bad era michael who talks a big game but falls asleep immediately after u let him hit. like lights out honk shoo⊠he is a sleepy time breast fondler also so itâs not like u can leave him đ if he canât feel ur boobs he wakes up upset
tysm for the tags these are always really funđ„°đ„°đ„°
âšâšcat (this one looks almost identical to mineđ„č), rosy maple moth, mouseâšâš
no pressure tags: @cuntbitchandthebottlemen @quietchaosclub @scalpdisease @crowsberries (so sorry for any unwanted/repeat tags, pls ignore if thatâs the case!!)
this one was kinda tricky. i lowkey just kinda picked animals i really like :)
i ended up picking đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ a puppy! đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ a elephant! & last but certainly not least... đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ a octopus!!
this was sm fun!! my answers were certainly kind of out there. i plan on tagging (no pressure btw) : @femalekanye @strawberrykittymp3 @3leni @cndybliss
i can't wait to see what you guys come up with!! <3
âđ¶đŸđ đâŽđâŽđàŒŻ a very deep almost black-brown with blue chunky highlights(literally just had red last weekđ)
â±đ¶đâŽđđŸđ⯠đâŽđâŽđàŒŻ Red & Pink.
â±đ¶đâŽđđŸđ⯠đčđđŸđđ: Most sparkling water & lemonade/ strawberry lemonade.
đȘđ⯠đđœđŸđâ đâŽđ đâŽđ⯠đ¶đ·âŽđđ đâŽđđđâŻđđ»àŒŻ My ability to read intentions and attitudes
âđ» đâŽđ đžâŽđđđč đ·âŻ đ¶đđ đ¶đđŸđđ¶đ đđœđ¶đ đâŽđđđč đâŽđ đ·âŻàŒŻ A snake or Panther.
đȘđ⯠đđœđŸđâ đâŽđđ đâŽâŽđđŸđâ đ»âŽđđđ¶đđč đ⎠đđàŒŻ Going to the Orlando metro area with my man and my best friend.
đŽâŽđđ đ·đŸâââŻđđ đčđâŻđ¶đàŒŻ Fulfillment, meaning, and peace. Also to become an actress but also a figure for other black women and guide us till I can't anymore.
OMGGGG YAYYY i can YAP â ty for thinking of me đ„č!
àł hair color: copper (ginger)
àł favorite color: lavender purple .á
àł favorite drink(s): matcha, tea & GINGER ALE .á
àł one thing you love about yourself: im conceitedâeverything, lol jk : my willingness to help evb .á
àł if you can be an animal, what would you be?: a cat
àł dream place to visit: china or rome .á
àł one thing youâre looking forward to: celebrating my frenâs august birthdays .á
àł my biggest dream: becoming a neurologist & publishing research on tbi & colon cancer .á
àł songs on repeat: okayy by latto, kiss n tell by aespa, church by mariah the scientist & f*ck swag by nettspend .á
npt: @bloomflix @satorusdreamer @kireampie @yoonsucks @swvness @toorufairy @tokkushin @chequiiita @fadingalmondhandszine @antholoji @yuucide @daflex @evfers @chosayi @valberryboos @sugurusbeloved +++ anyone who would like to join i didnât tag evb lol!!
np tags but i lowk wanna get to know some of yall a little better : @lorelays @hysterotic @porcalinecunt @qrtem @thelibrarianangsti @chaoslibra @koretholics @lunebrew @wildflowersandbarley333 @kunaiiikittennn @bloomflix @spacedust-alley @feuillmorte @nyajiro
hair colour: dark brown (my roots are black tho they're growing out lol)
favourite colour: pink, blue, dark brown, white
favourite drinks: any kind of smoothie, apple juice, lychee tea
one thing you love about yourself: naturally have a lot of empathy?
