Mary the fish

20! This is my MJ blog, I write sometimes. Enjoy!

[amnesia-sc]

was in a good mood and then opened insta and saw this… immediately pissed off now y’all also have to be

lisa didn’t know how to handle all that

i genuinely get filled with the rage of a scorned wife… THAT SHOULD BE ME FUCK like genuinely the longer i look at it the more enraged i feel my eyes are welling up with tears

NURSE SHES OUT AGAIN

[loyallylunarfable]

Open for requests! Please send me ur worst!

[orangecatauthor]

what fic would you read thats been sitting in ny drafts for months

devotion can't warm the glass TW mature Mj substance abuse caregiver burn out

Youre still Applehead part 3 final part

request?

Remaining time: 1 day 17 hours

[starwhispr]

literally the prettiest smile in the world

[jobemuse]

LORD HAVE MERCY😫

[dukeofdelirium]

#MJINNOCENT SOURCES

Debunking Netflix 👇

-> Netflix’s Michael Jackson: The Verdict debunked pt 1

-> Netflix’s Michael Jackson: The Verdict debunked pt 2

-> Netflix’s Michael Jackson: The Verdict debunked pt 3

-> Netflix Called Out By Artist

The Chandler Allegations 👇

-> Chandler Allegations pt 1

-> Chandler Allegations pt 2

-> Chandler Allegations pt 3

-> Chandler Allegations pt 4

The Arvizo Allegations 👇

-> Arvizo Allegations pt 1

-> Arvizo Allegations pt 2

-> Arvizo Allegations pt 3

-> Arvizo Allegations pt 4

Did The Description Match? 👇

No, the description did not match. Every verifiable piece of documentation we possess that is public record affirms that it was not a match, despite the continuing media lie and lies from prosecutors. Here are two links where I have proven such.

-> Lauren Weis Is Lying

-> It Was Not A Match!

Who Is Rodney Allen? 👇

-> 90’s Google Archive posts of Rodney Allen admitting to framing Michael Jackson + alleged letters he wrote

-> The Plot To Destroy Michael Jackson | Video proof of Rodney Allen coaching boys

Did The Jury Flip? 👇

No, 10 out of the original 12 that deliberated maintain a Not Guilty verdict, as well as 8 alternates who did not deliberate but sat in on the entire trial. 2 jurors flipped 2 months after the verdict, contradicting their past interviews and original statements made to the media following the verdict. Money was an incentive. I provided sources/evidence in an answered ask.

-> The Jury Did Not Flip!

Did Jackson Possess Child Porn? 👇

Absolutely not! Possession of child pornography is a felony crime, which would have resulted in him being charged with possession, not to mention he would have been convicted. What Michael Jackson did own was art photography books, which I have made numerous at length posts explaining.

-> The photography Books

-> No Child Porn Ever Found!

-> More Photography Books He Had

Miscellaneous Sources 👇

-> Train Station Lie

-> Train Station Lie pt 2

-> More Lies From James Safechuck

-> Thriller Jacket Lie

-> Wade Robson Pretending To Be A Therapist To Grift Money

-> Matt Fiddes Was Never MJ’s Bodyguard, He Is A Liar!

-> Wade Robson Asked To Get Married At Neverland Ranch

Nude Photos of Children? 👇

-> Nude Pictures of Jackson’s Friends

Gifting Jewelry For Sex? 👇

This story was created by Victor Gutierrez and written into his book, which Michael Jackson sued him over (and won), a book proven to be libel which bankrupted Gutierrez.

-> James Safechuck Wedding Rings

Additional Sources/Misc Allegations

Post by @dukeofdelirium · 3 videos

💬 1  🔁 2  ❤️ 24 · Post by @dukeofdelirium · 7 images · Hello! Since you seem to be very well versed in everything involving the allegations

A Racist Vendetta 👇

-> Tom Sneddon Was Racist

Did Jackson Have BDSM Porn? 👇

No, Jackson did not have BDSM/Torture porn. This was a lie started in 2016 by tabloids like Radar Online, who edited raid documents and photoshopped books to make it appear as though Jackson owned material he was never written to possess in any search warrant or seizure from 03-05.

