narrated illusions

applehead<3

[narratedillusions]

𝒲𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝒯𝑜 𝑀𝓎 𝒩𝒶𝓇𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝐼𝓁𝓁𝓊𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈

here, you're welcome to explore your fantasies, no matter how delusional they may be.

lookin' for this? ￫ m.list

hello, hello, hello and welcome to my blog.

you can call me jelly cause jam don't jiggle like this🪼

please feel free to send asks/requests or message me for a chat, i’d love to hear what’s on your mind

[ttangerinexo]

Secrets Untold

genre: one shot, heavy angst, fluff ending, best friends to lovers au, female reader, dangerous-HIStory era!mj, protective mj x timid and traumatised reader, "who did this to you?"

synopsis: Michael could not understand why his best friend and the woman he loved was distancing herself from him little by little and why she was behaving differently. His angel was skittish and he later noticed the telltale signs of what was going on behind closed doors. Despite his patience and constant prying, she wouldn’t ask him for his help. So he had to take matters into his own hands. What he learned from private investigations had shocked him to his core. He didn’t realise her scumbag boyfriend was the root of all evil in her life and the reason behind her withdrawal from his. All Michael wanted was for her to come back to him, wholly, and he was going to take care of his angel. 

word count: 7k~

warnings/triggers: signs of abuse e.g. bruises, flinching, deflecting conversations, distancing, etc., mentions of medication (painkillers), panic attacks, nightmares, maybe ooc territory because michael cusses and beats the reader's abuser up, descriptions of physical abuse, blood mentioned, violence (kicking, punching, choking), extremely vulgar language (b*stard, b*tch, wh*re, pr*ck not censored), reader blames herself for her abuse, lowkey emotional cheating on reader’s part if you count cuddling with mj, no race specified for reader

there will be cut off points in the fic, so you can scroll past some triggering descriptions of abuse and violence

original request by @michaelssugarbby: heyyyy I was wondering if you could write an angsty fic with history Michael (I’m thinking maybe You Are Not Alone) where the reader is far away, and then at the end of the story, they get to see each other again. Maybe some smut at the end? Your choice tho 🫶🏾

a/n: whew this one’s a long one, longest one i’ve written fs. I think this might be my best work and I’m super proud of how it turned out. i really channeled as much angst as i could into this. i was getting heated while writing this haha. it took me an entire night to churn out the bulk and i slept only two hours, luckily i had no work lol. this is my first angst fic and it’s definitely full on so i really hope i delivered. hope you guys enjoy it as much as i loved writing.

p.s the photo above is mj hugging a fan, she does not represent reader in any way, only wanted to depict the hug.

p.s. didn’t wanna come across as too ooc so i looked up ‘can mj fight’ and apparently j*seph taught the brothers self-defense and michael did learn some martial arts. #themoreyouknow

tags: @brownsugarletters @hannimite @cermoore @miratate @liberiangirl7 @izzyy8 @botdfaholic @stormatsea6 @bloodyellenlost @naturallykae @backupschmuck @thabiddie23 @mal3volentr0se @mjfan4ever @wisejudgedragonhairdo @gingerrsnapp @hyacinthmelliot @waywardgirl83 @kalista-101 @izkzauyloitz @luzziii-luvv @domfikeluva @navydotz (dm me if you wanna be in a taglist for the future or if you wanna opt out! so sorry if I missed anyone)

Your boyfriend used to be loving and caring. He was also in the entertainment industry, on the broadcasting side. You met him with Michael when you tagged along with him at a corporate function. You had been enamoured with him, he was charming and easygoing. Deep down you knew you had to move on from your deep-rooted feelings for Michael. He was your best friend. And as much as you wanted to be friends with the Michael you knew, the pure and wonderful person you fell in love with, he was still THE Michael Jackson. He was always going to have beautiful women vying for his attention and you were just… you. 

Sure, you made him laugh and you made him comfortable around you but you could never compete with the likes of Brooke Shields or the gorgeous women featured in his short films. So you let your current boyfriend pursue you. It was time to let go of those feelings. You would still maintain the same relationship you had with him, because the last thing you wanted was to end the beautiful friendship you shared. But Michael was so wonderful, he made it nearly impossible for you to move on. 

It was all a pretence. You pretended your heart wasn’t splitting in two the longer you denied your love for him. You pretended that you found love with your new partner. You pretended you weren’t filled with extreme jealousy when Michael smiled too hard at other women. You even pretended to be happy when he went on dates. You pretended the face of the man you slept beside every night was Michael’s instead. You pretended to be fine while your entire body ached and your soul was drained. 

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Michael couldn’t pinpoint exactly when it started but he knew ever since you started dating that absolute prick, things started to slowly change in your relationship for the worse. You were his closest friend but lately he felt like you were slipping away from his grasp and he felt powerless to stop it from happening. At first he thought it was something he did or said, he spent a bit of time trying to self-reflect on himself- did he hurt you? Or did he upset you? Have you grown tired of him? Was his lifestyle too much for you? Did you hate him? Michael would shudder whenever he thought of the last question as though he couldn’t even fathom a reality where his best girl hated him. Countless nights were spent not getting a wink of sleep. The anxiety was all-consuming as he dreaded the tether to your friendship being stretched too thin. He didn’t want to think about that invisible tether snapping. 

Giving away pieces of himself was his norm, everyone would just take and take and take. It felt like pouring from a cup about to be empty. You were the only one giving to him- pouring into his cup. Some days, you were the reason he kept pushing. Your mere presence was his salvation. Michael had been through a lot since his childhood, he had reached the pinnacle of success according to most peoples’ definition but life had yet to treat him kindly as he faced endless scrutiny, had his privacy invaded, worked himself to the bone all while he performed on the stage beyond just song and dance, and maintained a facade for not just the cameras but even his family. Until you came along. With you he didn’t have to pretend and around you he didn’t have to perform. And now something was threatening that fragile balance. Michael felt as though he was on the edge of a cliff, bracing himself for a gust of wind to tip him over. 

Something was seriously wrong but he had no idea what, his instincts were screaming with no direction. He tried to talk to you, but you weren’t communicative- refusing to elaborate on his enquiries, insisting everything was fine and tactfully evading certain topics pertaining to him. Michael never liked your boyfriend, something wasn’t quite right about him and he didn’t seem trustworthy. Michael knew he was jealous of your friendship and though he would never admit it out loud or outwardly gloat like he wanted to, a sick and smug part of him felt immense pride at having emasculated the prick. Needless to say, the two men did not like each other- Michael felt as though he did not deserve someone as kind and lovely as you, he felt threatened by your friendship with Michael- a fact he was well aware of. 

He was also increasingly aware of your change in behaviour. You were slowly pulling yourself away from him. Even though you thought you were doing a job at acting like everything was okay in front of Michael, unfortunately for you, Michael was incredibly perceptive but he held his tongue. He wouldn’t confront you for fear of scaring you away, he couldn’t afford to have your defenses go up. 

He noticed your smiles got dimmer and they didn’t quite reach your eyes. You weren’t laughing as much as you used to and if you did then they died down swiftly. You seemed to zone out easily as though you were in over your head, not even thinking deeply but just mentally checked out. The dissociation would have him worried because you didn’t do it this often before. You tried to take up less space, making yourself seem as small as possible by curling into yourself when your presence was once larger than life, your laughter once livened up the atmosphere like sunshine. Your confident struts had devolved into hesitant and quiet steps. You were slowly limiting your visits to Neverland, you rarely spoke to his siblings or his mother. They all wondered what was happening with you and they all voiced their concerns, especially Janet and La Toya. 

Your sense of style had also changed little by little until there was no more life left. Gone were the expressive jewellery pieces you’d wear on your ears, wrists and neck. You had swapped your colourful tops and dresses with fun patterns or silhouettes for plain and simple shirts. You swapped your skirts, shorts and embroidered bottoms for plain and loose jeans or trousers. You abandoned your pretty heels, your funky boots and your cool sneakers for basic and practical shoes or flats. You started covering up on certain days. It could be a hot day enough to melt a solid popsicle but you’d be clad in a full sleeve shirt. If he asked why you were fully covered, you’d respond by saying you felt cold when he could visibly see the sheen of sweat on your forehead or sweat beading on your upper lip. You no longer wanted to go down to the pool or sunbathe and read a book like you used to. Michael remembered the times when his vitiligo started spreading more rapidly, he also did similar things and that had him worried for you. 

Michael realised you wouldn’t hold eye contact with him. They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. You were the most expressive person he knew, besides himself. You were so animated, sometimes your body language was extensive. There were some feelings and expressions your face just couldn’t hide and he knew this. It was one of his favourite qualities about you, the lack of pretense. You could be your true self around him and he could do the same, without fear of judgment. Michael missed staring into your beautiful eyes- those eyes now seemed so vacant and dull. You would barely look at him because you were scared he would see too much, understand too much. Your pretty face would be downtrodden. You would smile timidly whenever you spoke with him, as if smiling was somehow too taxing for you or too loud. 

You had trouble with work. You were taking sick leaves and they weren’t happy with you for it. Eventually you quit. You told Michael the workplace environment wasn’t the best fit for you and you were going to look for a different job. This made no sense to him because you weren’t the type of person to quit your job without having another one lined up. You were meticulous and level-headed, you didn’t make hasty decisions and you thought of backup plans. 

The other extremely alarming aspect was when you dissociated so much. He went to the bathroom, on his way back, he couldn’t get your attention despite calling out your name a few times. He decided to tap your shoulder. Such a small action yet you had such a visceral reaction that you flinched so hard, you nearly jumped out of your own skin. “Hey woah! Angel, it’s just me.” Michael snatched his arm in a surrendering motion and his own eyes were slightly widened but he tried to remain calm for you, as though he was approaching a wounded animal. You looked panicked, eyes frantically darting around before you gradually calmed as they landed on his face. 

Michael had never seen your face look this stricken before. You had never flinched at his presence. You both had play fights and goofed around so much physically that he didn’t even think it was possible for you to be frightened… by him? “What were you thinking about, beautiful?” he coaxed. “Nothing much. Sorry, you were talking about the recording? Tell me more.” you said with a small smile. Michael quickly schooled his expression of dismay. He knew you were changing the topic but he knew deep down, something was incredibly wrong. But he didn’t know what to do.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

He noticed you were taking painkillers more than usual. Most of the time, even on some of the worst days on your cycle or when you had migraines, you wouldn’t take any painkillers. “I can handle it, I’m a big girl.” you would say and instead opted for a hot or cold compress or natural remedies. What could you possibly take painkillers for, and to this extent? The girl who would ‘thug it out’ now popped two advils like candy. Michael would be there to comfort you when you were going through those days when he would be available but instead of reaching for him, you took your comfort in meds. 

“How come you’re taking painkillers? You usually never take them.” he questioned, trying to make the question seem as innocent as possible when in reality he was prodding and gouging your reaction. “Oh, the cramps have been getting pretty bad lately. Y’know… lady stuff. Don’t wanna bore you.” you said, not looking at him as you shook the bottle. Michael stared at you for a beat, “You know you could never bore me, angel. You sure you don’t wanna go to the doctor? I can find a good one for you, just say the word.” he asked, his voice held an undercurrent of hope. You shook your head before you smiled at him, a smile once again that didn't touch your eyes, “I’m a big girl, I can handle it.” Those words were said so softly yet they didn’t sound convincing, even to your ears. “You know you can talk to me if something’s bothering you, right [reader]?” he said, his voice was so tender, your heart felt like it was cracking. You said nothing because you were scared your voice would croak, so you nodded without looking at him. Michael repressed a deep sigh of frustration and despair, not at you, never at you but because he felt helpless. 

“Come here, angel.” he said as he opened his arms wide. You stared at his body, his arms looked so inviting and so safe that you just wanted to burrow yourself in them forever and never come out. You hesitated for a few moments, Michael’s arms faltered a bit and he was puzzled because you never refused cuddles or hugs. In fact, you initiated them most of the time. “My arms are hurting now.” he said in a joking tone, hiding his concern. You snapped out of your trance and gave into your longing, you scooted across the couch and practically dove into his open arms, hugging around his waist while his arms spanned across your shoulders and back. You couldn’t help but take a deep sniff of his shirt, the unique blend of his cologne and the unmistakable scent of him made you release a deep sigh of relief as the tension in your body melted away. 

Michael leaned back with you in his hold as he gently caressed your back in repetitive soothing motions and he laid his cheek over your head, fully cocooning you in his warmth. At some point, you had fallen asleep. Michael looked down at your face, your face was relaxed and you looked calm. He couldn’t remember the last time you looked so peaceful and the thought made him frown as he hugged you a bit tighter. He too had fallen asleep at some point with you cuddled close to him. 

You felt like you were running, always running. You ran so fast you were out of breath, your throat closed up, your vision was spotting and your lungs burned. You couldn’t see anything, it was pitch black around you- like the darkness was caving in on you. You heard a voice, so sinister, it called out your name in anger and disgust. “You can’t run from me.” the voice made you turn to your left. “Your precious Michael won’t save you.” your head whipped to the right. “Please, leave him out of this.” you pleaded, with tears dripping down your cheeks. The next word sent the worst case of chills down your spine, “Run.” And so you ran again as you shouted desperately, crying for Michael. “Please. Please stop.” “Somebody help me!” “Michael!”

Michael woke up as though his heart got lit on fire. You were crying in your sleep and you called out his name. The nightmare had such a nasty grasp on you. Your eyes were wrenched tightly shut as you squirmed in his hold. Michael felt incredibly panicked. He started gently rubbing his hands down your back and arms as he called out your name. “Angel. Baby, wake up.” he croaked, willing his own eyes not to well up with tears. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” “Come back to me.” You slowly stopped wiggling but you were still trapped in the dream as you whined and cried. Michael stared at you as he suddenly thought of something. He started singing as he rubbed your back and arms harder, as though coaxing you out of sleep. 

You heard singing. You knew that voice anywhere. It was your favourite sound in the entire world. “Mikey?” you called out. The evil voice stopped taunting you. Michael’s voice was drowning out everything. And you ran again for a completely different reason- to his voice.

“Angel, wake up.” he called out again as he patted your head, smoothing his fingers through scalp. Your eyes slowly opened and winced as you sat up abruptly, tear tracks stained your cheeks and you had an ear-splitting headache. That dream had felt so real. Your breaths were harsh as though your lungs weren’t filling up with enough oxygen, nausea gripped you and your eyes darted around the room. You were having a panic attack. 

“Hey hey. It’s okay. You’re okay. Listen to me, pretty girl. Follow me, okay? Breathe for me.” he motioned for you to follow his breathing patterns, he took your hand in his and pressed your palm flat on his heart- breathing deeply, holding it and then releasing slowly. You nodded frantically as you tried to follow his patterns, your lungs burned but you slowly followed his movement. Eventually, you had calmed down and you felt as though you could breathe again.

Michael went to speak but he quickly shut up when you suddenly reached out to bury your face in his chest and just sob uncontrollably. Your tears soaked through his shirt as you fiercely grabbed onto his shirt into your fists. Michael simply held you tight as he gently swayed you in his arms, one of his hands gently smoothed down the back of your head and your back. “Shhh. It’s okay. I’m right here. Nothing’s going to hurt you, angel.” You cried so hard you had exhausted all your tears and only hiccups remained. Michael reached for the water bottle on the coffee table, unscrewed the cap and held it to your lips, “Drink.” You obeyed, taking large gulps and some of the water dripped down your chin. 

You suddenly looked at him, your eyes were frightened again, “What time is it?” you asked, voice rising in panic. “Almost 9 pm, why?” he asked, now alarmed again. You gasped as you sprung out of his hold. “I need to get home. He’s gonna be worried.” you said, trying to force the calm into your voice even though you felt anything but. “Why do you sound so panicked at him worrying?” he asked, voice soft but it still hit the nail on the coffin. You froze for a second as though the very mention of him shook you to your core before you quickly recovered. “I just…” you took a pregnant pause as you tried to wrack your frazzled brain to find the right words to not alarm Michael more than he already was. “I don’t want him to worry. It’s not considerate and I shouldn’t be here so late.” you said finally, without looking at him and as you gathered your belongings. 

Michael’s eyes trailed over your face before they rested on your wrist. His brows furrowed deeply as he stared at what looked like blue and purple splotches. You didn’t realise your sleeve had rolled up a bit in your panic and you quickly flipped it down. “What happened there? On your wrist?” he asked, his eyes glued to your face.  In your panic, you didn’t realise your sleeve flipped up a bit, revealing the blue and purple splotches on your wrist. You quickly pulled your sleeve down and nervously fidgeted with your things before you licked your dry lips, “I just burned myself with a curler. I’m really clumsy.” 

Michael stared at you hard before he said, “They don’t look like burn marks to me.” You stared at the ground. For a few moments there was nothing being said. “Did he do this to you?” he asked, voice sounded wrecked with tension. The silence was deafening. “Don’t be ridiculous. I told you I burned myself. You’re asking too many questions. You’re not my dad!” you snapped at him. Michael said nothing, simply stared at you as he clenched his fists. You were defensive and Michael concluded you weren’t going to ask him for help, so he was going to take matters into his own hands. 

“I’ll get Bill to drop you off. You shouldn’t be out this late, and no I’m not budging.” he said finally. You said nothing and nodded, deciding you needed the car to get back to your apartment quicker. “[reader]?” he called out and your face turned to him, this time you looked at him. Maybe it was the guilt clawing at your chest for snapping at him but you felt as though you had to look at him and memorise his face. He looked so achingly beautiful in the dim light, his hair was in messy waves with some curls but his eyes were so sad. Michael did the same, he really looked at you and took in all your features, your eyes were dim. “This isn’t over.” he said and that was your cue to leave. 

In the end, Bill did drop you off but not in front of the apartment. In fact, you insisted he dropped you off a couple blocks away from your apartment and you had walked the rest of the way. Bill stayed behind, keeping a close watch until you walked through the building entrance. He told Michael immediately. “Something isn’t right with that girl, Mike.” Bill notified him. 

~~~ DESCRIPTIONS OF PHYSICAL ABUSE STARTS HERE ~~~

You quietly opened the front door, doing your best to hide the turn of the keys and the doorknob as your heart thundered in your chest. You quietly took off your shoes, careful not to let them thud and you tiptoed your way inside. It was dark in the hallway as you felt your way around to the bedroom. “Where were you?” the voice called out from the dark living room and you jumped out of your skin. “I was just in town, with the girls. They wanted to hang out as they were shopping.” you said, voice meek as you felt around for the light switch then flicked it on. A ragged gasp caught in your throat at how much closer he was to you then you thought. “You were with him. Weren’t you?” he spat, the voice containing barely restrained anger. You couldn’t speak, fear taking hold of you as you shook your head vehemently. 

The next thing you knew you couldn’t breathe as he gripped your throat with one hand and pinned you against the wall violently, “You lying bitch.” His fingers painfully dug into your skin as he leaned close to your face to stare at your tear-filled eyes. “I can smell him all over you.” he concluded before he squeezed your neck tighter. You shook your head as you grasped at his hand with both of yours to try and get him to loosen his hold but he held you tight. “P-please! You’re.. hurting….. me.” you choked out as tears trickled down. 

He released a sharp breath through his nose and let go but not before he suddenly slapped you hard across the cheek. Your head whipped to the side, crumpling to the floor as you cried out in excruciating pain. The pain was so overwhelming, it momentarily blinded you as you saw spots dotting your vision and your ears were ringing. “Take a shower and get rid of his stench, whore.” he said with a sniff, voice coated in immense hatred. He then walked out the front door, slamming it shut. 

~~~ END ~~~

You laid on the floor for a while, not knowing how long had passed and the tears had eventually dried up. “Why?” you asked yourself bitterly, voice hoarse. But you didn’t know. You didn’t know where you went wrong to end up like this. All you ever wanted to do was try to get over your feelings. Those very real and strong feelings you had for another man who happened to be your best friend and not the man you had the misfortune of meeting. In your haste to get rid of your feelings, you had latched onto the first man who showed you interest. But as it turned out, he wasn’t a man but a monster. You were living in your own self-made hell. 

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

You hadn’t visited Neverland in a week and you wouldn’t answer Michael’s calls. He was sick with worry and grief. He missed you terribly. He tried to give you space but his heart could not agree with the fact that you basically disappeared and didn’t want to be contacted. He needed you, needed to know you were okay. Something was wrong. So he took desperate measures. Michael had contacted a private investigator after the last time you met him when he saw what he concluded were bruises, he paid the PI a pretty penny to be faster with his investigation to learn about your whereabouts. The alarm bells in his head were ringing so loud, he couldn’t sit still but he needed evidence. When he found out everything you were going through silently, it felt like the floor caved from under his feet and he had trouble breathing. 

Everything he suspected but didn’t want to admit turned out to be true. “Oh. My angel. God, I should’ve known.” he cried and his hands trembled as he read through the papers providing information on your abusive relationship, some of the tears dripped onto the papers and the ink bled. He saw snippets of your bruises- the same bruises you hid with thick layers of concealer and layers. A photo of the wind blowing your scarf from your neck revealed dark blue and purple bruises and he sat there for several minutes with his ears ringing. The PI provided eyewitness accounts of crying, shouting and door slamming coming from your apartment. 

Michael wiped his ears and sniffed, he took a deep breath as buried his head in his hands and gripped his curls. He blamed himself, he should’ve seen the signs sooner. All the things he noticed especially in combination made sense now that he thought a bit deeper. He had enough- enough tiptoeing around you to not scare you off. He knew everything and now he wasn’t going to let you slip away or worse. The woman he loved with the very fiber of his being was in danger and he was gonna be damned if he continued to let it happen. 

Bill was in the room with him when he met with the PI. “Round up the guys and maybe call an ambulance.” he said, voice eerily calm. Bill was puzzled, “What the hell do you need an ambulance for?” Michael stared into the distance before he looked at Bill, his usually pretty and kind eyes were now filled with a sudden fire for vengeance, “Not me but for the bastard hurting my girl.” Bill smiled, “Well it’s about time. I thought you’d never realise.” Michael stared at him, mouth agape, “You knew?” to which Bill stared at him, bewildered. Was he dumb? Bill shrugged before replying, “Is the grass green?”

A sudden, shrill phone call broke through the conversation. Michael answered the phone, “Hello?” Your terrified and small voice cried out frantically, and the line was staticy, “Mikey? I need your help! Please come get me. I’m in the bathroom. He’s outside. I didn’t know what to do. He’s gonna kill me! Please!” In the middle of that conversation, Michael had recorded it and gave Bill the signal to speed up the process. “Angel, listen to me. Stay there. I’m coming right n-” he spoke but he was cut off by violent shouting on your end. “OPEN THE DOOR!” and he heard your whimpers. “I’m coming, baby. It’s okay. Don’t cry. Stay there, don’t open the door. See if you can bar the door with anything.” he comforted you as he kept the panic out of his own voice.

True to his word, he made his driver break countless traffic laws on the way to your apartment. What was likely a 15 minute drive had felt like an eternity for him as he tried to keep his wits about him in the car. He had four of his bodyguards, Bill and himself barging through your apartment after breaking down your door. His eyes widened seeing the worthless scum standing over the bathroom door that was also broken down and hanging off the inches. His bodyguards walked through to detain the prick as he squirmed and shouted, “Get your hands off me!” The relief he felt seeing you curled on the bathroom floor, tears streaking down your face messily as your arms tried to bracket your head was imminent. “Mikey?” you sobbed out, hope bled into your croaking voice. “Angel?” he breathed out in relief. 

~~~DESCRIPTIONS OF ONE-SIDED PHYSICAL ALTERCATION AND CUSSING~~~

“This is between me and her. Leave your nose out of this, Jackson.” the scumbag spat out, his family name sounded out with more heat. “Keep my name out of your mouth.” Michael said, voice hard and he sounded eerily calm. “I knew she’s always going out to see you. The second I take my eyes off her, she starts whoring herself o-” he just kept going yet unmoving since Michael’s security personnel held him back- all bark no bite when someone actually fights back. Michael had heard and seen enough, he was tired of this prick. “You sick son of a bitch!” he growled as he practically leapt across to grab the prick by his collar and landed a hard sucker punch to his jaw and the sharp resounding cry made his blood roar. “I’ve been waiting a long time f’this.” he breathed before he landed another hard blow. “How dare you touch her with your filthy hands?!” he gripped him by the tufts of hair on his head. Bill went to him, “Michael! Calm down! This won’t look good if word gets out!” Michael was uncaring while he gripped his throat with the other hand as he socked him another time, he heard a satisfying and resounding crack. But it wasn’t his. 

Lord knows, he would’ve kept going. He looked down at the pathetic clump, his face was completely mangled as blood spurted from his busted mouth and nose. Michael felt himself going down the deep end, because he felt no remorse and he felt like he could keep going as his fingers gripped his throat harder. His security personnel remained unmoving pillars as they held the borderline-corpse up. 

Then he felt a trembling, very light weight on his back, followed by soft choking sobs getting louder in his ears from behind, “Please. Please, stop. I’m okay.” Michael sighed before he landed another punch to the other side of the prick’s face and let him go, the pathetic loser crumpled to the floor in a heap of flesh and bones. Michael kicked him in the stomach and heard a groan. He sniffed as crouched down, then he slapped his disfigured and bloody face slightly to get his attention, “You’re extremely lucky she stopped me.” “You’re going behind bars, you bastard. You’re not seeing the light of day for a long time. You hear me?” He got up, kicked the lump one last time and flexed his knuckles. Bill quietly handed him a napkin from his person as he rolled his eyes from behind, “Damn, I hope word of this doesn’t get out.” 

