mikeybaby

19 she/her freaks only

[hunnyskisses]

𝒹ear 𝓂ichael...

𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : (1/2) — as a fan, you send michael some very seductive pictures and letters, without knowing just how much they really affect him. so what happens when you guys finally meet for the first time... ⋮ 𝓌𝒸﹕ 𝟏𝟓.𝟏𝓀◞ 𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : chubby/curvy reader. fan/celebrity dynamic. [ ❤︎︎ ]— your name. perv reader & perv michael. dirty love letters/pictures. lowkey delusional reader. but it works. michael jerks off to you. michael is so into you. dirty talking through letters. nudes. he literally sends you a whimpering audio. shy michael. then freaky michael. reader has a bush bc it's the late 70s/early 80s. masturbation. dirty talk. desperate michael. desperate reader. michael just wants you. 𓊆ྀི❤︎︎︎𓊇ྀི : based on 🗯️this! lovely request (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) i'm splitting this into two parts bc i think it would be to long for one

𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist

Michael had already answered enough questions about Off the Wall that he was beginning to lose track of how many times he'd been asked what it felt like to have an album that was finally, completely his own.

It wasn't that he minded talking about it. He was proud of the record, perhaps more proud than he knew how to express without sounding too serious, and there was still something exciting about hearing people talk about the songs as though they belonged to a world outside of the studio now.

They had been little pieces of music he'd worked on for months, sometimes obsessing over one part until he was satisfied, and now they were being played on radios and in record stores and people's homes. Sitting beneath the studio lights while another interviewer asked him about it was simply another part of that strange process.

Michael sat comfortably in his chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, hands resting together in his lap as he waited for the interview to begin. He was dressed simply for the occasion, though there was still something carefully put together about him. Every so often he shifted slightly in his seat whenever the lights seemed a little too warm. He'd grown accustomed to cameras by now, but that didn't mean he ever completely forgot they were there.

There was still something about being watched that made him conscious of every little thing he did—where he put his hands, whether he was speaking too quietly, whether he was looking at the interviewer enough. He'd been doing interviews for years, but there was always that small moment before the cameras started rolling where he wondered what questions they'd ask him this time.

The studio around him was fairly quiet, aside from the occasional movement of someone working just outside the frame. A few people were standing behind the cameras, talking amongst themselves while the crew made the last little adjustments. Michael watched one of the technicians lean forward to fix something near the camera before sitting back again. He glanced down at his hands, rubbing his thumb lightly over one of his knuckles, and then looked up when the interviewer finally took his seat across from him.

"Alright, Michael," the man said, shuffling a few papers together. "We're ready whenever you are."

Michael gave him a small smile.

"Okay."

The interviewer turned towards the camera.

"Today we're very pleased to welcome Michael Jackson, whose latest album, Off the Wall, has been receiving an incredible response since its release. Michael, thank you for joining us."

"Thank you for havin' me."

The camera remained on him for another moment before the interviewer turned his attention back towards Michael.

"So, how are you feeling about everything at the moment?"

Michael gave a small laugh, looking down briefly.

"Good. A little tired."

The interviewer smiled.

"Busy?"

"Very busy."

"I imagine so. You've been doing quite a lot of promotion for the album."

"Yeah. It's been... a lot of interviews." Michael laughed softly. "But it's nice. I like talkin' about the album."

"Do you ever get tired of talking about it?"

Michael thought about it.

"Not really. I mean, sometimes I don't know what else to say about it." He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I've already said everything."

The interviewer laughed.

"I suppose that's the difficult part. You've spent so long making the record, and now everybody wants to know what you think about it."

"Yeah."

"And you've worked with Quincy Jones on this one."

"Mhm."

"How has that experience been for you?"

Michael's expression changed almost immediately at the mention of Quincy. He seemed more comfortable talking about the actual work than talking about himself.

"He's wonderful. Really wonderful. He knows so much about music, and he lets you experiment. He doesn't make you feel like you can't try somethin' just because it might be different."

"Was there anything you learned from him during the recording?"

"Oh, a lot." Michael smiled. "Probably more than I could tell you in one interview."

The interviewer laughed again, and Michael did too, his shoulders relaxing slightly.

They continued like that for a while. They talked about the recording sessions, the different musicians he'd worked with, the process of choosing songs for the album, and how much he enjoyed dancing while performing. Michael became noticeably more animated whenever the conversation turned toward music. His hands moved as he explained things, his voice becoming a little more energetic, and every now and then he'd laugh at himself when he realized he'd been talking for longer than he intended.

"And you've said before that you want people to be able to dance to this album."

"Yeah. I want people to have fun with it."

"That's a big part of your own personality, isn't it?"

Michael smiled.

"Yeah. I like havin' fun."

"Do you dance at home?"

Michael laughed, almost immediately looking embarrassed.

"Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Well, yeah."

"How often is sometimes?"

Michael thought about it, then shrugged.

"I don't know. A lot, probably."

The interviewer smiled knowingly.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

Michael laughed again and shook his head.

"See, now you're makin' me sound strange."

"I don't think anyone would find that strange."

"I don't know."

He smiled, looking down for a moment before settling back into his chair.

The conversation moved on, and Michael seemed perfectly comfortable again. It was easy enough. Questions about music were familiar. They were safe. He knew what he wanted to say about his work, and he knew how much of himself he wanted to give away.

Then, after another question about the response to Off the Wall, the interviewer paused and glanced down at the papers in front of him.

"There is one thing we haven't talked about yet."

Michael looked up.

"What's that?"

The interviewer smiled.

"Your fans."

Michael's expression softened immediately.

"Oh."

"You've been getting quite a lot of attention from them lately."

"Yeah," Michael said quietly. "They're really sweet."

"I understand you've received a rather impressive amount of fanmail."

Michael gave a small, almost bashful laugh.

"Yeah. There's been a lot."

"Do you read it?"

"I try to."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"All of it?"

That made Michael laugh.

"Well... I try."

The interviewer reached down beside his chair.

"Then I think you're going to like this."

He lifted a large stack of envelopes into view. Michael stared at it for a second. Then he laughed.

"Oh, my goodness."

The interviewer grinned as he lowered the stack onto the small table between them. It was considerably larger than Michael had expected, envelopes of all different shapes and sizes piled on top of one another. Some plain white, some brightly colored, a few decorated with little drawings and stickers that made it obvious whoever had sent them had put far more effort into the envelope than the post office probably deserved. Michael leaned forward slightly, looking over the collection with an expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

"That's a lot of letters."

"It is," the interviewer agreed. "A few weeks ago, we told some of your fans that you were going to be doing an interview with us."

Michael's eyebrows lifted.

"You did?"

"Mhm. We asked them to send in their letters, and we told them there was a chance you'd be reading some of them here today."

Michael looked down at the pile again, his expression softening.

"They sent all these?"

"Apparently, they had quite a lot to say. And these are only a selection."

Michael's eyes widened.

"Only a selection?"

"Mhm."

He laughed again, shaking his head as he settled back into his chair.

"I don't know if I can read all of those."

"You don't have to. We thought we'd pick a few."

Michael glanced at the stack again, and there was something almost childlike about the way his expression softened. For all the attention he'd been receiving since the release of Off the Wall, he still seemed genuinely surprised that so many people had taken the time to sit down and write to him.

It wasn't the kind of attention he could simply hear about in a newspaper or see printed on a chart. These were actual people who had gone home, found a piece of paper, written something to him, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and sent it all the way to wherever he happened to be or so that he would get them.

"That's really sweet," he murmured.

"You want to pick one?"

Michael hesitated.

"Me?"

"Sure."

He looked at the interviewer, then at the stack, before reaching out and carefully taking one from near the top. It was a pale blue envelope with handwriting across the front. Michael turned it over in his hands, examining it for a moment before opening it.

"Dear Michael," he read aloud, his voice becoming softer as he followed the words. "Congratulations on Off the Wall. I've been listening to it every day since I bought it..."

He smiled.

"That's nice."

He continued reading silently for another few seconds before his smile grew. "She says her favorite is 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough.'"

"Good choice."

"Yeah." Michael nodded seriously. "Very good choice."

The interviewer laughed. Michael folded the letter neatly along its original crease and placed it beside him.

"Thank you," he said, almost instinctively, as though the person who'd written it were actually sitting somewhere in the room. The interviewer noticed.

"You really do read these, don't you?"

Michael gave him a small smile.

"I try to."

"Even when they're this many?"

Michael looked at the enormous pile.

"Well..."

He laughed.

"Maybe not all at once."

They went through another few. One fan had drawn a picture of Michael dancing, complete with a tiny microphone in his hand. Another had written several pages about how much the album had meant to her. One letter was from a young girl who wanted to know what animals Michael had, which led to the interviewer asking him about his pets and Michael immediately becoming far more enthusiastic than he had been about any of the previous questions.

"I love animals," he said, smiling. "They're so sweet. And they're honest."

"More honest than people?"

Michael's eyebrows lifted.

"Sometimes."

The interviewer laughed, and Michael ducked his head, smiling.

Eventually, the interviewer reached for another envelope.

"Alright. Here's one."

He handed it over.

Michael accepted it without looking closely, turning it between his fingers as he had with the others. The envelope was different from the rest, though he didn't seem to notice at first. There was no elaborate drawing on the front, no stickers, nothing particularly eye-catching. Just his name, written in careful handwriting.

"Michael Jackson."

He smiled faintly.

"That's me."

The interviewer chuckled.

Michael opened it.

At first, nothing about his expression changed.

His eyes moved over the first few lines, and he nodded once, as though he'd already settled into the familiar rhythm of reading another compliment about the album. Then he stopped. His eyes flicked back to the beginning. He read the line again. And this time, the faint smile disappeared.

Not because he was upset or something. If anything, he looked startled.

Michael's fingers tightened slightly around the paper. The interviewer noticed immediately.

"Everything alright?"

Michael looked up.

"Yeah."

There was a tiny pause.

"Yeah."

He looked back down at the letter. His cheeks had begun to color. The interviewer leaned forward a little, curious.

"Interesting letter?"

Michael gave a nervous little laugh.

"Uh..."

He folded the paper once. Then again.

"It's... nice."

"Nice?"

"Mhm."

The interviewer smiled.

"That's all you're giving me?"

Michael looked at him, then quickly looked away again.

"Yeah."

There was another little laugh from behind the camera. Michael's cheeks grew warmer. He tried to tuck the letter beneath the others, but the interviewer caught the movement.

"Wait, wait. You can't just hide it."

Michael immediately shook his head.

"No, no."

"Why not?"

"It's just..."

He glanced down at the letter. His mouth twitched with an embarrassed smile.

"It's personal."

That earned a louder laugh from the crew. Michael ducked his head, laughing too, clearly wishing they would all stop looking at him. The interviewer held up his hands.

"Alright. Alright. We won't make you read it."

"Thank you."

"But now I'm curious."

Michael shook his head.

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

The smile was still there, though.

He carefully folded the letter again, much more neatly this time, and placed it beneath the others rather than on top of them.

The interviewer watched him.

So did everyone else in the room.

And, on the other side of the television screen, so did you.

You hadn't moved.

For the last few minutes, you had been sitting exactly where you had been when the interview began, your attention fixed entirely on the television. You had watched the interviewer place that enormous stack of letters in front of him. You had watched Michael smile at the first few. You had listened to him read them, watched the way his expression softened whenever somebody mentioned how much they loved the album, how much his music meant to them.

You'd smiled along with him.

It was sweet.

That was what fanmail was supposed to be, wasn't it? People telling him how much they loved his music, how much they admired him, how excited they were about Off the Wall. Little pieces of affection from people he'd never met.

You had written one of those letters yourself.

Except yours had been sitting on that table.

Your eyes dropped briefly toward the floor before returning to the screen.

You hadn't actually expected him to pick it.

Not really.

You had known there was a possibility, of course. That was why you'd sent it in the first place. But there were so many letters. The stack had looked almost ridiculous when they'd first shown it on camera, and you'd assumed yours would simply disappear somewhere among all the others.

Maybe someone would open it.

Maybe they wouldn't.

You had never seriously imagined that Michael himself would be the one holding it.

And yet there it was.

You recognized the envelope immediately.

The handwriting across the front.

The way you'd written his name so carefully because you'd rewritten it twice before finally deciding it looked right.

"Michael Jackson."

You had heard him say it.

You'd heard that quiet little laugh afterward.

"That's me."

A nervous smile pulled at your lips, you couldn't help it. Then he'd opened the letter, and you'd stopped smiling.

It was one thing to write something down in the privacy of your bedroom. There had been no cameras then. No audience. No interviewer sitting across from him. No Michael Jackson actually holding the paper between his fingers and reading the words you'd spent so much time deciding whether or not you should write.

Now there was.

You leaned a little closer to the television without even realizing you'd done it. His eyes moved across the page. You followed his face. You watched him read.

At first, there was nothing unusual about his expression. He looked the same as he had with the other letters, quietly attentive, occasionally smiling to himself. Then his eyes stopped.

You held your breath. He read that part again. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric beneath you.

Oh.

He'd reached that part. You hadn't meant for it to sound quite so bold when you'd written it. Well—

❝—Dear Michael,

I've started this letter four times and torn up every one of them, so this is the version I'm letting myself send. If you're reading this, I've either been very brave or very stupid, and I won't know which until the last line.

Everyone writes to you about the music. The records, the dancing, the way you move on stage. I could write that letter too, but you get a thousand of those a week and I don't want to be polite about you. I want to be honest.

I think about your mouth.

Not the smile— everyone gets the smile. I think about the way your lips part right before you sing, that half-second before the note comes out, and I wonder what it would be like to be the reason you made that sound instead.

I think about your hands. The way you curl them when you dance, like you're holding something you won't let go. I've wondered more times than I should admit what they'd feel like. On my hip. On my throat. In my hair, pulling just hard enough that I'd forget my own name.

I think about the rest of it too. The part they never print in the magazines. What you look like when no one's watching, when the shirt's off and the lights are low and there's nobody to perform for. I think about climbing into your lap in the dark and finding out what makes the Michael Jackson go quiet.

And I think about your voice. God, Michael, your voice. The low part. The breathy part you do when you talk instead of sing. I've listened to interviews with my thighs pressed together, and I'm not even sorry. I'd let you talk to me like that for hours. I'd let you talk to me like that with your hand between my legs and your mouth at my ear, telling me exactly what you're going to do to me next.

There. That's the brave part. Or the stupid part. I'll let you decide.

If this reaches you and it doesn't make you smile, you can burn it and I'll never know. But if it does make you smile —

Write me back. I want to hear the breathy part.

Yours, if you'll have me, The girl who thinks about your mouth — [❤︎︎ ]❞

That was a lie.

You had. You had known exactly what you were doing.

It had seemed easier on paper. Almost harmless, really, sitting alone with a pen in your hand and allowing yourself to write down the things you would never have had the courage to say aloud. You could tease him without having to see his face afterward. You could be a little daring because you would never have to know what he thought of it.

Until now.

Michael's expression had changed.

Only slightly.

But you noticed. You noticed everything. The faint pause. The way his fingers tightened around the paper. The small shift in his posture. And then, slowly, the color beginning to rise into his cheeks.

Your heart gave one hard beat. You stared at him. He looked down at the letter again. Then back at the interviewer.

"Everything alright?"

"Yeah."

You almost smiled.

He sounded nervous.

Your eyes stayed on the screen. You didn't dare look away. Not now. Not when Michael was still sitting there with your letter in his hands. Not when he was trying so hard to pretend there was nothing unusual about it.

The corner of your mouth had started to lift before you even realized it. You tried to stop it, pressing your lips together, but that only seemed to make it worse. There was something about watching him sit there looking so quietly flustered that made it impossible not to smile.

Beside you, your friend shifted against the couch. You ignored her. She watched the television for another few seconds. Then she looked at you, then back at the television, then at you again.

"Girl what are you cheesing about?"

Your eyes immediately flicked toward her.

"'m not."

She gave you a look.

"You are."

You turned your attention back to the television, trying to make your expression neutral.

"I dunno what you're talking about."

"You're smiling."

"I'm not!"

"You are!"

You bit the inside of your cheek. Your friend leaned a little closer, trying to see what had apparently become so fascinating on the screen.

"What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Mhm."

She narrowed her eyes at you. You kept looking straight ahead. The television continued to play quietly in front of you, Michael still visible in the frame, the interviewer sitting across from him with the rest of the letters waiting on the table.

Your friend looked at the screen once again. Then at you. Then back at the screen.

"Did he say something?"

"No."

"Then why are you smiling like that?" You shrugged, attempting to look completely uninterested.

"I just like the interview." She stared at you for another second.

"You've been watching this interview for twenty minutes."

"So?"

"So you've barely said anything."

You smiled again. You couldn't help it. Your friend noticed.

"There."

"What?"

"That."

You frowned.

"What "that"?"

"That stupid little smile."

You reached over and nudged her with your elbow.

"Shut up."

She laughed quietly.

"Okay, okay."

You settled back into the couch, pulling one leg beneath you. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You were grateful for that. Your attention returned entirely to the television.

The studio lights were bright enough that they gave everything on the screen a slightly warm appearance. Michael was still sitting with his hands close to his lap, the letter now folded beneath the others. From this distance, it looked like nothing more than another envelope in a pile.

But you knew. You knew exactly which one it was. And knowing that made your stomach flutter all over again. You wondered if he would keep it.

The thought came so suddenly that you almost dismissed it. Of course he wouldn't. It was just a fan letter.

He probably received hundreds. Thousands. Maybe he'd forgotten about it already.

Except he hadn't looked like someone who'd forgotten. You watched him carefully. The interviewer's attention returned to the stack.

"So," he said, "should we try another one?"

Michael looked at the letters. There was the slightest pause. Then he nodded.

"Yeah."

He reached toward the pile. Your heart jumped again. His fingers moved over the envelopes, brushing past one, then another. He picked one up, turned it over, examined the handwriting.

The interviewer smiled.

"Any reason you chose that one?"

Michael shook his head.

"No."

He smiled faintly.

"I just picked it."

The interviewer laughed.

"Fair enough."

Michael began opening the next letter. You exhaled slowly. Only then did you realize you'd been holding your breath.

Your friend glanced at you from the corner of her eye. You pretended not to notice. On the television, Michael unfolded the new letter.

And just like that, the interview continued. The subject moved on to something else, and after a while the earlier excitement in the room seemed to settle back into something more ordinary. Michael answered a few more questions about the album, talking about the recording sessions and the people he'd worked with, and then the interviewer asked him about performing and what it was like having people respond so strongly to the new record. Every now and then, they returned to the fanmail, opening another envelope and letting him read a few lines before moving on to the next. Michael seemed much more comfortable now, laughing easily and occasionally ducking his head whenever the interviewer complimented him, and before long, the little moment with your letter seemed to have disappeared beneath everything else.

Except it hadn't for you.

You were still thinking about it.

You tried to pay attention to what he was saying, and for the most part you did, but every so often your eyes wandered toward the stack of envelopes sitting on the table in front of him. Your letter was still somewhere in there. You knew it was. You could picture exactly where it had gone, folded neatly beneath the others after he'd finished reading it, and the thought kept making something warm and restless twist in your stomach. You wondered if he would remember it once the cameras stopped rolling. You wondered if he would keep it with the others or if somebody from the studio would gather everything up afterward and take it away. You wondered, briefly, whether he might read it again when nobody was watching. That last thought made you smile to yourself, and you quickly looked back at the television before your friend could notice.

She noticed anyway.

She had been sitting beside you for most of the interview, occasionally making little comments whenever something caught her attention, but now she stretched her arms above her head and gave a long, exaggerated yawn. You glanced over at her just as she settled back against the couch, looking toward the clock.

"Alright."

You frowned. "Alright what?"

"I'm out."

You blinked at her. "Now?"

She laughed and reached down for her things. "Yes, now."

"But it's not even that late."

"I know." She slipped her shoes on, then stood and brushed her hands down the front of her clothes. "That's why I'm leaving now instead of when it's actually late."

You gave her a look.

"You could stay."

"I could," she agreed, completely unbothered. "But then I'd still have to go home eventually."

You laughed under your breath and shook your head, following her toward the door while the television continued playing behind you. Michael's voice followed faintly through the room, softened by the distance, and you caught a few words without really listening to them. Your friend gathered the last of her things, checking that she hadn't left anything behind, before turning toward you with that same little expression she'd been wearing ever since she'd caught you smiling at the television.

"You're gonna watch the rest?"

"Probably."

She raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"

You shrugged. "Maybe."

"You've already been sitting there forever."

"I know."

"And you're still interested?"

You gave her a small smile. "It's Michael Jackson."

She stared at you for a second before laughing.

"Right. Of course."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. She opened the door, then paused with one hand on the frame and looked back at you. "Don't stay up all night."

"I won't."

"You always say that."

"This time I mean it."

"Sure you do."

You laughed, and she stepped out into the hallway.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

The door closed behind her, and for a moment you remained standing there with your hand still resting on the knob. The house felt noticeably quieter without her. The television was still going in the other room, but now the sound seemed distant, almost like it belonged somewhere else. You stood there listening to it for a few seconds before finally turning around and making your way back to the couch.

The interview was almost finished by then. You sat down in the same place you'd been sitting before, pulling one leg beneath yourself again and reaching for the remote to lower the volume. You didn't turn it off. You just let it play quietly while you stared at the screen, watching the last few minutes without really taking in what was being said. Your mind had already drifted away from the interview and back to that one particular moment, replaying it without any help from you. Michael opening the envelope. His eyes moving across the page. The pause. That tiny change in his expression when he'd reached something he clearly hadn't expected. The way he'd looked at the interviewer afterward, suddenly shy and almost embarrassed, before folding the letter and hiding it underneath the others.

You smiled.

Then you caught yourself smiling and looked down at your lap.

It was silly. You knew it was silly. You were sitting alone in your living room, grinning to yourself over a man who didn't even know what you looked like, simply because he'd blushed at something you'd written to him. But that was the part that kept getting to you. He hadn't looked annoyed. He hadn't laughed at you. He hadn't tossed the letter aside like it was something ridiculous. If anything, he had seemed almost... pleased by it. Embarrassed, certainly, but not uncomfortable. And now that you thought about it, you weren't entirely sure whether the little smile he'd tried to hide had been because the letter had embarrassed him or because he'd actually liked what he'd read.

The possibility made your stomach flutter.

You leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while, letting the thought settle somewhere in the back of your mind. Then, slowly, your eyes moved across the room.

Toward your desk.

You could see it from where you were sitting. The little pile of stationery you'd bought a few weeks ago was still sitting there, along with the pen you'd been using lately. Nothing about it looked particularly interesting. It was just a desk. Paper. A pen. An ordinary little corner of the room that you'd barely noticed before.

You looked at it for another few seconds. He didn't know what you looked like...

Then you smiled. You could change that.

The television suddenly went quiet as the interview came to an end, and the room fell completely silent. You reached for the remote and switched the screen off, leaving the room dim for a moment before getting to your feet.

You didn't hurry. There was no reason to. You simply walked across the room, pulled out the chair at your desk, and sat down.

Your fingers rested lightly against the edge of the paper. You looked at the blank page. Then at the pen. And, after a moment, you picked it up.

—Even after you switched off the television, Michael still remained in the studio.

The interview was over, but nobody had quite left yet. The cameras were still pointed toward the chairs, though the bright lights had already been switched off, leaving the room noticeably softer than it had been while they were filming. The sudden change was something Michael always noticed. A moment ago, every movement had felt deliberate, every word had been heard by several people at once, and now the room had begun returning to its ordinary state. Crew members moved around him, speaking quietly to one another as they gathered cables and equipment, while the interviewer stood nearby talking with one of the producers about the next part of the day's schedule.

Michael remained in his chair for another few moments.

He hadn't realized how warm the studio lights had made him until they were gone.

He lowered his eyes to the little table beside him. The fanmail was still there. The pile looked different now that the cameras weren't focused on it. During the interview, it had seemed almost enormous, each envelope representing somebody somewhere who had taken the time to write to him. Now it was simply a stack of paper sitting on a table, surrounded by the remnants of the interview—papers, notes, a glass of water he'd barely touched.

Michael reached for the glass and took a small sip.

He glanced at the envelopes again.

His eyes lingered. He wasn't sure why.

He had received fanmail for years. There had always been letters, sometimes more than he could possibly read, and he had always tried to make time for them when he could. Most were sweet. Some were funny. Some were incredibly personal in ways that surprised him. People told him about their lives, their families, their dreams. Sometimes they simply wrote his name over and over because they didn't know what else to say.

He liked that.

He liked knowing that there were people listening.

The interviewer passed behind him, giving his shoulder a light pat.

"Good interview."

Michael looked up and smiled.

"Thank you."

"You alright?"

"Yeah."

"You seemed a little surprised by some of those letters."

Michael's smile became smaller.

"Some of them."

The interviewer laughed.

"I won't ask."

Michael ducked his head, smiling to himself.

"Thank you."

The man moved away again, and Michael looked back toward the table. Your letter was somewhere in that pile. He knew it was. He could still remember the handwriting. More importantly, he could remember the feeling of reading it.

There had been plenty of compliments. He was used to people telling him they liked his voice, his dancing, his songs. He'd heard people say all sorts of wonderful things about him, and although he was grateful for them, there were still moments when he didn't quite know what to do with so much attention.

But that letter had been.... quite different. Michael wasn't entirely sure what he thought about that yet. He knew he'd been embarrassed. He knew he'd wanted the interviewer to stop asking questions. And he knew that, despite all of that, he hadn't wanted to give the letter back.

One of the crew members approached the table and began gathering the papers.

Michael watched absentmindedly at first.

The interviewer was already halfway across the room when another member of the team reached for the stack of envelopes, picking them up together with the loose papers beneath them.

Michael's head lifted.

"Wait."

The man stopped.

Michael stood almost immediately.

"Sorry. Could you—"

He hesitated, glancing at the pile in the man's hands.

"Could you not throw those away yet?"

The crew member looked at him.

"The letters?"

"Yeah."

"Alright."

He set them back down.

Michael nodded.

"Thank you."

The man moved on to something else without questioning it.

Michael stood there for a moment. Then he walked back toward the table. He didn't quite know what he was looking for at first. He simply started going through them, slowly.

One envelope at a time.

He picked up the first, looked at the name on the front, and set it aside. The next one had a little drawing in the corner. Another had handwriting that covered almost the entire front. He remembered some of them from the interview. A few made him smile when he recognized the names.

Then he found it. His fingers stopped.

There was the handwriting. He recognized it immediately. Michael turned the envelope over in his hands, his thumb brushing lightly over the edge. He glanced around the room. Nobody seemed to be watching him. The interviewer was speaking with one of the producers. Someone else was rolling up a cable near the cameras. Another crew member had already begun carrying equipment toward the door.

Michael looked back down at the envelope. He could have put it back.

Instead, he slipped it beneath the other letters he'd decided to keep. Then he hesitated. His eyes moved over the rest of the pile. After a moment, he selected a few more—the ones he'd genuinely enjoyed reading during the interview—and placed them together with his letter. It made the whole thing look less obvious. At least, that was what he told himself.

When he finally gathered the small collection into his hands, he held them against his chest for a moment.

"Michael?"

He looked up. One of the producers was standing nearby.

"You ready?"

Michael nodded.

"Yeah."

He gave the letters one last glance before slipping them carefully into the folder he'd been given for the day.

"Just about."

He followed the others out of the studio a few minutes later, carrying the folder beneath his arm. He didn't mention the letter again. Not to the interviewer. Not to the producer. Not to Bill. Not to anyone.

By the time Michael got home, the sun had already begun to sink lower over the neighborhood, leaving the sky outside the windows washed in the soft colors of early evening. He stepped through the front door with the folder still tucked beneath his arm, closing it quietly behind himself before pausing in the entryway for a moment.

Home always felt different after a day of interviews. There was no studio lighting, no camera pointed at him, no one waiting for him to answer a question. Just the familiar sounds of the house around him—the television somewhere deeper inside, voices drifting in and out of conversation, the faint clatter of something being moved around in the kitchen. His mother was the first person he saw.

"Michael?"

He looked up.

"Hi, Mama."

Katherine smiled as she came toward him, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

"How was your interview?"

"Good."

"Just good?"

Michael smiled.

"It was alright."

She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before looking at the folder underneath his arm.

"You've been gone all day."

"Yeah. We talked about the album."

"I know." Her smile grew. "I watched some of it."

Michael's expression changed slightly.

"You did?"

"Mhm."

He looked down.

"Was it alright?"

"It was very nice."

"Thank you."

He started toward the hallway, already thinking about getting out of his clothes and disappearing somewhere quiet for a little while, but before he could get very far, a voice came from the living room.

"There he is."

Michael stopped. He slowly turned his head.

Several of his brothers were sprawled across the couches, the television still on in front of them. Randy was sitting near one end, half-slouched into the cushions, while Jackie had one arm stretched along the back of the couch. Jermaine glanced over at Michael with an expression that immediately made him suspicious. Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What?"

Randy grinned.

"Nothin'."

Michael looked between them.

"Why are you lookin' at me like that?"

Jackie laughed.

"We saw your interview."

Michael's shoulders dropped a little.

"Oh."

"Yeah," Randy said. "We saw it."

Michael shifted the folder beneath his arm.

"Okay."

There was a pause. Then Jermaine smiled.

"That one letter."

Michael's eyes immediately dropped.

"What letter?"

Randy laughed.

"Oh, come on."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about."

"The one that made you turn red."

Michael's cheeks immediately warmed.

"I did not turn red."

"You did."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely did," Jackie said, laughing.

Michael shook his head and started toward the hallway again.

"You're all crazy."

Randy leaned forward.

"What'd she write?"

Michael stopped. He turned around slowly.

"Who?"

The room erupted in laughter. Michael's face fell into his hands for half a second before he dragged them down again.

"Nobody."

"Nobody?" Randy repeated.

"Mhm."

"Then why were you blushin'?"

"I wasn't."

"You were."

"I was just hot."

Jackie looked toward the television.

"From the air conditionin'?"

Michael stared at him.

"Yes."

That only made them laugh harder. Michael shook his head, trying not to smile himself.

"Y' guys are ridiculous."

Randy pointed toward the folder.

"Y' kept it, didn't you?"

Michael's eyes flickered toward it. Just for a second. It was enough. Randy's grin widened.

"Ohhh."

"No."

"You did!"

"I ain't say that."

"Y' didn't have to."

Michael tightened his grip around the folder.

"'m tired."

Jackie laughed.

"That's your excuse?"

"Yeah."

He turned toward the hallway again.

"Michael."

He looked back. Jermaine was smiling.

"At least tell us if it was a good letter."

Michael stared at him for a moment. Then a tiny smile appeared despite his best effort.

"It was fine."

"Fine?"

"Mhm."

"That's all?"

Michael nodded.

"That's all."

Randy laughed.

"You're no fun."

Michael smiled faintly and shook his head.

"I'm goin' upstairs."

He didn't wait for another response. He walked down the hallway with the folder still tucked securely beneath his arm, hearing his brothers laughing behind him as he disappeared from view.

Only once he reached his room he closed the door.

Michael stood there for a moment with his back against it, listening to the muffled voices downstairs. Then his eyes dropped to the folder in his hands.

He left the overhead light off. Just the lamp by the bed, the one with the soft shade, throwing warm shadow up the walls. Enough to read by. Not enough to feel watched.

The folder went on the nightstand. He toed off his shoes, shrugged out of the jacket, then the shirt. The air touched his skin and he shivered once, though the room was warm. Downstairs, the house had gone quiet— the television a low murmur through the floor, his brothers' laughter faded into whatever they'd settled on.

He sat on the edge of the bed.

The letter was where he'd left it, folded beneath the others he'd kept. He lifted it out and let the rest slide aside. Just this one. Just the envelope with his name in that careful hand.

He'd read it once already. On camera. With half a room watching. He'd held it together then— barely. Now there was nobody to hold it together for.

He opened it.

Dear Michael,

He read it slow this time. On camera he'd skimmed, caught the shape of it, the heat rising up the back of his neck, and he'd buried it. Now he let each line land.

I've started this letter four times and torn up every one of them.

That got him first—the picture of it, really. Some woman sitting alone at a desk somewhere, probably with a half-finished letter beside her and a little pile of crumpled pages she'd decided weren't good enough. He could almost imagine her writing something, stopping halfway through, staring at the words for a while before tearing the page out and starting again.

Maybe she'd written his name too many times, or crossed something out because it suddenly felt too embarrassing to put into an envelope. Maybe she'd sat there with the finished letter in front of her for several minutes, debating whether she should actually send it at all, before finally deciding that this was the one she'd let go.

The thought made something warm and strangely tender settle in his chest. Out of all the things she could have done with those thoughts, she'd chosen to put them on paper, fold the pages carefully, seal them inside an envelope, and send them all the way to him.

I think about your mouth.

He swallowed hard.

Not the smile — everyone gets the smile. I think about the way your lips part right before you sing, that half-second before the note comes out, and I wonder what it would be like to be the reason you made that sound instead.

His stomach pulled tight. He read on and the warmth climbed into his face, same as in the studio, only now there was no camera to hide behind. She wrote about his hands. On my hip. On my throat. In my hair, pulling just hard enough that I'd forget my own name.

His breath went shallow. He shifted on the mattress, denim dragging, and he was hard.

Already.

Just from words on a page, from a woman whose face he couldn't picture.