if you can be an animal, what would you be?: a humpback whale (bc i like them but also i kinda wanna mess with orcas)
dream place to visit: wherever whales are, i wanna see a whale in this lifetime
one thing you're looking forward to: traveling with my friendss
my biggest dream: creating a safe space for queer people and being happy with my friends and and uh seeing a humpback whale irl
songs on repeat: kiss n tell - aespa, when it rains - paramore, crash out - tinashe, switchblade - beabadoobee, deep love - split end, ăăăȘăăăčăăžă§ăăŹă€ă·ă§ăł - asian kung-fu generation, anyway - ephraim, æćŒŠéł - MyGO!!!!!
no pressure tags! @pushingpesticides @cerezasefimeras
1. Hair Color: Dark brown
2. Favorite Color: Sage green
3. Favorite Drink: Pomegranate lemonade
4. Something I Love About Myself: Iâm extremely outspoken about my politics and refuse to shut up
4. What Animal Would I Be?: Red panda
5. Dream Visit: Sri Lanka, birthplace of Theravada Buddhism
6. Looking Forward To: COLLEGE!
7. Biggest Dream: Living to see the fall of the powers that be
8. Songs On Repeat: Notos by The Oh Hellos
@l0velyl4vender, @shypervydolly, @sweatyfuntrash, @licoriceisback, open tags
ౚà§Ë hair color: still black from when i combed out my locs
ౚà§Ë favorite color: plum
ౚà§Ë favorite drink: coca cola!
ౚà§Ë one thing you love about yourself: my face :)
ౚà§Ë if you could be any animal what would you be?: a jag
ౚà§Ë dream place to visit: italy
ౚà§Ë what's one thing you're looking forward to right now?: this fall semester
ౚà§Ë your biggest dream: being a rich woman, traveling the world, no kids
ౚà§Ë song that's permanently on repeat: crush by solange, damned by miguel, be like a woman by chris rainbow, i belong to you by rome. i canât help it by michael, IDK IDK I CANT PICK ONE đ«
i appreciate the tag sm!! i've never done one of these before :)
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ hc: naturally black, it's black with hints of my previous color (ginger-ish brown) peaking through
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ fc: orange and pink (in that order). i look amazing in orange, it compliments my skin so well. i love orange and pink tg, it reminds me of sunsets
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ fd: my favorite drink is probably lemonade, kombucha, and dr. pepper (i rarely ever have doctor pepper though)
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ 1 thing đïžlike: one thing i like about myself would be my personality. i feel like i'm a pretty open-minded person, and i just love joking around with my friends.
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ if i could be any đŸ: if i could be any animal i'd probably be an octopus. this answer is kind of ironic considering my favorite animals are elephants. but i just love octopi, they're smart and crafty, and it's so cool seeing them squeeze through small places and camouflage themselves.
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ dreamđto visit: my dream place would probably be thailand or japan. tbh as long as it's not in the u.s. i'm sure i'd be down. i've been to a couple of places already like jamaica.
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ đïžđïžâĄïžto: one thing i'm looking forward to is going back to university. i'm excited to move into my campus apartment and finally be able to cook! (campus food is ass sometimes)
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ my biggestđ€ đ: my biggest dream would be to make enough money to be able to travel freely and explore the world while i'm young. maybe finally be an author?
đà ŹÜđČ àčàŁÂ đœonđ: some of my songs i can't get out of my head rn are cybergirl - 2006wr, james joint - rihanna, thong song - plaqueboymax, roi - videoclub, lemon glow - beach house, deathmetal - panchiko, ma chĂšrie - malice mizer, bridezilla - mommylonglegs, bad habit - steve lacy, wheels on the bus - melanie martinez
who am i gonna tagâïžđ€ (no pressure btw) : @amnesia-sc @honeysmoonave @mikesbian @strawberrykittymp3 @hisgoodfish @gothicmj @effiism @3leni @cndybliss @rlm-11
đȘ â thinking about how much michael reminds me of the creature and wanna cryâ like the innocence and curiosity and gentleness, but also the pain they went through and how the world treated them and donât even get me started on how they were treated because of how they looked ⊠no one talk to me
all that pain and suffering and it just made them kind
( ˶°ă °) !! ââmoodboard ) batman!michael jackson x fem tamaranean warrior!reader: an alien sent to earth to cause chaos and destruction... sounds like the perfect wife for gotham's nighttime savior, don't you think? <3
context: michael tries weed for the first time and somehow ends up with his face in between your legs?
