Please do not tag me in any fic that contains an 'original character', OC, as the 'reader'.
I'm sure there are plenty of other people who are grateful for your work, but it is not for me.

Andulka
Three Goblin Art
Xuebing Du
i don't do bad sauce passes

tannertan36
No title available
AnasAbdin

@theartofmadeline

Love Begins

Janaina Medeiros
Mike Driver
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
d e v o n

Discoholic đȘ©
Show & Tell

JVL
Keni
I'd rather be in outer space đž
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
seen from Malaysia
seen from Germany

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from El Salvador
seen from Russia
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom

seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
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seen from TĂŒrkiye

seen from United States
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seen from Singapore

seen from TĂŒrkiye
@sinflowersugar
Please do not tag me in any fic that contains an 'original character', OC, as the 'reader'.
I'm sure there are plenty of other people who are grateful for your work, but it is not for me.
âź âŻ; ‷ TWO DAYS TOO LONG .á
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader
wc: 4.7k (i got carried away a lil)
summary: two days apart shouldnât feel like forever but try telling that to your husband. based on this request by @miss-kuki-nz (thank you! i enjoyed writing this)
warnings: none, just pure fluff <3 also, the kids remain unnamed. i wasnât sure what to do w that so theyâre just referred to as âyour sonâ and âyour daughterâ lol
November 7th, 2001
The crisp November air nipped at your cheeks as you stepped out of the car onto the bustling sidewalks of Manhattan at West 45th. Giant billboards flashed advertisements for Michaelâs new album, Invincible, and massive screens on the buildings displayed the different covers in rotation. Your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nerves. You adjusted the strap of the diaper bag slung over your shoulder, glancing down at your two little ones. Your son, four years old with his fatherâs curious eyes and a mop of curls peeking from under a wool beanie, clutched your hand tightly. Your daughter, three and full of energy wrapped in a tiny pink coat, held onto your other hand, her small fingers warm despite the chill.
Theyâd been asking for their Daddy nonstop for the past two days.
âWhen is he coming home?â your son had whispered all morning on the plane, his voice small but hopeful.
âSoon, darling,â youâd promised. And now, that soon was here.
Michael had flown out to New York a couple of days earlier for this special signing event at the Virgin Megastoreâhis first-ever in-store appearance to celebrate Invincible. The album had dropped just over a week ago, and the world was buzzing. But being apart, even for a short time, felt like an eternity. The kids missed their father terribly; bedtime stories without his gentle voice reading them felt incomplete. And you missed your husband.
âSurprise time,â you murmured to the children, kneeling briefly to fix your daughterâs scarf. âWeâre going to make Daddy so happy.â
Your son nodded solemnly. âWe stay in line and wait for our turn?â
âExactly,â you confirmed with a smile.
Youâd secured the album and special passes through a discreet call to Michaelâs team who were in on the secret and coordinated everything so you could blend into the line without drawing attention. Security was tight, but a few trusted people had helped make the surprise possible.
New York was still tender. Youâd felt it the moment you landed. Something slower in peopleâs movements, this kind of gentleness that hadnât been there before September. And yet here they were, hundreds of fans, standing in the cold to be near something that felt good.
The line stretched further than youâd anticipated. It wound from the entrance of the Virgin Megastore, down the block, and curved around 6th Avenue where a cluster of fans had been gathering since before sunrise, you were told. Hundreds of people, maybe more, bundled in coats and scarves and clutching their copies of Invincible to their chests like something precious.
You found your place in the queue and settled in.
âThere are so many people here, mama,â your daughter observed, craning her neck to peer at the line ahead of you. Her breath made small clouds in the cold air.
âThere are,â you agreed, shifting the diaper bag higher on your shoulder. âDaddy has a lot of fans. They are here because they love him.â
âMore than us?â
You looked down at her upturned face, so earnest you felt your chest squeeze with something warm. âNobody loves Daddy more than us, sweetheart.â
She seemed to accept this with great satisfaction, hugging her stuffed elephant tighter.
Your son was quieter, like he was thinking hard about something. He stood close to your side, his small hand still wrapped around yours, and watched the crowd with his fatherâs eyesâthe same expression full of wonder, curiosity and attention that Michael had.
âIs he already inside?â he asked.
âHe should be getting ready to come out soon, yes.â
âAnd he doesnât know weâre here?â
âNot yet.â
A slow smile spread across his face. He liked surprises. Heâd gotten that from his father too.
The wait was long, and youâd come prepared.
Youâd packed juice boxes and little foil-wrapped crackers, a small activity book that your son quickly lost interest in, and a travel-sized container of animal crackers that your daughter rationed with the seriousness of a tiny accountant, counting each one before eating it. Youâd brought an extra pair of mittens for each of them, which proved necessary when your son declared his hands were frozen approximately forty minutes into the wait.
Around you, fans speculated about what he might be wearing, whether heâd speak much, whether heâd sing anything. A group of teenagers near you had been practicing what they wanted to say to him, coaching each other, dissolving into nervous giggles every few minutes. You listened to them with quiet fondness. You understood that feeling. Even now, after everything, Michael still gave you that flutter. Maybe more so, because now you knew him. The whole of him, not just the image and somehow that made it more, not less.
Your daughter tugged your sleeve. âMama. Iâm cold.â
You crouched down and pulled her close, rubbing her arms briskly through her coat. âBetter?â
She leaned into you, resting her chin on your shoulder, and sighed the contented sigh of a child who had decided warmth was satisfactory. âCan Daddy come home after this?â
âThatâs the plan, sweetheart.â
âGood.â She patted your cheek once with her mittened hand. âI miss him, mama.â
âI know, baby. He misses you too.â
You thought of the phone call from last night, after the kids were asleep. Michaelâs voice low and a little tired, the way it got when heâd been performing or working for too long and needed to just be himself for a minute. I miss you. I miss the kids. Tell me something normal. Tell me what you had for dinner. And youâd laughed and told him about the pasta your son had refused to eat and the way your daughter had spilled orange juice on the dog, and heâd laughed too, and for a little while it had been like he was right there.
âHe said he couldnât wait to see you,â you told her.
She smiled and tucked her face against your neck.
A ripple moved through the lineâa surge of murmuring and you straightened up, your pulse jumping. Through the glass front of the store you could see movement, figures in dark clothing, the deliberate organized energy of a security detail coordinating itself.
âMama,â your son said quietly, moving closer to you. âIs it time?â
âAlmost,â you said. Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
You watched through the glass, trying to catch a glimpse. The staff inside were moving with more purpose now. Someone adjusted a display. A woman with a headset spoke into it with focused urgency. And then;
There he was.
Even from this distance, even through the glass and the crowd and the slight distortion of the window, you knew him instantly. He emerged from a back area wearing a royal blue silk shirt with matching pants, his dark hair falling past his jaw. He was speaking to someone beside him, nodding, and even from here you could see the quiet tension in his shoulders that meant he was preparing himself for the scale of it all.
Your son made a small sound which was not quite a word and you felt his grip tighten on your hand.
âNot yet,â you murmured. âWe wait for our turn. Remember?â
He nodded, pressing his lips together, practically vibrating with eagerness.
The line began to move in earnest. Groups of fans filtered through the entrance, spent their moment at the table, emerged back through a side door with teary eyes and trembling hands. You heard various noises from inside; applause, squeals, the sustained low roar of excitement. Every few minutes the queue shuffled forward.
You were maybe thirty people back when your daughter started flagging.
Sheâd been a trooper, genuinely, more patient than you had any right to expect from a three-year-old in the cold for over an hour. But the warmth youâd maintained with crackers and cuddles along with the distraction of the glittery star stickers was wearing thin, and she was beginning to list against your leg with the boneless weight of a child approaching the edge of her reserves.
âUp?â she asked, lifting her arms.