That was the strangest part. He had no body to attach to the voice in his head. Not yet. Just the handwriting, careful and deliberate, and the things she'd admitted to. He read the part about his voice twice. Three times.

I've listened to interviews with my thighs pressed together, and I'm not even sorry.

He set the letter down beside him. His hands weren't quite steady. The shame sat hot in his chest and the want sat lower, and he couldn't pull them apart. His pulse beat in his throat and at the base of his cock, which strained against the zipper, and for a long moment he just sat with it.

Then he unbuttoned his jeans.

His fingers fumbled once. The button gave. The zipper came down. He shoved the denim off his hips and his cock sprang free, thick, leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around it and hissed through his teeth.

He thought of a woman.

No face. He kept it that way— truer, filthier, to want only the words. He pictured her in a dark room somewhere, thighs pressed together, listening to his voice, slick through her panties because of the way he'd said something on some forgotten interview. The thought made his hips jerk up into his fist.

He stroked slow. He didn't want to rush it. He wanted to stay inside the letter as long as he could, let each line replay behind his eyes.

The part about climbing into his lap. Weight on his thighs, heat through thin fabric, her mouth at his ear asking what made him go quiet.

His grip tightened. His other hand found the letter, held it open against his knee. He read and stroked at the same time, eyes jumping, breath ragged.

"You don't even know," he whispered. "You don't even know what you did."

He thought about her sealing the envelope. Her tongue on the glue. Dropping it into a mailbox and walking away like it was nothing, going back to her life, while he sat here with his cock in his hand reading it over and over.

His hand sped up. The sound of it filled the room— skin, breath, the rustle of paper in his grip.

She'd never know. That was the cruelest part. She'd sent it off and moved on, and he'd be hard for hours thinking about her thighs and her mouth and the breathy voice she'd asked him for.

He imagined giving it to her. Alone in the dark, he let his voice drop low and ruined, the way she'd wanted.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

And he imagined her answering. Her body under his hand, slick and shaking. He imagined being the reason she made a sound like the one she'd written about— lips parted, a half-second before the note.

He came with a muffled groan, teeth in his bottom lip, spilling over his fingers and onto his stomach. The letter was still in his hand, creased at the corner where he'd gripped too hard.

He sat there, breathing. The ceiling above him. His heart loud in his ears. The shame slid back in slow, behind the pleasure, and he let it.

He should burn it. She'd said he could.

He didn't.

He cleaned himself off with the edge of the sheet, taking his time before finally sitting there for a moment, breathing quietly as the last of the heat slowly left him. His eyes drifted toward the letter lying nearby, the pages slightly rumpled now from the way he'd been holding them, and something about seeing it there made him feel almost shy all over again. Carefully, he picked it up and folded it along the creases he'd made earlier, smoothing each fold with his thumb until the pages were neat again, almost absurdly careful with something that had already been read and reread enough times to lose its crispness.

He crossed the room to his dresser and opened the top drawer.

For a second, he simply stood there with the letter in his hand.

Then he placed it inside.

Not thrown in with the rest of his things. Not tucked away carelessly beneath a pile of clothes. He set it down carefully, making sure the pages were flat before closing the drawer.

Michael stood there for another moment, his hand still resting against the wooden handle.

Then he turned away, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up over himself. The room was quiet now, the only light coming faintly through the curtains, and he lay on his back staring at the ceiling while his mind stubbornly refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the handwriting again. He could hear the words in his own head, remember exactly where he'd stopped reading, exactly when he'd realized what she meant.

He turned onto his side.

Then onto his back again.

A small, embarrassed smile touched his mouth.

He'd read it again.

He knew he would.

Maybe tomorrow, when he had some time alone. Maybe the night after that, too. He'd tell himself it was only because he was curious, because he'd never received a letter quite like it before, because he wanted to understand what had made him react that way.

But even as he thought it, Michael knew better.

There was something about those pages that had gotten under his skin.

And he wasn't quite ready to admit how much he liked that.

Michael didn't sleep much.

He tried.

He turned the pillow over when it became too warm, pulled the covers higher when he felt cold, then kicked them down again a few minutes later. At some point during the night he'd gotten up for a glass of water, standing barefoot in the dark kitchen while the house remained completely still around him. When he finally went back upstairs, he told himself he was going to stop thinking about it.

Of course he didn't.

Every time he closed his eyes, the letter seemed to come back to him. Not even the entire thing at first. Just little pieces. A sentence here. A phrase there. The way she'd written his name. The particular choice of words that had caught him so completely off guard.

And then, inevitably, the thought of her. He didn't know what she looked like.

Eventually, sometime in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion won. When Michael finally woke again, the sunlight had already begun slipping through the curtains. After getting dressed, he made his way downstairs, one hand sliding lightly along the banister as he descended. The house was already awake. He could hear voices coming from the kitchen and the faint clatter of dishes being moved around. Someone had the radio on somewhere, low enough that he could barely make out the song.

He was still rubbing one eye when Janet appeared around the corner.

"Michael!"

He looked up.

"Hi, Janet."

She smiled brightly.

"You got mail."

Michael paused halfway down the stairs.

"Mail?"

"Yeah."

She came a little closer, holding a small handful of envelopes.

"I got it from the box this morning."

Michael glanced at the envelopes.

"Okay."

He continued down the stairs. Janet followed him.

"There was one for you that looked different."

Michael stopped.

"Different how?"

She shrugged.

"I don't know. It just did."

He looked at her. Janet held the envelopes out toward him.

"And it says your name."

Michael took them. His eyes moved over the little collection. Bills. A couple of envelopes from work. Something from the record company.

Then— He stopped. His fingers tightened slightly.

No.

There was no way.

He looked at the envelope again. The handwriting. His heart gave a strange little jump.

"Janet..."

She looked up at him.

"What?"

Michael turned the envelope over in his hands.

"Where'd you get this?"

"In the mailbox."

He stared at it. Janet watched his face.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You look funny."

Michael shook his head quickly.

"I don't."

"You do."

He gave her a small smile.

"It's just..."

He looked back down. Could it be?

He almost laughed at himself.

No way.

There were thousands of people who wrote to him. It could be anyone. There was no reason for him to assume it was her. In fact, it was ridiculous to assume it was you. And yet he was still standing there staring at the handwriting. Janet leaned closer.

"Is it important?"

"I don't know."

"You know who it's from?"

Michael hesitated.

"No."

It wasn't exactly a lie. Not yet. Janet studied him for another second before smiling mischievously.

"Maybe it's a secret admirer."

Michael's head snapped up.

"Janet."

She laughed.

"What?"

"Don't."

"I'm just saying."

Michael shook his head, trying not to smile.

"You're silly."

"So are you."

She reached for one of the other envelopes.

"Well, I'm hungry. You coming?"

Michael looked down at the letter again.

"In a minute."

Janet gave him a suspicious look.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"You don't wanna eat?"

"I'll come down."

She shrugged.

"Okay." She started toward the kitchen, then glanced back, "don't read all your mail without me."

Michael laughed softly.

"I won't."

Janet disappeared around the corner. Michael waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps. Then he looked at the envelope again. His thumb moved slowly over the edge. His heart was beating a little faster now. Because suddenly, he wasn't nearly as tired anymore.

He carries the envelope back to his room before opening it, almost without thinking about it. It's an old habit, one he has never really had to question. Some things are better opened somewhere private, away from curious eyes and the possibility of Janet wandering past or Mama calling his name from down the hallway. He doesn't want anybody asking what he's reading, or seeing his face before he's even had a chance to decide what he thinks about it himself. So he keeps the envelope tucked carefully in his hand as he makes his way upstairs, closing his bedroom door behind him with a quiet click.

For a moment, he simply stands there, looking down at it.

Then he crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed, almost in exactly the same place he'd been sitting the night before. The familiarity of it makes something in his chest flutter, and he tries not to think too much about why. He turns the envelope over once in his hands, looking at the handwriting again, before finally slipping his thumb beneath the flap and carefully easing it open.

There is a letter inside, folded neatly once.

And behind it, something stiffer catches against the paper.

Michael pauses.

His fingers move a little more carefully as he reaches inside, feeling the edge of something thicker beneath the letter. Cardboard, perhaps. Or—

Photographs.

He reads the letter first.

It's shorter than the other one. No page of wanting, no question about the breathy part of his voice. Just a few lines in that same careful hand, and they hit him in the chest before they land lower.

You don't know what I look like.

Now you do.

So you'll know who's thinking about you when you read the next one.

He stops breathing for a second.

The words sit there in front of him, simple and almost innocent compared to the first letter, but somehow they leave him just as unsettled. Michael reads them once more, slower this time, his eyes lingering over the handwriting as though there might be something hidden between the lines that he missed the first time. A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of him, and he shakes his head, glancing down at the page with a smile he can't quite seem to get rid of.

Then his attention shifts to the photographs.

He hesitates before reaching for them.

His fingers catch the edge of the first one and carefully slide it free from behind the letter. He turns it over in his hand for a moment, seeing only the blank white back, and suddenly he feels strangely nervous. It is almost easier when she is only words on paper. Words can be folded away. Words can be reread without having to imagine the person who wrote them.

A photograph is different.

Michael turns it over. And the first thing he sees takes his voice clean out of his throat. For a long moment, he doesn't move at all. He simply stares at it, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge as his eyes slowly take in the image.

It's her. You.

A lace set— dark, cheap-looking, the kind of thing that photographs slightly wrong, and that wrongness is the best part of it. The picture is grainy, soft at the edges, overexposed where the flash caught. Somebody took this alone, fumbling with a camera in a bedroom, and that's what makes it obscene in a way no magazine spread could touch.

His eyes move over you slowly.

Your tits sit full and heavy in the lace, spilling a little at the cups, and the lace doesn't hide the shape of your pretty nipples through it. You're curvy. Big in the hips, thick in the thighs— the kind of woman he's pictured in half his fantasies and never admitted out loud. Soft all over. Made to be held.

And your tongue. You've got the tip of it stuck out, playful, like you know exactly what you're doing. Like you knew he'd be sitting alone in a dark room with this in his hands.

He swallows. His mouth has gone dry.

The next one is worse. Or better? He doesn't know which.

You're on your stomach on the bed. The same lace, but from behind— and the angle is lower, the camera propped somewhere, so it's all ass and the long curve of your back. Your hips are wide. Your ass is round and full, the lace cutting across it, and the pose is casual in a way that isn't casual at all. Like you just happened to be lying there. Like you didn't arch your back just a little for the lens. And you're looking back at the lens.

He stares. His cock is already half-hard, again. pressing against his jeans, and he hasn't touched himself. Hasn't done anything but look.

"Jesus," he whispers.

His thumb drifts over the edge of the photograph, near the curve of your hip. The paper is glossy. Slick under his finger.

He looks from the photos to the letter. Back again. The same handwriting. The same girl. The one who wrote about her thighs pressed together, about climbing into his lap, about his hands in her hair.

Now he has a face. A body. Soft hips and full tits and a little pink tongue caught between your teeth.

He sets the photographs down on the bed beside him, careful, like they might tear. Then he drags a hand over his mouth.

This is real. You're real. And you want him to know it.

His hand drops to his lap. He cups himself through the denim, just pressure, just to feel how hard he's gotten, and a breath shudders out of him.

The lamp burns warm against the photographs. He picks up the one of you on your stomach and looks at it again, longer this time.

He can almost feel the weight of you. The give of your hips under his hands. The heat where your thighs meet.

"Now I know what you look like," he murmurs, low, to no one but himself.

He lies back against the mattress, the photos fanned beside him, and lets his hand find its way back to the button of his jeans.

He doesn't take his jeans off. Not yet. He lies there with the photo of you on your stomach in one hand and lets the other press flat over his fly.

Just pressure. His palm rides the hard line of his cock through the denim, and he grinds up into it once, slow, the friction dulled by two layers. Not enough. That's the point.

The lamp throws light across the glossy paper. He holds the picture above him, arm bent, and looks at your ass, the lace, the arch of your back. Your thighs, thick and soft where they press together.

"God," he breathes.

He rubs himself through the jeans. Slow circles with the heel of his hand. His hips roll up on their own. The denim drags, and the dull ache of being restrained makes it better somehow— him, Michael Jackson, lying fully dressed in a dark room, getting himself off to a grainy photograph like some teenager. The picture shakes a little in his grip. He doesn't stop.

He shifts, shoves the jeans down just past his hips with his free hand. The button's already open. The zipper gives. He pushes the denim off and now he's in his boxers, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide the shape of him, a damp spot already darkening the front.

He presses his palm down and hisses through his teeth.

The fabric between them is maddening. He strokes himself through it, up and down, eyes still on the photograph. Your hips. The weight of you. How you'd feel under him.

He can't take it anymore. He lifts the waistband, ready to get his hand inside—

The door bangs open.

Michael's whole body locks. Marlon is already halfway through the doorway before he sees him.

"Mike, Mama said—"

He stops. For one long, horrible second, neither of them says anything. Marlon's eyes drop. First to the photograph in Michael's hand. Then, almost involuntarily, lower.

Then back to the photograph. Michael follows his gaze and seems to realize all at once what Marlon has just seen. His face goes hot.

He moves so quickly that the photograph nearly slips from his fingers, crushing it instinctively against his stomach as his other hand grabs for the nearest pillow and yanks it across his lap. The movement is rushed and awkward, far too late to disguise anything, and somehow that only makes the entire situation worse.

"Get out," he chokes.

Marlon doesn't move. His mouth opens. Closes. His eyebrows lift slowly as the realization settles in. Michael's grip tightens around the pillow.

"Get out, Marlon!"

"Whoa. Okay." Marlon finally takes a step backward, both hands coming up in surrender. "I didn't—"

He stops. His mouth twitches. Michael sees it.

"No."

Marlon's grin breaks through.

"I didn't see nothin'."

"You saw everything."

"I saw some things."

Michael stares at him in horror.

"Marlon!"

Michael throws the nearest object at him— a sock. It misses. Marlon's already in the hall, cackling.

"Whose picture was that, Mike?"

"Nobody!"

"That wasn't no nobody."

Michael lunges and slams the door in his face, breathing hard, the pillow still clutched over his lap. Through the wood he can hear Marlon's laughter fading down the stairs. He stays against the door. Heart hammering. His forehead drops against the door.

The pillow is still crushed over his lap. Under it, he's still hard — stubbornly, idiotically hard, like his body hasn't gotten the message that the moment's over.

The photograph is crumpled against his stomach, warm from his skin. He peels it off carefully, like it might burn him, and looks at it. A crease cuts across the corner of the bed now. Right across your hip.

"Shit," he whispers.

He smooths it flat against his thigh, thumb pressing the crease out, over and over. It won't go away. Neither will the look on Marlon's face.

He pushes off the door and sits heavy on the edge of the bed. His hands are shaking a little. Not fear. Something tighter, more exposed — being seen like that, caught with his jeans around his hips and a stranger's body in his hand. He doesn't finish. Can't. The heat's gone sour, and what's left is just him in a dim room with a ruined picture and his brother's voice in his head.

He pulls his boxers up, kicks the jeans the rest of the way off, and sits there. After a long while he stands, crosses to the dresser, opens a little box. He lays the photo inside, on top of the letter. Closes it. Locks it with the small brass key he keeps on a chain, and slips the chain around his neck. He'll deal with Marlon later.

The next evening, he tries to write you back.

He sits at the desk by the window with the good pen between his fingers and a clean sheet of paper placed carefully in front of him. The first letter is open beside his elbow, its creases softened now from being folded and unfolded more times than he would ever admit. He has already read it again. twice today. Once when he first sat down, and then again after he'd spent several minutes staring at the blank page without writing a single word.

Write me back. I want to hear the breathy part.

His eyes catch on the sentence again.

Michael looks away.

He rubs his thumb slowly over the side of the pen, staring through the window at the fading light outside. He'd thought this would be easy.

He writes,

'Dear friend—'

He stares at the word.

Friend.

It sits there on the page, perfectly harmless, perfectly appropriate, and somehow completely wrong. Michael's mouth pulls into a small, embarrassed frown. He taps the pen once against the desk before dragging it through the word, one thick black line becoming two, then three, until friend is almost completely buried beneath the ink.

He looks at it.

"No."

The next attempt is worse.

'Dear [❤︎︎ ]—'

He gets as far as the little heart before his ears begin to burn.

Michael stares at what he's written, then immediately folds forward, covering his face with one hand.

"Oh, no."

The paper is crumpled before he can change his mind. He tosses it toward the wastebasket. It lands beside it. He doesn't bother picking it up. The next draft begins with simply—

Dear—

He stops there That somehow feels even more intimate. He scratches it out. Another sheet.

Hello,

Too formal! Another.

Hi,

Too casual!

He sighs and leans back in his chair, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. There are already three crumpled sheets on the floor around his shoes, and he's beginning to feel ridiculous. He has performed in front of thousands of people. He's stood on stages with cameras pointed directly at him, walked into rooms full of strangers, answered questions about his music for hours without running out of things to say.

And somehow one woman with a sheet of paper has managed to make him forget how to write his own name. Then he begins once again.

'I got your letter. And the pictures. You shouldn't have—'

No. You should have. That's the whole problem. He tries again. 'I can't stop looking.'

He writes it and his face goes hot. It's true. It's also not enough. you'd sent him a full page of wanting, fearless and specific, and he can't string together a single sentence that matches it.

The pile of crumpled pages grows beside the desk. Every attempt too careful, too stiff, too him. He can hear the cameras in his own handwriting. Thank you for your letter. I appreciate your kindness. He wants to tell you what he did the first night, what he has been doing since that night, but it won't come out of the pen.

He pushes back from the desk. The chair scrapes loud in the quiet room. He looks at the mess and thinks, not for the first time, that paper might not be the way.

—

Two days.

You hadn't meant to count them. The first morning, you'd told yourself there was no reason to expect anything so soon. Mail took time. Letters had to be sorted, opened, read, passed through however many hands they passed through before they ever reached the person they were meant for. And Michael was busy. He had an album to promote, interviews to give, rehearsals and meetings and probably a hundred other things you couldn't even imagine. A man who received thousands of letters couldn't possibly sit down and answer every single one, especially not some girl he'd never met who had been bold enough to send him something that had probably made him blush on national television.

You'd believed all of that.

At least, you had when you first woke up. By the time you found yourself standing in front of the mailbox that morning, you weren't quite as convincing anymore.

You'd tried not to make it obvious, even to yourself. You'd gone outside for something else, you told yourself. You happened to be walking past it. There was no reason not to check while you were there. It wasn't as though you'd been thinking about it since you'd opened your eyes.

You lifted the little metal door.

Nothing.

Well—almost nothing.

A bill.

A flyer folded in half.

And a postcard from your aunt that you nearly tossed aside before you recognized her handwriting.

You stood there for another moment anyway, staring down into the empty mailbox as though something might magically appear if you waited long enough.

Nothing.

You closed it.

You checked again that evening.

There was no particular reason to. Mail had already come that morning, and you knew perfectly well there wasn't supposed to be another delivery. Still, sometime after dinner, you found yourself wandering down the driveway anyway, slippers scuffing lightly against the pavement as you told yourself you were only going outside for some air.

The mailbox was empty. You stared inside it for a second longer than necessary before closing the little metal door with a quiet click. Then you stood there. Just stood there, looking back toward the house.

You felt ridiculous. So you laughed softly to yourself, shook your head, and walked back inside.

The next morning, you checked again. This time you didn't even bother making up an excuse.

You went straight to the mailbox after breakfast, still in whatever you'd thrown on without thinking, a mug of coffee warming your hand. You opened it with far more hope than you wanted to admit.

Nothing from him. Another bill. Another piece of junk mail.

You sighed, gathered everything into your arms, and shut the mailbox. You'd stopped pretending it was about anything else.

You knew exactly what you were doing now. You were waiting for him. And somehow, admitting that to yourself made the empty mailbox feel a little more disappointing.

It was foolish. You knew it was foolish. Some part of you had known from the start that this was a letter sent into the dark— that he might never open it, might never see the photographs, might have dropped them in the studio trash before he ever made it home. The first letter had been written expecting nothing. That was the whole point. The thrill was in the sending.

Except now you wanted a reply.

You wanted it in a way that embarrassed you. You caught yourself imagining his handwriting— whether it would be careful or hurried, whether he pressed hard enough to leave grooves in the paper. You imagined the envelope with your name on it, the sound it would make landing in the box. Every time the mail came up empty, something in your chest dropped a little.

It wasn't disappointment exactly. It was the slow, sinking confirmation that you were sitting around, waiting for a stranger to want you back.

By the second afternoon, the waiting had curdled into something restless. You did the dishes, folded laundry, ran an errand you didn't need just to have somewhere to be. Your mind kept circling the same place anyway. The photographs. The silence. What he might have thought of you.

Worst case, he'd laughed. Passed the pictures around to his brothers, let them have their fun, tossed the whole thing in the garbage. You could almost hear it— the easy, dismissive laughter of men who'd seen prettier girls send bolder things.

The thought sat cold in your stomach.

But there was another possibility, and it was worse in its own way: that he'd looked and said nothing at all. That he'd folded your letter away and forgotten it, and you'd never know one way or the other.

If he wasn't going to answer, you'd give him more to answer to.

The idea arrived quietly, almost as a joke, and then it settled in and refused to leave. You could let it fizzle. Chalk the whole thing up to a silly impulse and never think about Michael Jackson's mouth again.

Or you could be bolder.

You sat down at the desk. The same desk, the same lamp, the stationery still stacked where you'd left it, the good pen resting on top. You looked at the blank page for a long moment. Then you pushed it aside and reached for the camera again instead.

It was old— your father's, bought years ago and barely used, with a timer dial that clicked and a flash that washed everything too bright. You knew its quirks by now. Your hands moved through the ritual without thinking: load it, wind it, prop it on the stack of books at the foot of the bed, angled up.

The first photograph was the easiest, because you were still half-dressed for it.

You kept the panties on. Lace, black, the same cheap pair from before, the ones that bit into your hips just slightly when you moved. You lay back, knees bent, and hooked two fingers into the fabric at the side. The flash caught the shine of your inner thigh, the dark of the lace against your skin, and there—slick and already dripping—here your fingers pulled the fabric aside just enough to show him what was waiting.

That was the first one.

The second took longer.

Nude meant everything. No lace to hide behind, no angle that let you keep some part of yourself out of frame. You stood in front of the mirror first, not out of vanity but because you needed to see what the camera would see. The softness of your stomach. The weight of your breasts. And the little trail of dark hair between your legs, softly curling against the inside of your thighs.

You'd never thought much about it before. Now you wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know you hadn't waxed yourself smooth like the women in the magazines, that you'd kept this part of yourself, and you wanted him to like it.

The wanting left you wet. You could feel it, a warm slick press against the lace as you moved. Somewhere behind your ribs your heart beat too hard. You lay back on the bed and let the timer run. The flash went white for a second, and you just lay there, breathing, the camera ticking beside you.

The photographs developed in the dark of the bathroom, and you spread them out on the bed to look. One of you pulling the lace aside, one of you bare and soft, legs parted, the dark hair at the center of it. The flash had been kind to you. Or maybe you'd stopped caring about it.

You sat down with the pen, and the first line came before you'd even decided to write it.

❝—You're quiet.

That's okay. I can be loud enough for both of us.

I've been thinking about you every night since I sent that first letter. Not politely. I've thought about your mouth, your hands, that half-second before you sing. And I've thought about what I'd let you do to me if I ever had you alone in the dark.

I want to be under you. I want your weight on me, your hands pinning mine down. I want you to take what you want from me— and I want you to know I'm giving it to you gladly. Nothing about me is a surrender you'd have to win. It's a gift, offered on purpose.

I'd kneel for you. I'd do it without being asked, and I'd stay there, looking up, until you decided what to do with me. Put your hands in my hair. Pull. I'll take it. I want to take it. I want to be good for you.

I think about your mouth between my legs. I've decided you take your time there. I've decided you'd hold my hips down and make me wait, make me beg— and I would, Michael. I'd beg so pretty for you. Not because you'd force it out of me. Because I'd want to give you that.

And when you finally push inside me, I want it slow. Your weight on me. Your mouth at my ear, that low voice gone rough, telling me I'm yours. Telling me how good I take you. I want to come with my legs around you and your name in my mouth, and I want you to feel exactly how much I wanted it.

I've done it alone, thinking about you. My fingers, your voice in the room, the picture of you above me. It's good. It's never going to be enough— and I'm not sorry about that. I like wanting you this way.

So write me back, Michael. Or don't. I'm not asking your permission to want you— I'm telling you I do. And I'm telling you what I want is to be yours.

Yours, whether you answer or not, The girl who thinks about your mouth — [❤︎︎ ]❞

You read it over twice. Once for mistakes. Once because you couldn't quite believe you'd written it.

It was bolder than the first. Wilder. The kind of letter you'd never say out loud, the kind you'd fold in half and press into a stranger's hands and then run. And maybe that was the point. You'd already sent him your body. Now you were sending him the truth of what he did to it.

The photographs went in behind the letter. You slid them carefully into the envelope, spine against spine, and sealed it.

Your name went on the back. His on the front, in that same careful hand you'd practiced twice before.

You didn't let yourself think. You pulled on your shoes, walked to the corner in the fading light, and dropped it into the box before the part of you that was still sane could catch up.

The metal mouth swallowed it. Gone.

For a long moment you stood there with your hand still resting on the cold side of the box, listening to the street settle into evening around you. The wind picked up. Somewhere a car turned over. Then you walked home, and you didn't look back once.

You didn't know— couldn't know— that Michael Jackson was lying in his dark room with your last photograph in his hand and his own name halfway down his throat.

You'd find out soon enough.

—

Three days later, your second mail arrives.

He sees it on the entry table with the rest of the mail.

At first, it's only the handwriting that catches his eye. The familiar slant of the letters, the way his name has been written across the front with that same careful attention he'd noticed before. Michael slows as he walks past, then stops altogether. He looks at the envelope for a moment without touching it, his eyes moving over the handwriting as though he needs to make absolutely certain before he lets himself believe it.

It is.

His pulse kicks up into his throat.

For a second, he simply stands there, staring.

Then he reaches down and picks it up, careful not to bend the envelope as he tucks it against his side. He doesn't open it there. He doesn't even turn it over. The possibility of somebody seeing it, of somebody asking who it's from or why he's suddenly so interested in one particular piece of mail, is enough to make him start toward the stairs almost immediately.

He carries it to his room.

The door clicks shut behind him.

Michael turns the lock.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, he checks it again.

Once.

Twice.

He glances toward the hallway before dragging the chair over and wedging it carefully beneath the door handle. He learned his lesson the other day. He is not going to be caught off guard again, not when he has no idea what might be waiting inside this envelope.

Only then does he finally turn back toward the room. The envelope is still in his hand. Michael looks down at it. A small smile pulls at his mouth. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning it over once between his fingers, feeling that familiar mixture of anticipation and nerves settle over him. Then his thumb slips beneath the flap.

Inside there's a letter. One sheet, folded around two photographs, and a note. He catches a glimpse of the first two lines.

'You're quiet.

That's okay. I can be loud enough for both of us.'

Then he unfolds the photos before reading the rest of the latter

The first one takes the air out of the room.

Your fingers. Black lace pulled aside, and there— slick, already shining for him. The flash caught the shine of your inner thigh. It's the most obscene thing he's ever held, and the obscenity of it is that it's real. A woman alone in her bedroom, fumbling with a camera, showing him exactly where she wants him.

His mouth drops open. He makes a sound he doesn't recognize.

The second one. He forgets to breathe. You're holding the with one hand camera. And bare. Not posed like a magazine— just bare, soft, legs parted, and the camera caught all of you. The weight of your breasts. The round of your hips. Thighs, thick and open. And between them, a thatch of hair, curling against your skin. He stares at it like he's never seen anything in his life.

Completely stripped of any clothing. One hand covering a breast, the other bare, your nipple dark against the white flash. Your lips parted. Something glossy smeared high on your thigh.

His thumb drifts over the glossy paper, over the dark of it.

He really likes it. God, he love it. This is just filthily raw.

"Jesus," he breathes.

Then the letter. He reads it slow, the way he's learned to read you— because your words are like your photographs. Everything on purpose.

'I've been thinking about you every night since I sent that first letter. Not politely...'

His palm presses flat over his fly instantly. Just pressure. Denim and cotton between his hand and the heat of himself. He doesn't undo the button. Not yet.

'I want to be under you. I want your weight on me, your hands pinning mine down. I want you to take what you want from me— and I want you to know I'm giving it to you gladly. Nothing about me is a surrender you'd have to win. It's a gift, offered on purpose.'

His hand stops. He reads that part again.

Nobody's ever handed him the wanting like that. Wrapped. Offered. Take it, it's yours, I chose this.

I'd kneel for you. I'd do it without being asked, and I'd stay there, looking up, until you decided what to do with me.

He pictures it. You on the floor in front of him, face tilted up, patient. Waiting. His hands gently in your hair. Pulling. And you taking it — wanting to take it.

His hips roll up into his palm once, slow, through the denim. He bites his lip.

I want to be good for you.

That's the line that breaks something in him. Not the dirty part. The soft part. The part where you hand him more than her body. Good for you. Like it's something you want to be. Like he's worth being good for.

I think about your mouth between my legs. I've decided you take your time there.

He breathes out through his teeth, forehead dropping.

I've decided you'd hold my hips down and make me wait, make me be— and I would, Michael. I'd beg so pretty for you. Not because you'd force it out of me. Because I'd want to give you that.

His palm rides the hard line of him through the jeans, slow circles, the friction dulled by two layers. Not enough. He keeps it that way. He's not done reading.

And when you finally push inside me, I want it slow. Your weight on me. Your mouth at my ear, that low voice gone rough, telling me I'm yours.

"Tellin' me I'm yours," he whispered to himself.

He reads the rest with his teeth in his lip and his hand pressed flat against himself, hard and aching and held back. He finishes the letter. Then he starts it again, from the top, slower.

The lamp burns warm on the photographs. He looks at you and keeps his hand where it is— pressing, grinding, biting his lip hard enough to hurt.

I can be loud enough for both of us.

For a moment, he thinks about the crumpled drafts still sitting in the wastebasket beside his desk. All those attempts at finding the right words, each one abandoned because it sounded too formal, too distant, too much like the kind of answer he would give to any other fan. He remembers the first one most clearly—the word friend sitting there at the top of the page, perfectly polite and completely wrong. He'd stared at it until he couldn't stand the sight of it anymore, then crossed it out so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper.

Paper wasn't going to do it. Not this time.

He looks down at your letter again, at the careful handwriting running across the page, and the thought comes to him so naturally that he doesn't even argue with it.

He needs his voice.

Michael sits there for another moment, letting that idea settle.

Then he gets up.

He finds the recorder in the music room, a small portable thing with a blank cassette already sitting inside it. He picks it up and checks the buttons before carrying it back toward his room, turning it over once in his hands as though he might somehow change his mind along the way.

He doesn't ask.

Nobody stops him.

It's also his house, his equipment, and he's been quiet and strange for several days now. His family has gotten used to him disappearing into his room with a notebook or a tape recorder, especially when he's working on music. As far as anyone downstairs knows, that's probably all this is.

He waited past midnight. Television off. His brothers' doors shut. Mama asleep. The hallway still. He locks his door and wedges the chair under the handle again, because he is not getting walked in on. Not for this.

He sets the recorder on the nightstand. Lays the photos out on the bed in front of him, arranged like a hand of cards. The letter. The lace. The one of you spread open.

The lamp burns low. He takes a breath. His hands are already unsteady.

Then he presses record.

The little red light blinks.

For a long second he says nothing. The tape hisses. He's too aware of his own breathing, too close to the mic. Then he leans in, and his voice drops into that soft, low place you had asked for.

"I got your letter."

A pause. The hiss.

"And the pictures."

He swallows. The mic picks it up— the click of his throat.

"I been tryin' to write you back. I wrote y' hundred letters 'nd I threw every one of 'em away." A shaky little laugh. "Y' said you wanted the breathy part. So I thought maybe I'd just... let y' hear it."

He shifts on the bed. The denim drags. He's been hard since he laid the photos out.

"'m lookin' at you right now. The one where you're on your back."

He picks up the photograph, holds it to the light. His voice roughens.

"Y' spread yourself open for me. I can see everythin'." He exhales, slow. "Y' got... a real pretty pussy."

The word drops out of him like a stone into still water. It lands somewhere in his own chest first.

"I didn't know you'd be so wet." His thumb traces the edge of the photo. "Is that for me? Did y' think about me when you took it?"

He sets the photo down and works at his belt. Leather through the loops. The button. The zipper. It's all on the tape, unmistakable.

"You don't know what y' did t' me." His voice dips. "I read your letter 'nd I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I got so hard in the middle of an interview I thought I was gonna die."

He shoves the jeans down. Boxers too. His cock springs free, thick and leaking, and he wraps a hand around it with a low, broken sound that goes straight onto the tape.

"There it is." His breath stutters. "That's what you do to me."

He strokes slow. The slick sound fills the quiet room, wet and obscene, and the mic catches all of it.

"I keep your pictures and letters in a box. In my dresser." A breathless laugh. "I can't stop lookin'. Every night. Your pretty hips. Your pretty thighs." He pauses, voice gone soft and ragged. "'nd that pretty lil pussy. I keep thinkin' about puttin' my mouth there."

He strokes faster. His head falls back against the headboard.

