thrusting deeper and much harder into your mouth.
You had to take every punishing, aggressive thrust in absolute silence. You didn't dare make a peep, fighting to swallow down your own sounds, because you knew if he felt like someone else outside could hear your muffled moans, he wouldn't be happy and you were already acutely aware of how heavy-handed he was when he wasn't happy.
Michael was using your mouth to relentlessly take out all his built-up frustrations. He smoothly answered another question about the camera angles through the door, but his dark eyes constantly darted down to watch you, clearly thrilled by the sight of you getting completely slutted out for him on the edge of the bed. He let out another quiet, breathy groan, his long fingers unapologetically tight in your hair, silently promising that this steamy, secret release was just the beginning of what he needed to do to calm down before bed.
The footsteps in the hallway finally faded into total silence. The barrage of intrusive, dumb questions had stopped at last. He looked down at you, his dark eyes ablaze, deciding your mouth had taken enough for now. With a commanding look, he hooked a single long finger, silently motioning for you to get up.
The second you were on your feet, the raw force he had been holding back unleashed completely. With no hesitation, his large hands gripped your waist and forcefully spun you around, pushing your head and shoulders down hard against the mattress. Because of how dangerously fast he had spun you and bent you over, your skirt was already hiked high up your thighs. Michael didn't even bother wasting time taking your clothes off.
His other large hand immediately grabbed the thin material of your panties, roughly pulling them to the side to clear the way.
He drove himself thick and deep inside of you with a single, aggressive thrust that instantly shattered your forced silence. A loud, breathy moan ripped from your throat, but this time, he didn't care how loud you were. You were finally entirely alone behind a locked door, and he was ready to take full advantage of this opportunity.
The relentless backshots were punishing and breathless. His heavy-handed grip on your hips was much tighter now, his long fingers practically bruising your skin as he anchored you in place. Just as you had feared and anticipated, the madder he was, the harder he went. He thrust furiously into you, his deep voice echoing in the bedroom as he began yelling and rambling angrily about the dumb questions and every little thing that had irritated him during the miserably incompetent interview.
"Do you hear the garbage they were asking me?" he growled with a brutal snap of his hips, the sheer force of it pushing your face deeper into the mattress. "Trying to build a picture against me in my own home!".
With every frustrated shout, a stinging, heavy-handed slap was placed precisely onto your ass as he saw fit. The sharp sound of his palm hitting your flushed skin echoed through the room, a thrilling, painful reminder of exactly how heavy-handed he could be. The intense combination of his punishing spanks and the sheer, unrelenting pace of his thrusts was completely overwhelming.
You gripped the twisted bedsheets, whining and struggling not to run from his thick length as he relentlessly drove into you at a punishing pace. Your instincts begged you to scramble forward to escape the intense depth, but you knew better than to actually try and crawl away…running from it would only get you spanked even harder. He needed this aggressive release to ground him. Michael effortlessly slutted you out and kept you firmly pinned beneath his warm, heavy body until every single ounce of his anger was finally spent.
But the relentless backshots weren't enough for him. He forcefully pulled out, his large hands grabbing your hips to quickly flip you over onto your back. He pushed your knees wide and pinned them back, ensuring you were completely exposed to his stormy gaze. He didn't just want to take his frustrations out on you in the dark; he needed you to watch.
He drove back into you with a powerful, breath-stealing thrust, filling you completely. "Keep your eyes open," he commanded, his deep voice vibrating within the room. "Don't you take your eyes off what I'm doing to you until I'm finished."
He wanted you to witness every aggressive inch of your punishment, but he was also getting incredibly turned on just by watching you take it. He watched your face flush and contort in pure pleasure, his dark eyes tracking every gasp and whimper that left your lips. This was secretly your favorite thing he did when he was angry; no matter how heavy-handed and demanding he was being, his intense focus always ensured he made you finish at least twice.
As his tight grip anchored your hips, the rhythmic pace of his strokes pushed you right to the edge. The moment you finally cried out, your body clenching and shattering around him, the dark anger that had been fiercely brewing inside him all day suddenly melted away. Just for a fleeting moment, his intense expression softened into something tender.
"That's it, baby. You're doing so good for me," he praised, his voice dropping to a low, breathless whisper. "I'm so proud of you for taking it so well."