~~~END~~~

He turned around to face you, he made sure his body was covering your line of sight to the big lump on the ground and he went to reach out for you before he realised his hands were still bloody and he forgot to wipe them. “Are you hurt, baby?” he asked softly, careful not to startle you as he wiped his fingers clean as best he could, the sticky residue persisted. One of the cleaner hands reached up, so incredibly gentle as he cupped your cheek to inspect your face, turning it side to side. You shook your head, your voice was wobbly as your hands reached up to hold his wrists, “I’m okay. You got here just when he broke the door open.” 

Michael saw the slight bruises around your jaw, neck and wrists in plain sight, they were fading but they were still such a heartbreaking sight. His own eyes welled with tears when he brought you into his chest, hugging you so tenderly but you only held him tightly and rested your head on his shoulder as he rested his cheek on your head, “I should’ve known. I should’ve been there sooner. I’m so sorry, angel. I’m so so sorry.” You shook your head as you cried for the nth time the whole month. “You’re here now. It’s not your fault. Never your fault. Don’t blame yourself. I should’ve confided in you sooner. I just didn’t want to burden you or make you worry. I’m sorry.” you said with a surprisingly firm but still hoarse voice. He vehemently shook his head as he pressed his lips gently to your forehead. How could you blame yourself? “Silly girl.” he tutted. “It’s nobody’s fault other than this prick’s. I should’ve never let him touch you.” he said with barely concealed rage. “It doesn’t matter now.” you said, staring into his eyes. “You’re finally looking at me, angel.” Michael said softly, the relief he felt was so palpable, it showed in his whole being. His thumb softly reached out to wipe away the tear tracks, he was in awe, as though he were waiting to simply look into his eyes for the longest time. For the first time in a very long time, he saw the spark return to your beautiful eyes.

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

Michael had called a private female doctor to help treat you, luckily, your wounds weren’t severe and she gave you some meds and creams to take care of the pain and bruises while recommending lots of rest. He was over the moon to have you back in Neverland as he insisted you stayed with him to recover for a week. You denied but he wouldn’t take no for an answer, claiming he had the space and resources to make sure his best girl was healing. It didn’t feel like home in that massive estate without your presence filling it and he didn’t realise the full extent of his utter misery when you weren’t there. You were the magic in Neverland so when you were suffering, the magic dwindled. Michael never wanted to relive the last couple months ever again. 

He constantly hovered over you while you were recuperating. It felt as though he was checking up on you every ten minutes, asking if you needed anything, he offered to help you with everything and he basically watched you like a hawk. You got better in the next almost two weeks, your bruises were almost faded, your smiles were brighter, your laughter was louder and you were taking up more space in the house instead of fighting to make yourself invisible. Michael had also arranged for a therapist to help you process your thoughts once a week with your permission, no doubt the entire situation took an equal toll on you mentally. He was glad his best friend and the love of his life was finally back in his arms. Nobody was going to hurt you anymore under his watch. 

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡

“No peeking!” he said in between a fit of giggles, you had a scarf covering your eyes while he held your waist with both large and warm hands to guide you. “This feels dangerous!” you exclaimed as you walked in your platform wedges and yellow floral sundress. “We’re almost there. Honestly! Don't you trust me, woman?” he teased, he was wearing a white button up, black slacks and his black fedora. “Not right now, no.” you tutted and he raised one hand up to flick you on the forehead, making you yelp in response. It was a beautiful and sunny day outside, balmy weather with the occasional fluffy white cloud dusting the otherwise clear blue skies. 

“Y’know… I was wondering, now that you’re better.” he said, he seemed hesitant and almost shy. “What is it, Mikey?” you said as your steps halted. You couldn’t see him but you felt his presence, you lifted the cloth over one eye to peek at him. “I was thinking… would you wanna come with me? On tour?” he asked. Your mouth parted in shock as the question caught you off guard, “You mean… the HIStory tour? But isn’t it gonna take a whole year or something?” Michael held both your hands while his thumb gently rubbed over your knuckles. “I know. We’re still deciding on the dates and other logistics but I want you to be there. With me. And you can leave whenever you want.” his voice quietened at the last part. There was a pregnant pause and he said, “Just think about it, angel. You don’t have to say anything right now.” You nodded and sighed dejectedly before giving out a cheeky smile, “Guess I’m gonna have to find a job next year.” Michael whipped his head at you in shock before surprised giggles burst out and he quickly reached for you to pull you into an embrace and you couldn’t help but laugh too as he swayed you in his hold.

Finally, you both reached the designated spot, not without more bickering. “Okay ready?” he said, the giddiness was bleeding into his voice and you nodded excitedly. He lifted his hand to gingerly untie the cloth from your head and your eyes had to adjust a bit to the brightness. You gasped in wonder at the sight before you. He had brought you to the beautiful pond on his estate grounds but he had set up the most adorable picnic with the blanket, basket that seemed stuffed to the brim, your eyes trailed to the bouquet of your favourite flowers arranged in a crystal vase and a box of what seemed like your favourite brand of chocolates next to it. “Like it?” he asked, you didn’t know he held his breath in anticipation for your answer. You looked at him with wide eyes and a smile so wide your cheeks were sore as you cheered, “Like it? I LOVE it! This is so cute!” 

The two of you sat down to enjoy the various snacks, fruits, sandwiches, drinks packed. You smelled the flowers. Michael had taken a smaller one from the vase and gently tucked it behind your ear with a beaming yet loving smile. At some point you both started cloudgazing. “Hey, what’s that?” Michael asked innocently as he gently bumped his shoulder to yours. You were confused when you looked up. There was a plane flying, after squinting some more you saw a banner unfurling from the end of the plane and you made out the words that read “WILL U BE MINE?” This bewildered you so much your jaw popped open in shock and then your head whipped to him, he was smiling at you softly but noticed one of his hands fiddling with the picnic blanket under his hand. 

“Are you kidding me? YES! A million times yes!” you exclaimed with glee as you reached over to hug him. Michael nearly fell over before he hugged you back just as tightly and he buried his face in your neck to deeply inhale your scent. He pulled back to stare deep into your eyes as his hands shifted to hold your waist and he said, “I love you.” “I love you.” you said it back, voice full of adoration and certainty as you reached out to kiss him, your hands cupped his jaw and cheeks. He responded immediately as your lips slotted over his perfectly. You tilted your face to push your lips deeper as he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth before letting go, making you moan and you bit his lip in return which made him groan throatily. The kiss became feverish as he slipped his tongue into your mouth to tangle with yours, and you felt goosebumps erupt all over your skin. 

You pulled away first to catch your breath, you felt your ears and cheeks go warm, your lips were tingling from the kiss, your vision suddenly felt brighter. Michael wasn’t in a better off condition than you, a subtle flush dusted his cheeks and ears while he breathed deep but the smile you two shared was equally happy. “Look up, angel.” he said as he pointed back to the sky. You laughed again as you watched a heart being streaked by the plane before he slowly flew off. “I didn’t realise you could be this cheesy.” you clutched your stomach trying to reign in the giggles. “Only for you, mama.” he said, still smiling, fully content in spoiling you and showing you the true extent of his feelings. The two of you had denied your feelings for each other for far too long and wasted enough time. Michael was done hiding how he felt. You reached out to smooch him all over his face wherever you could reach on his forehead, cheeks, chin, nose and he let out uncontrollable giggles, “That tickles!” 

You two had finished eating most of the food, you were settled against the tree with Michael’s fedora on your head, as he laid his head on your lap while you absentmindedly trailed your fingers through his hair. Your fingers traced over his pretty features, gently grazing over his eyebrows, his eyelids, sloping down his nose, caressing his cheeks and jawline, your thumb brushed his lips and you stifled a giggle when he pursed his lips to press a small kiss to your thumb. You reached for another chocolate truffle from the box and bit into it, the liquid center slightly dripped down the corner of your mouth. Michael reached out his hand to rub at the residual chocolate before he pulled the finger into his mouth to lick it off with a small moan. He pouted as he opened his mouth and you giggled before you popped the other half in, his tongue slightly grazed your finger tip as he closed his lips. You felt a shudder and his eyes flashed with an undercurrent of lust and mischief. 

“Is this what paradise feels like?” he said as he stared up at you in awe, his pretty eyes were slightly dazed. You smiled down as your fingers threaded through his curls, “Maybe.” He gently grasped your hand and rested his cheek on your palm, as he stared at you with so much love in his eyes, “Must be. You are an angel afterall.” You both basked in each others’ comforting presence as you showered one another with loving touches and praise. You felt incredibly blessed and Michael was imagining his whole future as he laid there. He needed you, just as much as you needed him. 

“You know… I’ve loved you since basically the day we met.” 

“You’re joking. I’VE loved you since we met!”

“You WHAT?”

masterlist

DISCLAIMER: My writing is my own work and from my own mind. I do NOT use generative AI. Please do not reuse or reupload my works as your own or on other platforms. Please do not use my works for translational purposes.

[mjssluttyfish]

Talk Like This Cause He Can Back It Up

pairing: Michael Jackson x Fem! Reader

warnings: 18+ minors dni, no plot whatsoever, Michael has a dig bick lmfao lemme stop.

wc: 706

It’s too big, it’s too wide, it’s too strong, it won’t fit, it’s too much, it’s too tough.

The air in the bedroom was thick with anticipation, the soft glow of the lamps casting warm shadows across the sheets. You and Michael had been building up to this moment for a while, and since both of you were experienced lovers, you figured it would be a seamless transition from kissing to fucking. You were confident, eager, and frankly, a little impatient.

Michael, however, was being cautious. He moved with a gentle, deliberate pace, his fingers working slowly to open you up, his eyes searching yours with an expression of pure devotion. He wanted everything to be perfect for you.

"Just a little more, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice a melodic hum against your skin. "I want you to be completely ready. I don't want to hurt you."

You groaned, arching your back and shifting your hips impatiently against his hand. You didn't want the foreplay anymore; you wanted the real thing. "Mike, stop it. I'm wet enough. I don't need all this prep, just get inside me already," you urged, your voice laced with desire.

He hesitated, his doting nature warring with your demand. Eventually, seeing the hunger in your eyes, he caved. He shifted his weight, guiding his dick to your entrance.

The moment he pushed forward, your eyes widened. You had known he was well-endowed, but the reality of his thickness was a shock. He didn't just slide in; he stretched you wide, filling every single millimeter of your space with a blunt, heavy pressure that felt almost overwhelming.

"Oh god... it's too much, papa, fuck!" you gasped, your breath hitching as you felt your walls straining to accommodate him.

Michael paused, his muscles tensing as he tried to ease in, his expression one of concern and tenderness. "Shhh, just breathe for me, love. Just relax," he encouraged softly.

But as he tried to push a bit deeper, the sensation became too intense. You felt like you were being split open by the sheer girth of him. "Uh uh, take some out, Mike, fuck—"

He stopped completely, blinking in surprise. A small, breathless laugh escaped him, though his tone remained sweet. "I'm barely in, girl," he murmured, glancing down at where he was barely past the head of his dick.

Realizing that your impatience had led to a deadlock, Michael didn't push his luck. He slowly slid back out of you, the vacuum of his exit making you whimper. He didn't lecture you; instead, he leaned down to kiss your forehead, his voice soothing. "I'm sorry, my love. Let's do this the right way. I want you to enjoy this."

He spent the next several minutes meticulously prepping you, using his fingers and his tongue to ensure you were as loose and lubricated as possible. He was patient and thorough, ignoring your occasional impatient huffs until he was certain you could handle him.

When he finally lined himself up again, he entered you with a slow, steady pressure. This time, because of the prep, you felt yourself stretching and molding around him. It was still a tight, staggering fit, but as he slowly sank deeper, you felt the incredible sensation of being completely filled. When he finally bottomed out, burying his entire dick deep inside you, you let out a long, shaky moan.

As he began to move, the friction of his thickness against your sensitive walls was almost too much to bear. The depth was staggering. In a reflexive panic, your hands flew up, pushing against his stomach, trying to create distance and run from the overwhelming sensation.

Michael didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned over you, his chest brushing against yours, his eyes locked onto yours with an encouraging, loving gaze. He gently caught your wrists, moving your hands away from his stomach and pinning them softly beside your head.

"Uh uh, move your hand," he whispered, his voice a warm caress. "You can take it, mama. Just let it happen. I've got you."

With your hands secured and his voice anchoring you, you stopped fighting. You gripped the sheets instead, your voice returning to its loud cadence as you felt him start to drive into you with a slow, rhythmic thrust, filling you completely.

[prettyangeliczz]

i DO hate seeing white people in bonnets, i might even go as far as to say non-black people in general but i digress. THERE I SAID IT.

[cupidslyrics]

A deal is a deal

℘ Michael Jackson x f! Black reader ~ oneshot

℘ Synopsis: In which you lose a deal to your boyfriend, you now have to face your fears—petting his llamas.

℘ WC: 1.6k

A/N: This fic was so funny for me to make bc i’m lowkey scared of animals, so i was delulu imagining how michael would’ve been helping me😭 (also side note ik he didn’t have Lola and Louie at the same time—rip Lola 😭 but i wanted a cute scene of them petting both of them together!)

You were terrified. And I mean, terrified of animals. And it didn’t help that your boyfriend was practically the male version of snow white.

There was nothing Michael didn’t have over at Hayvenhurst from llamas, monkeys, peacocks, dogs, parrots–of every kind, snakes and ostriches, the list just went on.

When you thought about it, you had no idea where your fear had stemmed from. It wasn’t like you found the sight of animals repulsive, you thought they were adorable. But to actually go and pet one? Or go within three feet of one? Hell.No.

The only exception was bubbles. You found bubbles sweet and funny, you didn’t pet him but you sometimes gave him treats and high fives. But even then, Michael had to be holding him for you to feel fully comfortable.

Last week at Hayvenhurst you were round for dinner—a usual occurrence given that the entire family loved you. After the washing up was done and the table was cleared, his family headed upstairs to go to bed but you and Michael had remained downstairs moving to the living room to watch a midnight movie—one of your favourite things to do together.

You both settled on a slasher horror movie from the early 80s that you both had never seen before, which was funny because the two of you hated scary movies but you thought why not.

“I can’t look.” Michael raises his hands covering his face.

“Neither can I…” You whisper with your own face covered by a pillow.

“How much you wanna bet he’s right behind her?” Michael whispers.

“No, no he’s definitely still in that closet Mike.”

“No way he can’t still be in there after ten minutes baby, i promise ya he’s right on her tail.” He whispers as both of you are practically trying to enter each other's skin with how pressed up together you are.

“I’m tellin ya mike he’s still in that closet, there’s too many people around for him to do somethin stupid.”

“Baby I'm tellin ya he’s not.”

“Fine. Let’s make a deal.”

Bad decision.

“Sure.”

“If he’s still in that closet, you owe me back massages for a whole week.”

“Deal. And if he’s not?”

“If he’s not…then….” You trail off trying to think.

“You have to pet all my animals.”

Your head whips towards Michael’s as he's chuckling with his head thrown back at your reaction, your jaw drops.

“Michael, no way.”

“Yes way.” He says still cracking up

“No.”

“Okay my llamas at least? Please c'mon they are the friendliest!”

“Y’know what? Fine. deal. Because I'm so certain his ass is still in that closet. And I can't wait to prove you wrong.”

“Whatever you say baby.”

You and Michael continue to stay huddled close together, he’s now sharing your pillow, joining you in looking over it at the television that's currently displaying the eerie silent scene that makes you and Michael hold you breath watching through narrowed eyes at the character walking through a dark part of the house, the sound of the characters footsteps making the floor board creak makes you grip onto Michael’s hand.

Suddenly…a loud bang sounds causing you and Michael to almost  jump off the couch, screaming as the killer attacks the character from behind—the killer who was in fact not in the closet.

When the gruesome scene finally ends Michael lowers the pillow and turns to you with a shit eating grin.

“No.”

“A deal is a deal baby.”

“Michael no. no. fucking. way. Are you out of your mind? I can't pet your animals!”

“Oh baby c’monn, please? This is a perfect opportunity for you to get over your fears.”

“No way Michael. Hell would have to freeze over.”

𓂃⋆.˚

Hell unfortunately didn’t freeze over, but his continuous begging, pleading and even bruising your ego by calling you a chicken–is how you found yourself the next day being dramatically pulled by his hand as Michael leads you to the cage where his two llamas are.

“Oh Michael I can't.” You whine trying to turn back around but he grips your shoulders redirecting you.

“C’mon baby I'm right here I promise they won’t hurt you.”

Finally approaching the llama side of his mini zoo at Hayvenhurst, you remain five feet apart from the gate as Michael walks in front of the two Peruvian llamas, extending out his hand to stroke the male one that comes to him first–Louie.

“Hi Louie, how are ya today?” He asks, speaking to his pet friend as if he was an ordinary human, stroking his ear and giving him a kiss on the side of his furry face.

Despite feeling anxious near his animals, you always melt at the sight of Michael interacting with them, it always touched your heart to see how loving and gentle he was along with how his beautiful spirit made even animals feel safe around him. 

After pressing kisses on the female one–Lola, he turns to you with a soft smile extending his hand, “C’mere baby, i promise they don’t bite.”

You begin to walk forward very slowly as if the llamas would charge at you “Oh gosh they’re lookin right at me mike!”

He chuckles at your dramatics shaking his head “They just wanna say hi baby, i tell em about you all the time.”

You continue to take agonizingly slow steps towards the cage which would drive anyone else insane but Michael is patient he doesn’t get irritated or rush you, when you finally stand where he is you cling onto him as he wraps his arm around your waist holding you close before giving your lips a peck.

“I got you baby I promise. Okay now just reach out your hand and stroke Lola’s fur, here look.” He demonstrates reaching his hand out and stroking the top of her backs fur soothingly “See? Just like that, soft n gentle she wont hurt you i swear on it.”

You take a deep breath as Michael rubs your arm supportively as you reach your shaky hand forward towards Lola, when Lola senses your hand she abruptly turns her nose to sniff it making you flinch backwards but Michael holds you firmly.

“Oh my gosh–”

“It's okay baby! It's okay! It's normal, she just wants to get used to your scent she won’t hurt you.” You roll your shoulders taking another deep breath.

“Mike, I don't know about this.”

“My love im right here she won’t harm you, okay? here lets do it together.”

He holds onto our wrist before sliding his hand over yours so that it becomes one as both of you lean it forward until your palm connects to her thick coat of fur as her soothing heat seeps through your fingers, you release a surprised gasp at the softness, this was your first time petting an animal–ever. 

“See? There you go baby.” Michael whispers with a proud growing smile watching you stroke your palm back and forth over Lola’s fur, he’s removed his hand from yours ages ago but you haven’t realised.

“Shes so soft and warm” You whisper unaware of the warm smile that's painted your own face. The llama makes soft humming sounds indicating she's enjoying the strokes just as Louie makes his way over wanting some attention too.

“Looks like Louie wants some love too baby.” Michael whispers, caressing Louie's furry face.

You decide to be brave, removing your hand away from Lola to move it towards Louie who is currently getting love from Michael. When Michael sees your hand reaching out for Louie his eyes light up with a big smile as you stroke Louie with a little bit more confidence, even moving to stroke his ears where Michael just was.

“Baby you’re doin it! Oh my gosh m'so proud of you.”

You smile shyly at your boyfriend's praises, feeling as if you were a child who just learnt to ride a bike for the first time.

“See? Look they love you baby, told ya so.” He whispers giving Lola some attention as you continue to pet Louie. 

“Wanna feed em?” He asks as you turn your head to him.

“Mmm..i dunno mike–”

“C’mon please? I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

You exhale softly knowing that you’ve gained a little bit more confidence seeing that they have in fact been harmless towards you so far. “Alright..but just a little bit.”

“Of course!” Michael says before reaching below to where a bucket of hay is, grabbing a small handful and placing it in your palms.

“Here baby, okay just reach your palms out and Louie will eat it.” 

Feeling jittery again, you reach out your hay filled palms slightly flinching when Louie’s attention is back on you as he heads over leaning his neck down before using his tongue to collect the hay into his mouth.

You laugh feeling the slickness of his tongue tickle your palms as he finishes it all hungrily you can’t help but watch in awe “Good job Louie.” You say stroking the top of his furry head.

This continues for about twenty minutes, feeding the llamas hay and grass with Michael who joins in whilst watching you fondly making sure you’re okay. He witnesses your fear of them melt away into adoration, a complete contrast of the scared girl he brought over to Hayvenhurst for the time. He sees your new confidence taking over as you continue to speak to them the way he does, and even shocking both him and yourself when you lean in pressing a kiss on both of them. 

You turn your head meeting Michael’s eyes that's already trained on you with pride mirroring his own warm smile with your own “I can’t believe I'm really doin this mike!” You exclaim excitedly as Michael laughs handing you more grass.

“I always knew you could baby. See? Completely harmless.”

“You’re right, they're sweethearts! I was scared for nothing!”

“Mhm, soo…are you ready for the tigers?”

He watches the smile on your face drop faster than lightening as he drops the bucket of grass laughing loudly holding his stomach.

“Real funny Michael.”

𑣲⋆｡˚

Thank you so much for reading <𝟑 .ᐟ

Tags: @carouselgirl77 @tlcfrmmike @loves2tour @muddyloserlia @bambijackson @curlypytclubx

[faiology]

imagine a sleepover w/ nerd maj. you have a wet dream about him while you’re in the same bed. you reach for him in your sleep and you quickl realize that it’s real life 🤭

ᥫ᭡ fai speaks: finally getting around to clearing out my reqs. y’all, i’m trying with the smut fr LOL, im cringing internally but i hope yall enjoyyyy

you and jermajesty had been friends for a while now. you met through a mutual friend. over time, you grew so close it was crazy. texting throughout the day, on facetime all night, soon came the random hangouts. sleepovers weren’t even unnatural for the two of you.

but this new crush you’d developed on him? was.

you weren't blind. you saw the way he looked at you. you noticed the way he licked his lips that one morning when you reached for something in the top cabinet and your silk nightgown raised up just a little bit.

you felt the way his hand lingered on the small of your back whenever y'all walked through crowded spaces, or how his hands gripped your waist to guide you when he moved past you. and you definitely remembered that time you were at a function, and started dancing on him. he had leaned down, his breath hot against your neck as he whispered, "chill, i’m easy."

you had just laughed it off back then. because you were just friends. right? friends held hands. friends cuddled. friends slept in the same bed. that’s what you kept telling yourself, over and over, trying to force your brain to believe it.

you tried your hardest to push all thoughts of him out of your head before he came over. he had planned a movie night since obsessed had finally hit streaming platforms.

you tried not to think about how good he looked when his jawline was rough with stubble because he was growing out his goatee again. you tried not to think about how much you wanted to bite those thick biceps, or how badly you wanted to taste his soft, pink, pillowy lips.

you tried. you really did.

but as the movie credits started rolling in your dark bedroom, it became damn near impossible. jermajesty was fast asleep, heavy and warm against you. his head was resting right on your chest, dangerously close to your neck. hearing the soft, steady sound of his breathing against your skin made your chest tight.

eventually, you closed your eyes and drifted into a sleep of your own, hoping a nap would help stop the aching between your legs. oh, but you were so wrong. because the second your eyes closed, your mind took you right back to him, and you started dreaming about exactly what jermajesty could do to you.

in the dream, you’re wearing the same silk nightgown. the champagne colored one you wore because you know he likes it. his fingers are tracing the hem. lifting it higher and higher.

your hips move before your conscious mind catches up.

it’s a subtle thing at first. just a slow shuffle backwards. the kind of motion your body remembers from solo nights with your vibrator between your thighs.

the friction is blocked by layers of fabric but it’s there. enough to make your breathing change. enough to make the ache between your legs pulse.

“maj,” you breathe.

the word slips out before you can stop it, thick with sleep.

his body tenses behind you and his eyes snap open.

for a second, he’s disoriented. the ceiling fan spinning lazy circles, the blue glow of the tv casting shadows across the room. then he feels it. your ass pressed against him, grinding.

a sound escapes your lips, making his dick twitch in his sweats, blood rushing south so fast it leaves him lightheaded.

“jermajesty.”

his name. you’re saying his name. in your sleep. while your hips work against him in a rhythm that’s getting less subtle by the second.

he should wake you up.

he knows he should wake you up.

but then you whimper, a high, breathy sound that goes straight to his dick—and his hand is moving before his brain can even tell him not to. his palm finds your hip and rests there.

“maj, baby,” you murmur, still asleep. still dreaming.

he raised himself up on one elbow, looking down at you. your lashes are fanned against your cheeks. your lips are slightly parted. the thin strap of your nightgown slipping off your shoulder.

fuck.

he’s been attracted to you since he met you. he’s just never been man enough to do anything about it. he’s was too scared of ruining the friendship. too convinced you didn’t see him that way. but now you’re moaning his name in your sleep and your hips are moving like you’re trying to fuck yourself back against him.

his hand slides from your hip to the hem of your nightgown. slowly, giving you time to wake up. giving himself time to come to his senses.

neither of you does, btw.

the air hits your exposed thighs and you shiver, pressing back harder. he can feel the heat of you through your panties. his fingers trace the waistband of your panties lightly.

you don’t stir. your breathing stays deep and even, but your hips stutter when his thumb brushes the sensitive skin just beneath the elastic.

he moves the fabric aside.

the first touch is barely there—just the pad of his middle finger, tracing the seam of you. he circles your clit gently and your whole body reacts. your hips buck forward like you’re chasing the pressure, then back. directly against his dick, which is straining so hard against his sweats now that it’s almost painful.