You settled her on your hip and felt her immediately go limp with relief, her head dropping to your shoulder. It was going to be difficult for you to carry her comfortably for long, but you decided to go for as long as you could. Your son pressed close to your other side, alert again now that the end was visible, his earlier quiet replaced by a barely-contained energy.
Twenty people. Then fifteen.
You could hear Michaelâs voice now, just barely, filtering through the sounds of the crowd, brief exchanges, warm and low. You couldnât make out words, only tone. You knew that tone.
Ten people. Eight.
Your daughter had fallen into a light doze against your shoulder, which you took as both a mercy and a complication. You pressed a kiss to her temple and kept her steady.
Five people.
Your son looked up at you. His eyes were bright, serious, his fatherâs eyes in his fatherâs expression with the look of concentrated emotion, too big to fully contain, being held carefully.
âMama,â he whispered.
âI know, darling. Weâre almost there,â you whispered back.
Three people. Two.
One.
And then it was your turn.
A staff member held back the small velvet divider and smiled at you knowingly. âRight this way, Mrs. Jackson.â He took the diaper bag off your shoulder and passed it on to another staff member, signaling them to place it somewhere safe.
You took a breath and walked forward.
The table was set up near the center of the floor, with displays of the album on all with all five covers. The overhead lights were bright, and there was a backdrop behind the table, and there were cameras, staff members positioned at intervals, and a whole organized infrastructure of the thing. You took it all in in a peripheral, secondary way because the primary thing was him.
Michael sat at the table with a Sharpie in his hand and his attention on the album being placed in front of him, saying something to the previous person that was wrapping up.
He hadnât looked up yet.
The previous fan moved away and a staff member reached for your album to place it on the table, and you shifted your sleeping daughter on your hip, and took the last step forward, and Michael looked upâ
And stopped.
The Sharpie hovering above the album cover, his eyes landing on you and then widening like something cracked open in his face, all the careful measured grace of the public version of him dissolving instantly and completely.
He stared at you for one second, twoâ
âSurprise!â you said softly.
Your son, who had been managing himself with admirable restraint for nearly two hours, completely abandoned any further effort at restraint. âDaddy!â
And Michael was already moving.
He was on his feet before the word had fully left your sonâs mouth, already coming around the table, the Sharpie forgotten, the album forgotten, everything forgotten except the small boy who had broken into a run toward him. He dropped to his knees right there on the floor of the Virgin Megastore and caught him, and your son hit him with the full momentum of several days of missing his father, both small arms wrapping around Michaelâs neck, and Michael wrapped around him just as completely, one hand cradling the back of his head.
There was a murmur through the crowd of staff and waiting onlookers.
Michaelâs eyes were closed. His jaw worked. He held your son like he was checking something, making sure something was still true, and then he pressed his face into your sonâs hair and you heard him exhale, a slow, shuddering breath.
âHey, buddy,â he managed. His voice was rough. âHey. I got you.â
The four-year old said something muffled into Michaelâs shoulder. You couldnât hear it. After a long moment, he finally lifted his head and looked at you.
In all the years youâd known him, in all the ways youâd seen him look at you with love, with gratitude, with the tender warmth he reserved for you alone, you werenât sure youâd ever seen him look at you quite like this. Like youâd done something he hadnât known how to ask for.
His eyes were wet.
âHey,â you said.
He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. âHi.â His voice was barely above a whisper. âWhat are youâhow did youââ
âWe took a plane, daddy!â your son informed him, pulling back to look at his fatherâs face.
Michael laughed as he pressed his forehead to your sonâs briefly before standing, keeping one arm around him and turning to you.
He reached out and touched your face with his free handâfingertips only, brushing your cheekbone gently.
âYou brought them all the way here,â he said.
âThey were going crazy without their daddy. I was going crazy without you.â
âYou could have called. I would have set everything upââ
âAbsolutely not.â You shifted your daughter on your hip, and she stirred faintly at the movement, grumbling without waking. âWe stood in line like respectable fans. We wanted the element of surprise.â
âYou stood in line?â
âYes.â
His expression was something close to disbelief. âBaby. Itâs so cold outside, I donât want you guys getting sick.â
âWe had crackers while we waited,â your son offered helpfully. âAnd she got glittery star stickers.â
Michael looked at the star sticker on his daughterâs coat, now slightly crumpled from being carried. He reached out carefully and touched the sticker, then looked up at you.
âHow long has she been knocked out for?â
âShe almost made it the whole way from departure but crashed right before the event started.â
He was already reaching for her, his hands going to her with the practiced ease of a father who had spent countless hours with his baby draped over him. You transferred her carefully, and she shifted in the transitionâmade a small complaining sound and then her head found Michaelâs shoulder and she settled immediately. Her tiny head fit perfectly in the space between Michaelâs shoulder and neck.
He tucked her close and looked at you over her head.
âYou must be so tired, baby,â he said.
âNot really, I am not the one signing albums.â
There was a brief disruption while the team figured out what to do with the four of you. Michaelâs manager appeared at his elbow, murmuring something into his ear, he listened and nodded while keeping one arm around your son and holding your daughter with the other. He looked down at the boy while he listened and made a faceâa silly face meant only for his sonâwhich always earns him a laugh.
Some rearrangement happened. A small area was cleared slightly to the side of the main table. A staff member brought over a chair. The signing would continueâMichael had insisted on that but you and the kids would be nearby rather than shuffled off to a waiting room somewhere, and a couple of additional security team members were repositioned to keep the immediate area clear.
It was handled with the efficiency of people who were practiced at managing extraordinary circumstances, and within a few minutes it had simply become the new arrangement, absorbed into the event without further disruption.
You sat down with your daughter, who had finally surfaced into drowsy wakefulness and was now sitting in your lap looking around the store with an unbothered expression of someone still partially in a dream. Your son had stationed himself right beside Michaelâs chair and was watching everything with wide, attentive eyesâthe fans as they approached, the albums being signed, his fatherâs steady and gracious presence through it all.
âI wanna sign albums too, daddy!â he insisted.
âOh, do you now?â
The little boy nodded enthusiastically.
âHere, let me see your autograph first.â Michael pulled a spare piece of paper toward him and handed him a Sharpie.
Scribbling an unintelligible mess, he handed the paper back to his father.
Michael examined the scribbles with exaggerated seriousness, turning it sideways as though he were evaluating a priceless work of art.
âThis is actually much better than my autograph.â
âIt is?â
âOh, absolutely.â He tapped the paper. âLook at this confidence. Look at these bold artistic choices.â
The four-year old beamed. Michael leaned closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
âI think Iâll have to let you sign an album just for Daddy.â
âReally?!â
âMm-hm.â Michael glanced toward the line of waiting fans. âThe fans arenât ready for this level of talent yet.â
A few people nearby burst out laughing.
The last fan came through and the staff began the gentle, organized process of winding down the event. Adjusting displays, speaking into headsets, beginning the conclusion of the event. Michael signed the final album, spoke the final kind words, and the person left with the same shining eyes as everyone before them.
Then the table was just a table.
Michael set down the Sharpie and turned, and for the first time in the past hour or so he wasnât in the middle of something. He exhaled slowly and rolled his shoulders once, and you recognized that particular exhaleâthat he was really tired but still gave his all to the fans.
Your daughter held up her stuffed elephant. âDaddy. Look.â
He crossed the few steps between you and crouched down in front of her. âIâm looking.â
âHis name is Peanut.â
âI remember Peanut,â Michael smiled.
âHe came on the plane.â
âThat was very brave of him. Heâs as brave as my princess.â
She considered this, then held the elephant out toward him. Michael accepted it with appropriate gravity, examined it, and handed it back. She tucked it under her arm, satisfied, and then reached out and patted his cheek with one small hand, the same gesture sheâd given you in the cold outside.
