[bitchenbae]

A BLACK GIRL RUNS THIS BLOG BITCH

[thepoeticfemale]

<3

[michaelsmelodie]

𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒂𝒘𝒏 ㅤ..ㅤ 𑣲ㅤ Michael fell for you the moment he saw you in the conference room. Since then, he’s been serenading you with letters. 𝗪𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲 , 𝗼𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗷𝗲𝗰𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲. 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗽𝗮𝗿𝘁? see──masterlist.

info. ꨄ︎ 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗮𝗱 / 𝗯𝗮𝗱 𝗲𝗿𝗮 𝗺𝗶𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗲𝗹 𝗷𝗮𝗰𝗸𝘀𝗼𝗻 × 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝗳!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿. ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝙬𝙘. 𝟯𝟳𝟮. & michael serenades you a lot & is basically head over heels. 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖻𝗂𝖽𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖺𝗎 𝖿𝗂𝖼.

݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ read part one. | read part two. | part three.

You stand in front of your closet way too long staring at colors like they’re life decisions instead of clothes.

The blue hangs directly in front of you, mocking you... and you don't like that.The second Michael sees you, he knows. Not because of the dress itself, but the color... black looked beautiful on you, making it impossible to ignore you.

The kind of thing magazines would describe as timeless. But it wasn’t blue. And that tiny fact settles somewhere deep in his chest before he can stop it.

He still walks into the conference smiling. Still shakes hands, still answers questions smoothly while cameras flash bright enough to hurt his eyes. But something inside him quietly sinks anyway. Because he’d written that stupid line at three in the morning in a hotel room half delirious from missing you.

Wear blue tomorrow if you still want me writing you.

And you hadn’t. The realization follows him through the entire conference. He keeps trying not to look at you. Keeps failing. You’re three rows back taking notes with your head lowered, pretending not to notice him.

Every now and then your pen pauses against the paper like your concentration slipped somewhere else entirely. He knows you too well already. That’s the frightening part.

“Michael, what inspires your songwriting process lately?” The question barely reaches him. His gaze drifts back toward you instinctively.

black sleeves..gold earrings. no blue. His chest aches in a way that feels embarrassingly dramatic. “Uh—human emotion mostly,” he answers distractedly.

The room laughs softly at something afterward. Michael doesn’t hear it. Because you finally look up. And for one awful second your eyes meet his.

god...you look guilty.

That hurts worse than anger would’ve. Michael glances away first this time. He never does that. The conference drags after that. Questions blur together beneath fluorescent lights while disappointment settles heavier and heavier inside him.

Not because you rejected him exactly—but because he realizes he gave you something vulnerable and watched you quietly hand it back untouched. By the end, his throat feels tight. Actually pathetic. You leave quickly once it’s over.

Michael watches you gather your papers too fast, avoiding his direction completely while reporters crowd around asking for final comments. For a moment he thinks about letting you go, maybe he should? maybe this is the answer? But then he remembers every letter folded carefully in your hands.

The way your breathing changed whenever he stepped too close. The expression on your face backstage last week when he called you pretty. And suddenly letting you walk away felt impossible. “Excuse me,” he says quietly to an assistant before moving through the hallway after you.

He catches you near the side corridor. You stop immediately when you hear his voice not turning around yet. That somehow makes this harder. “Michael,” you say softly. He notices the tension in your shoulders right away. Like you already know what he’s going to say. For a second he just looks at you.

At the curve of your jaw beneath the hotel lights. The way your fingers tighten around your notebook when you’re nervous. He’d written songs with less longing than this.

“You...wore black,” he says finally. Your eyes close briefly before you turn toward him. And there it is again—that expression...regret. “I thought it would be easier,” you admit quietly. Michael almost laughs at that.

not because it’s funny. Because it’s heartbreaking. “Easier for who?” The hallway hums softly around you with distant voices and moving equipment, but it all feels strangely far away.

You glance down instead of answering. And Michael suddenly realizes you really are trying to end this.That thought lands like a bruise.

“You know,” he says softly, “I kept checkin’ for blue all morning.” Your face falters slightly. He wishes it didn’t. Because now he knows this affects you too. “I shouldn’t have written that,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “Y-you were just..honest.”

“Yeah.” His mouth twists faintly. “That usually where my problems start.” Silence stretches between you.

Michael studies your face like he’s trying to memorize it before losing access. Then quietly: “Did you mean it?” Your brows knit slightly. “..Mean what?”

“This.” He gestures weakly between you both. “Tellin’ me no.” Your throat moves when you swallow. And that tiny motion nearly undoes him. “I don’t know,” you whisper. That should make him feel better. Instead it destroys him. Because uncertainty means you want him too.

And still chose against it. Michael looks down for a second, rubbing tired fingers against his mouth before laughing softly under his breath. “You know what’s crazy?” You stay silent.

“I think I would’ve taken any little sign from you today.” His voice lowers carefully. “Blue dress. Blue earrings. Hell, blue nail polish probably would’ve done it.” Your eyes shine suddenly and he immediately hates himself for saying that.

“No, hey—” He steps closer instinctively. “Don’t look like that.” But you already are. And somehow seeing you upset while he’s the reason feels unbearable.“I’m trying to protect both of us,” you say quietly. “I-i know...”

“You could lose things over this.” Michael smiles sadly. “You think I care about articles right now?”

“But that’s not fair.”

“No,” he agrees softly. “None of this is.” a long pause follows.You look exhausted suddenly. Young, frightened by your own feelings. and Michael...Michael falls a little deeper in love with you right there in that ugly hotel hallway. Which is exactly the problem.

He stares at you for a moment too long before speaking again. “When I wrote those letters…” His voice catches slightly. “I think part of me hoped you’d stop me before it got bad.” Your eyes flicker upward. “And now?” Michael looks at you quietly. Then smiles in the saddest way you’ve ever seen from him. “I think it already did.”

The silence after his words doesn’t feel empty.

It feels like something collapsing. Michael doesn’t move at first and neither do you...just two people standing too close in a place that was never meant for anything honest.Then you step forward, something inside you finally stops negotiating.

Michael catches it the second you decide. His breath changes first. Then his posture. Then that impossible restraint he’s been carrying all day starts to crack at the edges. “You shouldn’t—” he begins. But you don’t let him finish.

You grab his jacket instead, pulling him in like you’ve been starving for too long to behave properly now, the kiss lands messy, urgent. All teeth and breath and years of pretending this didn’t exist.

Michael makes a quiet sound against your mouth—half shock, half surrender—before his hands finally find you. One at your waist. One at your back. Like he’s been waiting to be allowed.

The world outside the hallway disappears. completely. Just him reacting like he’s been holding his breath for months and you finally gave him air. When you break apart slightly, it’s only because you have to.

Your forehead rests against his for a second, both of you still too close to think clearly.

Michael’s eyes stay closed a moment longer than yours. Like opening them would make this unreal again. “You’re gonna get us killed,” he murmurs.

But there’s no bite in it. Only disbelief. You laugh once small, wrecked. “Then stop making it impossible.” That finally does it.

Something shifts in his face, it softens, it falls, he finally gives in, and suddenly the control he’s been clinging to is gone. His hand tightens at your back and he pulls you in again, slower this time, deeper.

like he’s decided consequences can wait. When you finally pull back again, your breathing is uneven, words catching in your throat before they even form properly. “I can’t keep pretending,” you whisper. Michael opens his eyes. And whatever he sees in yours makes him go still.

You swallow hard. “I’ve been in love with you,” you say quietly. “For longer than I can even explain. Since before I understood what it meant. Since before I told myself I was just doing my job.” His expression breaks in the smallest way.

something inside him finally hears what it’s been waiting for.You don’t stop now. “I read every letter like it was going to ruin me.” A shaky breath. “And I still opened them anyway.” Michael’s thumb brushes your wrist without thinking.

“I tried not wanting this,” you admit. “I really did.”

His voice comes out rougher than before. “Yeah?” You nod once. “But I did anyway.” That lands heavier than anything else. Michael stares at you for a long moment like he’s trying to decide if you’re real or something his loneliness invented after too many hotels and too many empty nights.

Then he exhales. “Don’t do that,” he says quietly. Your brows knit slightly. “Do what?”

“Talk like I imagined you.” That makes your chest tighten instantly. Because that’s exactly what you’ve been afraid of too. That none of this is real enough to survive daylight.

You reach up, touching his collar lightly. “I’m not imagined.” Michael lets out a breath that sounds almost like relief.

Then his forehead dips closer again, resting briefly against yours.His voice drops lower. “I’ve been tryin’ to stop myself from wanting you since that first conference.” Your heart stutters.

“Didn’t work,” he adds softly. The hallway is still there. Somewhere footsteps echo faintly in the distance reality waiting patiently at the edges. But neither of you steps back into it yet.

Michael finally opens his eyes again. And when he looks at you this time—there’s no distance left.

Only certainty. And something dangerously close to regret that it took this long.

“We shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.You nod faintly. “Wanna go?” but neither of you moves.

© 𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚

𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙨. ౨ৎ and they lived happily ever after, married with 18 kids 📖📖 📜📜... 🥂🥂 thank you everyone for reading. im soooooo glad yall loved this mini series, i made it with sm love <3 you guys don't know know how HAPPY every comment & reblog made me 🫰🏽😭 stay tuned for more my loves mwahh.

[michaeldiary]

　 　﹕   (✿˘͈ᵕ˘͈)   ┈  hopelessly devoted!

　　┊   ♡   ﹒ bad era! (EEE! my man, my man, my man!) 𖹭

　　┊   ♡   ﹒ summary : mikey is falling hopelessly in love with the only woman on earth who treats him like an outlook calendar notification.

　　┊   ♡   ﹒ byi : personal assistant + office siren!reader, boss!michael, he’s getting lovesick, reader has absolutely no clue, heavy yearning, workplace romance, third person pov, slow burn, female reader.

There are very few people left in Michael Jackson’s life who interact with Michael before they interact with Michael Jackson. Fame has a peculiar way of flattening relationships into these predetermined roles. His beloved fans come to shows and meet and greets already convinced they know him. Executives approach him with sparkly, green dollar signs in their pupils and yeses on their tongue before Michael even speaks his proposal. Journalists and reporters adjust their attitudes depending on what headline they hoped to walk away with. Even the people closest to him unconsciously fall “in line” around the awe of his name, careful not to overstep, eager not to disappoint and constantly aware that he is someone extraordinary.

The room bends at his will before he ever asks it to.

Then? Then she arrives and treats him with the exact same professional courtesy she’d give to a judge in court.

It isn’t disrespectful, really. If anything, it’s just the opposite. She’s unfailingly polite, attentive and composed.. but she refuses to participate in the mythology everyone else has spent years preserving around him.

To her, he is Mister Jackson. Her employer. A man with an impossible schedule, an endless list of obligations, and responsibilities that require meticulous organization. His fame matters only insofar as it affects logistics, it determines how many security guards accompany him, how early they leave for venues, how many interviews fit into a day and how quickly a crowd can form outside a hotel. It doesn’t determine the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him or the amount of space she allows him into her life.

Perhaps that’s what unsettles him more than anything else? She doesn’t actively resist his celebrity as she declines to acknowledge it beyond what her job requires. She offers him neither awe nor intimidation, there’s no such thing as careful tiptoeing or exaggerated enthusiasm, or even concealed excitement over working beside Michael Jackson. She’s professional in a way that feels clinical and sterile and because of that, she becomes the only person in the room who never seems to want anything from him besides his cooperation.

(Name) enters his life shortly after his previous personal assistant quietly burned out under the demands of preparation for the Bad Tour nearly a year ago, yet another casualty of trying to keep pace with a career that has long since stopped resembling an ordinary life. Assisting Michael Jackson is less about managing a calendar and more about surviving a constant state of absolute chaos. Flights become rehearsals. Rehearsals become interviews. Interviews become recording sessions before dissolving into charity appearances, business meetings, wardrobe fittings, and promotional events that seem to materialize overnight. Somewhere beneath all of it exists a man expected to smile through exhaustion because the world rarely remembers that fame does not exempt someone from being human.

Most people last a few months and some don’t even manage that. And she lasts a week before everyone realizes they no longer have to worry.

She isn’t hired because she’s charming—charm doesn’t keep an international tour running. And she isn’t hired because she’s beautiful, though she undeniably is. Beauty can get you far in life, but even that can’t reorganize three countries’ worth of travel plans before lunch. She’s hired because competence, when refined to its absolute limit, begins resembling something intimidating. Because within days she has memorized everyone’s names, corrected scheduling conflicts that had gone unnoticed for weeks, reorganized filing systems no one else bothered to touch, and somehow untangled years of accumulated administrative clutter without announcing she’d done any of it. Problems disappear around her because she solves them before anyone else realizes they’ve become problems at all.

The thing about (Name) is that she never rushes. And that becomes one of the most fascinating things about her.

