⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader
a collection of domestic drabbles, interview transcripts, and short stories centred around married life with michael jackson — equal parts affectionate, absurd, and deeply unhinged.
tags : married! michael jackson, domestic fluff, shenaniganry, established relationship, the author's questionable humour, 0 media training, occasional hurt / comfort
warnings / content : occasionally suggestive (18+), please read individual fic tags, mild language, suggestive, discussions of fame / public scrutiny, secondhand embarrassment, not proof-read,
author's note: if you have any ideas for this series please feel free to insert them into my ask box!
summary: Michael has a vice, and it's not drugs or alcohol. It's a woman.
word count: 3.1k
warnings: infidelity/cheating, slight manipulation on reader's part, oral m! receiving, slight smut, 18+ ONLY
a/n: Alright... they got to me. The Michael movie got to me. But trust and believe, I've been an MJ fan since I came out of the womb, and this was honestly bound to happen at some point. Not sure how many fics I'll write for him, but this is just something that came out in the moment, and I hope you enjoy! Thank you so so much to @iceemochaa and @confetti-cakemix for feeding my hyperfixation and for helping me come up with some ideas in this fic! My little autistic brain loves you pookies.
This is supposed to be a sort of 'origin story' for how the song Dirty Diana came to be!
You'll never make me stay, so take your weight off of me.
He called you Diana. It wasn't your real name; he didn't know what that was. He didn't want to know it. There was too much attachment there, the possibility of the letters getting stuck to his tongue when you weren't around. Your face already lingered there too often, full lips and hastily ripped clothing flashing through his mind at any inconvenient moment.
Knowing his name, however, was unavoidable. The first time you whispered it into his ear as he pushed your legs open made a shiver of simultaneous guilt and delight wrack up his spine. It wasn't love, but there was something there that thrilled him. Maybe it was the sweetness of your perfume mixed with your not-so-sweet demeanor. You pleasured him in a way that had nothing to do with a stage. Nothing to do with his money.
Michael was a fierce performer. He could make men and women crumple to the floor at his shows with a swivel of his hips. But to you, he was a sheep in wolf's clothing. Inside your small, one-bedroom apartment, there was nothing he could do to make you waiver in your humiliating indifference to him. You didn't ask when you'd see him again. You didn't ask for money—just the heat of his skin against yours.
The best part about you was that you didn't ask questions. You didn't want to know if he had a girl. It didn't matter to you. Whatever he did after he got off on your body wasn't your concern. The problem was that Michael cared. He cared about what you were doing when he wasn't around, who you were talking to. He wondered if you scratched your nails down anyone else's back the way that you did his. The thought of it had started to infiltrate every moment of his life, his work. And with another woman in his bed now, someone softer and more considerate than you, he knew he had to let you go.
You always met in the same place. A dank club on the outskirts of Los Angeles that wasn't frequented by many star-studded idols, except for him. He dressed casually in leather black pants, a navy blue button-up, and a white t-shirt underneath. His dark curls were pulled back into a low bun, his version of trying to go undercover from the fans that seemed to follow him everywhere. Tonight, the streets were empty. He seemed to have gotten lucky.
The meet-up was never planned. He didn't even know your number. But you were always there, in your dark corner on the balcony of the club. He could already see you as the bouncer let him in with just a glance at his face. Smoke billowed around you as you people-watched. A crowd of patrons surrounded you, drinking and chatting. Some Michael recognized, some he didn't. You didn't speak to them, the cherry of a cigarette glowing as it moved toward your mouth. There was always an empty chair beside you, no one filling the seat. He always took it. He wouldn't tonight.
Michael's legs felt shaky as he walked onto the balcony that loomed over the dance floor. The crowd around you all looked up at his arrival, minus you, who was flicking ash into an empty whiskey glass.
You reached for your full drink with your other hand, dipping your fingers into the alcohol and pulling out a bright red cherry that floated on top. That was when you finally looked up at him, with your shining lips wrapped around the cherry, your manicured fingers pulling the stem. Michael felt like he had swallowed sandpaper.
"Leave us." You said in a low voice, not breaking eye contact with Michael. But everyone knew the command was directed at them, not him. And they listened to you, grabbing their drinks and filing off the balcony with rumours uttered under their breath.
I know your every move, so won't you just let me be?
When it was just the two of you, you rewarded him with a small smile. The purple and blue club lights wavered over your skin, glittering like the reflection of the sun hitting the ocean. You threw the stem of your cherry into the makeshift ashtray, chewing slowly.
"You said you wouldn't be back after last time." A laugh escaped you, beautiful and violent. "I almost believed you."
He didn't know how to respond to that, to admit his dirty secret or lie and say that he didn't mean to run into you. But the answer was clear when he moved closer to you, hands clenched at his sides.
"How's your girl…" You paused, looking to the ceiling in mock thought. "Oh, I've forgotten her name."
Michael's mouth opened to speak, but his words failed at the sight of you crossing your legs in the leather seat. You donned sheer black tights with a run up one of the thighs, ripped like someone pressed their finger into the fabric and pulled. His cheeks burned, and he bit the side of his tongue.
