hey idk if you take requests but i LOVE the way your write for michael, like you don’t make him all mean and scary like these other writers do. he’s literally sweeter than grandmas peach cobbler lmao. anyways queen this is lit my THIRD TIME REQUESTING THIS WITH A WRITER SO HOPEFULLY YOU WRITE IT but can you do a silent treatment one? like the reader is mad a mike for something honestly anything and they live together but she ignores him for like 3 days? make him beg and be super sappy and fluffy 😛. also can it be bad era or dangerous era or history era?
wasn’t gonna drink tonight but i got my first tumblr request
a/n: i'm working on a mj fic rn that’s kind of lengthy (my first one took me like 3 days) so this request is the perfect thing for me to do in between to keep my creative juices flowing, thank u baddie
sorry for how long it took me to answer btw, i been working like a DOG. i swear idk how ppl be farting full blown novels out their butts left and right
bad era cause i'm an obsessed young ho
p.s. u can submit requests, but i make no promises! if i don’t feel the inspiration for it, it just won’t happen- thank u. <3
i hope i satisfy ur vision, anon! :) enjoyyyyyyy! <3
The Silent Treatment
bad era!michael jackson x fem!reader
✴︎ summary ➔ You come home from work to find out that your boyfriend, Michael, has taken a flight to another continent without telling you. It's for business, naturally, but the lack of warning or care about informing you is impactful. You decide to confront him with an old fashioned, but successful method: the silent treatment.
✴︎ contains ➔ established relationship, very light themes of abandonment, angst, MJ begging (rawr), pet-names, sappiness, fluff, light make out sesh, talks of marriage, no smut
3.1k words
Summer of '88
Your house with Michael sits with a stunning view at the edge of a hill in California, secluded from the rest of the scenic neighborhood.
When you both purchased the place and moved in together, you took the liberty of renovating the place inside and out. The roof, windows, walls, floors, kitchen, bathroom. All of it. It’s a house filled to the brim with your favorite belongings, pictures, and memories, now officially mixed in with his.
Stepping out of the car arranged for you, you lift your sunglasses from your face to drink in the sight of home. Bees buzz about in the dozens of fresh flowers you’ve planted, and glancing up, you catch the view of the curtains flowing inside the house through the open window. You smile.
Turning to your chauffeur, you stuff your sunglasses in your purse. “Thanks, Fran!” You shout.
“You’re welcome, sweetie! You get inside safe, now.”
You chuckle lightly as you walk down the front steps, finding it sweet that your driver refuses to leave until she knows you’re inside. The place smells like a floral shop and bakery combined into one when you open the front door, the scent of cookies and daisies attacking your nose.
You take your work heels off and toss them to the side. “Mikey! I’m home!” You call.
Traveling into the kitchen, you await his response as you take a peek at a tray of freshly baked desserts on the counter. It has chocolate chip cookies, muffins, red velvet cupcakes, and cheesecakes. You lick your lips as you try to decide which you’ll try first.
Your personal chef walks out of the pantry and into the kitchen, wiping at her apron. She sees you eyeing the sweets and nods encouragingly. “Like the desserts?” She asks, her French accent thick.
“They look incredible!" You praise. "Did Michael have you make all these?”
"Uh," The chef blinks slowly at you. “Pardon?”
“…Michael? Did he ask you to make these?”
You furrow your eyebrows, unsure as to why she didn’t understand your question. She looks around the kitchen for a moment before gazing back at you like you've got three heads.
“Michael is in Europe, madame.”
Your body stills to the point where you look like you’re a photograph, and the stutter that’s suddenly taking over the way you speak doesn’t go unnoticed by the chef, who frowns. “What do you mean, Europe? Like… like the- wait,” You press your fingers to your temples, shock coursing through you. “The continent? Michael is in Europe?”
“Yes,” The chef mutters cautiously. She looks petrified.
You open and close your mouth so much you look like a fish struggling to breathe. You almost feel like a joke is being played on you.
“Right now?” You ask.
“Yes, madame.”
You narrow your eyes. “As we speak?”
“...Yes, madame.”
“Which country?” You question.
“Germany, madame.” The chef nods once, like she's sure of it.
You laugh bitterly, the sound of it bouncing right off the high ceiling and spacious walls. “Well, he didn’t let me know!" You complain.
The chef’s frown deepens. “I’m very sorry, madame, he told me to tell you- I just- you were at work and I started baking and--”
You shake your head and sigh, waving a dismissive hand. “No, it’s not your fault. He should have told me himself that he was leaving. Not just… up and go like…” You trail off, not wanting to continue your sentence.
“Like you mean nothing?” The chef finishes for you. You sigh sadly.
Grabbing a cookie from the tray, you hold it up to her in both a 'thank you' and a ‘see you later’ kind of way. You head off towards the main bedroom, tossing your purse onto the floor in frustration.
How could he do something like that?
In what world was it normal for someone to get up, leave to another country, and not say anything to their loved ones? To leave it to the chef? He’s just packed up and taken off to another continent without so much as a letter or note! Maybe that was something that was casual in Michael’s world, but it wasn’t in yours.
Fury laces through you. Your feet start carrying you in laps around the front of the bed, and during a particularly rough stomp, your eyes fall to the corded phone on the dresser.
You’re calling Michael’s personal line before you can even think about it, hand crushing the wire.
“Hello?” He answers casually.
“Germany?” You snarl, not even bothering to return the greeting. “You’re in Germany?”
Michael fumbles on the other end as he tries to process who he’s talking to. “I- uh- Baby?”
“Are you in Germany right now, Michael Jackson?” You angrily grunt, too impatient to establish what’s going on. You feel like a nuke that’s a couple of seconds away from exploding.
The use of his full name has him sucking in a sharp breath, the sound filling your ear. He responds with a careful, gentle, “Yes…”
You stare at the wall in front of you, a sick feeling curdling in your veins. “And you didn’t think to tell me about it beforehand? You think it’s okay to just not talk to me and leave without a trace?”
Your voice is calm and cold, the noises of what sounds like a business meeting fading on the other line as Michael walks to a more quiet area. “N-no, baby, of course not--”
You start to walk in laps again as you reorganize your thoughts, however the phone cord doesn’t let you go far.
“You left it to the chef to tell me, like I’m some… employee of yours or an assistant or something!”
“Wait, hold on, mama--”
“How long are you going to be there?” You snap.
“I’m coming back in three days,” he hesitatly replies.