Everyone else in Michael’s orbit exists in a perpetual sprint. Managers are answering phones while crossing hotel lobbies and publicists apologize mid stride as they chase photographers down hallways. Security is constantly frazzled, scanning and redirecting. Every day seems to unfold with an underlying sense that everyone is already five minutes behind. And she alone seems immune to that urgency, walking the same pace regardless of whether she’s crossing an airport terminal or backstage at Wembley Stadium. (Name) is granted the luxury because she’s already accounted for the unexpected. She planned for delays before they happened and built room for mistakes into the schedule before anyone had the opportunity to make them. Watching her move through chaos without ever becoming chaotic herself is strangely mesmerizing. She’s always the stillest object in every room she enters.

The title never changes—his title, I mean.

“Mister Jackson.”

Always.

At first, he assumes it’s habit. Then he assumes maybe she’s nervous. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and one afternoon he smiles real shy at her in the limo, and tells her she can call him Michael. God, he wants to hear how his name sounds coming from those pretty plump lips. Most people fucking leap at invitations like that, to be addressed by a first name is intimacy, however small. It’s permission to cross a line. (Name) “accepted” the sentiment with genuine appreciation, thanked him politely, but then.. continued referring to him as Mister Jackson before the conversation has even ended. There wasn’t a trace of stubbornness in her tone, her response was so matter of fact that it leaves him without anything to argue against.

Slowly, he realizes it isn’t habit at all, it’s discipline.

Professional boundaries, to her, are not flexible depending on who occupies the other side of them. If she addresses executives formally, she’s address him formally. If she protects her private life from coworkers, she’ll protect it from him. She doesn’t create exceptions just because someone is famous, charismatic, or no matter how kind.

That consistency is precisely what makes her so difficult to understand. Michael has spent his life wondering whether people see him or merely the image they’ve built around him. She does something stranger. She sees him exactly as he is, acknowledges every practical reality of his life and still refuses to let that change the structure of their relationship.

Ironically, being treated exactly like everyone else is what makes him feel the most singled out.

Michael finds himself in a relationship where his fame grants him absolutely no advantage. His success can’t impress her because she’s already accounted for it. His kindness doesn’t soften the boundaries she’s spent years constructing. His charm earns him nothing beyond the same polite smile she’d offer anyone else. There is nothing to perform because she refuses to become a part of his audience. And maybe that’s what fascinates him most. She’s the first person in a very long time who seems completely uninterested in the version of Michael Jackson the world has created, leaving him with an unfamiliar, almost unsettling question.

If she doesn't care who Michael Jackson is, then what would it actually take for her to care about Michael?

It baffles him.

He’s spent his entire adult life asking people to relax around him, only to discover the one woman who actually refuses to blur the line. She doesn’t laugh at his jokes, doesn’t linger after conversations have ended. She doesn’t seek his approval or his attention. She completes her work, reminds him to eat, hands him the folder, and disappears until she’s needed again.

The funny thing is that she’s perhaps the most attentive person in his life.

(Name) notices when he’s exhausted before he does, quietly removing interviews from his afternoon if rehearsals run long. She remembers which tea helps his throat after recording sessions, which hotels have mattresses he sleeps best on, which fabrics irritate his skin, which reporters tend to ask invasive questions. She knows his routines better than most people who claim to know him personally, yet never behaves as though that knowledge grants her intimacy.

For her, care is practical. It exists in solutions rather than sentiment.

She shields him from the unnecessary stress. Producers who overstep suddenly find themselves speaking to her instead and pushy photographers somehow lose backstage access. Meetings that would have drained his energy mysteriously disappear from his schedule. (Name) doesn’t ask if he needs protecting, she simply protects him because it’s part of doing her job correctly.

The people around Michael eventually begin consulting her before consulting him.

If she says he needs another hour of rest, they believe her. If she says he’s unavailable, they don't argue. If she says the conversation is over, it's over. She never raises her voice, her authority comes from her competence rather than volume or her attitude.

Her.. appearance only deepens the contradiction. At work she exclusively favors fitted pencil skirts, silk blouses, classy blazers, pointed six inch heels, dainty jewelry, and a french tip. Everything about her makes the people around stop and look. She is undeniably beautiful, but not in a way that feels inviting. It’s the kind of beauty that suggests distance rather than attention. Men often approach expecting charm and leave vaguely intimidated and insecure after realizing they’ve learned absolutely nothing about her.

Michael finds himself staring more often than he’d ever admit. It isn’t merely that she’s beautiful, and again, she unquestionably is. It’s the composure she carries with her, the way she seems completely untouched by the crazy that follows him everywhere. She smooths a page in her planner with elegant fingers, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without breaking conversation, adjusts the sleeves of her blazer before stepping into a meeting meant to fire someone. Even under the harsh lights of rehearsal studios or after fourteen hour workdays, she somehow remains.. perfect. He catches himself watching her when she isn’t looking, studying the effortless grace with which she moves through crowded hallways, wondering how someone can appear so perfectly composed while everyone else is barely holding themselves together. The realization that she’s become the first thing he looks for whenever he enters a room arrives long before he’s willing to admit what it means.

It becomes something of an obsession for him. And it’s not like she’s playing hard to get. There’s no game to participate in because she’s put up a wall so completely that it barely feels like rejection. It simply exists.

And Michael, for the first time in years, finds himself chasing someone who has absolutely no interest in being chased.

Seven o’clock had become her hour.

No one had assigned it to her, but somewhere over the last several months, she’d developed a habit of arriving at his hotel suite at precisely seven every morning with the day’s itinerary tucked neatly beneath one arm, a fresh folder of revised schedules in the other, and the information to keep the next sixteen hours from collapsing into complete disorder. She was never late.l, not even by a minute. Michael had even started waking a little earlier because of it, though he’d sooner admit to forgetting his own lyrics than confess that to anyone.

She knocked twice before letting herself in.

“Good morning, Mister Jackson.”

“Good morning, (Name).” He greets, eyes lingering on her figure.

She crossed the suite, heels clicking against marble with the same pace she did everything else, setting the folder on the dining table before unclasping the leather strap of her watch to adjust the time by a minute. He’s watched her do it enough times to know she always synchronized it with the hotel’s clock. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d noticed in the first place, only that somewhere along the way he’d begun collecting tiny observations about her the way other people collected photographs.

She slipped her glasses from her handbag and settled them onto the bridge of her nose. They only ever appeared when paperwork was involved: contracts, schedules, expense reports. The rest of the day they remained tucked away as though reading was the only occasion that justified wearing them. He wondered if she didn’t care for wearing them the same way he would later in his life. It was another detail he’d silently committed to memory, alongside dozens of others she likely had no idea he’d noticed. The way she tied her hair tighter on days she anticipated difficult meetings. The faint crease that appeared between her brows whenever someone was running late. The cup of coffee she’d make every morning only to forget about until it had gone cold, drinking it anyway because she refused to waste it. The careful way she aligned every stack of papers with two precise taps against the edge of the table before handing them over.

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he knew an embarrassing amount about a woman who had never voluntarily told him a single thing about herself.

“...Following rehearsal, CBS requested an additional fifteen minutes for promotional photographs. I’ve declined on your behalf and rescheduled them for Thursday. Quincy would like to see you after lunch regarding vocal arrangements. Security has adjusted tomorrow’s departure by twenty minutes due to expected crowds.”

Michael heard every word and he processed almost none of them. Instead, he watched her straighten the paperwork with those familiar taps before sliding the folder toward him.

“..The revised contracts are on top. I’ve highlighted the sections requiring signatures.”

He nodded as she closed her planner with a soft snap before removing her glasses and folding them neatly back into their case.

“Your car will be downstairs in twelve minutes, Mister Jackson.” Gathering the remaining paperwork against her chest, she turned toward the door.

He watched her leave. Or rather, he intended to.

“...! Have breakfast with me.” The words left his mouth before he’d fully decided to say them.

(Name) paused and looked back over her shoulder. There wasn’t surprise on her face, nor discomfort. Only the same attentive professionalism she brought to every conversation.

“I’m sorry?”

“Breakfast,” He repeated, suddenly aware of how strange the request sounded now that it existed outside his head. “You’ve.. got a few minutes, haven’t you?”

He wasn’t asking her on a date. At least, that wasn’t how he’d intended it.

Michael simply wanted twenty uninterrupted minutes where she wasn’t reading through tomorrow’s schedule or reminding him about contracts that needed signing. Twenty minutes where she wasn’t acting as his assistant and he wasn’t being managed as her employer. He wanted to know what she talked about when there wasn’t a planner in her hands. What made her laugh. Whether she preferred tea or coffee when she actually had the time to enjoy either.

(Name) didn’t hesitate. “I’ve already eaten.”

The answer was so immediate, so natural, that he couldn’t even be disappointed by the words themselves. Whether she’d actually eaten that morning was almost beside the point. He knew instinctively that if she hadn’t eaten, the answer still would’ve been the same. Breakfast with her employer existed outside the boundaries she’d drawn for herself, and she protected those boundaries with the same consistency she protected everything else in her life.

“I hope you enjoy yours, Mister Jackson.” She offered him the same polite smile she always did before quietly excusing herself from the suite.

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room suddenly, almost conspicuously, silent.

Michael stared at the untouched breakfast waiting on the dining table before letting out a quiet laugh under his breath. It wasn’t disappointment that settled over him so much as embarrassment. He’d allowed himself to believe that perhaps she might make an exception because he was.. him.

Right.

Of course not.

To her, he wasn’t Michael.

He was Mister Jackson.

And Mister Jackson had a car waiting downstairs in twelve minutes..

(Name) pulled the suite door shut behind her with the same care she seemed to apply to everything else, the soft click swallowed almost immediately by the muffled sounds of the hotel corridor. The folder remained tucked securely against her chest as she glanced down at her watch, mentally recalculating the morning.

Twelve minutes until departure. Three before she needed to confirm the motorcade was in position. Five to stop by security. Two to remind wardrobe about the revised fitting after rehearsal.

Her mind resumed its familiar rhythm almost effortlessly. And yet.. her pace slowed, if only slightly.

“Have breakfast with me.”

The request replayed itself with surprising persistence. It hadn’t sounded flirtatious. Not overtly, she thinks. Really, he’d seemed hesitant.

That, more than anything else, was unusual.

Michael was many things, but uncertain wasn’t one of them. Shy, certainly. Soft-spoken. Gentle to a fault. Yet when he wanted something professionally, he simply asked for it. There had been something oddly tentative in the way he’d said it, as though he’d surprised himself as much as he’d surprised her.

She frowned imperceptibly.

Sharing breakfast with him wouldn’t have been inappropriate in itself. They’d eaten at the same tables countless times during tour, award shows, and production meetings. Entire teams did. But that wasn't what he’d asked, was it?

Michael asked her.

Just the two of them.

The distinction mattered. She hadn’t believed he’d intended anything improper, she genuinely didn’t. Michael Jackson had never once given her reason to question his character, and she trusted him far too much to leap to conclusions over a single invitation.

But personal invitations had a way of quietly eroding professional boundaries.

Not all at once.

An exception here.

Another there.

Lunch became conversation. Conversation became familiarity. Familiarity became assumptions neither person had intended to make. (Name) seen it happen in other workplaces often enough to recognize the first loose thread before anyone else noticed the seam unraveling.

It was better not to tug at it. Besides, she’s already established her boundaries nearly a year ago.

He was Mister Jackson. She was his assistant.

The relationship functioned as well as it did because neither of them expected it to be anything else. Still.. as she stepped into the elevator, she caught herself wondering what had prompted the question in the first place.

Had he simply wanted company?

Had something happened she hadn’t noticed?

Had he skipped dinner the night before and assumed she had as well?

(Name) replayed the conversation in her head, searching for some practical explanation she’d overlooked.

There always was one. But by the time the elevator reached the lobby, she decided there probably wasn’t anything more to think about.

He’d asked.

She’d declined.

The morning continued.

And somewhere upstairs entirely unbeknownst to her, Michael was sitting alone with an untouched breakfast, while she was still trying to determine what logistical reason could possibly have inspired such an uncharacteristically personal question. Neither of them realized they had walked away from the same conversation thinking about it for entirely different reasons.

© michaeldiary. 2026. do not copy, repost, translate, or feed into ai.

[megsnotokay]

whew stranger in moscow bts , can’t talk here email me.

wait nvm dis my blog, im wet asf genuinely need him to wring his shirt out in my mouth.

wait that’s nasty

[japinesedenim]

CARBON COPY | M. JACKSON

mature! michael

context: you discover an early sign of vitiligo on your son.

"You look just like me,"

You whispered into the dark nursery, leaning over the wooden railing to poke his soft thigh. "Don't listen to your father. You have my toes. And my ears. We basically twins, Peanut."

The nursery was quiet at three in the morning, save for the rhythmic, mechanical hum of the baby monitor and the soft, heavy breathing of five-month-old Sean—affectionately dubbed "Peanut" by Paris the very first day he came home from the hospital.

You stood over the crib, your hair wrapped in a silk bonnet, wearing one of Michael’s oversized flannel shirts as a makeshift robe. Peanut was fast asleep on his stomach, his little knees tucked up under his chest, his diapered bottom sticking up in the air. He had a full head of thick, tight, jet-black curls that defied gravity, a tiny button nose, and a pair of chubby, dimpled cheeks that you spend half your days kissing.