"I wanna taste you," he whispers. "Wanna spread you open 'nd lick you 'til you're beggin' me to stop. 'Til you're cryin' on my tongue."

His hand moves in a steady rhythm now. The wet sound is loud, unashamed.

"I think about your clit." The word comes out strangled. "How it'd feel under my tongue. Swollen. Slick. I'd suck on it 'til y' can't talk."

A whimper escapes him. High and unguarded. He doesn't cut it off. It goes on the tape, and he doesn't care anymore.

"I think about bein' inside you." His voice is wrecked. "Your pussy around my cock. So tight and warm. I'd fill you up so slow you'd feel every inch of me."

He pictures it — you under him, thick thighs spread wide, the dark hair pressing against his skin. His hips jerk up into his fist.

"You'd take all of me, wouldn't you?" He's panting now. "You'd be so good for me. So fuckin' wet. I'd slide right into that little hole and you'd squeeze me so tight."

He squeezes the base of his cock, staving it off, a strained sound caught in his chest.

"I wanna hear you." His voice drops again, intimate, ruined. "Wanna hear the sounds you'd make. Wanna make you come on my fingers first. Get you all messy and soaked before I put my dick in you."

He's close. It's in his voice— the strain, the way the words come apart at the edges.

"Then I'd make love to you." He breathes it out, low and shaking. "Slow at first. Then hard. 'Til the bed's hittin' the wall 'nd you're screamin' my name."

His hand speeds. The wet sound fills the room, loud and relentless.

"'m gonna come thinkin' about you," he gasps. "Thinkin' about your pussy. Your pretty face. The way you stuck your tongue out at me."

A broken whimper. Then another.

"God— I'm gonna—"

He comes with a strangled moan, the mic catching the whole ragged shape of it. Hot over his fist, spilling onto his stomach. He strokes himself through it, shivering, making small helpless sounds until it's too much and he has to let go.

For a long moment there's only his breathing on the tape. Harsh. Then slowing.

He lifts his head. The red light still blinks.

"Now you know." His voice is soft, barely there. "You know what I sound like."

A pause.

"Please keep writing."

He reaches over and presses stop.

The room goes silent. The hiss cuts to nothing. He sits there, spent and sticky, the photos fanned around him like evidence.

He'll mail it tomorrow.

taglist: @kujouhh @neverstreett @comebackmichael @effervescentdeityofchaos @michaelsgirlie @hubbatipsycakes @butterfliesandcoffeex2 @curlypytclubx @living-ghostgrl @shadesofcool51 @aprilshowersbringmayflowerz @ceiqp @misscowboyhat @lovingyeet @kiyabtw

[carouselgirl77]

⋆˙⟡⋆ BUSY WOMAN .ᐟ.ᐟ

pairing: 𝓶ichael jackson x 𝓯em!reader

summary: 𝔂ou are far too busy for a boyfriend, which is why your arrangement works perfectly with michael. 𝓪t least that was until he confronts you for something more.

tags: 18+ mdni, 𝓼ituationship, 𝓯riends with benefits, 𝓯ashion industry!reader, 𝔀orkaholic!reader, 𝓬ommitment issues, 𝓶ichael's greedy apparently, 𝔂earning, 𝓾nprotected p in v, 𝓼oftdom!mike, 𝓹raise, 𝓼mut with plot, 𝓱appy ending.

wc: 3.1k

a/n: thank you all for 350 followers!! got this idea listening to busy woman by sabrina carpenter. i cannot help myself writing bird & yearning mike, so ur welcome!!

"hold still," you mumbled through a pin you were holding in your teeth.

"i am holding still."

"you're talking."

"i can't talk?"

"not when you move every time you do."

michael stood a little straighter, planting his feet firmly on the floor so as not to move. but you could still see the smirk he was trying to hold back in your peripheral vision.

technically, you weren't supposed to be here at all. you had just finished an eleven-hour day, and tomorrow promised at least ten more. you had three unanswered messages on your answering machine, four appointments tomorrow, and a meeting with some of the girls who worked under you in your company.

and yet, you were kneeling in front of michael jackson, fitting him for a suit he was supposed to wear later that week.

it was for work, or well, mostly.

"what are you doing on friday?" michael asked.

"working."

"saturday?"

"working too."

"you didn't even check."

you sighed, looking up at him, grabbing another pin from the cushion next to you. "i don't have to. i know what i'm doing."

michael bit his bottom lip, silent for a moment before continuing. "sunday?"

you laughed under your breath. "what, you trying to make an appointment?"

"apparently."

you and michael's relationship (or lack thereof) started completely innocent. his team worked routinely with your company, and as the head stylist, you were usually the one working on him.

michael was a total flirt, but you assumed it was harmless. at least that was until he began lingering longer after appointments, 'accidentally' bumping into you or brushing your skin, and finally, one day, kissing you after a three and a half hour fitting.

it was a total breach of conduct in every single way that you guys were hooking up. but you were now twenty-eight, and you, in full honesty, needed some dick or else you'd probably lose your mind.

that's what was so perfect about you and michael. despite being one of the busiest & most famous people on the planet, he was always available when you were free. he'd bend around your schedule. and, on top of it all, he was completely fine staying as hookup buddies.

"how much longer?" he asked.

"i'm almost done."

"and after that?"

"after this, i'm done."

"with me?"

"with work," you corrected.

michael hummed in approval, seeming to appreciate the distinction. you folded a piece of fabric over, sliding the last pin into place. "but i don't need to go home for another two hours."

"two whole hours?" he joked.

"i know, it's basically a vacation."

"let me take you to dinner then."

you rose to your feet, furrowing your brows at him. "i already ate."

"that's not what i meant."

"well, then you should've asked me earlier."

michael tried to smile, but you still caught the small eye roll. "i've been asking you."

"don't get greedy now. i just told you i have two hours."

michael repeated it under his breath. "greedy."

you put a hand on his chest, the same one that was wearing the suit you just carefully fit to him, making a clear distinction between working and being with him. "what? you don't want to?"

he melted under your touch, smiling, and bringing a hand up to wrap around your waist. "of course i do, baby," he said, pulling you in for a deep kiss.

and that's how it always happened. he could never stay mad at you, and anyway, it wasn't ever your fault. you never minded how all your carefully protected free time had become his. that was the whole point.

over the next month, you saw michael four times. once for work, and the other three completely by choice.

along the time you spent together, you started to learn more and more about him. he hated spaghetti. he loved kfc. he got quiet when he was tired, as to not lash out at anyone. he hated being rushed, and would wake up an extra twenty minutes earlier if it meant he could enjoy his morning.

similarly, he seemed to be noting things about you too. you'd bring flats to work just because you knew your feet would be hurting by noon. how you'd forget to eat after long days. how you hated being called before eight, because that's when 'the worst clients call.'

it didn't mean much to you. spending a lot of time with someone meant knowing someone, and knowing someone didn't mean loving someone.

one afternoon months ago, michael had called your work number late into the night.

"hello?" you said through gritted teeth, absolutely exhausted.

"you're still there?"

"i'm always here."

"have you eaten?"

you glanced over at the now-cold coffee cup sitting beside a stack of sketches. "not really- but i was gon-"

"no," michael interrupted. "you need to eat. i'll have my security get you that chinese place you like."

"michael, you don't need to do that."

"i know i don't need to," he paused. "i want to."

you couldn't put up much of a fight, and just thinking about your favorite chinese restaurant had your mouth watering.

so you let him. just like you let him do a lot of things for you; completely voluntary on his part. he was just a nice guy that was looking after you, but you didn't need it.

of course, it wasn't completely one-sided either. you had gotten him a new pair of sunglasses from one of your fittings. when you first saw them, you smiled to yourself. he would love these. the designer had told you he had a whole box of them, and let you keep them. you gave them to michael the following week.

"for me?" he smiled as you showed him the glasses from behind your back.

"i thought you'd like them. i imagined you'd look good in them."

"where'd you get them, baby?" he blushed. he'd always call you that, despite the fact you were not his baby.

"they're versace. i got them from a fitting."

michael smiled, opening them up and sliding them over his nose. "just like you imagined?"

you hummed lowly, coming close to whisper to him. "hmm... almost. i also imagined me riding you with them on."

his breath caught in his throat, fully freezing before his lips crashed against yours. he couldn't let anything you dreamed of stay inside that pretty head of yours.

a friday after your back and forth, michael had called your work number and asked to see you that night. actually, he specifically asked to get dinner with you.

your schedule was suffocating, and from the looks of it, you wouldn't be done until around eleven.

"so no dinner?" he asked through the receiver.

"unless you want to eat at twelve," you laughed, the phone cradled between the crook of your neck and your cheek.

"i would."

you licked your pointer finger, flipping through a stack of paperwork on your desk. "you'd fall asleep at the table."

"no, i wouldn't."

you grabbed the phone from your cheek. "michael, i'll see you another night."

michael paused, silence stretching through the call before finally speaking. "...okay."

"okay?"

"yeah. okay."

"i'll call you," you smiled, even though he couldn't see you. "bye, baby."

"bye" was the last thing you heard before the familiar tone of the other line dropping came through.

you set the phone back down, and got back to work.

as it turned out, eleven was a dramatic estimate. you signed off on the last design that crossed your desk around nine-fifteen, checked the clock, and started packing your bags.

with the now-free time, you decided to head over to neverland to see him.

most of the lights were off in the office; your purse slouched over your shoulder when you grabbed the phone. you knew michael's number by heart.

michael answered on the second ring, and you explained to him that you had finished early. he, very hesitantly for whatever reason, said you could still come over.

once you got there, you knocked on the heavy wooden doors before michael came to open them.

"hey," you smiled.

"hi," he said quietly, opening the door more to let you in.

"what happened to eleven?" he continued.

"i'm more efficient than i thought."

"good for you."

you hung your jacket on the nearby rack, turning to look at him. "what's wrong with you?"

"nothing's wrong with me."

"...you're acting weird."

"no, i'm not, i'm just tired," he said, stepping closer, his hands finding the fabric of your shirt around your waist.

"mhm..."

he softened, even slightly smiling. "what?"

"you're grumpy."

"me? i'm never grumpy."

you smiled, pressing a kiss to his cheek, the skin blooming red afterwards.

he came down, his lips finding yours lazily, before walking you backwards into the wall.

you breathed heavily onto his skin, your hand coming up to run through the back of his curls. his hands moved further down, grabbing your ass and pulling you flush against him.

you could feel everything- the familiar heat pooling in between your legs, as you began absentmindedly rocking against the growing bulge constricted in his pants.

his tongue broke between your lips, messy, but with a precision that alone made you weak. he kissed you with such intensity, as if he was trying to leave your taste on his lips so he could memorize it forever.

he broke away for only a second, heavy breathing. "let's go upstairs."

you nodded intently, your eyes already heavily lidded with lust. you followed him upstairs and down the hall of the home, into his master bedroom.

once you both got into the room, his lips found yours again. he groaned into you, not pulling away until finally tossing his shirt off in one, fluid move.

his hands roamed all over you, first to your ass, then your waist, then to cup your breasts- his fingers feathering your nipples over the fabric, then up to your face to cup your cheek.

you grabbed the bottom of your shirt, pulling it over your head, leaving you in just your bra.

he bit his lower lip, kissing the side of your neck as he unclasped the back of it. once your chest was bare, he stood, admiring, like you were the most beautiful thing on this planet.

"i could never get tired of seeing you like this," he whispered. "you take my breath away every time, my pretty girl."

you smiled, almost a little nervous, feeling his gaze on you. he quickly slid your pants off, making sure to hook his fingers on the edge of your panties, leaving you fully naked.

he did the same for himself, stuttering with his belt buckle and his pants sliding off and pooling on the floor. his boxers came off next, his cock springing free- fully erect and precum sitting atop his tip.

"lay on the bed for me baby. i've been thinking about you all week."

you stumbled back, your knees catching on the edge of the bed as your back hit the mattress. your thighs widened, practically involuntary, as he settled himself in between them.

michael brought his fingers to your folds, lightly grazing them through your wetness.

"baby, you're so wet already. just from me kissing you? you missed me that bad?"

you bit your bottom lip hard, a little shy, your back arching as he teased you. "you missed me more," you choked out.

his fingers stopped, landing just at your hole. "that might be true."

he smirked, driving two fingers directly into you, curling them just to the spot that drove you crazy.

you cried out, your knees buckling as he slammed his fingers into you. he brought his mouth to yours, trying to swallow your moans with a kiss, but you could hardly kiss him back.

he was not letting up, and if anything, his pace ran harder and quicker, even bringing his thumb up to circle around your clit.

you trembled, your hands not knowing where to grab. his back, drawing lines into the skin. his forearm, grasping it as he fingered you. the sheets, pulling at the fabric. nothing worked, and the coil inside you was tightening quickly.

"stay still, pretty," he coaxed, bringing his other hand to hold down your thigh onto the bed.

all you could do was yell out random profanities and his name, all falling from your lips. and then, you came. hard. the coil inside you snapped, your legs trembling, your vision going to stars, and a rush of pleasure filling every nerve in your body.

"you did so good for me, baby. you're so pretty when you come," michael whispered, guiding you through every aftershock that came. he was dedicated to riding this out.

michael slowly came up, sliding his fingers out and sticking them in his mouth. he couldn't let a drop go to waste. he needed your taste on his tongue forever.

he captured you in another kiss, and you could taste the musky flavor of yourself still on his lips, only turning you on more.

his hardness grinded against you as he moved lower, his mouth finding your nipple and lapping it flat against his tongue. his hand came up to roll the other one in between his fingers, his teeth grazing the one in his mouth. god, you could've come right there.

"please-" you whined.

"please, what baby?" he asked between kisses. "i'm going to need words."

"please," you hesitated. "please fuck me. i need you in me."

his hips stuttered forward at your words, finally settling himself fully between your legs and bringing your thighs to wrap around his waist.

he stabilized his hands on the bed, slowly pushing his length into you, letting you adjust to his size. you gasped as his tip bobbed in, filling you so completely in a way no one else had.

he eased in more, quicker this time, before fully bottoming out. he groaned deep, coming down to plant a kiss against your neck.

you two hardly did missionary, as you both agreed it was far too intimate. yet, now that you were, you understood the hype. you wanted to see his face fucking you forever.

"you drive me crazy, you know that?" he said through his heavy breathing.

you moaned as he moved, sliding in and out of you slowly. "i knew i could fix your attitude."

michael didn't reply, but instead showed it in his thrusts. he began pounding into you, his dick curving to your g-spot over and over again. you had, apparently, not fixed his attitude.

and his pace didn't stop. once he started, he couldn't stop. he was addicted to the way your pussy felt squeezing him.

"fuck- you feel so good," he said, his composure breaking, his thrusts becoming inconsistent.

and you got close- quickly. you grabbed hard onto his forearms, your back arching off the bed as you moaned incoherently.

"fuck- michael- please, don't stop, don't stop."

"i'm not gonna, baby. this is all for you. let go."

and as if on beat, you did. your pussy contracted on him, the wave of ecstasy rolling through your entire body. you were practically screaming, your thighs actually shaking around his waist.

michael wasn't far behind you. while fucking you through the aftershocks, it was bordering on overstimulation; he finally released into you. his hips hit yours in a rough slap, bottoming out, his balls hitting your ass.

"fuckkkk," he groaned, his head tipping back towards the ceiling.

he stayed inside you, slowly softening as you both heavily breathed in each other's arms. he finally pulled out, landing one final kiss on your lips. not sexual, but intimate. almost sad.

he stood on the edge of the bed as you stood up, your legs almost giving out on you, as you found your bra on the floor. you grabbed it, throwing the straps on your shoulder before going to hook the back.

michael stood behind you, reaching his hands out to brush your hair out of the way. "let me do it."

you let him, dropping your hands to your side. he hooked the clasp, but his hands lingered on your back.

"have dinner with me tomorrow."

you turned to look at him. "michael."

"i'm serious."

"i know you are."

he shook his head. "then say yes."

you sighed, grabbing your blouse off the floor. "i'm working tomorrow."

"you always are," he scoffed.

"what's that supposed to mean? i have a job, michael."

"so do i. and i still make time for you."

"me coming over after a long-ass day isn't making time for you?"

"no," he laughed bitterly. "you're giving me what's left. you're not really making time." he walked over to the other side of the room and slid his boxers back on. "i'm the one that makes time for you, and guess what?"

the guilt began rising in you. "what?" you said quietly.

"you never ask. you don't know that i have to cancel meetings, or move interviews, or just change my entire schedule to see you. and it's just because you never ask."

"that's not fair. you never tell me."

"and say what?" he laughed again, angrier this time. "'hey, i moved around my entire schedule because you called.'"

"don't say it like that."

he snapped his head around. "like what?"

"like i don't care about you."

"well, what am i supposed to think?"

"that i'm busy!" you raised your voice. "that you've known exactly what my life looked like the moment you met me."

"i know," he said, almost guilty.

"then what? why are you acting like it's my fault?"

"because i fell in love with you."

the words hung heavy in the air. you froze, the breath completely knocked out of you. there was no hesitation from him, no embarrassment after saying it. he looked at you like he had already practiced saying it to you hundreds of times.

"i love you," he repeated, shaking his head. "and i know that's not what we agreed on, but i can't spend another day doing this."

"michael..."

"you don't need to stop working. you don't even need to decide now." his voice dropped. "i just need to know if there'll ever be room for me."

his eyes scanned around the room, finally landing on your hands fumbling nervously with the blouse still in them. "because if there isn't, i don't think we should see each other anymore."

the silence after his words stretched long, weighing heavy on your heart. he had just put himself fully out there, and was prepared to be rejected. that's how much he meant it.

"what time?" you finally said.

michael's brows pulled together. "what?"

"for dinner, tomorrow. what time?"

"you're working."

you looked into his eyes. "i'll move it around."

⋆˙⟡⋆

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[highoffrain]

⁀➴ MICHAEL’S JUST A LITTLE THIRSTY ! (18+!!)

TW : lactophilia :)

Michael had gotten you pregnant again.

The one thing he loved after your body was to bear his children and bring them to life was your lactating tits. Oh God, he’d suck on them every chance he’d get.

Often, when the sun went down and the moon came up, and you were laying all comfy in bed, he’d sink in next to you, trying to get closer to your body, gripping your waist and occasionally rubbing your skin softly with his hand.

His hands would then find the straps of your nightdress you’d put on and tug them down softly. Your hand finding his to help him take it off.

Your plump tits would be in full display for him, all for him to do whatever he wanted.

“Oh, you’re such a pretty mama,” he’d mumble before diving into the sweet flesh he adored.

Kissing around the skin of your boobs whilst the other pinched your nipple ever so slightly, causing you to whimper.

“Ngh, Michael.”

Your back arched slightly, your hand finding the hair on the back of his head, tugging it gently.

“My pretty mama.”

His mouth then found your nipple, sucking it gently as the other boob kept his hand occupied so it didn’t feel neglected.

As Michael began to suck, he finally tasted the milk he’d loved drinking. He moaned at the taste.

You threw your head back at the feeling, eager to touch yourself. Your hand traveled down your body on its way to relieve the tension, till he stopped your hand, putting his thigh between your legs.

“Ride it out on me, pretty baby,” he mumbled before continuing his sucking on your tits.

And oh, you did.

You grabbed onto him, grinding down on his leg, relieved from the ache you’d been feeling ever since he started touching you.

He continued sucking on your breasts, swallowing every bit of milk that dropped from your tits onto his tongue.

“You taste so, so good, baby.”

You couldn’t comprehend an answer in return. Instead, you were in desperate need to chase that release that was coming dangerously closer.

Michael kept his attention occupied on your boobs. His hand would cup your flesh to try and pry all of it in his mouth. Eager to consume you whole.

“M-Mike!” you whimpered, before one last grind led your orgasm to crash over you.

Your whole body convulsed, and as if Michael had just come at the same time, he groaned hard at the sound of you coming.

He latched himself off your tit with strings of saliva attaching you both before traveling up to your lips, where he kissed you deeply.

“Gonna make me drunk off your milk, mama.”

You giggled breathlessly at his remark before you both dozed off to sleep, with your boob still in his mouth.

ame’s notes : I need to lock in and make actual longer fics instead of these fast blurbs…

🏷️: @mirasjointtttttt

[starlitthriller]

⊹₊⟡⋆ weak

— fluff, angst, communication, bsf!michael, flirty!michael, there is a slight open ending.

synopsis: ever since you started having feelings for michael, you started avoiding him, until he finally caught on.

a/n — i did write this while listening to the song “weak” by swv

michael was always someone you felt comfortable around. he was understanding, and was always careful with you. you never thought about it an any other way than him just being your best friend.

but lately, something changed.

you started paying attention to things you never paid attention to before — the way he looked at you when he was listening, the way he always made sure you were okay. even the way that he could make a bad day turn good. and that scared you.

because michael was supposed to be your best friend. he was supposed to be the person you could talk to about anything. he wasn't supposed to be the person who made your heart race or replaying every little moment after you went home.

so you started avoiding him.

you left his house early before you could get too comfortable you found reasons to sit across the room instead of beside him. you stopped dropping by just to talk, and you even stopped calling him first.

every time michael called, you wouldn't answer — and when you did, you kept the conversations short. you told yourself you were just giving yourself space, but deep down you knew the truth.

being around him made it harder to pretend you didn't feel anything. although you thought that what you were doing was making things good for you, it didn't play out well for michael. he missed you more than words could explain. he was worried.

he couldn't help wondering if he'd done something to you, or if something had happened that you weren't telling him about. he wanted to ask, but every time he tried, you found a way to leave before he could.

it wasn't like you, and that worried him. so, the next time you saw michael, he made sure to occupy your time. at first, he said he was inviting you to hear a new cover he'd been practicing. but that wasn't the case.

somehow, the evening slipped away from the both of you. records played one after another, a movie droned on in the background, and somewhere along the way, the cover he’d been so eager to show you was forgotten.

you sat curled up with one of his books while he absentmindedly flipped through a stack of cassette tapes resting on his dresser. the room was quiet.

michael’s fingers hovered over the tapes, though he wasn’t really looking at them. he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck before finally breaking the silence. “can i ask you something?”

you glanced up from where you sat, your eyebrows knitting together. “sure.” for a moment, he didn’t say anything. he kept turning the cassette over in his hands, his eyes fixed on the worn plastic instead of you.

“…did i do somethin’?” you blinked. “what?” it felt like your stomach dropped. “did i…” he trailed off, letting out a quiet chuckle that sounded more nervous than amused. “did i hurt you or somethin’?”

your face twisted with confusion. “michael, what are you talking about?” he shrugged, “you’ve been avoidin’ me.” his voice was gentle, but there was no mistaking the hurt behind it.

“every time i call, you get off the phone real quick. whenever we all get together, you’re gone before i even get a chance to talk to you.” he finally looked up at you, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“i mean…” he shrugged, trying to lighten the mood. “i know i can be a lot, but i didn’t think i was that bad.” despite yourself, a small laugh escaped your lips. “see?” he said, pointing at you with a grin. “there she is.”

the smile faded just as quickly as it came. “…but i’m serious.” his gaze searched yours. “if i did somethin’, i need you to tell me. i keep tryin’ to figure out where i messed up… and i can’t.”

his words lingered in the air, settling over the room in a way you couldn’t shake. your fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of your shirt. you wanted to tell him, you really did. but saying it outloud felt so difficult.

“you didn’t do anything,” you murmured after a long pause. michael tilted his head, watching you carefully. the answer wasn’t enough, and the look on his face made that obvious. “then why avoid me?”

your stomach twisted. you searched for another excuse. something believable, something that would let the conversation end before it got any worse. your mind only came up empty. “it’s.. complicated.”

“help me understand, then.” his voice was soft, patient. it always was. somehow, that only made it harder. you let out a shaky laugh, more to yourself than to him, and shook your head. “you wouldn’t get it.”

a small grin tugged at the corner of his lips. “try me.” you finally looked at him, and that was a big mistake. he was already looking at you, that familiar smile resting on his face.

the same one that somehow managed to make your heart race every single time. your thoughts unraveled. “because i like you.” the words slipped before you had the chance to stop them.

the cassette in michael’s hands stopped turning. “…i didn’t mean to say that,” you muttered, barely above a whisper. for a second, he just looked at you. then, slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

“you like me?” you let out a groan, dragging your hands over your face. “don’t start.” he glanced down at the cassette in his hands before looking back at you with a grin tugging at his lips.

“i’m just sayin’…” he said, fighting a smile. “all this time you’ve been avoidin’ me ’cause you got a little crush?” you shot him a look. “michael.”

he lifted his hands in mock innocence, his shoulders bouncing with a quiet laugh. “what?” he shrugged, unable to hide the smile on his face. “i didn’t know i had that kinda effect on you.”

he caught it easily, laughing under his breath. “see? now you’re throwin’ stuff at me.” you rolled your eyes, “i’m serious.” the smile slipped from his face. he set the pillow beside him and looked at you for a long moment.

“…so that’s really why?” you stared down at your hands. “i didn’t know what to do,” you admitted. “i kept tellin’ myself it’d go away, but every time i saw you…” you shook your head. “it just got worse.”

you let out a quiet laugh, more embarrassed than amused. “i couldn’t even look at you without givin’ myself away.” michael’s expression went softer than it had been all evening. and the teasing disappeared completely.

he sat the cassette down on the nightstand, turning away from the dresser. he crossed the room and moved toward the bed where you sat curled up. the mattress shifted beneath him as he scooted closer.

“hey…” his voice was quiet enough that it made you look up. “you don’t ever have to be scared to tell me anything.” your eyes searched his face. “not when it comes to me.” he offered you a small smile, one you’d seen a hundred times before, only this one felt different.

“i don’t like that you felt like you had to carry all that by yourself.” your shoulders sagged, the weight of the last few weeks finally catching up to you. “i didn’t know what else to do.”

“you talk to me.” he said it so simply, like there wasn’t another option. “that’s what we’ve always done.” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck before letting out a quiet laugh.

“truth is…” he looked away for a second, shaking his head at himself. “i don’t think i’d know what to do if you stopped being honest with me.”

his fingers absentmindedly picked at the stitching on the comforter between you. “you’ve always been the first person i wanna tell things to. the first person i look for when somethin’ good happens.”

he smiled to himself. “even when somethin’ bad happens.” he glanced back at you. “so when you started pullin’ away…” he shrugged. “i thought i lost you.”

the confession settled between you. “and i realized…” he continued quietly, “that scared me a whole lot more than it probably should’ve.” he laughed under his breath, yet nothing was really funny.

for a while, he didn’t say anything else. he just looked at you, like he was seeing you differently for the first time. “i always thought i knew why you meant so much to me,” he admitted, almost to himself.

“guess… i never really questioned it.” his smile was small, thoughtful. “’til now.”

@coralrush

[2006watts]

⋆˚꩜｡ don’t walk away

featuring: mature!michael x black!fem reader

synopsis: after years of coming second to the stage, you reach your breaking point.

content warning: 18+, MDNI—angst, no use of y/n, established relationship, groveling, vitiligo, m!receiving, f!receiving, p in v, verbal sex, breeding kink, creampie

notes: this surprisingly isn’t the filthiest thing in my drafts…

it’d been over two months since you’d last seen your husband.

you’d gotten used to the late nights and long tours. being alone in your home that was too big for the two of you started to feel normal—and you hated it.

it was approaching one a.m., and you were tossing and turning in bed. the scent of the candle you’d blown out hours before was now long gone, and the only light in the room was that of the moonlight peaking through the curtains.

you laid on your back, counting on your hands the amount of times michael had called since he’d left.

him being absent wasn’t unusual, but it was putting a strain so strong on your marriage that the idea of divorce seemed more and more likely.

in the first three years of you and michael’s marriage, you didn’t think there could ever be anything that’d bring you two down from your high.

you were utterly infatuated with each other.

now, approaching year five, that couldn’t be any farther in the past.

you began getting teary eyed thinking about the newlyweds that were so incredibly happy—you were oblivious to reality.

refusing to feel sorry for yourself, you dragged yourself out of your king-sized bed and made your way through the empty halls—catching glimpses at photos of you and michael hung up on the walls.

your silk robe did nothing to embrace you in warmth when you stopped to gaze at your wedding photo. you wore a beautiful, handmade gown that you had every intention of passing down to your daughter one day.

suddenly, your ears started to grow hot. you felt so stupid to think that someone like michael jackson could keep all of his attention on you—could make time for you in his busy schedule.

you had a life, too. you worked in the entertainment industry before you met michael and fell in love. you two ended up deciding that you’d take an indefinite leave from work. not because he in any way forced you, but because you were exhausted. you worked your entire life and just wanted to exhale for once.

you finally took a deep breath and continued your long walk to the kitchen. when you reached it, the cold floor invited you. you flicked on the nearest light and opened the cabinet next to the refrigerator. you reached for a glass to pour a ridiculously expensive bottle of red wine into.

as you stood barefoot in the robe michael had gotten you from europe months prior, you were reminded of the empty home by the echo of your wine glass hitting your marble island.

you’d hoped the alcohol would’ve calmed you down, made you think more rationally. but it did the opposite. it always did.

this wasn’t the first time you’d resorted to alcohol to try to take some of the edge off. it had become some sick and toxic routine.

michael would leave for whatever duration, and whenever he’d return, you’d argue.

argue for hours, days—sometimes weeks, until the cycle repeated itself.

sometimes things would get so heated that regretful words would be exchanged, things would get thrown, and you’d question what made you marry the most famous man on the planet.

then, after all of the yelling and screaming, your pulse would slow, your heartbeat would quiet, and you’d find yourself back between the sheets with michael: apologizing, making promises, and fucking until you forgot what you were upset about in the first place.

this time—this time was different though. before he walked out of the door nine weeks ago, he started a discussion that you held out on having due to the chaos that would ensue between the two of you—he’d asked to expand your family.

you were taken aback by his timing. it had been the height of your fighting. you couldn’t help but wonder if this was his attempt at using a baby as a bandaid to temporarily patch things between you up—to ignore the elephant in the room.

your time was simply up.

you knew that michael would never consciously use a child in that way, but you also knew that he loved you and that he’d do anything to keep you as his wife.

in that moment though, you looked into his eyes and saw a glimmer of hope. maybe he’d finally see how much you were hurting while he was away, and that he had responsibilities to be home with his wife and growing child—so you agreed. when he got back, you’d start trying to have a baby.

the thought filled you with immense joy. you’d always knew you wanted to give michael the eighteen children he wanted, it was just a matter of when.

and he was excited, too. you knew he was destined for fatherhood. when you two weren’t biting each other’s heads off, he was patient. and kind. and loving.

he was calling frequently to check up on you. asking about doctor’s appointments you’d went to alone, making sure you were healthy and eating, just calling you to say hello in between meetings. you thought things were changing for the better.

but then the calls became less and less. he’d barely called you once a week. you’d spoken to his manager more times than him. you didn’t know what snapped.

there was an unbelievable gap between the man you married and the man he was today.

by the time you’d finished your now three glasses of wine, you washed your two dishes and went back to into your shared bedroom.

you lit four candles around the room and inhaled deeply. you then sat on the ottoman that rested at the foot of the bed, and crossed one of your legs over the other, getting lost in your thoughts.

the more you thought, the angrier you became.

loving michael was difficult—more difficult than your friends and family warned you, but you believed that love could outlive anything negative that could threaten to come between the two of you.

the only reason you were snapped out of your head was because of the click of your bedroom door. it had startled you, but you knew it couldn’t have been an intruder who made it through the gates of neverland—it was your husband.

his posture was tired as his lean frame made its way further into view. the scent of him is what you noticed first. he smelled of cologne as he usually did, but something was off. he didn’t seem nearly as much like himself. and he smelled sweeter.

he didn’t even spare you a glance when he dropped his travel bag and headed into the bathroom and shut the door. the audacity he had to not even have the gall to look at you.

you were dumbfounded to say the least.

you thought to get up and bang on the door. yell what his problem was. but in that moment, you didn’t have the energy to. instead, you patiently waited in that same spot. you waited for an explanation, an apology.

you soon heard the shower click on, and you just sat there.

your body tensed as soon as you looked at the clock on his side of the bed and realized that over thirty minutes had passed—just like that.

you couldn’t control your body as it hauled ass to the bathroom door, moving to open it, only to realize it was locked. instinctively, you knocked twice. softly first.

no answer.

you knocked harder, quicker.

after what felt like hours, he’d finally emerged—towel around his slim waist, water droplets still visible on his skin. his eyes locked with yours as you stared him down, searching his eyes for some sort of emotion, but failed to find any that was recognizable.

the beautiful eyes that used to look at you like you were his entire world, now looked at you with some form of contempt. before you could even register what was happening, your hands found his chest and pushed him. not enough to hurt, but enough to get a reaction from him. he barely flinched.

“what the fuck, michael?!” you asked, the words ripping from your throat with so much emotion that your voice didn’t sound like your own. “why the hell haven’t i heard from you in weeks?”

he ignored you, simply brushing passed you politely. you were seething at this point. something that could’ve been solved with a conversation was being blown out of proportion—yes by you, but also by his stubborn and childish ways.