“fuck,” he breathes against your hair. “you have no idea.”

he continues the slow circles. steady pressure. he watches your face. the way your brow furrows, the way your mouth falls open a little wider. your breathing hitches again when he increases the speed, just slightly, just enough to make your thighs tense.

“fuck baby,” you moan.

and this time, your eyes fly open.

reality crashes in all at once. his fingers are inside you. two of them, curled just right, stroking that spot that makes your vision blur at the edges. his other arm is snaked around your torso, pinning you against his chest, and his fingers are working your nipple through the silk, rolling and pinching.

this is real. this is actually happening.

“maj—oh.”

your head falls back against his shoulder as your mouth opens. his fingers pumping inside you, his other hand torturing your nipple—is too much and it’s not enough. and at the same time, it’s everything you’ve ever wanted.

“you’re dripping,” he murmurs directly into your ear. his voice is wrecked. low and rough in a way you’ve never heard it. “been dreaming about me, mama?”

you can’t form words. your hips are rolling to meet his thrusts now, fucking yourself on his fingers like you were doing in your sleep. the wet sounds filling the room are obscene.

“tell me to stop,” he says. his fingers slow. “tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

“don’t stop.” your voice breaks. “baby, please don’t stop.”

he groans against your neck and his fingers push back inside you, three this time, stretching you in a way that makes you gasp and grip his forearm.

“you’re so sexy,” he breathes. still pumping. “you drive me crazy, you know that? you have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this.”

your back arches. your hips buck. his name is a prayer you keep repeating, over and over, each thrust of his fingers pushing you closer.

“maj, please.”

“please what, baby?”

“fuck me. please fuck me.”

he takes away his fingers but before you can complain, he’s bringing them to your lips. shiny with your own slick, glistening in the tv light.

your mouth opens and his fingers slide past your lips and you taste yourself on his skin. you suck them clean, tongue lapping between his knuckles, eyes fluttering shut at the intimacy of it.

“shit,” he hisses. “you’re gonna kill me.”

then his hand is on your jaw, turning your face toward his, and his mouth crashes against yours.

the kiss is nothing like you imagined. it’s not gentle. it’s not hesitant. it’s teeth and tongue and the desperate press of lips that have wanted this for too long. his hand tightens on your jaw, angling your head so he can go deeper, and you moan into his mouth and grip the back of his neck and pull him closer, but somehow it still isn’t close enough.

when he breaks the kiss, you’re both breathing like you’ve run a marathon.

he helps you wrestle your gown off, tossing it somewhere into the dark. his sweats follow. boxers too. then he’s moving, positioning himself between your legs, and you can finally see him.

all of him.

the tip slick and flushed, pressed against your stomach as he leans over you. his chest is heaving.

“you sure?” he asks, giving you one last out.

“i’ve never been more sure of anything.”

he kisses you again. softer this time. then his hands are on your hips, dragging you down the mattress, positioning you beneath him like you weigh nothing. he reaches between your bodies, gripping himself, running the head of his cock through your wetness. one. twice. rubbing himself against your clit on the third pass until your thighs shake.

“fuck, mama,” he groans, looking down at where your bodies almost meet. “this pussy’s so wet.”

the words hit you low in your belly. you’ve heard him say wild things before but this is different. this is him talking to you.

he pushes in.

slow. inch by inch. stretching you out so good that your mouth drops open and your nails dig into his shoulders and every thought in your head dissolves into static.

“look at me,” he says.

you didn’t realize your eyes had closed.

they open and his face is above you, jaw tight, sweat already beading at his temple. he’s holding himself back—you can feel it in the tremor of his arms.

“there you go,” he breathes. his forehead drops to yours. “there you go. look at me, mama.“

he bottoms out.

a shudder passes through both of you.

his mouth seals over yours and he begins to move.

the kiss swallows your moans as he fucks into you. deep strokes. slow at first, because he’s savoring it. your head falls back but his lips chase yours, refusing to let the kiss break for more than a heartbeat. his hips roll. your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper.

you let out a moan when he thrusts harder, hitting a spot that makes sparks pop behind your eyes.

“right there,” you whimper. “baby, right there, please—”

his hand slides down your thigh, hiking your leg higher over his arm. the new angle is devastating. every stroke now drags against your g-spot, him pulsing with each squeeze of your walls around him.

the sounds in the room are filthy. skin slapping skin. the wet suck of you pulling him back in each time he withdraws. his name tumbling from your lips in a chant that’s getting louder, needier, less coherent.

“you close?” he pants.

“yes. yes, maj.”

“let me feel it. come on, mama, i got you.”

his thumb finds your clit.

your body obeys before your brain catches up.

the orgasm hits you like a wave. your back arches off the mattress. your nails rake down his back. a sound tears from your throat that you’ve never made before, something between a sob and his name.

he fucks you through it. chasing his own high now, rhythm stuttering, moans catching in his chest.

“where—” he grunts. “where do you want—”

“inside. cum inside me—”

a groan rips from his chest. his hips slam forward one last time and you feel him pulse. his face buried in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin where your shoulder meets your throat, and he rides out the aftershocks with little thrusts that make you both gasp.

for a long moment, neither of you moves.

his weight is crushing you in the best way. you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest—or maybe that’s yours.

he lifts his head. his eyes finding yours.

“you’re not gonna wake up tomorrow and pretend this was just a dream, are you?”

your hand comes up to cup his jaw. you run your thumb over his bottom lip, swollen from kissing. “you’re still inside me, maj. i’m pretty sure I’m not dreaming.”

he laughs. low and breathless. then he kisses you—soft this time. tender. a kiss that makes your stomach swoop in a way that’s entirely different from the sex.

he pulls out slowly. then he rolls onto his back, pulling you with him so you’re draped across his chest, and his hand comes up to stroke your hair.

“we should talk about this,” he murmurs.

“probably.”

silence settles over the room. comfortable again. his fingers trace patterns on your spine. your breathing steadies.

“but not right now.”

“not right now,” you agree.

[miseducationofmicheal]

Michael Jackson At The Grammys In, 1993

[narratedillusions]

do yall see my husband!!?🪼

[theonlyonlinefish]

🍷🦢Imagine this-

For the past hour, you’d been talking mature!Michael’s ear off about the scandal you had just discovered involving your now ex-boyfriend. Wanting to comfort you during your time of need, Michael offered to come over

Without hesitation, he had his security drop what they were doing and rush across town to your house, making only one quick stop at a local flower shop to pick up a bouquet of white roses and your favorite bottle of Pinot

The moment Michael stepped through your front door, his eyes settled on you, filled with equal parts admiration and quiet devotion. It was the first time he’d seen you in a silk nightgown, the delicate fabric draping effortlessly over your figure, accentuating every curve in the soft glow of the room.

Admiring the way your eyes instantly lit up at the sight of the roses and your favorite bottle of Pinot, Michael smiled to himself

He couldn’t help but stare for a moment before closing the distance between you, wrapping you in a warm embrace. Holding you just a second longer than necessary, his hands naturally settled at your waist before subtly drifting lower, just enough for him to sneak a feel of your ass & just enough for him to satisfy his perversions

Now seated on your sofa with half-empty glasses of wine in hand, the conversation flowed far easier than either of you expected. The alcohol had taken the edge off, leaving the both of you noticeably more relaxed than usual. Michael listened to you vent without interruption

At some point he raised your legs to his lap, carefully massaging your legs and thighs. Admiring how delicately you took care of your body, judging by how soft your skin was and the Chanel perfume that you loved wearing so much

Unintentionally you let out a moan from how gentle but firm Michael was being with you, you seemed embarrassed but Michael took this as his opportunity. Gently he pushed your gown up and kissed at your lips through the matching thong, dwelling on your delicate smell making him crave you more than he already did

Before you knew it Michael had both of your legs in the air while he ate your pussy. Instructing you to keep talking to him while he wildly ran his tongue between your folds and ending on your clitoris. Each time he stopped to catch his breath he’d suck hard on your clitoris making a loud noise and moaning at the satisfaction, he didn’t give you a break until you came at least twice, begging you to make a mess on his face. Even allowing you to grind against his nose and lips for your own pleasure

Before you knew he had you on top of him riding his dick while he talked you through it. He had gotten you fully naked so he could fully appreciate your body, hands roaming free and his mouth kissing all over your body before sucking on your nipples, sucking hard enough that he made you orgasm from nipple stimulation

Both feet planted at his sides he bounced you up and down on his dick until your voice went hoarse and your fluids were rushing all over him. Then finally he spared you, but he still had yet to cum. Just then he switched positions with you, kissing your ankle before draping it over the couch and sliding his dick inside of you with no warning

Holding your face close to his while he’s digging inside of you, gently kissing your ear as you completely lost yourself in his embrace. Cumming relentlessly as Michael reminds you of how beautiful you are and how he’d worship you, as his lover. Even happy your loser boyfriend messed up so now he can step in

Finally feeling your wet pussy Michael didn’t have his normal discipline over himself, cumming inside of you each time you asked because all he wanted to do was please you after the rough night you already had

Just as the sun began to rise you pulled Michael into one final passionate kiss before walking him to the front door, just as he walked out your boyfriend was walking to your doorstep with bloodshot eyes. Imagine the shock on his face watching your best friend leaving your house at five in the morning and the unusually relaxed composure you had

Michael was so petty he went as far as hugging your boyfriend knowing how hard he had just made you orgasm and having the same thong he pulled off of you with his teeth now in his back pocket

Taglist: @aureliareadsss@mikeysfavoritefish @michaelsgirllxo @michaeljacksonspyt @18lkpeters @diorzaep @narratedillusions @savagenctzen @j-nae @applesange1s @barnesnnobles @curlz4mygirls@szalipcombo @loveposiie @michaelkisskissgirl @michaeljacksonsfavfish

None of my work is for minors 🔞

[man-in-the-mirror58]

-> chapter 11

Masterlist - read the full series and more

Comment if you want to be tagged

The year is 1987, Michael is still riding the high the Thriller album gave him, but he's stuck, stuck somewhere he doesn't want to be and all because of the people around him, people who are supposed to have his back, but they don't. You might just be what he needs, his salvation! But things are never that easy! God no! You, despite being a woman in the '80, are a very well respected lawyer and when your boss who has a thing for saving celebrities out of doom sends you to handle Michael Jackson, you rise to the occasion. All your life seems to be in place, but the moment you meet him, he rocks your world so much that you find yourself falling. From strangers to becoming friends, to falling for each other, but the timing just never seems right. It's one step forward two steps back and it's a sort of sick dance that you end up dancing. But you and Michael never lose sight of the fact that there's feelings involved, so though it might be years or forever that you have to wait for, it's worth it.

Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader

A/n: none of the events related in this story have anything to do with reality so take that with a grain of salt. English is not my first language!!! not proof read

Themes: slow burn, fluff, friends to lovers, smut (+18 minors dni), pregnancy, abortion mentioned, abuse, hard language, alcohol use, mentions of violence, medical talk

Wc: ~7.8k

"Wha you doin aunty y/n?" Jermaine jr asks, tugging on your dress to get your attention. The little boy, about the age of 5 stands at your feet, looking up at you, craning his neck too see what's happening in the kitchen counter. "You want to come up here and see?" You ask, bending down to his level, tapping his tiny nose, making him giggle, while he nods. "Ok, let aunty help you up!" It feels you up with a different kind of joy to be so accepted into Michael's family. The second they all found out about the two of you starting a relationship they were all over the two of you, wanting to know who made the first step, who finally broke the far too long pining period. It wasn't rude or intrusive, it was all love and innocent curiosity.

You welcomed in their interest and so now the whole of the Jackson family celebrates a shared birthday for you and Michael at the Neverland ranch. Everyone is here, including Joseph, who's not really your biggest fan, but he sits quietly and accepts. Excluding the grumpy old man, the rest of the family is so so happy to have you part of Michael's life. It's your first time experiencing a big family and though it can be a little overwhelming and intimidating, the women in the family took you in their arms and made you one of them, the kids quickly took a liking to you and started calling you aunt.

You set little Jermaine jr on the counter next to the mixing bowl, letting him take a look at the cookie dough you're making. "Wha that?" He points his tiny finger, almost daring to touch it. You giggle, mixing the dough. "I'm baking cookies for everyone junior, see?" You add some more flour into the bowl. "Taste?" He asks and you shake your head. "No baby, it's got raw eggs and they might make your tummy ache." He pouts, looking adorable. "But you can have a chocolate chip and you can add the rest to the bowl." The tiny face, lights up, his chubby fingers grabbing a chocolate chip, popping it into his mouth before clumsily dropping the rest into the big bowl so you can mix them in.

"Hmm what smells so good?" Michael walks in, hair falling freely over his shoulders, wearing a simple white button down open to revel his white tee, matched with black sweatpants. He comes behind you, circling his arms around your waist, planting a wet sloppy kiss to your cheek. "Googies!" Jermaine jr shouts, making you two laugh at his tiny mistake. "Cookies, buddy!" You correct, pushing some of his tiny curls out of his face. "Mike, can you grab the baking sheet from the cupboard and put some baking paper down?" You point to where the baking sheet usually goes, as he follows your orders exactly. "There you go ma'am!" He grins ear to ear, bringing over the requested supplies. "Now the final ingredient, you guys have to put your hands together like this, bring them close to your lips." The boys follow you, mimicking exactly what you're doing. "And then whisper love in there." You all do, whispering the word into your locked hands. "Now we shake them, shake! Shake!" Laughter erupts around the room, bouncing off the walls.

"And into the bowl!" You make a show of it, which makes little Jermaine laugh holding his belly. Michael watches the interaction, joining into your game, feeling his heart hammer against his chest. "Ok, now why don't you let uncle Mike take you back out to mama and I'll put these to bake." His tiny hands already reach out to Michael. "We eat?" He asks, keeping his curious eyes locked onto the bowl. "Later baby, promise you'll have the first!" You pinch his cheek, causing him to grimace. "Powmise?" You chuckle as does Michael, bouncing the kid better in his hip. "Powmise!" You hook your pinky to his, waving the two of them away so you can finish the cookies.

Shaping each cookie ball in your hands you place them neatly on the pan, making sure they have enough space to grow. "You are incredible with them." Michael says, causing you to lift your head to look at him. "Mmm it's easy cause we get to send them back when they need real parenting." He nods laughing, placing a hand on the small of your back, leaning into you. "True, last week Tito told me one of the kids had a stomach bug, he said he's never seen so much poop ever!" His eyes widen imagining the horror of what his brother must have gone through. "Yeah, I'd hate to be him!" You scrunch up your nose, feigning disgust. "These should be in there for about 20 minutes!" You spin the timer around, giving it to him, to put in the pocket of his pants. "They already smell delicious, can't wait to try them."

Holding hands you make your way out into the yard, being met with the instant noise and chaos of the huge family, running around and taking full advantage of the Neverland amusement park. A wave of nausea washes through you and you squeeze Michael's hand, trying to regain your composure. "You Ok?" He looks you up and down, frowning. You simply nod, giving a weak smile. He doesn't look convinced, but he's soon pulled away by the kids wanting their uncle to join the fun. You catch the egg shaped timer he throws your way before running off.

Finding a shady place to sit, you fan some air using a paper plate. You woke up this morning feeling some pain in your belly, but nothing you haven't before so you initially didn't pay it much mind, but as the day progressed it's gotten worse and now you feel nauseous too. The timer goes off in your hand, shaking you awake. You sigh and make your way back into the house a little wobbly. Michael who has been running around, chasing the kids, notices your distressed look as you walk back to the kitchen. He follows you, breathing hard because of all the physical effort, sweat clinging to his skin. "Sunflower?" His voice calls out, causing you to instantly fix your grimace so he won't notice you're feeling off. "Hey honey, the cookies are done, but they need to cool off!" You explain, placing the last cookie onto the cooling rack. "Are you feeling ok? You look a little pale."

He comes over, cupping your face in his large hands, already feeling the difference in temperature between the two of you. "Y/n you're burning up." His brows furrow, concern taking over him as you simply shake it off. "I'm fine, just a bit tired, I think I'll go lay down a bit, come get me in an hour?" He grabs your wrist before you can walk away, pulling you into his arms and kissing you deeply, his lips moving over yours gently. "I'm sorry!" Michael whispers making you pull back to look at him confused. "For not kissing you earlier, for waiting so long to make you mine!" The confession makes your heart swell with love. "Well then thank you for finally doing it, I love you!" You kiss the tip of his nose, making him chuckle. "I love you too, go rest, I'll come get you later!" You leave him standing there, not putting his mind to rest one bit, but he knows when you need your space and he decides to give it to you.

When you get to the room, you pull the curtains closed, letting the dark in. You change into so loose fitting clothes, leaving your white summer dress on the vanity chair, for later. The silky sheets feel amazing against your skin, cool and smooth. The pain in your belly still lingers, growing in intensity, but you reach over to your night stand, grabbing a pill for the pain, trying to go to sleep, hoping it'll do magic.

"Babe? Y/n?" Michael shakes you awake and you whine, fighting him, pushing your face into the pillow. His hand brushes back your sweaty hair, the other rubbing your wrist trying to soothe you. "A minute longer." You mumble and he almost smiles, but he's far too concerned to smile right now. "Sunflower it's been three hours, I let you sleep in cause you looked too peaceful, but I'm getting concerned, you are burning up, I think you have a fever." The back of his hand, rests against your forehead, like his mother's used to when he was little. "Nooo, I'm fine!" You try to push his hands away, but you're too weak to actually do it, wincing in pain when you change position. "That's it, I'm calling mom here!"

He stands up and walks away. You try to follow, but fall back in bed, clutching your belly, the pain has gotten significantly worse. The room is spinning and the sheets cling to your sweaty skin, causing more discomfort.

"Oh baby, what's wrong?" Kathrine comes over to you, already feeling you up, approving that Michael was right, you are in fact running up a fever. "Michael honey, I think she needs to see a doctor!" His mom tells him and he nods, looking powerless. She waves him off to go make arrangements for you to go the hospital. "Here sweetheart!" She places a cold wash cloth against your forehead, wiping down your arms with another, trying to get your fever down.

Michael walks back into the room, kneeling next to you on the bed. "Bill is taking care of finding a hospital to take her, he's going to come and let us know when we're ready to take off." His mother tends to you, while he brushes his knuckles over your cheek, scared to touch you would mean to do more evil. "Mike, can you pack me a bag, some underwear and stuff?" He looks a little puzzled and Janet who just walked into the room chuckles. "I've got it, don't worry!" Michael thanks her and turns his attention back to you.

He feels so bad, he should've noticed sooner that you weren't feeling well, but you seemed fine, until you didn't. "Mike? I can hear you thinking!" You say breathless, while his mom goes to get the washcloths wet again. "No you can't silly!" Michael giggles, trying not to cry. "I can, remember you can read my mind I can read yours!" You cup his cheek, rubbing your thumb under his eye, letting his lashes tickle your finger. "I just feel so bad for not noticing earlier that you were feeling bad.

You open your mouth to speak, ready to correct him, tell him it's not his fault, but the words die on your tongue as Sam comes in knocking. "Sir, the car is ready when you are."

"Can you walk sunflower?" He asks and you nod, taking his hands for support. "Mikey I need to change." You whine, speaking through your teeth, trying to ignore the pain. "Here, put these on!" Janet hands Michael some leggings and a clean T-shirt, going to take your bag over to the car waiting outside. Michael helps you get undressed and changed into the new clean clothes. It physically hurts him each time you wince in pain or your breath hitches. "Lean on me, love." Michael wraps both arms around you, holding you close to him, taking slow steps.

It's torture walking, everything hurts and he can tell, even though you're making a good job of hiding most of it. "That's it!" He's finally had enough of you struggling so when you reach the top of the stairs he takes you in his arms, carrying you bridal style. "Mike put me down, it's going to hurt your back." He's been complaining about his back on and off for months. "I don't care hun, you don't need to struggle, I've got you!" He kisses the tops of your head, thanking Sam who holds the door open for him to walk through. It's dark outside, the night has fallen quietly over the ranch and everyone is inside, trying to stay calm about the whole situation.

You fall asleep in the back of the car, against Michael, waking up for a short period of time when you reach the hospital. You hear talk of infection and fever and then nothing much as you doze off.

When your eyes flutter open, the bright room makes you flinch, trying to reach your hand to cover your eyes, but something holds it back. You blink away the blurry vision, focusing on your hand, held down by medical devices and needles. Turning your head you find your other hand held down by a mess of curls. Michael is sitting in a chair, hunched over your bed, holding tightly onto your arm, resting his head on the palm of your hand, sleeping. "Mike!" You whisper wiggling your fingers. He stirs awake, his eyes widening in surprise when he notices that you're conscious. "Y/n!" He sighs, standing up to lean and touch his forehead to yours. "Was I out for long?" You ask, licking your lips, which are sandpaper dry. "Here!" Michael helps you drink some water, grabbing an ice chip from the cup and rubbing it over your dry lips.

You smile, brushing a piece of hair behind his ear. "Good you're awake, the doctor will be with shortly!" The nurse comes in to check some stuff around you, fixing some of the things you have hanging from your hand. You smile politely and wait for her to walk out before turning back to Michael. "So how long?" You push. "Only a few days, it August 30th today." He scratches the back of his head. "I ruined another birthday for you!" You cry, feeling embarrassed for making a spectacle out of yourself again. "No, not true, I was just scared you were sick!" He rubs his thumbs over your knuckles, kissing the back of your hand.

The doctor walks in, holding your chart. Michael stands, facing him, still holding your hand, to ground you. "Miss l/n, how are you feeling?" He gives you a moment to think, waiting your answer. "A little sore!" You grunt, playing it off with a smile. "Well that is to be expected after anesthesia, but everything in your labs looks good. Your IUD had unfortunately shifted and was scratching the inside of your uterine wall, which caused some lesions that got infected. We removed the IUD under general anesthesia." As the doctor explains you squeeze Michael's hand, feeling so small in the bed. "Um, doctor?" You ask before the doctor makes he's way out. "Yes?"

"What about children? Will this affect my ability to have any?" You ask, nervous to know. You feel Michael shift next to you, tensing up. "That shouldn't be an issue, we will prescribe some medication for at home, but you should know, you need rest. I'll write the recommendations down. We'll discharge you tomorrow morning, rest now." He exists and leaves you with Michael, the room filled with the constant beeping of the machines measuring your vitals. Neither of you dares to speak. The silence is too comforting to break.

"I was so scared, I thought I was going to lose you" Michael says in disbelief, wiping back some tears. "Come here!" You pat the bed, scooting over so he can fit next to you. "I don't want to hurt you!" He shakes his head, standing his ground, refusing to risk causing you discomfort. "You won't, come on, I don't have stitches or anything." You insist, stretching your hand out to him. Saying 'no' to you is impossible to him, so sighing he finally gives in, sliding into bed next to you. Michael spoons you, holding you tight to his chest, crying silently into the crook of your neck. "I felt so powerless, I couldn't do anything, but wait. It was horrible." The hurt in his voice breaks your heart. "Were the cookies good at least?" You ask trying to make a small joke to light up the mood.

It sort of works, cause Michael lets out a dry chuckle sniffing. "The best, the kids stole them and ate almost all of them." That makes you laugh. "I'm sorry for scaring you, Michael." You pat his hair and he lifts his head up from your neck to look at you. "Don't be sorry love, it's not your fault, I just wish it didn't have to happen." Michael stretches his neck, kissing your cheek, his hot breath fanning over your skin. "Thank you for being here, I don't have many people." You tear up thinking about how little of a support system you actually have, sure you have Shanon and Gideon, but that's it, no extended family no long lost cousin. It's just you. "You have me now!" And now there's Michael also. "Yes I do!" Smiling you rest your head on his chest, listening to his heart beat.

The weeks that follow Michael treats you like you're made of porcelain, always making sure you don't put too much strain on your body, having Sam drive you to and from work everyday, insisting that you guys sleep in the downstairs bedroom of his New York home, so the stairs don't tire you out. At first it was cute, but now it's become a little excessive. You're not mad about it, but it still feels a little crowded. You do get the occasional night alone whenever he has to work late. Because you said the mansion scares you at night alone he decided it's best to let you know when studio hours stretch past midnight so you can stay over at your apartment in the city where you feel more at ease.

Tonight is one of those nights, so you snuggle into your couch with a bowl of popcorn and a good book, pulling the blanket over yourself, it's late September so the chill has started to settle. The calm of your night is interrupted when a knock on your door breaks the quiet in your apartment. The clock on your wall reads 11:54 pm, almost midnight so you frown, wondering who could it be this late at night. You try to peek through the peep hole, but the person on the other side is covering it. That only raises shivers up your spine. Hesitant you unlock the door and against your better judgement you open it. The sight of a bouquet of sunflowers blocks your view and then behind the flowers, the perfect smile of your boyfriend shine through.