The heavy studio door shut out the rest of Westlake Studios, sealing the two of you into an isolated, amber-lit sanctuary of sound. The massive mixing console glowed like the dashboard of a spaceship, its hundred tiny green and red lights casting a warm, technical haze over the room. Through the heavy glass of the isolation booth, everything was dark, but inside the control room, the air was thick, warm, and vibrating with the heavy, unreleased bassline of a rough cut of "Human Nature." The synths swirled through the studio monitors, filling every corner of the room with a lush, melancholic warmth.
Michael was supposed to be evaluating the vocal tracks, but his legendary work ethic had completely dissolved. He was doing a terrible job of pretending to study the soundboard. Every time you leaned back against the plush leather couch, exhaling a thick, slow cloud of sweet, pungent weed smoke, his gaze slipped away from the level meters. First, his eyes would fixate on the lazy, seductive parting of your lips; then, theyâd trace the slow path of the smoke as it drifted down over the swell of your chest, before heâd hastily snap his head back to a random dial, his cheeks flushing a faint, dusty rose. Heâd had a quiet, burning crush on you for months, hiding it behind soft smiles and polite giggles, but the late hour and the heavy studio air were making his usual shy defense mechanisms disintegrate.
He finally gave up the facade, spinning around in his plush rolling chair. He rested his chin on the backs of his hands, staring intently at the glowing cherry of the joint between your fingers.
"What does it actually feel like?" he asked. His voice was a soft, breathy register, a genuine curiosity practically radiating off his frame. "Youâve been sitting there looking like youâre floating in another world for the past hour."
You took another lazy, deliberate drag, letting the smoke curl past your teeth as you smirked at him. " âM telling you, Mike, itâs great. It just... unravels your brain. Relaxes every single muscle. It makes the music sound way deeper, like you can feel the spaces between the notes. It makes everything feel betterâ look better. Even taste better."
Michaelâs large, dark eyes widened, a breathless, high-pitched little giggle escaping him. He sat up straighter, totally captivated. "What? No way. Taste better? Like... like candy? Like real sweet stuff?"
"Like everything," you laughed, the heavy relaxation of the high making your voice drop an octave as you leaned your head back against the leather. "Food, drinks... people. Everything."
He slid off his chair in one fluid, cat-like motion, practically gliding across the carpet until he was hovering right over you. His curls bounced softly around his jawline, catching the red glare of the studio lights. "Lemme try. Just a little bit. Just a tiny puff."
"Absolutely fucking not," you said, your thumb instinctively capping the joint as you pulled your hand away. "Michael, youâre a vocalist. Your lungs are quite literally worth more than my entire life. If Quincy walks through that door and sees you smoking a joint, he will actually murder me, bury me under the studio floorboards, and no one will ever find the body."
"Heâs not gonna walk in, heâs totally asleep in the back lounge," Michael whined. The transformation was instant; his lower lip jutted out into a full, exaggerated, bratty pout that he knew damn well no one could resist. He reached down, his slender, brown fingers wrapping around your wrist. His grip was warm and surprisingly firm, a sudden flash of the commanding performer breaking through his gentle demeanor as he tried to tug your hand back toward his face. "Come on, y/n. Just one little puff. Don't be stingy."
"No, Mike, seriouslyâ"
"Please?" He dropped straight onto his knees by the edge of the couch, looking up at you with those huge, pleading, doe-like eyes. Yet, there was a stubborn, demanding edge to the tilt of his chin. He was Michael Jackson; he was completely used to getting exactly what he wanted. "I want to feel what youâre feeling. Let me try it."
You let out a defeated sigh, completely weaponless against the sheer force of his pout. "Fine. One. You have to actually inhale it into your lungs, Michael, not just hold it in your mouth like a chipmunk."
He snatched the joint from your fingers with a victorious, white-toothed grin. He brought it to his lips with an air of immense confidence, took a massive, greedy gulp of the thick smokeâand immediately turned into a coughing, hacking disaster.