“and don’t think you could run into the shower and wash that bitches perfume off of you before i could smell it,” you were talking to his back as he put on a white tee shirt, “you fucking disgust me.”

he quickly turned to face you, “you ain’t right, woman.” your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “can i have two seconds of peace? every time i come into this room it’s like ’m being interrogated with questions.”

you felt the rage build inside of you. “i’m your wife, michael! it’s well in my right to question you!” you scoffed, inching closer toward him. “you stepped out on our marriage? you haven’t fucked me in months, but you can go to some bitch and get your dick wet?” you asked, completely serious, looking him in his face.

he stayed silent, which only answered your question.

you couldn’t even register how you felt, only one thing was racing through your mind. “i want a divorce.” your voice broke. “i’m done.”

michael stood there, letting your declaration settle into him. he didn’t react. you threatened separation countless times before and you’d never acted on it, so he figured divorce wasn’t any different.

the thing about michael was, it took a lot to drive him to the point of arguing back with you. you were truthful when you said he was patient, but his patience sometimes felt like neglect.

“you’re not going anywhere.” he stated flatly, eyes darkening. “you always say you’ll leave and you never do. i’m exhausted.”

“i don’t give a shit if you were flying a plane, michael!” you yell, getting fed up. “don’t leave out the fact that it’s you who begs me to stay!—oh, and not to mention the last time, you told me you wanted to start having children with me. you want to bring innocent babies into this toxic fucking household, our house is not a home when no one is there, michael!” you spat, “you don’t care about anyone except yourself.”

the words that came out of your mouth were harsh, but that didn’t make them any less true.

your chest was heaving and your blood felt like it was about to burst out of your veins.

michael let out a low, bitter laugh. “woman, don’t y’dare let it fly out ‘a your mouth that i only care about myself. what d’ya call bein' there f'you and carressin' you when you're drunk 'n out of it?" his head cocked to the side, "reassurin' you whenever you're being impossible to deal with? i don’t do that for just anyone. you’re special t’me, doll.” his words softened, and his tone almost—almost felt genuine. “but you’re pushin’ it.”

there it was. finally some honesty from him.

he’d walked away toward the bathroom door, and leaned against the wall beside it with his arms crossed. he radiated calmness while you were a trembling mess. “and to accuse me of stepping out on our marriage is a low that i didn’t think you’d stoop to. i was at my mother’s house, curled up on the sofa watchin’ charlie chaplin.”

again, you almost felt bad until he added, “how do i know you’re not projectin’? havin’ some random man in my bed where we make love? touchin’ you where i make you feel good? hm?”

the accusation made your face pale. “how could you say something like that to me?” you tried your hardest not to show him how hurt you were. “you’re the only person i’ve slept with in over eight years and you’re accusin’ me of being disloyal to you? honey, if i were sleepin’ around, trust me, i would’ve left you two years ago. for good.” you said, hoping to get some kind of reaction from him.

“then what is it?” he straightened. “why does your mind always shoot to the worst possible case scenario?”

“because, michael, you never give me a reason to think otherwise. you’re so reserved. and comin’ home tonight after not seein' me for months, smellin' like you were with another woman doesn’t ease my mind!”

he finally snapped. “i’m not fuckin’ around! and the idea even running through your head really makes me wonder why i try in the first place.”

“try?” you scoffed, truly baffled by his statement, “please point out in any part of this where it is that you’re tryin’.”

he didn’t say a word, and the weight of everything was now crushing you. tears swelled in your eyes as you thought about where you went wrong. you were choking on your own bitterness and was silently screaming for him to soothe you.

you didn’t see an ounce of love in his eyes anymore, only some form of obligation.

“how can you go from practically begging me to have a hand in bringing a life into this world—to being so fucking cold to me? i don’t understand you, michael.” you sighed in defeat. “you’re not the man i fell in love with. the man who swept me off of my feet and promised me the world.” your voice betrayed you by cracking, “you’re a liar.” everything you’d been holding in for the past month began to slip. you told him how unimportant you felt to him, and how he didn’t do his part of being a husband. you sniffed, “do you see the life we’ve created for ourselves? we’re strangers. i don’t know you anymore.”

you felt like throwing something to take the pain off of you, to redirect the conversation rather than force yourself to confront whatever this was. but you didn’t. it wouldn’t help anything.

“baby—”

“michael, i am so damn tired of being hurt by you. tired of pretendin' like shit will be fixed with sex and gifts. none of that fixes anything. we still have problems.” now, he was closer to you, trying to touch you but you recoiled at the action. “i don’t think this is fixable.” you settled. “i don’t want anything from you anymore. i don’t want your love or your affection,” you sniffed, “i just want peace.”

“p-please…” his soft voice got small, “i-i can’t do this without you.”

it took every ounce of your being to walk past him and make your way to the closet he’d recently rebuilt on a whim for you. you began taking your clothes off of their hangars, not bothering to see what you were throwing on the floor.

your heart pounded against your chest and your eyesight got blurry, but you didn’t stop.

in that instant, the idea of not coming home to your warmth and laughter made michael sick. he genuinely couldn’t fathom a life where you weren’t in it alongside him.

he knew he’d messed up, but it had never gotten to the point where you were actively packing your things, ready to stand your ground of divorce. he couldn’t have that. not a second of it.

so, he turned and strode to where you were, now on the other side of the closet, grabbing what you’d take with you. you heard his heavy footsteps, but didn’t bother to face him. “i’ll be gone within the hour.”

he desperately made is way through the piles of clothing, taking his place behind you. his large hands grabbed your waist, and he breathed into you. “baby…” he started, “please don’t leave me.” the words her vulnerable. you knew he meant them, but you felt it was too late. “let’s talk about this. p-please…”

you stiffened yet again, still choosing not to face him. “i gave you a chance to talk. instead you basically spat in my face. i’m leaving.”

he moved quickly, his hands now pulling you to twist toward him. if you were serious about leaving him, he wanted you to do it to his face. when you were facing him, you averted his eyes. “tell me what t’do,” he pleaded, “i’ll do anythin’.”

your shoulders hung low, “you don’t care. you don’t love me. you just loved my company.”

he peered down at you, wondering how you two ended up in this state. “of course i love you. how could you say that? i’ve loved you since the second i laid eyes on you. i need you.” he spoke. “i just—i—”

you interrupted him to catch his gaze. “you what, michael?” he just stood there frozen, not knowing how to fix this—not knowing what to say to get you to just hear him. “that’s what i thought. i’m leaving.” you shook your head, trying to get free of his hold, but he was too strong. “let me go.”

reality hit him like a semi-truck. all the years you shared flashed before his eyes. when he blinked, you noticed his lip began to quiver. tears formed in his eyes as he continued to plead. “baby, i-i need you…”

you shook your head. “no, michael. you need to be needed.”

“don’t leave me, sweets,” he started, his hands now pulling you into an embrace, “i’ll do anything—therapy, counseling—anythin’ t’get you to rethink this. don’t leave me,” his voice cracked, “don’t give up on us.”

you closed your eyes as you welcomed him. you missed just holding him close and feeling at home with him. “i’ll be better,” he sobbed into your thick hair, “i love you.”

“this is a fucked up version of love,” you whispered back into him, “i can’t do this.” you pulled away from him. “it’s too much—”

“it spread.” he cut you off, and you immediately knew what he meant.

“what?” your voice had no trace of anger.

“the vitiligo… it spread.”

“michael…”

by this point in his life, michael had only a few spots of melanin left on his skin—not anything visible to the public, but visible to you and him.

for the eight years you’d known him, his biggest insecurity had been his vitiligo. it took well into a year of your relationship to even get him to open up about it. the media created their own insane narratives which only made it worse for him to deal with.

his brown eyes mellowed, “i don’t feel like myself. there is no speck of who i was left on my skin.” he was defeated, you could hear it in his voice.

“oh, michael,” you moved your hand to lift his chin, “i’m sorry.”

“thas’ the reason i haven’t had sex with ya’, and thas’ the reason i been been actin’ this way. i couldn’t imagine you would still want me. i don’t want t’be rejected...”

the way he spoke about himself made you realize how a person can act out of emotion. he thought you’d no longer be sexually attracted to him. but boy, was he wrong.

“of course i still want you,” you moved your hands to his hair, “i want you all the time,” you placed a gentle, lingering kiss to his earlobe, “in fact…” your voice became lower, more rough, “i want you right now.” your right hand traced down his neck, then to his chest, then his stomach. all the way down until you reached the towel he still had around his waist.

“b-baby,” he began, “you don’t have to.”

your hand traced his growing bulge, “i want to.” you slipped your fingertips inside, being careful not to let the towel fall. “you,” you bent down to kiss his abdomen, “are so beautiful.”

he hitched at the contact of your lips, “’m sorry for causing all of this. so so sorry.” he sharply inhaled when you purposely dropped the towel. it felt to his feet and his dick sprung free.

you knew by this point, you weren’t going anywhere. he reacted because of something he was deeply insecure about. he held on to the fact that down there, there were still traces of the man he used to be. he then felt like that was no longer.

you grabbed his long and thick length with both of your hands—it was so big—and brought your lips to it. you trailed kisses from the base to the tip, then the tip to the base.

you saw what he meant. it had spread. before, there were only lighter patches that stopped at his pelvis. now, there were traces of vitiligo on the one place he’d told you he was glad still looked the same.

all you wanted to do in that moment, was make him feel loved and accepted. you knew that based on your argument that night, that he was letting it take a toll on him. you just felt the need to make sure he knew that you’d still love him the same.

with slow and deliberate movements, you flicked your tongue out to graze the tip of his dick, tasting the precum that rested on it. michael reacted to your every move. you craved him and you knew he wanted you just as bad—if not more.

"you taste s'good, mikey," you murmured, looking up to catch his intoxicating gaze, "so good." your lips formed a mischievous smile as his jaw tightened in response.

his fingers found his way into your coiled hair and gripped like his life depended on it. he was on the brink of losing control, and you relished in it.

your tongue began tracing each vein on his length, occasionally meeting his tip again to lick, suck, and kiss. michael's body trembled in response, his muscles tightening as you taunted him with every slow, delicate movement.

"you likin' this, baby?" you whispered, voice low and hungry, "did you miss this?"

"y-yes, mama," he inhaled sharply, "yes."

you then ran your tongue along the underside of his dick, moving it to his balls, and trailing it all the way back to his tip again. while you mellowed out there, his hand that was in your hair gripped a little tighter, and pushed your head down to force you to take him deeper. your hands shot to his thighs to hold yourself steady, but he didn't let up.

michael let out a low and heavy breath, chest heaving as you began to choke on his large dick. as his hands guided your mouth, you welcomed the feeling of his length slamming the back of your throat. a mix of your own saliva and his precum dripped down your chin, rolling down onto your breasts. you knew the sight excited him.

you came up for air to swirl your tongue along his tip, a string of spit following you.

after a few breaths, you took his length back into your mouth, and one of your hands found its way into your panties, desperate to stimulate your clit. you were wetter than you'd been since you could remember. your body was responding to every thrust and every jolt. your eyes were watering, but you couldn't get enough.

"baby," michael breathed in between strokes, "i love this warm mouth," he gently yanked you off of his length to bend down to kiss you. it was rough and wet. your hand moved from your wet folds to grab his neck. your tongues swirled against each others, yearning for more. you two fit together so well. the kiss didn't last long, though. he quickly filled your mouth with his length again. his eyes flickered down, watching you swallow him whole, "you take me so well, my perfect girl..."

you loved his praise. there was something raw and primal about the way he spoke to you.

your hand found your clit again, but this time—you were needier. your body was shivering at every stroke and every sound he was giving to you. your fingers were moving in circles over your clit as you moaned around his dick.

michael was feeding you low and guttural groans, and you were relishing in it.

the wet sounds of your mouth fueled him as he gave you short, rough strokes. with each, your hunger intensified for him, for more. your fingers pressed harder against your sensitive clit, begging for a release.

"m'girl ready to cum?" michael grunted out, "i can't wait t’feel you tremble all over my tongue." his thrusts grew more eager, and you knew his release was nearing, too.

his balls slapped against your chin, over and over, dripping with your spit. his moans grew louder and deeper, signaling he was about to reach his peak. "can i cum in this mouth, sweets?" he groaned, "can i cum down this throat?" you managed a weak 'mhm,' as you relentlessly continued your attack on your clit. "thas’ right," michael said, "thas’ my good girl."

the heat in your stomach grew stronger as you struggled to keep up with his movements. the sounds of the two of you echoed through your bedroom as you started to whimper. you moaned deeply around him as your orgasm swept over you, swallowing you whole. your thighs shook and your folds were covered in your release.

the vibrations were what sent michael over the edge. his thrusts slowed and his words became incoherent. his warm seed spilled into your mouth and you swallowed all that you could, while the rest seeped out onto your chin.

michael watched your every move, never taking his eyes off of you. he slowly pulled out of your mouth, his dick somehow harder than before, and helped you stand on your feet. your lips were swollen and wet, while your chest rose and fell.

your glistening fingers moved from your folds, and you brought them to his parted lips. he happily took them in, tasting your ecstasy. "you are..." he cupped your chin, "gorgeous." he didn't give you a moment to respond as his lips crashed against yours. the kiss was deep and rough, his mouth ravishing yours like he needed you.

the remnants of both your releases were still present. his hand found your right nipple quickly. he twisted and grabbed at it until you moaned into his mouth and devoured you completely. with every movement of his tongue, he reminded you that you were his, and that you weren't going anywhere.

when the kiss finally broke, the two of you were a panting mess, but he wasn't through with you. "go get on the bed, sweets," michael's voice was low and sultry, "lay on your back," he walked toward you, causing you to back up against the bed, "and spread those pretty legs f'me."

you didn't think twice about it. you did exactly what he said, exactly the way he said it.

you two made your way out of the closet and back into the dimly lit bedroom. you didn’t have time to think about if this was toxic or not. you didn’t care.

you'd dropped your robe and was left in nothing but your panties. you laid against the plush bed and it engulfed you. your eyes were locked on michael—who was in nothing but his white tee shirt that hugged him perfectly. his eyes were also on you, taking mental pictures of how good you looked. he loved your body and made sure you never forgot it. "s'beautiful..."

his lean frame walked toward you, his knuckles meeting the bed first, "you don't know how much i enjoy seeing you like this," he whispered, "wet and waiting f'me..." his large hands explored your thighs first, fingertips grazing you slowly. you gasped softly, the anticipation of his mouth eating away at you was enough to make you cum right then and there.

his movements weren't rushed. his lips pressed against your inner thighs, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. he pulled your panties off of you and threw them to... wherever. he then kissed his way upward, purposely avoiding your wetness. his tongue teased you as he licked and kissed, making your back arch off of the bed.

"michael..." you moaned softly, not entirely sure of what you were pleading for.

his mouth finally found your folds, then your clit. the warmth of his tongue sent pulses through you. the intensity had you hitching at every movement.

it didn't help that it had been so long since you had been intimate. you craved this feeling.

his tongue grazed over your swollen clit with precision, tasting your arousal as it coated his sweet lips and tongue. he adjusted one of your legs to open you completely to him. he wanted no spot gone without attention. "y’taste like heaven, mama," he managed to murmur. every lick of his tongue was deliberate. he knew just how to get you on the brink of another release. “such a pretty pussy.”

your hands moved to your sides, then the comforter. your knuckles grew white as you gripped with all of your might. he was sucking your clit with such devotion that you didn't know if he was seeking more than just your orgasm.

with that, he began to ease both his middle and ring finger inside of you. the sudden intrusion made you shiver. "baby... i can't take it..."

"yes y'can, sweets," he looked up at you, eyes dark and hungry. with his free hand, he reached up to grab your breast. he kneaded and rolled your nipple between his index and thumb, coaxing loud moans from you.

you were whimpering as he curled his fingers inside of you, feeling that sensitive, spongy spot. his mouth attached itself to your clit again, and you weren't sure of how much more you could take before you came.

you bit your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood to supress your moans, but michael wasn't having any of it. "unt unt, sweets," he said from below you, "let me hear ya'," he sucked at your clit some more, meaning what he said about wanting to hear you. "i love this pussy, girl..."

"mmfph," was all you could manage to form from your mouth, aside from his name escaping from your lips. he pressed his fingers harder against your g-spot, mouth forming into a sly smile as he continued finger-fucking you into oblivion.

michael groaned against you, fully drunk off of the sounds that were coming out of you. he took much pleasure in your pleasure—despite your bickering and fighting. he loved you, and pleasuring you like this was one of his favorite ways to show it.

you began to gasp, "michael," your voice shook as the intensity became too much to handle. your body was quivering in gratification.

with one last lick to your clit, and one more curl of his fingers, the tension finally broke inside of you. your back arched and your orgasm crashed over you violently. the sounds that erupted from your throat were that of a woman who was deprived of love from her man.

though, michael didn't stop. his fingers kept their rhythm inside of you, "oh, God..." you breathed.

"you know better than to use Jehova's name in vain," he said, "y'wanna cum again, baby?" his voice laced with intense amounts of need.

"yes," you breathed, the word barely coming out coherently under his touch. "you make me feel so good..."

"i know," he whispered, "i know, sweet girl." he started to ease the pace of his fingers, "i need one more from you. just one more before i give you what you need, baby."

"mikey..."

"y'can give me one more... right, mama?" his head ducked back into your pussy, licking and sucking yet again. his persistence alone sent you over the edge.

"i'm close," you drew out, "i'm cumming."

"thaaas' it, girl. give it t'me."

your legs began to shake uncontrollably and a loud moan spilled from your lips. the force of your orgasm left you breathless. your toes were curling as pleasure completely washed over you.

michael finally withdrew his fingers and you watched him. your breathing was heavy and ragged. you never left his gaze as he brought his fingers to his wet mouth. he savored the taste of your sweet release.

his dick was pressing hard against the mattress, and he raised up a bit to position himself at your awaiting entrance. his size compared to you was intimidating, some foreskin still covered the tip. "you're so desperate for this dick, ain't that right?"

you nodded profusely. you were desperate for it.. he grabbed your hips to pull you closer to him, then grabbed the nearest pillow to stuff under you.

your body was positioned perfectly for him. the head of his dick pressed against your wet hole, teasing and torturing you. he leaned in close to your ear as he whispered, "this is mine. only and always mine." his voice was menacing, dripping with truth. and you knew it.

he backed into his previous position and spat into his palm, then brought his hand to roughly stroke his length. he didn't know whether to fuck you until you forgot why you wanted a divorce, or until you felt how much he loved you.

he compromised with both.

he then swiftly removed his shirt in one motion to make sure nothing was in the way of how close he was going to be to you.

then, without warning, he shoved himself inside of you, forcing a loud gasp to leave the both of you. there was nothing sweet about the way he began to fuck you. he liked feeling you crumble beneath him.

inch by inch, he pushed deeper, filling you to the brim. "so fuckin' tight, baby," he said, voice rough. he then gave you no time no adjust to his size before he started giving it to you. “i missed this pussy.”

"m-michael, please..." you begged, but he didn't show an ounce of care.

"take it, baby... i know y'can," his face contorted as he plowed into you, each thrust making your body jolt forward. your moans and his whimpers filled the room. your legs shook as he hit deeper and harder, the pressure building up inside of you until you had to remind yourself to breathe.

the pressure was intoxicating, and you both knew it. you were well aware that this kind of relationship wasn't healthy—but it felt damn good. it was wrong, but with every movement of his hips, you craved him even more.

you loved him, and michael loved you too—more than he knew how to express. somewhere between giving you sweet love and giving you heart racing excitement, he forgot the happy medium between the two.

"you're so deep, mikey," you said, feeling him practically poking your lungs.

he blushed, "yeah?" his big hand rested on your lower belly, "y'feel me there?"

you nodded, completely undone.

he bit down on his lip as he looked down at you. he was gorgeous. forehead was dripping in sweat, but he still somehow looked like the prettiest man on the planet.

he drove so deeply into you that you tried pressing your body far into the mattress, "where y'goin', girl? don't run from this dick." you moaned at his vulgar words, sounding broken. you tried to plead with him, but no words dared form. “goddamn, baby.”

"why..." you whimpered, and your hand found his arm. you weren’t completely sure of what you were asking him, but in some way, you think he knew.

he leaned into you, touching your nose to his, "because i love you," he whispered, "i love you s'much that i can't let y'go..."

his strokes slowed, but he was still relentless. your vision began to blur and flutter open and shut as he dug into you. his mouth found your nipple and he sucked. hard.

"tell me y'love me, sweets," michael urged, his voice a mix of plead and command, he desperately needed to hear you say you loved him.

you breathed in deep, "i love you, michael, oh, i love you," you moaned loudly, your voice filled with passion, "i'm gonna cum again," you gasped.

"cum f'me, baby—claim this dick," he rasped, "you're so perfect."

your core tightened and your eyes fluttered shut. your third orgasm of the night made you completely submissive to him.

something flipped within you. you needed to let him know you were still somewhat in control.

you managed to flip him on his back and get on top. you could tell you surprised him by the raise of his eyebrows. you straddled him, then lined his tip up again with your soaking entrance.

you eased down and his eyes didn't dare leave yours. "you feel so good inside of me. this dick was made to fuck me." you threw your head back in pleasure.

you rocked back and forth on his length, hand moving to his throat. your eyes narrowed and his hand matched yours, and found your neck. you were fighting for control, and you weren't ready to give in.

your movements got rougher, and he could see it. "give me all y’anger, baby..." michael groaned. "i don't deserve this pussy, mama." his eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness. the feeling of you warmly and tightly wrapped around him was making him dizzy.

your eyes softened, "yes you do, michael," your hips stuttered, "you deserve it all..."

that was enough to push him over the edge.

"can i put a baby in you? get you all big an' round with our baby?" he begged, "can i fill y'up, angel face?" he whimpered.

there was nothing you could say but yes. you knew your agreement meant repercussions, but in that moment, it didn't matter. you just wanted him to finish in you.

“gonna stuff you full of my cum…”

and with that, a shuddering exhale escaped his lips as he let himself go. his warmth filled you completely as you sat fully on his dick. the sensation of him spilling inside of you, hot and thick, set off something inside of you that made you cum right along with him.

you cried out each other's names as breathless plea's.

michael pulled out of you and managed to push any remnants of cum that escaped, back inside of you. he couldn't let any go to waste. he wanted your family.

you rolled over on the other side of him, and listened to yours and his breathing. you lazily wrapped one arm around his torso, and gazed up at him. you waited for him to say something—anything.

he traced his fingertips in circles over your stomach, and his expression was hard to read.

"'m so sorry for all of the pain i've caused you," his voice was low, "i don't want to keep you here if you want t'go..." with a broken sigh, you force him to look at you. you didn't want to leave, but something had to change. "say somethin', baby..." he pleaded, "please..."

"i don't wanna go, michael," you said, "but i can't stay in an environment where 'm bein' hurt all the time."

"i know angel, an' i'm sorry—"

"then fix it, michael!" you whisper-yelled, voice hoarse, "i can't keep repeatin' this same toxic cycle. we're a mess.”

"i love you, baby." he whispered, tear falling from his cheek. "i want ya' and i need ya'. i'll do anythin' to fix this. i want our family." his hands roamed your hair, and somehow, you believed him. through all of your fighting, there was still love buried somewhere. “i want t’make this house a home.”

you nodded weakly, then he kissed you. slow and tender. it was like he tried to fix all that he broke within you. for the first time in a long time, his kiss didn't feel like desperation or need, but love.

pure and genuine love.

he brought you into an embrace, and planted a kiss to your forehead. "i'll fix this, sweets. i know it." and you both drifted to sleep in each other's arms—raw and vulnerable.

through all of the pain, you knew your relationship still stood a chance. if anyone could get through anything like this, it was the two of you.

𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ- @pytforever @sonnetsforher @mjslovrr comment to be added/removed, asks/requests open! <3

[cheremj]

PUT HIM TO SLEEP !

Michael falls asleep by sucking your boobs. That’s it. That’s the fic. Inspired by this <3

It became a nightly routine at this point.

Your eyes will find the clock on the wall, nearing midnight, then followed by the sounds of the front door from downstairs opening and closing. The covers are halfway kicked off of you, just in time as the doorknob turns and reveals your terribly exhausted husband. Yet, he still pulls a smile for you to be greeted with.

“Missed you so much, baby.” He says it every night he comes home, thankful you no longer make the air in his house taste like loneliness. You don’t move over on the bed, because the spot for him is in your arms.

You happily let his weight topple on you, head resting on your chest as you go to rub soothing circles on his back. “Don’t want to shower n change first?”

He grumbles into your skin, eyes already fluttering shut. “Mmm, wanna lay down for a bit before.” You would’ve believed him if you didn’t start to feel fingers play with the straps of your loose tank top, silent permission to pull them down your shoulders. You help push the fabric down, revealing your breasts for the habit you don’t remember letting him create, although you’re more than happy to let it continue if it knocks him to sleep like a baby for the rest of the night.

His palm is full and warm as there’s no hesitation to cup one of your breasts, having your breath stutter. He begins to knead gently, the soft weight of you in his hand making your own arousal start to surge.

The other hand wanders down, creating goosebumps in its wake. His touch stops at your ass, now caressing them in the same rhythm he’s doing on your breast.

“Tell me about your day, mama. What did you do while I was gone?”

Your mouth falls open, but no words come out as he now rolls a thumb over your nipple, hardening the peak. He feigns obliviousness to your shivers, but there’s a thrill surging through him to having you like this, open and breathless, undone with any touch he gives you.

You clear your throat, searching for your voice. “It was okay,” The tremble you tried to fight back in your tone becomes evident the second he starts to close his lips over your nipple, sucking gently. “Besides waiting for you to come home, I kept myself busy by seeing what needed to be clean around the house.”

He hums in response, then letting the tip of his tongue swirl over the bud. The hand on your ass stops its caresses, to only give them to your other breast so it wouldn’t be left neglected.

You bring up your hand to comb through his curls, keeping the conversation going to ignore the way his tongue is dragging slow, messy circles over your nipple, which is giving you the urge to press your thighs together. “I take it rehearsal was tiring again today?”

He draws back to breathe over the wet skin, squeezing the other breast in his palm gently. “mmm, my pretty girl feels so soft.…would stay here forever if I could.” How he completely ignores your question, too lost in how giving love to your breasts is nearly putting him to sleep.

You pull back some of the curls covering his face, watching him lean back down to lick a wet stripe up to your nipple, sucking it back into his mouth and letting it roll between his lips.

God, it’s hard to not squirm. You hear his breathing start to slow, work of his mouth getting gentler, sleep around the corner ready to take him. Whether it was an accident or intentional, you don’t know, but he suddenly bites down lightly on the bud.

You shudder out a gasp, unable to stop the jerk of your hips. He grumbles, snaking one arm around you to keep you still. As if you weren’t already fighting for your life to do so.

Then, you feel the cold air hit you particularly hard on your chest, looking down to see him dozed off with half of your nipple hanging out his mouth, breast all slick and peak swollen. How even in his sleep, his tongue twitches to give the faintest licks to your nipple, never truly letting you escape the shudders he delivers you.

Oh, what would he do without you?

[prettyangeliczz]

𓂃𓈒𓐍 PERFORMANCE BEFORE THE SHOW

INDEX.

ㅤꨄ︎⸝⸝ michael needs a small confidence boost before his 1995 mtv performance to do well; luckily, he can practice on his sweet wife.

𝒸ontent 𝓌arning: 18+ mdni. cursing. unprotected sex. backshot. creampie. clit play. slight cunnilingus. kissing. hickies. groping. exhibitionism. no use of y/n. pet names: baby, mama, pretty girl. 𝓌𝒸: 2k.

Ⴘou should’ve known Michael was up to something the minute you walked into his dressing room, seeing him sitting alone at the vanity, humming one of his songs and playing with the cuffs of his suit.

His eyes found yours in the mirror, and a quick smirk appeared. You also should’ve known by the way he whistled at you and immediately asked you to stand beside him, his voice as gentle as a harp.

Michael’s right hand found your waist as you stood beside him, your left hand coming around his shoulder as your fingers rubbed up and down his neck. You watch the way he bites his lip as he looks at the detailing of your fit. “Look at you, you’re so sexy.” He whispers against your ear, and you shiver and giggle as you lean your head against his, knocking his hat to the side a little.

“I missed you.” Michael mumbles and wraps his arms around you to pull you closer.

You giggle again as you’re so close to sitting on his lap now, “I’ve been around you all day.” You reply, and he shrugs, “I can’t miss my wife? My beautiful-” he cuts himself off by leaning down to the side of your neck and giving you a peck. “Beautiful wife?” He mumbles and covers the back of your neck with kisses, the softness of his mouth making your heart jump.

You lean your back on his chest, his hands resting on your stomach as yours stay on top. “You can miss me whenever you like.” You whisper, you turn your head up to stare at his jaw, and your fingers come up to it.

Rubbing it slowly, Michael looks down at you, his heart beating faster as he gulps. “Is it okay if I show you how much I’ve been missing you, now?” He rasps out and leans closer, his lips brushing over yours, and the two of you smile.

“Yes.” You graze your lips against his. Michael squeezes your waist as he finally kisses you. His tongue pushes in your mouth, moving around the tip of your tongue as he sucks on it.

You whimper and sigh as he bites your bottom lip before helping you lean forward on the counter. Michael leans against you and slides everything to the mirror and the wall. He stands and pushes his chair back, his eyes glance at your ass, and he licks his bottom lip at the way your dress accentuates your curves. Michael’s veiny right hand comes over to the zipper of your dress and pulls it down slowly, “So beautiful, look at yourself.” He almost moans out and applies pressure against your ass from his crotch.

“Michael.” You sigh and lean your head down, your panties soaked from earlier when you watched him get ready and practice. Everything else is not helping you at all.

“Come on, baby, look at yourself when I take care of you.” He chuckles, you whine and look up, making eye contact with him in the mirror.

Your dress falls on the ground, and you step out of it, kicking it to the side while Michael brings his hands to his pants and shuffles them down with his boxers. Your heart beats faster as you now stare at yourself in the mirror, your boobs on top of the counter, as your right hand grips the edge of the counter to prepare yourself.

Michael wraps his hand around his dick, the soft grunts he makes while his thick, smooth hand pumps his dick over your lace panties.

You bite your bottom lip and move your body from side to side, teasing him as pre-cum spills out from his tip, coating his fingers a little. “Look at what you do to me.” He moans, Michael then looks back at you with a nervous expression and gulps. “I uh, forgot to bring condoms, do you have any in your purse?” The confidence in his voice falters, and you shake your head no.

“I forgot too.” You whisper, you glance over your left shoulder to look at him better. “We can do this without one, if you’re up to it?” Your voice carries a gentleness that only turns him more.

Michael nods slowly, “Whatever you feel comfortable with, baby.” You smile and look back at the mirror, his hands move to your panties and roll them down.

The slickness from your pussy covers it. He watches it drop at your ankles, resting on your heels. “Goddamn mama.” He rasps.

Bringing his middle and index finger to slide up your folds, you shiver while your breath hitches. Michael pushes his right knee against your thighs to keep you open, and his thumb teases your soaked pussy. “Prettiest thing and it’s all mine to love.” Michael salivates at the sight, his dick brushes against the back of your thigh, making you press into the counter.

“Shit, Michael, don’t tease me, we barely have time.”  You whine, he smirks while his middle finger slips in your pussy, riding it up and down carefully, seeing and feeling your twitches. “That’s my problem to worry about; yours is nothing.”

Leaning on you, Michael’s lips brush over your right ear. “Gonna fill this pretty pussy up, mama.” He reminds you and rests his left hand on your left shoulder. 

Michael’s right hand moves to his dick and aligns it against your hole. The two of you moan, and Michael rests his forehead on your back as he inserts his dick inside. Your gummy walls pulsate hard around him, sucking him as he slowly pushes his length all the way in. 

The two of you take a deep breath, and Michael looks up, staring at you in the mirror. “That’s it, pretty girl, how does it feel?” He whispers, his lips drag wet kisses down your neck and to your shoulder. 

You moan and clear your throat, “Feels good.” You moan, and Michael nods as his mouth opens a little. His teeth dig into your skin lightly and carefully while his tongue licks up, sucking on you. Michael then rests his right hand on your stomach as he gives you deep, heavy strokes. 

Michael’s thick dick stretches you out with each thrust, deep breaths leaving from both of you, while his chest presses into your back. 

With his skilled hips, he rolls into you, and the wetness of your pussy becomes sticky with his pre-cum, loud sounds of skin meeting fill the room. “Fuck, yeah, right there.” You gasp and grip the counter. Michael bites on your shoulder before kissing you, and your pussy tightens around him while you squirm. Each thrust becomes harder and deeper than the last. 

Michael keeps a rhythm with you, and the minute you get quiet, he ruins it to hear your moans again. 

Sliding his right hand down your stomach, you gasp as Michael’s middle finger slips onto your clit, “You can take me, come on. I believe in you, mama.” He mumbles and shifts slightly, each thrust hitting your g-spot. His middle finger rubs over your clit gently. Michael smirks as he feels you push yourself against him, forcing his dick to go in deeper. 

Both of you moan, and your chest rises up and down fast while your nipples brush against the table. “Oh Mikey— oh fuck, you’re in so deep, baby.” 

You and Michael lock eyes in the mirror, forcing him to quicken his pace. His hips push forward, harder, keeping his dick buried in between your wet folds. The pressure makes you tremble while his tip coats your walls. 

Michael moves his hands to your waist, gripping it hard as it helps him keep you both steady. The counter shakes, and miscellaneous things begin to fall, but you both are so distracted by each other to care.