"What if I was a killer?" He asks, stepping into the apartment, wrapping his arms around your waist, to bring you in for a kiss. "Mmm we'll get out then, I'll lock the door and not let you in." You joke, taking off his hat, placing it on the entrance table, kicking the door closed. "You're safe with me baby!" Michael rubs his nose against your neck, kissing down your pulse, reaching your collarbone, sucking the skin, sure to leave a hickey there. You melt into him, moaning, brushing your fingers into his curly hair, the longer look he's been sporting is really up your alley. "Let me put these in some water!" He breaks the away and you pull him back hungry. "Leave them!" You attack his lips, taking control, exploring his mouth. Michael groans into your mouth, dropping the bouquet next to his hat, hands free now to explore your body.

"Mmm baby, slow down!" He pushes, holding you back by your hips. You whine, chasing his lips, pulling him down to kiss. "Michael, please! It's been weeks I'm fine." He looks you up and down, not really sure. You however decide that you've had enough waiting. You are horny, that's not a question. "Fine, you don't want to join me, then you'll just have to watch." "Wha-" the question dies on his lips as you turn around, making your way to your bedroom. You reach for your oversized shirt, pulling it over your head, throwing it back without looking almost hitting Michael in the face. He drops off his jacket, taking off his shoes, following you. He can't help but grow hard in his pants, watching your bare back, knowing you weren't wearing a bra, so his favorite things, your boobs, were so available.

Creaking open the door to your room, you take off your shorts along with your panties, leaving you bare. The sight of your ass, plump and delicious, has him groaning, his hand palming the bulge straining against his pants. You climb up your bed, giving him the perfect view of your pussy, puffy and shining. You're wet. Michael licks his lips, almost launching forward to kiss your cunt. "Y/n!" He warns. You grin, turning around, laying on your pillows, spreading your legs open for him. Michael falls to his knees at the end of your bed, hands reaching to you, eyes dark. The moon casts a perfect shadow over you body, making you look like a Greek goddess. "I need you so bad Michael!" You sigh, playing with your boobs, twisting and pinching your nipples, making them hard. "Fuck!" The curse causes you to arch your back, pushing your cunt further into Michael's face.

One of your hands brushes down your stomach, reaching your navel, teasing around your leaking pussy. "You going to watch me play with myself?" You nudge his chin with your foot. "Baby, I don't want to hurt you!" His voice is strained. Your lips stretch over your teeth, he's close to breaking. "Suit yourself." You shrug, fingers finally reaching your clit, drawing circles over the bundle of nerves. You make a show of it, bowing your back, moaning louder than necessarily. You move on, teasing your hole, slowly inching two fingers in, massaging your spongy walls.

Lost in the pleasure you're giving yourself you almost forget Michael is there. But he is. Kneeling on the ground, stroking his hard cock over his pants. Little whimpers escape his lips even though he's biting he's bottom lip hard. When he sees the way your juices coat your fingers his restraint snaps. You jump feeling his wet sloppy kisses on your ankle. Slender fingers travel up your leg, reaching your thigh. "Keep moving those fingers mama!" He moans, using his other hand to undo his pants, finally freeing his dick, hissing at the cold air hitting his sensitive cock. Michael trails kisses up your leg, reaching you pussy, sniffing. "Fuck!" You smell delicious, his mouth is watering. "Michael!" You moan, chasing his mouth. He smiles against your thigh.

Michael is taking back control. Pulling away he stands up, pulling his shirt over his head. "Spread those lips for me mama!" The pet name makes you more wet than ever, he's never called you that before. You shiver, making a show of pumping your fingers in and out of your weeping hole. "Can I have a taste, sunflower?" Michael asks, laying down on the bed between your legs. "Please!" You beg, moving to pull your fingers away, but his hand comes to stop you. "Wha-" "Keep them there y/n, I'll kiss around them!" You shake, keeping the rhythm of your fingers as steady as you could. Michael strokes his cock, moaning as he leans down, licking around your fingers, groaning at the sweet taste of you. "Shit, please Mike I need your mouth!" He grins, kissing your thigh. "Let me care for you baby!"

He moves your hand away, lips settling around your clit, sucking. Michael moans against you, sending vibrations into you. "Yessss!" You reach over to intertwine your fingers with his, moving your hips against his face. After so long it feels like heaven to have Michael between your legs. "Michael I need you!" You whine, his mouth not taking care of you the way you need.

Kissing his way up to your lips he catches them in a passionate kiss. The tangy taste of you on his tongue makes your whole body shake with desire. "I don't have a condom love!" Michael pulls back, searching your eyes. Since the incident a month ago you haven't mentioned any new form of birth control and this is the first time the two of you would be having sex since. "Try the nightstand on my left!" You suggest and he leans over you, opening the drawer. "I don't see any." He lets out frustrated. You curse yourself, you knew the chance of there being any was small, because it's been so long since you used them as birth control.

The desperation and need for him clouds your better judgement. "I'll just take the after pill tomorrow." You suggest and that's enough for Michael since he's too hard too think straight. "Okay!" He nods, teasing your pussy with his dick, rubbing his head up and down your slit, circling your clit. "Fuck!" You sigh, feeling the tip nudging at your entrance. "Breathe baby, I love you!" Michael soothes you, pushing in slowly, stretching you so deliciously. Each inch you take makes you shiver, your walls squeezing him in so tight he feels like he might not be able to take a full breath. "I love you too, move please, god move!" Your legs close around his waist, holding him as close as possible.

Michael starts to roll his hips, those years spend dancing really show up in the best way possible. He braces his weight on his elbows, mouth exploring each and every inch of skin available to him. "Michael! Fuck, faster!" He listens too you, too lost to give a second thought to your safety now. One of his hands comes down, pushing against your stomach, causing him to hit that perfect spot inside you. Your toes curl in pleasure and you scratch down his back in an attempt to morph him into you. His thumb reaches to play with your clit, while his palm still hold pressure over your lower belly, hitting that spot perfectly each time.

The pleasure builds up like a huge wave, coming in closer and closer. Michael feels you're close, the way your pussy sucks him in harder making it almost impossible for him to keep moving. "Yes mama, are you close? You're such a good girl f' me" he slurs out, the praise going straight to your core. "Mhm Mike, you fuck me so good, only you!" You feel him twitch inside you, your hips picking up speed , moving in sync with his. Michael swallows your moans, his thumb circling your clit more vigorously. Each roll of his hips gets you closer and closer to until it finally snaps, the pleasure hits your like a wall, causing all your muscles to contract. Every fiber in your being is overtaken by the intense sensation of your orgasm. Michael keeps moving, the way your velvety walls suck him in pushing him over the edge as well. The warm spurts of his release coat your insides, adding to the feeling.

He peppers kisses all over your face, tickling your sides, causing you to laugh, giving his softening cock an involuntary squeeze. He hisses, catching your hips, giving them a firm squeeze. "I love you, you little minx!" He laughs, getting up gently, going over to the bathroom to start a warm bath for the two of you. "Don't act like you didn't enjoy it!" You get up following him to the bathroom.

"I did, but that doesn't erase the little show you put on earlier." You shrug , hugging his waist and resting your chin on his chest. "A girl does what a girl need to." Michael laughs in disbelief, giving a quick kiss over your lips, before sliding out of your embrace to check the water. "Perfect!" He holds his hand out for you. "Thank you!" You blush, stepping into the tub, making space for him to slide behind you. "Mmm how's the album going? Am I still the perfect muse?"

"You're dangerous that's what you are...." He jumps out of the tub, splashing water everywhere almost slipping on his way back to your bedroom.

"Michael?" You call out, but he's on a mission, clearly not hearing you. When he returns he has a tiny notebook in his hand and a pen. You laugh making space for him in the tub again. "Inspiration?" You ask and he simply nods, already lost in the process, humming to himself. You smile and shake your head, turning to face him, sliding your legs around his under the water. The crease between his brows when he concentrates is so sexy. You sit back and watch him, the way he chews the end of the pen, the way he taps the rhythm to the song against the tub. It's magic being done in front of your eyes. "Do I get to hear it?" You nudge his side with your foot, causing him to jerk away playfully. "Not yet, I just started it!" He looks at you like you just asked him for his first born, which makes you laugh.

You sigh relaxing against the bathtub, leaning your head back, breathing in the soft steam around you. Through hooded eyes you watch him and it hits you that this is real, you and him. Closing your lids you are taken back to that night in '87, almost three years have passed and so much has happened, you are pretty sure you've love Michael for at least two of those three years, but maybe a part of you has loved him from day one. You remember the shy smile he gave you, the startled look in his eyes when you broke the truth to him, the slight shake in his voice. Opening your eyes you see somebody so different from then, physically at least, the longer hair, the lighter skin, the change in his nose, but the soul? His soul has stayed the same and beyond the looks and everything that is what you fell for. "You're staring!" Michael mumbles, scratching some words off the paper, shooting you a side smile.

You cover your face with bubbles, giggling like a school girl caught in the act. "I'm not!" You protest, breath hitching when he drops the notebook and pen next to the tub, reaching for you, big hand grabbing your waist, pulling you to his chest. "A penny for your thoughts?" His nose tickles your cheek, lips softly brushing the corner of your mouth. You turn your head, shaking it in protest while smiling. "N-no!" Slender fingers grab your chin, turning your face to look at him. "What if I sing for you?"

"My song?" You ask excitedly. He chuckles. "I told you it's not finished." His teeth nibble your bottom lip, causing you to groan. "What if I ask really really nice?" You bat your lashes, wrapping your hand around him under water, pumping him, getting him hard. "M-maybe.." he hides his face shy, closing his eyes tight and dropping his head to your shoulder. "I was just thinking, I love you so much!" Michael moans at your words shuddering under your touch. "I love you too y/n!" Michael breathes, whining when you get up from the tub, leaving him needy and unsatisfied. "Come on, I'll show dangerous, we need that song to come out great don't we?" He nods eagerly, following close behind, carefull not to slip on the wet floor.

It's soon Christmas rolls around and you find yourself back in the Jackson chaos, Ella, Tito's wife is pregnant with their second baby so that will soon make 6 kids around the house so more noise, but you love it and welcome it nonetheless. You are running around Neverland, making the last minute adjustments to the decor before the party starts. "Can you move those gifts away, I don't want the kids to see them , remember Santa is coming later!" You tell some of the staff instructing them where to hide the gifts for when the payed actor will come to play Santa for the kids. "Baby, slow down, it'll be fine."

"It's not fine Michael, it's important, kids live for these moments." He comes over, rubbing his hands over you arms, trying to shake some of your nerves away. "If you put on this much effort for my nieces and nephews I can't imagine what's going to be like for your own kids one day." You grin, pinching his hand. "Oh I'm gonna hunt Santa down myself for them." Michael laughs throwing his head back. "I'm convinced, no doubt in my mind you will and I'm sure if there's one person to finally bring the bastard out of his hiding it's you!" He kisses your lips, moving his softly against yours. You lean into him, melting in his embrace, welcoming the warmth of him. "Come on, I want to give you my gift." You shake your head, pulling away. "Not now, it's not Christmas yet!" You run off, leaving him standing in the living room, surrounded by all kinds of decorations, polar bears and reindeers. Michael looks around and he can't believe his eyes, it's the North Pole in his house and you made it all happen for the kids.

New year rolls around and soon you wake up in spring 1990. Time has been good to you so far, things at the law firm have been going great, Gideon is finally talking about making you partener, he wants to move back to Boston and leave the New York office in your hands. Michael's album had been coming along nicely, he reckons it'll be ready to release some time around next year or maybe a little later, he's a perfectionist so every song has to be picked apart about a thousand time before it's deemed worthy to be put out into the world.

Life really seemed to be in your favor, but just like the same old story, for life to be real it has to give you some shit card to deal every now and then. The card in question? Nothing much.

Only ten positive pregnancy tests lined up on your bathroom sink. "Fuck!" You smack your hands against the marble surface, eyes blurring with tears. Since the health scare in August of last year you didn't get back on birth control, you and Michael used condoms almost all the time. Almost. Well that almost is what got you here.

You sink against the bathroom wall, holding your head in your hands, rubbing your scalp raw. "What am I gonna do?" You ask as if somebody could answer it for you, but no one can. Michael is at the studio and you took and early day off since you found yourself puking at the office. It was Shanon who jokes that maybe it's morning sickness, but then as you sat in the back of Sam's car on the way to your apartment you couldn't remember the last time you had a period. You asked Sam to make a detour to the store and you shoved the pregnancy tests into a paper bag before he could see.

This complicates things, so so much. You and Michael have only been dating for 9 months, sure you had some of the heavy talks, like kids and marriage, but when you did those things seemed so far away. Now there's also the fact that you've been keeping it under wraps from the press, no one besides close family and friends knew, his career was at it's peek, what would a baby and a mystery pregnant lady do to it? And that's ignoring the conflict that you were his lawyer first.

One thing is clear, the solution won't come from sitting on the bathroom floor and weeping, so you lift your head up, straightening yourself up. Gripping the edge of the bathroom sink you grab all the tests, shoving them in a drawer in your bedroom, taking your bag. Outside your building Sam waits in the car, he was supposed to let you rest a bit at your apartment and then drive you back to the Nook, Michael's place. He startles when you slam the door closed a little too harsh, simply reciting an address to him before asking him to drive. Sam doesn't ask any questions, but he does lift a wondering brow when he pulls the car around to a clinic.

You walk on wobbly feet, making it to the front desk, clearing your throat before speaking. "Hi, I was wondering if doctor Blake has an opening right now?" You ask, hoping and praying there won't be any need of coercion. The front desk lady doesn't mention your stark and rude tone, simply checks the computer, already shaking her head. You garb the few hundreds you had prepared for this. "Are you sure? What about this spot?" You point to the computer screen, twisting your wrist so she can see the rolled up money in your hand. She quickly grabs it, counting the bills clumsily. "Right this way ma'am!" You sigh, following her around back. Thank god for some fair bribery.

"Wait here, the doctor will come to you soon!" You change in the gown offered and sit waiting. Every second that passes feels impossible to bear, but then the door opens and you have to voice the reality of what's happening. "So when was your last period?"

"Around 8 weeks ago I think? I had an incident back in August with my IUD and since then it's been pretty irregular."

"Any form of contraception?" You feel small and scolded, even though that's clearly not his intention.

"Um condoms, but I guess we forgot a few times." You drop you head, like waiting for a sentence. "Ok lay back, I'll take a look!" Doctor Blake is very gentle, inserting the probe, turning the screen around for you to see. Your eyes watch a see of grey and black shades, not making much sense. Doctor Blake senses your confusion, having done this thousands of times with other expecting mothers. He points to a slightly whiter blip. "I'd say it's about 6 maybe early 7 weeks, let's check for a heart beat." He pushes some buttons, then silence.

And then...

Then the fast thump of what sounds like a heart fills the room. Your eyes water instantly and you begin to sob, wiping back tears as fast as you can. Doctor Blake smiles. "I'll print these out and put this on a cd for you? It'll take a couple minutes." You nod, trying to compose yourself, getting down from the table and reaching for your clothes.

"So now I'll schedule your next appointment for a few weeks from now, I'll give you a list of some prenatal vitamins I want you to take and next time you need to come just call a day or two ahead so the nurse can tell you want blood work you need to prepare for, sound good miss?" You nod, a little overwhelmed, thanking the nurse when she hands you big envelope containing the ultrasound and the heartbeat on cd. "Doctor? Will my previous medical history affect this-" you close your eyes, touching your belly, finally getting the courage to say it. "The baby?"

"It shouldn't, but we'll keep a close eye on both of you." That eases some of your nerves, but your mind is only halfway on the safety of the baby and more on what Michael might think. If he doesn't want this baby. "If I don't want to keep it? Last time I had the pills" the question was hard to ask, but you had to know.

"Well you have a few more weeks and then we exit de legal window for an abortion, but this time it'll be a D&C, it's too late for the pills." Doctor Blake tells you, reaching your hand over the table. "Y/n, it's Ok, either choice is perfectly fine!" You smile, squeezing his hand. "Thanks Jordan!"

Jordan is an old friend, actually he is Mark's best friend from college, after you and Mark broke up, both of you kept in touch with your group friend. You chose Jordan because he is one of the most renowned gynecologists in New York, besides being just somebody you trust. "On your way, you already messed up my schedule!" He laughs waving you off, causing you to finally break a smile.

Nodding at Sam you enter the car, breathing deeply. "Sam can you drive me to Michael's studio please?" You ask, fiddling with the big envelope in your lap. He spares you a glance on the mirror, making sure you're fine. You look ok, not fine, but he guesses ok is enough.

"Sam can you ask the front desk to get on of his producers out, I want to talk to them." That really spikes Sam's interest, but he's way too professional to actually ask. He does as told and you explain to the man you have a surprise for Michael and need him to empty the studio without Michael suspecting anything. The producer plays into your game, lying to Michael that he and the guys will go get some food and bring it back, Michael being Michael has no problem to stay behind to works some more on his vocals. "Oh before you go, how do I put a cd in and play it for him?" The guy gives you a quick rundown of what you need to do and you thank him before he goes.

Taking one last breath you step slowly into the studio. The lights are dim, just the way Michael likes it and he's in the recording booth, eyes closed headphones on humming into the microphone. You sit down, pressing the buttons as instructed earlier by the nice producer. Taking the cd out of its case you carefully place it, pressing play. You watch Michael, his hands fly to his headphones, eyes wides. "Who's there? Baby?" His eyes squint in the dark, somewhat making out the shape of you. The quick heartbeat sounds in his ears and he shakes his head, still not convinced that's you behind the glass.

Dropping the headphones, Michael takes slow steady steps outside of the booth, finding you sitting in his producer's chair, eyes teary. "Baby? What's this?" You sob, covering you mouth, trying to calm down. Michael's heart stops, scared, not understanding anything. He kneels in front of you, his palms resting on your thighs rubbing up and down. "If you told me, back in '87 that I'd be sitting here, you kneeling in front of me, while I cry, unable to speak. I most definitely would've smacked you in the face." That makes both of you share a laugh.

Michael reaches forward, brushing away a tear, cupping your face in his hand. You lean into him, letting his warmth soak into you and give you courage. "That's quite the beat you've got there, I didn't know you were a musician too!" He jokes, making you crack a smile. He's still confused about what's happening, but he's willing to do anything to make your pain disappear. You giggle, instinctively reaching for your belly. "I suppose it would be. Mike, honey I-"

"Y/n whatever it is, just tell me, I'm dying here!" Michael begs, grabbing your hand, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. "I'm pregnant!" You whisper and he swears he heard you wrong. His eyes bulge out, almost falling out of his sockets. His mouth falls agape, opening and closing at a steady rate, no actual words come out. "Say something!" You whine, covering your face with your hands, ashamed. You squeeze your eyes tight, hoping that maybe if you try hard enough the ground might open and swallow you whole.

You feel Michael move, his fingers fidget with your shirt. "What are you?" He finally lifts up the material, revealing the still flat belly. You watch, hands in the air, not knowing where to put them. Leaning forward his lips land on your tummy. You gasp and cry harder, combining your hands through his hair. "Thank you God!" He whispers against your skin, making you giggle when his hot breath tickles you. "Are you mad?" You ask, pulling his head up, catching his eyes. "How could I be mad, this is a blessing I didn't even know existed." You sigh, relief washing over you. "I love you!" You launch forward, falling in his lap, circling your arms around his neck, quickly kissing his lips, swallowing his being whole.

Michael holds you tight, standing up with you wrapped around him, hands exploring your body like it's the first time he gets to touch you like this. "What's the beat?" He asks, pulling away slightly, his hands resting on your hips. "That's the heartbeat of the baby, I found out today and I have a friend doctor so I had a quick check up." You explain, brushing back his curls from his face. "How far along are you?" He asks, kissing your cheek. "Six, maybe seven weeks."

"The jacuzzi?" His eyes widen, the great memory of Michael Jackson quickly finding the exact moment that brought you in this situation. Flashes of the two of you, play behind your eyes. You bend over the edge of the jacuzzi, Michael slamming inside you from behind, his balls hitting your clit with each thrust. You both blush, chuckling in unison.

"Let's hear my baby again!" He suggests, pushing some buttons so the sound of the baby's heart plays inside the studio, hugging you in warmth. "I think we have a musical genius!" Michael exclaims, blinking back tears. "Just like his daddy!" You twist a curl between your fingers, kissing away some of his tears, letting the salty liquor melt onto your tongue. "I'm going to be a dad!" The realization hits him and you nod, before he places a secure hand behind your head, bringing you in for another kiss. "Thank you! I love you!"

"I love you too!"

"I love you more!"

"Deal!" You rest your head on his chest, swaying both the rhythm of your baby's heart, his arms feeling like home.

Tags: @xyahx @narratedillusions @mjenthusiaist @18lkpeters @julsicles@jisoonnieslover@sarcasmismyfirstlove @delusionalfreakfrick @misspiggyluver@vigilantlysassypact @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @asmodette @billiejeansis @michaelsflower @neworleansgurl @youremissing0u7 @smoothcriminalgf @kisscoqueen @neworleansgurl @inggu09 @gissellec1 @sarcasmismyfirstlove @bonesxinny@muddyloserlia @loverstar014 @getthisoverwith33 @softchaosdiary505 @persassyjacksonsblog @minaridior

[brownsugarletters]

Just Call My Name, And I'll Be There

Michael Jackson x fem!reader

"This wasn’t just any scream. It was you. High-pitched, panicked— unmistakably you. Your voice cut through the music and laughter as sharply as an out of tune note would to Michael's ears.

Instantly he turned toward the sound, and his body was moving before his brain caught up."

SYNOPSIS: Reader joins Michael at a pool party to be supportive. People start horse-playing and reader gets thrown into the pool. The only thing is— she can't swim.

CONTENT: Fluff, angst, mature themes, mention of alcohol, almost drowning, hurt/comfort, otw!Michael, era 1978

Request: Protective Michael! Fluffy with Angst! I image this in OTW era. Michael and Reader girlfriend attend a pool party thrown by Hollywood executives, reader can’t swim but went for moral support. Michael is walking around busy, networking, talking to people who want to talk to him. While reader is all alone, drunk attendees start picking people up and throwing them in the pool even reader. She screams, Michael hears her, and jumps in the pool to save her. She’s hyperventilating because she’s scared out of her mind, she’s wet and cold, and Michael carries her out the party. Once they get back in the car, Bill asked what happened, neither one of them answered but thank god in the trunk their was a blanket from their last picnic day, and an extra hoodie lying around. He puts the hoodie and cover over her, and puts her in the car while Bill drives away. I feel like Michael is so attentive that he’s taking so much care of reader after all of this  

Taglist: @plan3tch1ld @delictezz @1andonlytashae @artflooo @man-in-the-mirror58 @sunshineyrosie @hiiisisteerrrr @narratedillusions @animegamerfox @mysterioussag @blameditontheboogie @vinnstarr @anonymou000000 @j5rneymercies @khxna @sayyoulovemeziya @ttangerinexo @cvntttyybumblegumprincess @loveismymessage @mvsticmoony @sugarysweetooth @cherrishkissed @thebabykashmere @naturallykae @moonwalkarchives @savagenctzen @silentonthedancefloor @leiserenityy @agenuinedegen @missharper33 @ggformike @angelfacediary @alientee @divaaprincess @f0c3 @therubyeffect @rcttenfae (lmk if I forgot anyone)

It was late in the evening on a summer day in Los Angeles and the smell of chlorine, barbecue, and a distinct perfume wafting from the nearest socialite filled the atmosphere. People chattered over one another over the sultry sounds of Earth, Wind, & Fire floating through the air. 

Another industry pool party. Michael really disliked events like this. But, he was currently in talks to hire new management and he needed to network. He was pretty sure he’d found his guy, so he’d come tonight to finalize things and to sign his contract.

Honestly, you couldn’t swim. So a pool party generally would have been out of the question for you. But alas, you wanted to support your man so you agreed to come. Michael was finally stepping into his own and taking some of his autonomy back from Joseph, and hiring new management was the first step. He needed your support.

When you arrived to the condo, Michael led you inside and made sure you were comfortable before he went anywhere. He'd squeezed your hand gently and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. "Gonna be ok?" Worry glimmered in his eyes. You were still getting used to the industry and Michael was fiercely protective of your desire for privacy.

But this night was about him. So, you gave him a reassuring smile and squeezed his hand back. "Go be a star baby, I'll be fine." He searched your face for a moment, looking for any signs of hesitance. When he saw none, he kissed you again and said,

"I'm gonna go make my rounds, network a little. I'll be back, baby." You shooed him away and settled into the loveseat.

Throughout the night you watched him from across the patio. He looked good. Really good. He was wearing a white button down that was open at the collar and his curls were perfect. He was sitting comfortably in a lounge chair with his legs spread as he spoke to Tom, his manager-to-be. Instinctively, his eyes would scan the crowd for you every few minutes. When he found you, he’d give you a small private smile, sometimes he would mouth “You ok?”.

You always tried to stay out of the way out of respect when Michael was doing business. So you stayed tucked away in the corner, sitting in the center of a plush loveseat. You were content just people watching and sipping your soda.

One of these people you'd been watching was Tom’s son, Lucas. He was loud. The frat boy type—in his early 20s, and one too many drinks in. He kept making rounds with freshly made drinks while he hooted obnoxiously over the music.

“C’mon, loosen up” He said to you the third time he circled around and you’d refused him. You weren’t much of a drinker. And you didn’t want to be drunk at an event like this. But also, you really didn’t want to be rude. So somehow, the glass ended up in your hand. And then another. By the time everything went fuzzy around the edges, you realized you’d gone past your limit.