-> He Did Not Own Torture Porn

[moonwalker1996]

His smile alone was DEADLY. Good lord. 😮‍💨

[swansical]

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

I miss when social media platforms were actually different and unique. instagram was ad-free and for photo sharing only. youtube was for videos. tiktok was for short and quick videos. twitter was for venting. now everything looks exactly the same and soulless. there's no whimsy left

[loyallylunarfable]

More than friends

summary: after not letting you finish, Michael’s friendly touches became less and less friendly, all still under the guise of friendship. 2 weeks later, you push him to his breaking point, forcing him to claim you.

cw: p in v, no protection, controlling!michael, mentions do the family, j*e is ‘he who shall not be named’, suggestion of cockwarming at the end, cussing, mdni, some fluff and angst, happy ending-in both ways.

a/n: no ai usage, tagged the people below who asked for part two. Works as a stand alone chapter but if you want to read part one it’s here. Very filthy so be advised. Enjoy!

Two weeks.

Fourteen days of waking up with your thighs pressed together and a slick, aching emptiness between them that no amount of squirming could fix. Fourteen days of Michael’s hands on you—in hallways, on his couch, in the backseat of his car when he offered you a ride—each casual touch landing like a match on gasoline. He’d palm your ass in the kitchen while reaching past you for a glass, and your cunt would clench so hard you’d have to grip the counter. He’d kiss your neck in greeting, lips lingering on the spot just below your ear that made your knees buckle, and then he’d pull back with that knowing half-smile and ask if you wanted to watch a movie.

Just friends, he’d say. Friends do this.

And you’d nod, because what else could you do? Call him a liar? Demand he acknowledge that he’d spent an entire evening buried inside you, pounding into you until you sobbed, only to stop the moment your orgasm crested? Demand he explain why he never let you finish?

You couldn’t. The words lodged in your throat every time. So you swallowed them. Let them curdle into something hot and desperate that lived in the pit of your stomach. You went to work with damp underwear and came home to a cold shower that did nothing. You lay in bed at night with your own hand pressed between your thighs, seconds from relief, and then you’d hear his voice in your head—not until I say—and your fingers would still. You couldn’t even make yourself come anymore. He’d trained it out of you without ever saying a word.

Day seven, he found you in his kitchen wearing a sundress and spent ten minutes “helping” you reach a high shelf, his hips pressed flush against your backside while he stretched up for a box of pasta. His hard-on ground into the cleft of your ass through his sweatpants, and he hummed a song he's working on under his breath like nothing was happening.

Day ten, you fell asleep on his couch during a Thunderbirds marathon and woke up to his face buried in your lap, mouthing at the seam of your shorts, his breath hot and damp through the denim. He looked up at you with those deep brown hooded eyes and said, “You were having a bad dream. Just calming you down.” His lips glistened. You could smell yourself on his upper lip.

Day twelve—yesterday—you opened your underwear drawer and found three pairs missing. The ones with the little lace trim, the satin ones, the cotton with the strawberries. Gone. When you asked, Michael shrugged and said, “Laundry must’ve ate ‘em.” Then he kissed your forehead and told you you smelled nice.

You were losing your mind. Your body was a live wire, sparking at every accidental brush of his fingers. The ache between your legs had become a permanent resident, a background hum of want that colored everything. You were desperate. You were humiliated by how desperate you were. And the worst part—the part that kept you up at night, staring at the ceiling with your fists clenched in the sheets—was that he refused to name what you were to him.

Just friends.

Good girl.

Angel.

Never mine.

The Jackson family home in Hayvenhurst buzzes with pre-event chaos. You’ve been coming here since they first moved to California, back when Michael was still a kid with a big smile and bigger dreams, back when his brothers treated you like a baby sister and his mother fed you sweet potato pie until you couldn’t move. The house smells like hairspray and cologne and something baking in the kitchen. Down the hall, someone’s arguing about a missing cufflink. Janet’s laugh rings out from somewhere upstairs, bright and infectious.

You’re in Michael’s bedroom.

The door is closed. The curtains are drawn against the late afternoon sun, striping the room in slats of gold. His suit is laid out on the bed—black, tailored, the jacket still in its dry-cleaning plastic. Michael stands in front of the mirror in his dress pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, the fabric hanging open over the lean planes of his chest. The light stubble on his jaw catches the light. His fingers move deftly as he threads a cufflink through his left sleeve, and his reflection watches you in the mirror with the stillness of a predator.