Michael groans deeply, “Come on, baby, make me proud.” He begs and begins to whimper, hitting you with stronger thrusts, getting you close to the edge with it. You nod and lean your head down, pressing your mouth on your forearm. Michael brings his hand up under your chin and makes you raise your head up. “Uh-uh, don’t repress yourself, let me hear you loud and clear.” Your pussy grips him from that sentence alone. Michael laughs and kisses your cheek.

“Moan with me, makes me know you like being filthy too.” He teases, and you whine, your eyes look at your neck, seeing the many bruises his lips and teeth gave you, mentally noting you’re going to have to cover them up soon. 

Michael stays inside you, the burning in his stomach coming in strong as he feels so close. He doesn’t let up from you, not even for a second. Your movements, however, grow lazy, allowing Michael to fully take control. “I got you, s’okay baby.” He mumbles and kisses your cheek, you

nod and moan, “Please, I’m gonna cum.” You whimper. “I know, I know, sweet thing. I feel you, shit, you feel good.” 

The feeling is relentless for you both, your body shaking as you try to keep up with Michael as he fucks you a bit rougher now. You whimper out his name, “Cum for me, mama. S’okay, I got you taken care of, you know this.” He begs, the way his voice gets so soft, even with the bass in it, make your choke out a moan. 

With a few more strokes in you, Michael finally pushes you over the edge as your cum covers his tip, drooling down his member. He groans deeply and lays his lips on your shoulder-blade while he slows down. It hurts so good for both of you. Your pussy feels hot now, and Michael gives you a couple more thrusts before giving you a heavy release. 

Michael’s cum shoots inside you, and his body jerks repeatedly before he goes limp. Slowly pulling out of you, his eyes darken at the way his cum and yours drip down your thighs, your pussy swollen and trembling. Michael’s right hand rubs his dick a little, hand getting sticky as he squats down. 

Resting both big hands on your ass cheeks, he opens them up and licks at your pussy, the vibration of his moans making you lean into his face.

“Mmmh.” You moan and giggle, Michael smirks and rubs his mouth side to side against your sensitive pussy, the taste and smell of you covering him. You squirm on his face, his nose and mouth feeling like a remedy. Michael moves away from you, his mouth covered with cum and drool. You look down at him, seeing the dazed look on his face. 

You and Michael breathe heavy as the two of you smile at each other. “You okay over there, Mr. Jackson?” You smile, Michael smirks, and licks his lips. “Got my meal and dessert, of course I am.” He happily states and stands up. Your eyes immediately look at his dick, soft now. 

You scoff and laugh, “I can’t believe we did that shit.” You look at him in the mirror as he grabs some tissues and shrugs, smirking away. “We’ve done it in riskier places.” He reminds you, and you hum.

Michael wipes himself first as you pull out more tissues for him to use on you. “You ready for your performance now?” You ask, and the two of you pause and smile at each other before laughing. “As long as I got your attention.” He mumbles and bites his bottom lip. You lick yours and nod, “You got it, keeping it is the real challenge.” You whisper.

Michael hums and tosses the used tissues in the trash by the counter. He leans in closer, letting his dick brush over your ass, lips ghosting against your ear. “I think I got that under control.” He mutters, and you look down, nodding. Michael kisses your cheek and wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer as you look up, and the two of you stare at yourselves in the mirror.

[cermoore]

𑣲⋆ thinking bout this specific audio… basically just a rewrite if you will…

“you want me to stop?” “no no please don’t stop… please don’t stop keep going — keep going” the lewd noises filled the room. Especially in this hot summer, the two bodies sweated immensely, you were on top, cowgirling your precious boyfriend Michael while the rest of his brothers were outside having fun in the pool. Michael was a whining whimpering mess, the pace you moved as your hands grasped his exposed glistening chest — while your beautiful tits bounce giving him the perfect view, it really drove him over to the edge. The sloppy sounds each second you thrusted in and out, mixed with his noise of pleasure — you were loud, incredibly loud. Michael wasn’t even trying to keep it discreet, his whining was dragged by the awfully fast rhythm, you bent down burying yourself onto the cruck of his neck, his mouth was right by your ear — his desperate moans were even louder than they already are.

Out of pure instinct you immediately smothered your lips against his, crashing them without a care. Even so — as you kissed passionately, his whines managed to break through your lips. They were cut and muffled, it made you all the more wet. Parting your lips, your sticky forehead pressed against his —heavily panting. “Who's my good boy?” you murmured with your eyes shut “…I’m your good boy, I’m your good boy…” Michael whined. “You like that…?” “yes yes yes mama…” you were close to your orgasm, and so was he “…I’m your good boy — I’m yours… I’m yours I’m yours yes yes—” Michael kept on blabbering, you sat up throwing your head up as your arch your back mouth gaping open. Michael kept on moaning non stop as you rode him, occasionally thrusting up into you for more.

“I’m gonna cum… I’m gonna cum inside you—“ “yes baby cum for me-!” your eyes focused on him, brows furrowed as your orgasm hit close “…’m gonna—cum.” Michael blurted once more, as you continued your movements. Michael gasped — his mouth opened wide groaning once he shoots out his release, filling you up full. His cum immediately drips out your entrance, he bucked his hips up one last time — making sure he freed his dick empty. You collapse on top of him — you both sighed of relief as your bodies slammed making a faint slapping noise. “…oh my gosh — I came so much…” Michael murmured under his breath “good job baby… that was amaizing…” you praised lazily. “I love you… “ “I love you too…” you two shut your eyes.

🏷️ @bttrphly @applehead-angelface @ttangerinexo @pixieelixer-24 @b4bybmine @amoravelee @navydotz @amilahhh @botdfaholic @givein2mike @commanders @b3rk1ey @cillianmurphyapologist @softchaosdiary505 @yuna211205 @tinydreamerpillar @dolleciita @theyluvjolibee @mikesorange @melodiesmurakamis

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[1andonlytashae]

Healing Arc

Timeline: HIStory Era

Pairing: Michael x fiance black rem reader

Preview: Michael reaches a breaking point, you help pick up the pieces.

Content: angst, fluff, comfort, hurt, teeny bit of spice/smut near the end. Pissed off Michael, empathic reader.

Word count: 4.6k

A/N: I apologize for the late drop, I didn't like where the story was heading and scrapped some parts. Slightly proofread, so give me grace. Hope ya'll enjoy!

Los Angeles 1995:

━━ ❖ ━━

It’s a miracle Michael hadn’t completely fallen apart after the last few years he’d endured. 

Health issues.

Allegations of child SA. 

World tour cut short.

New album releasing.

There was only so much a person could take before their breaking point was reached. 

The bubble burst in early May when a local radio station dropped an unauthorized leak of ‘Scream’, the new single from Michael’s upcoming ‘HIStory’ album. 

Neverland, early morning:

A quietness filled the mansion and settled around the estate like a snug blanket. No maids, no groundskeepers, no butlers, just an engaged couple living in the moment and having a much deserved break. 

Early mornings on the ranch were always peaceful to you and even more so when it was just you and Michael. 

Recently you’d introduced him to meditation and by the grace of God, it stuck! On the balcony of the master bedroom, settled on a black yoga mat, surrounded by the aroma of sandalwood incense and eyes closed, Michael released a deep breath. 

Palms resting on his folded knees and the gentle breeze rustling his loose curls, this was peace, this was calm. 

Next to him on your own mat, your thick, plump thighs were criss-crossed , you still wore your hair wrapped under your bonnet and your black and gold frames sat perched on your cute nose. 

A serene smile graced your round face. 

It genuinely brought you joy to see Michael at peace, even for 20 minutes. The hell you both endured over the last several months were probably some of the hardest in your 8 year relationship. 

Watching how the media ate him up like a hungry pack of wolves, seeing the scrutiny from strangers and the cherry on top of this messed up sundae, witnessing his health issues. You weren’t even married yet and already you were being tested for better or for worse. 

Inhaling, you finished your own meditation and brought your hands together as if in prayer and slowly opened your eyes. Taking a moment, you just sat and silently admired Michael for the man he was and how he was actively choosing to persevere. 

He was truly a beautiful man, especially when he was bare faced. When you’d met back in ‘87, Michael had just released ‘Bad’ and you were a junior editor for JET magazine and more concerned with climbing the corporate ladder than getting to know a man. 

Of course you had hook-ups and casually dated, but you weren’t taking any man seriously. Most didn’t want to be in a serious relationship with an ambitious woman, especially one that was coming up on 25, but back then that was considered old. 

However, you were soon going to find out the reason you hadn’t given serious dating much thought was because you just hadn’t met Michael Jackson yet. 

Flashback:

Shoot! The thought rang out in your brain like a bomb. You were running late and couldn’t afford to be this morning. Your boss wasn’t super strict, but she had stressed the importance of being present and prompt at the morning briefing since an important guest would be in attendance. 

Checking your appearance in the full length mirror nestled in the corner of your bedroom, you were overly pleased with the black knee length pencil skirt, red wrap blouse and gold broach you’d paired with the new platform Mary Janes you’d gotten last weekend. 

Jewelry, check. Perfume, check. Hair on point, check. You were finally ready to go. 

Grabbing your black, Coach Skinny Flight tote and doing a last minute check to make sure you had everything, you dashed out the door and locked up behind yourself. 

The commute to work thankfully wasn’t bad and only took 25 minutes, giving you an extra 10 minutes to spare and get your bearings before the briefing. 

When you’d gotten to the office and made your way to your meager cubicle, you’d taken notice of the extra bodies in the lobby and a few on your floor. Shrugging it off as just a coincidence since this was a popular African American publication company and famous people came through all the time. 

Continuing to deposit your belongings and head to the break room to get a cup of coffee, you couldn’t help but notice how chatty some of your co-workers were and especially for a Tuesday morning. 

A little curious, you stopped at your work bestie, Brandy’s cubicle to get the latest gossip. 

“Hey girl, what’s the word? Why’s it so busy in here?” You asked as you raised your mug to your lips. 

Turning toward you with wide eyes and an even bigger grin, she responded. 

“Good morning to you too ma’am!”

Smirking, you shake your head.

“Morning heffa. Now spill!”

“Alright, alright Queen Sheba!” She chuckled. “So word around the office is that a certain King of Pop will be making an appearance today.” Brandy stated with a knowing grin.

She was well aware of your small crush on Michael and of all days, she was relishing in that fact. 

Pulse quickening just a step, mouth suddenly dry and mug paused in mid-air for just a second too long, there was no way you weren’t affected. 

Who wouldn’t be when you hear your secret celebrity crush will be in the same building in just a few short minutes. The man was GORGEOUS!

Carefully setting your favorite coffee mug on Brandy’s desk you lightly shook your hands out and took in a deep breath. 

“Woah girl, you good?” Brandy asked, rubbing your back. 

Nodding, you took a few extra seconds to get your nerves under control. Wouldn’t do any good to have a panic attack at work but shoot, it was MICHAEL JACKSON for crying out loud!

Once you were back in control and had a more solid hold of your emotions, you gave a head nod to Brandy in silent black girl solidarity and scooped up your mug. 

“I’m just gonna be in the room with Michael Jackson, no big deal. I still have a job to do and one day isn’t gonna change that. Pray for me though girl, I’m gone need it.” You chuckled as you turned to make your way back toward your cubicle. 

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

Several moments later

Agreeing to an interview literally the day after releasing his album, some would say is insane, overwhelming, doing too much, but there is no such thing for the perfectionist and King of Pop. 

Michael ducked his head as he made his way into the publication keeping his eyes low even behind the dark tinted sunglasses. It was just another Tuesday for him, however he was excited to talk about this album and the new look. It was a chance to show people he was evolving. 

Gliding past the glass doors, he sauntered into the lobby with a quiet, graceful confidence that just poured from his very essence. Hair coiffed just so, allowing movement through his glossy curls. Black leather jacket fitting nice and sung, the tailored black slacks sitting just right and his red shirt with the top two buttons loose. 

Stepping onto the elevator, along with Bill and Tonya, Darryl Dennard’s assistant, the ride was fairly short and they stopped on the 5th floor. 

Upon making his presence settle into the room, Michael was instantly greeted and made to feel comfortable. It wasn’t until he’d been situating himself in the black, overly stuffed chair that he’d taken notice of the breathtaking creation standing in the background. 

A vision in black and red, it didn’t escape his notice that you matched with him which caused a slow, easy grin to appear across his soft lips. The entire time during the briefing Michael’s eyes kept veering towards you and he couldn’t stop staring. He was mesmerized by your round curves and the thickness of your thighs even under the skirt. 

When Darryl and Tina, the senior editor, called for a quick 15 minute break to arrange time for the interview setup, Michael saw an opening for his opportunity. Stretching his lean 5’9 frame to stand from his seat, he casually glided his way towards you.

Speaking with Marcia, another junior editor,who happened to be in the art department, you two were discussing layouts, captions and Michael’s outfit. It was only 6 minutes into your conversation that you took notice of how quiet Marcia became and the faint coloring on her cheeks. 

“Marcia, what’s wrong? Cat got your tongue girl?” You asked mildly concerned until you felt a sense of immediate calm and warmth flood you. 

“Hello ladies, I don’t mean to interrupt but I didn’t want you to leave before I said hello” Michael politely stated, never taking his eyes off you. 

Stuck. Your body wouldn’t cooperate and move, no matter how many signals you gave it until Marcia slightly nudged your arm with her elbow. As if you were an old Chevy that just needed a jumpstart, legs suddenly free, you turned towards Michael. 

Up close he was even more beautiful. The delicate and slender slope of his nose, rich light brown skin, beautiful wide eyes, long glossy curls and that bright smile. No doubt he’d be the cover model of your dreams tonight. 

“You’re supposed to be getting ready for an interview.” You quipped, faking a level of calm you definitely weren’t feeling. 

Michael dipped his head just a fraction.

“I know but you looked like the better conversation.” He confessed, the left corner of his mouth twitching into a satisfied grin. 

Was he flirting with me?, you thought.  

“How can you be so sure?” You volleyed back coyly. 

Inching his body forward just a hair, being careful not to intrude too much into your personal space, Michael smoothly replied. 

“Only one way to test the theory out. Let me take you out to dinner while I’m in town.” 

“You don’t even know my name and yet I’m still waiting for a proper introduction. I know you’re famous but ya mama didn’t teach you manners?” The retort flew off your tongue before you could even comprehend where it came from. 

Without blowing your cool front, you lightly crossed your arms and a quick smirk appeared on your full glossed covered lips. 

Bested and growing more attracted to you by the minute, Michael could only chuckle and hold his hand out towards you. 

“I’m Michael.” His usual soft spoken register announced. 

Placing your hand in his, your smaller appendage was engulfed in long, slightly calloused fingers. 

“Wow!” You gasped faintly. Hopefully he didn’t notice, you thought as you regained your composure. 

You introduced yourself by giving him your name and shook his hand. 

Neither of you moved to unclasp the other's hand until the clearing of a throat broke up the moment. 

“I hate to disturb this “love connection”. Marcia started. “But we gotta start getting ready for the interview Mr. Jackson.” 

Michael couldn’t let the moment end….not yet. 

“So will you let me take you out now that proper introductions have been made?” He asked again. 

Keeping eye contact with Michael, you didn’t immediately reply. You let the question rest between you two and just barely caught the slight dip in his smile. 

Tilting your head just the smallest fraction, you made the decision then and there to play hard to get with Michael Jackson. 

“While flattered, I’m gonna politely decline that invitation. It was nice meeting you Michael, but we’ve kept you long enough.” You sweetly turned him down. Preparing to make your way across the room, you were stopped with a hand to your elbow. 

Turning toward who you immediately suspected to be Michael and were proven right, you couldn’t help but let a small smile soften your face. 

“Ok, so no dinner then how bout your phone number please?” He pleaded with doe eyes. 

Freaking out internally, that he was still making an effort to try, you ran through different pros and cons quickly to balance out ‘what if’ scenarios in your head before coming to an answer. 

“Alright Michael, you can have my number but you get one shot to “woo” me. Let’s see what you got Mr. Superstar!” You challenged him. 

Once you’d let Michael in, there was no turning back! Shortly after the first meeting, he immediately started “wooing” you. Flowers became a weekly occurrence, nightly phone calls became routine and the letters you’d receive while he was on the road were some of the sweetest, most intimate and filthy admissions of love you’d ever gotten. It wasn’t long before you and Michael were making your relationship official and you were moving from NY to LA.

You two had become inseparable and Michael made you believe living a soft life was possible. After a few years together, Michael proposed and you couldn’t imagine not saying yes. Both agreeing on a long engagement , you two have been happy ever since and planning a wedding for early spring of ‘96.

End of Flashback.

“Take a picture, it'll last much longer baby girl.” Michael’s playful voice teased. 

Snapping out of the time machine you’d gone in, you grinned and tuned back into reality. 

“Well excuse me sir for admiring my handsome man.” You chuckled, swatting a hand out toward him. 

Grabbing your hand, Michael brought it towards his lips and pressed the sweetest kiss against your knuckles.

“Now I love when you admire me baby, but you keep staring any longer I’m gone think you want somethin’ girl.” Michael bit his lower lip and pressed another kiss to your knuckles. 

“Oh get your mind out the gutter sir. Besides, I already know you gone give me something later tonight anyway.” You winked at him as you affectionately squeezed his hand.

He couldn’t help the boyish grin that came to rest on his face as he mulled your words over. It was the pure truth, you both knew that Michael couldn’t keep his hands off your luscious curves and took every opportunity to touch some part of your body. 

“Damn straight and for as long as you let me too. Don’t play girl.” Michael retorted, a thin veil of lust coating his words. 

“Alright Mr. Too smooth, you ready to get the day going?” You asked with a slight yawn. 

Rising to a stand, Michael extended his other hand towards you. 

Grasping his hand, you allowed him to pull you up from the mat and bring you into his arms. 

“ Yes my love, as long as I have you by my side, it’s gonna be a good day.”

Rubbing his back in soothing motions, you tipped your head back to stare into those soul piercing eyes of his. 

“Stuck like glue baby, I’m not going anywhere.” You declared. 

Bending his head to meet your shorter frame, Michael pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your awaiting lips. 

“I’m grateful for you every day.” He confessed with a shaky breath. 

Tightening your arms around Michael, you willed a portion of your strength to pass onto him and give him the extra boost he needed. Sending a quick prayer you asked God to protect Michael’s kind spirit, guide him to make sound decisions professionally and personally, and to keep any evil minded spirits away from Michael in his new journey. 

“Alright baby, breakfast time. I can’t have you out in the world unfed now.” You patted his back once before untangling your arms from around his waist and nudging him back inside. 

Michael’s observant gaze never left your short frame as you made your way through the bedroom and down the long winding stairs of the house. He followed you all the way to the kitchen and obediently ate his veggie omelet, hashbrowns, toast and glass of orange juice. 

Once breakfast was finished and the kitchen tidy, you both returned to the bedroom and began preparing for the day. 

Settling in his study to go over last minute details of the album, Michael had the radio tuned to a popular L.A. station as background noise. As he was looking over a few promotional mock ups, not giving much thought to what was playing until he heard the DJ’s announcement.

“Listen up, this one is for all the Michael Jackson fans out there. We’ve got a brand new track from the King of Pop, featuring none other than Ms. Jackson if you nasty herself and his little sister, Janet. Here’s Scream, you heard it here first folks!” 

As if the sands of time stopped and caused all movement to cease, Michael froze. The paper in his hand stock still, brows furrowing and causing wrinkles to appear in his forehead as his brain tried processing the words he just heard. 

To further play tricks on him, the next sound he heard was the unmistakable static opening of said new song. 

“Ain’t no damn way. I know there ain’t no damn way they playing my song ahead of schedule.” Michael muttered to himself, clearly agitated and feeling the swirl of anger in his chest. 

The levels of disrespect, betrayal, disappointment and fury were all too much for him to keep bottled inside and Michael couldn’t play nice anymore, he was pissed and everybody was going to feel his wrath. 

Picking up the telephone situated on his desk, his first call was to Sony and he demanded to speak with Tommy Mottola himself because there was no excuse for a screw up of this magnitude to have happened. The second call was to Richard Griffiths, the President of Epic Records, Michael’s label. 

“Listen, I don’t care if he’s in a meeting. Tell him to get his ass on the phone right now damn it! Raising his voice wasn’t something Michael took pleasure in doing but today he’d make an exception. 

“No, this is an urgent matter and I demand to speak with him as soon as possible. If he doesn’t want to lose his most popular and highest grossing artist then I bet he’ll come to the phone then right?!” 

What felt like a tortuous 5 minutes later, Michael heard the rustling of the phone passing hands and then a deep baritone flooded the receiver. 

“Michael, I’m here. Where’s the fire?” Richard huffed into the phone with an air of nonchalance to his tone. 

“My fuckin’ song is being leaked on the radio right now Richard! That’s where the damn fire is. How did this happen?!” Michael growled, with a tight grip on the phone. 

“Shit!” Griffiths murmured. “I’ll start an investigation into this leak right away Michael. I’m truly sorry for this mishap and will get to the bottom of it!” He pleaded.

Michael rolled his eyes, already knowing he was being sold a bunch of BS wrapped in a pretty bow. 

“I’m sure you will. FIX. IT!” Michael hissed before slamming the receiver into its cradle. 

No longer able to ignore the shouts and echo of the phone slamming, you picked up the remote to pause the movie you were watching and tossed the throw blanket off your legs to make sure Michael was alright. 

Padding on bare feet, you cautiously poke your head into his study. 

“Baby, what’s wrong? What happened?” You inquired. 

Needing more room, Michael stood up from behind his desk and started pacing back and forth. 

Pointing at the radio with a scowl and narrowed brown eyes, he drew in a deep breath. 

“‘Scream’ was leaked on the got damn radio and nobody at Sony or Epic claims to know how it happened. Angel, I promise I’m sick and tired of all the bullshit cause I can’t take any more.” 

Stepping fully into the room, your left hand fell upon your chest in shock. You knew how hard Michael worked to keep his projects under lock and key and this was definitely not on par with his standards. 

“Are they serious right now?! That is unacceptable and straight bull. I’m so sorry my love.” As you offered your own sentiments on the situation, an ache thudded in your chest at yet another blow dealt to your fiance. 

Allowing him space, you didn’t crowd him and came to perch your butt on the smooth mahogany desk.

“Why they always tryin’ me mama? I try taking 5 steps forward and I get pushed back 10!” Michael unleashed the building fury. 

“I just want to share the gift I was blessed with and live my life. Imagine how them folk would lose they minds if they were actually in my shoes.” Huffing, Michael stopped pacing and propped his hands on his lean hips. 

Pure defeat rested on his face. You hated seeing him in this much distress, the last time he went to a dark place, he started having chronic insomnia and turned to prescription meds to help get even a few hours of sleep. You were sure to nip that in the bud real quick!

Tears of anger, sorrow and frustration began to well in your eyes from how much you hurt for him. 

“Favor ain’t fair and these people are hella mad that a black man has the level of success you have baby.” You stated with a bit of vehemence in your tone. 

No matter how much money or amount of fame he had, racism still affected Michael. At the end of the day, he was still a black man. Plain and simple. 

“Shit, let them tell it and I’m bleaching my skin cause I’m ashamed of being black. They call me a freak, accuse me of touching children, hell I’m even being called a homosexual despite having semi-public relationships. What more are they gonna take from me, my life?” Michael sobbed, shaky hands disturbing the relaxed strands atop his head. 

Swiping away fallen tears, you adjusted your glasses and choked back your own sob. 

“Come here my love, you don’t have to bear the burdens alone. I’m right here baby.” Holding your arms open you beckoned Michael to give you his load to carry. 

Like a moth to a flame, he entered your embrace, tightly engulfing your plush frame in his long arms. Burying his face in the crook of your neck, the flood of tears he held at bay were free to fall. 

Clinging to the only lifeline he believed he had left, Michael wept.

In your arms Michael was free to let his fears go, allowed to be vulnerable and imperfect. 

Gently tangling your fingers in his hair, you softly massage his scalp and pepper kisses along his temple. 

“I’ve got you.” 

“You’re safe.” 

“It’s ok to cry.”

Whispered reassurances passed your lips for the next several moments as you felt Michael begin to relax and his sobs quieted. 

Michael sniffled and drew a hand from around your waist to wipe away the last of his tears. Resting his forehead against your temple, he inhaled what had become your signature scent, vanilla, sandalwood and honey. An instant calming effect overtook him as he squeezed his arms around you and ran his hands over your back. 

He was grateful to you for giving him the space to release his emotions and be his shoulder to cry on, literally. Nuzzling his nose along the column of your neck, he left behind a soft, barely there imprint of his lips. 

“I adore and appreciate you so much, angel.” Michael softly muttered as he raised his head to gaze into your eyes. 

Gracing him with your beautiful smile, you leaned in close to rub the tip of our nose against his. 

“I know baby, I feel your adoration every day.” 

Closing the distance, your lips hover over Michael’s for a few seconds. Only the sounds of in sync breathing were heard before his impatience won out and he captured your lips in a sweet and tender kiss. 

Soon the kiss turned deeper, fiercer, warmer. Teeth scraped against each other, tongues battled and the sounds of your combined moans filled the room. 

Parting, you felt as if a herd of wild horses were running through your chest. 

Michael drew in a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs before he moved in and captured your lips again. His hands didn’t stay idle either. Slipping under the hem of the oversize t-shirt you’d pulled on, Michael found you braless and let out a tortured groan.

Pinching the nipple of your left breast, he moved his kisses from your lips down to your throat. 

“Off, now.” He growled, voice thick with desire and residual anger. 

Raising your arms above your head, you obliged seeing the dark clouds swirling in Michael’s brown eyes. This was not about to be sweet, romantic or love making. No, Michael needed another way to work out the leftover tension in his body. 

Bending slightly, Michael captured a gum drop sized nipple between his teeth and gently bit down. When you hissed, he swiftly pulled the nub between his lips to soothe the ache. 

“U-use me however you need, baby.” You whispered into Michael’s ear the magic words that unlocked a secret door and that’s exactly where you found yourself minutes later. 

Michael had your thighs draped over his forearms as he held you against the thick wooden door of his study while pounding into your warm and gushy walls. 

“Look at you, being a good girl and taking this dick. Just drippin’ fa me.” Pressing his clothed chest against your bare breasts, he pulled your bottom lip between his teeth sucking, hard. 

“Harder b-bbabe!” Moaning out, you tightened your arms around his neck. 

Snapping his hips forward, Michael began thrusting deeper, and allowing you to slide down further on his dick. 

Grunting, Michael wrapped your legs around his waist, allowing his hands to find your shapely hips. Squeezing he began moving you faster up and down his member, the room filled with the sounds of your juices. 

SQUISH. SQUISH. SQUISH. 

“You’re doing such a good job angel.” Michael uttered faintly in your ear as he delivered faster strokes.

Reaching a hand between your warm and slightly damp bodies, he found your clit and began rubbing small circles on the bundle of nerves. 

“Oooo, yesss daddy!” Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you couldn’t fight the burst of warmth making its way up your body. 

“That the spot right there mama? Mmhmm, who does this pretty pussy belong to?” Michael growled. 

Clinging to the last bit of sanity you had left, you held your rising orgasm at bay long enough to get your mouth to work. 

“YOURS DADDY!” You shrieked as you felt the band snap and sweet relief flood your senses as you came hard. 

“That’s it, cum all over this dick angel. My good girl.” Michael panted as he bounced you on his dick faster and faster, chasing his own release. 

Feeling the tight grip, you knew there’d be bruises but that was the furthest thing from your mind right now. As soon as the first euphoric wave calmed down, you felt the second one building in your low in your belly as Michael’s mushroom head brushed your spongy sweet spot again and again. 

“O-oooh, I’m bout to cum again. Shiiiit Michael!” 

“Cum with me angel.” Michael whimpered before his hips stuttered and his release filled you. 

“Damn mama, you make me feel soooo good.”  Resting his head in your chest, he kissed the top of your right breast. 

Mini aftershocks caused you to clench your walls around Michael’s semi-erect length, still nestled inside. Unclasping a hand from around his neck, you tangled your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Feel better baby?” You affectionately uttered.

Tilting his head up, his chocolate brown orbs met your light brown ones.

“Much. Thank you for taking care of me angel.” 

“You never have to thank me, that’s my purpose, loving you.” 

Wrapped around Michael like a protective blanket, you tugged him closer never wanting to let go. 

━━ ❖ ━━

Taglist: @wildpandorasky, @brownsugarletters, @multifandomposts-blog, @thebabykashmere, @pytafterdark, @bawdylanguageee, @xyahxo, @theonlyonlinefish, @loves2tour, @ttangerinexo, @narratedillusions, @alleycat808

[dreamylace]

ᝰ.ᐟ SUPER FREAK!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: thrill the wall!michael jackson x f!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: you’re a super freak—but you’re alright with global popstar michael jackson (inspired by ‘super freak’ by rick james)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.1k

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: smut, 18+, (p-in-v), use of (name) once, smut and implied sex, creampie, facial, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, semi-public sex (hand-job), mentions of sex toy’s and kinks, multiple orgasms, sex-crazed reader, freaky reader, groupie esc but not rlly, clubbing, drinking, cursing, smoking (all reader) drug usage (not reader), katherine hates us LOL, down bad mike. mentions of religion/repenting but doesn’t go very well, your friends are as wild as reader, yeah this is uhh this is smth. enjoy!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is obviously inspired by ‘super freak’ by rick james, which has been one of my favourite songs since i was a young teen and instantly thought of michael and the jackson’s when i re-listened to it the other day. this is pretty wild so enjoy!! this a long fic but idk how to find out my word count but strap in LMFAO

She’s a very kinky girl…

Michael wasn’t sure exactly sure how he got here—Tucked into a V.I.P booth at Studio 54, an array of sickly sweet alcoholic beverages sprawled out across a wooden, circular table, music blasting in his ears, and a young lady with minimal clothing on, perched on his lap.

To say he was uncomfortable would be a lie. To the untrained eye—Michael Jackson, the famously shy, timid and gentle man, looked tense and awkward with such a woman atop of him, whispering in his ear, twirling a stray curl at the nape of his neck around her index finger, and skirt hiked up so high her panties were visible to anyone walking by. But, in reality, he was trying his hardest to not let his natural, masculine urges fulfil themselves beneath his black slacks, threatening to get uncomfortably tight.

The lady perched on his lap was you—Dressed in a ridiculously low-cut top, stiletto’s and a mini-skirt, which could’ve easily passed as belt. You were drunk, reeked of cigarettes, and had a perfume that mingled with the stench of tobacco deliciously—A potent vanilla scent that radiated cheapness, yet still intoxicating to say the least.

Michael and his brother’s, excluding his youngest brother, Randy, had decided taking a night off from day-to-day tour business was much needed. That Studio 54 would awaken their spirits, lighten the mood from the gruelling studio sessions, and buzz their energy with an alcoholic beverage that was bursting with an over-poured amount of liquor.

Michael, being the quiet, tentative man he was, at first declined—Rejecting the idea all together. Rather suggesting a movie night, or a late-night walk around the cul-de-sac, before tucking into their hotel bed at nine-PM.

His boisterous, reckless brother’s turned that down immediately.

And so, Michael was dragged along the lively streets to Studio 54—Tense, and out of his comfort zone, as his brother’s made passing comments about half-naked women traipsing past, and exchanging mutual excitement for their night of liquor indulgence. He had trailed behind—Scuffing his shoes on the concrete, occasionally kicking a stray stone or beer can, or gazing longingly into the dark sky, studying the dispersing clouds or twinkling stars. Until—

“Whew! And where are you handsome boys off to?”

Michael was interested now.

Your suggestive, drawled tone snapped him out of his self-induced trance, voice a fluid, tempting sound that had his eyes adjusting to the bright neon sign of the cheap, tacky club you stood outside of. His eyes, now accustomed to the light, widened at your frame—Dressed provocatively, and sporting a seductive smile that would send any God fearing man into the deep, dark depths of reckless temptation.

“Mm—mm! Too fine to be walkin’ ‘round lookin’ like that, baby.” Your friend piped up next to you, shorts ridden up her behind so far the curve of her ass cheeks peeked out the bottom as she approached Michael’s brother, Jermaine, twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers.

Two of your other friend’s lingered behind you, giggling between hushed whispers, before finally stepping forward to approach each of his brother’s as they stopped in the middle of the street.

“We’re headin’ to Studio 54.” Marlon, Michael’s other brother, was the first to speak, smiling cheekily down at your one friend, who had now placed herself so close to him that he could see every particle of an infamous white powder underneath her nose, “What you pretty ladies doin’ at a club like this?”

“Waitin’ for a handsome bunch a’guys to come save us, of course.” Your friend shot back, licking her lips as she trailed her eyes over Marlon’s frame, “And I think we just mighta found ‘em.”

Jermaine, Jackie and Marlon shared mutual glances—One’s that spoke a thousand words. Yet, Michael knew exactly what they said—“Bingo!”. A look that signified they’d struck pot gold. Michael swallowed thickly—This was his best dream and worst nightmare all in one. Negatively, he had never, ever been with a woman before, intimately. Sure, he’d kissed girls before, but never gone all the way. Not even orally. It pained and embarrassed him, the scrutinising fact often led him into relentless teasing sessions with his brother’s who’d had their fair shares of women—Only furthering their excitement to your group’s presence. But, on the positive side—He was certain with your sensual, hyper-sexual behaviour, he could practice a thing or two. And it certainly helped with how beautiful you were despite your anti-social habits.

“Real quiet back here, handsome.”