"Oh my god," he choked out, his face turning a deep, burning crimson as he dropped the joint onto the glass coffee table and began waving his hands frantically in front of his face. He bent double, his forehead nearly touching his knees as his chest heaved. âEw! it tastes like burnt grass! Why on earth do you like this?!â He was coughing so hard that bright tears pricked the corners of his eyes, hacking dramatically, his voice cracking as if he had just swallowed pure poison.
"I told you!" you shouted over his coughing, laughing so hard your stomach ached as you reached for the joint before it could burn anything. "Give it here, youâre gonna drop ashes on the rug and burn the place down."
"No!" Michael snapped. With a sudden burst of stubborn energy, he snatched his hand back, pulling the joint completely out of your reach and ignoring your warning entirely. His voice was deeply raspy and cracked from the smoke, but his competitive streak was flashing. "I didn't do it right. Iâm not a quitter. Lemme do it again."
Before you could physically stop him, he brought it back to his lips and took another drag. This time, he clamped his mouth shut, his chest expanding as he forced himself to swallow the smoke down deep. He held it for a split second, his eyes watering, coughed a little less violently into his fist, and then blew out a thick, gray plume, looking immensely proud of his own stubbornness.
Within five minutes, the freight train hit him.
Michael completely melted. The legendary dancer's posture vanished as his spine seemed to turn to absolute jelly. He slid backward off his knees, slumping onto the plush studio floor with his back propped up against the base of the couch, his long legs splayed out in his bright red varsity jacket. His eyes were half-lidded, glazed over with a heavy, glassy sheen, and fixed entirely on the acoustic tiling of the ceiling.
"God..." he whispered. The register of his voice had dropped into an incredibly deep, slow, resonant baritone that sent a sudden shiver straight down your spine. "Oh wow. My chest... my chest feels so warm. Like a blanket. Y/n..."
"You good?" you asked, leaning over the edge of the cushions to peer down at him.
"The music," he breathed, his head rolling heavily to the side against the leather to look up at you. The weed had completely dissolved his filter. His gaze dropped straight to your chest, staring unashamedly, his eyes tracking the heavy outline of your nipples through the thin fabric of your shirt before slowly migrating back up to your face. "Do you hear that synth line? No, listen... really listen... itâs like... a cloud. Itâs moving in slow motion through my ears. Did I write that? God, Iâm a genius. Itâs so beautiful I want to cry."
You choked back a loud laugh, reaching down to tug at the collar of his red jacket. "Yeah, Mike, youâre a certified genius. Come here, get off the dirty floor."
"No, âm comfortable," he whined, instantly turning bratty and dead-weight the second you tried to shift him. Instead of getting up, he used his hands to scramble up the side of the couch, dragging his upper body completely across your lap. He was suddenly incredibly, uninhibitedly touchy. He spread his arms out, burying his face for a second against your stomach before his long fingers started tracing a slow, deliberate path up your thigh. His palm dragged heavily over the denim of your jeans, pressing right between your legs with an unbothered weight that made your breath catch in your throat. "Youâre really warm. Everything feels so heavy and soft."
"Michael," you warned, your heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs as his palm shifted, rubbing firm and slow against your crotch. "Youâre so high."
"âM not," he pouted, tilting his head back in your lap to look up at you. His eyes were incredibly dark, the pupils dilated and heavy with a sudden, intense focus. He stared directly at your lips, his thumb rhythmically rubbing back and forth over the tight seam of your pants, right where the friction was already making you slick and wet. He went completely quiet for a long moment, listening to the vocal track of Human Nature fade out on a high, echoing note and loop right back to the heavy, throbbing intro.
"It really does sound better," he murmured, his thumb pressing harder into your heat, his voice dropping into a husky, completely unbothered register that made your skin tingle with goosebumps. His eyes locked onto yours, completely devoid of his usual stage shyness, full of a raw, primal confidence. "And you said... you said it makes everything taste better."
"Yeah?" you whispered, your hands tangling into the fabric of his jacket, suddenly unable to draw a full breath.
"I wanna taste you."