You’ve been friends since they moved here. You’ve been in this bedroom a hundred times. But the air between you has never felt like this—charged, electric, the space thick with everything unsaid.

Your dress hangs from a hook on the back of his door. Emerald green silk, slinky and liquid, the kind of dress that moves like water when you walk. You picked it out three days ago from a boutique in Beverly Hills, and the moment you saw yourself in the fitting room mirror, you knew. The neckline plunges low, held up by thin straps and sheer willpower, and the back—the back dips so far that the lacy top of your thong peeks out above the fabric. It’s a dress that makes a statement. It’s a dress that demands an answer.

You unzip your jeans and shimmy them down your legs, keeping your back to him. The silk tank top you wore over follows, a whisper of fabric pooling on the floor. You’re in your underwear now—a matching set, deep green like the dress, the bra that lifts and frames your breasts until they threaten to spill over the lace. You feel his gaze on your skin like a brand. His fingers have paused on the cufflink.

The hanger scrapes against the hook as you lift the dress down. The silk is cool, liquid, settling over your shoulders and sliding down your body like a second skin. You adjust the straps. Smooth the fabric over your hips. The slit up the side opens over your left thigh with every breath.

“Zip me?” Your voice is light, casual.

Silence.

You turn. Michael hasn’t moved. His shirt still hangs open. The cufflink dangles from his fingers, forgotten. His eyes track down your body—the exposed swell of your breasts, the cinched waist, the slit that flashes thigh all the way up to where your hip meets your torso. His jaw tightens. A muscle feathers in his temple.

“What?” You tilt your head, playing dumb. “You don’t like it?”

His gaze lifts to yours. The deep brown of his irises has gone nearly black. “You’re not wearing that.”

The words land flat. No negotiation. No playful teasing. Just the cold steel of a command.

Something sparks in your chest—anger, finally, the anger you’ve been swallowing for two weeks. “I’m not?” You fold your arms under your breasts, deliberately, and watch his eyes flick down to track the movement. “That’s funny. Because I don’t remember asking.” Michael’s nostrils flare. He sets the cufflink down on the dresser with a deliberate click. “That dress belongs in a bedroom, not at a charity gala with my whole family. Change.”

“No.”

The word hangs in the air between you. You’ve never said it to him before. Not like this. Not with your chin lifted and your heart hammering against your ribs. His brow furrows. “Angel—”

“Don’t.” The word cracks out of you, sharper than you intended. “Don’t call me that. You don’t get to call me that and then act like—like I’m just some girl who sits on your lap when you’re cold.” Your voice is shaking now, but you can’t stop. The words have been building for fourteen days, a pressure behind your teeth, and they’re finally spilling out. “You don’t get to put your hands all over me and kiss my neck and take my underwear and—and fuck me on your couch—and then tell me we’re just friends, Michael. You don’t get to deny me for two weeks and still think you have any say in what I wear.”

Michael goes very still.

The kind of still that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

“I’m not your girlfriend,” you press on, voice thick. “You’ve made that abundantly clear. So I’ll wear what I want. And maybe tonight I’ll find someone who actually wants to claim me, since you clearly don’t.”

His eyes flash.

He moves so fast you don’t register it until his hand is on your hip and your back is against the door. The thud of your spine meeting the wood rattles the mirror on the adjacent wall. One hand grips the jut of your hip bone hard enough to bruise, and the other—the other finds the zipper at your side and yanks it down in one savage motion. The silk slithers off your shoulder. Cool air kisses bare skin. “Someone else?” His voice is low, dangerous, stripped of all pretense. The affable, teasing Michael is gone. The one who told you cockwarming was like holding hands, the one who buried his face in your lap and called it comforting—vanished. In his place is a man with fire in his eyes and a grip like iron. “You think someone else could touch you, after what I’ve done to this body?”

Your breath catches. “You— you said we were friends. You keep saying—”

“I lied.” He says it flatly, without apology. “I’ve been lying since the first time I put my hands on you. Is that what you want to hear? There’s nothing friendly about what I want to do to you, angel. Nothing casual. I’ve been trying not to scare you off, trying to give you time to catch up, and you— you think that means I don’t want to own you?” He drags the dress down over your hips. The silk pools at your feet, a green puddle on the hardwood floor. You’re in nothing but the green bra and the lace thong now, and the way he looks at you makes your knees go weak.