"Who are you tryna to convince, applehead?"

A low, raspy whisper came from the doorway. You turned to see Michael leaning against the frame, his frame silhouetted by the dim hallway light. He was wearing black pajama pants and a loose white V-neck, his own hair tied back in a messy, loose bun. He looked exhausted from a long string of meetings with his management team, but the moment his eyes landed on the crib, that soft, incredibly smug fatherly smile broke across his face.

He walked over on quiet tiptoes, the floorboards barely groaning beneath his feet, and slid his arms around your waist from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his skin warm against your neck, smelling of lotion and the lavender soap he used before bed.

"I'm not trying to convince anyone," you sniffed playfully, leaning back into his chest. "I carried this child for nine months, Michael. I endured swollen ankles, heartburn, and a literal midnight delivery. I deserve at least one feature."

Michael let out a breathless, silent laugh against your neck, his chest vibrating against your back. He peered down at the sleeping baby. "Beautiful, you are a vision, and I love you with all my heart, but that boy is a literal carbon copy of me from the Gary days. Look at that lip. Look at those curls. You just provided the penthouse suite for nine months."

"A penthouse suite is crazy." you mumbled, turning in his arms to face him. But you couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips.

He wasn't lying. When Peanut had been born five months ago, it had been a whirlwind of emotion. The labor had been fast and furious, hitting you like a freight train in the middle of the night. You remembered Michael panicking, trying to grab the prepackaged hospital bag while simultaneously tripping over Blanket’s toys, while Prince and Paris stood at the top of the stairs in their pajamas, cheering you on like you were running a marathon.

When the doctor had finally handed the baby to you, wrapped in a striped hospital blanket, the room had gone completely still. Michael had wept openly, his hands shaking as he cut the cord, falling to his knees by the bedside to kiss your damp forehead over and over again. And when the rest of the Jackson clan had come to visit the ranch a few weeks later, the agreement had been immediate. Katherine had held the baby close to her chest, her eyes crinkling with tears as she whispered,

“Oh, Mike, he looks just like you did when you were a baby. Exactly like you.” Every single one of Michael's brothers had teased him about having a literal clone running around the house.

Life with a newborn had turned Neverland into a beautiful, chaotic playground.

Prince and Paris had adapted to their roles as big siblings with fierce, almost comical devotion. Prince considered himself the "Head of Security" for the nursery, strictly monitoring who entered and making sure anyone who wanted to hold the baby used a generous pump of hand sanitizer first.

Paris treated Peanut like her live-in doll, constantly picking out his little onesies, singing him off-key lullabies, and insisting on holding his bottle during feeding times. Even little Blanket, who was still the baby of the house himself, would toddle into the nursery just to press his favorite blue blanket against the baby’s tiny feet, making sure his little brother was warm.

By the afternoon, the heat of the California sun had mellowed into a golden, lazy warmth that flooded through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the main living room.

The house was filled with the comfortable, domestic sounds of a family at peace. Peanut was down on the rug, happily playing inside his large mesh playpen. He was surrounded by a generous assortment of soft plush animals and a bright plastic teething ring that he was currently gnawing on with pure determination. Prince and Blanket were sitting on the hardwood floor right next to the pen, intensely focused on a massive game of ‘who can build the biggest lego tower’.

They were building an elaborate, multi-tiered fortress completely surrounding the playpen, treating their baby brother like a royal king protected inside an impenetrable castle.

"Don't put that block there, Bigi, it's gonna fall on the perimeter," Prince instructed in his serious, older-brother voice, carefully balancing a wooden piece. Blanket just let out a quiet grunt, happily passing Prince another block, his eyes occasionally darting to Peanut to make sure the baby was still smiling.

A few paces away, the open-concept kitchen was separated from the living room by a wide marble island. You and Michael were working together in tandem, preparing a late lunch for the kids. The radio was playing a soft, soulful Motown track in the background. Michael was humming along, his hips swaying slightly to the rhythm as he expertly sliced up red apples and peeling oranges on a wooden cutting board. You were beside him, assembling ham and cheese sandwiches, spreading mayonnaise over the white bread with practiced ease.

"Think we should take them to the movie theater on the property later?" Michael asked softly, tossing a small piece of apple into his mouth. "Prince said he wanted to see that new cartoon again."

"Only if you promise not to let them eat their weight in snacks before dinner," you replied, nudging his hip with yours. "Last time, Paris had a sugar rush that lasted until midnight."

Michael chuckled, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "Hey, I can't help it if the concession stand has the best—"

The heavy, frantic slap-slap-slap of bare feet sprinting down the long hallway shattered the peaceful atmosphere.

The kitchen doors flew open with a loud thud. Paris stood in the frame, her chest heaving underneath her overalls, her eyes wide with a sudden, absolute panic. Her little hands were gripping the edges of her shirt.

"Mama! Daddy! Come quick!" she gasped out, her voice trembling with an innocent but terrifying urgency. "Peanut's skin is coming off! It’s gone!"

Your heart violently dropped into your stomach like a lead weight. The butter knife slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly against the marble counter. A cold, suffocating wave of pure adrenaline rushed through your veins. "What?!" you shrieked, your maternal instinct instantly flaring into overdrive.

Michael didn't even speak. The apple slice he was holding dropped to the floor as his face went completely pale. He vaulted past the kitchen island, his long legs carrying him down the hallway in a blur of motion. You were right on his heels, your heart hammering against your ribs as a million horrific medical scenarios flashed through your mind—burns, a sudden allergic reaction, an infection, ANYTHING.

Michael burst into the living room, practically sliding on the polished wood floor to reach the playpen. Prince and Blanket looked up, startled by the sudden, dramatic entrance of their parents.

You scrambled in right behind Michael, your hands shaking as you reached into the mesh pen and scooped a confused Peanut up into your arms. You frantically turned him over, inspecting his face, his chubby hands, his neck, his ears. Peanut just blinked his wide, dark eyes up at you, completely unfazed, letting out a wet bubble and waving his arms.

"Where, Paris? Where is it?!" you breathed, your voice cracking as you scanned his skin.

Paris rushed over, pointing a trembling finger at the baby's left side, right under his arm. "Right there! I saw it when he rolled over to grab his toys! His skin is rubbing off!"

You didn't hesitate. With trembling fingers, you gently gathered the hem of the baby's soft cotton onesie and unsnapped it, pulling the fabric up to expose his chubby little torso and ribcage. You carefully turned him toward the afternoon sunlight streaming through the window, your eyes scanning the rich, beautiful brown complexion of his skin.

And then, you saw it.

Right near his ribs, just below his tiny armpit, there was a small, irregular patch of skin about the size of a dime. It wasn't bleeding. It wasn't raw, or peeling, or inflamed. It wasn't a rash.

It was simply a patch of skin that was completely devoid of its pigment—a stark, milky-white contrast against the rest of his smooth, dark skin.

You let out a long, ragged breath, the immediate terror of a physical injury or a chemical burn leaving your body. You ran a gentle, soothing thumb over the spot. It felt perfectly smooth. Exactly like the rest of him. "It's... it's just a light spot, Paris," you whispered, trying to calm your own racing pulse. "Maybe a new birthmark. He's okay."

You turned your head to look at Michael, expecting him to give a sigh of relief.

The words caught completely in your throat.

Michael hadn't moved. He was frozen on his knees beside the playpen, his gaze locked entirely on the nickel-sized white patch on his son's torso. Every single drop of color had drained from his face, leaving him a ghostly, fragile shade of pale. His jaw was slightly slack, his lips parted, and his dark eyes were wide, glassy, and completely unblinking.

He didn't cry. He didn't make a sound. But the sheer, agonizing weight of a silent realization hung over him like a suffocating shroud.

He knew exactly what it was.

It was vitiligo.

It was the very same autoimmune disease that had ravaged his own body, turned his teenage years into a nightmare, and transformed his adulthood into a cruel media circus. It was the disease that had physically altered him, causing him decades of physical pain in the sun and unimaginable emotional scarring from a world that refused to believe he was sick.

And now, it was appearing on his innocent, five-month-old baby boy—years, decades earlier than it had ever appeared on him.

"Baby?" you murmured softly, your voice dropping into a cautious, protective register. The kids were watching, and the sudden, heavy silence in the room was making them uneasy.

Michael didn't look up. He couldn't. His hands, usually so expressive and steady, were visibly trembling as he slowly reached out. His index finger hovered just a millimeter above the white patch on Peanut's skin. He looked like he wanted to touch it, to wish it away, but he was too terrified that his touch would somehow make it real.

Prince looked between you and his father, his brow furrowing with that quiet, intuitive maturity he often showed. "Dad? Is Peanut sick?"

The sound of his oldest son's voice seemed to snap a cord inside Michael. He closed his eyes for a brief second, swallowing hard, forcing the raw panic down into the deepest recesses of his chest. When he opened his eyes, he forced a weak, incredibly gentle smile onto his face, though his eyes remained entirely hollow.

"No, Prince. Peanut isn't sick. He's perfectly healthy," Michael whispered, his voice remarkably controlled, though it carried a fragile, paper-thin edge. He looked at Paris, reaching out to tousle her hair. "You did a good job watching your brother, Paris. Thank you for telling us."

He cleared his throat, standing up with a deliberate, slow movement. "Prince, why don't you take Paris and Blanket back to the kitchen? Go ahead and start on the fruit slices. Mama and I will be right there in just a minute. We're just going to change Peanut's diaper."

Prince searched his father's face for a moment, then nodded solemnly. He took Paris and Blanket by their hands, leading them quietly out of the living room. The wooden doors of the kitchen swung shut behind them, leaving the room entirely silent.

The moment the kids were out of sight, the mask completely fell away.

Michael didn't cry, but he looked entirely, completely drained, as if the physical energy required to hold himself together had aged him ten years in a span of ten seconds. He sank back onto the couch, burying his face in his hands, his breathing shallow and ragged.

You didn't say a word. You carefully tucked Peanut back into his onesie, snapping it shut, and carried him over to the couch. You sat down right next to Michael, placing the baby gently in the space between you. Peanut, completely unaware of the heavy gravity in the room, immediately rolled onto his side and began to happily pull at the fabric of Michael's pajama pants.

You wrapped your arm around Michael’s shoulders, pulling his rigid, trembling frame against your side. "Michael," you murmured, your voice a steady, grounding anchor in the dark. "Honey, talk to me. Look at me, baby."

Slowly, Michael dropped his hands from his face. His eyes were bloodshot, staring blankly ahead at the wall.

"I passed it to him," he whispered, his voice entirely devoid of its usual melodic warmth. It was a flat, broken sound. "I prayed so hard. Every single night since you told me you were pregnant... I begged God to let him have your skin. To let him be safe from this."

He turned his head to look at you, and the sheer, raw vulnerability in his eyes broke your heart.

"Before I met you... my ex-partners, they... they didn't want to have children with me because of it," Michael confessed, his voice dropping into a raw, painful whisper, sharing a piece of trauma he had kept locked away for years. "They were terrified. One of them told me straight to my face that she didn't want to risk having a child who would get the vitiligo, or a child who would be too dark, or a child who would look like... like a freak to the world. They were scared of my genetics. They were scared of me."

Your grip tightened around his shoulder, your fingers digging into his shirt as a fierce, protective anger surged through you on his behalf.

"And I started to believe them," Michael continued, a bitter, hollow smile touching his lips. "I started to think that maybe I shouldn't have any more kids. Because look what I did to him. He's only five months old, and it's already starting. The world is going to tear him apart, Baby. They're going to accuse him of trying to change, they're going to call him names, they're going to look at his skin like it's a mistake. He looks just like me, and now he's going to have to suffer just like me."

"Michael, look at me," you commanded gently, reaching up with your free hand to firmly cup his jaw, forcing his eyes to lock onto yours. Your thumb brushed over his cheekbone. "Listen to me very carefully."

Michael blinked, his breath hitching as he looked into your eyes.

"Those women were blind, and they didn't deserve a single piece of the beautiful man you are," you said, your voice fierce, steady, and filled with an absolute, unwavering certainty. "You did not curse our son. You gave him life. You gave him those big beautiful eyes, that sweet smile, and a soul that is going to be just as kind and brilliant as his father's."

You leaned down, pressing a deep, lingering kiss to his forehead, then to his lips, letting him feel the entire weight of your love.

"And you listen to me," you continued, sliding your hand down to rest over his heart. "The world is different now. He is not going to go through what you went through alone. Do you know why?"

Michael swallowed hard, his dark eyes searching yours. "Why?"

"Because when you were a kid going through this, you didn't have anyone who understood," you whispered, a tear of your own finally slipping down your cheek. "But Peanut has you. He has a father who knows exactly how it feels, who can teach him how to be strong, how to hold his head high, and how to love himself. And he has a mother who will tear this entire industry apart before she lets anyone make her baby feel any less than perfect."