Well.
If Michael doesn’t think it’s necessary to talk to you about things, why should you talk to him?
You hang up the phone right then and there with no goodbye, a bad taste in your mouth. You feel blindsided and abandoned, even if that wasn’t Michael’s intention. It’s not even like you would have been annoyed or upset with him leaving the country! You understand that his job requires a lot of traveling from him, but a simple note or call would have sufficed!
But he left you behind, without a hug or kiss goodbye. No warning, no care.
Tears well up in your eyes as your anger morphs into something melancholy. When you walk out the bedroom and down the hallway, you hear the phone beginning to ring.
You let it. For three whole days, in fact.
The rest of Michael’s trip is spent by you dodging his calls, fixated on making him feel as ignored as you did. He tries to have other people relay messages to you after realizing you purposefully aren’t answering, but you ignore each one. It’s clear that nothing is getting across until he gets back.
It doesn’t help that you’ve been keeping an eye on him through the media, either. All the photos of him having a great time, the videos of fans cheering at him, it all makes you even more miserable. Not only has he left you without a word, it appears that he’s enjoying himself.
It’s around 8 PM when Michael finally returns home, and after three whole days of trying to gather your words and feelings, you’re certain that sometimes silence is louder than words.
Michael enters your guys’ home delicately, opening the front door and peeking his head in like he’s worried a lion will pounce on him the moment he steps inside. He’s wearing a black jacket and his signature shades, which don’t do well in concealing his nerves.
“Baby?”
In the living room, out of sight from the front door, you clench your eyes shut. With how loving his voice sounds, you know this is going to be hard.
The door shuts and your heart quickens when you hear his footsteps nearing. He enters the living room and stops suddenly, blinking at you with an expression you’ve never seen on him before.
“Hi...” He says, guarded. You flip the page of the book you’re pretending to read. “Are you.. okay?”
You don’t answer. Through the open back yard door, the bark of a neighborhood dog is the thin membrane keeping the two of you from being in pure silence. Your quietness wildly throws Michael off, his face contorting into genuine bewilderment.
He slowly stalks over to stand beside you. “I missed you," he purrs.
You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from impulsively lashing out. You missed me but didn’t bother to tell me you were leaving, you think to yourself. Crossing one leg over the other, you make yourself comfortable on the couch without removing your eyes from the book pages. Michael takes off his shades and lowers warily to sit an arm-length away from you.
“Why haven’t you been answering my calls?” He asks softly. When you still don’t respond, he leans over to try and catch your eye. “Hello?”
You flip to the next page. Chapter 12, it says. What chapter 11 contained, you have absolutely no idea. You’ve been skimming over sentences and occasionally flipping pages for the last hour whilst your brain’s been going haywire. The past three days have been the worst of your life, and though you hate fighting with your man, his lack of communication and care for you is something you can’t let slide.
Michael moves his fingers to brush over the top of your hand, trying to take ahold of it. You shake him off, your eyebrows furrowing in irritation.
He sulks. “You still mad at me, mama?”
You turn your head away, trying to avoid the smell of his cologne and the way the musky scent makes your mouth water. You feel an ache in your bones. There’s no denying that you missed him.
“Can you talk to me please?”
He tries to caress your lower thigh, a touch he knows you love, but grunts in frustration when you tilt your leg away.
“Baby, come on,” He pleads. “You called me so upset but hung up so fast I barely had time to think, and then you refused to take my calls after and I- I’m just so--”
You huff audibly, the first noise he’s heard from you in three days. He freezes, cutting himself off as he waits for more. He waits for a roll of your eyes, or a lecture, or something. Anything.
“Will you look at me?” He pleads weakly.
You don’t, not even bothering to pretend to read your book anymore. “Please, pretty girl, just once?” He pleads again.
You snap your book shut, squeezing the spine. If you want to keep this up, you've got to get the hell out of here. Slowly, you stand, walking off towards the kitchen.
Michael follows you like a lost puppy. “I told the house staff to let you know I was leaving,” He explains, like you didn’t already know that. He’s following your every move as you stride over and whip the fridge open, examining its contents.
There’s nothing in there that you want. With how sensitive you've been feeling, everything in the fridge looks like too much.
Michael runs both hands down his exasperated face. “I don’t get it, baby! I had a meeting, and I had to go! And you were fine before I left!”
The last word of his sentence hangs in the air. He almost looks taken aback, like he’s just figured something out. His eyes are wide.
You slam the fridge shut, looking to try and take off again, but before you can take a single step he slips in front of you and takes your face into his hands. “Hey,” He says sternly. His face is up close to yours, after so long of missing him and craving him and feeling so hurt by him. Tears well up in your eyes, balancing on your lower lash line, and you know your resolve is starting to break. You look up to try and hold it together.
“Is it ‘cause I didn’t tell you myself?” He questions tenderly, regretful eyes boring into yours.
Your bottom lip quivers and your eyelids start to feel hot. Shit, you think in your head, this sucks.
Michael leans in and positions his head so that you’re forced to make eye contact with him, his curls falling over his forehead in that way you love so much. “Yeah?” He whispers, brushing his thumb against your cheek. “Is that it, baby?”
You close your eyes, allowing your tears to overflow. They glide down your face as you start to sniffle, but you still don’t answer him. Your chest is tight with the grudge you’ve been holding.
He wipes your tears with his hands, pressing delicate kisses to your cheeks. “I’m sorry, gorgeous. I didn’t think it was something so serious. I hate seein’ you like this,” He sighs out.
The kitchen lights are dim, the house quiet in the light aftermath of the night. It’s like the world has paused for a second, just to let you both figure yourselves out. You absentmindedly stand in front of the soft lights, not realizing how insanely beautiful he finds you when you’re backlit.
The energy between you starts to crackle like lightning, and he presses his face into your shoulder.
"Say something, please."
You don't. He groans. “Please, I’m begging you, just talk to me. Look at me. Something, baby, please. I miss you. God, I miss you, mama.”
You flatten your hand over your chest as he begs you, your throat closing. Your breaths are coming out uneven and shallow, but they somehow sound the same as his. It sounds like he’s in despair. Your guilt hits you like a bullet.
Before you can open your mouth to speak, however, he sinks to his knees in front of you out of nowhere. It effectively steals away what you were about to say.
“Oh- my god,” You stammer out, “Michael, get up.”
He shakes his head and grips your hips, smiling gently at the sound of your voice. “Not until you talk to me,” he demands.