He gathered her up and stood, settling her on his hip, and turned to find your son already close, leaning against his side in that particular way kids had of simply annexing a parentâs space. Michael put a hand on the back of his head, ruffling his curls gently.
âYou both waited in line,â Michael said. He was talking to both of them, but his eyes found yours over their heads. âI hope you did not trouble mama too much.â
âMama said we had to be patient,â your son told him.
âShe was correct.â His voice was dry but warm. âShe always is.â
âI know,â the boy said, with an earnestness so complete it almost sounded like a medical fact.
You stood up and looked at Michael.
In his arms, your daughter was braiding a section of his hair with focused concentration. At his side, your son was speaking a mile a minute about the plane and the clouds and his unsuccessful mission to find their house from the sky. And Michael listened to all of it, and at the same time he was looking at you.
âThank you,â he said quietly.
You took a step closer. âFor what?â
âFor doing this.â He shifted the girl slightly, freeing one hand, and reached out to touch your face again, fingertips at your cheekbone, like he was still checking. âFor standing in the cold for I donât even know how long. For bringing them. Forââ He stopped. His jaw tightened briefly. âI needed this. I didnât say so, butââ
âI know,â you said.
âYou always know.â A faint, quiet smile. âThatâs why Iâm thanking you.â
You closed the remaining distance and leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw, brief and soft. He turned his head into it slightly, like a reflex.
âWeâre in public,â you murmured.
âSo?â he said, his voice low.
âSo behave,â
âGod forbid a husband missed his beautiful wife and wants to kiss her.â
âYouâll survive,â you laughed, and your daughter looked up at the sound of it with bright interested eyes. Your son stopped talking about the plane ride long enough to look at both of you with the mildly suspicious expression of a child who knew something was happening that was for grownups.
His staff had arranged cars. That was the other thing about Michaelâs staff, the logistics that had an invisible coordination that moved things from one arrangement to another. Youâd half expected some debate about hotels, about whether youâd all head to a restaurant first, about the details of the evening. Instead, there was simply a car waiting when you emerged from the side entrance of the store, and a small security presence around it, and a team member who smiled at your children and told them both theyâd been very patient today.
Michael settled both kids in the car, buckling them securely.
âHotelâs not far,â he looked at you.
âGood. Somebodyâs going to be fully asleep in about eight minutes.â
He glanced at your daughter already leaning heavily against her brother. A small smile. His hand found the small of your back briefly.
âCome on,â he said.
She was asleep in six. Your son made it to the hotel lobby before his eyes started losing the fight, and by the time youâd gotten upstairs and through the door of the suite and managed the brief logistics of pajamas, he was moving on autopilot, responding to instruction with the half-conscious compliance of a child running on fumes.
Michael took over without discussion and that was something youâd loved about him from early on. How fatherhood came to him naturally. You caught fragments from the bathroom where you were washing your face, removing the makeup of the day: the beginning of a bedtime story and the specific register he used only with them.
By the time you came back into the room, both children were in the hotel bed, and Michael was just rising from where heâd been sitting at the edge of it, his voice trailing off from wherever the story had left them.
He stood up and looked at them for a long moment.
âSheâs got a new thing she does,â you said quietly. âWith her hands when sheâs falling asleep.â
Michael glanced back at your daughter.
âBraiding things. She was doing it to my hair earlier.â He said immediately. âShe started about three weeks ago.â
Your gaze drifted to the little girl. Even now, her tiny fingers were absentmindedly twisting the edge of her blanket as sleep pulled her under.
You hadn't even realized when the habit had started but Michael did.
âAnd heâs taller.â
âWhat?â You snorted.
âIâm serious.â
âMichael, youâve been gone two days. Thatâs not how growing works.â
âTime zones. Californiaâs three hours behind New York. Thatâs three whole extra hours of growing.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose and shook your head, fighting a laugh. âMichaelâŠâ
He put his arm around you, and you leaned into him, as you both stood there for a moment in the soft dim hotel room. Your children sleeping, the city a distant murmur outside.
âIâm glad you came,â he said.
âIâm glad we came too.â
âThe line, though.â He shook his head slightly. âYou didnât have to. The kids must be so tired and cold. And you had them all by yourself.â
âWe wanted to. We wanted to be in the line with everybody else.â You tilted your head up to look at him. âI wanted to see your reaction when you didnât know we were coming.â
A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth.
"You got me."
"I know."
"And they were very well behaved," you continued.
Michael's eyebrows rose.
âYou should've called me."
"And said what?" You laughed. "'Michael, come rescue me from the line you're currently signing forâ?â
"Yes. Would have dropped everything to be with my family.â
You turned toward him and he kissed you softly. His hand found your waist as he leaned in, pressing his lips briefly against yours before resting his forehead against yours for a moment.
When he pulled back you rested your head against his chest and listened to the steady, reliable sound of his heartbeat.
âTake me home tomorrow?â you murmured.
His arms tightened around you. âFirst flight.â
đ
I am considering redownloading Wattpad.
can someone go deep into my mind and write the fic i want exactly
~Hidden Kisses~
A/n: so likeeee, I saw this part in the Oprah interview and I just KNEW I had to write this. Plus this moment was too funny and I was HOLLERING. anyways love you guys enjoyyyy
Summary: Private, not a secret. Fluff. Uncontrollable laughing. Sweetness galore. Bodyguard x pop star. Sunshine x moon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Being a bodyguard to the King of Pop was one thing. Seeing a world you had never seen before. Lights. Cameras. Crazy fans. Stadiums packed to the brim. It was chaos.
Being his lover? That was another. It was bliss. Gifts overload. Adoration. The most wanted man, on his knees for you.
So when he decided to give an all interview, the conversation of the relationship came up.
âIf you donât want to go public, i understand that. I donât want you to go through scrutiny from the media. They can be terrible.â He sighed, watching her as she fixed up his collar. Making sure he looked perfect.
She shook her head a small smile on her face. Her heart softened at his concern. All he wanted to do was protect her. Even when her job was to protect him.
âLove, I donât mind them knowing youâre in a relationship. Weâre private, not a secret.â
He smiled up at her. Of course, she was always so willing to be open. She never hid anything from him. Not even being able too if she tried.
A few hours later, the interview was in full swing. Some questions that were asked made her want to end the interview right there. Others made her heart sink by his answer. But of course, she had to remain professional.
âDo you date?â Oprah asked, her tone wasnât rude. But rather intrigued.
Michael sighed, a small smile appearing on his face, âYes.â
âWho do you date?â
He couldnât help himself, his eyes wondered over towards her. She was just beyond the camera. Leaning against a speaker. Having a hand holding up her head, she looked at him. Curious as to what he would really say. Either way, she didnât mind if he decided to keep her private.
She had him in ways no one else could.
He took a big breath, preparing his answer.
âWell, there is this gorgeous woman. Weâve known each other since we were young. Shes been with me through a lot. I donât know how she puts up with me.â He chuckled at the end, a blush coming out from his face.
Oprah smiled, loving the reaction this mysterious woman seemed to have on him.
âMay we know who she is?â
He slowly shook his head, âI would much rather she be ready, to come out on her own. Thatâs if she ever decides too. I donât want to push her into the public, because, weâve all seen what the media can do. And Iâd hate for that to happen to her. I love her too much.â
Her heart jumped in her chest, a small smile formed on her face. Pride. Joy.
Private. Not a secret.
Oprah kept asking questions, and of course Michael answered them. Until eventually they got to a question about more rumors.
âThere, this was another one of those rumors. That you had proposed to Elizabeth Taylor?â
She snickered off camera, not in a mean way. She adored Elizabeth. In all honestly, she was very surprised how that woman stayed so warm and kind after all these years in Hollywood.
Michael chuckled, humored by the question. And more than willing to set the record straight.