His rare, mid-punishment praise only made your core clench tighter around him. You were throbbing heavily from both the blinding pleasure and the sweet, dull ache of his thick length stretching you out so deeply. You could feel the tension coiling tight in his warm, full body, signaling he was finally getting close. His thrusts became even harder and more desperate.
With a final, deep guttural groan, Michael buried himself to the hilt, his hips locking flush against yours as he surrendered to a powerful climax. He poured every ounce of his stress into you, finally achieving the ultimate release he desperately needed.
Completely spent, his large frame toppled heavily on top of you, his chest heaving as he pressed you into the mattress. The weight of his warm body caging you in was incredibly comforting. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged as he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your flushed skin.
"You look so damn pretty underneath me," he murmured softly, his tone completely transformed from the angry man on the interview set. He wrapped his long arms securely around you, his voice filled with genuine relief. "I'm so lucky you're here to help me... thank you for letting me have my moment, baby. Now we can both get some sleep."
I have an idea but I don’t know where to go with it.
Jackie Jackson x Reader, two oldest siblings choosing each other. They both are their families rock,they spend all their days taking care of everything and everyone but who’s going to take care of them? Two older siblings healing, loving, and reassuring each other
𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐞 𝐛𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jackie jackson x black!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: in the quiet spaces between holding their chaotic households together, two exhausted eldest siblings find an unexpected refuge right next door. away from the non-stop demands of everyone relying on them, they discover what it feels like to finally be the ones being taken care of.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: neighbors to lovers, fluff, eldest daughter syndrome, eldest son solidarity, dynamic duo, soft black love, comfort, protective!jackie, set in the early '70's/jackson 5 era.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4k
𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: another request from a lovely anon. it was honestly a delight to finally write for my pookie baby, jackie. i was cheesing from beginning to end, and hopefully, y'all will too! :) i have also decided that requests will come out over the weekend, so if you'd like to request something, my requests are still currently open!
The silence in Encino didn’t feel like normal silence. It felt borrowed, bought at a high price, and entirely temporary.
September of 1973, Hayvenhurst was never truly quiet. Even when the sun went down and the gates were locked, the house vibrated with the residual friction of nine children, endless business managers, phone lines that rang until the receivers grew warm, and the looming shadow of Joe Jackson’s ledger. But at two in the morning, if you stepped out onto the back patio where the citrus trees smelled sweet and heavy in the night air, you could almost pretend the world had stopped spinning.
Jackie Jackson leaned his forearms against the low, dark-stained wooden fence that separated his family’s property from the lot next door. He was wearing a deep navy velour tracksuit, the zipper pulled halfway down his chest, his afro freshly picked out but slightly crushed on one side from resting his head against the studio control board three hours earlier.
His shoulders were tight—a hard knot of muscle right where his neck met his trap. They’d spent six hours at Motown’s West Coast studios refining vocal tracks for Get It Together, going over the same four-bar harmony until Jermaine’s voice rasped and Michael’s eyes turned with fatigue.
As the eldest brother, the weight fell on Jackie differently. He wasn’t the lead singer, and he wasn’t the primary mouthpiece for the press, but he was the structural beam. When Michael was tired, Jackie carried the bag. When Randy got restless, Jackie smoothed it over. When Joe’s jaw set into that rigid, dangerous line that signaled a lecture on discipline, Jackie was the one who stepped into the room first so his younger brothers had a buffer.
He closed his eyes, inhaling the damp California air, trying to drain his head of the endless rhythm tracks and chord progressions.
Click.
The back screen door of the house next door creaked open, its soft yellow porch light casting a warm, rectangular beam across the grass. Jackie didn’t open his eyes right away; he just listened to the soft, rhythmic slide of leather slippers against the concrete patio.
You stepped out into the night, wrapped in a thick, oversized waffle-knit robe over your nightshirt, a steaming mug held tightly in both hands. You stopped when you saw the dark silhouette leaning over the fence, but you didn’t jump. You were too tired to jump.
“You’re going to catch a chill out here without a jacket, Sigmund,” you said, your voice a low, raspy hum that belonged exclusively to the hours past midnight.
Jackie turned his head, a slow, tired smirk breaking through the exhaustion on his face. He loved the way you called him by his real name— not Jackie Jackson of the Jackson 5, not the heartthrob on the cover of Right On! Magazine, just Sigmund.