“I’ve wanted to own you since the day we met,” he growls, stepping closer, crowding you against the door with the full length of his body. The heat of him seeps through your skin all the way down to your bones. “Every time you laughed at one of my jokes, every time you fell asleep on my shoulder, every time you bent over in those little shorts—I wanted to flip up your skirt and fuck you until you forgot your name. You think I’m not claiming you? Baby. Sweet girl.” His mouth descends on your neck, teeth grazing the tendon. “I claimed you a long time ago. You just didn’t notice.”

The sound that escapes you is half moan, half sob. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because I’m selfish.” He bites down, not hard enough to break skin but hard enough to make you gasp, his tongue soothing the sting immediately after. “Because I wanted to see how far I could push you. Wanted to watch you get desperate for me, watch you wake up wet and go to bed aching, watch you fall apart a little more every day.” His hand slides from your hip to the front of your thong, palm pressing against the damp lace. He groans at what he finds. “And you did, didn’t you? You’ve been dripping for me for two weeks. Haven’t you.”

It’s not a question. He already knows.

“Yes,” you gasp anyway. The admission scalds your throat. “Yes, Michael, I can’t—I haven’t been able to—”

“Haven’t been able to what?”

“Come.” The word is a whimper. Your hips buck into his hand. “I’ve tried. I can’t. I hear you—in my head—and I can’t—”

His eyes darken further, something like triumph flickering in their depths. “That’s right. Because you don’t get to come unless I’m inside you. That’s the rule.” He presses harder against the soaked lace, and your vision swims. “You’re mine, angel. Your body knows it even if your mouth wants to fight about it. And you want to know why I didn’t let you come that night?”

You nod, frantic.

“Because I wanted you like this. Desperate. Begging. Ready to give me everything.” His fingers hook under the waistband of your thong. “And you’re ready now, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

One tug. The flimsy lace tears like tissue paper, the sound obscenely loud in the quiet room. The scrap of fabric falls away, and you’re bare beneath his hand, the slick evidence of your arousal coating his fingers. Michael makes a sound low in his throat that’s somewhere between a groan and a prayer. “Look at you. Absolutely soaked for me.” Two fingers slide through your folds, spreading the wetness. “Did you wear this dress just to make me crazy? Just to see what I’d do?”

“Yes,” you confess, breathless. “I wanted—I needed you to— I needed you to finally—”

“Claim you.” He finishes the sentence, his fingers circling your clit with a featherlight touch that makes your whole body jolt. “Say it. I want to hear you say it.”

“Claim me.” Your voice breaks. “Michael, please, I need you to claim me. I need to be yours. Not just—not just your friend, I can’t do the friend thing anymore, it’s making me crazy—”

He kisses you.

Not gentle. Not teasing. Hard, consuming, his mouth slanting over yours with a hunger that steals your breath. His tongue pushes past your lips, and the taste of him—the taste you’ve been dreaming about for two weeks—fills your senses. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. The other leaves your clit and grips your ass, hauling you against him, and the rigid length of his erection presses into your hip through his dress pants. He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath ragged. “Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“Louder.”

“You, Michael. I belong to you.”

Something in him snaps.

He spins you around, your chest pressing against the door, your cheek flat against the cool wood. His body covers you from behind, solid and hot, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, teeth scraping the sensitive skin. His hands are everywhere—skimming your ribs, cupping your breasts through the lace of your bra, sliding down to grip your hips with a possessiveness that makes your cunt clench on nothing.

“This bra,” he mutters against your skin. “Matches the thong. Matches the dress. You planned all of this.”

“I— yes—”

“Naughty girl.” He unclasps the bra with one hand, practiced and efficient. The straps slide down your arms, and then his palms are on your bare breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak into hard, aching points. “You wanted to make me lose control. Wanted to push me until I snapped.”

“Yes—” “Congratulations.” His voice drops to a growl. “You got what you wanted.”