âElizabeth Taylor is gorgeous. Beautiful. And she still is today. And Iâm crazy about her.â
âBut did you propose to her?â
He thought for a moment, and answered honestly. âI would liked to have.â He smiled like a child, so innocent and kind.
This did not bother her, as she was very secure in their relationship. But also, she definitely didnât blame him. Elizabeth had treated her with nothing but warmth. Kindness. Such a sweetheart when the first met. Stealing her away from Michael to talk alone. Braiding her hair. In a way, she would never have minded if it ever happened. Michael wouldâve been in great hands.
âWell, Elizabeth Taylor is actually here.â
Michael eyes went wide, a look of shock on his face. As though a child, who had their mother hear something they definitely werenât supposed to.
She couldnât help herself, she laughed. Quietly of course. But she laughed, hard. The whole situation was hilarious. Walking over to Bill, she leaned on his shoulder. Attempting to control herself. And yet she couldnât. It was very hard to stay professional.
As they went through the segment, she did her best to stop laughing. And eventually she did. But a smile stayed on her face. One of amusement.
The two locked eyes. And it was immediate that she would tease him about it later.
Soon, the segment ended. And she couldnât help it. Laughing hard in bills shoulder once more. She could replay the moment over and over again if she could.
And she would.
âWhatâs so funny?â Michael said, walking up to them. She tried to contain herself once more. But joy radiated her face. Standing fully up, she placed her hands behind her back. As though she got caught.
âNo reason. No reason.â
He narrowed his eyes at her playfully, âliar.â
They had a few minutes before commercial break was over, and they needed to move onto the next segment.
He walked away slightly, beckoning her to follow him. As though he needed help with something.
She followed with no objections. Looking up at bill with an innocent look on her face as she left.
Everyone could feel the tension. But no one really said anything. And it was apparent who the mysterious woman was. No one judged them. Instead, some of them smiled and chuckled. Going back to what they were doing.
The two went to a hallway, private.
âYes Mr. Jackson?â She asked, pretending as though it was strictly professional.
Once he knew they were really out of sight. He turned around. A smirk on his face, placing his hands on her waist. He gripped her, not hard. But enough to signal that he wanted just a moment of her time.
âDonât Mr. Jackson me. You laughing at me out there?â He chuckled, pushing her up against the wall. Her hands immediately came up to his chest. Moving them up and down. A way to soothe his nerves.
âOnly teasing baby. Harmless really.â She chuckled, playing dumb.
âOh yeah?â He beckoned, she nodded, giving him an innocent look in her eyes.
âThen what was so funny?â He asked again, his smirk formed into a smile. What a beautiful smile it was.
She softened as well, moving her hands to his arms. âOh Iâm crazy about Elizabeth. I would have liked to have proposed to her.â She teased, using his words against him. Her voice was soft, yet low. A subtle meaning in it.
âYou jealous?â He asked, softening even more under her touch.
She pretended to think for a moment. Then answered, âNo, because I have you now. Thatâs all that matters.â
He couldnât help himself. Immediately, he leaned in. Closing the gap between them. His lips softly touched hers. A slow dance between the two. Every time the kissed, it seemed as though it was the first time.
He guided her arms, placing them around his neck. And she willingly did so. Her hands finding their way into his hair. Softly tugging.
He led his lips down her jaw, to her neck slightly. She leaned her head against his, sighing. Letting herself have this.
How bold he was.
He placed soft kisses, then stopped. Letting himself rest on her neck. Inhaling her scent.
This was more than Intimate. Emotional. Safe. Two souls just allowing themselves to vulnerable with each other.
Just the two of them. It felt as though time had stood still.
But of course, time never still for no one.
She slightly checked her watch, and saw that it was getting close to when he had to be back.
âMichael, you need to head over there.â
âNo.â His voice muffled from her shoulder.
âNo? Excuse me?â She laughed, looking down at him. âYouâve already been gone long enough. You have a few more segments to do.â
âI want to stay here.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
âMichael!â She whispered shouted through a laugh, pushing him up. Grabbing his face with both of her hands. Making him look at her.
One look, and she immediately wanted to change her mind.
But she couldnât. ONE of them had to be responsible.
âCome on, only a few more segments and youâll be done.â
âI donât want to do it anymore. Letâs go get some ice cream. Watch a movie.â He offered instead.
She shook her head, smiling at him. âYou finish this, and weâll have a whole movie night. Iâll even sleep over. Deal?â
âGirl you already live here on the ranch!â
âWell yeah, but this time Iâll sleep in your house. Unless youâd rather I go back to my cabin?â
âNo absolutely not.â
âOkay then,â leaning up, she pressed a sweet kiss to his lips. Then pulled back, before he got smooth again, âLetâs go, you can dance in front of millions. You can do an interview.â
He chuckled, pulling back from her grip. Just looking over her.
How did he get so lucky?
âI love you.â
âI love you too, now go!â She whispered at him, pushing him forward to start walking.
âI pick the movie this time.â He said, leaning back to tell her.
âOkay, but Iâm objecting to IT, I donât want nightmares.â
âOh come on, itâs good!â
âMichael Joesph!â
He laughed, it filling the hallway as they walked. âOkay! Okay! Donât leave me please.â
âNot in a million years Applehead.â
đŸđâđ đđœâŻ đ»đ¶đđđŸđâ đŸđ đâŽđ⯠âê«áȘĘ đđđŒđđșđŸđ đ. âžâž
đđŸ đșđ đđșđđ đżđđđœđ đđđ đđșđ đđ đđđ đđđŸđ đđŸđŸđđđđ đżđđ đŒđđđżđđđ.
ălate 70s michaelă đ đżđŸđ!đđŸđșđœđŸđ đ àŁȘË ÖŽÖ¶Öž đ ââ .⊠đ.đŒ. 4,000+
đŻđđ§âĄ
The argument starts before midnight.
You hear it through the phone first.
Not words exactlyâjust shouting. Muffled and sharp. A door slamming hard enough to make the line crackle.
âMichael?â you ask quietly, sitting upright in bed.
For a second thereâs only breathing on the other end. Uneven. Angry. Hurt.
Then his voice comes out strained and shaking.
âI gotta go.â
The line clicks dead.
You stare at the receiver for a moment, your stomach twisting.
Something about his tone makes your chest ache.
Youâve known Michael Jackson long enough to recognize when heâs pretending to be okay. He does it constantlyâonstage, in interviews, around fans, around his brothers.
But not with you.
Never with you.
Rain taps softly against your bedroom window as you throw on a robe and walk downstairs. The house is dark except for the kitchen light you left on earlier.
You donât know why you suddenly feel restless.
Maybe because you know exactly who the shouting had belonged to.
Joe Jackson.
And if Joe had gotten angry enough to yell like thatâŠ
You donât even want to imagine what he said.
Twenty minutes later, headlights sweep across your driveway.
Your breath catches.
You hurry to the front door and pull it open before the car fully stops.
The familiar Cadillac sits idling in the rain.
Bill Bray steps out first, umbrella already open.
Then Michael climbs out from the backseat.
And your heart nearly breaks.
His curls are damp from rain. His eyes are red. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his dark jacket like heâs trying to hold himself together physically.
Bill gives you a small nod.
âHe just needed somewhere safe tonight.â
âThank you,â you whisper.
Michael wonât look at you.
Bill squeezes Michaelâs shoulder once before returning to the car.
The second the Cadillac disappears down the street, Michael finally lifts his eyes to yours.
Youâve never seen him look this shattered before.
âHey,â you say softly.
Thatâs all it takes.
His face crumples instantly.
Michael crosses the porch in two quick steps and wraps his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.
You feel him shaking.
Actually shaking.
âOh, babyâŠâ you whisper.
He buries his face into your shoulder.
And then he starts crying.