“Girl, it’s sixty-five degrees out here. Ain’t nobody catching a chill in California,” he drawled, his Indiana accent slipping back through the polished, media-trained veneer he used during daytime interviews. He turned his body toward the fence, resting one elbow on the top rail. “What you doing up? Thought you had that early shift at the clinic.”
“I do,” you sighed, walking over to the fence until only a few inches of redwood paneling separated the two of you. You leaned your hips against it, letting the steam from your chamomile tea rise into the cool night air. “My sister came home at midnight talking about how she needs fifty dollars for a dress for senior pictures, my brother left his dirty work boots right in front of the refrigerator again, and my aunt called from Chicago at one in the morning just to tell me she had a bad dream about my uncle’s gout.”
Jackie let out a soft, deep rumble of a laugh—the kind that didn’t reach his throat during the daytime, reserved only for moments like this. “Sounds like a full house.”
“It’s a circus,” you corrected gently, looking up at him. Under the dim yellow bulb of your porch light, the shadows under his dark eyes were undeniable. “And don’t look at me like that. I know what your day looked like. I saw three different station wagons parked in your driveway by noon.”
“Man,” Jackie muttered, shaking his head and looking down at his sneakers. He rubbed the back of his neck, his knuckles cracking softly in the stillness. “Berry had us in the room all afternoon talking about this new television special. Then we had to run the choreography for ‘Dancing Machine’ six times because Marlon kept turning on the wrong beat, and Joseph… well, you know how Joseph gets when the steps ain’t crisp.”
“He was giving you a hard time?”
“He gives everybody a hard time. That’s his job, I guess,” Jackie said softly, though there was a bitter edge to it that he tried hard to smooth over. “He looks at me and sees twenty-two years old, and he thinks I oughta be keeping the boys in line better. Says if they slip up on stage, it’s on my head ‘cause I’m the oldest.”
You set your tea mug down on a flat fence post and turned your body fully toward him. Without asking, you reached across the fence line. Your fingers were warm as you reached up, setting your palm gently against the side of his neck, your thumb brushing over the tight muscle along his collarbone.
Jackie stilled completely. His breath hitched in his chest, a soft, involuntary sound.
“You make it look easy, you know that?” you whispered, your thumb working a small, deliberate circle into the tension behind his ear. “Every time I see you out front, you’re laughing, taking care of Randy, carrying gear, telling folks where to be. You act like it doesn’t cost you anything.”
Jackie closed his eyes, head tilting into the pressure of your hand like a stray animal finally being petted. “It costs plenty,” he admitted, his voice dropping an octave, so low it was practically a secret between the grass and the trees. “It costs… everything I got some days. You just learn to stop asking who’s coming to help, ‘cause you are the help.”
You let out a long, quiet breath that sounded so much like his own soul speaking back to him. “Yeah. I know that feeling all too well.”
Jackie opened his eyes, looking down at you. You were twenty-one, the eldest daughter in a family that relied on your paycheck, your organizational skills, and your emotional sanity to keep their world turning. You were the one who bought the groceries, paid the electric bill when your mother’s hours were cut, and made sure your younger siblings didn't drop out of school. You were the rock of your driveway, just like he was the rock of his.
He reached up, his large, warm hand cupping over yours where it rested on his neck. His skin was smooth, his pulse steady beneath your palm.
“Look at us,” Jackie said, a faint, tender smile playing on his lips. “Two heads of the household, standing over a fence at two in the morning, looking like two lost kids.”
“We aren’t lost,” you murmured, leaning slightly closer over the wood. “We just need a break.”
“Then take one,” Jackie said softly. His thumb stroked the back of your wrist, gentle and protective. “Just for five minutes. Right here. Don’t think about your sister, don’t think about your brother’s boots. Just stand here with me.”
For five minutes, nobody called his name. Nobody asked you for money. The world stayed small, contained entirely within the three feet of space between his porch light and yours.
Four months passed in a blur of endless rehearsal schedules, late-night phone calls, and stolen moments across the low redwood fence. By January of 1974, a heavy, uncharacteristic winter storm had rolled through the San Fernando Valley. Rain lashed against the roof tiles in sheeted waves, turning the dirt flowerbeds into red mud and swelling the gutters along the street until they overflowed into the storm drains.
At seven in the evening, the power grid in Encino gave out completely.