You continued, slender fingers lifting the cigarette to your lips again. His eyes grazed over the lipstick mark wrapped around the orange filter. Marks he'd once seen on his skin. "…think you forgot her name last week, too. In fact, it seemed like you'd forgotten everything except my name."
Your gaze lingered on his throat, the bob of it as you looked at him.
"My name," You repeated, like it was a joke. He didn't even know who you were, truly. "And the way you like how my tongue feels on your neck."
Michael's eye threatened to twitch at the memory. He swallowed down the heat that had started to bloom from his chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Diana, Diana, please, please," you mocked the sound of his moans, chest heaving in mock pleasure.
You flattened the last of your cigarette against the tip of your high heel, putting it out. Smoke rippled out of your nostrils, floating around Michael's head and intoxicating him.
I've been here times before but I was too blind to see,
"I'm not here to talk about that with you. Or talk about her with you." Michael finally spoke, shifting to lean against the rail of the balcony. He didn't miss the way you laughed to yourself, your head falling back and exposing the length of your neck. "I've never been here for that."
"Got a point there." You smiled, standing up from the chair. It took everything in Michael not to shift away from you, like he was avoiding the bite of a poisonous spider. Your hand reached out, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. "You don't usually come here to talk about anything."
…that you seduce every man, this time you won't seduce me.
"I'm serious." Michael's eyes rolled of their own volition, but he didn't have the strength to pull his arm away from you quite yet. But you did it for him, your hand releasing the fabric, only to reach up and pull the collar of his button-up down, revealing the sharp dip of his collarbone. The marks you'd left before were long since faded.
"How was it hiding those from her?" You grinned at him, and in the darkness of the club, your canine teeth looked like fangs, ready to sink into his jugular at any moment. "Saw those pictures in the tabloids, some awards show you were at… pretty high collar on that jacket you were wearing if you ask me."
You grazed your nails up his neck with two fingers, watching the way he struggled to keep from shivering. But he wasn't able to hide the reaction to you pressing into the pulse point below his jaw. A whiny, breathy sound left him, and his hand raised to grip your wrist. Tight enough to leave bruises. You wanted them.
He tossed your hand away with one hand and raised the opposite to grab at your shoulder. In seconds, you were in the spot he had just been standing in, back pressed against the railing of the balcony. His free hand gripped the metal bar next to you, boxing you in.
"I didn't come here for that." He hissed, eyes looking nearly black in the dark. "Not with you. I'm done with you."
She's saying, 'That's okay, hey baby, do what you please.'
"Oh, Mikey,"
You leaned forward, your body pressing close to his. You could feel the buttons of his shirt, the press of his belt buckle, the heat of his breath against your ear, and something else beneath that, firm and warm. Exactly what you'd been looking for. Your hand raised to graze it through his pants, skin against warm leather, and he responded with a resounding hiss. You smiled like the cat who'd caught the canary, lips brushing against the shell of his ear as you began to whisper.
"Then why are you hard?"
'I have the stuff that you want. I am the thing that you need.'
Michael grit his teeth, swatting your hand away from him, although his hips had leaned into your touch. You didn't mind, hugging your arms around your body to keep your hands to yourself.
"Don't you know how much I hate you?" He asked you, no bite in his bark. Dark curls from his bun had fallen out, brushing the skin of your cheek from how close he was.
"I didn't get that impression the last time you were inside of me, no." You answered, hips searching for the friction of his. He didn't allow it, not yet.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, and you caught Michael's eye drifting to it. His lips were parted, and his chest heaved in a way you only ever saw when you were on top of him. You'd caught him in your web again, whether he knew it yet or not.
"Come back to mine. Show me just how much you hate me."
She said, 'I have to go home, 'cause I'm real tired, you see.'
The ten-minute walk back to your apartment was quiet, save for the sound of your heels clicking against the pavement and a match lighting up a cigarette or two. Michael walked a few steps behind you, watching the way your hips swayed, how you instinctively kept your eyes fixed around the street for your safety. He wondered, briefly, how many times you'd walked home alone from that club. Passing by dark alleys, run-down apartments, men who would destroy you and then leave you like trash on the side of the road. He huffed a laugh through his nose, quietly. Protective of the woman who was dead set on ruining his life, what a joke.
Your apartment, though small, was always oddly comforting to him. The smell of your perfume hit him as you unlocked the door, tossing a small purse onto the sofa just a few feet away. Nothing had changed from the last time he'd been here, not even the way the blankets were strewn on the floor from when he'd taken you there. He remembered how you'd laughed when he'd pushed you down, legs spreading so eagerly for him.
'But I hate sleeping alone. Why don't you come with me?'
Michael was frozen, back against the door. He watched you balance on one leg to take your heel off, and then switch to the other. The run in your tights had gotten longer from the walk, and you hummed as you noticed.