He fumbles with his belt, the clink of the buckle and the rasp of the zipper deafening in the small room. You feel him free himself—the hot, velvety length of his cock pressing against your bare ass—and a desperate whine leaks from your lips. Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since you felt him inside you, and your body remembers. Your body has been counting the days.

“Please,” you gasp. “Please, Mikey, I need you inside me. Now. Please.” He lines himself up with your entrance, the thick head notching against your slick folds. “You want me to fuck you, angel? Want me to make you mine?”

“Yes yes yes—”

“Then take it.”

He thrusts inside you in one brutal, punishing stroke. The stretch is a revelation. He’s so big, impossibly big, and your body seems to have forgotten—forgetten the way he fills you to the brim, the way the head of his cock kisses your cervix, the way your inner walls have to stretch and flutter and fight to accommodate something so thick. A scream tears from your throat, muffled against the door, your nails scrabbling at the wood for purchase.

Michael doesn’t give you time to adjust. He pulls back—a dragging withdrawal that lights up every nerve ending—and slams back home with a force that rattles the door on its hinges. Then again. Again. Setting a pace that is punishing and relentless, each thrust driving deeper, harder, the slap of his hips against your ass filling the room.

“Who do you belong to?” His voice is a growl against your ear, his hand fisting in your hair and pulling your head back. “Who fucks you like this?”

“You— you do, Mikey, only you—”

“That’s right.” Another thrust, so deep it makes your vision white out.

“Who gets to see you like this? Dripping wet, spread open, taking my cock like you were made for it?”

“Only you— oh god, only you—”

“No one else,” he pants, slamming into you. “No one else touches you. No one else even looks at you. You’re mine, angel. Mine. I don’t care what I said before— I lied. I’ve been lying since day one. Nothing about this”—he punctuates the word with a particularly vicious thrust—“is friendly. You understand me?”

You’re crying now, fat tears of overwhelm and relief and pleasure streaking down your cheeks. The words won’t come anymore. Just sobs and pleas and the broken, rhythmic moans he punches out of you with every stroke.

“Answer me.” He slows, grinding deep, the head of his cock pressing against that devastating spot inside you while his hand releases your hair and snakes around to find your clit. His fingers press down—firm, unrelenting pressure—and your back bows, a silent scream catching in your throat.

“I understand,” you manage, the words slurred and desperate. “I’m yours. I’m yours, Michael, please don’t stop, please let me come this time, please—”

His rhythm changes. Slower. Deeper. Each thrust a rolling grind that drags the length of him against your front wall while his fingers work your clit in tight, precise circles. The combined sensation is devastating. The pressure that’s been building for two weeks—the pressure you’ve been carrying around like a stone in your gut—starts to swell, coiling at the base of your spine.

“You want to come, angel?” His voice is strained, the first crack in his composure. “After two weeks of being a brat? After wearing this dress to make me jealous? After threatening to find someone else?”

“I’m sorry— I didn’t mean it, I swear, I just wanted you to—”

“I know what you wanted.” He kisses the side of your neck, surprisingly tender. “And I’m giving it to you. I’ve wanted to give it to you this whole time. Just needed you to admit what you were asking for.” His hips piston faster now, driving toward something, his breathing gone ragged and uneven. The hand on your clit never stops, never falters, and the pleasure is cresting, building toward a peak you haven’t been allowed to reach since that night on his couch.

“Come for me,” Michael breathes against your ear. It’s not a suggestion. It’s permission. The permission you’ve been waiting fourteen days to hear. “Come all over my cock, angel. Let me feel it. Let me feel what I do to you.”

The orgasm hits you like a freight train.

It’s not a gentle cresting wave. It’s a cataclysm. Your body seizes, back arching, mouth opening on a howl that you muffle against your own arm. Your cunt clamps down on his cock in rhythmic, pulsing spasms, the walls of your pussy gripping and fluttering and pulling him deeper. White light explodes behind your eyelids. Your legs give out—would collapse entirely if Michael’s arms weren’t around you, holding you up, holding you together while you shatter.

“That’s it,” he groans, fucking you through it, prolonging every spasm with deep, grinding thrusts. “That’s my girl. So good for me. So fucking good. Let it all out.”

The orgasm rolls through you in waves, each one a little smaller than the last, until you’re left limp and trembling in his arms, tears drying on your cheeks, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. You’ve never come like that in your life. You didn’t know it was possible to come like that.