The neighborhood went dark in an instant, the amber glow of the streetlights blinking out in unison and leaving the houses illuminated only by dramatic, jagged flashes of lightning across the sky.
In your house, the sudden dark had caused immediate, predictable chaos. Your siblings had scrambled for candles, your mother was complaining about the food in the refrigerator spoiling, and your brother had managed to knock over a hall table in the pitch black. You had spent two hours finding flashlights, lighting oil lamps, settling everyone into their rooms with board games, and reassuring your mother that the storm would pass by morning.
By ten o’clock, everyone had finally drifted off to sleep, tired of sitting in the dark.
You were sitting alone on the living room floor, wrapped in a thick wool blanket, staring at the small, flickering yellow flame of a single pillar candle sitting on the coffee table. The house was cold, the rain beating a relentless, heavy rhythm against the windowpanes.
A low, heavy knock sounded at the back door.
You stood up, pulling your blanket tight around your shoulders, picking up a small flashlight. You walked to the kitchen and unlatched the heavy deadbolt.
Jackie stood on the covered back porch, illuminated by the flash of your light. He was wearing a dark brown corduroy jacket with a sheepskin collar, his hair slightly damp from the dash across the lawn. In his left hand, he held a dark wooden box; in his right, he held a thermos.
“Power’s out over there too, huh?” you asked, stepping back to let him inside.
“Total blackout,” he said, slipping out of his wet corduroy jacket and hanging it over the back of a kitchen chair. He looked at you in the dim beam of the flashlight, his eyes dark and warm. “Boys are all asleep. Joseph drove into town before the rain hit hard to meet with some promoters, and Mother’s got the younger ones settled. I thought… well, I thought you might be sitting over here in the dark by yourself.”
“I was,” you admitted, leading him back into the candlelit living room.
Jackie set the wooden box and the thermos down on the thick shag carpet. He unbuttoned his collar, settling down onto the floor beside you, pulling his long legs in close. He reached for the thermos, unscrewing the top and pouring a steaming cup of spiced cider, handing it to you first.
“Brought medicine,” he said with a faint smile.
You took the cup, the warmth spreading through your chilly fingers instantly. “What’s in the box, Sigmund?”
“Something to keep us from going crazy,” he replied. He opened the wooden latch of the box, revealing a battery-operated portable record player—a sleek, portable Panasonic unit he used on tour buses. Beside it were three 45rpm vinyl records.
He placed a record onto the small spindle, flipped the switch, and set the needle down gently.
The soft, scratchy, beautiful opening notes of Gladys Knight & the Pips’ “Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me” drifted into the dark living room, filling the quiet corners of the house with a warm, analog soul.
Jackie turned to you, reaching out to take your free hand, pulling your blanket down enough to lace his fingers through yours. “Sit closer,” he commanded gently. “It’s cold in here.”
You didn’t argue. You slid across the carpet until you were tucked against his side, your head resting in the hollow of his shoulder, the smell of rain and fresh cider clinging to his clothes.
“You look beat tonight, baby,” Jackie murmured, his voice sinking into the rhythm of the music. His fingers gently began to massage the base of your thumb, working out the tension built up from hours of household chores.
“I am,” you whispered, closing your eyes. “My brother got into an argument with his coach today. He wants to quit the track team. I spent three hours sitting on his bed trying to convince him that he’s throwing away his future just because he doesn’t like being yelled at.”
He let out a soft, sympathetic grunt. “Kids don’t see the big picture. They just see the guy yelling at ‘em. I know how he feels, honest… but he’s lucky he’s got you to set him straight. If I didn’t have my brothers, I don’t know where they’d end up.”
“And who sets you straight, Jackie?” you asked softly, turning your head to look up at his profile in the candlelight. “When you’re mad, or tired, or feel like quitting… who sits on your bed for three hours?”
Jackie went quiet. The record continued to spin, Gladys Knight’s voice soaring over the soft hum of the rain outside.
He didn’t answer for a long time. He just stared at the flickering candle flame, his jaw working slightly.
“Nobody,” he said finally, his voice barely audible over the storm. “You don’t get that luxury when you’re the first one born. You don’t get to have a breakdown, ‘cause if you break down, the line behind you breaks down too.”