Not quietly either.
The kind of crying that comes from holding too much pain inside for too long.
You guide him into the house carefully, shutting the door behind you while he clings to you like letting go might destroy him.
His tears soak into your robe.
âI got you,â you murmur, rubbing his back slowly. âI got you.â
Michael can barely speak.
âHeââ his voice cracks badly. âHe said I ainât nothinâ without him.â
Your chest tightens.
You pull back just enough to cup his face.
âDonât.â
âHe said Iâm selfish now⊠said I think Iâm bigger than the family because of the albumâŠâ
His lips tremble violently.
âAnd then he said nobody would even care about me if I wasnât a Jackson.â
You stare at him in disbelief.
Anger burns hot in your chest.
âHow could he say that to you?â
Michael laughs bitterly, tears still slipping down his face.
âThatâs not even the worst part.â
You guide him toward the couch.
He sits beside you heavily, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face.
âHe kept sayinâ I wasnât tough enough,â Michael mutters. âSaid Iâm too sensitive. Too soft.â
You gently pull his hands away from his face.
âMichael Jackson,â you say firmly, âlook at me.â
His glossy brown eyes meet yours.
âYou are one of the most talented, loving, beautiful men Iâve ever known.â
His expression breaks all over again.
âYou hear me?â
He swallows hard.
âBut what if heâs right?â
âHeâs not.â
âButââ
âHeâs not.â
You brush your thumb beneath his eye carefully.
âYour father doesnât get to decide your worth.â
Michaelâs breathing turns shaky again.
âHeâs been tellinâ me things like this since I was little,â he whispers. âSometimes I start believinâ him.â
You lean forward and kiss his forehead tenderly.
âThen let me remind you who you really are.â
His eyes close instantly.
Like heâs exhausted.
Like heâs been waiting for someone to say that his entire life.
âYouâre kind,â you whisper against his skin. âYouâre brilliant. You work harder than anybody I know. You care about people even when they hurt you.â
Another tear slips down his cheek.
âAnd you are so loved.â
Michael finally looks at you again.
The vulnerability in his expression nearly undoes you.
âYou really think that?â
âI know it.â
His lips part slightly.
Then he kisses you.
Sudden.
Desperate.
Like he needs affection as badly as oxygen.
You kiss him back immediately, your fingers sliding into his curls while he grips your waist tightly.
He tastes like rain and tears.
The kiss grows deeper within seconds.
Michael makes a soft broken sound against your mouth that nearly destroys your self-control.
âYou always make me feel safe,â he whispers shakily.
Your hands cradle his face.
âThatâs because you are safe here.â
His eyes flutter closed again.
Then he leans forward and presses his forehead against yours.
For a long moment neither of you speak.
The rain outside grows heavier.
The room feels warm and quiet compared to the storm in his head.
You brush your fingers through his curls slowly.
âDo you wanna talk about it more?â
Michael shakes his head immediately.
âNo.â
âOkay.â
âI just wanna stay with you.â
Your heart melts.
âThen stay.â
He exhales shakily.
And suddenly you realize how exhausted he looks.
Dark circles sit beneath his eyes.
His shoulders are tense.
Heâs still trembling slightly.
âYou eaten anything tonight?â you ask.
Michael gives a tiny shrug.
âDonât remember.â
You narrow your eyes.
âThat means no.â
A faint smile finally tugs at his mouth.
âThereâs my girl.â
You stand and hold out your hand.
âCome on.â
He takes it instantly.
You make him tea first.
Then toast.
Simple things.
Michael sits at the kitchen counter watching you quietly the entire time.
Like heâs trying to ground himself just by looking at you.
When you place the plate in front of him, he murmurs a soft thank you.
You move between his knees, resting your hands on his shoulders.
âYou okay?â
He leans into your touch automatically.
âBetter now.â
You smile gently.
âGood.â
Michaelâs hands slide around your waist slowly.
Then he presses his face against your stomach.
The affection is so soft it makes your chest ache.
âNobody talks to me the way you do,â he whispers.
You stroke his curls carefully.
âThey should.â
He looks up at you.
The sadness is still there.
But softer now.
More manageable.
His fingers trace lazily along the fabric of your robe.
âYou think Iâm weak?â he asks quietly.
Your expression immediately softens.
âMichael⊠no.â
âBut I cry too much.â
âThat doesnât make you weak.â
âMy brothers donâtââ
âYou are not your brothers.â
He goes silent.
You tilt his chin upward gently.
âFeeling things deeply isnât weakness.â
Michael studies your face carefully like heâs searching for any sign of dishonesty.
He doesnât find any.
And you watch his walls slowly start crumbling.
âI hate disappointing people,â he whispers.
âYou disappoint yourself more than anybody else ever could.â
That earns a tiny laugh from him.
âYeah,â he murmurs. âProbably true.â
You smile softly.
âThere he is.â
His eyes linger on your lips.
Then he kisses you again.
This time slower.
Softer.
The kind of kiss filled with aching tenderness.
Your fingers slide beneath the collar of his shirt while his hands settle on your hips possessively.
Michael deepens the kiss carefully, almost shy despite the desperation underneath it.
You can feel how badly he needs closeness tonight.
Needs reassurance.
Needs love.
When you climb onto his lap, he exhales sharply against your mouth.
âBabyâŠâ he whispers.
You kiss along his jaw slowly.
âYouâre okay.â
His grip tightens instantly.
âYou promise?â
âI promise.â
Michael hides his face against your neck.
And suddenly heâs emotional again.
Not crying this time.
Just overwhelmed.
You hold him quietly while his breathing steadies.
Then he whispers against your skin:
âCan I stay in your room tonight?â
You smile softly.
âYou even gotta ask?â
His cheeks flush faintly.
You take his hand and lead him upstairs.
The second you enter your bedroom, Michael visibly relaxes.
Like the entire world exists outside those walls and nowhere else.
You sit him down on the edge of the bed.
Then stand between his knees.
His hands immediately find your waist again.
âYou know somethinâ?â you murmur.
âWhat?â
âYouâre beautiful when you blush.â
Michael groans softly and hides his face in your stomach again.
âDonât start.â
You laugh quietly.
âItâs true.â
He peeks up at you through thick lashes.
âYou always say things like that.â
âBecause theyâre true.â
Michaelâs expression turns unbearably soft.
Then he slowly unties the belt of your robe.
His touch is careful.
Reverent.
Like heâs asking permission without words.
You lean down and kiss him gently.
âYes,â you whisper against his lips.
His breathing immediately changes.
Warmer.
Heavier.
Michael slides the robe from your shoulders slowly, eyes drinking you in with quiet awe.
âYouâre so pretty,â he murmurs.
The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flutter.
You push his jacket from his shoulders next, then his shirt.
His skin feels warm beneath your fingertips.
You kiss across his collarbone gently.
Michael shivers.
âYou always know how to calm me down,â he whispers.
âThatâs because I know you.â
His hands slide up your thighs carefully before pulling you closer against him.
Then he kisses you deeply again.
This time thereâs hunger behind it.
Months of tension.
Need.
His mouth moves against yours with growing urgency while your fingers tangle in his curls.
Michael groans softly when you tug them.
âGodâŠâ
You kiss along his neck slowly, feeling his pulse racing beneath your lips.
His head falls back immediately.
âBabyâŠâ
You love how responsive he is.
How honest.
Every sound he makes goes straight through you.
His hands wander across your body carefully at first, then more confidently when you melt against him.
âYouâre so good to me,â he whispers breathlessly.
You cup his face.
âBecause you deserve it.â
Michael looks wrecked by those words alone.
He kisses you harder.
His emotions pour into every touch.
Every shaky breath.
Every desperate pull of his hands.
When you push him gently back onto the bed, he looks up at you with flushed cheeks and blown pupils.
Beautiful.