Michael isn’t done.

He pulls out—the withdrawal a slick, obscene sound—and spins you around. Your back hits the door again, and then he’s lifting you, your legs hooking over his hips, your arms winding around his neck. He lines himself up and thrusts back inside in one motion, and the overstimulation makes you cry out, a sharp sound that’s half pain and half pleasure.

“One more,” he demands, voice wrecked. “You owe me one more. Two weeks of watching you walk around in those tiny shorts, bending over, putting on lip gloss, making me hard in front of my brothers— you owe me.”

He fucks into you with short, desperate strokes, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in harsh pants. The control he’s held onto for so long is fraying, thread by thread. His hips stutter. A groan tears from his chest that sounds almost pained.

“Where do you want me to come, angel?” The words are strained, barely a whisper. “Tell me. I’ll give you whatever you want.”

“Inside.” The word is immediate, instinctive. “Inside me, Mikey, please, I want to feel it—”

“Fuck.” The curse is ripped from him. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. Please. I need to feel it. I need to feel you.”

That’s all it takes.

He buries himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, and the hot pulse of his release floods your insides. The feeling of it—the way his cock throbs and jerks inside you, the spreading warmth—triggers a second, smaller orgasm, your cunt milking him through every last spasm until he’s empty and shuddering in your arms. For a long moment, neither of you moves. His forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard, your bodies still joined. The scent of sex hangs heavy in the air. Outside the door, you can hear the distant chaos of the Jackson household—a door slamming, someone shouting about a missing shoe, the faint strains of music from someone’s radio. Michael lifts his head. His eyes are soft now, the fire banked into something warmer. He brushes a strand of sweat-damp hair from your forehead.

“You’re mine,” he says quietly. No question. No pretense. “For real. No more ‘just friends.’ You’re my girl. You hear me?”

You nod, throat too tight for words.

“Good.” He kisses you softly, once, twice. “Now put on a different dress. You’re still not wearing that green one in front of my mother.”

A wet, breathless laugh escapes you. “Okay.”

An hour later, you walk into the gala on Michael’s arm. The dress you’re wearing now is charcoal grey, elegant and demure, with a high neckline and a hem that falls just below the knee. Conservative. Respectable. Entirely inappropriate for the things you were doing forty-five minutes ago, but the slight limp in your step and the fresh bruise blooming on your collarbone tell a different story.

The ballroom glitters with chandeliers and champagne flutes. He who shall not be named is holding court near the bar, his booming laugh carrying across the room. Katherine looks radiant in lavender, her arm linked through her husband’s. The brothers are scattered throughout the crowd—Jackie talking to a record executive, Tito laughing with a group near the stage, Jermaine and Marlon in what looks like a heated debate about basketball near the hors d'oeuvres table, Randy hitting on a girl at the table next to them. Janet spots you first and waves, her face brightening.

Michael’s hand is on your lower back. It hasn’t moved since you got out of the car.

The first person you encounter is a Motown producer you recognize from album covers, a paunchy man with a combover and a too-wide smile. He extends his hand to Michael, claps him on the shoulder, and then his gaze slides to you with obvious curiosity.

“And who’s this lovely lady?” he asks, looking you up and down in a way that makes Michael’s grip on your back tighten.

Michael doesn’t hesitate.

“This is my girlfriend,” he says smoothly, pulling you closer. “We’ve known each other for years. Figured it was finally time to make it official.”

The word lands like a firework in your chest. Girlfriend. Not friend. Not angel with a wink and a nudge. Girlfriend, said out loud, to another human being, with no hedging or backtracking.

The producer beams. “Well, aren’t you a lucky man. Pleasure to meet you, miss.”

“Likewise,” you manage, because your brain has short-circuited. Michael steers you away before the producer can ask more questions. His hand slides from your back to your hip, settling there with an ownership that feels entirely different from the casual touches he used to give you. Those were secret. Possessive but deniable. This one is a flag planted in the ground.

You make it three more steps before Janet intercepts you.

“There you are!” She throws her arms around you in a hug, and you hug her back, grateful for the grounding pressure of another human who isn’t Michael, whose touch doesn’t make your pulse spike. “Girl, you look gorgeous. What happened to that green dress you were so excited about?”