You stood up unsteady and wandered outside toward the pool area looking for Michael where you'd last seen him. You couldn't remember when the last time you saw him was, you’d lost track of him during Lucas’ badgering. 

You were stumbling a little in your heels but determined as you walked through the grass. Just needed to find Michael and it would be fine. But then— you felt hands around your waist. Unfamiliar hands, that definitely didn’t belong to your boyfriend. 

Looking up, you met Lucas’s gaze. He was grinning down at you like he knew something you didn’t. “What are you doin’ way over here by yourself?” he slurred. You laughed uncomfortably at first out of a desire to not make a scene. He said something else you couldn't quite make out in your stupor, and before you knew it— he'd lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing and plunged you into the ice cold water.

Immediately, you went under from the force of your landing. Your breathing seized and your arms and legs flailed uselessly against the water. You couldn’t feel the bottom, and the chlorine was mixing with your eyeliner and burning your eyes. The alcohol made everything so much worse. 

You broke the surface once, and used the breath to deliver a bone-chilling scream. One that reached Michael all the way inside.

“MICHAEL!” The sound was barely a whisper over the loud music that thumped throughout the condo. Michael was mid-conversation when he heard it. His heart skipped a beat in his chest and his blood ran cold. 

This wasn’t just any scream. It was you. High-pitched, panicked— unmistakably you. Your voice cut through the music and laughter as sharply as an out of tune note would to Michael's ears.

Instantly he turned toward the sound, and his body was moving before his brain caught up. He pushed through the crowd so fast that he nearly knocked someone over. He shoved open the heavy glass door as his heart hammered against his ribs. 

In the pool, someone was bobbing up and down in the water and splashing so much that he couldn’t see who it was.

“I-I can’t swim” you spluttered as you splashed frantically, hands grabbing for anything to pull you to the surface and finding nothing. 

Michael’s eyes found yours as soon as he exited the glass doors. He felt his heart sink as he observed the panic-stricken expression on your face. He nearly slipped in the wet grass as he sprinted toward the pool.

Without thinking, he jumped in headfirst, not bothering to remove any of his clothing—including the $1,500 Italian leather Prada loafers he’d broken out just for today. In the moment, his need to get to you overrode all of that. 

He reached you in seconds. Once he had you in his grasp, he surfaced and pulled you to his chest. He kicked his way to the edge of the pool. Unfortunately for him, you were still in full panic, and your body did not relax under his touch.

“Baby-Baby it’s me. Calm down, it’s me. I got you.” His left arm was wrapped firmly around your waist as his other arm waded through the water. Your chest was still heaving and you were certain your nails had broken his skin from how hard you were holding on to him out of pure fear. You held onto him like a lifeline as you coughed violently.

Michael lifted you out of the water first by your hips, sitting you on the edge of the pool where you quickly scrambled backwards toward land. When he lifted himself out of the pool, he was drenched. His curls were stretched and dripping endlessly into his eyes and he was sopping wet from head to toe. 

“I’m sorry man, I-I didn’t know she couldn’t swim. We were just havin’ fun, that’s all.” Lucas blabbered while laughing nervously.

“That’s why you shouldn’t do shit like that. Why the fuck didn’t you jump in for her?” Michael snapped, snatching the towel from the man’s hands and wrapping it around you. He was fuming. He never cursed.

You were still coughing hard, spluttering water that had entered your lungs as you’d screamed for help. 

“Baby, c’mere” Michael's eyes held your gaze tenderly as he outstretched his hands to you, the same way you would to comfort a frightened child.

He lifted you to your feet and pulled you into him as he led you to the exit of the yard. He was holding you tight against him, murmuring soft reassurance every few steps. One arm was locked around your waist while the other held the towel in place around your shoulders.

“I got you, mama”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have left you alone”

Michael opened the door of the car and helped you get in, making sure you didn’t bump your head on the way in.

“Y’all back already?” Bill turned away from his newspaper to look over his shoulder at you both. His face dropped when he noticed you both were drenched and still fully clothed. “What the hell happened in there?”

You were freezing—teeth chattering and body trembling from a mixture of the cold and adrenaline. 

“Hang out with her for a second Bill? I need to handle something real quick.” Bill nodded wordlessly, instantly taking off his jacket and getting out of the car to wrap it around you.

“Here you go sweetheart...you okay?” concern laced through Bill’s voice as he pulled the jacket closed tight around you.

Michael jogged back to the house and threaded through the crowd. He was certain you’d put your purse down somewhere during the chaos. And he knew you’d have an absolute panic attack once you realized it was gone. 

His eyes landed on the leather bag on a couch tucked away in the corner where he’d originally left you. The sight of it made his chest fill with guilt. This happened because he left you alone.

He grabbed the bag and turned to leave when he ran headfirst into Tom. 

“Mike, I gotta tell you, I’m real sorry about that. Don’t leave, tell your girl come have another drink we’ll smooth it all over.” 

If looks could kill, the look Michael gave this man would’ve laid him to rest immediately.

“She doesn’t drink” He mumbled through gritted teeth, shouldering past him. He stopped and turned over his shoulder, “If she’s not calm by the time I get her home, I’m shredding that contract and y’all can forget about a deal.” He said bitterly. He didn’t wait for a response. He went straight back outside to the car.

When he reached the car, he popped the trunk and rummaged through it. He came across a small basket, it was from the last date in the park you guys had. The memory came to him uninvited and warm. It had been your idea to surprise him with a picnic since it was so rare that he got time off.

Michael's heart swelled at the memory of how happy you'd been that day as he tugged the oversized blanket from the basket. He got into the car and removed the sopping jacket from your shoulders. He replaced it with the blanket, wrapping it snugly around you and tucking it under your thighs. He gingerly ran his hands up and down your arms to generate some warmth. His gaze trailed over your trembling frame and he felt anger simmering low in his stomach again.

“Where to, Mike?” Bill asked as he gazed at Michael through the rearview mirror.

“Hayvenhurst. She’s gonna stay with me tonight.” He answered softly.

You leaned into Michael, desperate for warmth as you clutched the blanket tightly around you. Michael had an arm wrapped around you and your head rested against his chest. He had scooped your legs into his lap so that he was holding you fully, and his hand rubbed grounding circles on your arm as he held you close. Every few seconds he was pressing soft kisses to your temple.

“I’m so sorry” He murmured against your hair. “I shouldn’t have left you alone. I should’ve been right there.”

You didn’t answer him for a while. Really you were still trying to catch your breath— and, the phantom of the sensation of the water closing over your head was still haunting you. 

When you finally made it to Hayvenhurst, Michael held you close to him as he walked you inside. He took you straight to his bathroom and started the shower. He tested the water and made sure it was warm before helping you strip out of your soaked dress and undergarments with careful hands. 

He kneeled in front of you to help you take off your heels. Gently, he massaged each ankle and the sole of your foot with delicate fingertips while he waited for the water to heat up. He made sure to check for bruising and injuries to your ankles as he did so.

“I got you, baby. I’m right here.” He kept saying. He stripped down to his boxers next. Not fully nude, he didn’t feel it was right in your drunken state. Just enough to be able to get in the water with you comfortably.

He washed your body gingerly with a wash cloth, gently lathering your favorite soap over your skin. When he was finished he used the shower head to gingerly rinse the chlorine out of your hair. He knew you’d want to do your own routine and touch ups tomorrow, but for the time being to make you comfortable, he made sure the chlorine was out. The whole while, you leaned against his chest and he rocked you.

Afterwards, he wrapped you in the biggest, fluffiest towel he could find. It was dryer-warm, and suddenly you realized why he'd stepped into the laundry room when you first arrived home.

He helped you dry off and when he was finished, he gently massaged lotion into your fatigued muscles. He stepped away for a moment to his dresser to rummage through one of the drawers. He picked out an old t-shirt and gently pulled it over your head, careful not to pull your hair as he did so. Then he pulled back the duvet and tucked you in. 

Michael changed into dry clothes and climbed in next to you, pulling you by your waist so that your back was flush against his bare chest. His thumb stroked over your belly soothingly while the other palm rested comfortably against your thigh, holding it with gentle pressure.

“You’re safe, baby. I promise I won’t let anything hurt you.” He murmured, brushing his lips against the back of your neck. Your body instinctively melted into him.

“I was so scared” you exhaled shakily and shut your eyes at the memory.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. I know.” He kissed the top of your head and his voice cracked. “I was scared too. When I heard you scream, I didn’t know what happened. God, I thought—” he stopped himself short, unable to finish the thought. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. I’m here now.”

You nodded and settled further into the warmth of his body. He kept holding you and whispering soft reassurances to you, rubbing your back till your breathing calmed. 

Eventually you fell asleep tucked against him. Michael stayed awake a little longer, watching you, guilt and protectiveness and love all tangled up in his chest.

He vowed in that moment that he’d never let anything like that happen again. Not while he still had breath in his lungs.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌 Everything posted here is written by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to AI tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.

I put a lot of care into these stories, so please keep them here and respect my space.

[brownsugarletters]

Speed Demon (Drabble)

Michael Jackson x Black!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Michael's driver calls out sick so reader wife drives him around for the day. And boy, does she have a serious potty mouth and a serious case of road rage.

CONTENT: Super sweet fluff, strong language used, wife!reader, era 2007, Mature era!Michael

Author's Note: I be driving to the beat of the music not the speed limit sometimes, girl. Reader can relate 😂

Taglist: @plan3tch1ld @delictezz @1andonlytashae @artflooo @man-in-the-mirror58 @sunshineyrosie @hiiisisteerrrr @narratedillusions @animegamerfox @mysterioussag @blameditontheboogie @vinnstarr @anonymou000000 @j5rneymercies @khxna @sayyoulovemeziya @ttangerinexo @cvntttyybumblegumprincess @loveismymessage @mvsticmoony @sugarysweetooth @cherrishkissed @thebabykashmere @naturallykae @moonwalkarchives @savagenctzen @silentonthedancefloor @leiserenityy @agenuinedegen @missharper33 @ggformike @angelfacediary @alientee @divaaprincess @f0c3 @therubyeffect @rcttenfae @studio03 (lmk if I forgot anyone)

The call came when you were already lacing up your sneakers at the front door. Michael’s voice drifted down the hallway as he spoke quietly, trying to handle the scheduling change before you got any ideas.

When he stepped back in the room, his eyebrows were creased. “Driver called in sick, baby. I got somebody else on the way—”

But you didn’t let him finish. You had already heard the entire conversation. A mischievous smile tugged at your lips as you jingled keys in your manicured hand. Not just any keys. The keys to the big-body escalade Michael had bought you last year for your birthday. It was outside gleaming like a chariot awaiting its queen. 

“It’s local, Mike. Don’t be silly I’ll just drive us.”

Before he could protest, your fingers slipped through his, warm and sure. You tugged him toward the door with that restless energy that always made his heart do a funny little flip. You truly were fearless. He allowed you to pull him as a reluctant smile broke through even as his fear started to build.

Now, it wasn’t that you couldn’t drive. You could. 

Just, not the best— or in the safest manner.

The escalade rumbled to life under your hands and the radio came on automatically, shaking the cabin of the car from the bass. 

Michael looked over at you with raised eyebrows. You had a habit of playing your music terribly loud, and he always worried you wouldn’t be able to hear what was happening around you. 

Being Michael Jackson’s wife came along with needing to possess a constant sense of vigilance, which is something you were still growing accustomed to. So, you can understand his concern. 

Michael buckled in on the passenger side and his right hand came up to grab the handle on the roof. He was already prepared to anchor himself.

“Seatbelt, baby” he reminded, you shot him a devilish grin as you quickly buckled in and peeled out the driveway so fast his back flew against the seat.

The music pulsed through the vehicle heavily and you nodded along. In Da Club by 50 Cent came on and you immediately looked over at Michael, giving him a knowing look. 

He loved this song, he’d always been a sucker for a good bass-line. The beat vibrated through the seats as 50 cent’s cocky voice came through the speakers, and Michael couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips. Instantly, his body started moving and bopping along. Ever since he was a little boy, he had never been able to keep himself still when a rhythm moved him.

His smiled faded quickly when the light flipped yellow up ahead and you didn’t even tap the break with your big toe. You gassed straight through it as it flicked red. The car behind you laid on the horn but you didn’t miss a beat. You slammed your palm down on your own horn and stayed there obnoxiously long while you fussed as if the other driver could hear you.

Michael’s hand flew to the oh-shit handle and his foot stomped the floorboard like he had imaginary brakes on his side of the car. 

“Baby—”

“Shhh just relax, I got you papa.” You patted his thigh and kept rapping the song word for word like you wrote it. Your free hand was pointing and cutting through the air as you delivered each line. Your hips rolled against the seat in sharp little bounces, the kind of rhythm that said if you weren’t currently behind the wheel, you’d be shaking that ass.

Michael turned to look at you and even through his stress the most amused smile broke out across his features. He thought you were so damn cute when you got like this. Completely in your element— and hilarious in a way that only your husband could find funny even while actively fearing for his life. He chuckled to himself and shook his head, hand still locked on the handle.

He rubbed his temples with both of his index and middle fingers. He squeezed his eyes shut for a second like he was asking Jehovah for patience. 

“Girl,” he muttered, voice low and laced with stress “You makin’ my nerves bad already and we ain’t even two blocks from the house.”

You just grinned and kept dancing, reaching over to squeeze his knee reassuringly.

A car cut you off a few blocks later and the driver flipped you off out his window as he sped past. You didn’t hesitate, 

“Hell naw.” You huffed to yourself. Down went your window and the wind whipped your hair as you leaned out just enough to clear as day yell:

“Fuck you too, BITCH!”

Michael gasped as if you’d slapped him. 

“Baby!” he yelped, lunging across the center console. His hand shot past your lap and fumbled for the window button, accidentally locking and unlocking the doors twice before the window rolled up with a soft whir. You were still mid-tirade, but the rest of whatever you were about to say was cut off as the window sealed shut. 

He stayed leaned over you for a second, one arm braced across your body like he could physically shield you from the consequences of your own mouth. His head dropped to your chest as he breathed in your perfume.

You side eyed him, still grinning with amusement. “What? He started poppin’ it first.”

Michael dropped back into his seat, one hand pressed flat to his chest like he was checking to see if he still had a heartbeat.

“GIRL,” he said, voice high with a mix of exasperation and helpless affection. “You tryna kill the King of Pop, oh my god.”

You hard belly laughed and turned the music up even louder. The bass kept vibrating the car, and you kept driving the speed limit of the music. And Michael— his hand stayed velcroed to the oh-shit handle and his foot kept pressing his imaginary brakes every time you rode too close to another car. 

But every so often— when he thought you weren’t paying attention— he was glancing over at you with a soft, lovesick gaze.

He was stressed, and no doubt you had risen his blood pressure. But looking over at you gyrating to the beat of the music and exuding confidence made something in him feel young again in a way nothing else did. 

And even while he rubbed his temples and muttered about you toying with his blood pressure, he never once told you to slow down. He just held on for the ride. 

Man, you really loved driving.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌 Everything posted here is written by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to AI tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.

I put a lot of care into these stories, so please keep them here and respect my space.

[narratedillusions]

this makes me wanna start liking to drive. i’m avoiding it for as long as possible, but i want him to be my passenger princess:(🪼

[sunshineyrosie]

stay (a little longer)

summary: you’re michael’s personal assistant on the bad tour. when a snowstorm grounds your flight and leaves you both stranded, you’re forced to share the last hotel room—and its one bed. the quiet night leads to more than you ever expected. (or let yourself hope for)

pairing: bad!era Michael Jackson x reader

w/c: 9.8k

notes: & THERE WAS ONLY ONE (1) BED—smut ahead!!! boss/employee relationship. forced proximity (or is it?), unprotected sex, they're pathetic and desperate your honor!!! michael EATS. there is discussion of michael’s struggle with insomnia & loneliness. the story also briefly touches on his eating habits. michael is a level 10 yearner, but so is the reader—so much vulnerability. he is a cheeky lil shit in this but still an absolute lover boy & dirty talker. some suspension of disbelief may be required—there are probably (definitely) historical and timeline inaccuracies. also, the role of a personal assistant in this universe is very subjective but lets pretend for The Plot

disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission to use my writing to train AI ‼️

masterlist • ao3 • wattpad

DENVER, COLORADO. MARCH 26, 1988.

It’s late—11:47 p.m., according to the glowing red digits on the backstage clock. The air inside the McNichols Sports Arena still hums with the leftover electricity of the final night in the city. You can practically feel it in your bones—the faint echo of applause, the way the floor still seems to vibrate even though the crowd has long since spilled out into the cold Denver night. 

Normally, you would have already been on Michael’s private jet, halfway to Hartford, Connecticut—the next stop on the Bad World Tour. Tonight ran longer than usual, though. Michael stayed behind after the concert to finish a series of post-show interviews with local charities before leaving the city—something he refused to skip, no matter how exhausted he was.

You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left. 

You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history. 

You’re good at this job, better than you had expected. Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly. You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.

You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode. 

Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado. Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.

Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.

You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.

Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”

“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.

”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”

His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.

Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.

You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing. You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—

You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans. You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”

Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?” 

You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”

The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.

Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”

Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.  He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.

Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”

Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other. 

The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately. Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”

”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.

“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.

You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”

He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”

You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth. 

He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something. That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature. 

You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too. 

Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room. 

But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.

Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”

“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.

”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”

You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside. 

The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind. 

You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked. 

“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”

You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”

The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”

Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”

”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“

Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”

You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.

The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”

Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.

”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.

Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes. You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”

The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.

Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—

No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince. You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect. They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity. 

Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.

Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens. They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering. 

You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather. 

The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”

Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”

You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise. Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.

You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”

He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel. 

To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.  This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)

A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.

“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”

You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“

“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”

Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first. That’s your job. That’s what you do.

You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”

Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.  He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’

You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“

Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard. 

“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own. 

“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.” 

You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.) He cuts you off with a single look.

”You’re staying in here. With me.”

You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car. The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated. 

”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“

”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”

You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat. It’s ridiculous, and childish.  You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult. 

“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”

It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.

Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”

“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.

He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”

You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.

”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”

Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”

A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it. 

You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch. Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”

He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”

”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”

He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”

”That’s different.”

”It’s not.” He counters.

You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort. The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.

You wince. “I’ll be fine.”

”No.”

”Michael, please—“

He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.

”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”

You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.  Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“ 

“No.”

”But—“

”No.”

You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception. 

“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”

You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night. At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”

Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard. He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.

Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.

His smile returns—wide and toothy.

”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”

He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”

Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument. 

You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable. 

Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.

You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else. 

You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing. 

You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him. 

You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss. 

You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous. 

You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt. You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps. 

You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume. 

You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.

At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else. 

You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.

You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument. 

You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision. 

You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply. The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment. 

Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!

You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.

You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.

Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.  But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming. 

Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones. He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.

Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.

The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy. The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking. 

“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.

“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.

He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”

You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom. The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.

He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel. (It doesn’t.)

You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical. 

You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.

You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.

Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate. You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.

He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.” 

He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”

Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her. 

“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall. A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism. 

”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.

Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room. Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.

You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it. You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.

“Michael? Everything okay over there?”

He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”

“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”

You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently. 

”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”

You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”

You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged. 

“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”

You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud. 

“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”

Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues. He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”

His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out. 

Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”

“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…” He trails off.  He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden. Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.

“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“

You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson. Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.

“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”

He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.

”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.

”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”

Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.

But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more. 

And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.

Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.

As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met. You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?” You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.

He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects. 

He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard. 

At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.

Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world. Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.

You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him. 

You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.

He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.

Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—

But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.

And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.

He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint. 

“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.

He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.

But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him. 

You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away. 

He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air. 

He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully. 

His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm. 

“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”

His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”

A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue. He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.

He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core. 

“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”

You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”

You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.

His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core. The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.

”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.

He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room. 

The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side. He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.

His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.

He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.

Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.

He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”

The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.

That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision. 

The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.

Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face. 

He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever. And you would let him. 

You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you. You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry. 

You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers. Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.

It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.

He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace. “Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”

You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet. 

”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.

You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.

It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you. 

”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine. Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.

Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean. 

You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body. 

You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.

Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.

“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”

”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“

He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity. 

“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”

In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need. 

You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.

”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”

”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”

He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”

Next time. The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply. But you don’t. 

You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. 

Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him. 

You nod, surrendering to him completely. A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.

His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.” His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”

His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps. You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily. 

You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission. In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.

”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open. There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted. 

You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare. 

A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own. 

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation. His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.

You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.

He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“

”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”

At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.

He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.

“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“

”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“

That’s all it takes. 

He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. 

Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.

You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower. Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.

Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets. Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin. 

Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips. He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream. 

He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath. That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany: “Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“

The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you. 

You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words: I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.

You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.

The world outside has ceased to exist. The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.

His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin. He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.

You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications. For tonight, nothing else mattered.

a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️

[sqrixm]

Thinking about tummy bulges! Oh and Michael 3rd leg giving us that tummy bulge…

You were losing your mind.

Between the relentless, punishing pace he set and the sting of your nails digging deep into the slick skin of his back, the friction between you spiraled into pure, unadulterated ecstasy. The heavy eye contact locked between you laid bare the raw, unfiltered reality of what making love actually meant to you both. So did your mouths, seamed together, his tongue thrusting deep, devouring you completely.

When you finally pulled away, a desperate whine escaped your lips at the sudden, sharp loss of contact.

You watched him as his chest heaved, his pupils dilated wide as his gaze pinned yours, pulling you right out of your sex-hazed trance.

“Baby, look,” he murmured, slowing his thrusts just enough to force you to watch. “That’s all me, ma.”

God, the sight made your mouth water.

Glorious didn't even begin to cover it. Michael’s size was absolute madness, during your first time, it had taken five agonizing minutes of breathless pleading just to let him slide the head in. Right now, your lower belly was practically stretched in the exact shape of him, your hot, wet, velvet walls gripping him tightly, ensuring his length knew it was right where it belonged. It was a branded staple. Proof that every single inch of him was yours to claim.

Both of you stared down in breathless awe, and taking advantage of your daze, he tested his luck, accelerating his hips into a brutal, rolling rhythm. You watched in absolute amazement as he buried himself impossibly deep, while he looked down at you with fierce adoration, utterly intoxicated by the way he was making you lose your shit.

“M-Mike... I can’t—I can’t take it—”

“Shhh,” he rasped, driving into you to the hilt. “Let’s see just how much deeper you can take me.”

[tinkerapples]

Tender Love & Care

bad era! michael jackson x female reader

summary. 1988, michael’s fame is constantly peaking and everyone’s eyes on him — especially the vultures who are nitpicking at every change in his looks. especially the change in his skin color.

content warning. self-consciousness and insecurity of physical looks (michael feels insecure about his vitiligo), media slander, angst — with comfort.

tags. angst, but then tooth rotting fluff after! michael is older than you. established relationship during thriller era.

———————

Michael panted as he finished his show for the night, raising a trembling hand to the thousands of fans still screaming his name as he was hurried toward the waiting car.

His chest rose and fell beneath the black-and-silver jacket, every muscle burning from the final performance.

The crowd was deafening.

“Michael! Michael!”

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

Security formed a wall around him as he ducked into the back seat, the door slamming shut behind him with a heavy thud. Only then did he allow himself to breathe.

He leaned back against the leather seat, his head falling against the headrest as sweat rolled from his curls, down his temples and along the bridge of his nose.

“…Thank you,” he murmured hoarsely to one of the guards before reaching for the napkin waiting beside him.

He dabbed absentmindedly at his forehead.

His cheeks.

His jaw.

The white cloth came away streaked with brown foundation, he looked down at it.

His heart skipped.

His fingers instinctively flew to his temple.

The makeup there felt thinner. Too thin.

He looked toward the tinted window just as another barrage of camera flashes exploded outside.

Flash.

Flash.

Flash.

One photographer lowered his camera for only a second before frantically pointing toward Michael’s face, saying something to the others. Their lenses turned toward him all at once, horrifying him.

Like sharks catching the scent of blood.

Michael’s stomach lurched.

He caught the faint reflection in the window — a pale patch near his hairline.

Small, hardly noticeable. Yet somehow it felt enormous.

His hand shot up, covering it.

Too late.

The flashes came faster, all relentless. His security guard noticed immediately.

“Close the curtain.”

The partition slid shut with a mechanical whir, cutting off the photographers outside. Darkness settled over the backseat.

Silence.

Except for the ringing still echoing in Michael’s ears.

He looked down at the napkin again.

Brown makeup. A faint, creamy smear where it had mixed with sweat. He folded it quickly.

Then unfolded it.

Then folded it again.

His fingers wouldn’t stop fidgeting. “…They saw.”

No one answered. The driver kept his eyes on the road. The bodyguards respectfully looked away.

Michael swallowed, his throat painfully dry. “They saw…”

The words barely escaped above a whisper. He tried to convince himself it hadn’t been obvious.

Maybe the cameras hadn’t caught it.

Maybe it had been too dark.

Maybe…

But he knew cameras saw everything.

Tomorrow morning there would be enlarged photographs. Close-ups.

Circles drawn around every patch.

Questions printed in thick, glaring red headlines.

WHAT’S HAPPENENING TO MICHAEL?

ANOTHER SHOCKING CHANGE.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hot tears burning his eyes.

He could already imagine people staring at those photographs over breakfast.

Speculating, laughing — wondering what was “wrong” with him now.

A knot tightened in his chest.