He turned his head to look at you, and for the first time since you’d known him, you saw the immense, terrifying vulnerability he kept hidden behind his handsome smile and his cool, easygoing stride. He looked like a young man carrying the weight of a multi-million-dollar family empire on shoulders that were never meant to carry it alone.
“Sometimes,” he whispered, his hand tightening on yours, “I just wanna run away. Just drive that Ferrari as far down Route 66 as the gas will take me, and not look back for a month.”
Your heart bruised for him. You reached up, setting your cup aside, and placed both of your hands against his cheeks, forcing him to look at you directly.
“You don’t have to run away, Sigmund,” you said, your voice fierce and gentle all at once. “You just have to come over here. When you’re in this room, with me… you aren’t the leader of the Jackson 5. You aren’t Joseph’s oldest son. You’re just a twenty-two year old man who gets to sit down and test.”
Jackie looked at you, his chest rising and falling in deep, rugged breaths. A single, silent tear slipped down his cheek, catching the yellow light of the candle.
He didn’t say anything. He just leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his arms coming around your waist, pulling you into him so tightly it took your breath away. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your collarbone, his body trembling slightly as he finally let go of the tension he’d been holding since he was twelve years old.
You wrapped your arms around his back, holding his shoulders, rocking him gently against the beat of the rain on the roof. You rubbed your hand in slow, steady circles over his spine, whispering sweet, soft nothings into his ear—reassurances that he was good enough, that he had done enough, that he didn’t have to hold the sky up tonight.
They stayed like that until the record finished, the needle clicking softly in the final groove, leaving only the sound of their shared breathing and the storm outside.
Winter melted into spring, and by May of 1974, Encino was ablaze with early summer flowers—purple bougainvillea spilling over the white stone walls, jacaranda trees dropping soft violet petals onto the driveways, and the air smelling of sweet honeysuckle and warm asphalt.
It was a Saturday morning, and for the first time in the nine months you’d known Jackie, your own house was in absolute, unmanageable crisis.
Your younger sister had been rejected from her dream college, your brother had managed to back your mother’s station wagon into a light pole, and your aunt had arrived unannounced from Chicago with three suitcases and an attitude that could sour milk. You had been up since five in the morning—mediating fights, filling out insurance forms for the car, cooking breakfast for six people, and trying to keep your mother from having an absolute nervous breakdown in the kitchen.
By eleven o’clock, you were standing on your back patio, holding an empty laundry basket, your eyes burning with unshed tears of pure, overwhelming frustration. You felt like you were drowning in a sea of other people’s needs, your lungs filling with water every time you tried to catch your breath.
The wooden gate between the yards clicked open.
Jackie walked across the grass. He wasn’t wearing his usual casual clothes—he was dressed in a sharp, tailored yellow button-down shirt, white trousers, and leather loafers, looking every bit the handsome star. But his eyes weren’t looking at the neighborhood; they were fixed entirely on you.
He’d seen the station wagon hit the pole two hours ago. He’d heard the yelling from his bedroom window. He’d watched you run up and down the stairs through the kitchen window for three straight hours.
He walked right up to you, took the heavy plastic laundry basket out of your hands, and set it down on the grass without saying a word.
“Jackie, I can’t talk right now,” you choked out, your voice tight and dangerous, threatened by the tears pressing behind your eyelids. “My mother is crying, my brother is being an idiot, and I have to go to the grocery store before—”
“No,” Jackie said.
It was a single, firm word—spoken not with anger, but with an absolute, unyielding authority that stopped you dead in your tracks.
“What?” you blinked.
Jackie didn’t answer. He stepped past you, opened your back screen door, and walked right into your chaotic kitchen.
Your mother was sitting at the table, surrounded by papers. Your brother was standing by the fridge, looking sulky. Your aunt was loudly complaining about the heat.
Jackie walked into the room, his presence instantly filling the space with a natural, commanding charisma he’d honed over years of stage work and family leadership. He put on his warmest, most charming, unshakeable big-brother smile.
“Morning, ma’am,” Jackie said smoothly, leaning down to give your mother a gentle kiss on the cheek. “Auntie, good to see you again. Look, I heard about the car—don’t you worry about that for a second. I already called my mechanic down on Ventura Boulevard. He’s sending a tow truck over in twenty minutes, and he’s gonna fix that bumper on my tab as a favor to the family.”