You feel Michael’s gaze on the side of your face.

“Changed my mind,” you say lightly. “Didn’t feel right for tonight.”

“Huh.” Janet’s eyes flick between you and her brother, noting the hand on your hip, the possessive tilt of his body. A grin spreads across her face. “Wait a minute. Are you two—?”

“Yep,” Michael says. Same easy tone he used to convince you cockwarming was platonic. Except now there’s nothing hidden behind it. Just certainty.

Janet’s grin widens. “Finally. God, you guys have been dancing around each other for ages. I thought I was gonna have to lock you in a closet or something.” She punches Michael’s shoulder. “Good for you, Mike. ‘Bout time.”

“Thanks, Dunk.” He smiles, and for the first time all night, it reaches his eyes.

Janet drifts off toward the appetizers, shooting you a thumbs-up over her shoulder. You turn to Michael, your heart still doing gymnastics in your chest.

“You meant that?” you ask quietly. “The girlfriend thing?”

He stops walking. Turns you to face him, his hands settling on your waist. Around you, the gala swirls in taffeta and tuxedos, but he’s looking at you like you’re the only person in the room.

“I’ve been stupid,” he says, voice low. “Spent all this time telling myself I was being smart, taking it slow, keeping the upper hand. Telling you it was friendly when it was never friendly. Telling myself I wasn’t in over my head.” His thumbs rub small circles into the fabric of your dress. “I’m in over my head. Have been since the beginning. And I’m done pretending I’m not.”

“Michael—”

“I’m sorry I made you feel cheap.” The words are quiet, deliberate. “That wasn’t—that was never the point. The point was always you. You’re not a toy, angel. You’re everything. And I’m going to spend as long as it takes making sure you know that.”

Your eyes sting. You blink hard, because if you start crying in the middle of a charity gala, Janet will never let you live it down. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.” You stand on your toes and kiss him, right there in the middle of the ballroom, in front of his mother and his brothers and a room full of Motown royalty. It’s a soft kiss, gentle—nothing like the frantic, desperate coupling in his bedroom. A kiss that’s a beginning rather than a culmination.

When you pull back, Michael’s eyes are glinting. “Love you,” he says, so quiet you almost miss it.

The words hit you like a sunrise.

“Love you too,” you whisper back. And then, because you can’t resist: “Even if you did steal my underwear.”

His laugh is bright, bright enough to turn heads. “I’ll buy you new ones.”

“You’d better.”

He takes your hand. Threads his fingers through yours—not casual, not deniable, not the kind of hand-holding that can be explained away as just friends. The kind that says this is mine, and I’m announcing it to the world.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go say hi to my mom. She’s gonna be thrilled.”

She is. Katherine Jackson’s face lights up when Michael introduces you as his girlfriend, and she pulls you aside to tell you she always knew, she’s been praying for this, you’re the best thing that ever happened to her boy. You’re not sure about that last part, but the sincerity in her voice makes your throat tight again.

The rest of the night passes in a blur of congratulations and knowing looks. Jermaine gives Michael a rib-cracking hug. Marlon makes a joke about getting a new sister-in-law that earns him a smack on the arm from Janet. He who shall not be named nods gruffly and shakes your hand, which from him is practically a parade. Through all of it, Michael keeps you close—an arm around your waist, a hand on your back, his mouth occasionally dipping to your ear to murmur something filthy that makes your cheeks flame.

You’re his. Officially. Publicly. Irrevocably.

And later, when the gala winds down and the Jacksons pile into a fleet of cars to head home, Michael pulls you into the back of his black Rolls-Royce and locks the doors. The partition between you and the driver is already up. His hand finds your thigh under the hem of your respectable grey dress.

“So,” he murmurs, his mouth tracing the shell of your ear. “We’ve got a thirty-minute drive back to Hayvenhurst.”

You turn to look at him, and the expression on his face is one you recognize. It’s the look he wore on the couch two weeks ago, when he first called you angel in that low, dark register. The look he wore in his bedroom an hour ago, right before he tore your thong in half. The look that says he’s not done with you. That he will never be done with you.

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, already breathless.

Michael’s smile is slow and devastating.