Absolutely beautiful.
You climb over him slowly, kissing him until neither of you can breathe properly.
The storm outside fades into background noise.
Everything becomes warmth.
Skin.
Soft sounds.
The ache of being wanted.
Michael touches you like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he lets go.
And when things finally deepen completely between you, itâs emotional as much as physical.
Slow.
Tender.
Needy.
He hides his face against your neck halfway through, overwhelmed again.
âI love you,â he blurts suddenly.
The words surprise both of you.
Michael freezes instantly afterward.
Your heart skips.
He pulls back slightly, panic flickering across his face.
âIâI didnât meanââ
You kiss him hard enough to stop the sentence.
âI love you too.â
Michael stares at you like the world just stopped spinning.
Then he kisses you with enough emotion to nearly make you cry.
Afterward, you lie tangled together beneath the blankets while rain continues tapping softly outside.
Michael rests against your chest, tracing lazy patterns along your skin.
He seems calmer now.
Safe.
âYou still think Iâm amazing?â he asks sleepily.
You smile and kiss the top of his curls.
âI think youâre extraordinary.â
He hums softly.
âEven when Iâm a mess?â
âEspecially then.â
Michael finally laughs quietly.
The sound is small and tired and real.
You hold him closer.
And for the first time all night, he finally falls asleep peacefully in your arms.
ËáŻœ ĘË
a/n : still mad over the fact that joe outlived michael like just overlyyy irritating đ michael in the last 70s was honestly one of his best eras like that afro looks sooo adorable i just wanna pinch his cheeks đ„șđ„ș hoped yall enjoyed this onee i lowk wanna make more similar to this and the other one i made a couple days ago !!
imagine telling !mature era michael to keep his glasses on while he fucks you,
Michael absolutely hated the way his glasses looked on him, said they make him look old. You'd walk in on him reading something in private with his glasses on & as soon as he'd see you, he'd take them off.
You'd always tell him how sexy he looked with them, attempting to put them back on his face as he'd try to pry them off again.
"Makes me feel like you're dating a grandpa, I don't like it." He'd complain.
But of course, anything you begged or pleaded for him to do, he'd do in a heartbeat. So when you told him you wanted him to keep them on while he fucked you, he had no choice but to go along with it, anything for you â he was a gentleman after all.
He'd be gripping onto your fleshy hips a little rougher than usual as he fucked into you on his king sized mattress, having you on all fours. His frustration with your request showed through the way he handled you. You felt the shift, he's never usually this rough.
Yet you weren't complaining, you were in pure ecstatic joy. Your eyes would slowly roll back to your head as you mewled & cried like a slut. You'd try look back at him through forceful thrusts, your eyes half lidded n' your lips pouty as you tried to get a glimpse of how he looked, the reason you're here in the first place. His glasses seated neatly on his nose, his hair down & damp, sticking to his temples. He looked as if he was trying to appear angry, yet little did he know his own guttural groans would betray him.
He'd lean over you, cupping one of your breasts as he'd drop his head on your shoulder, drowning in his own pleasure as he'd continued to abuse your pussy from behind. His glasses would start to slip down his nose more & more with each searing thrust.
You'd push them back up, giving him a little light kiss on the lips.
"Grandpa's don't fuck you like this, baby."
đŁČâ
Why would you put this in my head?
itâs canon to me that jaafar will either intertwine your hand with his or hold you real close when youâre making love đ« đ«
then anytime you squeeze his hand because heâs thrusting deeper, he then starts kissing your neck to hear you moan louder. heâll probably let go of one hand so you can grip his biceps or touch his pecs, maybe scratch his scalp. your other hand will always be intertwined with his, he needs to feel you, needs to know youâre real.
Family Halloween Costumes
Summary: You, Michael, And The Children Are Getting Ready For Halloween.
Warning(s): Fluff
A/N: I Know Itâs May But I Thought This Was Cute. Something Small And Simple. Please Follow, Like, Reblog. My Request Are Open.
Michael and the kids had been excited for Halloween ever since October started. Every year, you all watched Halloween specials together, and every dinner somehow turned into a family debate about costumes.
âWhy not knights and princesses?â one of the kids suggested. âDidnât we do that last year?â you laughed. âClowns!â âWe did that two Halloweens ago, remember?â
Even after the kids were tucked into bed, Michael would still lie beside you, throwing out ideas. âWe could all be cowboys.â âYeah? So me and you are actual cowboys while the kids are dressed as cows?â Michael burst out laughing. âOkay, waitâthat actually sounds adorable.â âIt does,â you admitted, âbut I donât know.â
You all sat on the idea for a while until one afternoon when you, Michael, and the kids were curled up on the couch watching Peter Pan again. Halfway through the movie, inspiration suddenly hit you. âWhy donât we dress up as characters from Peter Pan?â
And that was how Halloween plans were finally decided. By the time Halloween night arrived, the house was full of excitement as everyone got ready for trick-or-treating. You helped the kids into their costumes while Michael followed them around with a camera, laughing the entire time.
Prince was dressed as Smee, Paris proudly wore a Captain Hook costume, and your youngest, Blanket, waddled around in a Tick-Tock Croc costume Katherine had made.
Michael could barely stop taking pictures. Then he finally looked over at you in your Wendy costume and smiled instantly. âBaby, you look amazing.â âReally?â you asked softly. âI didnât think I would.â You looked up to see Michael, dressed as Peter Pan, walking over to your vanity. He leaned down and kissed your cheek.
âBaby, you look amazing tonightâjust like you do every night.â You laughed, pulling him in for a quick kiss on the lips. âThank you, sweetie.â Before either of you could say anything else, Prince yelled for Michael from down the hall. The two of you laughed.
âGuess itâs time to go,â you said. Michael grinned before raising his voice dramatically. âAlright! Are you kids ready to go trick-or-treating?âThe kids cheered loudly, Michael included, as everyone headed out the door together.
By the end of the night, the kids were sprawled across the living room floor, dumping candy into piles and trading favorites with each other while you and Michael checked everything over.
Later, after everyone was finally tucked into bed, you narrowed your eyes at Michael suspiciously. âMichael⊠how much candy did you take from the kids?â âOnly one Butterfinger,â he defended immediately âMichael.â
He held up a Hershey bar with a guilty smile. âI got you this, though.â You laughed, shaking your head as you took it from him. âOh, so you do know how to get me on your side.âMichael grinned proudly, wrapping his arms around you as the house finally settled into a peaceful quiet. And that was how Halloween ended for all of you that year.
OHHH YEAHHHH, writing this immediately and itâs dropping TOMORROW đđđđ«°đœđ«°đœđ«°đœ
Me listening to this
Damn right you gon make it right
đâ đđŠ đđđđđ âê«áȘĘ áŽÉȘáŽÊáŽáŽÊ áŽ. âžâž
đđđ đđŸđđđđœ đđđ đđż đđđ đ»đŸđșđđđđżđđ đđŸ đđ. â
ăđđżđż đđđŸ đđșđ đ đŸđđșă đ đżđŸđ!đđŸđșđœđŸđ đ àŁȘË ÖŽÖ¶Öž đ ââ .⊠đ.đŒ. 1800+
đŻđđ§âĄ
The dressing room at smelled like hairspray, expensive cologne, and the faint heat of stage lights bleeding through the walls. Outside, the crowd screamed loud enough to shake the mirrors, but inside, everything felt strangely quiet.
Especially Michael.
You sat cross-legged on the velvet couch, watching him pace the room in glittering black slacks and a half-unbuttoned silk shirt. His curls were still damp from the shower heâd rushed through after rehearsal, little droplets catching at the slope of his neck. Every few seconds, he glanced into the mirrorâand every single time, his expression dimmed.
You noticed it immediately.
âYouâre doing it again,â you said softly.