Your mother blinked, her mouth opening in shock. “Jackie, oh, honey, you don’t have to—”
“It’s already done,” he smiled, turning his head to look at your brother. “And you, man—grab your jacket. You’re coming over to my house to help Randy clean out the garage. You’re gonna earn the money to pay me back for that bumper, and you’re gonna do it today.”
Your brother looked like he wanted to argue, but one look at Jackie’s cool, resolute expression—the look of an elder brother who did not take backtalk—made him nod his head silently and reach for his shoes.
Jackie turned back to your mother, his smile warm and steady. “And as for your daughter… I’m takin’ her out for the afternoon. She’s off the clock.”
Before anyone in your family could protest, Jackie walked back out onto the patio, grabbed your hand, and led you straight through the open wooden gate, across his lawn, and into his silver Ferrari parked in the driveway.
He opened the passenger door, helped you slide onto the leather seat, slamming it shut, and walked around to the driver’s side. He got in, turned the key, and the heavy v6 engine roared to life with a satisfying, deep purr.
He backed out of the driveway before your aunt could step onto the porch to call your name.
You sat in the passenger seat, staring at him in absolute wide-eyed disbelief as the Ferrari cruised down the tree-lined streets of Encino, heading towards the open highway.
“What… what did you just do?” you breathed, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Jackie looked over at you, one hand on the steering wheel, a brilliant, proud, triumphant grim lighting up his entire face. His dark eyes were sparkling in the California sunshine.
“I just did what you’ve been doin’ for me for nine months,” He said, his voice brimming with satisfaction. “I took care of it.”
You stared at him, and suddenly, the heavy, suffocating lump in your throat dissolved—not into tears, but into a loud, bright, hysterical burst of laughter that filled the car. You leaned back against the leather headrest, laughing until your water watered, feeling the absolute, miraculous freedom of having someone else step up to fight your battles for you.
Jackie laughed with you, his hands reaching across the center console to grab yours, squeezing your fingers tight as he accelerated onto the Ventura Freeway, heading toward the coast.
An hour later, he parked the Ferrari on a high bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean in Malibu. The sky was a brilliant, endless blue, the ocean churning below in white, foaming waves, the cool salt breeze blowing through the open car windows.
He shut off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, and turned in his seat to face you fully.
He reached out, gently pulling you across the console until you were sitting sideways in his lap, your back resting against his chest, his strong arms wrapped snugly around your waist.
“Better?” he whispered into your ear, his chin resting on your shoulder as you both looked out over the vast, sparkling water.
“Better,” you breathed, leaning your head back against his shoulder, letting the steady beat of his heart soothe your frayed nerves. “I didn’t think… I didn’t know you could just walk in there and do that.”
“I told you,” He said softly, his thumb rubbing gentle circles through the fabric of your shirt over your hip. “We’re a team, baby. You spend all your time being the rock for them, and I spend all my time being the rock for my boys. But when it comes to us? We take turns.”
He turned his head, pressing his lips against the soft skin of your neck, lingering there until you let out a long, contented sigh.
“I spent my whole life thinking I had to carry everything by myself,” Jackie whispered against your skin, his voice thick with emotion. “My dad taught me that a man doesn’t complain, he just works. He carries the weight until his knees give out. But then I met you… and I realized I don’t gotta carry it alone. You give me a place to lay my head down, girl. You’re my peace.”
You turned in his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck, looking into his beautiful, earnest face. You reached up, tracing the high arch of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the soft texture of his lips.
“And you’re mine, Sigmund,” you whispered back. “You’re my safe harbor.”
Jackie smiled—a deep, genuine, effortless smile that reached all the way to his soul. He leaned forward, closing the small distance between you, and pressed his lips against yours in a deep, slow, reverent kiss that tasted like salt air, warm sunshine, and long-awaited rest.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t let you go. He kept you tucked close against his chest, his chin resting on your head, his hands holding you like the precious, irreplaceable gift you were.
Down below, the ocean waves crashed relentlessly against the rocks, eternal and busy. Back in Encino, two houses were waiting with their phone calls, their family drama, and their endless demands.
But up on the bluff, inside the quiet leather interior of the Ferrari, the two oldest siblings were completely off the clock.
They didn’t look at the dashboard clock. They didn’t check the time. They just held each other, anchored at last, watching the sun begin its slow, golden descent into the sea.