You shifted slightly, picking up Peanut and placing him directly into Michael’s lap. The baby immediately let out a happy coo, his tiny, chubby hands reaching up to blindly grab at the silver buttons on Michael's shirt.

"Look at him, Mikey," you murmured softly. "He doesn't care about a spot on his skin. He just wants his daddy."

Michael looked down at his son. He watched as Peanut's little fingers tangled in his shirt, his big, round eyes full of absolute, unconditional adoration for the man holding him.

Slowly, the heavy, suffocating tension began to melt out of Michael's shoulders. He let out a long, shaky breath—not a sob of defeat, but a release of the agonizing fear he had carried alone for decades. He wrapped his long, slender arms around the baby, pulling Peanut close against his chest, burying his face into the baby’s sweet, lotion-scented curls.

He reached out with his other arm, wrapping it securely around your waist and pulling you into the tight, fiercely protective circle.

"Thank you," Michael whispered against the baby's hair, his voice thick but finally steady, anchored by the strength you had poured into him. "Thank you, Mama. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"You'll never have to find out," you murmured, leaning your head against his shoulder as the three of you sat together in the soft sunlight. "We're a team."

..

CRAAAASH

“Oh my god, the kids.”

drabble part 2

[prairiedeath]

[startingsomethin]

MICHAEL JACKSON

birthday message for Brooke Shields

[blondiebabyy]

rest in peace, angelface 🪽

“In a world filled with hate, we must still dare to hope. In a world filled with anger, we must still dare to comfort. In a world filled with despair, we must still dare to dream. And in a world filled with distrust, we must still dare to believe.” - Michael Joseph Jackson (August 29, 1958 - June 25, 2009)

[userinherownwrld]

me 2 me

[brownsugarletters]

Anything For Mrs. Jackson

Michael Jackson x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS: Michael's wife gets whatever she wants, whenever she wants it. She's the boss.

CONTENT: smut, 18+, descriptive dirty talk, NO MINORS, lots of begging, needy Mike, dominant reader, submissive Mike, history era!Michael, era 1995

Song Inspiration: Bossy - Kelis & Too $hort

Author's Note: Hiiii guys. So this was inspired by Lisa Marie's experience with Michael disappearing for 6 weeks and then popping up at the VMAs like nothing happened 😭 Enjoy 😛

Tag List: @delictezz @proseandj @narratedillusions @hernamewaswinnie @pillowangel2 @mikesliberiangirl @ttangerinexo @hiiisisteerrrr @fandomsarefamily1966 @angelcrescent @mvsticmoony

Warm sun beat down on your back as you roamed the Neverland property. You tried to enjoy the animals wandering and the aromatic smell of the flowers that covered the grounds.

However, you couldn’t. It was too quiet without him.

It had been two weeks since Michael had last been home. Two weeks since you last heard his laugh. Two weeks since he last held you. Two weeks since you laid eyes on him.

And you were livid. Michael had never done this before. But unfortunately, you knew the catalyst. 

I just want a normal life sometimes

The words had tumbled out before you could stop them, and immediately you realized you had made a mistake. Because to Michael, he didn’t simply hear the request for a normal life. He heard, I don’t want this life with you. And it showed immediately in his eyes.

His hand fell from your knee and he looked away. And just like that, his body was there but his mind was somewhere else. 

He had simply stood— and walked away. Before you knew it, he was gone.

Angry. That was the best way to describe how you felt. You never anticipated that confiding in your husband would result in him leaving like this. He hadn’t even given you a chance to fix things. 

And unfortunately for you, it was very hard to track down Michael Jackson when he didn’t want to be found.

Michael tended to create space like this when he didn’t know what else to do. But he had never done it to you, until now. 

Somewhere between getting popcorn and watching a movie alone in the theater, realization hit you like a brick wall.

His calendar. Of course. How could you have forgotten?

Michael was an extremely meticulous and organized man. Everything from studio time to fittings with his personal stylist could be found on his calendar. It was the only way he could keep track of his hectic life. 

Nearly tripping over the cotton candy you had been eating while sulking, you quickly made your way to Michael’s office.

As you entered the room, the smell of Michael’s cologne lingered in the air. You gently ran your fingers over the dark colored oak of his desk. And then your eyes landed on it.

“Alright, let me find out where my man is” You sighed to yourself as you flipped the pages of the calendar to the current month. 

A satisfied smirk made it’s way across your lips as your fingers found an upcoming date.

The VMA’s. Of course. How could you have forgotten? Michael had agreed to perform a medley of his songs at the awards show, and it was this weekend.

The office chair creaked as you swiveled in it, picking up the phone from its cradle.  You dialed the number you knew by heart, and waited. The line connected after two rings.

“Bob Jones speaking.”

“Hi Bob, it’s Mrs. Jackson.”

There was a warm, immediate shift in his voice. The kind of deference people always gave you once they heard the title.

“Mrs. Jackson! Good afternoon. How are you, honey?”

“I’m good,” you said smoothly, keeping your voice calm and steady. “Listen, I need to attend the VMAs this weekend. Mike's performing and I want to be there to support him. Can you get me passes and a car?”

There was zero hesitation on his end. He had no idea you and Michael were on the outs. As far as he knew, everything was fine in the Jackson household.

“Of course, no problem at all,” Bob said cheerfully. “I’ll take care of everything. VIP passes, front row, the works. You just worry about your wardrobe and hair, honey. I’ll arrange a flight and have a car sent to pick you up Friday evening. Sound good?”

A small, satisfied smile tugged at your lips. The Mrs. Jackson flex never failed.

“Sounds perfect. Thank you, Bob.”

“Anything for you, Mrs. Jackson. We’ll see you this weekend.”

You hung up the phone, staring at the calendar on the desk for a second longer. Michael thought he could run and hide. He was about to find out exactly who he married.

48 hours later, you had arrived in New York City, and you were on a mission. You stood in front of the mirror, giving yourself one last look before the car arrived.

The black slip dress clung to your curves like it was made for you. It was silky, sleek, with thin straps and a deep neckline that showed just enough cleavage to be dangerous. The fabric skimmed over your hips and thighs, stopping mid-thigh. You paired it with strappy black heels that made your legs look endless. You made sure to put on your favorite body oil, giving your skin a glossy sheen.

Gold jewelry completed the look. Thick gold hoop earrings that caught the light with every turn of your head, a layered gold necklace that dipped between your breasts, and a stack of delicate gold bangles on your wrist. Your hair was in loose, voluminous waves that framed your face and fell just past your shoulders, with soft curls and perfectly laid edges. Your makeup was bold but flawless. Sharp winged liner that made your eyes pop, a glossy nude lip that made your full lips look irresistible, and a touch of shimmer on your cheekbones and collarbones.

You spritzed on your signature perfume — the one that made Michael crazy. Warm vanilla and peach with a hint of spice. You loved being Mrs. Jackson. It was an event every single time you stepped out.

The red carpet was pure chaos when you arrived. Cameras flashed like lightning, Michael had taught you early on in your relationship with him that sunglasses were essential. Shouts of your name mixed with the roar of the crowd.

You stepped out of the car with your head high, the black, satin slip dress catching the light as you moved. The gold jewelry gleamed against your skin with every step, the bangles jingling softly as you waved to fans. 

Whispers rippled through the press line — “That’s Michael Jackson’s wife… she looks incredible.”

You posed with effortless confidence, one French manicured hand on your hip, the other resting lightly on your thigh, letting the dress and your glow do the talking. 

You loved this part. The power, the attention, the reminder that you were Michael Jackson’s wife. And tonight, you weren’t here for the cameras. You were here for him.

Soon after you found your seat in the front row, legs crossed tightly, arms folded over your chest. The lights dimmed and the energy in the arena shifted. Michael was opening the show. 

Your stomach twisted with a mix of anger, nerves, and something deeper you couldn’t really name. You hadn’t seen your husband in two whole weeks.

The number started and a heavy bass line thrummed through the arena. 

The platform rose from the center of the stage and there he was.

Your breath caught in your throat. Michael looked sinful under the spotlights. His white shirt was unbuttoned just enough to show the smooth, glistening skin of his chest, the black tie loosened and hanging loose like he’d been in the middle of undressing. His curls were wild and perfect, a few damp strands sticking to his forehead from the heat of the performance.

The way the lights hit his skin made him glow, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his full lips, and those dark, expressive eyes that could still make your stomach flip even when you were furious with him.

Your breath hitched hard.

My man. My man. My man. 

The thought hit you like a wave. This was your husband. The man you loved more than anything. The man who had gotten up in the middle of your argument two weeks ago and walked away without saying a word. And now here he was in New York, shining under the lights like the whole world still belonged to him. And it did.

He moved with effortless, hypnotic grace, shedding his jacket with a smooth roll of his shoulders, the white shirt clinging to his lean frame as he danced. When a fan handed him a rose, he leaned down, kissed her cheek, and flashed that devastating smile. 

But the kiss lingered a little too long for your liking. 

He’s doing the most, you thought, jaw tight. And he’s playing in my face right now.

Then his eyes lifted — and locked directly with yours.

The tension was immediate and electric. His gaze softened for half a second, surprise and longing flashing across his face before he saw the full force of your expression. You didn’t look away. Your lips were pursed, arms crossed tight, legs crossed, the full “I’m not impressed” glare on full display. You slowly shook your head, eyes never leaving his. The message was loud: Don’t you dare come near me right now.

Michael’s smile faltered. He knew. He was in trouble.

One of his people leaned in backstage right after the performance, clapping him on the shoulder with a low chuckle. “You in trouble big dawg. She looks like she ready to kill you.”

Michael didn’t even try to deny it. A small, almost excited smirk tugged at his lips. He loved this side of you. The fire, the fact that you came for him.

And you did. You hunted him down backstage, weaving through crew and security like you owned the place. When you found him in his dressing room, you didn’t give him time to speak. The second Michael turned and saw you, his eyes widened with that familiar mix of guilt and hunger.

You stormed right up to him and backed him up against the wall with one finger pointed right at his chest. His back hit the wall with a soft thud.

He held his hands up in surrender, palms open, one leg kicked out slightly as you stepped between his legs, crowding him completely.

“Are you out your damn mind?” you snapped, voice low and sharp, eyes blazing. “You disappear for two weeks, don’t say a word to me, and then this is what you do when I finally show up? Kissing on random women like we’re cool? You really think I’m about to play these games with you, Michael Jackson?”

Michael’s hands stayed raised for half a second before they dropped to your full hips, pulling you closer even as you pushed against his chest. His gaze was heavy and lustful, dark eyes trailing slowly from your full, glossy lips up to your furious eyes and back down again. He licked his lips, the movement slow and unconscious, like he couldn’t help himself.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed, voice soft and that handsome, flirty little smirk tugging at his mouth even though he knew he was wrong. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

You kept going, telling him about himself, hands still planted firmly on his chest. “You think you can just ghost me and then smile for the cameras like everything is fine? I’m not one of these little girls out here throwing roses at you. I’m your wife. And you played in my face for two whole weeks.”

Michael didn’t fight you. Instead, he leaned in and started pressing warm, wet kisses to your throat and neck, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin. His hands squeezed your hips, pulling you flush against him even as you tried to push him away. He was moaning softly against your neck between kisses, the sound needy and broken, like he’d been starving for the taste of you.

“Mhm… you’re right, mama,” he murmured desperately against your skin, lips brushing your pulse point. “I was wrong… I’m so sorry… I missed you so much… I love you…”

You were still cussing him out, hands pushing at his chest, but your body was already betraying you. A soft, involuntary moan slipped from your lips as his mouth found that sensitive spot on your neck and sucked gently. Michael heard it and groaned in response, his hands sliding around to grip your ass, pulling you even tighter against him.

“I know, baby… I know I was wrong,” he whispered, voice cracking with need as he kissed and licked along your throat. “But look at you… coming all the way here for me. You missed me too, didn’t you? My pretty girl… I can feel how much you missed me.”

He was completely gone. Lover-boy desperate, hands roaming your hips and ass like he couldn’t stop touching you, mouth worshiping your neck while you tried to hold him accountable.

 The tension was thick, toxic, and addictive. You were mad, but the way he was melting into you, murmuring apologies and “I love you’s” against your skin, made it almost impossible to stay angry.

Michael knew he had you. He could feel it in the way your body leaned into him even while your mouth was still going. He kept kissing your neck, warm and wet and reverent, hands squeezing your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“I hear you, mama,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. I love you… I love you so much. Please… just let me touch you. I’ve been missing you so bad.”

You stepped out of his arms, sauntering over to the door of the room. It clicked shut behind you with a soft, final sound. You turned the lock, eyes never leaving Michael’s. He stood there, chest rising and falling, that handsome, submissive look still on his face as you backed him up toward the couch.

“Sit down,” you said, voice low and commanding.

Michael obeyed instantly, dropping onto the couch with his legs spread, gazing up at you like you were the only thing in the world. His dark eyes were full of hunger, guilt, and desperate love.

You stood between his knees and slowly slipped the straps of your black dress off your shoulders. The silky fabric slid down your body like water, pooling at your feet. You stepped out of it, standing before him in nothing but your heels and gold jewelry, skin glowing under the low lights.