Before the words could even fully register in your brain, Michael didn't lean up for a kiss like you expected. His high, hyper-fixated brain went completely, utterly literal. He slid off your lap, tumbling back onto his knees on the carpet, and immediately reached for the waistband of your pants.
"WaitâMichael, what the fuck?!" you gasped, your hands flying to his broad shoulders to push him back.
"Shh, hold still, let me," he whined, entirely impatient, driven by a sudden, intense curiosity. He was fumbling clumsily with the metal button of your jeans, his fingers thick and heavy from the high. He let out a frustrated, bratty little huff when the denim wouldn't unclip immediately. "Let me do it. Don't move, y/n."
"Mike, you've neverâyou don't know whatâ"
"I want to," he insisted, his voice dropping all its softness as he finally popped the button and yanked your zipper down. He pulled your pants and underwear down past your hips in one rough, eager motion, dragging them down to your knees. He grabbed your thighs, his large hands sinking into your flesh as he shoved your legs wide apart, forcing his broad shoulders right between your knees.
He didn't even pause to look. Driven by pure, unadulterated instinct and the sensory overload of the weed, he dived right in, pressing his open, hot mouth directly against your bare, aching center.
The shock of it made you scream into the empty room. He was way too excited; his tongue was moving frantically, darting back and forth far too fast and incredibly sloppy. He was lapping blindly at you, his nose burying hard into your damp curls, completely bypassing your clit in his frantic rush to taste everything at once. It was a chaotic storm of intense, heavy friction, wet tongues, and hot, heavy breaths blasting against your sensitive skin. Your hips jerked wildly, your hands gripping the leather of the couch as you tried to adjust to the clumsy, overwhelming sensation.
"Michael, wait, wait! Stop for a second!" you cried out, your fingers diving deep into his thick, damp, product-heavy curls, gently but firmly hauling his head back.
He let out a loud, miserable groan, a whiny sound vibrating deep in his chest as he was forced to pull away. He looked up at you from between your thighs with a deeply pouty, unsatisfied expression, his lips completely wet, glistening under the red studio lights with your own escaping juices. "What? Is it bad? âM trying really hard."
"No, baby, itâs not bad, youâre just... youâre going a mile a minute," you breathed, panting as you tried to steady your racing pulse. You looked down at himâhis cheeks were darkly flushed, his eyes totally dazed, but his gaze was completely fixed on the glistening, wet folds of your skin. "You gotta slow down, Mike. Softly. You have to just follow my hands, okay?"
He whined a little, his brow furrowing, but the exact moment you took control and gave him explicit direction, something in his brain shifted. His perfectionist, deeply musical nature seemed to snap into alignment, overriding the chaotic haze of the smoke.
You gently guided his head back down, your fingers tightly weaving through his black curls to dictate the pace, pressing his lips right against your swollen, throbbing clit. "Like this," you whispered, tilting your pelvis up, moving your hips slightly against his mouth. "Slow down. Find the beat of the song. Use your tongue like a heartbeat."
A soft, deep, rumbling hum vibrated directly against your clit as Michael caught the rhythm. He stopped rushing. His tongue flattened out, wide, thick, and incredibly warm, taking long, agonizingly wet, upward strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to the sensitive hood. He became completely, utterly obsessed with the sensation, sucking the sensitive little bud into his mouth and swirling his tongue around it in slow, heavy circles until you were sobbing out loud. He whined low in his throat every time your thighs twitched or your fingers tightened painfully in his hair.
He was a natural with the rhythm, his mouth mimicking the tight, syncopated timing of the track blasting through the monitors. He opened you up wider with his long fingers, his thumb pressing into your perineum while his mouth worked relentlessly on your exterior.
You were swearing loudly, completely unraveled by the sheer surrealism of the momentâthe contrast of his sweet, high innocence and the absolute, calculated destruction he was wreaking between your legs. "fuck, just like that."
Hearing you use that dirty language seemed to ignite something even deeper in his high brain. He became more aggressive, more demanding. His large hands gripped the backs of your thighs, his fingers digging into your skin with enough force to hold you completely still as he buried his face impossibly deeper into your heat, literally devouring you. He was completely intoxicated by the slick, heavy taste of you, entirely focused on the way your muscles were beginning to tremor under his mouth.