“Just keeping warm, sweets,” he says, and his fingers slide higher, finding the damp heat already gathering between your thighs. “Nothing wrong with that, right?”

@jasppppeeee @pinkkfantasy

[amnesia-sc]

the dress | michael jackson

mature! michael x girlfriend! reader

cw/tw: he’s a bit controlling, toxic but who cares, controversially young gf? (20s) — he wants you to change

a/n: wholly inspired by a yap session with @urbanfunkchild and based on one of tavi’s videos on tt

wc: 400ish

michael’s eyes glanced up as you walked out of the bathroom before they flicked back down to fix his cuff— before abruptly shooting back up again. his gaze frozen on the dangerously low cut back and the way your breasts were practically spilling out the top of your dress.

his brows then furrowed, the finality of his decision sharp in his chest as his next words came out in a breathless huff.

“absolutely not.”

you looked at him in the mirror as you slipped in your earrings, slightly bent forward and for fucks sake he could see the top of your thong peeking above the low cut fabric. one that he had bought you, a silver m sewn into it, glinting at him almost tauntingly.

“what?” you asked innocently, though your coy smile gave you away.

“you’re not wearing that.”

you looked down at the dress, how it hugged you perfectly. “yes i am?”

“that’s not what i picked out for you,” michael said almost sourly as he walked to the closet, finding the clothes he had had specially made for you still sitting untouched on the hanger.

“i didn’t wanna wear that.”

“baby, you cannot—“ he laughed, though he wasn’t amused as he looked you over again.

you looked fucking incredible. perhaps he’d have you slip on that remarkably revealing get up later tonight when he had you spread out in the sheets.

but to an award show? fuck no.

“michael, i’m not changing.” you looked annoyed at him. maybe even a little mad. he had a habit of being controlling. he hated, more so loathed, when you told him no.

he didn’t pay your opinion any heed, slipping the dress he had made for you off the hanger and then he threw it at you.

“change.”

the fabric hit you square in the face and messed up your hair and fresh eyeliner.

you balked at him, eyes wide.

your words were sharp as you left the dress in a pile of expensive silk on the floor. “who do you think you are?”

michael simply raised both brows at you, hands on his hips and not budging.

you changed.

the dress was beautiful but not what you wanted. spending the whole night slapping his hand away and smiling tightly at the cameras that flashed. his own grin sharp and knowing. pleased, because he got his way.

he always did.

michael jackson masterlist

a/n: the way he bought that thong to be completely self serving as he hits it from the back with your underwear pulled to the side>>> like yes he does wanna see his initial glinting at him as he bends you over

taglist: @solarrandom @mjssluttyfish @tojiswifeforlife @sometranslationnoteru @sunshineyrosie @mvsticmoony @slugstarzz @redemptioninthe4ethers @roseidol @iimsopretty @auroralwriting @delicate-ray-of-sunshine @loverstar014 @mjjsangel @18lkpeters @devilslittlehelper @sarcasmismyfirstlove @bbpanth3rr @justalocalloser @lovern-9 @veraberaxx @thrill3rnights @arzua10 @michaelcomeback @coornballz @escapefromrealitylol @ooooglymoooogly @tellybearryyyy @softchaosdiary505 @yennabow @sparklyglove @khxna @erenstitanweave @loveposiie @mikaylajacksonnn @shadesofcool51 @httpbluberri @judesboots @mvkas @rebelatbay @littlenerdybee @dumbrunnete @plantanita @desireinink @nodisdino @michaelswifesstuff @nata-de-coconuts @sagasreads @kilorugs @cherrypiex-a @oidloid @galacticpurpl3

[1975vmpr]

[secretdoors14]

i was listening to my spotify playlist from early last year and ohhhhhh my gosh no wonder i was depressed af. i needed michael jackson

[moejacksonn]

im so sick rn omg

[mikaylajacksonnn]

most beautiful boy in all eras

[billiejeandreams]

Hey so I need to ride this man’s face until he’s begging for air, respectfully. Thank you that’s all. Feeling very feral today.

[1andonlytashae]

I know that's muthafuckin right Michael! Let em in the back know too baby, you was BLACK! This goes out to all the folk that keep white washing my man, cause were he here with us, he would definitely NOT be going for that nonsense!