You shake your head furiously, “Get up!”
“No!” He argues, his voice staying light. “Look, I was wrong, and I know that, pretty girl. I’ve never really- my whole life is flights and trips and tours and I just didn’t stop to think about how it would’ve felt to you because I thought it was normal,” He explains. His touch on your sides after so long without even speaking to him makes your knees and arms feel weak.
He continues. “I should’ve thought about you. Told you myself before I left instead of leaving it to the staff. You’re my girl, after all. You deserve better than that.”
The kitchen goes mute, save for the sound of the house’s AC working. You look down at him and his dark brown eyes, carding a hand through his curls. “You really made me feel like an afterthought,” You murmur quietly.
“An afterthought? God, no, baby, you’re all that’s ever on my mind. I couldn’t sleep without you in Germany. I can’t ever stop thinking ‘bout you,” Michael reassures you on his knees, kissing your abdomen. “I went about this like an idiot, mama, please let me make it up to you.”
Something blooms in your stomach at the way he’s talking to you, solidifying in your head that he’s genuinely sorry. You nod slowly, grabbing the collar of his shirt and tugging him.
“Okay, okay,” You weep. “Will you please get up now?”
Michael stands swiftly and bear hugs you. He cradles the back of your head as you bury your face into his chest and breathe in his scent. He presses a kiss to the top of your hair, his opposite arm wrapping across your back to enclose you in. “I’m sorry,” He apologizes again.
You paw at his muscular back, overcome with emotion. “'S okay. I’m sorry, too, I should’ve just communicated with you."
“No, you had every right to be upset,” He soothes.
“I was being petty.”
“Mhmm,” Michael hums with a flirty smile. “My petty girl.”
The tips of your ears turn red as you blush, the tiniest smile creeping over your face. "Shush," You grumble. He chuckles sweetly, his body like a furnace against yours.
"I mean it, gorgeous. You drove me up a wall not answerin' my calls, but I shouldn't have left you in the dark like that." He pulls your face from his chest and ghosts his lips over yours. Wrapping your arms over his shoulders, your eyelashes flutter against your cheek as you let your eyelids close.
The both of you sink into a kiss that's been long overdue. Michael starts tracing your silky skin all over, making tingles run down your back, and he kisses you with the utmost gentleness at first before it changes into something hungry and insatiable. Your foreheads bump together as he makes out with you like a starved man.
Both of his hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, and you moan into his mouth as he lifts you up and sits you on the island counter. "Missed you so much," You mumble on his lips, hugging him close as you kiss him.
"Mm," He pulls away and kisses at your jaw, "You're my everything. Future wife and all. I want the whole thing with you."
You pause, pushing back to look him in the face. Surely, he's not being serious.
"Really?" You ask him. He nods with a silly little smile, then widens his eyes.
"Not yet! Not- not right now, I- I wanna ask you properly," He rushes to say, his frantic tone making you giggle. He ducks his head as his face flushes, suddenly acting like a little boy with a crush. "But yeah. Really. Someday, if you want."
You smile happily at him. "Yeah, baby. I want."
He ends up kissing you well into the night, touching and caressing you in ways that make you feel like life's not real. It’s the perfect way to end the 3 day long hell-hole you've been undergoing.
All of the rage you've been building pours down an invisible drain as Michael keeps you close for the rest of the night.
The next day, and the days after that, he does the same; clinging to you like he never wants to let go.
✴︎ summary ➔ You and Michael have been dating for the past two years. He’s perfect, and your relationship is perfect, but when the press suddenly releases a particularly nasty headline about your body, you can’t help but start to silently spiral. One night, before bedtime, you accidentally reveal your insecurities to Michael. It leads to a much needed conversation.
✴︎ contains ➔ established relationship, reassurance for weight gain, light angst, crying, weight issues, negative press/tabloids, fluff, no smut, physical touch as a love language
✴︎ a/n ➔ my first michael fic!!! i’ve seen this damn movie 4 times in theaters already and i’m starting to run out of money lowkey... but the good news is that the king of pop’s fine ass dragged me out of my 5 year writers block so… WOO! i might be a lil rusty so go easy on me forreal i’m coming out of retirement. handwritten by me shawty
3.7k words
1987
When you and Michael started dating about two years ago, the very first thing he warned you about was the press.
Hell, he outright refused to date you at first because of the press and they’re meddling.
The two of you met at your job at the animal shelter, when Michael came in to spend time with some of the animals. He was very shy, but said hello to each worker one at a time nevertheless. The two of you locked eyes before he actually reached you in the line you and your coworkers had formed, and when he did reach you, his small smile grew bigger. He visibly inhaled through his nose as he shook your hand, his thumb caressing the skin there.
“Are you wearing perfume?” He had asked. You still remember the way his gentle voice curled and flew around you like wind upon hearing it up close for the first time, and the way your stomach did that loopy thing that usually only happens when you drive over a hill or something.
Your free hand reached up and absentmindedly grabbed at your necklace as you processed his words, a habit you didn't even notice you had. The necklace was a dainty, gold plated chain with a small sun charm. It was something cute and cheap that you found at a market, something that seemed good quality.
“I am," You nodded, "My friend gifted it to me for my birthday, I don’t remember the name. It’s something fancy.”
The two of you continued to hold each other’s hand, despite the handshake having been long over. “Something fancy,” He repeated. He looked down at his feet for a moment, then scanned his eyes up to land on your lips. Then your eyes.
He smiled. “I like fancy.”
Your instigating coworkers demanded that you be the one to give him a tour of the whole place after that.
Alone, the two of you walked throughout the entire building as you lead him to some of the most precious animals. You introduced him to a three-legged kitten, who he laid on his stomach to pet, and even taught him how to handle the shelter’s most energetic dog, an Australian Shepherd bamed Lucy. You and Michael ended up on the floor, Lucy’s wet snout excitedly sniffling back and forth between your faces. When she sniffed you, paused, then snorted the biggest inhale either of you have ever heard in your lives, you both fell into a loud fit of laughter. Through your wheezing, you giggled, “Animals are truly the best friends.”
It was then that Michael’s interest in you set off like a lit firework fuse. Looking over at you, he agreed nonchalantly, but you felt the energy there. It felt kind of fuzzy, and you liked it.
He didn’t revisit in person again after that day, as the fans would definitely crowd up the shelter if he did, but he had begun to consistently send in donations. Money, food, toys, supplies. You name it and he’d send it.