Michael jumped—Not out of fear, but surprise, as his eyes landed on your frame right at his feet. Your smile was dizzying—Alluring, magnetic and teasing, a lit cigarette hanging between the plushness as you met his gaze.

“Y’all are from that band, aren’t you?” You questioned, tilting your head at him, “‘The Jackson’s’, right?”

Michael nodded quickly, “Y—Yes, we are.” He managed to squeak out.

You hummed, satisfied with the response as you took in his frame—As stiff as a board, hands twitching at his sides and throat bobbing every few seconds as he gulped at your electrifying closeness. He was clad in a black suit—The dark colour sported across his suit jacket, slacks and shoes, aside from the crisp white shirt that hugged his torso, and the dazzling, white diamond waistcoat that peaked through the layers of his outfit. He looked like a million bucks—And who doesn’t want that?

“Hm. I like your music.” You admitted, taking an impossible step closer—Smiling as Michael tensed further, forcing himself to not look anywhere but your eyes, as your pushed-up, exposed cleavage hit his peripheral vision, “Makes me wanna move, y’know? Start dancin’.”

“Y—Yeah? That’s good, tha’s what we were goin’ for.” Michael spoke, voice cracking slightly, his fingers finding the material of his trousers, toying with a loose thread.

“You jus’ released your first solo album, too, didn’t’cha?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Yes ma’am?” You snorted, furrowing your eyebrows with a dry laugh, “What am I? Your mother?”

Michael’s eyes widened, “S—Sorry! I mean yes, I have. It’s called ‘Off The Wall’.”

“Hm, I heard that too, superstar.” You smiled, tight-lipped, and teasing, “Got some real dirty songs on there, babe.”

Michael’s breath hitched in his throat at your words, eyes blowing wide open, “I—I, n—no, I don—“

“‘Girlfriend’? ‘Rock With You’?” You named, grinning wickedly, “Unless, ‘I wanna see you shake that thang’ means somethin’ else in ‘Get On The Floor’, I’d say you’re a real dirty boy, Michael Jackson.”

Michael gasped softly, lips parting, and then closing, before repeating the movements as words failed him. You laughed loudly, throwing your head back, cigarette dangling dangerously loose between your lips as you shook your head.

“Gotcha there, handsome.” You purred, winking, before taking his clammy hand in your own, “C’mon. I’ll shake my thang for you, if ya’want.”

The kind you don’t take home to Mother…

And that’s how Michael got into this beautiful predicament. Your friends had claimed a brother each—Aside from Jermaine and Jackie, who were happily sharing your one friend, her behind perched on Jackie’s lap, while her long, bare legs traipsed across Jermaine’s thighs, hands covering her skin from both sides. Tito, always the gentlemen, had declined his lady on his lap—But, instead opted for grazing her bare knee, and a hand in her hair as he discussed his music, and band life. Marlon, wasting no time, was too busy pressing kisses to his lady’s neck—The loud sound of her high-pitched giggles filling the room as he grabbed a handful of her behind in his palm.

Michael was still tense and nervous, despite his male instincts screaming at him inside to kiss you, or grab a handful of your ass peeking out from beneath your skirt, or at the least stare at your breasts that were practically in his face—But, he remained stiff. And you noticed.

“Loosen up, superstar. You got a long night ahead a’ya.” You teased, lips brushing against the lobe of his ear, your sticky lipgloss leaving behind a faint residue on the flesh as you spoke, hands threaded through his curls.

“I do?”

You hummed, “I only just got’cha, I don’t plan on lettin’ you outta my claws for a while, handsome.”

Michael couldn’t suppress the heat that flushed his cheeks—The blush blooming across not only own his face, now sporting a shy smile, but also his neck and ears, from your casual compliments.

She will never let your spirits down…

“Hey Mike!”

The sound of Jermaine’s voice over the muffled, booming music forced Michael’s head to peek around your shoulder, your hair dancing over the skin.

“What’d’ya think about meetin’ these lovely ladies after our show tomorrow?”

“No way! Like backstage?” Your friend, whose neck was now littered in lovebites from Marlon’s eager mouth, perked up, swivelling her head around, away from Marlon’s lips, to face Jermaine.

“Yeah, sure, why not?” Jermaine laughed, nudging Jackie who shared the chuckle.

Your friends squealed—Giddy and buzzing with euphoria as you giggled, smirking at the plan bubbling to life.

“Joseph’s gonna kill you.” Marlon cackled, “But, I’m all for it. Would ya like that, sweetie?”

“Uh, yeah! You comin’, right, girl?” Your friend called out to you, eyes wide with hope and anticipation.

“Is coke white? Girl, of course. Wouldn’t want this pretty boy leavin’ with no-one else.” You drawled, turning back to Michael, who swallowed thickly, as you pressed yourself further into his chest, “You’d want me waitin’ for ya afterwards, right? Make you sweatier than you were on that stage?”

Michael’s eyes blew wide open—Forcing a loud laugh out of your throat as your hand released its grip on his hair to glide down his chest.

“You’re so cute, I could just eat you right here.” You whispered, lips dancing over his cheek as you pressed a chaste kiss there, “Swallow you whole.”

“Oh, Lord.” Michael mumbled, eyes squeezing shut, as your teeth grazed along the flesh of his earlobe, before licking a stripe across it to soothe.

“You’re all mine now, Jackson.”

Once you get her off the street…

New York was buzzing with electricity after their first show of the tour. Fans bustling out of the stadium—singing, dancing, crying from the magnitude of the show. Michael had been top of his game—Providing a perfect performance despite the nerves that wracked through his body.

Nervous for one reason, and one reason only.

He knew you were waiting for him backstage.

You and your friends, dressed similarly to how you had the night before, had been hidden backstage from the brother’s gruelling father—Who would no doubt murder them, especially Michael, if he caught whiff of their secretive plan.

Straight after the final song, and the show had been wrapped up, they would exit the stage as they usually did, clean up, change, shower, the usual routine. And then, once Joseph left to handle his usual business—They would sneak out. Run through the arena, out the back door, and into the night to resume another night of clubbing and sensual closeness,

As Michael’s final song, ‘Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough’ came to a close, and they thanked the fans for their everlasting, unconditional support and love—They belted it off the stage. Jermaine was as fast a hyena—Sprinting to his dressing room, already ridding himself of his jacket and shirt to speed up the process before diving into his shower. Marlon, at a similar speed, raked fingers through his hair, fixing any loose curls, smoothing his edges back to his forehead, and drying his damp forehead, before turning to face a confused, frozen Michael.

“Brother, I suggest you get movin’ if you want that girl tonight.” Marlon quipped, eyeing him up and down, “We ain’t comin’ back for ya if you take too long.”

“Right, right, shoot.” Michael, snapping into reality at Marlon’s words, darted towards his own dressing room—Dragging his jacket from his shoulders, and placing it neatly onto the back of a chair, before fixing himself up.

Within fifteen minutes, the boys were ready.

Jermaine and Jackie had changed clothes completely, whereas Marlon, Tito and Michael remained in their stage clothes—Aside from their jackets, microphones and ties. Michael, as always, had left his bare chest exposed—The top buttons ripped open as he had sensually done on stage, letting his supple, brown skin become bare to the dark night.

Jermaine led the pack of boys through the bustling backstage like a top-secret spy mission—Avoiding any familiar faces, family members or respecting managers, as well as their father, as they crept towards the fire exit.

Marlon, engaging in a conversation only Michael would refer to as ‘degrading’ and ‘dirty’, with Tito, was quickly shut down by Jermaine, who ordered him to ‘Shut his horny ass mouth’

She likes the boys in the band…

“There’s my lil’ celebrities!”

Your words hit his ears first as they burst through the fire exit—Your tantalising, yet sickeningly sweet voice sent excitable shivers down his spine, the nerves washing away instantly as you came into eyeshot. You were stood with your friends, who instantly clung to their respecting men from the night before, with another cigarette between the fingers of your left hand, and a mysterious flask filled with most likely an alcoholic beverage in your right. Michael, albeit not surprised, forced himself to suppress the smile that crept onto his face at your outfit—You were wearing, as usual, a low-cut top, and booty shirts, that hugged your plush behind and thighs as you approached him slowly. But, what got his lips twitching was the pair of Aviator sunglasses that rest upon the bridge of your nose—Covering your eyes as his famous ones usually did.

“Wow, I mean. Tha’s somethin’.” Michael chuckled, his voice breathy and low, just as it was the previous night.

She says that I’m her all time favourite…

“What can I say? You’re my favourite boy in the band, handsome.”

Michael, now fighting the urge to succumb to his usual shyness, finally smiled—Chuckling as you slid a hand down his chest, winking seductively, before taking his hand in your own.

The night was equally, if not more crazed than the night before.

Tonight, a fifth friend joined you, who instantly took a liking to Jermaine—Which left your original friend with Jackie all to herself. Luckily, the two had long dispersed to the dance floor of the high-end, celebrity-filled club the brother’s had dragged you to, and were leaving zero room for Jesus as a Stevie Wonder song boomed around them. Tito and his lady had retreated to the bar for the fifth time that hour—Stocking up on shots and cocktails as they stumbled throughout the club. Marlon had disappeared with his lady within fifteen minutes of getting to the spot—Clambering over one another’s feet as they exited the private booth, mouths connected in a brutal kiss as they ‘went to the bathroom’.

As for you and Michael, you’d managed to get a drink down his throat—And alcoholic at that. And thanks to his nonexistent drinking habits, the young man was already buzzed after one drink and a shot of Tequila, his mouth running wild as his confidence took over, and relaxation took the reigns of his body.

“I’m—‘M just sayin’, Diana Ross is better than—“

“Boy, that woman could murder a puppy in cold blood and you’d find some way to defend her.” You quipped, raising an eyebrow at him, alcohol evident on your breath as you spoke, “Sometimes it’s okay to admit that your little mentor is a shit actress.”

Michael’s mouth fell open at your insulting words, “No, no, she is really good.”

“Real convincing, baby.” You teased, narrowing your eyes his way, “Enough about that old crow.” You ignored his ‘Hey!’, “Any other ladies in your life, Jackson?”

Michael swallowed thickly—Ah, the dreaded question. He’d heard it a lot in his adult life—Is so-and-so his girlfriend? Or had he been intimate before? Or who does he think he’ll marry in 5 years time? All ridiculous, unanswerable questions that left him sweating and nervous—And even more so now that you, as the sexually charged lady you were, were asking such question.

“Uh—Heh, no. No ladies for me.” He admitted, avoiding direct eye contact as he focused on Jackie and your friend bumping and grinding on the dance floor in the distance.

“Hmm. I find that hard to believe, handsome global superstar, Michael Jackson.” You fired back, a delicate, taunting finger tracing down the bare skin of his chest, “You’re tellin’ me you got no one to bump uglies with?”

“Wha—What’s that?”

Michael dipped his head in timidity as you cackled, head thrown back as your body shook with laughter. He knew you weren’t necessarily laughing at him, or his lack of intimate knowledge—But, it didn’t stop his heart hammering in his chest in embarrassment.

“Oh, sweetie, you are just the cutest.” You giggled, your hand travelling swiftly to his face.

Your manicured hands, fingers withholding the smell of cigarettes, cupped his warm cheeks—Forcing his head upwards from where he hung it low in shame. You directed his vision to your own, meeting his avoidant eyes with a gentle nudge of his chin under your thumb—Smirking knowingly down at him from where you perched on his thighs. Michael gulped again—Hands sweating and clammy at his sides as he awaited your next action nervously. He liked how unpredictable you were at times, how you made things lively and unexpected in a fun manner—But, moments like these he shared with you, made him anxious beyond belief. It was as if any alcohol present in his light-weight system dissolved into nothingness the second you got closer, like any viable, intellectual brain cell left in his mind crumbled into mush with every word that left your intoxicating lips.

“I’ll be that lady for you, if ya’want.” You whispered, face a mere few inches away from his own, as your plump, tempting, pillowy lips brushed over his own, noses touching as you pressed yourself closer.

“Y—You would?” He croaked out, cursing himself internally at the crackling of his voice, “But, I’ve never—“

“Then, let me be the first, handsome.”

When I make my move to her room it’s the right time…

Michael was certain he’d never felt anything like this in life.

Being on stage, performing, entertaining, creating world-wide popular songs, meeting fans, dancing—None of it compared to this moment.

He was entranced—His eyes locked on you with every single breath, sound or movement you made. Every crease in your forehead, knitted into your furrowed eyebrows, every flutter of your eyelashes, every parting of your lips, every rock of your hips had his brain short-circuiting a thousand times over.

“Oh, Michael.”

His name fell so easily from your lips it was almost natural—Like it was meant to be there. Meant to be tumbling past your swollen, spit-stricken mouth each time you snapped your hips forwards against his own.

You had made your way to your hotel room swiftly—Stumbling drunkenly into the back of a day-to-day cab, ignoring the way the driver instantly asked for an autograph from him, followed by you demanding he put his foot down before you ditch him without paying—And then clambering into his lap to smash your lips against his own. He quickly learnt you weren’t from New York at all—That you and your friend’s were on a trip from Los Angeles, where you lived, for a week, that clubbing and shopping was mainly on your itinerary. Your hotel was cheaper than he would ever stay at nowadays—Small bedroom, leaky tap and no robes hanging in the closet on arrival. But, considering your behaviour—It was nicer than he was expecting.

You wasted no time on him—Instantly tugging off your shirt and shorts, pushing him back first onto the plush, cotton sheets and straddling his thick, clothed thighs, pressing directly into his crotch. He almost didn’t know what to do with himself—Mind running a thousand miles a minute the second your undergarment clad body came into eyeshot, grinding down onto the ever growing bulge beneath his slacks. He’d never been stiffer—The tent in his boxers reaching its greatest length and height as you rocked against it slowly, hips moving just as languidly as his own on stage. He was transfixed. Completely hypnotised by the way you moved—Hands threaded through your hair, the other cupping a handful of your right, clothed breast through your lacy bra, and hips rolling over him with practiced precision.

And, of course, since Michael had never in his twenty-one years experienced anything quite like this, y’know a deathly attractive, sexually experienced young lady grinding over his hardened, clothed cock, the little whimpers that left his mouth that were miserably suppressed, and had you drooling twice as much—A permanent slick stain pooling into his black slacks, staining the expensive material.

“Fuck, you feel so good already, Jackson.” You gasped as you rolled particularly hard over your throbbing clit, “I wonder how good you’ll feel inside, baby.”

Michael’s eyes shot open—He wasn’t sure what he was expecting but sex? Immediately? Maybe not. I mean, fuck he wasn’t complaining—He’d been looking for some action with the ladies for so long now it almost felt like a distant dream that’d he’d never have. Most women he’d got to know in the industry were older, or married, or just not interested in getting jumbled up in his busy, bustling tour life—But, you? Fuck, you were taking it by the reigns. Literally.

“Oh, God.” He whined, voice broken and ragged as his eyes fluttered shut.

“You want that, baby?” You whispered, leaning down to press your half-bare chest against his own, still clad in his unbuttoned shirt, lips brushing against his ear, “You wanna fuck me, Jackson?”

“Oh, Jesus.” He cried again, chest heaving as you licked a stripe up his neck, before swirling your tongue around the outer ridges of his ear, the sensation sending goosebumps pebbling across the skin of his arms.

“Answer me, handsome.”

“Y—Yes! Yes, yes, please.” He begged, nodding swiftly as his eyes slammed open, meeting your own as you raised your face from his neck.

The infamous, devilish smirk crawled back onto your face before you smashed your lips together—Moan muffled against his mouth as you worked against it. Michael’s breath hitched in his throat as you kissed him—Hands instantly flying to your face, cupping your cheeks sweetly, as he moved his lips against your own. You were ferocious, kissing him so fiercely it nearly sent Michael into overdrive, your hips still rocking against him, increasing your pace.

However, a feeling, one that only Michael had brought himself, crept dangerously up his spine—Lingering deeply in his abdomen as his stiff cock twitched in his boxers.

“W—Wait! Stop, stop.”

You pulled away from the kiss quickly, a string of lewd saliva connecting your swollen lips as his hands, now feeling brave and confident, fell to your hips—Gripping them gently, yet firmly, forcing you to a halt.

“‘M sorry, I was just—God, I almost…”

You giggled again, leaning down to press another deep, extended kiss to his lips—Catching him by surprise. His suspicion only furthered when you pulled away, rising to your knees as you slid your underwear to the side with one hand, and fumbled with his belt buckle with the other.

“Better get to it then, huh?”

She’s never hard to please…

“O—Oh! Oh, my God—Oh, my God, sweetie—Nnhg, I—“

Michael was a mess.

The second your warm, wet, inviting heat engulfed his hard, virgin cock—He was a goner. He was certain the rock of your hips against him, clothed cunt sliding over the ridge of his cock, confined in his slacks, was the best feeling he’d ever felt so far in his adult life. Oh, boy, did he get the shock of his life. And a blissful, ecstatic shock at that. He’d been quivering even when your manicured hand wrapped around his bare dick, after you undressed him—Jerking him slowly in your fist, as you guided his dick towards your entrance. And when he finally slipped inside?—Unprotected at that—He saw stars. He had to fight every submissive, weak urge in his body not to orgasm the second he bottomed out.

And now, you were riding him—Hips bucking back and forth, and up and down, alternating every few minutes or so as you deepened your pleasure. Every rock forward would roll your clit against his pubic bone, the curly, black tufts of hair dragging along your nub deliciously, paired with every bounce up and down, nudging his thick, cock-head against the spot inside you that your toes curling besides his thighs. His hands were gripping your hips with such fervent passion, guiding you along his dick with every drag of your cunt down his length, that you were certain marks indented in the shape of his long, slender fingers would remain in the morning.

“Mmh—Fuck, baby, feels so so good.” You whined, your head thrown back, hair painting your spine as you switched to bouncing up and down, “‘M so fuckin’ close, Michael.”

Michael whimpered softly under his breath, “R—Really? Already? I—I barely even got inside ya?”

“Y’just so big, Michael.” You cried, moans and cries mingling with each word, “So so big, baby.”

Michael panted, a whine mixing with the breathless sound as your seductive, lewd words hit his ears—He had always been so nervous at the thought of sex. Worried about his size, his noises, his faces, his body—Everything. Everything made him anxious. But, your unconditional praise and physical signs of pure, undeniable pleasure sent confidence flooding through him like adrenaline, pumping through his veins.

As if a switch had been flipped—Michael tightened his grip on the plush fat of your hips, and bucked his hips up at an extraordinary pace. You took to it instantly, your body falling slack against him as you let him take control—Thrusting up into your sex like he had rent to pay. Michael grunted, mingling with his usual whiny whimpers, lower lip caught between his lip as he fucked you like a bitch in heat.

“Oh God! Yes, yes, yes! Yes, baby—‘M cumming, yeah, yeah—Cumming, cummin’!”

Your words were chants—Belting from your throat in high-pitched, breathless cries of electrifying ecstasy as you matched his pace, humping yourself forward on his pubic bone, only pushing you further towards the edge.

“Oh—Oh, Jesus, I—Already? I—Oh!”

Michael was taken by sweet, sweet surprise when you orgasmed—Gasping sharply as his breath caught in his throat, hands twitching at your sides as your drooling sex pulsated and convulsed around him. Quivering and tightening as you creamed deliciously—Head thrown back, eyes slammed shut and mouth hanging open as the lewdest, intimate and most pornographic worthy noises stumbled past your lips involuntarily, as you continued to hump yourself over his dick, that throbbed incessantly in your tight walls.

“W—Wait! Oh, God—Mmh!—Honey, ‘M gonna—Where should I—?”

You didn’t give a response—Still buzzing from your release, you slid off his dick with ease, settling between his legs, and catching his dick, soaked from tip to base in your essence, in your grip, fluidity pumping him.

“All over me, handsome.”

Michael cried out once more at how quick, smooth and easily you switched positions—From riding his cock, to kitten-licking his tip as you jerked him, pushing your breasts up against his shaft. With a particularly sharp flick of your wrist, and a long stripe up the slit of his dick—Michael came with a cry. Dick twitching and throbbing beneath your palm, as hot, thick, salted cum spurted from his dick deliciously—Painting your face, tongue, fingers and chest in his white, sticky release as he panted and writhed beneath you at the overwhelming sensation of his orgasm.

Michael only shuddered as he came down from his delightful high—Whining as you lapped up his cum, drinking up every last drop of his release, from your fingers, to your cheeks, and even taking the head of his cock between your lips, not without a loud, overwhelmed cry from the man beneath you, as you milked him dry.

As you pulled away with a girlish giggle, a dazed, fucked-out expression dancing across your face, and a splatter of his cum decorating your cheekbone—Michael swallowed thickly.

“Did I get it all?”

Michael, hazy himself, let a smile creep onto face, before bursting into laughter himself—What a night.

That girl is pretty wild now…

That night wasn’t the last Michael saw of you.

He did try and dumb your love-making down to a one-night-stand—That maybe you wouldn’t want anything to do with him post-sex. That maybe you just wanted to get your rocks off and leave.

But, when he awoke in your hotel room after that night, the morning sun bursting through the curtains, just to find your side of the bed empty and cold—The worst thoughts hit him. That you were just going to be a one night ordeal.

He sighed, rolling over to face the night-stand with a frown, an unusual sense of rejection and disappointment settling in his chest. Before, his eyes landed on a small business card of the hotel’s laid next to a glass of water and an Aspirin—The words ‘LA was calling me, can’t leave the city without me for too long. Call me though, handsome: (212) 555-****’ read back at him in rushed, sloppy hand-writing, and a smudged lipstick kiss mark in the top right corner.

That girl’s a super freak…

Michael called you the second he got home—Running, hungover and fatigued, ignoring his brother’s confused voices, through the house and up the stairs, towards his respecting bedroom. The number you left was dialed instantly—His heart hammering in chest as he let the phone ring …and ring ….and ring. Until—

“Someone’s eager, huh, pretty boy?”

He smiled.

The kind of girl you read about… In new wave-magazine’s.

That girl is pretty kinky…. That girl’s a super freak…

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of blissful sex—To put it plainly.

Michael couldn’t, for the life of him, spend any longer than 48 hours apart from you—Or not inside you. He’d learnt more about sex in the last three weeks then he ever had in any out-dated sex-education book from the local library, or from his brother’s exaggerated stories. He felt like a God, like not only was he talented vocally, but now sexually. Like all his shy, reserved nature had dissolved into a glowing, intimate love—Taking over his body whenever he was blessed with your presence.

On the bonnet of your car, in the bathroom of a club, at a ridiculously expensive hotel he paid $7,500 for for just one night, in his studio—Everywhere. Absolutely everywhere had been christened—Missionary, cowgirl, from behind, reverse cowgirl, prone bone, from the side, mating press, butterfly—Fucking everything. He was animalistic, and was absolutely certain his dick was going to go limp and drop off with the amount of sex he was having. And if it wasn’t penetration, it was the kinkiest things he’d ever seen—Vibrators, whips, cock rings, handcuffs, whipped cream, gags, blindfolds—The lot. All casual and small-scale to you, but utterly mind-blowing to Michael, who had never been so enthralled in his entire life by the whole ordeal. But, the self-appreciation, confidence and glow that radiated off him had even his brother’s jealous, despite their luck with women. Michael truly had it all right now—And he was basking in it.

I’d really love to taste her… Every time we meet…

But, even with every sex position crossed off the list, multiple orgasms pulled from one another each night, and every inch of skin licked, sucked and kissed—Michael’s favourite activity was to devour your pussy. Get on his knees, part your legs, and spend hours between them with the tongue of an angel—Dragging countless mind blowing orgasms from your shaking body with effortless ease. And even with his talent for cunnillingus, Michael enjoyed it. Correction—He adored it, and begged on his knees, bordering on tearing up to eat you out, to taste your glorious cunt, and moaning loudly into your sex every time his tongue slipped between your folds.

He was obsessed. And exceptionally talented at it.

Which everyone at Hayvenhurst unfortunately found out.

Michael had the bright (Not!) idea to finally invite you over to his family home—To meet his mother, his sister’s and see where he made history. Unfortunately for Michael, you weren’t really the ‘Bring home to mama’ type of girl. He knew this, and even with his brother’s frantic disapproval, he did it anyway.

And it was almost laughable when you met Katherine Jackson, Michael’s mother. She had been ecstatic when Michael announced he was bringing a lady friend home, someone he’d been seeing for weeks now, someone he really liked, and wanted his loving, Jehovah’s Witness, might I add, mother to meet the special girl in his life.

However, pretending to be someone you’re not was not your style—Instead, you showed up just as you would to …well, the club. Stiletto’s, a mini-dress that stopped at your upper thighs, long, manicured nails, hair grazing your ass, makeup to a T, and bracelet’s draping along your arms, tattoo’s and piercing’s in clear show.

“Hi, Mrs Jackson!” You beamed, pushing your sunglasses, one’s that Michael had bought you, up your face to rest on your head, your hand extended out to the woman before you, “So nice to finally meet you.”

You, and Michael for that matter, chose to ignore the way Katherine’s jaw fell to the floor, her eyes trailing over your frame, clad in provocative clothing, blasphemous tattoo’s and piercing’s, and chewing blue-raspberry flavoured chewing gum obnoxiously.

“I—Uh, Michael, I—“

“Mother, this is (Name).” Michael spoke, attempting to clear the air as his mother fought to find the right, and respectful words, as you dropped your hand, which had clearly been rejected, “Y’know, the girl I was tellin’ you about.”

“I’m so glad to finally meet the mama of the man who’s rocked my world, ain’t tha’ right, Mikey?”

And that he did. As Michael ushered you away, whispering a quick apology to his mother who stood, frozen in time, at the doorway, as he hurried you up the stairs, away from his bewildered mother—He knew deep-down he was fucked, like truly and clearly. But, the way you shimmied your dress higher up your ass as you climbed the stairs, revealing to the man behind you that you weren’t, in fact, wearing panties, with a wink as you scurried up the stairs—He couldn’t find himself to care.

And of course, the second Michael got you into his room, his hands were on you like it was his last day on Earth. Like you were his cure of a deadly disease. Lips on your neck, hands groping your behind, fingers threaded through your hair, stiffened cock rolling against the skin of your bare thigh—He was insatiable. Like he needed to be in your skin to fully be satisfied.

Alas, he settled for gliding his eager tongue between your folds instead—Lapping at your clit, sucking and slurping the aching nub between his lips, and two fingers curling inside your center, abusing the sweet spot that made you cry out.

Those same cries that echoed throughout the mansion—Unfortunately for Michael.

“I—I—Are you serious? Is that really the kind of girl he’s involved with?” Katherine heaved, a hand clutching at her pearls around her neck, as her three son’s crowded round her panicked, shocked frame in the living room.

Marlon exchanged a knowing, slightly amused glance with Jermaine and Jackie who rubbed comforting circles along their mother’s back as she welled up in tears.

“Where’d he even meet this girl?”

Marlon couldn’t help the laugh that escaped him—Snorting as he covered his face with his hand at the irony that he effectively got Michael into this mess.

“What’s so funny?” Katherine questioned, eyebrows furrowed up into her forehead.

“Nothin’, nothin’, mama, I—“ Jermaine, pursed his lips together to suppress his own laughter, before letting out a shaken breath as he composed himself, “We met her and her friends at the club.”

“You boys are involved with those kinda girls too?” Katherine exclaimed, anger painting across her face.

“Way to go, asshole.” Jackie hissed, shaking his head, shoving Jermaine’s arm.

“Oh, my Goodness.” Katherine heaved, lip wobbling, “I can’t believe this! She’s a—She’s a …Goodness, I shouldn’t say this but—“

“Oh! Oh, Michael!”

…

“What on Earth was that—?”

“Michaelllll! Oh, baby, yeah—Mmmh!—Right there, big daddy!”

…

Marlon, Jackie and Jermaine’s eyes blew straight out of their head—Straightening up and freezing as the sound of your blissful, extravagantly loud moans rang out throughout the house. Marlon’s lip quivered, fighting a roar of laughter that threatened to spill from his mouth—If only it wasn’t for his tensed mother, now shaking with fury.

“Am I hearing what I think I’m—“

“Yeah! Yes! Yes! I’m cummin’ on your tongue, baby! Oooh, yeeees—Nnh!”

Silence.

The room downstairs stilled—No-one spoke a word even when the obvious creaking of Michael’s wooden bed, the frame slamming against the wall followed suit, echoed throughout the house in the deafening silence. Katherine, mortified and stunned, shook her head, a single tear slipping down her cheek as she clenched her fists so hard the knuckles turned white, before gritting her teeth as she spoke—

“She’s a freak.”

She’s alright, she’s alright… That girl’s alright with me…

Michael managed to redeem himself with his mother by never uttering your name or defacing the house with your presence ever again—Apologising profusely and repenting at church for the next week, reciting confessions and attending bible study. All the while fucking you in the back of your car straight afterwards. It was the thought that counted, right?

Rightfully so, his brother’s hounded him relentlessly with questions—Probing him for answer’s about his relation to you, your intentions with him, and where this relentless sex would lead you.

“I don’t know, okay? She’s not my girl, but I don’t think she’s seein’ anyone else—“

“What do you mean ‘you think’?” Jackie cut in, a confused expression plastered across his face as he sat across from him at the studio, “You’re not sure?”

“No, I am sure.” Michael quickly defended.

“You didn’t sound like it, Mike.” Tito added, shaking his head, “What if she has …y’know, has somethin’?”

“I think we’d know by now as he’d be walkin’ around with his hand by his junk every five minutes.” Jermaine butted in, smiling to himself.

“Or he did have somethin’ and he’s already got rid of it.”

“I don’t have anythin’!” Michael exclaimed, growing agitated, “And neither does she. She’s not that kinda girl.”

Marlon exploded into laughter, clutching his stomach as he roared, “‘Not that kind of girl’? Mike, c’mon now. Just look at where we met them!”

“Don’t even start with me, Marlon, you’re still seein’ her friend, are you not?”

“Well, yeah—“

“So, stop houndin’ me ‘cause you’re not gettin’ like it I am.”

The room erupted into ‘Ooh!’’s and ‘Whoa!’’s as Michael fired back at Marlon with swift, precise confidence—Rolling his eyes as Marlon clapped his hands together in blissful surprise, and Jackie jostled him back and forth by the shoulder.

“Look who’s got that pussy confidence! You’re like a changed man, little bro’!” Jermaine roared, smile wide and bright as he watched Michael shrug Jackie’s hand from his shoulder.

“Enough. She’s a special girl, ‘n I like her, and she likes me, and tha’s all there is to it.” Michael responded calmly, expression brooding and irritated as his brother’s hounded him.

“That and she’s probably a groupie.”

“‘Maine, you’re such an asshole, man.” Tito chuckled, “Alright, Mike, as long as y’sure.”

“I am sure. I’m very sure about her.” Michael responded, letting a small smile crawl onto his face, “She’s alright with me.”

She’s a very special girl… From her head down to her toe nails…

Yeah, she’ll wait for me at backstage with her girlfriend’s… In a limousine…

Los Angeles was sensational—The crowd was the loudest so far, cheering at such a decibel that Michael had ringing in his ears for ten minutes post-show as he rid himself of his sweaty stage clothes, rushing into the shower, fixing his hair and slipping into another bedazzled suit, just as Jermaine pushed open his dressing room door.

“They’re outside—You ready?”

Like clockwork with each show—You were waiting for him.

This time, after Katherine forbade you and your friends to even step so much of a toe into the arena, Michael had arranged for a limousine to await him and his brother’s by the back entrance once he’d finished the show.

With a fix of his tie, a ruffle of his curls and a nod to himself in the mirror—Michael jogged out of the dressing room, following hot on Jermaine’s tail as they raced throughout the bustling backstage, apologising to staff members, and engineers, as they barged past—Shamelessly eager to reach you.

When the driver, finding it hard to mask his irritated expression, opened the door to reveal the chaos you’d already ensued—Michael couldn’t help but laugh.

You were straddling your friend, pouring champagne directly into her mouth, your dress hiked up your thighs so high, the plush curve of your ass was visible to every brother that stood in the doorway of the limo—Watching as your other friends squealed, taking shots of their own, and turning up the music that blared throughout the car, dancing and singing loudly.

“Mikey!” You squealed, shoving the bottle into your friend’s hand, who took it willingly, bringing it to her lips once more, as you scurried to the door.

You leant past Jermaine and Jackie who were directly at the door, grabbing Michael’s hand and dragging him into the car. Michael made a quiet noise—One of shock and surprise as you ushered him into the bustling mayhem, ears now having to adjust to the way your friends squealed and screamed as his brother’s followed suit.

“Let’s get this party started, ladies!” Marlon, of course, exclaimed, grabbing an unopened champagne, shaking it violently, releasing his thumb from the bottle head, and spraying the room in the bubbly liquid, basking in the cries of excitement that radiated from the limo.

As the driver slammed the door shut aggressively, muffled curses muttered under his breath as he retreated to the driver’s seat, Michael soon released what he was so annoyed about.

But, when you pushed him into the leather seat, straddled his hips, wrapped your arms around his neck, and smashed your lips together in a feverish kiss—He suddenly found it hard to understand what the driver could be so irritated at?

This was the life.

Three’s not a crowd to her she says…

The ride to the conference center was a long one—Traffic post-concert was horrific, all thanks to the Jackson’s. But, they daren’t care in this moment.