Without thinking, he reached into the pocket of his jacket for the dark sunglasses he always carried. His fingers wrapped around them instinctively.

Then paused.

He was already inside the car, the lights off as he sat in the dark. No one could see him.

Still…

He put them on anyway.

The familiar weight settled across the bridge of his nose like armor.

A habit. A shield. Anything to feel hidden.

His reflection stared back at him in the darkened window.

He looked away.

The city lights blurred past outside, streaking across the glass like smears of white and gold. He barely noticed them.

His mind had already wandered somewhere else.

Tomorrow the papers would have new pictures. Another reason for strangers to decide who he was. Another day of him slowly descending down an infinitely sinking hole.

His chest tightened until it almost hurt.

He pressed the heel of his hand against it, taking a slow, shaky breath.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

It didn’t help at all.

For all the cheers he’d heard only minutes ago…

For all the thousands of people chanting his name…

The backseat of the car had never felt so unbearably lonely.

———————

When you got back to yours and Michael’s hotel room after you went to the spa, you hummed when you saw him in his red Mickey pajamas, face planted down on the pillows on your side.

You chuckled softly, sitting on his side of the bed. Your warm hand gently rubbing on his back. “Mikey? I’m back.”

He lifted his head from your pillows, a sheepish smile on his face.

“I know…I was just hoping that I could somehow doze off.”

“So you decided to steal my side of the bed?”

“Yes. Your side smells better…” He murmured as he blinked his lined, doe eyes.

You squinted your eyes. Your thumb wiped on his forehead. “Haven’t you taken off your makeup yet?”

“No!” He suddenly sputtered out, sitting up. He breathed out when you looked surprised at his sudden outburst.

“I—I mean…I don’t know…I…” He lost trail of his thoughts, his eyebrows furrowing as he bit his lower lip.

His hands rubbed and clasped together as he tried to soothe and regulate himself. His eyes shining as tears threatened to fall.

His hands even instinctively went up to his nose bridge as if to push up some imaginary sunglasses to hide the pain and sadness in his eyes — but he couldn’t hide anything from you.

You moved across the bed and gently took his hands in yours, squeezing his larger ones gently.

“What’s up, Michael?”

He sobbed at that, his tears falling to his knees, his hair covering his eyes slightly.

You waited for him patiently, stroking his hands and massaging the tenseness away.

“(Name)…Aren’t you disgusted by me? Haven’t you read the papers…seen the news? I’m a monster, a freak! There’s something wrong with me, (Name)!” He cried out with such agony in his bleeding heart.

Your own heart broke at his cries and rants, of how the world kept saying that he was changing into something else — something wrong, grotesque, and ugly.

All of these things weighed on him, all on his shoulders. He tried to face them and carry them for as long as he could, but the effects of it have already embedded their claws into his soul and heart.

It affected him so much that he refused to even let anyone see him without makeup on his face, thickly covering his skin — hiding all the blemishes and all spots.

You then pulled away from Michael’s hands, wordlessly going to the bathroom and getting your makeup remover and some cotton pads.

You sat down next to him, setting them down next to you.

He sobbed, his body quivering. “No…No, (Name)…you can’t see me like that…you’ll be disgusted like them.”

You cupped his damp cheeks, wiping away tears that won’t stop falling.

“Michael…”

He shook his head frantically, almost child-like as he let out a choked cry.

“No…please…” His voice splintered into another sob. “Don’t make me… please.”

He grasped your hand on his face, placing frantic kisses on your warm palm.

“I don’t want you to leave me…” He whispered desperately.

Your chest tightened.

Not because of what he thought he looked like — but because somewhere along the way, the man the world adored had become so convinced that love was conditional.

You cradled his face between your hands, your thumbs brushing beneath his wet eyes.

“Oh, Michael…”

He couldn’t meet your gaze.

His shoulders shook beneath the loose red pajama shirt as another sob escaped him.

“I don’t want you to see…” he whispered. “I don’t want you to look at me and realize they’re right.”

“They?” You whispered out.

“The papers…” His voice trembled. “The photographers… the people who stare…” He swallowed hard. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe… maybe I don’t look like me anymore.”

He laughed bitterly through his tears.

“Sometimes…” he admitted, “…sometimes I don’t recognize myself either.”

Silence settled between you, not an uncomfortable one. But his confession definitely made it’s mark in that silence.

You reached for the cotton pad, soaking it with the makeup remover before holding it where he could see.

“I’m not going to force you.” You said gently.

His watery eyes flickered toward it before dropping back to his lap.

“But…”

You gently tucked one of his curls behind his ear, his head instinctively leaning into your touch.

“…if you’ll let me…” You said as you put the cotton pad near his face.

“…I’d like to help.” You said with a warm voice.

His lip quivered.

“What if…” His voice was barely audible. “What if you hate what you find?”

You smiled. A small, aching smile that reached your eyes.

“Michael.”

He looked up.

“I’ve seen you after twenty-four hour recording sessions.”

A tiny sniffle.

“I’ve seen you with the flu.”

Another.

“I’ve seen you wake up with your cute hair sticking in six different directions.”

The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

“And?” He muttered.

“And you were still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.”

Fresh tears welled in his eyes. He shook his head.

“That’s different.” He said with a huff.

“No.”

“It is.” He insisted, eyebrows furrowing.

“It isn’t.” You assured him.

Your thumb stroked across the place where the makeup had already begun rubbing away near his temple.

“This…”

You rested your forehead against his.

“…is your skin.”

His breathing hitched.

“It isn’t your heart.” You put your hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat slowing down.

A tear rolled over his cheek.

“It isn’t your kindness.” You rubbed his chest, feeling his skin warm up and flush underneath your soft touch. You moved your hand up to his jaw.

“It isn’t your laugh.”

“…”

“It isn’t the way you love and care for every animal like a disney princess.” You rubbed his flushed ears.

His shoulders trembled, he let out a weak, boyish laugh at that.

“It isn’t the way children run into your arms because they somehow know they’re safe there.”

“…”

“It isn’t the way you hold me when I have nightmares.”

His eyes squeezed shut.

“So tell me…”

You kissed the tip of his nose.

“…how could a few patches of your skin ever make you ugly?”

His breath broke into another sob. “They keep staring…”

“I know.”

“They whisper…”

“I know.”

“They take pictures…”

“I know, applehead.”

“They’ll print them tomorrow.”

You nodded slowly. “They probably will.”

He looked at you in disbelief.

“You—you’re not saying it’ll be okay.” He said, his voice breaking.

“No.”

His brows knitted together.

“I’m saying it already isn’t.” You said softly.

His breathing slowed just enough to listen.

“The way they treat you is cruel.”

He stared at you.

“They’re wrong for turning your pain into headlines.” You said to him, rubbing his jaw comfortingly. “But remember this Michael — they don’t get to decide what you are.”

You gently placed the cotton pad in his hand.

“They don’t know this man.”

You squeezed his fingers around it.

“They only know drama.”

“…”

“They only know rumors.”

“…”

“They only know photographs.”

Your hand found his heart, resting over the soft fabric of his pajama shirt.

“But I know the man whose heart is beating right here.”

His face crumpled.

“You know…” he whispered, “…when I was little…”

He hesitated.

“…Mother always used to wipe my face before bed.”

Your eyes softened as he smiled a little.

“Did she?”

He nodded, smiling through tears.

“She’d say…” His voice caught. “‘Michael, you’ve carried enough today. Let me take the rest off.’”

Your own eyes blurred, you sniffled a little too.

Without saying a word, you took the cotton pad back into your hand.

You held it up again.

“May I?”

This time…he didn’t answer right away. He didn’t shake his head or try to face his head away from you so that you wouldn’t see him.

His fingers trembled where they rested in yours.

Then, after what felt like forever…

He gave the smallest nod.

“…Okay.” He said so quiet — his voice as small and as soft as a dandelion.

You brushed the cotton pad across his forehead. The foundation lifted away in soft strokes. Neither of you spoke.

Another swipe.

Then another.

The subtle pale patches beneath slowly emerged—not ugly.

Far from it…he was beautiful. He was him.

His breathing became uneven again.

“I look strange.” He said through a staggered breath, a sob threatening to leave his body.

You continued carefully, never rushing.

“You look tired.”

A faint laugh escaped him through his tears.

“I do?”

“Mhm.”

“How?”

“You’ve been dancing for 3 hours straight, applehead. I don’t know what you expected.” You stated the obvious warmly as he laughed, his giggles leaving his mouth.

Another wipe across his flushing cheek.

“But you’ve been carrying the weight of the world for much longer.” You said softly.

His eyes filled again.

When the last traces of foundation disappeared, you set the cotton pad aside.

He kept staring at the floor.

Waiting.

Bracing himself.

You reached beneath his chin, rubbing the dimple in his chin affectionately.

“Michael…” You called out warmly.

He shook his head.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I don’t want to see your face.” He said shakily.

“My face?”

“If you’re disappointed…”

Your heart broke all over again.

You gently lifted his chin until his eyes finally met yours. He was surprised.

There wasn’t disgust.

There wasn’t pity.

Only love.

So much love it nearly undid him.

You smiled at him, looking at him like he hung the moon and stars.

“There you are.”

His lips parted, his eyes searching your face for any miniscule of you lying — to find nothing.

“…What?” He breathed out.

“There you are.”

You brushed your thumb over one of the lighter patches beneath his eye as though it were as ordinary as brushing away a strand of hair.

“I’ve been looking for this face all day.”

A sob escaped him.

“I thought…” he whispered.

“I know.”

“I thought you’d stop loving me.”

You leaned forward until your lips rested softly against the pale patch beneath his eye.

Then another kiss against his temple.

Another against his forehead.

Another at the corner of his mouth.

Each one lingered and deliberate, revering and loving on every blemish and spot he had. He slowly felt like they weren’t flaws, but something to be proud of — because he felt how much you loved him despite of it.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his once more.

“You know what I see?”

He shook his head.

“I see the man who stole my side of the bed because it smelled like me.”

A shy laugh erupted from him.

“I see the man who still blushes when I kiss him.”

His cheeks warmed instantly.

“I see the boy who still misses his mother.”

He smiled, his big dark eyes shining.

“And I see the man I’m going to keep choosing…”

You intertwined your fingers with his.

“…whether your skin changes a little…”

You kissed his knuckles.

“…or a lot.”

His shoulders finally sagged, years of fear seeming to pour out of him all at once.

He collapsed into your arms with a broken cry, wrapping both arms around your waist as though you were the only thing keeping him together.

“I was so scared…” he sobbed into your shoulder.

You held him tighter.

“I know, baby.”

“So scared…”

“Mhm…”

“They made me think…”

“I know.”

Your fingers combed slowly through his soft curls until his cries softened into quiet hiccups.

You rocked him gently, humming beneath your breath.

There were no cameras here.

No photographers trying to capture a bad angle of him.

No journalists yelling and asking intrusive questions about him, accusing him of malicious lies.

Only the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ear.

Only your arms around him.

Only your quiet voice in the stillness of your shared hotel room as the city bustled below you two.

“You don’t have to hide from me anymore. You’re beautiful, Michael.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever…

Michael felt beautiful.

———————

The next morning…

You watched Michael eat breakfast with an adoring smile on your face, your chin resting lazily in your palm as your eyes followed his every little movement.

Morning sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains of the hotel suite, bathing everything in a warm golden glow.

The radio on the kitchen counter hummed softly in the background while the scent of fresh coffee and toasted bread filled the room.

Michael quietly stirred his bowl of oats, pretending to be completely invested in the task.

He wasn’t.

He could feel your eyes on him.

Every few seconds, he’d sneak the tiniest glance in your direction, only to find you still smiling at him.

His cheeks slowly turned pink.

“…What?” he mumbled, taking another spoonful.

You simply smiled wider.

“Nothing.”

His eyebrows knitted together. “You’re staring.”

“I know.”

“…Why?”

You tilted your head. “Can’t I look at my handsome angelface while he eats breakfast?” You cooed out.

He nearly choked on his oats.

You reached over with a napkin, trying—and failing—not to laugh as he covered his mouth, coughing softly.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, though his cheeks had deepened into a rosy crimson.

“You sure?”

“Yes!” He breathed out, embarrassed.

“You don’t look very sure.” You teased.

He huffed quietly, looking back down at his breakfast.

“You’ve been looking at me for… like… five minutes.”

“Wrong, I’ve been timing myself. I’ve been staring at you for 6 minutes, and 33 seconds to this moment.”

His eyes widened.

“You’re crazy, girl…”

“Eh.” You shrugged with a relaxed smile.

He let out the smallest, most embarrassed laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

His spoon froze halfway to his mouth. A bashful smile tugged at his lips despite his best efforts.

“…Stop.” He said, embarrassed.

“You stop.” You retorted.

“I’m serious.” He laughed out despite his statement.

“So am I. You’re so beautiful.”

His gaze dropped back into the bowl.

“You’ve…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately. I mean you always told me before but…y’know…I had makeup on all the time back then.”

“Mhm.”

“…Why even now…?”

You reached across the table, brushing one of his soft curls away from his forehead.

“Because you are.”

He looked up.

Your thumb traced gently over one of the pale patches near his temple with the same absent tenderness someone might use to smooth a wrinkle from a loved one’s shirt.

“You don’t hide from me anymore.”

His breath caught.

“And I don’t think you realize how much I love seeing all of you.”

His cheeks burned. Michael instinctively reached toward his face before catching himself.

Your hand slipped around his wrist.

“Don’t.” You warned.

He looked at you questioningly.

“You don’t have to cover your face every time I look at you.”

His shoulders softened, a sheepish smile on his handsome face.

“…Old habit. ‘m sorry.”

“I know.” You smiled.

“I’m helping you break it.” You chuckled out softly.

The radio crackled softly before another song faded in.

A familiar bassline.

Michael immediately recognized it.

“…Oh, no.”

Your smile became mischievous.

“Oh, yess.”

His eyes widened as the opening lyrics of Pretty Young Thing floated through the room. You slowly stood from your chair, swaying to the music.

“No…” Michael said, a smile on his face in disbelief.

You turned around and pointed dramatically at him.

“Where did you come from, lady?”

Michael immediately buried his reddening face in one hand.

“Oh, come on…”

You walked around the table, singing along with a grin.

“And ooh, won’t you take me there…”

He was already laughing.

“(Name)…”

“Right away, won’t you, baby?”

“You know that’s not fair!”

“It absolutely is!”

You stopped beside his chair, gently taking his chin between your fingers so he’d look at you. His doe eyes met yours. Still impossibly shy.

“C’mon, let me see that smile…” You coaxed out as he tried to keep his face straight, but failing miserably.

You smiled before softly singing the next line directly to him dramatically, pulling a huff out of him.

“I want to love you! Pretty young thing!”

He groaned dramatically.

“No…”

“You need some lovin’…”

He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his spoon.

“(Name)!”

“Tender lovin’ care!”

He hid behind both hands now, shoulders bouncing with quiet laughter.

“And I’ll take you thereee!” You sang out passionately, wiping an imaginary tear from your eye.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Well, believe it, baby.”

“I wrote that song for you back then…”

“I know.”

“So why are you singing it to me?”

You leaned down until your foreheads almost touched.

“Because you are my pretty young thing.”

He let out the loudest, most flustered laugh, shocked.

“I’m not!”

“You absolutely are.”

“I’m twenty-nine!”

“So?”

“I’m not young! I’m older than you, baby.”

“You’ll always be younger than me in spirit.” You said, putting a hand to your chest.

He gasped in mock offense.

“That’s rude.” Michael said as he raised an eyebrow.

“It’s true.” You hummed out.

He finally lowered his hands, revealing the biggest smile you’d seen on him all morning.

One that reached his eyes.

One untouched by cameras.

Untouched by headlines.

Untouched by fear.

You couldn’t help yourself.

You cupped his warm face and admired him all over again.

The faint constellation of lighter patches across his skin.

The freckles and blemishes dusting his nose.

The sleepy curls that refused to stay neat.

Every piece of him was achingly familiar now.

Every piece was just beautiful.

He noticed your gaze lingering again and immediately ducked his head with another bashful smile.

“…You’re staring again.”

“I know.”

“…You gonna stop?” He said, rolling his eyes.

“Not a chance.”

His laughter filled the hotel room once more, blending with the music on the radio as he reached for your hand beneath the table.

He laced his fingers with yours and gave them a gentle squeeze.

“…Good.”

.

.

.

Note: Isn’t our Mikey just the cutest thing? Our P.YT. 😂 Much love to all of you! ❤️

[tinkerapples]

Interviews are hard.

dangerous era! michael jackson x wife! female reader

summary. 1995, you and michael do a joint interview on primetime with diane sawyer—it’s going great, until it isn’t.

warning. uncomfortable & invasive questions.

content. angst, fluff, romance, comedy, slightly suggestive (no explicit nsfw) you and michael have been married for quite some time now—first interview together! you and michael are so in love...makes me feel single too. 😅😂

taglist. @angelxcs

———————

1995.

The studio lights had not yet reached their full brightness, but already the room hummed with quiet preparation.

Cameramen adjusted focus, assistants whispered into headsets, someone counted cables while another carefully dabbed powder onto Diane Sawyer’s face under the glaring lamps at the makeup station.

It was all routine—professional, organized, almost mechanical.

Yet, sitting together on the cream-colored loveseat just a few feet away, you and Michael somehow managed to dismantle every ounce of professionalism the crew tried so hard to maintain.

Michael looked impossibly handsome in a deep red silk button-up tucked neatly into tailored black slacks, the sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his wrists, his wedding band catching every stray beam of light whenever he gestured.

His shorter, layered wolf cut framed his face softly, a few strands refusing to stay tucked behind his ears as they curled against his cheeks.

Beside him, your dress mirrored the same rich crimson, elegant without trying too hard, your own wedding ring glimmering whenever your fingers absentmindedly played with his.

Neither of you seemed aware—or perhaps neither of you cared—that every member of the crew could see exactly what was happening.

“You’re wearing my favorite color,” he murmured, pretending to straighten an invisible wrinkle near your shoulder only to brush his knuckles against your neck instead.

“Mm… that’s funny,” you answered with an amused smile, “because I seem to remember you saying every color becomes your favorite when I wear it.”

Michael clutched his chest dramatically. “Well, because it’s true, mama…”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop smiling as he kissed the back of your hand, making several crew members exchange exhausted glances.

Someone behind one of the cameras groaned.

“They’re worse than teenagers,” another crew member whispered.

“I know,” someone answered. “It’s kinda adorable but like eugh…”

“They’ve been like this all morning.”

“I don’t think they’ve stopped touching each other even once.” One of them said whilst rolling his eyes.

“I’m married and I feel single…jeez..” One of the producers murmured out.

A production assistant called out from across the studio, signalling that there were only a few minutes left before cameras would begin rolling.

Michael was still smiling at something you had whispered moments earlier when you reached over without thinking, your fingertips finding the slightly crooked collar of his bright red button-up.

"Hold still," you murmured with a tiny shake of your head, smoothing the fabric flat against his neck with practiced familiarity. "Honestly… I don't know how you do it."

Michael blinked innocently. "Do what?"

"Wrinkle yourself," you replied, carefully straightening the other side of his collar before brushing away an imaginary speck of lint from his shoulder.

"Every single interview. Every award show. Every photograph. It's as though you wrestle your shirt five minutes before anyone turns a camera on." He laughed softly while watching you fuss over him, completely content to let you continue.

Your hands lingered just beneath his jaw as you admired your work with a satisfied nod. "There…" you whispered. "Much better." Your smile softened. "You look awfully handsome in this color."

Michael's eyebrows lifted immediately. "Just handsome?" he asked, feigning heartbreak as he placed a dramatic hand over his chest.

"Mm-hm." You bit back a grin. "Very handsome."

"Only very?" His eyes sparkled mischievously.

"I was hoping for devastatingly handsome... breathtaking... irresistible..."

You laughed under your breath. "Don't push your luck."

Michael leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Maybe I should wear red more often."

You tilted your head. "Oh?"

"Well..." His grin widened into one that immediately warned you he was about to say something outrageous. "...I was wearing red the day our son was conceived."

A collective chorus of horrified groans erupted across the studio.

"Oh, come on!"

"Michael!"

"I did not need to know that!"

One sound technician dramatically ripped his headphones off while another covered both ears with exaggerated panic. "Nope! Nope! That's enough!"

You gasped in mock scandal before bursting into helpless laughter, lightly smacking Michael's arm.

"You cannot say things like that before we're about to go live!"

Michael simply burst into delighted laughter, shoulders bouncing as he leaned into you, completely unashamed.

You covered your face for only a moment before laughing just as hard, unable to believe he had actually said it aloud.

"You are unbelievable," you whispered, shaking your head while trying—and failing—to look scandalized.

"What?" he asked with the sweetest expression imaginable. "It's true."

"Michael!" you laughed, giving his chest another playful shove. "There are people here."

"I know," he replied matter-of-factly.

He reached for your waist, drawing you closer without thinking, while you slipped your hands naturally around his forearms.

"You're lucky you're cute," you teased.

"No," he corrected softly, his smile melting into something much more tender as he looked into your eyes. "I'm lucky you're my wife."

Your expression softened instantly. "Well… that's a little better."

"Only a little?" he whispered to you, grinning.

"Mm…" you hummed teasingly. "Maybe."

Michael couldn't help but a quick kiss, gentle and brief, barely more than a lingering brush of his lips against yours before you smiled into it.

The entire crew erupted.

"Oh, come on!"

"They're doing it again!"

"Can someone separate these two until we're live?"

The floor manager pinched the bridge of his nose before finally clapping his hands together. "Alright, lovebirds! Places! We're rolling in thirty!"

Neither of you looked remotely embarrassed.

Michael merely squeezed your hand once before both of you settled into your chairs, your wedding bands catching the warm studio lights as your fingers reluctantly slipped apart.

The floor manager raised his hand. "Stand by... ten... nine... eight..." The studio gradually fell into silence, cameras gliding into position. "...seven... six... five..." Michael glanced sideways at you one last time, smiling so softly it almost made you laugh again.

"...four... three..." Diane Sawyer walked calmly onto the set with her notes in hand, greeting the crew before taking her seat opposite the two of you.

"...two..." She adjusted her microphone, smiled warmly toward the cameras, and folded her hands in her lap.

The red light blinked on.

Everything was live.

———————

Diane Sawyer welcomed viewers with practiced elegance before turning toward both of you with a warm smile, and immediately the atmosphere shifted into something calmer.

“So,” Diane began warmly, “Dangerous has become an incredible success. Michael… how are you feeling now that it’s finally out in the world?”

Michael smiled bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck before glancing toward you as if drawing courage from your presence.

“Uh…” he chuckled softly. “It’s… it’s been wonderful. I worked very hard on it, y’know? And… I just hope people feel the love I put into it.”

He said as he instinctively reached for your hand, squeezing it. You smiled.

“And you’re finally getting some rest?” Diane asked.

“Oh…” Michael laughed, shaking his head. “No, not really.”

You giggled beside him.

“This man don’t know what rest is.”

Michael pointed toward you with an exaggerated expression of offense. “See? She’s already exposing me.”

“I am,” you nodded seriously before smiling. “He’ll say he’s taking a nap and then I’ll find him three hours later writing lyrics on the kitchen counter.”

“I get inspired!” he protested with a grin.

The entire studio laughed.

Diane smiled before turning toward you. “And how is motherhood treating you?”

Immediately your expression softened into something impossibly tender.

“Oh…” you breathed. “It’s exhausting.”

Michael burst into laughter before nodding enthusiastically. “Very exhausting.”

“But it’s the happiest I’ve ever been.” You said as you squeezed Michael’s hand.

“And your little boy?” Diane asked. “How’s he doing?”

You and Michael looked at each other.

The silence lasted barely a second before both of you dissolved into laughter.

“Oh gosh…” you said between giggles.

“He…” Michael laughed harder, covering his mouth. “He got his daddy’s lungs that’s for sure…”

You managed through your laughter. “That baby can sure can cry loud.”

“So loud.” Michael echoed.

“For hours.”

You wiped at the corners of your eyes, still smiling. “There was one night…” you said. “He just wouldn’t stop crying.”

Michael nodded dramatically. “Nothin’ worked.”

He started checking things off on his fingers.

“We checked his diaper.”

“Fed him.”

“Rocked him.”

“Sang to him.”

He shook his head with a smile. “Nothing could make that boy stop crying.”

“So…” Michael shrugged innocently. “We did everything to make him stop and we found out that he will…if we started dancing.”

Diane blinked. “Dancing?”

You nodded with complete sincerity. “We put music on. And danced around the living room with him in Michael’s arms.”

Michael demonstrated a tiny shoulder movement that made you laugh all over again, making you think about the memory when he started moonwalking with your son in his arms.

“I’d hold him and move just like this—I don’t know why,” he admitted. “He just… stopped crying.”

“He stared at us like we were complete idiots.” You giggled out.

“And then he fell asleep.” Michael said with a shrug, laughing.

The room erupted into laughter again.

“I think,” you smiled warmly, “he was embarrassed enough by our dancing that he decided sleep was the better option.”

Michael leaned his forehead against your shoulder, laughing so hard he couldn’t answer.

For a while, everything stayed light. They asked about balancing family with touring, about sleepless nights, about favorite lullabies. Michael admitted he often hummed melodies that would later become songs. You confessed that he was far more emotional with your son than anyone expected.

“He cries more than the baby sometimes,” you teased.