He’d also send letters for you. It started friendly, and actually remained that way right until you gave him your phone number. Something changed between you after that.
Or maybe it was always there, and electrified even more the night he first called you. It'd been late at night, and you sat on your balcony, looking up at the moon as you both spoke to each other. It started as a silly conversation, before blooming into something flirtatious. Something deep and raw and real.
He took you out on plenty different kinds of dates and remained a gentleman the whole time, showering you with a type of affection you’ve never received before. Honestly, you were starting to doubt that men like Michael existed before you met him.
Then, right when things had begun to really take off between you both, the press decided to bite.
It was a cruel release. A bunch of bullshit words about Michael’s face and skin, littered all over the media. You reminded him that the tabloids didn’t know anything about him. That they’d photoshop and twist every little thing they could to fit their fake stories. You told him that you knew him, saw him, and liked him for him.
He broke it off with you anyways. Plain and simple, like all the letters, calls, and dates meant nothing.
Unfortunately for him, however, you had different plans. Stubborn as ever, you glued yourself to the door before he could leave and forced him to talk to you about what was going on. You knew he wouldn't be able to move you without getting forceful, and if there's one thing Michael's NOT, it's forceful.
You begged him, through your sobs, to tell you what he was feeling. It was unbearable for Michael to watch you cry so desperately, especially since it was because of him. He admitted that him attempting to leave wasn’t out of malice or because of a lack of attraction. It wasn’t even because of what the press would say about him.
It was about what the press would say about you.
He tried leaving you as a way to protect you, but it's always been impossible for you to stay away from each other, and after a long life of always doing things to avoid the media, you pleaded with him to finally do something for himself.
He warned you, seriously, that the press were a bunch of blood-sniffing sharks. That if they learned you were with him, the two of you would become a package deal, and they’d try to tear you apart in any way they could. He drilled it into your head as best as he could. You didn’t care.
Two years later, and you still don’t. Not really.
You’d deal with the press again and again in every lifetime if it meant being with Michael. He’s kind, sensual, and attentive; exactly what you’ve dreamed of in a boyfriend since you were a little girl. He devotes a lot of his time towards you, surprises you with extravagant gifts, and does silly little things that make you feel like you’re floating every now and then like forcing you to slow dance with him under the chandelier near the staircase. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
But sometimes when you’re alone, on the nights when he’s out preforming or working or whatever it may be, it’s hard to ignore what the world has to say about you. And lately, they’ve had a lot to say about your body.
You’re not as skinny as you used to be. Certainly not as thin as when you and Michael first met. But he loves to take you to dinner and surprise you with meals and treats! Of course you were gonna gain a few extra pounds, it was sort of inevitable! You try reminding yourself that this is a natural part of life, and that the press doesn’t know what they’re talking about when they make stupid, hurtful comments about your hips and thighs.
A specific headline jumps out to scare you in your own head. “Michael Jackson’s fat and unlovable girlfriend.”
…Ouch.
Insecurity slithers in the core of your chest and tightens around your soul like a snake. A terrible feeling settles underneath your muscles, like it plans to stay there. It does.
“Ay Mike!”
Jackie’s voice booms outside of Michael’s bedroom door in Hayvenhurst, causing both you and Michael, who’s tidying up his room before bed, to jump in shock. It tears you out of the spiral you were going down and snaps you back to the present. “Is the ice cream in the freezer for your lady or can I have it?”
Michael turns to look at you from where he’s putting a couple of shirts away into his dresser, one eyebrow raising in a silent offer. His button up shirt is hung open, showing off his chest and abdomen. From where you’re seated on his bed, using your handheld mirror so you can wipe your makeup off, you bite your lip. The idea of ice cream makes your stomach rumble, a sudden craving for it rising inside of you. You’re sure it’s your favorite kind, the Jacksons always have your favorite ice cream in stock.
A voice in your head forbids you. “No, thank you, I’m alright,” You decline.
Michael nods, but before he can give Jackie the go-ahead, you babble, “I gotta lose some weight, anyways. 'M gettin' fat.”
There's a pause, stillness blanketing the air.
Then, both Michael and Jackie, who is still on the other side of the door, bark out an astonished "Huh?"
You glance between your man and the bedroom door, slowly lowering the hand that’s holding up the mirror. “What?” You ask.
“Why would you say that?” Michael questions.
You swear your brain short-circuits, and when you realize what exactly you just said, you curse yourself internally. “Well, you know…”
A small frown grows on Michael’s lips after a moment and he shuts the dresser drawer with a smooth, single slide. “Well I know… what?”
Heat crawls up your spine in the most uncomfortable way, embarrassment sinking deep beneath your cheeks in a crimson blush. You frown at the bedroom door.
Michael doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he calls out to his brother, “Leave the ice cream, please.”
You look back into your mirror and nervously continue to take off your makeup, dreading the conversation that you’re definitely about to have. The sound of Jackie’s retreating footsteps echo in the room before it goes perfectly quiet.
Michael’s just looking at you.
You fumble around with your makeup cloth for a couple of seconds under his intense gaze, anxiety cascading down you like boiling water. You know he’s thinking about what you said, and you so did not plan on talking about this today.
Michael approaches carefully as you’re wiping the contour off of your cheek, placing both his hands on either side of your legs on the bed. He slightly hovers over you with a gentle smile. “Baby?”
You look at yourself closer in the mirror to avoid his stare. “Hm?”
“Can you look at me?”
“I’m taking off my makeup.”
Michael reaches up and clutches your chin with his thumb and index finger, gently turning your face to look at him. “Look at me, mama.”
Your heart skips a beat when your eyes fall onto his concerned ones, the peck to your lips that he gives you doing nothing to help the palpitations. “‘M looking at you,” You reply in a mumble, “you look good.”
He chuckles and removes his hand from your chin, placing it back down next to your leg. “So do you,” he says, starting to caress your knee. “My gorgeous girl.”
You frown, placing your things down onto the nightstand by the bed. You’re not sure why Michael's compliment feels like a strike, but you flinch like you’ve been slapped. Gorgeous girl.
Were you? Were you really?
Curling into yourself, Michael notices the way you deflate and moves to sit beside you. His hand pulls you in by your waist. “Woah, woah, hey,” he calls gently. “What is it, baby? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, nothing, I’m sorry,” You apologize, huffing dramatically, “I’m being so stupid.”