Michael’s breath hitched. His hands twitched on his thighs like he was dying to touch you, but he didn’t move. “Baby… please,” he whispered, voice already breathless. “You look so beautiful. I missed you so much.”

You straddled him slowly, settling on his lap, your bare breasts brushing his chest as you leaned in. The kiss was slow and sexy, the kind that made your pussy drool. Mouths moved together in deep, unhurried strokes, tongues sliding hot and wet, tasting each other like they’d been starving for weeks. Every slow glide of his tongue against yours sent heat pooling between your thighs, your slickness already coating his black dress pants as you rocked against him. You both moaned into it, hands finally allowed to roam. Michael’s palms gripped your hips, pulling you down harder against the hard bulge in his black dress pants while you tangled your fingers in his curls at the nape of his neck and kissed him like you’d been starving for him.

You rocked against him, grinding your wet heat over his clothed cock as the kiss turned messier, more desperate. Tongues tangled, lips sucked, breaths mingled. You could feel how hard he was, how badly he wanted you.

“Please,” Michael gasped against your mouth, voice wrecked. “Can I please have you? I’m so sorry, baby. I promise I won’t do it again. I was wrong. I need you… please let me have you.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, rolling your hips in a slow, hypnotizing rhythm, keeping him pressed right against your entrance but not letting him inside yet. His eyes were glued to your full breasts, then your lips, then back to your eyes. He inhaled deeply, groaning at the intoxicating smell of your vanilla and peach perfume mixed with your arousal.

“Beg better,” you whispered, still grinding on him.

Michael’s head fell back against the couch, Adam’s apple bobbing as broken whimpers fell from his lips. You kept him buried against your heat, the friction driving him crazy. “Please, baby… I’m begging you. Please let me fill you up. I missed you so much it hurt. I love you. I love you so much. Please use me… I’m yours.”

You finally reached down, freed him from his pants, and sank down onto his thick cock in one smooth motion. The stretch was intense and perfect, filling you completely. Your mouth fell open, gasping at the deep stretch.

You kept him buried to the hilt, rolling your hips in deep, slow circles so the head of his cock ground against your G-spot and your clit rubbed against his pubic mound with every movement.

Michael’s eyes rolled back, broken whimpers and moans spilling from his lips as he watched you use him. “Fuck… you’re riding me so good, baby. So deep… I can feel everything. You’re creaming all over my pants… look at that mess. You’re so wet for me.”

You kept the rhythm hypnotizing. Deep rolls that kept him pressed right against your sweet spots, your clit grinding against the firm base of his cock with every movement. Michael was mesmerized, hands gripping your hips as he stared at the way your body moved on him, the slick sounds, the way your cream coated his black dress pants from him being so deep inside you.

“I love you,” he gasped, voice desperate and subby. “I love you so much. You’re riding me so perfect, baby. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. Please don’t stop. I need you.”

You rode him harder, chasing that intense pleasure while Michael kept praising you, apologizing, and telling you how much he loved you. The sight of you on top of him, the way your breasts bounced, the wet sounds, the way you were using him — it was filthy and intoxicating.

“This is why I gave you my last name… so you could use me like this whenever you want.” He said in between whimpers and moans, eyes greedily gazing over your body as you rolled your hips.

You flashed him a knowing smile, brushing your lips against his.

When you came, it was hard and loud, your walls pulsed and throbbed around him as you moaned his name. Michael followed right after, his body tensing hard behind you. A deep, broken groan tore from his throat as his hips jerked forward, burying himself as deep as he could go. His eyes were filled with unshed tears, locked on yours in strong, unwavering eye contact as you both came together. He gazed at you with pure, desperate love while you made him cum thick ropes, whispering brokenly against your lips.

“I love you… I need you… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, baby… I love you so much…”

His cock pulsed thick and hot inside you, flooding you with heavy, rhythmic spurts of his release while his arms tightened around you like he never wanted to let go. You could feel every throb, every warm pulse deep inside you as he filled you up, the sensation sending fresh aftershocks through your sensitive body.

Afterwards he stayed buried inside you, holding you close, whispering “I love you” against your skin while you both caught your breath.

“Can I come home?” he asked softly, voice small and hopeful, tears still shining in his eyes.

You stroked his curls, pressing a kiss to his swollen lips.

“Yeah, Michael,” you whispered. “You can come home.”

[userinherownwrld]

[alohaluz]

ᴀɢᴇ ᴀɪɴ'ᴛ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙᴜᴛ ᴀ ɴᴜᴍʙᴇʀ

original request! michael jackson x femreader!

you're a young pop singer dating michael jackson, and the press won't shut up about your age gap. when the tabloids get to his head and make him pull away, you use your grammy debut to claim him in front of the whole world.

when you met him for the first time, it was definitely a bit surreal. michael jackson was standing in front of you, saying how much he liked your last album—and that he was a big fan of yours, just like that. you were surprised, to say the least. of all the famous people you had ever met, you wouldn't have expected michael jackson to be the most considerate toward you.

it was a priceless privilege—being admired for your work by the greatest entertainer you had ever seen. he wasn't just a guy; he was the guy. the feeling of being the center of his attention left you speechless.

he was kind and charming, looking straight into your eyes whenever you spoke. at first, fan admiration was all you felt for him. you never thought it could develop into something else.

something called love.

because that's what you feel for him right now.

he couldn't say the same about you. he didn't fall in love at first sight when he met you—it wasn't some kind of superficial attraction. somehow, it was much more than that. he wasn't lying when he said he admired your work; he would flip through radio stations just to hear your voice. once he found it, he wouldn't change the dial. he would stop whatever he was doing just to focus on listening to you.

and when he finally saw you in person after so long, he felt that repressed feeling—the one he was always avoiding—bubble up from inside. you left him mesmerized. everything about you had him acting like a teenage boy. he was in the crowd at a charity event, and you were the main act of the night.

you were singing like an angel who had come down from heaven just to bless him.

although he didn't speak to you that day, he was already down bad for you.

you were sweet in a different way—so beautiful and kind to the people around you. and when he approached you for the first time at an award show, he was so nervous telling you how much he liked your last album; he kept biting his lip and shifting his weight.

you laughed at him, but it wasn't a mocking laugh. it sounded more like a bird singing—a pretty sound he would listen to every day of his life if he could.

your sweet scent of amber and jasmine was driving him insane. without you even realizing it, he had fallen under your spell.

a month later, he called to invite you to dinner. you didn't think twice before saying yes.

the bright sun set, and now the moon was the only thing illuminating the sky. unexpectedly, the night seemed more breathtaking than usual; you could feel the cold breeze up on the rooftop. michael had somehow managed to rent out the entire restaurant. if he wanted to make a good impression, he definitely succeeded.

"do you like the view?"

he was standing behind you. but instead of looking at the city lights, he was staring deeply at you, and you could feel his gaze burning into your back.

"it's really pretty. i don't think i've ever seen anything like it. but i'm not gonna lie—isn't it a bit scary, all these people?"

"what do you mean, baby?"

"there are so many people in the world, and somehow we can still feel lonely. i used to think that when i reached success, i would have a lot of friends. i thought i'd have people who actually wanted to know the real me."

you turned to face him. your back pressed against the window as michael leaned in. he placed both hands on the windowsill, trapping you between them.

you didn't know what to think. but you knew how your heart was feeling: beating wildly at his proximity. you could smell his woody fragrance, and he was so close that his warm breath mingled with yours. what was this feeling?

"i understand you, more than you can imagine. i know how hard it is—the solitude that comes with fame. but i really do want to know the real you, baby. will you let me?"

oh.

you hadn't realized that was what he wanted.

you wanted to say no. you wanted to have the courage to walk out of the restaurant because you knew how the media would react to the two of you.

together.

but what did it matter what they thought?

not when he was right there, looking at you like you were otherworldly. trying to understand your hidden thoughts. trying to see who you were for himself, not through other people's lenses.

he was being honest with you in every possible way. in the way he glanced at your parted lips, in how you could read everything written in his eyes, and in how his hands hovered lightly over your waist without fully touching it. he was so respectful toward you—like no other guy would be.

you couldn't deny him even if you wanted to.

and so you said yes—but not with words. with a sense of urgency, you pressed your mouth against his. his tongue slid into your mouth, and god, it felt so good. his hands tightened on your waist. the ardent kiss ignited an eruption inside you, fueled by the breathless sounds you were both making. he was kissing you not just with desire, but as if you were a necessity. as if you were his oxygen.

and you could be. you would be. you didn't think you could run away anymore.

he was intoxicated by you. by your touch, by your soft mouth, by the way you tangled your hands in his hair every time he bit your lower lip. by the way you sighed against his mouth.

he knew it was only a matter of time before this happened between you two.

he was finally fulfilled, and you were the reason why.

that's why when the press started noticing how he was always there at every one of your concerts, or the way he looked at you... oh boy. how could he pretend you meant nothing to him when you meant everything?

but you—you were always so fearless. you didn't care about the press, and that impressed him so much. you would hold his hand and walk with him down every red carpet; you weren't ashamed of him. you would place his hand on your waist for everyone to see that he was your man.

you would kiss him in public and treat him like a normal person. you brought him a sense of normalcy, showing him that he was deserving of love and care. and he did the same for you.

he would listen to your unfinished songs and help you with lyrics. he became your biggest inspiration. as a younger singer, you naturally craved his validation, but that wasn't a problem.

it was a good thing.

you felt happy being with him—finally being with someone who looked at you like you meant the world.

and to michael, you did mean the world. you were his world.

during the honeymoon phase, he didn't pay any attention to the tabloids or magazines. you were his only focus. but one day, he was working in the studio, and bryan—that stupid guy who worked with him—opened his damn mouth about the latest news.

"mike, have you seen the news about you and her?"

"i don't really care what they're saying about us, bryan."

"well, you're right. they're just spouting bullshit, like how she's too young for you."

that was it. the exact thing he had been trying so hard to ignore. he didn't want to know about the media or their opinions regarding his relationship with you. he knew people wouldn't understand at first, but he didn't care—at least, not when it was just about him.

he was used to the media treating him like he wasn't human. but the thought of you being affected by the press turned his stomach. it made him insecure. what if they were right?

"what else?"

"nah, leave it, man. just bullshit."

"you already started, so just finish it, bryan. what else are they saying?"

"that maybe you're not the right guy for her. you know, like, 'according to insiders, michael jackson’s new girlfriend is a rising pop singer who is wasting her youth with a—'"

"thank you, bryan. we’re done for today. you can go home now."

shit.

he knew you didn't feel that way, or at least he wanted to believe that, but something inside him was threatening to ruin everything. it was the overwhelming fear that maybe—just maybe—they were right. perhaps he wasn't the right man for you.

you deserved someone better than him. someone who didn't have as many problems. someone the media would consider normal.

he tried to let it go. he tried to forget about it. but it was right there in the newspapers, on the television, on the radio. every single one of them reminding him that you were too good for him.

"mike, are you okay? is something wrong, baby?"

you were lying against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. you were at peace, but you couldn't say the same for michael. he was acting weird—distant from you. and it hurt, because what if you were the problem? if he didn't want you anymore, what were you supposed to do? live your life pretending you weren't head over heels for this man?

you couldn't.

it was too late for that.

"it's just... i didn't want to bring this up, but don’t you think i’m too old for you, baby?"

"mike? where is this coming from? that doesn't make any sense. we have an age difference, but it's slight."

"i heard it in the media. they're saying you're wasting your youth on me... and maybe they're right."

you swallowed hard. you suddenly understood what was happening, and it hurt that he was believing all those lies—because that's all they were.

lies.

they didn't know him the way you did. they just hurt him again and again, but you refused to be collateral damage. you weren't giving up on the two of you—you refused to let him believe all that bullshit.

"mike, baby, listen to me. our age difference doesn't matter to me. at all."

you interlocked your fingers with his. offering a reassuring smile, you stared deeply into his eyes.

"believe me, please."

he didn't believe you—you could see it. and it killed you inside, because how were you supposed to make his insecurities disappear? you didn't want to lose him over this. to you, this was much more than a fling. you wanted to marry this man; you wanted to have his children.

but you understood he had been through a lot. because of that, you made a decision: you wouldn't run away. you would convince him that you two were meant to be.

you called your producer that same night.

the grammys were nothing new to you, but showing up with mike was a whole different story. he hadn't wanted to come with you; you had to pick a fight over it because that man was so stubborn—just like you. the entire world already knew you were together, but ever since that day in the studio, things between you had been a little different.

he was giving you the cold shoulder.

and you knew that tactic a little too well, so you cried a little on the phone until he felt bad for you. now you were holding his hand tightly; you weren't backing down, not even for a second.

"this will be my first time singing on that stage."

"you didn't tell me that."

"well, i would have told you if you were speaking to me, mike."

"are you upset with me?"