“Really?” Diane prodded.

Michael laughed, nodding at your statement. “Oh yeah, it’s true. I just suddenly start crying…I just can’t believe how happy I am right now…”

He squeezed your hand in his, making you smile and your cheeks warm.

The conversation continued comfortably until it didn’t.

Diane folded her notes together. “There have been…a lot of rumors.”

Michael’s smile faded just slightly. “Mm.”

“Some people say you sleep in separate bedrooms.”

You blinked before looking toward Michael. “…What?”

Michael turned toward you with the same confused expression. “…No? We’re married…we sleep in the same bed…”

Diane continued.

“People also wonder whether you’re actually intimate as husband and wife.”

Neither of you could stop yourselves from laughing outright.

Michael leaned back in disbelief, rubbing his forehead. “Oh my goodness…”

You shook your head, trying unsuccessfully to stop laughing. “Uh…I don’t know how to answer that without…answering that.”

Diane remained composed.

“There are also people questioning whether your son is biologically Michael’s.”

Michael looked at you again, his eyes impossibly wide before a grin slowly spread across his face. “…Then I guess…” he shrugged dramatically, “…she would be Billie Jean.”

You covered your mouth, laughing so hard you nearly doubled over.

“Well, is she?” Diane asked seriously, making you two look around in disbelief at her seriousness.

“What? Of course not. If you saw our baby boy, you’d see he has my eyes and Michael’s smile.” You said softly with a grin, Michael nodded at that, equally smiling.

Even several crew members snorted behind the cameras.

Diane pressed forward anyway.

“There are rumors you’re already pregnant again.” “…I’m not,” you answered politely, shaking your head.

“And…” she continued, somehow even more seriously, “…there are people who still believe the two of you remain virgins.” Complete silence.

Then both of you looked at one another.

Michael’s eyebrows slowly climbed higher and higher until they practically disappeared beneath his bangs. “…We…have…” He pointed toward you, then toward himself “…a baby.”

You nodded, confused. “…A whole baby.”

Michael looked back toward Diane. “…He didn’t…uh…” He gestured vaguely toward the air. “…He didn’t just…appear like poof!”

You both burst into helpless laughter again, unable to process the absurdity, Michael hiding his face in his hands while you leaned against his shoulder.

Even members of the crew were visibly trying not to laugh, one cameraman lowering his head entirely.

The laughter disappeared almost instantly when Diane’s voice became noticeably sharper.

“There are also many people who believe you married Michael Jackson for his money…for his fame…and that this marriage is ultimately a carefully constructed publicity arrangement. Is there any truth to that?”

Everything became still.

You didn’t answer.

Michael felt your fingers tighten around his hand before he even noticed the tears collecting in your eyes.

His expression changed immediately.

“What kind of…” he started quietly before sitting forward. “…What kind of question is that?” His voice had lost every trace of politeness.

“This is my wife you’re talking to!” He raised his voice, glaring.

Diane calmly responded. “It’s what people are asking.”

“I don’t care what people are asking,” Michael snapped, the hurt and anger in his voice making it shake. “That’s—”

You squeezed his hand gently.

He stopped speaking immediately.

You took a slow breath, your eyes lowered into your lap before finally looking back toward Diane, tears already slipping down your cheeks despite your best effort to remain composed as the camera zoomed in on you.

“Um…” Your voice cracked almost immediately. “…It hurts.” You laughed softly through tears, embarrassed by your own crying.

“It…it really hurts hearing things like that because…” You wiped your face quickly. “…because they’re so…wrong.”

You glanced down at your wedding ring, turning it gently with your thumb. “I’m…I’m already a very insecure person.”

Another tear escaped despite your smile.

“I read things sometimes—I know I shouldn’t…but sometimes I do, and people say that I’m…not pretty enough for him…or not talented enough…or…or that he could’ve married anyone else in the world.”

Your breathing hitched.

“…And…sometimes those things…they get to me. They really do.” The studio had become so quiet as the crew felt horrible for you.

“But…” You smiled through your tears before turning toward Michael. “…Every single morning without fail…”

Your voice softened. “…every single day, before anyone else says anything…Michael tells me he loves me.”

Michael’s own eyes were already beginning to shine.

“He tells me I’m beautiful when I don’t believe it. He tells me he’s lucky…and…and he says it with this…” You laughed through another tear.

“…this absolute certainty that…that I start believing him instead of everyone else.”

Your fingers intertwined with his completely now. “Because…” You looked directly into his eyes. “…he knows me more than anybody else ever could.” Your voice trembled.

“…And if the person who knows me the most…the person who’s seen every part of me, even at the days where I’m at my worst…still looks at me like…” You smiled at him shakily.

“…like I’m the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him…” You shook your head softly.

“…then why should anyone else’s opinion matter?”

Your thumb stroked across his knuckles.

“…I’m…I’ve never been more certain of anything in my entire life…”

Another tear rolled down your face as your smile became impossibly gentle.

“…I am utterly…and completely…in love with him.”

You laughed, sniffling, you squeezed his hand tightly. “I love you.” You said directly to him, with such firmness.

“I love you too.” He whispered to you, making you cover your eyes and cry.

For several long seconds, neither of you spoke.

Michael simply stared back at you with an expression so heartbreakingly tender it looked almost too private for television.

His lips trembled into the smallest smile before he quietly reached into his shirt pocket, unfolding his familiar black sunglasses with slightly shaking hands and slipping them over his eyes, though they did little to hide the tears already streaming beneath the dark lenses.

He took your hand in both of his, bowed his head, then wrapped an arm protectively around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest with extraordinary care as though shielding you from every cruel word ever written or spoken.

When he finally looked toward Diane again, his voice was gentle but firm, carrying an unmistakable finality. "I… I think we're done now."

No anger remained in his tone anymore—only exhaustion and heartbreak. "Thank you… but… we're done."

Without waiting for another question, he stood while keeping you close against him, one hand resting protectively at your back.

.

.

.

Note: Just a little something before the next fic! 😆 I wrote this just now so my apologies if it’s quite janky. Much love to you all ❤️

Edit: Just fixed typos 🫠🫠🫠

[brownsugarletters]

I had to see this first thing this morning so now y’all do too, sorry luv u 🌚🫶🏾

[narratedillusions]

i’m so fucking jealous rn why would you do this to me??? i thought you loved me?? and when’s my turn??

[lullora]

— DISSOLVED GIRL

SYNOPSIS; michael wants your babies. that’s literally it.

THEMES; unprotected sex, heavy breeding kink, toxic dynamic, controlling behaviour, secrecy, oral (m!receiving), degradation, isolation & michael getting a lil physical when he’s jealous (not w reader), angst i guess, lots of dirty talk

NOTE; i had thradera!mike in mind for this but you can imagine him however you want. heavily inspired by massive attack’s dissolved girl. in ref to the person requesting more toxic!mike. masterlist can be found here.

TAGS; @galacticpurpl3 @mrsjacksonnnnnn @abrokennbottletop @wonin1nie @chrollosblackgf66 @thebaddestfish @veraberaxx @sensualxdisguise @wildpandorasky @kekeonna @piercedheartxo @cherrypiex-a @pinkgangstaa @cassanibal @prettygirlwmula @slickdickwitchbitchh @violet848 @marceadoresu @bleachedantler @peacenluv04 @roromanok @iamsosexy2 @pnd-luvr @gogoyubari888 @tojiswifeforlife @girlsrpilots-2 @yeaitsapplehead @angelicalfaced @theprincessh3rself @justadashofevil @neworleansgurl @lauren7050

Michael loved you like the world was ending.

That was the only way to describe it, in those early months, when the relationship was still new enough that every touch felt like a revelation. Michael didn’t just want to be near you. He wanted to be around you, threaded through you in some way that made it impossible to tell where he ended and you began. He called you baby from the first week, constantly, the word a substitute for your actual name. His voice dropped half a register when he said it, low, intimate, even in public and even when his brothers were in the room making kissing noises, and laughing at him for being so gone.

“I’m not gone.” He protested once, his arm draped across the back of a booth at a restaurant in Encino, his thumb tracing the ridge of your shoulder through your blouse while Tito pretended to gag across the table. “I’m just, you know… attentive.”

“You’re sick.” Marlon corrected, pointing a breadstick at him. “You’re love-sick, man. It’s embarrassing.”

Michael’s mouth curved, though he didn’t look at Marlon. His dark eyes found yours, bright with something private that belonged to the two of you alone. His thumb continued moving against your shoulder in that slow, deliberate rhythm, less an absent-minded habit, but more a declaration of ownership disguised as tenderness. "Let them talk." He murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. "They don’t know what this is."

He was right. They didn’t.

What it was, in those first months, was intoxicating. He paid attention in a way that felt like being the only person in the entire world. He noticed things no one else noticed, the way you twisted your napkin when nervous, the exact shade of lipstick you favoured, the way your voice changed on the phone depending on who was calling. He catalogued you with the same meticulous focus he brought to a recording session, turning you over in his mind like a mix he was trying to perfect, except the scrutiny was so warm and wrapped in genuine delight, that it never occurred to you to call it what it actually was.

He was generous too, which made it impossible to see the edges of what was happening until you were already inside it. Not just gifts, though there were plenty of those. A gold bracelet arriving in a velvet box on a Tuesday for no reason. A leather jacket you’d pointed out in a window once, then forgotten about three minutes later. Flowers so constantly that the vase on your kitchen counter was never empty.

He gave you access. The private phone number, a key to Hayvenhurst, a seat in the studio during sessions where you’d sit in the corner with a book while he worked, occasionally glancing up between takes to make sure you were still there, still his. Every gift was a thread. Every key, every phone number, every come with me, baby, I want you there was a stitch in a life being built around the two of you alone.

Your friend Jennifer noticed before you did.

“You’ve been busy.” She said over the phone one evening, her tone carefully neutral.

“I haven’t been busy. I’ve just been with him.”

“You’ve been with him for three weeks straight. I called your house four times last week.”

“He likes having me around. Is that a crime?”

“No.” She paused. "Just don’t disappear, okay?”

You laughed it off. You remember that now, the sound of your own laughter, completely dismissive, because you could not fathom what she was talking about. How could you disappear when you’d never felt more seen? Michael looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world full of illusions. 

You didn’t call Jennifer back that week, or the one after. It wasn’t deliberate. Life simply filled up with him, every hour accounted for, every evening claimed, until weeks bled into each other and the sound of her voice on the phone started to feel like a voice from another version of your life. 

In those early months, what you knew was that he was beautiful, he was kind, he wanted you close and he made you feel like the centre of everything. The sex was unlike anything you’d ever experienced.

The sex. God, the sex.

He was starving for you. The first time you slept together, in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst with the door locked and the lights low, he undressed you like he was unwrapping something sacred. His fingers careful at the buttons, his mouth following each newly exposed inch of skin with a focus that bordered on devotional. He kissed your collarbone, your stomach and the inside of your wrist. He pressed his forehead against your hip bone and breathed you in, his eyes closed, his hands gripping your waist like he was trying to anchor himself. 

So when he finally looked up at you from between your legs, the expression on his face wasn’t just desire. It was hunger. A hunger so deep and consuming, that it made your breath catch, because you’d been wanted before but you’d never been devoured, and that was what Michael did. He devoured slowly with a single-minded focus that made you feel like the only woman who’d ever existed.

The first time he came inside you, he didn’t attempt to pull out. You hadn’t discussed it. You were on the pill and he knew that, but something shifted in him at the last moment, some primal instinct that overrode logic. His hand tightened on your hip, his breath ragged against your throat. He buried his body as deep as it could go with a groan that sounded less like pleasure, more like a man finding religion. When the trembling stopped and the sweat cooled, he stayed inside you. He propped himself on his forearms and looked at you with those beautiful eyes.

I want to get you pregnant, he’d say, the words rolling off his tongue like a confession he’d been holding for years.

You laughed because you thought he was joking.

He wasn’t joking.

It became a thing after that. Not a conversation, not a boundary you set or a fantasy you explicitly agreed to. It became a thing the way all the most dangerous things in your relationship became things. He talked about it while he was inside you, when his control was slipping, when the polite, gentle Michael the world knew dissolved and the raw, obsessive one took his place. 

You want that, baby? You want me to fill you up? You want me to get you pregnant? He would say, his voice dropping to something almost unrecognisable. His hand pressed flat against your lower stomach like he could feel the possibility of it, like the idea of putting a baby inside you short-circuited every rational thought in his head.

You said yes. You always said yes. Not because you wanted to get pregnant, you were careful. You were a rational person living in the real world. But the way he said it, in that desperate voice laced with something darker, made yes the only possible answer. The breeding talk wasn’t about babies. It was about permanence. Him wanting to be so deep inside you he could never be removed, to leave a mark so profound it would outlast both of you. It was a language the closest his desperate, obsessive brain could get to articulating that need.

He finished inside you every time and you noticed that. You didn’t think about what it meant, but some part of you registered the consistency, the way he’d thrust deep and hold still after, his hand finding your stomach, his breath evening out against your neck like a habit he had no intention of breaking.

The first time you rode him was your idea. You’d been laying in bed, tangled together in Saturday morning light, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your thigh, his mouth pressed against your temple. You shifted on top of him with a slow confidence that caught his breath. His hands found your waist immediately, instinctively, gripping hard enough to bruise. The sound he made when you sank down onto him was grateful in a way that made your chest ache.

“Oh God.” He breathed, his head pressing back into the pillow, eyes half-closed. “Baby…”

“Look at me.”

His eyes found yours, wide and dark, his hands tightening on your waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft skin just above your hip bones. The lazy Saturday morning dissolved into something deliberate and dangerous, because you were on top, you were in control, except the expression on his face wasn’t submission. It was hunger. 

“Move.” He murmured, his voice rough as his hips rolled up into you once experimentally. His jaw tightened. “C'mon, baby… move for me.”

You moved slowly at first, your hands braced on his chest, feeling the rapid percussion of his heartbeat under your palms. The angle was deep like this, impossibly deep, every roll of your hips drawing a sound from him that evidenced his desperation. His fingers dug into your waist hard enough to leave marks you’d find later, in the mirror, with a kind of detached wonder. 

His eyes never left yours, not once. He watched you move on top of him with that beautiful, consuming focus. So when you started to pick up speed, when the pleasure built in earnest, his hand slid from your waist to the back of your neck and pulled you down.

“You feel so good.” He murmured against your mouth, his lips barely touching yours. “You have no idea, baby. You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Tell me.”

His grip tightened as his other hand pressed flat against your lower stomach, that same gesture, that impossible tenderness mixed with something far more primal. 

“I’m gonna fill you up.” He whispered, his hips snapping up to meet yours as his rhythm faltered, every element of his control slipping. “I’m gonna get you pregnant, baby. You want that? You want me to put a baby in you?”

“Yes.” You gasped, because the angle was too good and the look in his eyes was too consuming for any other word.

“Yeah?” His hand tightened on the back of your neck. “Say it again.”

“Yes.”

“Again.”

“Yes, Michael.”

He came with his face buried in your throat, his groan vibrating against your skin, hips pressing up into you so hard you felt him everywhere. The pulse of him deep inside. His arms wrapped around your back to crush you against his chest like he was trying to merge your bodies together. 

You thought it was sweet and you thought it was passionate. You thought the breeding talk was a harmless expression of desire that made the sex hotter and the intimacy deeper, without seeing the seed of something else buried inside it. Something that looked like worship but grew like a root system, spreading quietly beneath the surface of your relationship in directions you wouldn’t discover until much later.

You didn’t see any of it. Not yet.

──── ୨୧ ────

It was industry, the kind of event Michael normally navigated with practiced ease. That smile, the handshake, the gentle deflection of every person who wanted a piece of him, his body language open and warm while his eyes stayed careful, keeping you close without appearing to. 

You wore the black dress he’d bought you, the one with the thin straps that made his breath catch when you’d tried it on, his hands settling on your hips from behind.

That one, baby, get that one.

You felt beautiful in it, standing beside him with his hand on the small of your back, a glass of champagne in your hand, the room buzzing with industry faces, flowing conversations and the low hum of a band playing something Motown in the corner.

The man’s name was David, an A&R guy from Capitol, the kind of confident that came from money rather than talent. You noticed him, how his smile was too wide, his handshake too firm, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative tour of your body that lasted too long before he remembered to look at Michael.

“Jackson.” He said with a grin, clapping Michael on the shoulder like they were old friends. They weren’t. “Good to see you, man. And who’s this?”

“This is my girlfriend.” Michael responded, his voice even, his smile fixed in place.

David’s eyes returned to you. “Lucky man.” His gaze dropped to your bare shoulders, tracing the neckline of the dress. “Very lucky.”

The conversation moved on and David drifted. Michael’s hand remained on your back, his thumb tracing a slow circle just above the curve of your spine. You thought it was over until David appeared again forty minutes later, drink in hand, leaning against the bar where you’d gone to refill your champagne.

“Hey.” He spoke casually, the kind of friendliness that felt like a door held open a little too wide. “You having a good time?”

“I am, thanks.”

“You look like you’re having a good time.” He took a sip, his eyes dropping again, like the act of looking was something he wanted you to witness. “That dress is something else… Michael’s got taste, I’ll give him that.”

Your smile tightened. “Thanks.”

He laughed, leaning closer, slightly closing the proximity between the two of you. “Bet he doesn’t let you out much, huh? I wouldn’t either, if I were him… Must be hard to share something like you.”

It was the kind of comment that sat in the grey area between compliment and proposition, the kind most women learned to navigate with a polite laugh and a strategic exit. 

You were preparing exactly that, the excuse, when Michael appeared at your side. You hadn’t seen him approach. His hand located the small of your back, not gentle this time, his body angled between you and David in a way that wasn’t casual but was exactly as territorial as it looked.

“What did you just say to her?”

Michael’s voice was quiet, not raised nor heated. Quiet in a way that made the air between the three of you feel dangerously thin. His smile was gone. Not replaced by anger, but something more controlled, the calm of a man who’d heard exactly what he thought he had and wanted it repeated so there could be no misunderstanding.

David blinked. “Hey, relax, man, I was just—”

“No. Say it again.” Michael’s head tilted slightly, his eyes fixed on David’s face with an intensity that made your stomach clench. “Go on, say it again. What did you just say to her?”

"Jackson, come on, I was just being friendly—"

"Say it again."

David’s grin recalibrated, settling into something uneasy. “Look, I didn’t mean anything by it alright? We were just talking.”

Michael stared at him for a long moment. Long enough for David to shift his weight, to glance sideways, to realise with dawning discomfort that the man in front of him wasn’t going to let this go.

Then Michael’s hand shot out and shoved David square in the chest.

David stumbled backward into the bar, glasses rattling and ice spilling, his drink sloshing over his hand as he caught himself. The sound was small and the impact was contained, but the room noticed. Heads turned and conversations topped. The band played on for a few bars before trailing off and in the sudden quiet, Michael took a step forward, his hand still extended, his breathing controlled but his body coiled.

“Don’t look at her.” Michael said. "Don’t talk to her. Don’t come near her again."

David stared at him, stunned, a red flush creeping up his neck. “What the fuck, Jackson—”

Jermaine was there. You didn’t see where he came from, but suddenly he was between them, his hand flat on Michael’s chest, his body acting as a wall. “Mike. Mike, that’s enough.”

Michael didn’t listen. He tried to push past, his shoulder driving into Jermaine’s hold. His eyes were still locked on David, his voice dropping to something low and vicious. “Touch her again, I swear I’ll—”

“Michael.” Jermaine’s hand fisted in the front of Michael’s shirt, yanking him back hard enough to stop the sentence mid-breath, his other hand gripping Michael’s shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t do this, not here.” He growled into his ear.

Michael strained forward. His whole body was trembling, every muscle taut, his jaw clenched so hard the tendons in his neck stood out like cables. For a long moment, you thought he’d shove his own brother aside, thought he’d get past Jermaine and finish whatever he’d started. The whole room was watching. Every pair of eyes were fixed on the three of them, on Michael Jackson trying to fight his way through his older brother to get to a man who’d spoken to you wrong.

You stood behind them, your champagne forgotten, your hand pressed to your mouth, shocked, because this wasn’t the man you loved, this was something else entirely. Something you’d seen flickers of in the bedroom but never in public and never with witnesses.

Jermaine held him and steered him toward the exit, one hand on his chest, the other on his arm. Michael let himself be moved, but barely, his body rigid, his strides long and mechanical, not looking back. 

Jermaine got him to the door before looking at you over Michael’s shoulder, his expression complicated, somewhere between apology and warning.

“Get him home.” He said quietly.

──── ୨୧ ────

Michael didn’t say a word in the car.

Not when you climbed into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind you, not when he turned the key in the ignition and pulled out of the driveway without looking in your direction, not for the entire forty-minute drive back to Hayvenhurst while the city lights smeared past the windows in long, blurry streaks of gold and white. 

His hands were on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road with the blank focus of someone choosing where to look so they wouldn’t have to look somewhere else.

You tried. His name left your mouth somewhere around Encino, testing, and it dissolved into the quiet without leaving a mark on him, without so much as a flicker in his expression. 

You said Michael, it wasn’t like that and his knuckles tightened on the wheel, the skin stretched white over bone, but he didn’t flinch and he never turned his head. You stopped talking after that because there was nowhere for your words to go except back into your own throat, choking you, so you sat in the passenger seat watching the streetlights pass over his face in intervals, each flash catching someone you didn’t quite recognise. 

The gates opened and he parked. Michael got out of the car without waiting for you, without reaching for your door, without the hand on the small of your back that was always there, every single time without exception. You stood in the driveway, watching his back disappear through the front door and the distance between you felt like something measured in miles rather than the handful of feet it actually was.

The house was dark except for the foyer light someone had left on and you could hear his footsteps ascending, steady and unhurried, the sway of a man moving through his own house at his own pace who happened to not care that you were standing in it. You followed him up because standing alone in that foyer felt worse than following someone who didn’t want you behind him.

The bedroom was empty when you reached it, the bathroom door already closed, water running behind it in a steady rush that filled the silence the way his silence in the car had.

You sat on the edge of the bed in your dress, your heels still on, your clutch still in your hand because you couldn’t remember putting anything down since the car. You stared at the wood grain of that door until the lines blurred and your heartbeat stumbled over itself.

You replayed the party on a loop. David’s out of pocket comments, the sound of Michael’s shoes on the floor behind you in the half-second before Jermaine grabbed him. The look on his face when he turned toward you. Not jealousy, but ownership. The look of someone watching a stranger put their hand on something that belonged to them while they were standing right there.

You put your clutch on the nightstand and kicked off your heels before reaching for the drawer out of habit, looking for a chapstick, something to fill your hands with so they’d stop shaking.

Which was when you clocked the notebook.

It was small, encased with black leather, the kind you’d buy at any stationery store. It was sitting on top of a pair of folded reading glasses and a tube of hand cream, nestled among his things with the quiet belonging of something that had lived in that spot for months. You picked it up and opened it before your brain had finished deciding whether you should.

The first page had your initials at the top in his handwriting, neat and startlingly familiar, the way his handwriting always was when he was being careful. 

Below that, dates arranged in columns. Cycle days marked in one colour, ovulation windows in another, little circles around certain dates with times noted beside them in the margin. 

Some days were starred. One entry read simply day 14 with a circle around it and, in smaller, more deliberate handwriting beside it

Held her still after.

Months of it. Months.

Your vision did something strange at the edges, the lines of text blurring and sharpening in sequence. You turned it and found more of the same extending back further than you could have guessed, each entry uniform in its neatness and patience, the handwriting consistent throughout, which meant he hadn’t started this casually and grown more invested over time.

He’d been this deliberate from the very first entry. He’d been watching your body more carefully than you’d been watching it yourself, every slow night when he held your hips a certain way, every time he pressed deeper and stayed after with his breath warm on your neck. His hand would find your stomach and rest there, and it hadn’t been tenderness nor had it been a habit.

It had been precision.

You closed the notebook before putting it back exactly where you’d found it. You slid the drawer shut and sat on the bed with your hands in your lap, the water still running behind the bathroom door, trying to decide whether to scream or hold the notebook up when he walked out and say what the fuck is this, Michael. 

You thought about calling Jennifer from the landline downstairs, except Jennifer hadn’t called you back in two weeks and the thought of explaining any of this to anyone made something inside you curl up and hide itself away like a small animal retreating into a place too dark to be found.

The water stopped. He came out in boxers and nothing else, droplets still clinging to his collarbone and he didn’t look at you. He walked to his side of the bed, pulled back the covers and turned his back to you within seconds, the rigid line of his shoulders facing you like a wall.

He didn’t speak to you that night. He didn’t speak to you the next morning, either, leaving the bedroom before you woke, the sheets cool where his body had been. You found him in the kitchen with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. When you said his name he looked up at you with polite, empty eyes, the kind of expression you’d give a housekeeper or a stranger. He said morning the way someone says it to be polite, then looked back down at the paper.

That was the first day.

The second day was worse because he moved through the house like you weren’t there. Not cruelly or dramatically. He simply existed in the same rooms as you without acknowledging that your presence required anything from him. He ate breakfast while you stood in the doorway. He went to the studio, then came back. He ate dinner in the kitchen while you sat across from him, your food untouched, your throat too tight to swallow and when you tried to talk to him he responded in short, courteous sentences that gave you nothing, the way you’d respond to someone making small talk in a waiting room, pleasant and completely devoid of substance. 