Jackie had a handful of ass as his lady shook her behind directly in his face at the music, laughing as he repeatedly smacked her bare cheeks, her dress pushed up her hips. Tito was locking lips with his lady, a slow, intimate kiss that had been occurring the second he entered the car. Jermaine was pouring champagne into Marlon’s mouth, an arm around one of your friends, before Marlon sprayed the champagne over your other friend’s chest—Before, licking the residue directly from her pushed-up, exposed cleavage, earning himself cheers and squeals of laughter and joy.

Tucked into the corner of the limo, hands roaming places they probably shouldn’t in a car filled with his brother’s and your friend’s, lips one another’s and whispered promises, was you and Michael.

“‘M sad you’re gonna leave me.” You pouted, a hand twirling a strand of his Michael’s curls at the nape of his neck between your fingers.

“‘M just goin’ to do a couple interviews, baby, tha’s all.” Michael reassured, tucking a loose lock of your hair behind your ear, “I’ll be all yours for the night afterwards. And every night following.”

You giggled sweetly, “Y’so soppy, y’know that?”

“Only for you, darlin’.”

You hummed, smiling softly as you leant down to capture his lips in your own—Moaning softly into his mouth as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer to his body, radiating a thumping heat. Michael’s mouth moved slowly against your own—Occasionally pulling back to bite your bottom lip, suck on it, or let you press kisses to his jawline, and the corner of his mouth. Just as your mouths connected once again, your tongue swiping past his lower lip to swirl against his own—Michael felt a familiar, nimble hand crawl down his front.

His breath hitched in his throat as your hand, precise and slow, slipped down his front, stopping at his crotch to gently wrap your hand around the length of him beneath his trousers—Your palm enveloping around his half-hard dick, now stiffening more under your grasp.

“Baby!” Michael gasped, muffled against your lips, his eyes shooting open to observe his surroundings.

Luckily, everyone was still immersed in their own world—Kissing, touching, drinking, dancing, completely focused on themselves as your hand began jerking him through his trousers. Michael’s head fell forward, lolling against your forehead as he panted against your lips, eyes fluttering shut, not before he caught glance of your wicked smirk.

Your hand moved slowly, tantalisingly and dangerously—Teasing him with each half-stroke of your fist around his cock, now drooling with pre-cum into his boxers.

“S—Shoot, baby, that feels s’good.” Michael whispered, pressing a soft, quick kiss to your lips as he talked.

“Letting me jerk y’pretty dick with all my friends and your brother’s right behind us, but y’won’t say ‘Shit’? Y’so cute, Mike.” You taunted, giving him a particularly hard squeeze.

Michael couldn’t suppress the noise that left his mouth, that was instantly captured by your lips—Cutting off the whine before it filled the room. Thankfully, the way your friend was screaming as Marlon nuzzled his face between her breasts managed to cover Michael’s noise easily.

“Baby—Oh, God, love, ‘M gonna—“

“Shhh. Just take it.” You whispered, lips brushing against his, before smushing them together as he twitched beneath your palm.

Michael came with quiet, high-pitched whines that you swallowed up—Kissing him ferociously as he released, eyes rolled to the back of his head as your hand sped up pace to prolong his orgasm. You kept going, even as he whimpered at the overstimulation, before his shaking hand pulled yours away, now glistening with a faint essence that painted across his black slacks. Luckily for Michael, the bulk of his warm cum decorated his boxers underneath, only leaving behind a subtle, invisible to the naked eye, dampness on his slacks as his release soaked the material.

“You’re evil.” Michael panted, shaking his head as you giggled.

His breath hitched as you brought your palm up your mouth—Licking a lewd, sensual stipe from the bottom, to the tip of your middle finger, the faint taste of his salty release lingering on your tongue as it lolled back into your mouth, with a devilish smirk.

“You love it, Jackson.”

The car finally rolled to a stop, the brakes slamming hard against the concrete, sending your friend, who was still grinding against Jackie’s crotch, flying to the floor, scuffing her knees on the plastic flooring, earning herself a handful of laughs as she giggled drunkenly.

The door slid open, and the instantaneous blinding flashes of cameras, and screams from fans and reporters flooded the limo. Your friends ducked, hiding their faces from the relentless cameras, as they crawled towards you, and out of view shot.

Marlon, finding the whole secretive ordeal hilarious, exited first—Taking the attention off the multiple bottles of champagne that rolled out of the car and onto the floor, the music that blared out into the street, and the dangerously obvious bag of white powder your friend had stupidly left on the seat next to were Jackie was previously sat. He addressed the reporters and thanked the fans as Michael rose to his feet.

“Hey.”

He turned, eyes finding your own as your friends clambered behind you, snorting and howling with laughter at the whole experience, as you met his gaze—

Room 714, I’ll be waiting…

Michael nodded at your words, revealing your whereabouts at the hotel later, smiling softly as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your lips, the pillowy plushness lingering on your own as he head for the door.

“Be good.”

“Never.”

Michael hated these conferences—Despised them actually. The reporters and interviewers didn’t actually care about their music, or his career, or their next steps—No. They only cared about the drama. The juicy gossip of their personal lives, women, industry feuds and affairs.

Marlon and Jermaine were, luckily, doing most of the talking. Albeit a bit more sluggish and slurred than usual due to the sheer amount of champagne they’d consumed in the thirty minute drive to the conference centre. Michael was thankful—As his mind was on a complete other planet.

He shifted in his seat, swallowing thickly as his eyes landed on a camera pointing right at him, as a blossoming, warm blush crept up his cheeks as his drying, yet still sticky, release rolled against his skin from his boxers. The memory of your hand, swift and precise, moving with ease, stroking his hard cock beneath his slacks, mouth against his own, nipping against the skin of his lips, had him fighting the urge to stiffen once again.

His mind soon drifted to a similar place.

The idea of you waiting for him, just as you promised, at your hotel for the night. It led him to think maybe you were in a matching lingerie set, laying on your side on the bed with your hair up. Or maybe you were draped in a silk robe, bent over with your hand already between your legs, deliciously impatient to feel him. Or maybe you were—

“Michael?”

The sound of a reporters confused voice pulled him quickly from his sensual daydream—Throat running dry as his eyes darted around the room, checking, impossibly, that no one could’ve possibly read his mind.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you have anyone special in your life, like your brother’s do?” A tall reporter asked, tilting his head as he awaited his answer.

Michael glanced over to his brother’s, who were suppressing their laughter—Assholes. They’d deliberately baited him into this. Michael wasn’t a liar—But certainly didn’t want to tell the whole truth. He wasn’t ashamed of you, of course not—Why do you think he brought you around his faithful mother who was obviously going to reject you? But, the tabloids would run a thousand miles and back if they knew shy, bashful, gentle Michael Jackson was fucking a girl of the night.

“I—Uh, yeah. Yeah I do.” Michael responded, his voice dropping to his famous soft, breathless tone.

“You do? Anymore you can tell us about her? What’s she like? Is she a celebrity?” The man pressed, instantly jotting Michael’s latter words down into a pad of paper as he spoke.

“Uh, no, but she’s, uh …She’s a real special girl.” Michael spoke, unable to hide the genuine smile that crawled up his face.

“Oh, she’s special, alright.” Marlon quipped, earning himself a pinch of his thigh under the table from Tito.

“Special? What does that mean, Michael?” The reporter queried further, cocking an eyebrow as he scribbled.

“It means she’s great, real good fun—She’s super.”

“A super freak.”

Michael was thankful Marlon uttered those words quieter this time, more so under his breath—But, he still heard them, and still shot him a look that could kill through his famous Aviators. If anyone in this room, reporter, fan, interviewer, family, had heard that—Michael was certain his mother would lock him in the house and never let him see the sun again, as well as getting hounded left, right and centre by the tabloids.

Alas, he was even more grateful when the interview finally concluded—The still drunken Marlon stumbled out of the conference center and into the back of another limousine, this time without the cocaine, champagne and half-naked women, after taking ahold of fan’s hands, kissing their cheeks and taking elaborate pictures for the paparazzi.

As soon as the car whirred off into the night, following the direction of your previous limo—Michael sighed, ignoring the sound of Marlon singing concerningly badly along to a popular song on the radio, as he dreamt of his night coming forth.

Special lady—Here he comes.

When I get there, she’s got incense, wine and candles… It’s such a freaky scene…

Michael’s eyes were nearly half-hanging out of his head when he pushed the door to the bedroom of your hotel room open.

“Welcome back, handsome.”

All the sensual ideas Michael had conjured up in his head of how’d you’d be posed in the bedroom during his interview was nothing like the one he was witnessing right now.

You were laid on your side, just as he’d imagined, but instead of draped in a silk robe or a matching set—You were completely bare. Perky breasts, pebbled nipples, curved waist, and parted legs to reveal your glistening sex were all on joyous display—Your bottom lip caught between your legs as you shuffled your leg further to the side, your pretty pussy lips sliding further apart to reveal your drooling entrance, clenching around nothing. Surrounding the dimly lit room was burning candles, erupting the room into a sensual, amber glow that bounced off your glistening skin, as well as an dizzyingly beautiful scent of musky incense that danced into the thick, tense air, and two glasses of Merlot on the nightstand, one already half drank.

“‘M special, huh?”

Michael swallowed thickly, eyes locked on your naked frame as he traipsed slowly into the room, chest rising and falling quickly as his dick hardened rapidly beneath his soiled boxers.

“Mm-hm.” He affirmed, nodding his head as he finally reached you, dropping to his knees between your parted legs, “You’ real special, baby.”

“Yeah? And ‘m real super?” You added, lifting your arched foot to rest upon his shoulder, curling your pedicured toes around his shoulder blade.

“Mhm, yeah, baby. My super freak.” Michael spoke, voice drawled as his eyes transfixed on your soaking cunt, completely checked out of the conversation as his brain went short circuited at the sweet scent of your sex filling his nostrils.

“Oh! A freak, huh, baby? Is that what’cha think of me?” You teased, giggling as his hands slowly wrapped around your ankle, clad in gold jewellery.

Michael hummed, bringing the skin of your foot to his mouth, pressing kisses up your ankle, “Yeah, darlin’, yer s’kinky.”

You laughed, tipping your head back as you watched him flutter his eyes shut as he pressed hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses up your leg, trailing up your calves, to your thighs, humming into your skin at the scent of your lotion melting into your flesh.

“Kinky, huh?” You tilted your head to the side, voice dropping an octave, “Y’not so innocent yourself, Jackson.”

“Don’t care.” Michael mumbled against your skin, licking a stripe up your inner thigh as he neared where you needed him most.

A quiet, almost inaudible moan tumbled past your parted lips as Michael nuzzled his face between your parted legs—Nose and plump lips smushing into your sex, now glistening with your arousal.

“Don’t care when I have you, baby.”

Your chest heaved as he licked a stripe up your sex—Collecting your intoxicating essence along the twitching muscle, as he wrapped his lips around your clit swiftly. Your back arched, your hips jerking into his mouth, as your hand flew to his hair for support, your fingers tangling into his curls.

“The sweetest, most special, most super freak I’ve ever known, baby.” Michael admitted, his voice low and deep as his fingers swiped through your folds, before his index and middle slid inside your tightening cunt, filling you up with a gasp, “And all mine.”

You giggled, head shaking as you swiped your tongue over your bottom lip, wetting the flesh, before reaching behind you. Michael’s eyes followed you intently, his fingers twitching inside you, as he watched you fumble with a hidden item behind your back.

An lit-up, excitable smirk painted his lips as you dangled a daring pair of pink, fluffy handcuffs between your manicured digits, and a pair of your panties, ones that had been decorated into your arousal from watching him cum in his pants earlier, between the other, meant to be stuffed into his mouth when you slid down onto him later.

Michael shook his head with a laugh, curling his fingers to hit the sweet spot inside you, earning himself a gasp, and a devilish giggle, before you grasped his jaw in your hands and pulled him down for a feverish kiss. He smiled back into it, as, just as he loved,—

That girl’s a super freak!…

© dreamylace 2026 ❦ all rights reserved

taglist: @kisscoqueen @judesboots @cherrishkissed @curlypytclubx @platanita @hiiioliviaxoxo @ebvnydesires @lil6uapa @3leni

[feenin4dietcoke]

𝙛𝙪𝙘𝙠 𝙢𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣 𝙞𝙩 ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

𝙗𝙖𝙨𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙧𝙚𝙦𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙩!

summary: michael came home frustrated after an unsuccessful studio session. he had the sole intention of taking that frustration out on you.

pairings: thrad!michael x black girlfriend!reader

cw: 18+ (mdni), just when i thought my writing was already nasty, we get even nastier, rough dom!Michael, sub!reader, doggy style!, eating out from the back, he fucks you with his tie around your neck, restraint (?), overstimulation kink (if you squint), ends with a facial (ouu shii), cum eating again! who's shocked!, porn with the smallest plot known to mankind.

wc: 1,936k

a/n: i listened to kissland by the weeknd writing this. i lowkey got a lil carried away, whoops! also, I'm kinda bad at writing angry sex. this the best i could do. pls dont throw tomatoes at me, im sensitive.

(you know i ain't proofread this lol. work is all mine, human written, and fictional!)

1985

the air was particularly chilly tonight, considering the california weather was making its smooth transition from the sweltering, daytime summer heat to its cozy, windy autumn nights.

you stayed inside pretty much all day, not really wanting to be bothered by choosing an appropriate outfit for the sudden changes. you laid on the bed, stretched out across the king size bed. you felt so small and out of place on a mattress this abnormally large for one person.

you flipped through a magazine, not really focused on the articles, but more on the pictures. you examined the faces between the pages, studying their makeup and the way they'd pin their hair up. you hummed and continued to flip, passively taking mental notes on the beauty tips.

you were terribly bored. you tried to ignore the thought of it or else the boredom would consume you whole. you've been waiting on your boyfriend to get back home from the studio. he had been spending late nights working on his new project. part of you felt neglected, not seeing him consistently taking a toll on how much time you got to spend together. another part of you understood it was his craft, and you couldn't be too mad at him for it.

you made it to the last page of the magazine, flipping the final page, and as if on cue, you hear footsteps traveling closer and closer to the door.

your ears perk up and an excited smile threatens to fall on your face as if you were a puppy waiting on its owner.

the door swings open and a slender silhouette stands in the threshold. you close the magazine, not taking your eyes off of him.

he walks through and you catch a better look at him: his face shimmering in the light from assumably sweat, curls sticking to his temple, eyeliner slightly smudged, his tie loosely around his neck, and his eyes lidded in a familiar manner that peaked your curiosity.

he watches your expression melt at the sight of him. he took you all in before speaking; you wore his big mickey mouse t-shirt and long white socks. if only you knew the kind of day he was having. his mind started to wander to what was underneath the baggy shirt. that's when a lightbulb went off in his head.

"michael. i missed you so much. how was--"

"strip." he commanded.

your face contorts, confusion knitted between your brows. your mouth slightly hung open, your brain scrambling to muster up a sentence, but failing. your expression remained perplexed, but you felt your body pulse at the simple, yet demanding word.

"i--"

"uhn uhn," he shook his head slowly, his lips puckered as he exhaled. "i said strip."

you pause for a moment before sliding the magazine to the edge of the bed. you watched as his eyes flicked from your face, down to your thighs, and back up to your eyes. you maintained eye contact while bringing your fingers to the hem of the shirt. you lifted it over your head, revealing yourself in nothing but black panties.

his tongue grazed over his lips, bringing himself back to earth. the sight of your perky breasts immediately sent blood to his growing bulge. the adrenaline pumping in his veins caused his vision to blur.

he walked over to you, sitting beside you, and cupped his hand onto your right tit. he quickly latched onto your nipple, his tongue swirling and licking in tight circles. your breath shuddered, mouth falling agape. you instinctively tangled your hands into his curls, slightly tugging on him. he hummed right against you before sucking hard and then pulling back with a pop, leaving a dark red mark around your brown nipple.

he moved his face from your cleavage and pushed his lips against yours. he brought his hand to your other nipple, rolling it between his thumb and pointer finger, lightly pinching. your back arched intuitively, pushing you closer to his body. you stuck your tongue against his lips, wanting to explore his mouth. he wrapped his lips around your tongue, sucking the same way he just did on your breast.

you moaned at his desperation. his hunger sent waves of pleasure to your clit. your thighs squeezed, wanting to relieve the consistent pulse in your panties. you could feel the wetness sticking onto your core.

his hand traveled from your chest to your neck, lightly squeezing on your pulse points, making your head light with euphoria. he pulled his lips from yours, and trailed kisses down to your neck, sucking hard and giving small kitten licks on the areas to soothe you.

"mikey..." you moaned.

he abruptly lifted his hand from your neck and wrapped his hand right around your mouth.

"who told you to speak?" he hummed.

you involuntarily whimper against his hand, the wetness pooled in your panties becoming unbearable. he glanced down between your legs and caught your eyes again.

"y'being needy? and all i did was kiss you, baby." he whispered into your ear, bringing two of his fingers straight to your clothed clit, rubbing in quick circles.

your eyes roll, your body melting right under his touch.

"you gonna let me use you, tonight? can i relieve my stress on your pussy?" he watched you nod as much as you could under his restraint.

"good girl, baby." he kissed your cheek sweetly, despite how he was manhandling you.

he quickly removed his fingers from your core, causing a groan to vibrate from your lips into his hand.

he took his hands off of your lips and brought them to your jaw, forcefully moving your head to the side. he brought his lips to your ear.

"lay down."

he let go and you flipped onto your stomach, ass perched into the air, the cool ac hitting the wet spot in your underwear. the contrast of cool air and your hot, aching body made you whine into the mattress.

michael hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in a swift motion. you could hear him shuffle around before the sounds finally stopped. you opened your lips to speak, before you felt a long lick travel from your clit up to your entrance. a high pitched moan parted from your mouth.

he brought his hands to the fat of your ass, spreading them to get a better look at all of you. he stuck his tongue out, nodding up and down, collecting every ounce of juice from the behind.

"m-mich-- oh, shit." you whimpered, a mix of surprise in your tone by the vulgar acts he was committing.

"you taste so fucking good, angel." he mumbled against your clit before sucking down on it.

your eyes shut tightly, your legs already starting to shake as an orgasm quickly crept up.

"wait-- fuck. i'm gonna cum, mik-- oh god." you cried into the sheets, your knuckles turning white from gripping onto them.

he swiftly removed his lips from your clit, watching a string of his saliva keep you connected.

you huffed at the sudden loss of contact again, your hips instinctively bucking, your entrance clenching onto nothing.

you heard him shuffle around again, his belt eventually unbuckling and his pants falling to the ground with a thud. his dick popped, hitting him against his torso, precum rolling down his tip and down his shaft. he stroked his length a couple times before another idea popped off in his head.

he slid the knot in his tie that sat around his neck and took it off of him. he leaned forward, grabbing onto your hair to lift your neck up.

you moaned under his touch before feeling the fabric travel around your neck. he pushed the knot down, the necktie lingering around you. he brought the tail of the tie to your back, before pumping a couple more strokes to his dick.

suddenly, he brought his tip to your core, collecting all of the natural lubricant that sat in every fold and crease of your cunt. he lined up at your entrance and shoved right into you.

you both moaned, your face immediately falling back onto the mattress. he huffed, grabbing the tie and pulling you up. he slammed his hips into you, your ass rippling with each stroke, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.

"you're such a dirty, dirty girl. look at you, baby. what a mess." he huffed between sentences, bringing a hand to one of your cheeks and slapping it.

"y'fuck me so good, o-oh my.. god." your whimpers and moans started to become sobs, your body overwhelmed with pleasure, lustful tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

"y'wanna cum now? cum all over my dick. fuck--" he pulled the tie tighter, his dick brushing against your walls at a quick pace.

you bounce yourself into him, pushing his length deeper into your opening. michael brought his other hand to your clit, quickly swiping side to side.

your whimpers fill the air before you release right onto him. the coil in your stomach snapped, your body convulsing, your eyes tightly shut, saliva dropping from the corners of your lips.

michael thrusted into you at a steady pace as you rode out your orgasm, a white ring forming at the base of his dick.

"you're so pretty when you cum for me." he groaned, his hips rolling into your overstimulated core.

at this point, your whole body felt like jelly, feeling completely fucked out. but, he continued to pick up his pace, still chasing an orgasm of his own.

"mikey, oh god. 's too much-" you stumble over your words, tears daring to fall from your eyes.

"shh, baby. take me. i know you can." he set the tie down, leaning forward to kiss your spine.

he continued thrusting into you before pulling out and pushing your waist, signaling you to flip over.

he toppled over you, aligning his crotch onto your chest, his tip hanging right in front of your face.

he pumped aimlessly, his breath unsteady. he cocked his head back, tugging at his bottom lip between his teeth.

he brought his attention back down to you, his groans quickly turning into whines. he angled his tip towards your lips.

"open."

you opened your mouth, tongue hanging out. a kitten-like whimper escaped his lips, his semen staining your face. some caught your lips, while most of it sprayed across your cheeks and chin. you brought a finger up to your face, wiping the vacant seed off, and bringing the digit to your mouth, sucking the remnants off.

he let out a breathy sigh, collapsing right next to you.

you both laid there, catching your breaths, trying to recover from the lewd acts that just unfolded.

"um," you cleared your throat. "how was your day?"

michael huffed, a smirk plastered on his face. "the worst. it seemed as if nothing went right at the studio today."

you rolled over, laying on your side, your eyes gazing across his side profile. he looked so beautiful, especially after sex.

"what happened?"

"it's nothing. i don't wanna get into it. it'll work me up again." he answered, slight frustration coating his tone.

you couldn't help but chuckle. "what if i wanna work you up again? i like when you get mad."

he lifted his head, looking at you. you bit your lips innocently, a smile forming at the corners of your lips.

he smirked, bringing his hand back to the tie, pulling you in for a deep kiss.

you were in for a long night.

taglist: @prettyoungcee @mjjlover0120 @multifandomposts-blog @pvtypyt @chrollosblackgf66

comment to be added to taglist! dm to be removed! ◡̈

© all rights reserved to dietcoke.

[japinesedenim]

You and Michael are so toxic together.

It didn’t start that way, of course. In the beginning, it was all soft laughs in the back of dark recording studios, late night phone calls where his voice dropped to a shy whisper, and gentle fingers tracing your jaw like you were made of glass. He was attentive. He was sweet. He made you feel like the only person in his crowded, chaotic world.

But sweetness was just the bait.

It didn't take long for the sugar to turn into poison. The gentle touches turned into tight, possessive grips on your waist whenever another man stepped too close. The sweet phone calls turned into rapid fire interrogation sessions if you didn't answer on the second ring. You gave it right back, testing his limits, pushing his buttons just to see his quiet composure break into a fiery, jealous mess. You loved knowing you had that power over him, and he loved driving you to the edge of sanity just to pull you back in.

You and Michael are soo toxic together.

The real shift happened the night he decided to test how far he could push you. After an intensely intimate night where he held you close, whispering promises of forever into your skin, Michael went completely dark.

One day turned into three, then a week, then three whole fucking weeks of absolute silence. Your calls went straight to voicemail, and his security team blocked you at the gates of the estate with practiced, cold polite excuses. You damn bear sent a Goddamn letter attached to a pigeon just to reach him. You were losing your mind, pacing the floors of your apartment, sick to your stomach.

And then came the knockout blow.

You were sitting in the dark, the glow of the TV illuminating the room, when the news broke. High definition footage flashed across the screen: Michael at an exclusive club afterparty in Los Angeles. And right beside him, practically glued to his hip, was her— Ola. the exact female he knew you despised, the one who’d been publicly throwing herself at him for months.

Michael wasn't hiding from the cameras. He was leaning into her neck, laughing at something she said, his hand resting low and firm on the small of her back. Right as the flashbulbs went off, he looked directly down the lens of the camera. He knew you were watching. It wasn't an accident; no, it was a cold, calculated punishment designed to tear your mind apart.

You and Michael are sooo toxic together.

Blinded by an icy hot mixture of rage, humiliation, and pure spite, you drove straight to the family property. You didn't care who saw you. You just wanted to burn his world to the ground.

Michael wasn't there.

But Jackie was.

Jackie was in the lounge, working on some music, completely unprepared for you to storm in looking like a gorgeous, dangerous storm. You didn't give him a chance to ask what was wrong. You walked straight up to him, the scent of your perfume overwhelming the quiet room, and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him down into a harsh, desperate kiss.

Jackie gasped against your mouth, his hands flying up to your shoulders to push you back, his eyes wide with shock. "Y/N—wait—what are you doing?" he managed to choke out, his voice laced with panic. "Shit, Y/N, we can't... Mike’s my baby brother, man, he’ll kill me, we can't—"

"Jackie," you whispered against his lips, wrapping your arms tight around his neck and sliding your leg up his hip. You shushed him softly, murmuring right into his ear, "It's okay... just shut up and hold me."

Jackie groaned, his resolve (that barely existed in the first place) crumbling under the sheer weight of your persistence and the suffocating tension in the room. He didn't fight, he couldn't, his hands drop to your waist, pulling you flush against his crotch as he gave in, the betrayal sealed in the shadows of the shared home.

You and Michael are soooo toxic together.

When Michael found out, the world stopped spinning. He didn't call you to break up. He didn't send his lawyers. He showed up at your apartment like a phantom in the middle of the night, slamming the front door shut so hard the glass rattled in the frames, locking it behind him with a deafening click.

"You slept with my brother?!" Michael screamed, his voice cracking, his face flushed with a terrifying, raw rage you had never seen before. "My own fucking brother, Y/N?!"

"Oh, now you wanna talk to me?!" you yelled right back, stepping straight into his space, chest to chest, glaring up at him with tear stained eyes. "You ghost me for three fucking weeks and then parade that bitch around town for the whole world to see?!"

"So you go and give yourself to Jackie?!" he roared, grabbing a glass off the table and shattering it against the far wall. "I loved you! I gave you everything! And you destroy my family over a damn photo?!"

"You did this to yourself!" you shrieked, shoving him back with all your weight. "You play these sick, twisted ass mind games with me, Michael! You wanted a reaction? You got one! How does it feel?! Tell me how it fucking feels!"

"You're sick!" he yelled, leaning down so his face was inches from yours, his breath hot against your skin. "You're fucking insane, Y/N!"

"I'm insane?! You made me like this!" you screamed, your fists grabbing the front of his jacket, pulling him down to your level. "You pushed me! Don't you dare act like the victim here!"

The shouting match was breathless, vicious, and deafening, both of you tearing into every vulnerability, every lie, and every insecurity until there was nothing left to bleed. But as you stood there, gasping for air, chest heaving against chest, the hatred in his eyes twisted into something dark, feverish, and… hungry.

Without another word, Michael's hand shot out, catching you by the back of the neck and shoving you against the wall, slamming his mouth onto yours in a brutal, desperate kiss. You bit his lip until you tasted copper, pulling his hair, fighting him and clinging to him all at once as the argument dissolved into frantic sex.

Afterward, as you both lay tangled in the dark, gasping for breath, sweat sticking your hair to your forehead, Michael rolled over and pinned you down. His hand wrapped tight around your jaw—not soft, but possessive, leaving no room for escape.

"You think you're getting away from me after this?" he whispered, his dark eyes gleaming with an eerie, unhinged certainty. "You think you can ruin me and just walk away? No. You're stuck with me forever."

He reached into his jacket pocket on the floor, pulling out a heavy velvet box, and slid a massive, blinding diamond ring onto your finger. It wasn't a proposal. It was more of a sentence.

You and Michael are SO fucking toxic together.

The wedding was the event of the century. Millions of dollars poured into every detail—a grand cathedral smothered in thousands of rare white roses, camera flashes strobing outside, high society guests and royalty filling the pews. You looked like an absolute vision walking down the long, carpeted aisle in a custom lace gown, a picture of pure, angelic elegance.

Michael stood at the altar in a tailored black suit, looking every bit the pristine, flawless superstar the world believed him to be. As your father placed your hand in his, Michael took your fingers, his grip tight enough to bruise. He smiled brilliantly for the cameras, bowing his head gracefully as the priest began the vows.

"Do you, Michael, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife..."

Michael leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear under the cover of your veil. Beneath his dazzling, camera-ready smile, his voice was a razor sharp whisper. "If you ever look at another man again, I swear to God I'll ruin your life."

You didn't flinch. You turned your head slightly, your own angelic smile fixed firmly toward him, and whispered right back into the quiet air between you. "We'll go down together, husband."

"I do," Michael said aloud, his voice rich and clear, echoing through the cathedral.

"I do," you echoed, locking your gaze with his dark, possessive eyes.

The crowd erupted into applause as he pulled you in, claiming your lips in a long, dramatic kiss for the world to see—two ruined people tied eternally together forever in a golden, beautiful cage.

just a cute lil thought

[whoisit-itsaria]

you own me

summary: ☄︎ michael lets you know the affect you really have over him

contents: ☄︎ squirting, p in v, dirty talk, spitting, creampie i guess..., porn no plot, i think that's it

authors note: ☄︎ js smth to post for now

your eyes rolled back as your arm reached back to grasp onto the headboard behind you. the wet sound of michael fucking in and out of your gushing pussy coupled with michael’s endless dirty talk and your moans sounded straight out of a porn video. michael was fucking you into tomorrow and you couldn’t do anything but to take it. It’s not like you wanted to do anything else.

“f-fuck, michael! it feels so good,” you whined out. michael’s dick was fucking your pussy so good that the only thoughts in your head was “michael” and “feels so good”. you were fucked completely dumb. “i know, baby, i can feel how tight you’re squeezing me,” michael groaned, moving his hands to hold the back on your knees, folding you in half. “your pretty pussy squeezing me like she wants me to stay and fuck her forever,” michael said, moaning sexily into the room. “yes, yes, yes,” you moaned repeatedly, sounding like a broken record but you couldn’t give a fuck when michael was fucking you this good. 

“you own this dick, baby,” michael said, leaning over to whisper it into your ear, words getting broken up by his own moans. you swear you get even wetter by his words but you could only nod and moan. “you can fuck this dick whenever you want, mama, it’s yours.” michael said, meaning every word he said. “yes, baby, i want it all the time,” you say, moaning pathetically but you didn’t care and michael loved knowing that he’s the only one that could make you feel this good.

you took his head away from your ear to make eye contact with him. your mouth opened and michael smirked, knowing what you wanted. “my dirty girl,” he thought as he spit directly into your open mouth. you moaned as you swallowed. fuck, he was making you go insane. “you want more, mama?” michael asked, moaning softly. you simply nodded and opened your mouth as he spit in it again. you swallowed and michael leaned down to desperately kiss you. it was all tongue and teeth but it was everything.

you didn’t even register that your orgasm was close until you squirted around his dick as he continued to fuck in and out of you. “there we go, baby, look at her,” michael said, looking down at your squirting pussy in amazement. you were so sensitive, you tried to push michael with your hand but he just shooed it away. “unh-unh, i need to fill my pretty girl up,” he said, still continuing his pounding. you could only whine and moan. “i love you so much,” he said, whispering it into your open mouth. you could tell he was close by how choppy his thrusts were getting. you grabbed his left hand and wrapped your mouth around his ring finger, feeling the wedding band on your tongue. michael’s hips stilled as he came inside you, painting your walls with his cum. 

you removed michael finger from your mouth and gave him a small smile, “fuck, michael, that was so good. i love you so much.” you say all out of breath. michael smiled lovingly at you as he removed his dick out of you with a hiss. you whimpered, feeling sensitive but felt better once michael moved you so you were laying on his chest.

you guys stayed silent for a few minutes. you traced small shapes on his chest while he created his own shapes on your hip. “michael,” you whisper. “hmm, baby?” michael hums, his hand rubbing up and down your side. “I’m hungry,” you say with a smile spreading across your face. michael tenderly kisses your forehead. “whatever my girl wants, she gets,” he says. his lips then move to your ear, “you own me, remember?” he says before he gets up to head downstairs to the kitchen.

you bury your head in his pillow to hide the big ass smile that broke out across your face.

damn right i do

authors note: ☄︎ lmk what you guys think..yk i love it!

my asks are open for requests or even if u just wanna talk!!

(should i make a tags list??)

[mindalii]

Let’s fuck everything up

Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader

Author's note. FINALLY we grown up to write an actual smut. mindalii Masterlist.

Description: After a heated argument with Michael, the two of you don't speak for an entire week. You move into your own apartment, and there are no calls, no messages — nothing from Michael. Then, one evening, there's a knock at your door.

Warnings: porn with feelings, pathetic Mike, tension, hurt/comfort, nasty Mike, breast kink, crying Mike, reader can't stand his tears and will do ANYTHING to stop them, consent kink, domestic intimacy, sudden daddy kink, soft dom Mike, oral sex (f and m receiving).

Raiting: NC-17

You were sitting in your bed, enjoying a few quiet hours before going to sleep. It was your day off, and you'd spent it in complete comfort: you went for a walk, ordered your favorite food, and watched some old movies.

Now you were sitting with a face mask on, listening to music. Your legs were already tucked beneath a warm blanket, and you were finally relaxing.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

The last thing you wanted was to leave your warm bed and cozy bedroom. Still, you clicked your tongue in annoyance, shut your laptop, and walked out into the hallway.

"Who could that possibly be..." you muttered as you headed for the front door.

Shuffling along in your fluffy pink slippers, you looked through the peephole. The moment you saw who was standing outside, you froze in surprise. Your eyes widened.

Immediately, you rushed to the bathroom and peeled the face mask off your skin. You checked your reflection in the mirror—your freshly washed hair had almost completely dried. You looked perfect.