"maybe."

you didn't say anything else to him. he kept giving you sidelong glances, and you just pretended not to notice. but right before heading backstage, you planted a kiss on his lips.

letting everyone see that he belonged to you.

michael wanted to turn back time to before he messed things up with his insecurities. you looked so stunning that he wished he could just whisk you away and drag you into his bed.

you stood on stage wearing a dress that hugged all your curves perfectly, staring right at him. when you announced that you'd be singing a new song, he didn't know what to expect.

age ain't nothin' but a number

throwin' down ain't nothin' but a thing

this lovin' i have for you, it'll never change

that was it. he cracked a smile the second he realized what the song was about. you looked so cocky smiling down at him, singing that age ain't nothin' but a number. he wanted to strip you bare right then and there.

you went on.

here i am and there you are

your eyes are callin' me to your heart

all you gotta do is knock and i'll let you in

then we will feel the passion that flows within

you pointed at him, and the camera flashes went crazy. the crowd started screaming as michael appeared on the big screen, and he gave them a wink.

i don't mean to be bold

but i gotta let you know

i got a thing for you

and i can't let go

he couldn't let you go either—he would never let you go. he didn't even wait for you to finish the song before getting up there. on the stage. looking at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. because to him, you definitely were.

you pulled him by the tie and kissed him.

a passionate kiss enveloped the two of you. he had to pull away just to catch his breath, laughing as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. he pressed his hand firmly against your waist.

you walked off stage with him by your side. and michael finally knew, without a doubt, that he belonged to you, and only you.

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[cherrishkissed]

The girl is mine. ᥫ᭡. ( M.JACKSON ) ft Paul McCartney

Synopsis: ᥫ᭡.

Paul McCartney had been your boyfriend for some time now, but things weren't always smooth between the two of you. Late night fights, boring dates, and unloyalty on his end. Michael your childhood best friend, starts comforting you through these troubled times, maybe a little too well.

(Orginal work was 11k words so I'm spitting this into parts, go read part 1 if you haven't <3333)

warnings; slow burn, slightly manipulative idk, cheating if you squint, arguments, suggestiveness

Paul didn’t say anything else after that. He just held Michael’s gaze for a moment longer, making sure the point had landed. Finally he turned and walked out the studio. The door shut somewhat loud behind him.

Michael stood there for a second, jaw still tight, staring at the space Paul had just left. He couldn’t believe what had just been said. He exhaled sharply through his nose and turned away, shaking his head as he ran a hand over his mouth. Who did Paul think he was talking to him like that? Telling him what to do, like he could just erase years of friendship because he felt insecure about it.

He didn’t waste any more time thinking about it.

Michael walked over to the phone near the side of the studio and sat down, already dialing the number without hesitation. Quincy, who had been sitting at the console nearby, glanced over at him briefly but didn’t say anything, just kept adjusting knobs and watching levels, he’d seen enough to know better than to get involved.

Michael waited for the line to connect, leaning back slightly in the chair, still annoyed, still heated, but quieter. He had something on his mind. He wasn’t about to sit with Paul’s words in his head any longer than he had to.

Meanwhile back at your home, you were unaware of what just happened.

Paul barely spoke to you that whole day, you guess he was still mad at you which was ridiculous. If anything, you're the one who should be mad, not him. You rested easy in your chair on the back patio, studying lines for a new movie you're starring in. Some movie taking place in New York, in all honesty, it just looked like a remake of Superfly, just with a longer backstory. Your hair lightly flowed from the wind as it passed by. You pulled your floral kimono over you, shifting in your spot. As you read through the lines, the phone rings. Your eyes flicked toward it, the ringing filling the air again and again like it wasn’t planning on stopping anytime soon.

You set the pages down and picked up the phone, "Hello?"

"Hey, it's Apple head," Michael smiled on the other line. You smiled to yourself, you always did when Michael called or talked to you. You picked up a purple grape from your bowl on the table before answering.

"Hey Michael, how are you?" You asked him sweetly still looking through your lines. You flipped to another page as you listened on the phone to him.

"M'alright angel, just at the studio with Quincy," he says tilting his head, glancing to Quincy. "How's your day been? Keeping busy?"

"A little, just looking over a movie script, eating some snacks," Michael loved the way you sounded on the phone, so cute and relaxed.

He did some more small talk with you before slipping in what just happened, "Has Paul talked to you today?"

"Not since this morning, and barely that," you say disappointingly. "I figured he had something important to do today," you say trying to shrug it off, but deep down it hurt, and Michael could tell. He hated that for you, he would never do that to you. "Why do you ask?"

"Just asking, and that sounds like a bull face lie by the way, that's no reason to talk to you," he says softly on the phone. "I wouldn't do that"

"Yeah I know, but it's alright, he's a busy man," you told him. Michael let out a playful hum at that.

“Yeah, real busy,” Michael rolled his eyes slightly, still thinking about it as he glanced toward the clock. “He actually came to see me down at the studio not too long ago.”

You sat up a little in your chair immediately, putting your lines down without thinking. “He did?” you asked, your voice lifting slightly. “What was spoken?” Your fingers tightened around the edge of the script for a second as you waited for his answer, already trying to piece together why Paul would’ve gone all the way down there. You tried to keep your tone light, like it wasn’t a big deal, but there was a small knot forming in your stomach anyway.

“He seemed pretty upset with me,” Michael said quietly on the other end of the line. “Came in insisting that we were doing something.”

“Doing what?” you asked.

“You know… stuff friends shouldn’t be doing,” he said after a beat. “He told me not to speak with you anymore. To leave you alone.”

There was a pause right after that, like even Michael didn’t like how it sounded out loud. Then he gave a small laugh, trying to shake it off. “I told him he’s got the wrong idea about us. I mean, that’s crazy. I’ve known you most of my life, and he’s just… not asking, but telling me to stay away from you.”

Your eyes widened at that, the script now completely forgotten in your lap. “He said what!?” you asked, pissed.

"And you know, I didn't wanna bother you about it. But I can't help but feel some type of way about it. I find it unsettling, it's like he's built up this resentment towards me," Michael said adding on. He knew just what words to use. In reality, Michael didn't care for Paul and didn't care for what he said either. What he did care about was you, and giving you what you deserved, which was a better man.

Your hand ran across your face in embarrassment and anger, how could Paul say this. After everything seriously. When you asked Paul to talk to Michael you emphasized the word talk. Not, go threaten your friend and tell him to stay away from you.

"God Michael, I am so sorry," you say shaking your head. "He's been acting like this for a couple of weeks now it's ridiculous," you blurted into the phone. "I-I told him to talk to you because, I don't know. I asked him what his problem was with you and he said he didn't like you kissing me or looking at me and i'm like? I've known Michael longer than i've been with you," you scoffed lightly.

"It sounds harsh but it's the truth," your voice came out faster now, more frustrated as you kept going.

Michael smiled at that, he liked hearing you defend him like that. "Right, we've been friends for years, we've always done stuff like that. You've been there for me and i've been there for you, which is why I found it odd on how he acted today," his finger traced lightly around the phone cord as he spoke, more relaxed now just hearing you.

You sighed lightly into the phone, "I'll talk to him Michael, i'm so sorry"

"It's not your fault y/n, you don't need to be upset," Michael assured you. "I'd be protective over you too," he says smiling lightly. "You're a beautiful woman, and an talented actress, you've got every man in the palm of your hand".

You lightly smiled to yourself, there he goes, trying to make you feel better.

"Oh please," you joked to him. "If anything, you've got every girl in the palm of your hand," you say chuckling. "I be seeing you"

Not every girl, he thought to himself. He chuckled shifting in his seat before responding, "Yeah yeah," he says. "On a better note, i've been recording a few demos for some songs."

"Oh really?" you asked Michael. "When I get some free time i'd love to hear them, i'm getting a little busy this week," you tell him getting up from your chair. The phone stayed tucked between your shoulder and ear as you gathered your things. You picked up your movie lines and slid them under your arm along with your small bowl of fruit.

"Yeah of course, just let me know. You got a new movie you working on?' he asks curiously. He listened to the movement through the line, imagining you already on your feet, moving around like you always did when you were multitasking.

“Yeah, supposed to be about some drug king in New York,” you said, shifting the phone between your shoulder and ear as you moved into the kitchen. “I think it’s just another spin-off from Superfly. You heard of it?”

“Yeah, course I have,” Michael said, a little more alive at that. “Loved it. That whole thing…the music… Curtis Mayfield on that soundtrack, man," he said in awe.

"Who you telling?' you say smiling.

He paused like he was picturing it. “That’s what I like about him,” he went on. “It ain’t just music. It’s like… it talks to you. You hear it and you feel like you somewhere else. Like you in the film, not just listenin’ to it.”

You nodded to yourself, peeling a grape as you listened. “Yeah, that’s exactly it. It feels like it belongs to the story, I love it too.”

Michael let out a small approving sound, like you’d said it right. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “That’s what good music is supposed to do.”

There was a brief pause, then his tone shifted again but with that little curiosity always underneath it. “But hey, I got another question for you.”

"Yeah go ahead," you tell Michael. You walked into your kitchen and pulled out some more fruit.

"Your favorite movie, it's Paris Blues right?"

"Of course it is, you know I love Diahann Carroll," you say smiling to yourself.

"Yeah I thought so," Michael leaned back. "I asked Paul and he didn't even know," he slipped in. "I had to tell him"

"He didn't know my favorite movie?" you asked quietly. It's small things like this that you wished Paul would pay attention to, instead of wondering who was looking at you. You found it annoying, you did love Paul, but you wondered if he felt the same way.

“Yeah, and then he goes, "Oh, you only wish to have her, that's why shes on my arm," Michael said, doing his best impression of Paul's voice. The way he said it made you chuckle despite how annoyed you were.

Michael smiled hearing it. "And I told him, I'm one of her best friends. That's enough for me," he said softly.

You shook your head, setting your bowl down on the counter. “Oh, Paul needs to stop it,” you scoffed. “I'll talk to him Michael, okay?”

“Alright, angel.” His voice softened. “I didn't mean to call and make you upset.”

“No, it's not your fault,” you replied quickly. “He's the one actin' crazy.”

Michael let out a small hum of agreement before leaning back in his chair. “Just call me when you can,” he said. “Okay?”

You smiled to yourself. “I will. He isn't gonna stop me from using my own phone either.”

That earned a quiet laugh from Michael. “Good.”

You picked your script back up from the counter and tucked it underneath your arm again. “Bye Mikey. Take care.”

“You too, angel.”

You could hear the smile in his voice right before the line went quiet. You couldn't wait till Paul came back.

On the other line, Michael hung up the phone putting it back. He felt bad, not for Paul but for you. He hated seeing you go through this, it was getting on his nerves. But Michael was gonna be there for you, regardless of what Paul's crazy ass said. He sat next to Quincy in the chair quietly, biting down on his tongue.

"What was that about?" Quincy asked already knowing.

"Nothing, just a cry for help"

Los Angeles, 1982. Few days later.

You pondered on what happened for the next few days, you were furious. Who did Paul think he was? You knew the conversation needed to happen. The problem was figuring out how to bring it up without it turning into another argument. It was a Friday afternoon and you just got finished doing a scene.

"Take 10 everyone!" The director yelled.

You let out a small huff, finally, you thought before walking away from the set. You walk to your makeup booth and sat down, "Can I get a water? And a snack?" you asked one of the workers.

You flagged down a worker, they nodded and walked off to get you what you needed. You leaned in the chair, legs crossed. You did a few touch-ups on your makeup, adding a little more eyeshadow and carefully lining your eyes again. The lights surrounding the mirror reflected off your skin, giving your face a warm golden glow. After studying your reflection for a moment, you reached for your blush and lightly brushed some across your cheeks.

"Here you are Miss," she nodded to you.

"Thank you pretty," you say smiling to her. Before she leaves you quickly ask her, "Hey has Paul been around? I thought he was gonna come watch me today."

“No ma’am, I haven’t seen him,” she replied. “I think he left after he dropped you off.” She hesitated for a moment before adding, “Haven’t seen him around since.”

You sigh to yourself lightly, and shake your head. "Get me a phone please," you tell her.

As she walks away you eat a piece of your fruit, chewing slightly harder than you meant to. It would have been nice if Paul could have just stood with you today, at least this one time.

The lady comes back with a small silver phone, she hands it to you.

You grab the phone and open it, you quickly dial Paul's number. "Walk with me" you tell the worker. You needed a witness for the bullshit that was just about to happen.

You walk outside to your trailer and walk in. You slowly pace back n forth in your heels waiting for him to pick up.

It took two full rings before he finally picked up, "Paul honey where are you? I thought you was gonna be here while I did my movie?" you asked him curious.

"I thought you said next week?"

Your brows immediately pulled together. “No, I clearly said this week.” You shook your head, already feeling yourself get irritated. “Do you even be listening to me?”

“Of course I listen,” Paul replied quickly. “I just forgot, y/n. I'm sorry.”

You sighed, rubbing your forehead lightly. “It’s alright,” you said, though it didn't really feel alright. “You think you can come today? I gotta do another scene in a couple minutes. It's downtown." You found yourself hoping he'd say yes. You were always there for Paul. Always sitting through rehearsals, shows, interviews, whatever he needed. Surely he could spare one afternoon.