You cover your face with your hands, exhaling sharply to keep your sudden tears at bay. It’s as if the moment someone asks you what’s wrong, something triggers inside of you and you break down. Forcefully squeezing your eyes shut, you will yourself to get a freaking grip.
Michael’s voice cuts through your foggy thoughts. “No, you’re not being stupid,” he reassures. The rich smell of his fragrance feels stronger now that he’s closer. In the back of your mind, you’re amazed by how long it’s lasted on him. “Will you please just look at me?”
Your teeth clench as you drag your head up, and when you see Michael’s stressed face you feel ashamed. He looks lost, confusion swimming in his eyes. Confusion that only intensifies when he sees your tears.
You feel your heart shrivel up inside your ribcage as your guilt eats away at you. You know, deep down, that he deserves to know what’s going on with his girl. If things were reversed, you’d sure want to know what was going on with him.
“The press- they... called me fat. And unlovable,” You hear yourself confess.
The sentence comes out of you on it’s own, punching through your chest with a kind of force that makes your lungs sore. You watch as Michael’s eyes widen a fraction before shuts them calmly, as if he’s trying to regain his composure. He moves one of your hands to his mouth, kissing your knuckles as you continue speaking. “It wasn’t just that. They, um, used a lot of other names and words too. I just- …that’s what it all pretty much summed up to.”
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” He sighs, opening his eyes again. “If the press can’t even show respect towards someone as lovely as you, I think it’s safe to say that anything coming out of them is a lie.”
You nod once, weak and unconvincing.
He pins you with a look so genuine and loving that it makes your stomach do that same loopy thing it did when you first met him. “And you know that, right? You know that you’re perfect as you are?”
You shrug. His words feel nice, like warm sun rays on a breezy day, but your insecurities can’t be so easily washed away.
“Pretty.”
You grunt grumpily. “What, Mikey?”
He leans in close, a few of his dark curls falling in front of his face. He looks down at your lips, at your blush-dusted cheeks, your cute nose, and scoffs. “There’s no way you- …you don’t actually believe what they’re saying, do you?” He asks incredulously.
The pent up anxiety thrumming deep in your bones paired with his disbelief makes you shoot up from the bed with a burning, humiliated look on your face. “And what if I do, Michael?! I mean, you’re everywhere! Everyone loves you, they want to see you with someone who- you know- you could have anyone--”
“I don’t want anyone but you,” Michael interrupts sternly. He’s sitting on the bed with his hands in his lap now, observing you as you begin to pace back and forth. The gravity of the situation seems to have finally hit him.
Your hand moves to absentmindedly grab at your necklace, this time an expensive pure gold chain with a diamond encrusted sun charm. It’s quite the upgrade from the one you bought at the market, and you haven’t taken it off since Michael had it made for you. “You deserve to have a girlfriend who’s… in your league, Mikey. Not some random that stuffs her face with ice cream and multiplies in size by the week.”
Michael’s hand shoots out to snag your wrist when you’re close enough, and he yanks you in, forcing you to stand between his open legs. “Don’t talk about yourself like that,” He demands. The words are wrapped up in love, carried by the gentleness of his breathy voice, but there’s something bone-chillingly sobering beneath it. A no-nonsense tone that makes you bite the inside of your cheek, dropping your head down to look at the way his fingers are locked around your wrists. “Do y’hear me?” He nudges.
Tears free themselves from the corners of your eyes, and you sniffle pathetically. “I’m- I’m not as skinny as I was when we met,” You whisper brokenly. “I don’t look like that girl you first wanted anymore.”
Michael exhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head. His hands move to the front of your thighs, where he then slides them up to your hips. It’s almost as if he’s trying to memorize all of your curves with his fingers.
“Mama…” His voice drops impossibly softer. “It wasn’t your weight that I fell in love with when I met you.”
You try to wipe some of your tears away with a shaky hand. “Then what were you attracted to?”
He tugs you in and kisses at your navel over your brown pajamas. “I fell in love with the way you laughed,” He chuckles, squeezing your hips in his hands. You smile shyly. “The way you talked to and treated the animals. Called ‘em your friends.”
You bury a hand in his hair, toying with his curls while the fingers on your other hand trace the side of his face.
“And, you know I fell in love with you all over again when you heard my album for the first time. You’re so cute when you dance,” He flirts playfully. You roll your eyes, a wet laugh coming out of you despite how you’re feeling. Hearing Bad for the first time in the studio with Michael was one of your favorite memories.
“Well, so are you,” You sass.
Michael grins and lures you down so that you’re straddling his lap. “I’m serious, baby. You’re the most stunning woman I’ve ever been blessed enough to see.”
You wrap your arms around his neck intimately, falling into the way he holds you closer. Your body feels so warm against his.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The sensation of Michael's hands touching you all over makes you light headed. “I usually don’t care what the press has to say. I don’t know why this time it… felt different,” You say. You can feel Michael’s sadness in the way he places a gentle kiss against your collarbone.
“I spend my whole life with people tellin’ me what I should fix,” he responds. His hands flatten and settle at your lower back. “My face. My body. My personality. Everything. And I know…”
He trails off, sighing out a deep breath. “I understand what happens after a while. You hear so much terrible stuff from the world and one day it starts soundin’ like your own thoughts.”
You don’t know what to do with the devastated look on his face, so you just hug him. Burying your face into his shoulder, you tighten your arms around him and mentally face-palm. Of course he’d understand. Michael would understand more than anyone.
“There isn’t an inch of you that I’m not in love with,” He continues. “It doesn’t matter if you get heavier or thinner, sick or old. You’re my girl. I love you, mama.”
You feel so much. So much you can’t even speak, and you flatten your lips together in a thin line as you try your best to hold off a new wave of tears. It’s been two years, but hearing him tell you he loves you still doesn’t feel real. It feels like it did the first time he whispered them against your mouth in the dark, nervous and breathless.
Your brain and heart slow down into a patterned, easy rhythm, and your anxiety finally steps aside to let you breathe. It takes you a few minutes, but you eventually dig your head out from where it was stuffed into the crook of Michael’s neck.
“I love you, too, Mikey.”
He smiles, playfully gnawing at your shoulder. “I’d sure hope so, girl. This would be very awkward otherwise.”
You grant him a small, cute grin, toying with his button up. “And thank you for taking me seriously, baby. I’m sorry I’m so emotional.”
Michael shakes his head and takes ahold of your chin again. “‘S okay to be emotional,” He coos. He doesn't even think about it before he says it.