He stopped pacing. âDoing what?â
âThat thing where you stare at yourself like youâve done something wrong.â
Michael looked away almost instantly. âIâm not.â
âYou are.â
He gave you a small shrug, pretending to fuss with the cuffs of his shirt. âI justâŠâ His voice trailed off. âI dunno.â
You stood and crossed the room slowly, careful with him the way one handled fragile glass. Fame had made people think he was untouchable, but you knew better. You knew the nervous habits hidden beneath the sequins and applause. The way he tugged his sleeves down when he got insecure. The way compliments made him blush so hard his ears turned pink.
Most of all, you knew he hated mirrors.
You reached him gently. âTalk to me.â
Michael sighed quietly, eyes fixed on the floor. âJoe used to say my nose was too big.â He laughed once, bitter and embarrassed. âSaid my skin was bad. Said I looked weird.â
Your chest tightened.
Even now, years later, those words still lived inside him.
âMichaelâŠâ
âAnd people always compare me to my brothers,â he continued, voice smaller now. âJackieâs the handsome one. Jermaineâs smooth. Titoâs cool.â He swallowed hard. âI just look⊠awkward.â
You stared at him for a long moment before lifting your hands to cup his face.
The second you did, his breath caught.
âLook at me.â
Reluctantly, his eyes met yours. Dark brown. Soft. Nervous.
Beautiful.
âYou are the prettiest man Iâve ever seen,â you whispered.
Michael immediately ducked his head with a shy laugh. âStop.â
âNo.â You smiled. âIâm serious.â
His cheeks pinked instantly.
You brushed your thumbs beneath his eyes. âThose big eyes? Pretty. Those curls? Pretty. That smile?â You leaned closer. âDeadly.â
He groaned softly, embarrassed. âYou always say stuff like that.â
âBecause itâs true, angel face.â
The nickname hit him like it always did.
Michael physically froze.
Then the blush spread all the way down his neck.
âOh my God,â he muttered, covering his face with one hand while laughing nervously. âDonât call me that.â
âYou love it.â
âI do not.â
âYou do.â
His shoulders shook with bashful laughter, and finallyâfinallyâthe tension eased from his body.
There he was.
Your Michael.
You slipped your fingers through his, pulling his hand away from his face. âThere you are.â
He looked at you carefully. Vulnerably.
âYou really think Iâm pretty?â
Your heart nearly broke.
You leaned up and kissed him before answering.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
Michael melted the second your lips touched his. He always did. One hand instinctively slid around your waist while the other trembled lightly against your cheek.
You kissed him again.
And again.
Until his shy little sighs filled the room.
When you pulled back, he looked dazed already.
âSee?â you murmured against his mouth. âPretty boys get kissed like this.â
Michael laughed breathlessly. âYouâre crazy.â
âAbout you? Absolutely.â
That earned you another blush.
He turned his head slightly, trying to hide it, but you caught his chin and kissed the corner of his mouth. Then his jaw. Then beneath his ear.
Michael sucked in a sharp breath.
You felt his fingers tighten at your waist.
âBabyâŠâ he whispered weakly.
âHm?â
âYou canât do that before I go onstage.â
âWhy not?â
âBecauseââ He broke off with a flustered sound as you kissed his neck again. âBecause Iâll mess up.â
You grinned against his skin. âMichael Jackson? Mess up? Impossible.â
He buried his face in your shoulder with a groan. âAngel face was already bad enough. Now youâre teasing me.â
âYouâre cute when you blush.â
âIâm not cute.â
âYouâre adorable.â
He whined quietly, which only made you laugh harder.
Then suddenly he pulled back just enough to look at you properly.
And the softness in his eyes nearly destroyed you.
âNo oneâs ever talked to me like you do,â he admitted.
The playfulness faded from your expression.
You stroked his cheek gently. âThey shouldâve.â
Michael stared at you like he didnât know what to do with kindness.
Then he kissed you first this time.
Harder.
Needier.
His mouth moved against yours with a desperation that made your knees weak instantly. Like he was trying to absorb every sweet thing youâd ever said to him before the world could take it away.
You kissed him back just as fiercely.
His hands slid to your hips, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the shiver that ran through his body when you sighed into his mouth.
âGod,â he whispered between kisses. âYou make me feel crazy.â
âGood crazy?â
âThe worst kind.â
You laughed softly before kissing him again, slower this time. Michael hummed happily against your lips, completely gone now, completely soft for you.
You loved this version of him.
Not the superstar.
Not the icon.
Just Michael.
Shy, affectionate Michael who blushed every time you called him pretty.
Your fingers drifted through his curls, scratching lightly at his scalp, and he practically melted against you.
âThereâs my angel face,â you teased quietly.
âOh my GodâŠâ
His face turned crimson again.
You giggled while he hid against your neck. âYouâre so easy.â
âYouâre mean to me.â
âBut you like it.â
A pause.
ââŠMaybe.â
You laughed loud enough that he started laughing too.
Then there was a knock at the dressing room door.
âFive minutes, Michael!â
His entire body jolted.
âShoot.â
You smiled. âNervous?â
âAlways.â
You took his hands again. âYou know what I see when you walk onstage?â
âWhat?â
âA man so beautiful people canât look away.â
Michael stared at you.
Then blinked rapidly like he might actually get emotional.
âYouâre really trying to ruin my makeup now,â he muttered.
You softened immediately, brushing your nose against his. âYou deserve to hear nice things.â
His gaze dropped to your lips.
âSo do you.â
Before you could answer, he kissed you again.
Deep and lingering.
The kind of kiss that felt less like lust and more like devotion.
Still, the heat between you sparked instantly.
Michaelâs hands slid lower along your back, pulling you against him with a soft sound in his throat. You felt him smile slightly when you kissed him harder in return.
âThatâs dangerous,â he whispered.
âYou started it.â
âYou looked too pretty sitting over there.â He paused. âCouldnât help myself.â
Now it was your turn to blush.
Michael grinned triumphantly. âSee? I can do it too.â
âYouâre learning.â
He leaned in again, kissing you slower this time, savoring it. His lips were unbelievably soft, every movement affectionate and careful until you deepened the kiss and felt him lose composure immediately.
A shaky breath escaped him.
Your fingers slipped beneath the open collar of his shirt, tracing the warm skin of his chest, and Michael nearly melted on the spot.
âBabyâŠâ he breathed.
âHm?â
âYou keep touching me like that and Iâm never going onstage.â
You smirked. âTempting.â
He laughed quietly before kissing you again, more desperate now. You could feel years of insecurity in the way he held youâas though he still couldnât believe someone wanted him this much.
So you showed him.
Again.
And again.
You kissed every inch of his face until he was blushing so hard he couldnât even look at you properly anymore.
His forehead.
His cheeks.
The tip of his nose.
âStop hiding from me,â you murmured between kisses.
âIâm trying,â he laughed weakly.
âYouâre beautiful.â
Another blush.
âAngel face.â
âPleaseâŠâ
You grinned. âNever.â
He shook his head, smiling helplessly now. âYou really got me wrapped around your finger.â
âAnd you love it.â
ââŠYeah.â
The honesty in his voice made your chest ache.
Michael rested his forehead against yours, breathing softly.
âYou know,â he said quietly, âwhen I was little, I used to pray Iâd wake up looking different.â
Your heart dropped.
âBut now?â
He looked at you carefully.
âWhen you look at meâŠâ He swallowed. âI donât hate myself as much.â
Emotion tightened your throat instantly.
You kissed him softly, pouring everything you couldnât say into it.
When you pulled away, you whispered, âYou shouldnât hate yourself at all.â
Michael smiled faintly.
âIâm trying not to.â
You touched his cheek. âGood.â
Another knock interrupted you both.