He kept up that steady, torturous, rhythmic beat until you were gripping his curls with both hands, your hips lifting completely off the leather of the couch as the climax hit your nervous system like a bolt of lightning. You fell apart, crying out his name into the empty studio, your internal walls clamping hard and fast in an intense, rolling release.
Michael stayed right there through the entire duration of your orgasm, his tongue unyielding, working through the violent pulses of your body, taking a few final, possessive, slow licks to catch every single drop of your sweetness before he finally, slowly slid back onto his heels.
He looked up at you from the floor, his curls beautifully messy, his eyes heavily hooded and thoroughly glazed over with pleasure. A thoroughly smug, dazed, and high grin spread across his wet lips. He slowly swiped his tongue over his bottom lip, deliberately tasting the sweet, thick mix of you and the lingering grass on his palate.
"Yeah," Michael murmured. He leaned his chin heavily against your bare thigh, letting out a deeply satisfied, sleepy, and utterly ruined sigh into your skin. "Taste is definitely better."
Usually heâs tucked into your side, inhaling you with each breath, his parted lips ticking hot air onto your neck. On nights when youâre still awake, staring up at the ceiling with an arm around Michael and the other behind your head, youâd catch him mumbling in his sleep.
It has become one of your favorite past times honestly, making out his dreams solely based on his incoherent babbles or sudden twitches in his body.
âMâMickeyâŠâ you caught him mumbling into your skin one night. Uh oh, another Disney coded dream. You honestly back to bite the side of your cheek to restrain your laughter. âThatâs my lady, ainât she prettyâŠâ
On another night, you even caught him talking to your âkidsâ, which made you heat up yourself. You imagined that Michael was dreaming of the two of you in your own, Tudor styled home, with a three floors and a big yard. You couldnât make out the names of your kids, but boy there was a lot.
Michael became whiny when got up, complaining about how cold he is and how much he needs you. Tempting.
Even if when youâd shift, maybe to make a little bit of space between you or just simply adjusting your position, he pulls you closer. Itâs like he has this sensor that goes off whenever you arenât skin to skin.
But you both have work to do today, and you unfortunately canât spend it cuddling with the best boyfriend in the world. Pulling back the sheets was like lifting a rock from a bug. He curls into your side of your bed, desperate for your warmth as he whined into the seam of your pillows, escaping the sunlight from the drawn curtains.
âTorture!â he croaks, rolling onto his back with a pillow pushed to his face. His shirt rode up at his torso, revealing that brown, toned stomach. If he knew how much you wanted to lay back down right now.
After spending ten minutes getting him out of bed, washing his face, and guiding him to the barstool seats at kitchen island, he still dozed off. You snorted as you moved around some bacon in the pan when you looked over your shoulder. Luckily the smell of breakfast woke him up a bit.
When you serve yourself and sat next to him, he lazily picked at his food, chin planted in his palm as he blinked slowly.
You laugh in amusement and adoration, âDonât tell me I have to feed you as well.â
He tilts his head and with a raised a brow, like heâs considering your gracious offer, âthat could happen.â
Michael was a greedy man. He craves your attention, your warmth, your presence. This whole âsleepy actââ whether it was realâ was between him and the man upstairs. If that meant staying up late a night so heâll be tired as hell in the morning⊠worth it. In the meantime⊠more of you time for him.
You let out a quiet giggle as your brought up the forked scrambled eggs to his lips, and he leaned in, planting his big hand on your knee to âstabilizeâ himself before he took the bite. He swallowed before yawning, âalways cook so good, mama.â
Biting back a shit eating grin, you hold up his chin, your thumb rubbing his warm skin. Michael immediately leaned into your palm, even closing his eyes, relishing your sweet loving. âThank you, sleepyhead.â
michael shifted from paper to paper, his reading glasses perched on his nose and eyes skimming the words of the documents he was readingâlike nothing was amiss in the world.
like his girlfriend wasnât humping his shoe underneath the desk.
your cheek was pressed against his thigh as you panted, a bit of drool making a wet patch form on his slacks, your hips rutting so your wet cunt can rub faster against his perfectly shined shoes.