"Guess you'll just have to rip 'em off." You looked up at him, eyes dark. When he didn't respond, you shrugged. You lifted the skirt of your tight dress, casually, exposing the entire length of your legs and the sheer sight of your underwear behind the tights. Your fingers hooked into the waistband. "Or I can just take them off-"
Michael pushed himself off the door before he realized what he was doing, replacing your fingers with his own and tugging you toward him by the waistband of your tights. He used his other hand to grab at the hair at the base of your neck, tugging until your head was bent backwards, the entire column of your throat exposed to him. His pretty, white teeth nipped at the skin, leaving small red marks that he soothed with the cool wetness of his tongue.
"I can't stay long," He said, lips hot against your skin. "She's at home, thinks I'm just at the studio late."
I said, 'My baby's at home, she's probably worried tonight. I didn't call on the phone to say that I'm alright.'
"I'm all yours for as long as you need." You said it from where your head was still tugged back, not moving an inch until Michael decided otherwise. His entire being burned with the need to touch you, to make you so breathless again that all you could say was his name. His hands were gentle in the way he released your hair and set his grip around your waist.
Diana walked up to me, she said, 'I'm all yours tonight.'
It was almost a shock, the way he was suddenly pushing you toward the breakfast bar in your small kitchenette. Your front hit the linoleum counter, your arms flying out to brace for the impact. Bent over for him, he could run his large hands over the expanse of your entire body, stopping for a moment when he found a spot he loved especially, or thought needed to be squeezed or grabbed firmly.
His hand stopped where the rip in your tights started, inside your upper thigh. He hooked his fingers into the hole and tugged. The fabric split right down the middle, down the entire length of your leg, exposing the smooth skin underneath. He tsked, leaning forward so his mouth was against your ear and his chest pressed into your back.
"A pretty girl like you shouldn't look so unkempt."
He tugged again, harder this time, until the fabric of one leg was flying off of you and landing on the hardwood floor. You gasped at the feeling of the cool air hitting your skin, and the shock of his warm hand replacing it. You didn't like it when he had the upper hand, when he gained all this confidence and thought he was the one in control.
"Maybe you should call your girl, Michael." You turned your head to look at him as best as you could from where you were bent over the counter. "Just to let her know you're okay."
You lifted your body from the counter, wiggling his hands off of you until you could turn around and face him. You kept your eyes on him as you sank to your knees. His mouth was hung open, his skin turning pink - with what? Embarrassment? guilt? Pleasure? Maybe all of the above.
Your fingers reached for the belt buckle on his pants. "Phone is on the counter. To your right." You tugged the belt from the loop. "Call her."
'At that, I ran to the phone, sayin' 'Baby, I'm alright.' I said, 'But unlock the door, 'cause I forgot the key.'
Michael's fingers shook as he grabbed at the phone, starting to dial the number to his house. He could have said no. He could have pushed you off of him and walked out the door, like he'd planned to. But you were mouthing at him and kissing him from outside of his boxers, drooling all over the fabric, and he knew he couldn't leave. One hand rested on your head as he pressed the receiver to his ear, listening to the phone dial.
You could hear a sweet voice on the other end, though you couldn't map out exactly what she was saying. Just what Michael said in response, his eyes squeezed shut as your lips finally wrapped around him.
"Hey, baby, I just wanted to call and let you know I'm okay. N-no, I'm not sick, just- think it's my allergies. I'm at the studio, I… Quincy is really wanting this to be… to be perfect tonight, and…"
Michael's voice trailed off when your tongue moved in the way he liked, his brow furrowing and his hand guiding your head. You pulled off of him for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"Focus, Mikey." You whispered, mouth shining from him. "Your girl's on the phone."
Michael's eyes opened, and he glared at you, upset that you said anything at all. He chuckled nervously into the phone.
"No, baby, that was just Quincy… I need- need to get back soon. I just wanted to call and ask if you could leave the door… unlocked before you go to bed-"
He was close. You knew the telltale signs by now. The way his breath hitched, the way he stuttered, the way his hand had started to grip your hair tight at the top of your head. If he weren't on the phone, he would have grabbed you with both hands, used your mouth as much as he wanted. But now, in your control, he could only hold in his gasps and moans, giving short, one-word responses to what his girl asked on the phone. You glared up at him as he continued speaking, annoyance growing because his attention wasn't entirely on you. It made you work harder, doing everything you could to get him there.
When you stopped, right at the edge of his release, he had to hold back a whimper. His knuckles were white against the telephone, watching you carefully as you stood up from where you'd been sitting on your haunches. You hummed at the look of him, disheveled, embarrassed, completely at your mercy. You held your hand out in front of him, looking from his eyes to the phone.
Michael had been listening to his girl ramble about something; he really wasn't sure what it was at the moment. He furrowed a brow, shaking his head at your request. It was a weak refusal, and it made you laugh. Out loud, bright and airy and echoing through the room.
The voice of his girl got louder on the phone, with questions about who that was and what woman was with him, laughing. You used your other hand to grab Michael, where your mouth had just been, wrenching your wrist and moving up and down in a way that made his eyes flutter closed. It was then that you were free to grab the phone from him, when his release was building, and there was nothing he cared about more than getting there.
You waited to say anything until he was moaning, spilling all over your hand, and twitching against your body. Your voice was smooth on the receiver, a stark contrast to the breathy, choppy nature of Michael's voice.
"He's not coming back because he's sleeping with me."
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