And just when you start to crave his kiss, he presses his lips against yours, effectively washing away any leftover pain aching in your chest. You melt into him, into the way he lightly groans into your mouth, and into the way he tilts his head to kiss you deeper.
He only stops long enough to take a breath before finding your mouth again like he’s addicted to it. “I can’t believe you even thought for a second that you weren’t attractive.”
Tilting your head, you ask, “Is it really that hard for you to believe that I could be insecure?”
“Uh, yes,” He answers pointedly, a lovesick smile stretching across his face when you start to mess with his curls again. “You’re Mrs. The Way You Make Me Feel. The pretty girl behind the song.”
You roll your eyes, failing to stifle the happy smile he brings out of you. You jokingly push his face away with your hand. “Sap.”
Michael only shoves his nose into your palm in response. A goofy, mischievous beam paints across his handsome face, and he starts to sing, “You knock me off of my feet, now, baby--”
“Mikey! I swear--”
He does his signature howl with full energy, making you squeal and basically fall over to the side with laughter. He falls with you, joy dancing in his eyes.
“It’s almost midnight and you’re being so loud like that!” You whisper-shout at him, still giggling. He’s got this smug, satisfied smirk on his face, so you poke at his chest. “Your family is sleeping! You could’ve woken up your mother!”
He cuddles you closer, until you’re almost laying on top of him, then turns your head to the side to drink in the smell of your skin by your pulse. He doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he just continues to kiss around your face, content to lay in silence with you.
Much later that night, after every last word is done being said, your head is tucked beneath Michael’s chin as the two of you lay tangled under the bed covers.
A calmness rocks within you. You feel ten times lighter than before. Michael’s fingers move up and down your back lazily, slow enough to make your eyelids heavy, and you’re thankful that your mind isn’t running at 60 miles per second anymore.
The bedroom is completely dark except for the distant glow of the world outside. In here, a different level of safety envelops you, one that only you and him can touch and feel. The cruel words from all of the tabloids and headlines still exist somewhere out there, but not in here.
Not when it’s just you and Michael.
You let your eyes flutter shut, your head on his chest. All the worries about the world and what they have to say about you seem so small compared to his steady heartbeat in your ear.
“I’ll still want the ice cream tomorrow,” You sleepily inform him.
Michael chuckles, scratching at your scalp lovingly.
summary - after a producer flirts with you, michael can’t help but want to claim what’s his.
warnings - smut, profanity, michael is all possessive and jealous oral (reader receiving), p in v, pet names, praise kink, reader is kinda oblivious to someone else’s flirting towards her. dom!michael, sub!reader exhibitionism/voyeurism themes, hair pulling, backshots, missionary, aftercare mentioned + a little choking, overstim and fingering.
A/n : i got inspired by @michaelsfavgirl fic called word to the jealouss and decided to write this 😋
As you and Michael walked in, you smoothed your dress the black silk clinging softly to your frame, simple but elegant, the kind of fabric that hugged without trying too hard his arm stayed around your waist as you two walked in together.
His new album had done exactly what everyone expected it had been a massive success, breaking records. So his team threw a party to celebrate its success.
౨ৎ
The first hour passed in a blur of introductions and polite smiles. Michael kept his hand on your lower back the entire time, the kind of touch that said she’s with me.
“You okay?” you asked, turning your head to face him.
He was watching something over your shoulder, his jaw moving slightly, a muscle ticking under his skin.
“Michael?”
His eyes snapped back to you, and the tension in his face softened. “Yeah, baby. I’m fine.” He said, kissing your forehead. “You need another drink?”
“I’m good,” you said, shaking your head slightly.
He nodded, but his hand stayed where it was against your spine.
౨ৎ
“You’re Michael’s girl, right?” a producer said, sliding in beside you while Michael was pulled into a conversation with Quincy Jones near the piano. “I’ve seen you at his recording sessions.”
You gave a polite smile. “Yes.”
“I can tell,” he said his eyes dropping to your mouth, lingering there a bit too long.
You let out a small, nervous laugh in response.
For the rest of the night, he kept finding reasons to stay near you.
He brought you a fresh drink when yours was half-empty, leaning in close to explain the background of another producer you didn’t really care about he yapped away letting his hand brush your waist when he gestured toward the bar.
You didn't think much of it. You were friendly by nature always had been and the champagne had made you warm and loose tongued. You laughed at his jokes. You nodded along when he talked about the label's upcoming projects.
Across the room, though, Michael went quiet as he watched you both laughing together, trying to figure out why he felt so damn comfortable with his girlfriend.
౨ৎ
Michael was laughing with Quincy, nodding at something a dancer said, accepting a congratulations with a soft smile but his eyes kept drifting towards you everytime time you turned back to check on him, he was already looking at you.
Over the next few minutes, Michael made his way back towards you.
He excused himself from a conversation mid-sentence, irritated he was so tired of seeing you laughing with another man. When he reached you, his hand slid around your waist, gripping you possessively as his eyes flicked to the man beside you.
“Hey, baby.”
He kissed you on the lips before you could even respond, right there in front of him.
"Hey." You smiled up at him, tipsy and happy. "Quincy done with you?"
"For now." He pulled you close enough to press your hip against his. "You having fun?"
“I am.” You smiled, motioning to the man beside you. “He was just telling me about-“
“I know.” His words came out as if he was annoyed…because he was. “Come sit with me.”
He didn't wait for an answer. As he guided you toward the far end of the lounge, where a curved love seat sat half-hidden behind a marble pillar. He sat first, then pulled you down onto his lap.
In front of everyone.
You laughed softly, surprised. “Mikey, people are watching.”
“Let them.” His hand settled on your thigh, thumb tracing slow circles against the silk of your dress. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “You were too far away over there.”
“I was right across the room.”
“Too far, sweet thing,” he mumbled, his eyes scanning the room for the producer who had been too damn close to you.
౨ৎ
He somehow made his way back over to you again ten minutes later. When Michael stepped off to chat with a choreographer, you now stood near the windows.
“Another one?” he said, appearing beside you with two glasses in his hand. He offered one to you with a wink.
“I’m cut off,” you said, smiling. “Michael’s been watching my intake he doesn’t want me to get too tipsy.”
“Smart man.” He kept the glass out, though, waiting. “One more won’t hurt. I’ll take the blame.”
You hesitated, then laughed and took it. “You’re trouble.”