“Can't,” Paul answered. “I'm at a business meeting. Three hours away.”

Your expression fell. “What business do you got that's three hours away?” you asked, unable to hide the disappointment in your voice.

“Look,” Paul said with a sigh. “I'm sure you're doing amazing like you always do. Just tell me all about it when I get home, alright sweets?”

"Seriously, you can't just come this one time?" you asked him, urging. "You're my boyfriend for crying out loud," you mumbled the last part not wanting to be loud.

“I'm sorry, alright? I'll be home soon,” he said, like that was supposed to make everything better.

You shook your head lightly. “Are you still mad? Is that what this is about?”

“Y/n, please. And no, it's not,” he replied, dismissing the question almost immediately. “I'll be home soon. Have a good day.”

Then he hung up. You slowly lowered the phone from your ear and stared at it for a second. What the hell was that? A business meeting? You turned and looked over at the worker standing nearby.

"Can you believe that?" you asked.

She let out a small sigh, shaking her head as she leaned against the counter. “No, I can’t,” she said honestly. “That didn’t sound right at all.”

You scoffed and popped another piece of fruit into your mouth. The more you thought about it, the more irritated you got. You were always showing up for Paul. Always making time. Always supporting whatever he had going on. Yet somehow when it came to something important to you, there was always a reason he couldn't be there. You sighed and set the bowl down.

You decided to make a different move. Reaching for the phone again, you dialed a different number before walking over to the couch. You sank into the cushions and waited for someone to answer.

“Hello?” he said on the other end.

“Michael? It’s y/n.”

“I know it’s you girl,” he replied right away, a smile already in his voice.

You couldn’t help the small smile that came to your face too as you shifted in your seat. You slipped off your shoes and pulled your feet up onto the couch, settling in a little more. “Hey…” you said softly, waving off the worker as she stood nearby. You can go, it’s okay. She gave you a quick nod before heading out, leaving the room quieter.

"How's life treating you?" you ask quietly, trying to make some small talk. You didn't want to seem so desperate for some attention right now, so you decided to ease into the conversation.

"Hm, it's been pretty good, just a little tired is all." Michael's fingers gently played against a piano.

"Hm, that's good. Not the being tired part, that's bad. But i'm glad you're good overall," you lightly shook your head to yourself.

Michael glances up from the keys before speaking, "What's going on hm? You're stuttering over your words."

"Yeah well, Paul was...." Paul. That name. Michael lightly rolled his eyes before contuinig on listening.

"He was supposed to be here you know, watching me do my movie and recite my scenes but, he just left after dropping me off," you scoffed. “Sounds shitty, doesn’t it?” you asked, your tone turning a little sarcastic as you stared off across the room.

"Yeah pretty rough, shitty." Michael, corrected himself. "M'sorry bout that."

"Not your fault, I guess he just doesn't really have time for me anymore. I make time for him but he rarely gives it back to me...it's like i'm an old guitar of his or something," you sounded annoyed and saddened. Imagine having to put up with this and you can't even get fifty percent of what you give in.

Break up with him. Thats what Michael wanted to tell you, but he kept quiet and continued to listen.

"And mind you he didn't tell me anything about this business trip he had today and now he's maybe like 3 hours away, m'like are you kidding?" you say defeated on the phone. Your nails lightly run over your face.

"And I told him, I said Paul. I'm gonna be doing a movie soon and i'd love for you to come watch me, he said yeah sure n now look, wheres he at?"

Michael could hear the little edge in your voice through the phone, that quiet attitude mixed with a pout you were trying not to show. He paused for a second, like he was choosing his words carefully.

“M’sorry, y/n,” he said softly. "What about…" he started, then hesitated like he was already checking his own schedule in his head. “What about if I could come down?”

Your mood shifted lightly, you sat up. "You'd do that? I mean it isn't too serious, i'm just practicing but yeah, you think you could make it?"

Michael got up from his seat, "Yeah i'll be there. You can count on it"

You smiled lightly to yourself, "Thanks Mikey baby, I appreciate it."

On the other end of the line, Michael went still for a second, like the words had caught him off guard in the best way. His grip tightened slightly around the phone, a small breath slipping out of him as he looked down, trying to act like it didn’t do something to him.

"You know I got you, see you inna bit," he says before hanging up.

You hum to yourself, your worries slowly decreasing. It was nice having Michael around, because he was there when you needed him. It's a shame you have to count on your best friend more often than your boyfriend. Seeing how Michael was a huge star himself, and yet he was able to make time for you. That meant a lot. You then get a knock on your trailer, you get up from the couch and walk over to the door.

"You've got 2 minutes left," the worker told you. You nodded and slipped your heels back on before walking back to the set. You walk back and see everyone is already getting back into their stations. A few other artists come around you to tidy up your hair and makeup. A small brush paints over your lips, applying just a little more shine.

"Ms.l/n, Michael is here," you were notified.

You turn your head and smile at him. There he was, just like he promised. Dressed in one of his jackets with jeans. He had on those shades, the ones he wore at his Grammy event, chewing some gum, most likely big red. His curls fell naturally around his face, slightly tousled. He pulled off the shades as he glanced around the busy set, cameras, lights and a whole bunch of talking. Wasn't nothing new to him. He finally spotted you getting prettied up by a few artist.

His eyes softened as he started walking up to you, "There she is," he says smiling. You walk towards him and wrap your arms around him, hugging him. His hands wrapped around you as well, traveling but just stopping along your waist.

"You chewin' real hard on that gum," you teased him still smiling.

"Well, you cheesing real hard, how bout that?''

"Oh shut up, i'm just glad someone's here to support me," you say shrugging.

Michael chuckled, still chewing on his gum, "He really couldn't stop by?' he then asked quietly.

You shook your head, "Quote, 3 hours away" you rolled your eyes. "I bet if he saw you here, he'd be back in less than 20 minutes"

"Yeah, considering how clear he made it to me," he then tilts his head down at you, "You talk to him about that yet?" he nods to you.

You hesitated, then shook your head. “No, not yet,” you admitted. “When he comes back, I’ll talk to him about that… and then some.”

Michael nods at you, taking in your feature just for a second. Your eyes, the way they grew slightly from when he was talking to you. The way your lips shined from the new application of gloss against them, so pretty to look at. What if he just leaned in for second just to kiss them?

"Michael?"

“Yeah, I heard you,” he said softly. “You need to go on set soon. I’m excited.” His eyes stayed on you for a second longer, warm and steady, before he nodded toward the set. “Go do your thang,” he added with a light chuckle. “I’ll be here watchin’.”

"Mhm," you hum before walking back to the set.

He watches the way your hips twitch as you walk, you were so sexy to him. The way your legs graced the floor every time you walked, hands swiftly flowing by your sides. A pretty young thang Michael would call you to Quincy, with a gorgeous smile and a playful persona.

You walked on set, heels clicking against the ground. You stand next to one of the actors getting ready to act out the scene. Michael sits in a seat pushed up front, given to him by one of crew members.

"Thank you," Michael nods to them. Before he gets settled in they quietly ask him for an autograph, sliding him a small poster and marker. Michael chuckled as he took the pen and signed off on the photo. He then sat comfortably, waiting for your performance.

"All take it back, scene 2."

You nod towards the director, then glance at Michael. He gives you a small nod, "You go it."

"And action!"

Michael watched you, such a natural. He loved how easily you slipped into character, like the cameras weren't even there. Every line came effortlessly, every emotion right where it needed to be. He found himself smiling more than once as he sat back and watched. The scene carried on for a while, take after take, until the director finally called for a break. The set immediately came alive with movement again. Crew members adjusted equipment, actors wandered off to their trailers, and conversations filled the space that had been silent moments before. You let out a breath as you stepped away from the cameras, rolling your shoulders and scanning the crowd.

You then walked right over to Michael, "How'd I do?"

"You did perfect, as always," he says getting up from the chair hands by his side. His glasses were tucked in his jacket, still chewing.

"You still chewing on that gum?" you chuckled glancing to his mouth. You then start walking outside to your trailer. Michael followed after walking beside you. "Does it still have flavor in it?"

"You wanna find out?" he asks you quietly. The words slipped out faster than he could count for, and judging by the look on your face, you'd caught it too. He didn't mean to say it out loud.

You glanced over at him, "What that mean Michael?" you asked him. Was he flirting with you?

Thoughts like this had been sitting in the back of his mind for months now, maybe longer. Long enough that sometimes he forgot he was supposed to keep it there.

Michael felt the corner of his mouth twitch when you asked him. He knew exactly what he meant. That was the problem. You were just about the last person he should've been saying things like that to. And for a brief second, he wondered what would happen if he just told you. Just telling you the thoughts he had with you, kissing you, giving you the sweetness you deserved. But the thought disappeared as quickly as it came.

Paul.

The name flashed through his head like a warning sign.

Instead, Michael reached into his pocket and slipped a pack of big red from his pocket. He pulled out a piece. "See how long it last with you," a quiet laugh bubbled in his chest. If he couldn't get himself out of this conversation, maybe the gum could.

Oh, that's what he meant, you thought, it sounded strangely confessional. No "that's not what I meant," none of that. You could be over thinking about it, it was joke.

You glanced down at the silver gum stick in his fingers, then back up at him. Your hand moved before you really thought about it, taking it from him slowly. You unwrap the silver plastic from the gum and pop it in your mouth. Your tongue catches it first before your teeth do. Michael stares at you, eyes focused.

"Mhm," you say to him you continue walking. He walks besides you, analyzing what you just did. As you both walk, a few people come walking up to you.

"Michael Michael!"

"Y/n!"

Shit, was the only thing you thought. Michael looked at you, he knew that look. The reporters nodded, scribbling notes down as another camera was lifted in your direction.

"Y/n how are you this beautiful afternoon?"

"Oh i'm doing amazing, just finished up doing a scene," you say flashing a smile at the innocent question, but you knew there was more.

"I see you have the King of Pop with you here, is Michael perhaps going to be in the movie?"

"Unfortunately no, Michael just came to be supportive of me," you nod to the cameras.

"That's right, y/n has worked hard on this," Michael agrees into the mike. "It's important she feels appreciated."

"You know Y/n where is Paul? Has he been around?"

"Of course he has, he's my boyfriend. He dropped me off earlier today," you say slightly irritated at the question. In a sense, it felt like a lie you were telling. Lying for Paul. Yeah Paul was there, on his own time.

"He's off on a business trip, a couple of hours away," you clarify. Of course, they asked you more and questions, just nosy. But Michael stood right next to you, keeping you calm, making sure you didn't feel too bad. He hovered over you, slightly taller, his jaw tightened every time he watched you talk. His eyes glanced over you as you talked about the movie.

"So stay tune, it's coming soon," you say giving that pretty smile. "Wish I could talk more but i'm done for today," you say walking off. As you do you pull Michael with you.

You quickly stepped into the trailer and shut the door behind you. The noise from outside instantly faded, leaving only a dull murmur beyond the walls. Michael chuckled softly at you.

"Nothing is funny. They're so…" you said, rubbing your forehead.

"Nosy," he finished for you, taking a seat across from you.

"That's one word for it. One question turns into twenty. Then somehow they're askin' about things that ain't even got nothin' to do with why they're there. Just a bunch of..."

But before you could finish the phone rang. You glanced over to it, and so did Michael. You picked up the phone, crossing your legs, "Y/n, who am I speaking with?"

"Saw you on the tv. He's there?" you heard on the other line. Paul.

You rolled your eyes, "He came to support me, unlike other folks."

"You can't just go a few minutes without him can you?" Paul asked you irritated.

"Do not start," you tell him crossing your leg tighter, trying to keep yourself from going off while Michael was there. "If you would've just paid attention to what I said a couple of days prior, it would be you being here instead. But you don't give a shit do you," you say lightly stressing the last part. You then take a breather, you got pissed, real pissed. You've been holding it in for so long that's starting to boil over.

There was silence on the other end. Not the kind where the call had dropped. The kind where Paul was trying very hard not to say the first thing that came to mind.

Finally, he let out a slow breath. "That's not fair."

You laughed once, it wasn't a happy laugh. "Not fair?"

"No." His voice remained calm, but you could hear the frustration creeping in. "I've been working, y/n."

"And I've been working too."

You could practically picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't appreciate hearing that Michael's there filling in for me," he says annoyed.

Your grip tightened around the phone. "Nobody's filling in for you. You're leaving me alone, and I shouldn't have to beg you to spend time with me. No matter what I do, it just seems like i'm never as important as you are to me," you mumbled quietly. You couldn't believe it, you felt your eyes stinging and watering. Were you actually about to cry?

Michael saw, for a moment, he wanted you to hang up. Just hang up the damn phone so he could pull you into a hug and tell you to forget about all of it. Forget about him. But he didn't. He sat where he was, elbows resting on his knees, quietly listening to the scene unfolding in front of him. Every now and then his eyes would flick up to you. You looked angry. No. You looked hurt, months of holding back how you felt started to build up. And somehow that was worse.