You had always known that your hair looked its absolute best right after washing it. Soft and long, it fell effortlessly over your shoulders, giving you a relaxed yet elegant appearance. Smiling at your reflection, you walked back to the door, already knowing exactly what kind of impression you were about to make on the person waiting outside.

Michael was standing there.

The moment your eyes met, your heart skipped a beat.

You hadn't seen him for an entire week.

He hadn't shown up. He hadn't called. You had no idea where he'd been.

Seeing him again stirred something deep inside you. Your face almost betrayed your emotions, but you managed to hold them back just in time.

Michael seemed just as happy to see you.

You could tell by his eyes how much he'd missed looking at you. Maybe he'd already forgotten what it felt like to have you by his side.

You watched his expression soften. His features relaxed, and his eyes lit up with quiet warmth.

But you knew nothing about the thoughts running through his mind. Instead, you were beginning to grow irritated that he was simply standing there, staring at you.

Folding your arms across your waist, you frowned, your entire posture making your displeasure perfectly clear.

Finally, Michael broke the silence.

"Hi, Y/N," he said.

The sound of his deep, raspy voice cut straight through your heart like a blade. You closed your eyes for a brief second.

"Can I come in?"

Without saying a word, you turned away from the door and stepped aside, silently letting him in.

As he walked inside and you felt his presence beside you again, you leaned away to close the door, almost as if you were afraid of brushing against him even by accident.

Michael noticed how coldly you'd received him.

It seemed to break his heart.

But he had expected it.

Pressing his lips together, his gaze wandered aimlessly around the room before finally settling on you.

"I'm sorry," Michael said, reaching a hand toward you.

The moment you heard those words, you grimaced and instinctively stepped back.

His sad eyes followed your movement. "I'm so sorry. I really am. I've been miserable these past few days..."

"So miserable that you couldn't even call?" you cut him off sharply, your arms folding tightly across your waist.

Just five minutes ago, you'd been peacefully enjoying your day off in your room. Now you were forced to deal with this.

It wasn't even about being angry anymore.

It hurt to see Michael like this...

But it hurt just as much to be standing here yourself.

From the very first day after your terrible argument, your heart had been telling you to let it go. To forgive him.

But your mind kept repeating the same thing over and over:

Don't make it so easy for him. He already has you wrapped around his finger. You have to show him that you're independent.

Michael drew in a shaky breath and covered his eyes with one hand.

"I'm sorry... I wanted to call you right away and admit that all of this was my fault. I've been overwhelmed with the new album... and the kids..."

"So you're doing just fine without me, Mike!" you shot back as you turned away from him.

Your footsteps echoed down the hallway.

Michael followed after you as quickly as he could.

"Baby, don't be like this..." His gentle voice only made you angrier. He could make you forget everything you'd been telling yourself every damn night so easily.

"I'm not your baby," you said firmly. "I am not for you, Michael!"

But he wasn't intimidated by you. He followed after you.

You had already reached your bedroom when he caught hold of your hands. You tried to pull away, but although his grip was gentle, he refused to let go.

"You're so wrong, baby. You're so wrong," Michael said, placing his hands around your arms as he gently backed you against your bedroom door.

You barely had time to realize how you'd ended up trapped there.

You struggled against him, but Michael's hands wouldn't let you go. And truthfully... you didn't have much will to fight back.

The way he held you...

You could feel that he needed you.

And that he was just as necessary to you.

"My life is not good without you. In fact, it's very, very miserable. I can't... I couldn't even sleep without you..."

The moment those words left his lips, he broke down in tears.

For the first time, you felt sorry for him.

Whenever you saw Michael cry, you simply couldn't help yourself. Your pride disappeared. Everything else disappeared.

Feeling an overwhelming warmth bloom inside your heart, you reached up and gently stroked his hair.

Michael lifted his head in surprise.

His face was still miserable, but the tears had stopped. He looked at you, and in his dark eyes you saw hope.

Your heart trembled.

You couldn't play with his feelings.

"Okay... I'm sorry too, if I—" you began hesitantly.

But he wasn't listening anymore.

He immediately leaned in and kissed you.

Resolving an argument was one thing.

This...

This was something entirely different.

Although the kiss left you shocked—and flustered—you still pulled away without kissing him back.

The back of your head touched the door behind you.

He was far too close.

"So... you're rejecting me now..." Mike said quietly, sadness and confusion filling his voice. His eyes slowly closed.

He searched your face desperately for some kind of emotion.

But all he found was confusion.

He was playing with your feelings. It was becoming harder and harder to resist him.

Standing in front of you, Michael looked so vulnerable... so touch-starved. You could feel his hands on you, and it took everything you had not to simply give in.

Inside you, that familiar feeling returned.

That sense of power you always seemed to have over him.

You felt it every time you were with him.

His gaze kept drifting downward.

His hands rested on your hips.

You stood before him wearing nothing but a camisole and a pair of tiny shorts.

Your bedroom felt warm and inviting, just like your bed.

You knew he'd always loved making love in your room.

Of course, once you started dating, you'd moved in with him. But before that—and sometimes even afterward—he loved coming over to your place.

He loved your bedroom because it reminded him of you. It was filled with warm colors, soft fabrics... And it smelled like you.

"Please... don't reject me," Michael said, his voice sounding completely broken.

It was becoming harder and harder to keep yourself under control.

He slowly lowered himself, pressing soft kisses against your neck and collarbones.

You realized he was practically dropping to his knees.

"I can't be anywhere but here. Only in your arms is where I belong."

Hearing those words, it felt as though bells rang somewhere deep inside your heart.

Your eyes threatened to fill with tears at any second. No one had ever said anything like that to you before.

Hearing it from Michael felt like a weight lifting off your chest.

"Okay..." you whispered.

Your hands reached for his jacket. You gently pulled him back up toward you and searched for his lips.

He met you halfway. He'd wanted this, waited for this so desperately.

Finally, it happened.

You heard Michael let out a soft, emotional moan into the kiss.

Keeping your hands on his shoulders, you guided him toward your bedroom.

He immediately took over, steering you toward your bed before you could even do it yourself.

He barely let you do anything.

That was how desperately he'd been holding himself back.

Michael pushed you down onto the bed, pinning you beneath his body. You could hear his soft moans, each one sending a sweet pulse through your chest. You tossed his jacket aside—it was still damp from the rain he'd walked through.

"Mike..." you murmured, your voice strained. Your breathing had become uneven.

"Baby..." He couldn't hold himself back. "Baby..."

He lowered himself until his head rested beside your chest. His skin was still cold from the autumn weather, and you felt the chill of his face against you. You cupped the back of his head, and he pressed a kiss just above your breast. You heard him let out a quiet sigh.

Your back arched instinctively as he nestled into the space between your breasts, finding comfort there almost like a child.

Feeling his kisses across the front of your body while his hands rested against your hips, you felt him everywhere, melting beneath every touch. He covered your chest with kisses—both the bare skin and the places still hidden beneath the fabric. A soft moan escaped your lips as you tilted your head back.

Your hands reached for his pants, and you brushed your palm over the bulge beneath the fabric, immediately realizing how aroused he was. Feeling your touch, he let out another moan and practically collapsed against your chest.

"I can't..." he whispered, his voice still thick with tears.

Exhaling softly, you lifted his face toward yours and kissed him, gently wiping away the tears with your hands. His own hands immediately found your waist. As he slowly pushed your camisole upward, every place his fingertips grazed your skin made your body tense with pleasure.

"Michael..." you whispered.

Your hand slid down to him again, stroking him. He arched into your touch, instinctively pressing himself against your hand. You felt him sink into your embrace, his entire body beginning to relax. With your other hand, you traced the lines of his stomach, lifting the hem of his shirt.

As much as Michael wanted you, there was something he wanted to do for you first.

He reached for your shorts and gently pulled them down over your hips. Your skin was still warm—almost hot—and he was dying to dive into you.

He wasn't embarrassed by how desperate he looked or by what you might think of him. He was much older than you, and perhaps he should have been able to control himself.

But there was no point anymore.

Especially when this was exactly what you needed.

Michael moved down between your thighs, pressing gentle kisses to their inner sides. Your legs drew together ever so slightly, already restless.

"Michael... please..." you breathed, your voice catching. Your thoughts had narrowed to a single point. "Baby..."

Hearing you call him that was the final straw. With a low growl, he moved closer to your pussy. His lips and tongue met you as though he wanted to devour you. A moan escaped your lips at the sensation. Your back fell against the mattress. Your hands reached toward him but froze helplessly in midair.

"Mikey..." you hissed, your voice breaking.

He began licking you, and you could feel the movement of his jaw as it rose and fell. Moan after moan slipped uncontrollably from your lips.

Michael closed his eyes in pleasure, and you buried your fingers in his hair, holding him close. His nose brushed against your folds, and you felt his warm breath against you. A cry tore from your throat before you could stop it.

"Oh God!" You didn't even know what you were saying. "Daddy... please..."

The word escaped you instinctively, though it had filled your mind in that moment.

The instant Michael heard it, his hands tightened around your thighs, hard enough for you to know bruises would bloom there later. He held you firmly against his face, his breathing growing heavier and heavier.

Your back arched. With every movement he made, you felt yourself slipping further and further away from the world around you. When Michael began sucking on your clit, your throat went dry. He ate you as though nothing else in existence mattered.

When his hands slid over your body, you felt yourself on the verge of coming.

That was the sign.

The very next second, your muscles tightened, and it felt as though you were drifting straight into heaven. Tremors ran through your entire body. You felt Michael gently lick you clean, gathering every trace of your release.

Your body went limp against the bed as you felt his hands moving back up toward you.

Michael didn't say anything.

Apparently, he had only one thing on his mind.

"Daddy?" he asked softly.

You felt something pierce straight through your chest.

The high of your orgasm faded, replaced by sudden embarrassment as you remembered what you'd just called him.

But Michael didn't seem angry.

He reached for his belt, slowly undoing it with one hand while the other gently cradled your face.

"Could you please do something for Daddy..." he murmured.

Your breath caught.

A powerful urge welled up inside you—to lean toward him... to obey.

You could feel his possessiveness wrapping itself around you.

Leaning forward, you reached for him and freed him from his underwear. He was still hard, thick, and already glistening with precum.

Taking a slow breath, you lowered your head and wrapped your lips around him.

Michael let out a low moan and rested a hand against the back of your head.

"Oh God..." he breathed. "I can't believe this."

A moment later, you felt him gently stroke your hair.

"I can't believe I have you," he whispered. "You make me so, so satisfied as a man."

Hearing those words from him sent another wave of arousal through your body.

Closing your eyes, you took him deeper.

You felt one of his hands settle against your back before sliding to the side, coming to rest on your breast. Feeling the possessive way he touched you was almost intoxicating.

You knew how vulnerable he really was—so open, so giving.

Only in bed did he become demanding.

Sometimes you thought you were the only person who had ever seen that side of him.

Your tongue glided over his skin as your head moved slowly up and down. Your body rocked with the motion, and he couldn't resist letting his hands wander over you. You felt them slide across your waist and over your hips. A quiet moan escaped your lips around him, earning you a light smack on your ass.

Your back arched as you fought back another moan, your eyes squeezing shut.

"Y/N..." he murmured, his hand moving to the back of your neck. "Can I take control?"

You nodded immediately.

It felt too good to be real.

You loved this side of Mike.

It was the only place you ever got to see it.

Suddenly, you felt Michael guiding your head with gentle but unmistakable firmness. Feeling his strength, you surrendered to him and relaxed your throat. Tears welled in your eyes from the pressure and the ache. Your throat felt scratchy, and you swallowed awkwardly twice, trying not to disturb him...

But Michael seemed to notice.

He immediately stopped.

"Oh God..." he whispered. "You're trying not to disturb me... Oh, Angel... Baby... Oh God..."

His voice broke into soft whimpers. He was so close now.

He threw his head back.

You felt his hand gently stroking your cheek.

Even in that position, you couldn't hold yourself back anymore. Feeling him nearing his climax, your own thighs trembled and drew together a couple of times before another orgasm washed over you—just as Mike came into your mouth.

His hands cradled your jaw, and for a moment you felt completely at one with him.

You swallowed, feeling warmth spread through your body as your own release soaked your thighs.

Your eyes squeezed shut from the overwhelming pleasure and the tears.

Michael immediately pulled you back up and kissed you with all the tenderness he hadn't been able to show while you were beneath him.

The way you'd given yourself to him. The way you'd wanted to make him feel good. He felt your love just as strongly as his own.

And in that moment, he realized there were no longer any limits between the two of you.

You kissed him back as he wrapped you in his warm, strong arms. His hands slid over your bare skin until he noticed the dampness on your thighs.

"Oh God... my poor baby," he whispered with a shaky breath.

He brought his fingers to his lips, licking them clean before exhaling softly.

Then he lowered himself to you once more, his gentle tongue brushing against your cunt again.

You were already so sensitive that you cried out the moment he touched you.

"Ahh... Mike!" you gasped, going limp in his embrace.

Lovingly, he continued kissing and licking you, his hands wrapped securely around your thighs.

When he finally stopped, he let out a long, satisfied breath beside you, and you were left with a warm, lingering wave of pleasure simply from feeling him there.

Michael climbed back up and settled across your waist, resting his head just above your stomach.

"So..." you said, suddenly remembering the clothes he'd been wearing outside. "You're not planning to change?"

It wasn't that you minded—it was Mike, after all.

But having street clothes in bed wasn't exactly ideal.

"Sorry," he said, immediately getting up.

You propped yourself up on your elbows.

"I think I need a shower. Do you?" you asked, a playful sparkle appearing in your eyes.

He smiled instantly.

"Of course. With you, I'd go anywhere."

Before you could react, he scooped you up into his arms and carried you toward the bathroom.

He made it look as though you weighed nothing at all, even though you were fairly tall.

"I'm so happy we can do everything together again," he said softly.

A comforting warmth spread through your chest.

Yes, it had all begun with an argument.

But what mattered was how it ended—

With the two of you becoming one again.

[kkgalerii]

late night promises — ᨳଓ .

𝜗ৎ description: when late nights and unspoken anger boil over, midnight friction turns soft, giving way to gentle worship, raw passion, and sweet reconciliation in bed.

content: 18+, smut, hatefucking???, arguing, angst, pussyeating, prone bone n missionary, established relationship, married.

𑣲. the faint, luminous green numbers on the digital nightstand clock read 1:47 AM.

you stared at them, the harsh, electronic glow burning into your eyes as you lay alone in the absolute center of the king-sized bed. the white sheets on the left side were still crisp, flat, and untouched—cool to the touch, like a physical reminder of how quiet the house had been all evening.

he promised. he had sworn over the phone at five o'clock that he’d be wrapped up by eight at the absolute latest. then eight had turned into ten, ten had bled into midnight, and now it was nearly two in the morning. this wasn't just tonight; it was every single night this month. between his grueling studio sessions for the new record, endless video rehearsals, and non-stop business meetings, you were sharing a home with a ghost. the frustration between the two of you had been building for weeks—a slow, simmering tension composed of sharp retorts, short phone calls, passive-aggressive silence, and cold, aching distance.

with a heavy, bitter sigh, you yanked the heavy comforter up over your bare shoulder, rolling over onto your side to face the window, and forced your eyes shut.

twenty minutes dragged by in total silence. then, the quiet, unmistakable click of the bedroom door lock broke the stillness.

you didn't move. you kept your breathing steady and slow, pretending to be fast asleep. you listened to the familiar, quiet rustle of his heavy leather jacket sliding off his shoulders and hitting the arm-chair in the corner. next came the faint, soft patter of his socked feet across the hardwood floor, heading straight for the adjoining bathroom. the door clicked shut, and within seconds, the steady, warm hiss of the shower echoed through the dark bedroom for a brief ten minutes.

when the bathroom door opened again, a wave of warm steam, gentle soap, and his distinct, signature cologne drifted into the bedroom air.

the mattress dipped significantly as michael climbed into bed. he didn't hesitate or keep his distance. he immediately reached across the mattress, his long, muscular arm sliding around your waist, his hand broad and warm against your midsection as he pulled your back flush against his chest. his body heat radiated off him, his damp dark curls pressing against the cool skin of the back of your neck as he buried his face deeply into the curve of your collarbone.

"baby..." michael murmured, his voice low, raspy, and thoroughly exhausted against your skin. he pressed a soft, needy kiss to the curve of your neck, his hips nudging instinctively against your rear. "i missed you so much..."

you tensed instantly. your hand came up, grabbing his forearm, and you tried to push his heavy limb off your waist with all the strength you had.

"michael, stop," you muttered, your tone laced with cold, unyielding annoyance. "i'm trying to sleep."

michael didn't pull back. he was frustrated at the moment so he was overly confident, stubborn, and completely unyielding when it came to what he wanted. instead of retreating, he tightened his grip around your midsection, pulling you even closer until there wasn't a fraction of air between your bodies. his lips dragged slowly up the sensitive side of your neck, stopping right at the shell of your ear.

"don't do that," he whispered, his breath hot and dangerous against your ear, his tone laced with a distinct, possessive edge. "don't push me away like that. i've been thinking about getting home to you all damn day."

"well, you should've come home earlier then," you snapped, your voice rising as you shoved at his hands again. "it's almost two in the morning, michael! you gave me your word. 'eight o'clock,' you said. 'i'll be home for dinner,' you said. and where were you? sitting in a studio while i waited around like an idiot!"

michael let out a heavy, frustrated breath against your shoulder, his chest expanding against your back. "i was working! you act like im out partying or running the streets with my friends! im trying to finish this record, and the mix wasn't right. i couldn't just walk out—"

"you always have an excuse!" you spat back, rolling completely onto your stomach and burying your face into the pillow, pulling the covers tight around your shoulders to wall yourself off. "it's always the mix, or the choreography, or a meeting that ran late! you don't care that im sitting here alone every single night. im tired of it, michael. im tired, and im going to sleep."

"don't you dare say i don't care!" michael raised his voice, his tone sharp and defensively laced with anger. he sat up slightly, hovering over you in the dark, his shadow blocking out the faint light from the window. "you think i want to be stuck in a hot studio for fourteen hours? i do all of this for us! i work my ass off so we can have everything, and i come home completely exhausted, wanting nothing more than to just hold my wife, and all i get from you is a cold shoulder and an attitude!"

"because you treat me like an afterthought!" you shouted into the mattress, twisting your head to glare up at him through the dark. "you call me at five to make promises you know you're not going to keep! just tell me the truth for once! tell me, 'don't wait up, i don't care about our plans.' at least then i wouldn't waste my night waiting for you!"

"i do care!" michael snapped back, his jaw clenching tightly. "i lost track of time! is that what you want to hear? i got caught up in the music! but instead of walking in this door and getting a little bit of grace or understanding from the woman i love, i get screamed at! im sick of walking on eggshells in my own bed!"

"then go sleep on the couch!" you yelled, your voice cracking with weeks of built-up hurt and exhaustion. "if it's such a chore to come home to me, go sleep in another room!"

for a second, the room fell into a suffocating, heavy silence. you could hear his ragged, furious breathing right above you. his dark eyes burned into you through the shadows, filled with a mixture of intense anger and deep, aching frustration.

he didn't leave. he didn't get up.

instead, michael let out a low, dangerous growl from the back of his throat. slowly, deliberately, he leaned all the way back down over your body, his broad chest pressing heavily against your back, trapping you beneath his weight.

"i am not going to the couch," michael growled softly near your ear, his voice dropping to a low, commanding rumble that sent an involuntary shiver straight down your spine. "this is my bed, and you are my wife. we are not doing this silent treatment bullshit tonight."

he began to trail soft, slow, but intensely deliberate kisses down the length of your spine. his lips were warm and heavy, pressing firm against the thin fabric of your nightshirt. he moved down inch by inch—first between your shoulder blades, then down to the middle of your back, traveling lower and lower until he reached the small of your back. at the same time, his large, warm hand slid beneath the edge of the comforter, his long fingers cupping the bare, soft curve of your ass, squeezing firmly.

underneath the pillow, despite the fierce anger still boiling in your chest, a slow, knowing grin spread across your face. you knew your husband. you knew how possessive and needy he got when he felt you slipping away, and despite how furious you were, your own body was betraying you, humming with a deep, electric ache.

deciding to play his game, you slowly readjusted your position. you flattened yourself entirely on your stomach, propping your left knee high up toward your chest and arching your lower back prominent, high, and tempting, pulling the hem of your shirt all the way up over your hips. it was a clear, unmistakable invitation.

"go ahead, just be gentle..." you murmured bitterly into the pillow, your voice muffled. "put me to sleep."

michael stared down at the sharp, pronounced curve of your arched hips in the dark, a low, satisfied, and slightly predatory smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"gladly, baby," he whispered smoothly.

you heard the faint, slow shuffling of him shifting his weight between your spread legs, followed by the soft rustle of his silk pajama pants being pushed down his thighs. a fraction of a second later, the cool night air hit your exposed skin as his broad hands reached down, grabbing the waistband of your underwear and pulling it down to your knees in one fluid motion.

before your brain could even process the sudden exposure, the wet, scalding pressure of his tongue made direct, firm contact with your core.

"ah!" you gasped into the mattress, your fingers instantly digging deep into the soft bedsheets.

michael didn't ease into it. he parted your slick folds effortlessly, his tongue working in deep, frantic, desperate licks, lapping at your wetness like a man dying of thirst. he hooked his broad hands firmly underneath your thighs, hoisting your arched hips even higher off the mattress, eating you out with a fierce, relentless rhythm. the intense combination of his hot breath, the heavy suction of his lips, and the precise, rhythmic flicking of his tongue against your swollen button had your hips twitching involuntarily against his face.

"m-michael..." you whined, your anger rapidly dissolving into a hazy, liquid heat that flooded your entire lower belly.

he didn't answer you with words, only letting out a low, muffled groan directly against your core, his licks growing faster, deeper, and harder until your entire body went completely taut. a sudden, violent wave of pure pleasure crashed through you, and you bucked your hips helplessly against his mouth, crying out softly into the pillow as a sharp, intense orgasm tore through your frame.

you lay there panting heavily, your body trembling from the sudden release, your muscles completely loose. you genuinely thought he was done—that he would crawl back up the bed, pull you tightly into his arms, kiss the back of your neck, and finally let you drift off to sleep like you had asked.

instead, you felt the heavy, rigid, blistering length of his bare shaft press firmly against your dripping entrance.

without a single second of warning, michael lined himself up and drove all the way into you in one long, powerful, unyielding stroke.

"ah! michael, wait—!" you shrieked, your eyes flying wide open in the dark.

he didn't wait. propped up high on his knees directly over you, he began to fuck into you deeply, heavily, and rapidly, his pace fast, heavy, and completely uncompromising. the wooden bed frame groaned under the sudden, forceful impact of his hips slamming against yours.

"michael, slow down!" you cried out, trying to push your hands against the mattress to slide your body forward and break the terrifying angle. "i said be gentle!"

before you could move an inch, michael's large, broad hand came down, wrapping gently but firmly around the back of your head, pressing your face down flat into the soft pillow, pinning you in place so you couldn't turn or escape his gaze.

"shh," michael growled softly against the shell of your ear, his voice deeper, darker, and far more dominant than you had ever heard it before, his hips slamming forcefully into yours without a second's rest. "you're supposed to be asleep, remember? let me handle this."

the sheer, unadulterated boldness of it made a fresh wave of genuine anger flare back up through the intense pleasure. you tried to thrash your lower body under his heavy grip, cursing at him furiously into the mattress. "you fucking asshole! you come home late as hell, keep me up half the night, and now you won't even listen to me—you don't get to be mad at me for being pissed at you!"

michael paused his rapid thrusting for a fraction of a second, his heavy grip on your head remaining rock-solid as he began to grind his hips in an agonizingly slow, agonizingly deep circle, burying himself to the absolute hilt before pulling back out to the very tip.

"im not mad, baby," michael fussed back, his voice thick with raw emotion, lust, and exhaustion as he began to drive back into you with a heavy, deliberate, punishing rhythm. "but you know how my schedule is! you know im working myself to the absolute bone right now, and i come home just wanting to love my wife, and you turn your back on me! i wish you'd just understand that for once!"

"i do understand, but you promised me—oh god—!"

your words were completely cut off as his angle shifted slightly. with your lower back arched high and your face pinned flat, every single deep, grinding thrust hit your sweet spot with terrifying, relentless accuracy. it was driving you out of your mind. you were angry, exhausted, and completely overwhelmed by how impossibly good he felt filling you up.

unable to take the intense sensory overload, you tried to leap forward, attempting to scramble out underneath from his heavy frame.

michael's dark eyes narrowed in the dark. he immediately released his grip on your head, his large hands reaching down to forcefully grab both sides of your hips. with a sudden display of strength that took your breath away, he yanked your hips backward with absolute authority, slamming your core right back onto his waiting length.

"where the hell do you think you're going?" michael breathed heavily, his broad chest heaving as he held you pinned tightly against his groin. "you wanna get mad? you wanna throw a fit? then fuck back! put all that damn attitude into this!"

the explicit challenge hung heavy in the warm, dark air. you gripped the sheets with both hands, a fierce, burning determination taking over your senses, and you began to thrust your hips backward onto him, meeting his force with equal, aggressive energy. you slammed back into his rhythm, using all your frustration, your loneliness, and your aching desire to drive the punishing pace.

"yeah... just like that," michael groaned loudly, his voice breaking as the friction intensified to a blistering heat. "fuck... baby, yes!"

it felt incredible. the raw, suffocating tension that had built up over endless weeks of missed dinners, short phone calls, cold arguments, and lonely nights was finally breaking apart, exploding into a passionate, chaotic rhythm.

michael's hand slid up from your hip, his long, delicate fingers gently wrapping around the front of your neck—not to choke you, but to anchor you, holding your upper body up off the bed slightly as he met every single one of your backward thrusts with a punishing, upward stroke of his own.

"michael... oh god, michael!" you moaned loudly, completely abandoning any attempt to be quiet or reserved.

"don't stop... don't you dare stop now," michael begged, his voice raw, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps against your ear. "keep going for me, baby... give it all to me."

"im—im gonna make a mess, mikey, i can't hold it—!" you sobbed out, feeling the telltale, overwhelming pressure building rapidly at the base of your spine.

"do it!" michael ordered, his thrusts becoming completely wild, desperate, and undisciplined. "let it out! make a mess all over the sheets, i don't care, just give it all to me!"

you both fucked like wild animals, completely lost to the rhythm and each other. your body hit the peak first; a violent, trembling wave surged through your core, and you squirted wildly across the sheets beneath you, your entire frame shaking as a loud, breathless scream tore from your throat.

despite your intense release, michael didn't stop. he kept pounding relentlessly into your slick, hypersensitive core, his thrusts rough and unrelenting as he aggressively chased his own climax.

the intense overstimulation became too much to bear. hot tears gathered at the corners of your eyes from the sheer power of the sensation.

"mikey... mikey, please—" you whimpered, finally pushing out from his broad grip on your neck and burying your face back deep into the soaked pillow, trying to hide from the overwhelming pleasure.

michael instantly noticed the sudden change in your tone. he saw your shoulders trembling and heard the soft, overwhelmed sob escape your lips.

his rough, aggressive demeanor evaporated in a single second.

"oh, baby... shh, look at me," michael whispered, his voice dripping with sudden, tender remorse.

instead of just lying over your back, he gently pulled his length out for a split second and rolled over onto his back. before you could pull away or hide back in the covers, his long, broad arms reached out, catching your waist and effortlessly turning you around to face him. he hooked your top leg high over his hip, pulling you up until your chest was resting against his, straddling him in the dark.

slowly, carefully, michael guided his rigid length back into your slick core from beneath, sliding all the way in until his hips were flush against yours.

you gasped softly at the sudden, complete change in view. the stark contrast of being face-to-face, looking directly into his dark, expressive eyes through the dim green light of the room, made your heart hit your ribs.

"i've got you... im right here," michael cooed softly, his long fingers coming up to frame your face, his thumb gently wiping away the stray tears on your cheek. he didn't pound into you anymore; instead, he began a slow, continuous, agonizingly sweet upward grind, rolling his hips up into yours in a gentle, seamless rhythm that filled you completely. "im so sorry, baby. im so sorry for coming home so late... and for being so rough when all you wanted was rest."

"mikey..." you breathed, your hands coming up to rest flat against his warm, bare chest, feeling the heavy, rapid thudding of his heart beneath your palms. "it just... it hurts when you're gone all the time. i miss you so much it makes me angry."

"i know... god, i know, mama," michael murmured, his voice breaking slightly as he lifted his head to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. his tongue slipped gently into your mouth, tasting you, taking his time to savor every slow, deep movement. his hips never stopped that slow, intoxicating grind beneath you. "i miss you every single second im away from this house. do you remember last summer? when we shut off all the phones, stayed in bed for three days straight, and just ordered takeout and laughed until our stomachs hurt?"

a soft, breathy chuckle escaped your lips against his mouth, a fresh wave of warmth blooming in your chest. "yeah... i remember."

"that's what i miss every day," he whispered, pressing sweet, peppering kisses along your jawline, down your neck, and right over your collarbone. "every time im sitting in that studio or stuck in those meetings, all im thinking about is getting back here... getting back to my girl. to my babygirl. im giving you everything you've been missing tonight, i promise you."

he lifted his hand to cup your cheek, his long, delicate fingers tracing the soft curve of your cheekbone. as his hips kept up that steady, excruciatingly deep upward roll, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your face, analyzing every single shift in your expression.

he watched the way your eyelids fluttered heavy and low, the way your lips parted to let out small, trembling gasps, and the flush creeping up your throat.

"look at you..." michael purred, his voice dropping to a low, raspy velvet that vibrated directly against your skin. "you're getting so soft for me now, aren't you? look at me, babygirl. keep those pretty eyes right on mine."

you forced your heavy gaze to meet his. the sheer intensity of his stare was intoxicating—full of pure, unadulterated worship, deep love, and a raw, sexual hunger that made your core pulse tightly around him.

"that's it, mama... just like that," michael whispered, his thumb lightly brushing across your bottom lip as his hips rolled deeper, hitting that exact spot inside you with agonizing perfection. "i can feel you tightening up around me... you're so close, aren't you?"

"mikey... yes," you whimpered, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders as the tension began to coil tightly at the base of your spine again—only this time, it was pure, unadulterated bliss. "im gonna... oh god..."

"don't look away, baby. let me watch you," michael commanded gently, his eyes wide and locked onto yours, reading every subtle flicker of pleasure on your face. he speeded his upward grind just a fraction, keeping it smooth, deep, and continuous. "give it to me, mama. let me see how good your husband makes you feel. cum for me... right now."

watching his dark eyes burn into yours while he spoke those sweet, possessive words drove you straight over the edge. you let out a long, desperate moan, your walls clamping down around his shaft in a violent, hot, shattering climax.

michael didn't break eye contact for a single second as you came. he watched your eyes roll back, your jaw drop, and your throat strain with pleasure, a low, triumphant groan escaping his own chest.

"yeah... that's my girl," he growled softly, pulling your head down to capture your lips in a deep, wet, passionate kiss. his hips drove up into you with three hard, final, overflowing thrusts, and with a guttural groan against your tongue, michael spilled hot and deep inside of you, pouring everything he had left into your core.

when the intense pulses finally began to settle, michael didn't pull back or break the connection. he kept his length buried deep within you, wrapping both of his long, strong arms tightly around your waist and pulling your body flush against his chest.

he rolled slightly to the side, cradling you close so you wouldn't take his weight, but keeping your legs tangled together. his face was buried in the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your damp skin as he stroked your hair with gentle, reverent fingers.

"im never letting you go," michael whispered softly into your skin, his voice thick with deep satisfaction and total exhaustion. "i love you so much, babygirl. it's always you and me."

you nestled deeper into his warmth, your fingers tracing soft patterns over his bare chest, finally feeling completely at peace in his arms. "i love you too, mikey."

for a long time, the only sound in the room was the peaceful rhythm of your shared breathing. the heavy, chaotic anger from earlier had completely vanished, replaced by an easy, quiet warmth.

michael reached up with one hand, his fingers tangling gently into your curls to brush a few stray dark strands away from your forehead. he leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, then to the tip of your nose, making you giggle softly in the dark.

"hey," michael murmured, a tender, dimpled smile spreading across his face as he looked down at you. "i mean it... tomorrow, no studio. no meetings. im canceling everything. just you and me all day."

you looked up at him, raising an eyebrow playfully. "really? you're gonna tell frank you can't come in because you have to stay home with your wife?"

"i'll tell him whatever i want," michael said with a smooth, confident grin, his thumb gently rubbing your bottom lip. "im the boss. and right now, my only job is right here in this bed."

you smiled, leaning up to press a sweet, quiet kiss to his lips. "okay... i'll hold you to that, mikey."

"good," he whispered, pulling the heavy comforter all the way up over both of your shoulders, tucking you tightly against his side like a precious treasure. "now go to sleep, baby. i've got you."

you rested your head over his heart, listening to its steady, strong beat, and within minutes, wrapped up securely in his arms, you both drifted off into a deep, peaceful sleep.

[luvsckpyt]

I’m craving angsty fic where the reader is not easily forgiving and actually make Michael grovel🙄 I’ve seen so many great fics but the reader is alwaysss so understanding like wdym you forgave him that quick after he was all up on d*ana??? whattt pls make that man grovell🫩

( recos are much appreciated 😝👀 )

[luvsckpyt]

I can feel everyone leaving