“That’s what they tell me.” He leaned in slightly. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure you out all night.”
“Oh.”
He looked at you, his gaze warm, a little too intimate for a man you’d met hours ago. “How does a pretty girl like you end up with someone like him?”
His question caught you off guard, a hint of offense slipping into your voice. “What do you mean, someone like him?”
“I mean.” He shrugged. ‘He’s Michael Jackson. He’s not exactly available to the world, I guess. I just wonder how you fit.”
You opened your mouth to answer, but a hand closed around your wrist before you could speak.
“She’s done with this conversation,” Michael said, pulling you away.
“Michael-“
“Now,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
His fingers tightened around your wrist but not enough to hurt. “Excuse us.”
౨ৎ
The hallway outside the lounge was empty. Soft light from the wall lamps cast a glow against the walls, and the sound of the party faded to a low hum behind the closed doors. You and Michael had ended up leaving early.
He walked fast, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, until he reached a door marked Private Suite.
Michael let go of your wrist as the two of you walked into the room. He stood with his back to you, shoulders tight, hands sliding into his pockets as he took a deep breath.
“ What was that with him?”
His voice was terrifyingly calm. You knew he was mad.
You closed the door behind you, frowning.
“What?” you added. “He was asking me a question.”
"You know what."
"I don't."
He stared at you, then laughed a short, breathless sound that didn’t match the tension in his body.
“You don’t even realize,” he said, shaking his head as he paced toward the window.
“Baby.”
“You let him touch you,” he said, stopping and turning back to face you. “You let him stand that close. You laughed at his jokes, you took his drink.”
“I was being polite.”
“You were being friendly,” his voice dropped, softer now and somehow that was worse. “Too friendly.”
“I’m friendly with everyone, babe.”
"That's the problem."
“Mikey…” you said, stepping toward him. “I don’t even remember his name. He was just some producer. I didn’t-I wasn’t trying to-“
"I know."
"That's what makes it worse. You don't even know what you do to me."
“Every time another man looks at you, I lose my patience,” he said.
“Every time you laugh at someone else’s joke, every time someone touches you, I have to stand there and act like it doesn’t bother me.”
“You’re mine. I can’t help it.”
You reached up and touched his cheek. He leaned into your palm, needing the contact more than he’d admit.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
“You’re okay, mama. It was him he wants what’s mine.” He said pressing a kiss to your palm.
“ Michael. I don’t give a fuck about that producer.”
His hand tightened at your waist as he pulled you in and kissed you slow at first, then deeper. His hands moved to your face, cradling you with both hands, his thumbs brushing your cheekbones as he kissed you, his tongue in your mouth and everything.
This was the kind of kiss that made your knees weak.
“Mm mikey…” you breathed against his mouth.
“Fuck, I love kissing you,” he said, backing you toward the bed until your thighs hit the edge.
“My girl,” he murmured, kissing your jaw, then your throat. “Wanna hear you say it.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. His eyes were all wild.
“You’re mine aren’t you?”
“ Yes i'm yours,” you whispered.
“And who do you belong to?” he asked as his hand slid up your neck, his fingers squeezing.
“You.”
“I belong to you, Michael im all yours forever.”
When you said that its like the tension in his shoulders released, and he exhaled like he'd been holding his breath all night.
“That's what i wanted to hear princess.”
౨ৎ
The air left your lungs in a soft gasp as your back suddenly hit the duvet, his body following yours. His hands were already moving pushing the silk straps off your shoulders, dragging the black fabric down until your breasts spilled free.
He didn't stop to admire them. Not yet. His mouth was already lower, pressing hot, open kisses down your sternum, your ribs and your belly.
He took his time you were something truly precious in his hands.
His hands followed the curve of your hips, your thighs.
“Don't wear that dress again.”
“Why?”
“Because it’ll remind me of him.” He said biting the skin just above your navel, not hard enough to break, but enough to leave a mark.
"And i won't be nice about it next time." He said hooking his fingers into your panties pulling them down your legs. Tossing them somewhere behind him without looking.
Then he pushed your thighs apart.
“You’re so gorgeous.”
You moaned softly at his words, threading your fingers through his hair.
He pressed kisses to the inside of your thigh, then another a little higher, before shifting to the other side. He took his time, working his way upward his lips tracing over every inch of your skin avoiding where you wanted him most.
“Michael...”
“Be patient.”
“No, Michael, please.”
“I want it now.”
He smiled against your skin a slow, wicked smile. “That's not how this works. You spent all night giving another man your attention. Now you're gonna give me every sound you got.”
“I wanna hear every sound.” He said and then his mouth was on you.
His tongue pressed flat against your cunt dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke. You cried out, your back arching off the bed, but he didn't let up. He did it again. And again.
Each pass slower than the last, his tongue pressing harder, until you were gripping the sheets, gasping his name without thinking who might hear.
“Taste so fucking good,” he murmured against you, the vibration making your hips jerk.
“Been starving all night thinking about this pussy.”
He sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked with full force, causing you to see white in your vision. His tongue flicked rapidly against the sensitive nub, while his fingers found your entrance and slid one, then two inside you without warning.
“Shit baby,” you breathed.
“You feel that?” His voice was like silk against your skin.
“That's me inside you. Nobody else is ever gonna be inside you.”
“Nobody else-fuck-nobody else, Michael-“ He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that made you see stars.
“That’s my girl.” He said humming in response as he held you down with one hand on your stomach.
He didn’t slow down, though. He fucked you with his fingers while his mouth worked your clit relentlessly and possessively, as if he was trying to crawl inside you through your pleasure.
Every time you got close to coming, he pulled back just enough to keep you teetering on the edge, and then he dove back in harder.
“You gonna come for me sweetheart?”
“Yes-yes-“
“This pussy is entirely yours, Mikey.”
“Good girl.”
"Come for me." His voice was muffled, rough. "I wanna feel you come on my tongue."
He pressed his tongue against your clit, flattening it as he rapidly circled it.
Simultaneously, his fingers fucked you deeper and rougher.
He groaned against you, savoring the sensation, and the sound of his groans, mixed with the vibrations, pushed you over the edge.
Your back arched off the bed as you cried out his name, and he drank every second of it as if he were dying of thirst.
Your thighs clamped around his head, your body shaking through wave after wave. He didn't stop he kept licking, kept sucking, kept drinking every drop of your release like he was claiming it, marking it as his.
When you finally stopped trembling, he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His face was wet, his lips swollen his eyes burning with satisfaction.