I’m fine, thank you. The session went well. I think I’ll read for a bit before bed, he’d say.

You didn’t sleep. You lay next to him on the mattress that suddenly felt enormous, the two feet between your body and you stared at the ceiling. You listened to the measured cadence of his breathing, too even to be asleep but too controlled to be anything but another form of the silence he’d wrapped around you like a punishment.

The third day broke something in you.

You’d spent the morning in the bedroom, sitting on the bed, standing at the window then back sitting on the bed again, cycling through the same thoughts the way you’d been cycling through them since the car in the same loop.

Your chest ached, physically. A dull, heavy pressure behind your sternum that made it hard to breathe and impossible to think about anything other than the distance between you and him and what it would take to close it. 

You missed him, that was the obscene part. He was in the same house, sleeping in the same bed, standing in the same kitchen and you missed him like he’d died.

You found him in the living room that evening. He was on the couch, reading, one leg crossed over the other, his glasses low on his nose. The lamp cast warm light over the pages and the line of his jaw. He looked up when you walked in with that same polite, empty expression, the one that said ‘yes?’ without saying anything at all and your legs carried you across the room before your brain had finished deciding what you were doing.

You dropped to your knees in front of him.

Not gracefully and definitely not seductively. Your knees hit the carpet hard enough to bruise, your hands landing on his thighs and you looked up at him with everything you had, everything you’d been holding for three days, the desperation and the ache that had taken up residence in your chest like a second heartbeat. His expression didn’t change as he watched you from behind his glasses, the book still open in one hand.

Your hands were shaking when you reached for his belt. You fumbled the buckle, your fingers clumsy, your breath coming in short, uneven pulls but you got it undone and moved to the button of his jeans. His hand came down and covered yours.

Not to stop you, to hold you still.

You looked up at him. His eyes were dark behind his glasses, his lips barely parted and his voice was quiet when he spoke, low and controlled, the first real thing he’d said to you in three days.

Take it out.

Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down. His cock was already hard and the sight of it made something in your stomach clench, a wave of want so sharp it bordered on pain. You wrapped your hand around the base and leaned forward, opening your mouth.

You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the dates or the careful, patient handwriting that had been tracking your body for months like a project. You didn’t think about what it meant that you were on your knees in front of a man who had been planning your future without consulting you, mapping your fertile windows and holding your hips still on day fourteen while you lay there thinking it was love.

What you thought about, with your lips stretched around him and your eyes wet, was how much you liked this.

The fact that you had to work for it. The fact that he’d made you wait, made you ache, made you lay next to him for three nights feeling the absence of his warmth like a wound that wouldn’t close, until your body overrode your pride and carried you across the room, dropping you to the floor in front of him. 

There was something in the degradation of it, the submission of it, the way it felt to need someone so badly that the act of kneeling at their feet and opening your mouth felt less like humiliation and more like relief, like permission to stop pretending you hadn’t been breaking since the car.

──── ୨୧ ────

The driveway was dark, the house lights off, the only sound the tick of the engine cooling under the hood and the crickets in the hills beyond the gate. You were bent over the rear bumper of the Mercedes with your palms flat against the warm metal and your cheek turned to the side. The night air hit the backs of your thighs where his fingers were sliding higher, tracing the edge of bare skin, finding nothing beneath the fabric.

His breath caught.

“You’re not wearing panties.”

It wasn’t a question. It was the broken sound a man makes when he’s just discovered something that’s going to ruin him, his voice stripped of every layer of composure he usually carried. 

His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you back against him so you could feel him, the hard length of his cock pressing through his jeans against the curve of your ass, hot even through the denim and he rolled his hips once, letting you feel every inch of how hard he was.

“I didn’t think you’d notice.” Your voice came out breathless, wrecked already and he laughed against your ear.

“Didn’t think I’d…” He shook his head, his mouth pressing to the curve of your neck, his breath hot and uneven. “Feel that? Feel what you do to me, baby. You make me feel like a goddamn virgin. Every time... every single time I get this hard for you like I’ve never done this before.”

His hand slid between your thighs from behind, his fingers tracing the slickness already gathered there and he groaned, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through his chest into your back, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“Shit... you’re so wet.”

His other hand fumbled with his belt, the buckle clinking and you heard the rustle of fabric as he pushed his jeans down just enough. Then the blunt, hot head of his cock was dragging through the wetness between your legs, sliding along your folds without pushing in, coating himself in it, teasing both of you. Your hips pushed back involuntarily, chasing him and his hand came down on your hip and held you still.

“Put your knee up... right here on the bumper, baby. Let me get at you.”

You lifted your right knee onto the chrome edge of the bumper, the metal cool against your skin. The position opened you wider, tilting your hips back toward him. He made a sound, a wrecked exhale that stuttered halfway through and his cock pressed against your entrance, the head nudging in just enough to make you gasp, just enough to feel the stretch start and then he stopped. Michael held himself there, not moving an inch. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to leave a stain.

“I’m so crazy for you... do you know what you do to me? Do you have any idea?”

“Michael…” His name fell out of you like a plea, your voice cracked down the middle and his hips jerked forward involuntarily at the sound of it, the head slipping in just barely before he caught himself and held still again.

Then he pushed in. One slow, deep stroke, his cock sliding into you inch by inch, the stretch burning then blooming into something vast and consuming that made your elbows buckle against the bumper. Your forehead pressed into the metal. A sound fell out of you, something between a moan and a sob and he bottomed out with his hips flush against your ass, his thighs pressing into the backs of yours and his cock so deep inside you that you could feel him in your stomach.

“Oh... oh fuck…” The words barely made it out, muffled against your forearm where you’d buried your face.

He didn’t move. He stayed buried to the hilt, his hands roaming your body with the slow, deliberate exploration of a man mapping terrain he intended to own. One hand slid up to grip your breast through your dress, his palm molding to the shape of you, his thumb circling your nipple through the fabric until it hardened beneath his touch. 

The other hand flattened against your stomach, his palm pressing low, just above where his cock was splitting you open and he held his hand there, feeling himself inside you through the thin barrier of skin.

“You’d make such a... beautiful mama.”

The words landed in your chest like a stone dropped in still water, ripples spreading outward through your ribs and something in your lower belly clenched around him so tight that his breath stuttered and his hips jerked involuntarily, a shallow thrust that punched a moan out of both of you. 

He laughed, low and breathless, his mouth pressed to the curve of your neck, his tongue tracing the sweat-damp skin there.

“You liked that, didn’t you? You liked hearing that.”

“Don’t…” You started, but you couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t know what you were going to say. Don’t stop, don’t say that, don’t make me want that. Your hips pressed back into him and whatever protest you’d been forming dissolved into a moan that vibrated through your entire body, your pussy tightening around him involuntarily and his groan in response was ragged, almost pained.

He started to move. Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that withdrew until only the head remained inside before sliding back in with a patience that bordered on cruelty. Each thrust angled deep, dragging against that spot inside you with a precision that made your vision fracture at the edges, your breath coming apart in ragged, uneven pulls. 

His hand moved from your breast to the small of your back, pressing you down into the bumper, holding you at the angle he wanted, the angle that let him hit exactly where he was aiming. The pressure of his palm against your spine sent shivers cascading through your entire body.

“Today’s your day, baby... your special day. You know that?”

His voice was low, spoken against the shell of your ear with the quiet certainty of someone sharing a secret. The words sank into you without landing, your brain too fractured by the devastating drag of his cock to process what he meant. His hips rolled forward, deep, deliberate, and your fingers scrabbled against the bumper for something to hold onto, your nails scraping the paint.

“I can feel it. I can always feel it when it’s your time. You get tighter... softer inside. Like your body knows, baby... like it’s ready for me."

His hand moved from the small of your back to your hip, gripping hard, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there as he pulled you back to meet each thrust with a rhythm that was slow enough to be torturous and deep enough to make your thighs tremble against the backs of his. 

You could feel every ridge of him, every vein, the way he swelled slightly at the base, the way the head of his cock caught on that spot inside you with each withdrawal before pressing back over it on the next stroke, a relentless, calculated repetition that was building something vast and terrifying at the base of your spine.

“Oh god…” You pressed your face into your forearm, your teeth catching the skin there, biting down to muffle the sounds that were climbing out of your throat with each thrust.

His pace didn’t change, that was the cruelty of it. He kept that same slow, devastating rhythm, his cock sliding in and out of you with the methodical patience of a man who had all night, who wasn’t rushing, who wanted to feel every second of this.

His hand moved from your hip to between your thighs, his fingers finding your clit with a familiarity that made your whole body jolt, like he knew exactly where it was without looking, like he’d memorised the map of you.

“You’re so close, baby... I can feel it. I can feel how tight you’re getting.”

His fingers worked in tight circles, matching the rhythm of his cock, the dual sensation building on itself in waves that grew higher each time, but pulled back before you could fall over the edge. You were sobbing now, your forehead pressed against the bumper, your hips pushing back against him with a desperation that had nothing to do with technique or rhythm, just the need to be filled, to be taken, to be broken open.

“Please…” You didn’t recognise your own voice, desperate and barely audible over the sound of his hips against yours. “Please, Michael, I want it... I want it so bad…”

“I know you do, baby. I know... but I want to feel you first. I need to feel how bad you want this.”

His fingers pressed harder on your clit, the circles tightening and his cock drove deeper, the slow rhythm finally giving way to something harder, more urgent, his hips snapping forward with enough force to push you into the bumper, the metal creaking beneath your hands. 

The dual sensation was annihilating, his cock hitting that spot inside you while his fingers worked your clit with a precision that made your sight darken at the edges, your breath coming in short gasps that matched the rhythm of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna fill you up tonight, baby... I’m gonna cum so deep inside you.”

“Please... oh god, please…”

“Look at me.” His voice was low, wrecked, barely holding together, but the command in it was undeniable. “C’mon turn your head, baby. Look at me while you cum.”

You turned your head, your cheek pressing against the warm metal of the bumper. He was right there, his face inches from yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. His composure was fracturing in real time, the controlled rhythm falling apart into something raw and desperate, his hips driving into you with a force that pushed you up the bumper with each thrust.

The sight of him, the undone look in his eyes and the way his jaw was clenched tight against the sounds climbing out of his throat, pushed you over the edge.

Your orgasm hit like a rupture, a white-hot wave that started at the base of your spine and crashed through your entire body with a force that stole your breath. You clenched around him in rhythmic, desperate pulses that made his composure shatter completely. 

His hips stuttered and his rhythm broke, his hand on your clit faltering as the sensation of you tightening around him pulled a sound from his chest.

“That’s it... that’s my girl. Give it to me. Give me everything.”

He fucked you through it, his strokes growing erratic, his groans falling against the back of your neck in hot, uneven bursts. The aftershocks were still rolling through you, each one pulling a fresh moan from your throat, your body clenching around him in waves that seemed to go on forever.

He was close, you could feel it in the way his cock swelled inside you, the way his hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, the way his breath came in short gasps against your shoulder.

He came with his cock buried as deep as it could go, his hips pressed flush against you, his body going rigid from head to toe. You felt the hot pulse of him inside you, each throb accompanied by a groan that shook through his chest into your back, his hands gripping your hips so hard you’d see the fingerprints tomorrow. He pulsed inside you for what felt like minutes, his cock jerking with each wave, his cum filling you in hot, thick spurts that you could feel flooding the deepest part of you.

“Oh god... oh god, baby…”

He stayed inside you and pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, his breath ragged and hot against your skin. His cock softened slowly but he didn’t pull out. His hand slid from your hip to your stomach again, pressing low, holding himself there.

Then his fingers moved.

He reached between your legs with his other hand, not to clean you up, but to where his cock was still nestled inside you. His fingers gathered the wetness that was leaking out around him, his own cum mixing with yours and he pushed it back in. 

His fingers slid alongside his softening cock, pressing his cum deeper into you, curling gently, making sure it stayed. He scooped more, his fingers working with a methodical patience that felt almost ritualistic, each stroke pressing another drop back inside, his other hand staying on your stomach, pressing down, holding everything in place.

“Look what I did to you, baby... look at that.” He groaned, his voice almost tender.

His fingers worked methodically, pushing every drop back inside and his hand stayed on your stomach like he was trying to hold something in place through sheer force of will. He pressed a kiss to the base of your spine, his lips lingering there for a moment.

“Stay right there for me... don’t move yet, just... stay like this for me.”

“I’m not moving.” Your voice was barely a whisper, your cheek pressed to the warm metal of the bumper as your body trembled with aftershocks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He kept his fingers inside you for a long time. Long enough for his cum to stop leaking and for the wetness between your thighs to cool. 

His hand on your stomach stayed pressed low, his palm warm against your skin and you could feel the weight of what he wasn’t saying in the gentle, possessive pressure of his fingers.

You knew about the pill. He knew about the pill. You’d been on it since before you started sleeping together and he knew that, but had never once questioned it, had never brought it up and yet here he was with his fingers inside you, scooping his own cum back into your body with the careful attention of someone performing a ritual they believed in more than logic and the small pill packet in your bathroom cabinet that made all of this pointless.

“Michael... you know I’m on the pill, right?” You spoke, your voice quiet, almost careful. You were testing something you didn’t have words for.

“I know.” He responded, but his fingers didn’t stop. His voice was steady, absent, like the fact was irrelevant. “I know that, baby.”

He didn’t explain because didn’t need to. The way his hand remained pressed to your stomach, the way his fingers kept working, gentle and thorough, said everything his mouth wouldn’t.

His fingers slipped out of you and he pulled his boxers and jeans back up, then straightened your dress, smoothing the fabric down over your thighs, his hands lingering on the curves of your hips, his touch possessive even in its softness. 

He helped you off the bumper, one hand on your elbow, the other on your waist and he looked at you in the dark, his eyes catching the faint glow from the distant house lights. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone.

“You good, baby?”

“Yeah…” You exhaled shakily, your hand finding his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Yeah, I’m good. I’m really good.”

You were better than good. You were full of him, still feeling the warmth of him inside you and the impossible tenderness of a man who had just fucked you over the hood of his car and then spent two minutes making sure his cum stayed where he put it. 

You leaned into him, your forehead against his chest and his arms wrapped around you, holding you close, his chin resting on top of your head.

He held you like that for a long time. Long enough for the night air to cool the sweat on your skin and for the driveway to feel like a private world, just the two of you in the dark.

You didn’t think about the notebook. You didn’t think about the way he’d said today’s your day with the casual certainty of someone who’d been counting, or the way his hand had pressed against your stomach like he was holding something in place, or the way his voice had cracked when he said you’d make such a beautiful mama like it was something he’d been thinking about for a long time and finally let slip.

──── ୨୧ ────

Before you knew it, it was your birth control.

You noticed it on a Tuesday morning, standing at the bathroom counter in one of Michael’s old shirts, the cotton hanging past your thighs. You reached for it out of habit, the muscle memory of six years of the same motion, pushing the foil through from the back, catching the small white disc between your finger and thumb.

You held it on your tongue for a moment. The familiar bitterness sat there, waiting to be swallowed.

You looked at the packet. The rows of pills, four weeks, twenty eight days, each one stamped with a day of the week. You looked at the small white disc on your tongue before your eyes dropped to the sink.

You spat it out.

It landed in the basin with a soft, wet sound. You turned the faucet on and watched it dissolve as the water carried it down the drain in a milky swirl. You stood there with the taste of it fading on your tongue, your hands braced on the edge of the counter, your heartbeat slow against your chest.

You’d been thinking about it for days, since the night you’d opened the drawer in the bedroom and found the small leather planner with your initials on the first page. Cycle days, ovulation windows, dates spanning months, stretching back before you’d even realised he was paying attention. Before you’d realised anyone was paying attention to something like that, something so intimate and quietly possessive that it made your stomach ache when you understood what it meant.

You thought about the car. The hood warm under your thighs, his hand pressed low on your stomach, his voice saying today’s your day with the certainty of someone who’d been counting. 

You thought about the way he’d said I know when you mentioned the pill, his fingers not stopping, his voice steady, like the fact was irrelevant. 

You thought about every time since then, the way he moved inside you on certain days, deeper, more deliberate, the way he held your hips still afterwards, the way his hand pressed against your lower belly like he was keeping something in.

He’d been studying you, learning the architecture of your body with the same patience he gave to everything he wanted and you’d only just noticed. You’d only just started paying attention to the days, to the pattern, to the way his rhythm changed when the notebook said it mattered.

Your thighs pressed together. The warmth spreading downward, slow and deliberate, pooling low in your stomach. You looked at the packet again before picking it up and you turned it over in your hands, running your thumb across the foil backing.

He knew your cycle better than you did. He’d been finishing inside you on your supposed fertile days with the quiet focus of someone executing a plan and you’d let him. You’d spread your legs for it, arched your back for it, begged for it without knowing why it felt different on those days, why it felt more urgent, more like something being done to you rather than with you.

Now you knew.

You opened the packet and looked at the remaining pills. Tomorrow’s. Thursday’s. Friday’s. The whole rest of the month, lined up in their neat little rows, waiting for you to take them.

You closed the packet and set it on the counter.

You didn’t put it back in the drawer.

You went back to bed. Michael was still sleeping, his face buried in the pillow, one arm stretched across the sheets where you’d been laying. You slid in beside him, your back to his chest, his arm coming around you automatically. He pulled you close, his hand settling on your stomach in the same spot with the same pressure, like even in sleep his body knew where to hold you.

The spot where he wanted to put something.

Your eyes closed with your thighs still pressed together. You could feel the warmth between them, that insistent pulse of something that wasn’t going to go away. You thought about the way he’d held your hips still on ovulation days, the way he’d pressed into you deeper, the way he’d stayed there after.

He’d been trying, quietly and patiently without asking, because asking would have given you the chance to say no.

And now you weren’t going to say no, you weren’t going to say anything at all. You were going to let the pills sit in the bathroom, untouched and you were going to let him keep doing what he’d been doing whilst you stopped pretending you didn’t know what it meant.

You pressed back into him, fitting yourself against his chest, his arm tightening around your waist. 

You didn’t think about the pill. You thought about what would happen without it and a twisted part of you liked it.

────୨ৎ────

The public thing started at a dinner party in the hills and became a pattern after that.

You didn’t remember whose house it was. What you did remember was the murmur of twelve people talking over wine and his hand on your knee beneath the tablecloth. That slow, patient climb of his fingers beneath your skirt. The way you kept your face perfectly still while his fingertips traced the edge of your underwear, sliding underneath, finding you already wet from twenty minutes of anticipation you couldn’t show anyone. 

You remember the casual excuse he made with the smile that put a room at ease. 

You remember the hallway and bathroom at the far end. His hand over your mouth, his cock inside you before the lock finished clicking. Someone knocking. His voice through the door, steady and betraying nothing while his hips were pressed flush against yours.

You remember finishing against him whilst his cum flooded into you in thick, slow pulses, his groan muffled against your neck. Then his hand on the small of your back as he led you back to the table, your legs shaking beneath your skirt, his cum already warm and spreading inside you. Someone handed you a slice of chocolate cake and you picked up your fork.

That was the first time.

After that, it happened at a charity gala, his fingers working you to the edge during the silent auction while a woman talked to you about her foundation.

After that, a listening party for an album that wasn’t his, his hand up your dress in a back corridor while music pulsed through the walls.

Then, the Grammys afterparty, his fingers sliding into you in a coat closet while cameras flashed thirty feet away, his mouth on your neck, your orgasm muffled against his shoulder. Him straightening your dress, smoothing your hair, walking you back out with his hand on the small of your back like nothing had happened.

Each time, he finished inside you and you’d go back to wherever you’d been, a table, a crowd, a room full of strangers, with his cum inside your underwear, pressing your thighs together under your skirt while you smiled and made conversation in an attempt to pretend your legs weren’t shaking.

There was one night you thought about more than the others. An event at Hayvenhurst, some industry thing with too many people in the living room.

He’d taken you upstairs between courses, fucked you slowly against the bedroom door with his hand cradling the back of your head so it wouldn’t hit the wood. He took his time because he always did at home. 

When he finished, he pulled out with the kind of care that made your chest ache before tucking himself back in and kissing your forehead. You went back downstairs in a white dress with no underwear because he’d pocketed them, grinning at you from across the room for the rest of the night while you sat on a velvet couch with your knees pressed together, his cum slowly seeping into the fabric beneath you.

He waved at you once, from across the room and smiled before taking a sip of his drink. You smiled back.

You were learning the shape of it. Not just the sex, not just the thrill, but the architecture of what he was building. The way the control lived inside tenderness. The way the public and the private were collapsing into each other, until you couldn’t tell which version of him was real. The man who cradled your head against the door, or the one who put his cum in your underwear and sent you back to a party.

You thought about the notebook, the tracked dates, the fact you’d stopped taking the pill.

Then his hand was on your knee again and you weren’t thinking about anything at all.

────୨ৎ────

It happened the way things always happened with him. Slowly, then all at once, then so gradually you couldn’t point to the moment it became permanent.

Your apartment lease lapsed. You found out after the fact, a forwarded letter from your landlord you opened at Hayvenhurst over breakfast. Michael didn’t look up from his coffee when you mentioned it. He just said you don’t need it, baby, soft and obvious, the way someone says the sky is blue. You put the letter in the kitchen trash and forgot about it by noon.

Jennifer stopped calling. Not because anything happened, but because you stopped being available for brunch, then for weeknight dinners, then for the Sunday calls that used to stretch past midnight. 

You’d pick up the phone and Michael’s hand would find your knee under the table, his thumb tracing a slow circle, his eyes on the television, his mouth doing nothing in particular. You’d tell her you’d call back. You wouldn’t. Eventually she stopped dialing and you didn’t notice the silence where her voice used to be.

Your manager started calling Hayvenhurst instead of your old number and Michael took the messages. He relayed them at dinner, paraphrased, sometimes days later. He told you which meetings mattered and which ones didn’t and he was always right. That was the worst part. He was always right.

He ordered for you at restaurants. Not every time, but often enough that you stopped looking at the menu, stopped caring what arrived, started trusting the food that appeared in front of you because he knew what you liked better than you did. 

He spoke for you at events, fielded questions with his hand on the small of your back, his answers so smooth and complete that you didn’t need to add anything. You stood beside him and smiled, letting the warmth of his palm on your spine say I’m here, I’m his, I’m fine.

Your world didn’t shrink, but it narrowed, like a lens finding focus. Everything that wasn’t him blurred at the edges until you couldn’t see it anymore.

You didn’t notice when it happened, that was the thing. You never noticed because it was already done before you thought to look.

────୨ৎ────

The mirror was in the bedroom, mounted on the wall beside the closet, taller than you, framed in dark wood that caught the lamplight in uneven strips. You’d looked into it a thousand times whilst buttoning your blouse, adjusting your earrings. It was furniture, it was nothing, until he positioned you in front of it.

His hands were on your hips, turning you gently, guiding you until you were facing the glass and he was behind you. You could see both of you in the reflection, his chest against your back, his chin above your shoulder, the dark line of his eyes watching you watch him. His hands slid from your hips to your waist, fingers pressing in, holding you still.

The cabinet was below the mirror, the surface cluttered. You put your hands on it, fingers curling over the edge, your knuckles white against the wood. The surface was cool under your palms.

Michael pressed against you from behind. You could feel him, the length of him, the pressure as he lined himself up. He held you there as he breathed against your neck, his fingers digging into your waist. His eyes locked onto yours in the glass, waiting. He was always waiting now, always giving you the space to say something, to stop it, to pretend you hadn’t already made every decision that led to this moment.

You watched yourself in the mirror. Your face flushed, your lips parted, your chest rising and falling in pulls. His hands were on your body, cladding your skin, his mouth close to your ear. He looked like he owned you and you looked like you wanted him to.

“I stopped taking it.”

Your voice came out quiet, not as an announcement, but something smaller, something that had been sitting behind your teeth for weeks, months, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

The words hung in the air between your mouth and the glass, and you watched them land on his face in the reflection. His expression didn’t falter and his breath didn’t catch.

He already knew.

Of course he knew. He’d known before you’d decided. He’d been tracking the days, the numbers, the windows in his notebook and when you’d stopped swallowing the pills, spitting them into the sink, watching them dissolve under the faucet, he hadn’t needed to see it to feel the shift in you. He’d known the way he always knew. 

He pressed his mouth to your shoulder, warm and deliberate, his lips flat against your skin. His breath held and then released in a slow stream that raised goosebumps along your arm before he pushed forward.

You felt him enter you. A single, fluid motion that filled you completely, his hips flush against your body, his hands sliding from your waist to your stomach, holding you against him. You watched yourself take him, how your mouth hung open, watched your fingers whiten against the cabinet edge, watched his hands on your belly like he was holding something in place.

He didn’t move, he simply stayed buried inside you, his chest rising and falling against your back, his mouth still pressed to your shoulder. 

You had never loved anything more in your life.

Not the way you loved him. Not this. Not the fullness, the weight of his hands, the knowledge of what he was doing and why and how long he’d been planning it. You loved the notebook and the pills dissolving in the sink, the way he’d never once asked permission because he’d never needed to. You loved the cage he’d built around you, the beautiful, airless cage that smelled like his skin and the sheets you slept in every night.

You knew what it was. You knew it was toxic and irreversible, the kind of love that hollows you out and fills the space with itself until you can’t remember what you were before it started. You knew. You watched yourself know it in the mirror, your face open and flushed his body moving behind you now, deep inside of you. 

You couldn’t stop and you didn’t want to.