âMichael! Seriously!â
He groaned dramatically into your shoulder. âI donât wanna go.â
âYouâre a global superstar. You have responsibilities.â
âBut I wanna stay here kissing you.â
Your grin widened. âYouâre needy tonight.â
âYour fault.â
âProbably.â
He stole one more kiss before reluctantly pulling away. Still, he kept holding your hand like he physically couldnât stop touching you.
At the door, he hesitated.
Then turned back suddenly.
âWhat?â
Michael walked straight toward you again, grabbed your waist, and kissed you hard enough to leave you breathless.
When he finally pulled away, his cheeks were pink again.
âThere,â he said proudly.
You blinked. âWhat was that for?â
âSo I can think about you onstage.â
Your stomach flipped.
âMichael Jackson,â you whispered dramatically. âAre you flirting with me?â
He laughed shyly. âMaybe a little.â
âDangerous man.â
âOnly for you.â
Then he started toward the door again before pausing one last time.
âHey?â
âYeah?â
He smiled softly.
âCall me angel face again after the show?â
Your entire expression melted.
âEvery day if you want.â
That blush returned instantly.
Michael ducked his head with a laugh before finally disappearing out the door toward the screaming crowd waiting for him.
And just before it closed completely, you heard him mumble under his breathâ
âAngel face⊠Lord have mercy.â
âËà·
a/n : changing my whole aesthetic that i had so yea !! i canât believe this man was every even insecure bc he is like the most majestic person evaaa
You don't understand, that's my baby.
the thought of !thriller era michael being overly obsessed with going down on you ever since you let him,
Ever since you let michael go down on you, itâs all heâs wanted to do. In the studio while producing music, after a hard day, even on the phone.
Heâd be on the line to his mother, filling her in with information about work, tours etc. All the while heâd have your legs spread wide open on his king size bed, phone propped between his shoulder & ear as he let his feet hang in the air giving your cunt all the love & attention it needs as he strokes your inner thighs. Youâd always tell him to stop that, saying itâs disrespectful â he never listened to you.
Heâd give you one straight lick up your slit, lapping & sucking on your clit, eyes shut in pure bliss â right where he wanted to be, absolutely pussy drunk.
Youâd let out little whimpers nâ squeals as heâd rub your clit occasionally.
âShh,â heâd hiss, covering the phone with his hand.
âMichael? Whatâs that noise?â
âJust bubbles, mother.â
đŁČâ
a/n: im ovulating I dont makes the rules
This is...
Clutching my pearls as I watch this play out in my head.
being fed all these michael jackson and jaafar jackson fics and edits wow i love everyone
đ the way you make him feel.
âź â â thriller era michael.
âź â â summary: gentlemen can still get their dicks sucked. michael thinks heâs exempt because youâre too pretty. AHNT! wrong.
âź â â smut, oral sex (male receiving), a very shy and flustered michael because I genuinely donât think heâd be any way else at this age, female reader. wrote this with the âitâs wonderful day!â interview in mind.
Michael isn't sure how he got in this predicament.
One second she'd been curled against him on the bed, tracing lazy shapes against his chest while the television hummed quietly somewhere in the background. The next, her lips were brushing against his ear, soft and plush and devastatingly warm, whispering something sweet as melted honey that made his stomach flip straight into his ribs.
He didn't even fully process the words, only the feeling of all the blood from his head rushing straight to his pants.
A featherlight breath against his skin.
A little kiss tucked just beneath his ear.
The way her voice wrapped around him slow and warm, making him melt before he even realized he was melting. And somehow after that, she was on her knees between his legs.
Michael sat frozen at the edge of the mattress, staring down at her with wide brown eyes while she looked up at him like he'd hung the stars himself. The lamp beside the bed washed everything amber gold, catching in the blush already flooding his cheeks and the nervous shine of his bitten lips.
She looked downright lovesick.
The kind of gaze that made his pulse scramble like frightened birds in a cathedral. Her pupils looked enormous beneath her lashes, soft and syrupy and practically heart shaped with how fond she seemed of him. It made him duck his head immediately, one hand flying up to cover his face as a helpless laugh escaped through his trembling fingers.
âBaby..â he laughed weakly, voice embarrassingly breathless. âDon't look at me like that...â
âWhy not?â
ââCause...â He peeked at her through his fingers only to instantly regret it when she smiled. âYou know why.â
Her hands settled on his thighs then, thumbs smoothing absent little circles against the fabric of his jeans while his knees twitched under her touch. Michael inhaled sharply, shoulders pulling inward with shy tension as she started inching upward, slow enough for him to want to instinctively close his thighs as his stomach tightened when her fingers brushed his belt.
âCan I taste what's in here, angel face?â she spoke softly, tilting her head.
It was indeed a wonderful day.
WANNA BE STARTINâ SOMETHINâ
Michael Jackson x female reader
SUMMARY: An innocent movie night takes a turn when Michael becomes a little too distracted by your touch.
CONTENT: 18+, ???, sexual themes, kinda smutty I guess but nothing beyond a sloppy makeout sesh and heavy petting, very much puppy love vibes, inexperienced thriller era! Michael, subby michael I donât make the rules, dry humping, he might be shy but that boy canât keep his mouth shut! heâs a moaning mess
AUTHORâS NOTE: @hcwait said something about michael being so shy heâd cover his mouth or bite his finger to keep from making noise and I said SAY LESS.
sfw / fem reader, fluff ) âââââââimagine sitting on michael jacksonâs lap while he admires all of your features. even in the midst of touring, he finds time to dote on his darling. his lithe, athletic body is relaxed, his back pressed against the backrest of some couch or chair, one hand firmly holding onto your waist while the other moves about your body, tapping and caressing every area he speaks about.
âi love your nose,â he starts, tracing the shape from the top of your nose bridge down to the tip, âperfect for poking.â his index finger meets your nose, his touch as gentle as his voice. michael goes on, letting his thumb trace your bottom lip, âand your lips⊠who could ever dislike lips like these?â he pulls lightly, exposing your teeth in a playful manner. âand the pearly whites behind them, of course.â
when you get embarrassed or flustered, turning your head away, michael just laughs that bright and melodic laugh of his before taking hold of your jaw and urging you to face him again. itâs not forceful; michaelâs not a forceful man by any means. instead, itâs warm and encouraging. âno, no, donât go hiding from me,â he coos, âaw, câmon. let me see that gorgeous face. please? for me?â
of course, you oblige. who can say no to the sweet and charming lilt in his voice? the adoring look in his eyes is enough to make you melt when you work up the courage to look at him again. heâs always been full of love, but itâs not until he met you that he had somewhere to really put it. the hand at your waist pats twice, a quiet bid for attention that brings you out of your thoughts.
âas i was saying before i was interrupted,â he murmurs, letting go of your face to trace your eyebrows with his thumb, âeyebrows, unlike any other. and eyelashes, too. and thatâs just your face.â he presses a quick kiss to your forehead, then pulls back to look you in the eye again. âyouâll probably get all embarrassed again if i continue to your body⊠but i want to, anyways. i want you to hear it, everything i love about you, right from my lips. that way, when youâre thinking those pesky thoughts⊠you know the ones⊠you can remember my voice instead. and i know how you just love my voice.â
a chuckle escapes your lips before you can help it, his playfulness finally rubbing off on you. âi canât get enough of it, michael.â
carefully, he pulls you closer, kissing your cheek. âi know you canât, baby,â he says, low and soft into your hair. ânow, onto your bodyâŠâ
authorâs note ) âââââââtbh i imagine this as black!reader but i left it kind of open. love MJ fluff, heâs so sweet and loving. i feel like my tiger theming for this post might be childish but i rlly do think itâs so cute & i love tigers </3
i automatically assume the reader has a silk press or box braids when y'all are describing hair in these stories. LMFAOOOOOO, you will NOTTT rain on my parade. i'll picture any michael x reader being about a black girl every single time