"You even taste like you're mine," he said.
He lowered his head again, spreading you open with his thumbs as he buried his face between your trembling thighs, his tongue plunging inside you once more.
The second orgasm hit you harder and faster. As you screamed his name, he pinned your hips down and continued licking until you were crying begging him to stop.
Only then did he pull away.
He crawled up your body afterward, kissing you and letting you taste yourself on his lips. He was still fully dressed, his shirt damp from your release.
“Better?” you managed, still gasping for breath.
“Not yet,” he replied, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’m not done.”
He rose from the bed and sat up long enough to remove his shirt, pants, and boxers. You watched him in the dim light the lean lines of his body, the smooth skin, and the way his dick stood firm against his stomach.
He settled over you the tip of his cock nudged against your entrance, “Feel it baby?” He said pushing just barely inside just enough to make you gasp.
“All this is just for you.”
The stretch was perfect as he slowly moved in, inch by inch, until he was fully seated. You could feel him everywhere. He lingered there for a moment, allowing you to adjust. His forehead pressing against yours.
“Uh uh, look me in the eyes while I fuck you,” he whispered as he began to move. You tried to maintain eye contact, but your eyes were about to roll back.
He slowly fucked you, with deep, rolling thrusts that hit that spot inside you.
His rhythm was hypnotic as fuck, his breath hot against your neck, as his hands gripped your hips.
He pulled out slow so slow you felt every ridge, every inch then he slammed back in hard enough to knock the air from your lungs.
“Fuck-“
"Yeah. That's it.”
“Whose girl are you?” he asked.
“I’m Michael’s girl,” you moaned.
“Yes, you are, baby,” he said, picking up the pace. He drove into you harder and faster the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room.
He set a punishing rhythm. Hard, deep strokes that drove you further into the mattress with every thrust. The room filled with the wet sound of him fucking you, your breathless moans, his guttural grunts.
“You like this hm sweet girl?” He said, rubbing tight circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. “You like being fucked like this, huh?”
You just kept mumbling incoherent words as he fucked you stupid.
“Keep those pretty eyes on me,” he gripped your chin, forcing your gaze to his. “I want you to see who’s fucking you. I want you to remember.”
“I won’t forget,” you said.
“Good,” he kissed you, sloppily and hungry.
“Because I’m not gonna let you.”
He flipped you onto your stomach without warning, pulled your hips up, and entered you from behind. The new angle made you gasp, made you claw at the sheets.
“All mine.”
“Tell me,” he thrust deeper, harder. “Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” your voice broke on a moan. “I understand, I understand-“
“That’s right.”
He moaned as you tightened your pussy around him. He drove deeper and faster, his rhythm losing control. You were close, and he could feel it building.
And then
A knock at the door.
Three knocks.
"Shit." You tensed.
"Don't you stop." His hand clamped down on your hips, holding you in place. "Keep throwing that perfect ass back on me.”
He stopped moving for half a second, his head lifting. His eyes cut toward the door.
“Michael?” You were breathless and trembling. “Who is that?“
"Shh." He resumed moving, slower now, but no less deep. His hand pressed flat against your lower back, holding you steady. "You feel so good around me i don’t wanna stop."
The knock came again, louder this time. A familiar voice, slurred with alcohol, followed it.
“Hey, hello? Is this the wrong room? Is anyone in here? “ He asked.
"Oh my gosh, that's-"
"I know who it is."
It was the producer who had flirted with you.
He didn't stop.
The door wasn’t locked either. You realized that when he started fumbling with the doorknob. He pushed the door open and stumbled inside. Michael didn’t care as he continued to pound you into the bed.
"I was told suite 4-"
He stopped in his tracks suddenly sobered up.
The room was dimly lit by only two lights, but that was enough for him to see the two of you on the bed. The light revealed Michael’s silhouette moving against yours, your body arching beneath him.
The wet sounds of sex filled the silence.
He froze. His mouth opened. Closed.
You turned your head the other way in fear, scared that he’d realize it was you two. But Michael didn’t stop; he wanted him to see that he’d never have you.
His eyes locked onto his as he wrapped his large hand around your neck tilting your head back.
“Don't hide,” he murmured, loud enough for him to hear. “Let him see.”
“Oh fuck im-“ You were shaking, humiliated and aroused in equal measure. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He pressed further, and you couldn’t help but moan, despite feeling embarrassed. “Please stop, or please don’t?” he teased.
“Keep going,” you moaned, completely ignoring his presence at the door. You didn’t care as long as he kept fucking you.
He stood frozen in shock, watching Michael move his hand from your neck to your hair, using it to pull you back as your ass rippled against him.
His gaze fell to Michael’s cock as it disappeared into you. It was wet and glistening, with a white ring forming at the base.
He smiled and asked, “See something you like?”
“She’s all mine you’ll never have her.” Michael said, his eyes never leaving the man.
“You understand me?”
The producer swallowed and nodded.
“Then get the fuck out.”
The door slammed shut.
Michael didn't slow down. He leaned forward, his chest pressed against your back.
“He saw us. He saw me fucking you. He really knows you’re mine now.”
His pace quickened. His breathing grew ragged, his control slipping. He buried his face in your neck and continued fucking you like he was trying to brand himself onto your bones.
“I’m so close.” You said.
“Come on, baby, come for me then,” he urged. “Come on, your dick.”
You came apart, a shattered cry tearing from your throat. Your body clenched around him, and he followed a second later, his body shuddering against yours as his groan was muffled against your skin.
“Fuck-“ He buried himself deep, his hips flush against your ass. You felt him pulse inside you, all hot and thick, a claim that went beyond words.
He stilled inside you, gasping for breath, his forehead pressed against the back of your head.
Afterward, he collapsed beside you.
“Now, your pussy is marked too.”
You nodded, you were exhausted.
The room was silent except for the sound of your breathing.
“Michael?”
“Yeah.”
“I can’t believe he saw us!”
A soft laugh escaped him. “Honestly, I’m glad he saw us. That’ll teach him about flirting with my woman.”
“Are you okay though?” he asked quietly.
“I feel good, and also thoroughly fucked.”
“That’s what I wanted,” he said as he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you kissing your forehead.
౨ৎ
The aftercare was gentle and thoughtful. He brought you water, a warm washcloth, and even kissed the marks he’d left on your hips, apologizing softly.
“I got all carried away,” he said, tracing patterns on your skin
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