"Yeah, tonight," You then say. You hang up the phone and lightly rub over your eyes. You sat quietly not saying anything, just taking a breather.

Michael finally spoke, "You alright angel?"

"Yeah just, I don't know what I do wrong. Seriously," you scoffed. "I mean, I'm loyal. I do what I can do, do you know how many times i've had to stop what i'm doing just to cater to something he had going on?"

"Sounds like a man child," Michael muttered.

You lightly glared at him, "Don't," was all you said.

"But it's true isn't it?" Michael asked not caring about your serious tone. He was fed up watching you be used, and in a way sick of you defending your shit of a boyfriend. He tilted his head slightly, "I mean, can't remember anything about you, constantly putting your stuff aside just so he can be happy? It's ridiculous" he finished.

"You only see the bad stuff because that's all I'm telling you right now," you lie slightly. There you go lying for him.

"Then tell me the good stuff," Michael said, leaning back and crossing his arms over his chest. He eyed you, waiting for just another pathetic excuse, but nothing came out.

"Hmm." Michael hummed, shaking his head. "See, that's what I'm talkin' about."

You rolled your eyes immediately at that, you was about to say something until Michael cut you off.

“No, don’t do that,” he said, cutting through your reaction. “Don’t act like I’m just talkin’ to hear myself talk.”

You opened your mouth, but he kept going, not even giving you space to dodge it.

"You keep doin’ this," he said, pointing slightly like he was emphasizing the pattern. “Him first. Him always first. ‘Is he okay?’ ‘Did he make it?’ ‘Is he mad? And when do you do that for you?” he asked.

"That ain’t fair to you, and I don’t like it. Not one bit.” He leaned back just slightly, exhaling through his nose like he was trying to stay calm but couldn’t fully hide it.

He let you sit in silence for a moment, neither of you saying anything. The argument that had seemed so important a second ago suddenly felt far away.

You stared down at your hands, you didn't feel like crying, but your eyes had started to water anyway. Michael saw and started to fumble with his fingers. Most of his frustration drained right out of him, his jaw softened. Maybe he'd pushed too hard. Maybe he'd said too much. You looked exhausted more than anything. Tired of defending yourself. Tired of defending Paul. Tired of carrying around feelings you'd been trying not to deal with.

Michael swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted was to be another person making your day worse.

"C'mere," he said softly. You didn't get up, you just sat there, legs crossed, eyes looking up in annoyance, and a small bit of hurt. He walked over instead. "Please." There was a small change in his voice on that last word, like he wasn’t trying to argue with you, just trying to reach you.

You scoffed at him, but slowly got up from the seat. Your arms were folded as you looked at him. He looked at you, your brown eyes and long lashes. He brings you into a small much needed hug, arms wrapping low around your waist. Slowly but surely, your arms wrapped around him, hugging his frame. You pressed your head against his chest, his hand slowly rubbed your back in slow circles. The smell of his cologne hit you next, soft and familiar, something sweet and warm that eased the frustration sitting in your chest more than you wanted to admit.

This felt, good. Hugging Michael felt good, it always did.

Michael's arms tightened around you slightly. "M'sorry," he said quietly. "You know I don't say nothin' to hurt you."

You knew that, but hearing those words hurt you a lil. "Yeah well, they hurt," you mumble into his chest. Michael let out a small sigh. You then lightly look up to Michael. There wasn't anything playful about his expression now, just the small frustration he's been carrying around all day. The kind that seemed to get worse every time Paul came up.

"You know what pisses me off?" Michael asked quietly to you, eyes low.

You frowned slightly. "What?"

His jaw tightened, "The fact that he had all day."

You blinked slow and shook your head lightly, "Michael—"

"No." His hand slid a little lower against your back, settling comfortably. His fingers spread there for a moment, the movement was small, you almost could miss it if you didn't pay attention. It made the frustration in his voice feel more real, like he was trying to keep himself together before saying something he'd regret. His thumb brushed lightly against the fabric of your shirt as he shook his head.

"He had all day to be here." His eyes searched yours. "All day. He knew this was important to you."

You looked away, "Michael I-"

Michael immediately shook his head. "Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Make excuses for him." The trailer fell quiet, maybe a bit of gossiping from other people outside, but other than that. Silence. His eyes dropped to your lips for the briefest second. Just a second, but you saw it. Michael saw your expression change. Saw the realization. Instead of backing away, his jaw tightened. Almost stubbornly. Like part of him was tired of pretending.

"If I knew you needed me somewhere," he said quietly, "I'd be there."

You stare at him, closely. "Yeah, I know" you say softly. You don't say anything, just stare.

"I want you to do better," he says quietly. His eyes pause on your lips. He then leaned in slightly, waiting, just to see if you'd pull away from him.

When you didn't, he pressed his lips to yours. He lingers on your lower lip, drawing it between his just enough to make the breath catch in your throat. Then he sucked it softly, the wet pull sending a jolt straight between your thighs, something you've never really felt with Paul. His tongue softly traced the seam of your mouth before he let go, only to capture your upper lip the same way, biting down just a little, enough to sting, enough to make you want more.

Oh Michael, you thought to yourself.

Your eyes lightly closed as you kissed him back, but why? Maybe because you didn't want to reject this. Maybe a small part of you wanted this, the feeling of being wanted, the feeling of someone taking control. Your lips slid against his, the slow press of your mouth turning the moment heavier, thicker. Your hands were lightly gripped at his jacket. He bit your bottom lip again then soothed it with a slow lick, you did the same shortly after to him. At the moment, you forgot all about Paul. You both then separate slowly from the kiss,

"Can you do that for me?" he asks you after doing so. For a second, you forgot what he was talking about, but right. Do better.

That kiss...definitely wasn't friendly. It was lined with a temptation you wanted to indulge in. You glanced to his lips, they were lightly smeared with your lip gloss, showing evidence of the temptation you fell for, Michael.

Michael knew the line was crossed, "Don't think too much, it's just a kiss," he says like it's nothing, even thought he knows it wasn't. "People kiss."

You lightly pushed him off and stared.

You wasn't sure what to say or do, yell at him? Scream? Smack him? He just kissed you and you didn't even stop him. In fact, you continued to kiss, and kissed longer till you could taste his gum flavor as well.

Better fact, you just cheated on Paul.

Michael watched the look settle on your face, "Hey...hey."

"Don't hey hey me Michael, are you serious" you scolded him. "Why, why would," you turned away. "I got to go," you say packing your stuff in your purse.

work of ©cherrishkissed ♡, I'll post the other parts laterrrrr, ignore typos!!!

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[cherrishkissed]

Weekend fun 𖤝 | MICHAEL. JACKSON |

‎ꫂ᭪݁. you sneak away with your boyfriend to enjoy some alone time

contains — ᨳଓ . afro Michael, slow grinding, dirty talking and two freaky virgins btw.

৻ꪆ Los Angeles, Hayvenhurst 1978.

For the past few minutes, you and Michael have been hidden away. Specifically, in his room. You've been dating for awhile and all had been pretty well. Michael was sweet and caring, always tending to you. Letting you get whatever you want or just making sure you are comfortable. His favorite moments was when you would help pick out his hair, he sat right between your legs when you did.

Michael was everything a girl could ask for. And lately, you'd been thinking it was about time you paid him back.

Now, considering your upbringings, you both agreed to wait until marriage. But of course urges had followed. You knew this, it was clear as day. No matter how hard Michael tried to be subtle about it, you knew. It happened too often, but you loved it. Just to tease, you would wear a tshirt and panties around him, walking slowly while his eyes gradually followed.

"Michael baby everything okay?" You would ask him innocently, voice sweet as you stood there practically half naked. He would keep his eyes right on you, giving you eye contact and nodding. But as soon as you walked off, his legs would shift in his spot, mainly trying to adjust to the new feeling he was having after seeing you like that.

If you felt bold, you'd grab his face teasingly, and have your thumb and pointer finger brush against his jaw, just to look into his wide eyes. You even gave him small neck kisses, going up to his ear and telling him the nastiest stuff you'd do. He loved it all, giving you small shy smiles, but still remained in control. He just let you toy with him.

You wanted to try something different this time, and you couldn't wait. You pulled Michael aside from the party, he looked slightly confused but went along with you.

He made up some excuse to his brothers to get away from the whole party going on downstairs. He then followed you to a different room and immediately was tempted. You firmly sat him down on the bed and eyed him.

"What's this?" he asks you, eyes wondering. You already had the smallest shorts on and a pretty top.

“My appreciation, for being such a good boyfriend,” you said, a small smile tugging at your lips as you looked at him. “Now sit still.”

The music still filled the house, but Michael's heavy breathing over filled it.

You've been winding your hips against him slowly but surely. Oh gosh was he a mess, breathing heavy and slowly pressing himself against you. "Don't be shy now cmon," you tell him as you bent over more, arching your ass into him. From all the teasing you did to him, Michael wanted to do so much more to you than just sit here and let you toy with him again. But of course, he had to wait.

His hands gripped onto your ass trying to match your rhythm, fingers digging in just enough to feel the skin through your clothes. Michael’s chest rose and fell, his breath grew slightly faster.

"Yeah, just like that Mikey, it's yours" you murmured, rolling your hips in a slow circle that dragged your ass right over the growing bulge in his pants.

Michael's lip was caught in between his teeth, he let out a soft hum before lightly smacking your ass, "All fa'me?"

"Mhm," you replied smirking. "Don’t just sit there, push into it. Let me feel you."

The room was quiet except for the sound of fabric shifting and the low, drag of your bodies moving together. Michael was so glad he was able to sneak away with you. His dick kept throbbing under you every time you pressed down.

He let out another soft sound he tried to swallow, "I got you… I just don’t wanna mess it up."

His grip tightened, and he started to grind back, hesitant at first, then steadier, pressing his clothed dick right against the curve of your ass with each pass. Michael didn't know where you learned to do this, but he didn't complain. His girl was grinding her plump ass on him, all he was focusing on was trying not to nut. He tried to keep calm, shifting his legs wider, but a small spot of precum darkened the front of his boxers.

A soft whine slipped out of him, as he felt himself leak steadily. "Like that mama?" he says grinding his dick into you.

"We really shouldn't be doin' this," he says quietly but not removing his hands.

"But you deserve this don't you? For being so good, bein' such a gentleman" you say smiling to yourself.

A nice quiet whine came from his lips, "Mmmm, y-yeah," he then took a moment just to watch your hips move around in his lap, "You don't understand how good this feels"

Your pussy responded quickly. A fast heat pooled low in your belly, you could feel the slickness start to gather between your pussy, soaking into your panties with every grind. His hands slid lower, palms cupping and spreading you as he found his own rhythm, grinding deeper. His fingers kneaded your flesh soft as you backed up more against him. His hands, so big, and all over you.

The fabric of your panties clung a little more to your pussy with each pass, your clit throbbed from the pressure of his thick bulge, just rubbing right over it. This was a whole new side of Michael, and you loved it. Usually, Michael was shy in public. Just holding hands, giving small kisses to your cheek, always keeping it cool.

But with you privately, he let himself go a little bit.

His hands would travel a little further more, sometimes just resting right above your butt. He'd then face you with the cuteness grin, like he didn't know what he just did. He definitely was a fan of your butt, that's why you decided to do this. In a way, you couldn't believe this. You and Michael never had done anything like this before, it was a new feeling for both of you, and felt so good.

You weren't sure if Michael was gonna last...the way his dick just continued to grow underneath, you were surprised he didn't nut in his pants yet. "Surprised you still goin'" you teased still rubbing against him. "Looks like you got some patience"

"Hm don't start, you think you teaching me something," he mutters now controlling your hip movement.

He then takes his thumb and slides it right between your clothed folds, pressing gently. You get caught off for just a second before smiling and going with it.

"I'd show you something...but I don't wanna rush this," he mutters the last part, his thumb still pressed against that wet spot, drawing small circles.

"Do you know how pretty you look? Grindin' this ass against me," he mutters the last part.

You leaned back into him, letting your ass work in slow circles while he held you there, "Maybe." You then turn back, looking at him as you roll your hips in a circle, "You like when I do that?"

Michael looks up at you and nods his head, he bit down on his bottom lip, eyes half-lidded. "I love it," his eyes wide as his fingers were still locked on you.

"S-shit… you really tryna make me cum like this," he muttered, voice strained but still trying to sound in control. "Keep talkin’ to me," he says while watching your ass move.

You two were gonna be gone for a bit.

property of ©cherrishkissed ‎ꫂ᭪݁

(inspired by the song, purp 4 sale by spaceghostpurrp. I heard this audio from an edit with Michael and I just started thinking about bumping n grinding I'm so sorry... LMAO).

just a small bread crumb, i'll go back n edit later, not proofread....🌚

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[1o9]

[achillesinhighheels]

[recomvery]

Not every day has to count. Some days are for repairing, resting, mourning. You don't have to perform every day. Some days are for doing nothing. For sleeping all day or being on your phone. Relaxing is ok, allowed and encouraged. Do what you need to do.

[yourlocalsexylibraaaa]

I love relaxing