âm-mikey.. wanâ come..â you whine, your pussy clenching with need as your orgasm approached, the last two ruined ones made your stomach clench as this one came up, tears forming in your eyes.
he glances down at you and hums. âare you sorry now darling? for showing out?â
you eagerly nod, not able to use your words that were sure to turn into an incoherent mess.
he examines your dazed face, eyes wide and wet with tears and plush lips pulled in a needy pout, then nods. âcome for me, love.â
you donât hesitate, the knot in your stomach snaps and you cry out, your juices oozing all over his shoe. âgood job baby, such a good girl.â he coaxes. âsorry for being so harsh lovely but i have to teach you to be good.â
Synopsis: When Michael's brothers laugh at his offering to play Twister, you agree to join him, much to his delight, but things take a bit of a turn when it somehow transforms into a game of Strip Twister.
Pairing: Michael Jackson x fem!reader
Tags: Smut, Porn Without Plot, Stripping, Loss of Virginity, Teasing, Slight Slow Burn, Sub!Michael, Dom!Reader, Begging, Kissing, Dry Humping, Handjobs, Praise Kink, Titty Sucking, Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Sex, Cowgirl Position
Word Count: 5,250
A/N: Remember when I made a post saying that I was writing a twister smut a few days after the biopic came out and I said I was gonna upload it later that night? Yeah me neither cuz that was so fucking long ago.
I honestly considered scrapping this several times because it was so incredibly difficult to write for some reason but after spending hours making the colored dot dividers myself on canva (i kept fucking up the spacing and sizing of the circles), I figured there was no way in hell I was gonna let all that work go to waste so I forced myself to finish the fic lol. I'm glad I did end up finishing it tho cuz despite how terrible I thought it was while writing it, I'm actually pretty satisfied with how it turned out. Enjoy!
AO3 Link // Masterlist
The sun was beating down on you with a vigor you hadn't seen in weeks and your left arm was increasingly getting sore with each instance of you lifting it up to glance at your watch. You could've sworn that at least 5 minutes had passed since the last time you looked at it, so why the minute hand had only moved one spot, you couldn't understand. Stifling a yawn for the umpteenth time today, you watched the brothers play basketball in the driveway through heavy eyelids.
It wasn't the standard for you to be hanging out with them. Michael was the one who had been your best friend and go-to hang out buddy since the day him and his whole family first moved into the neighborhood. But nearly a decade later, you were yearning for something more...intimate, and although you didn't have a ton of concrete evidence to back it up, you were confident that the feeling was mutual. So when you rang the doorbell at Hayvenhurst earlier today and were told by Katherine that Michael was currently at the toy store with Bill, you begrudgingly accepted the brothers' offer to watch them play solely for the purpose of killing time before Michael came home.
The sound of the gate opening and a running engine gradually approaching roused you out of whatever sleep you were just about to fall into. You hopped off the hood of the red car that you were sitting on top of, anxious to finally to be released from the shackles of watching this game. Michael stepped out of the car and greeted all of you before excitedly making his way over to the trunk. Once Bill opened the trunk, Michael yanked a familiar game out of a big blue shopping bag.
"Guys look, I got Twister! You wanna play tonight?" Michael just barely finished his sentence before all the boys started laughing at him.
"Twister? Really?"
"What are we gonna do with Twister?"
The smile that made Michael's face radiate like the sun depleted ever so slightly. "Come on, it'll be like the old days," he countered.
"We'd love to, Mike, but I gotta be at home with the family, I can't be playing games," argued Jermaine before immediately reverting his attention back to the ball.
"And the rest of us are going out tonight."
"Yeah, Marlon's got a hot date."
Michael cradled the box in the nook of his arm, a subtle look of dejection lingering in his eyes. "Marlon, what time are you gonna be home? We can play then."
Before Marlon could respond, Tito answered for him. "Marlon's gonna be playing his own game of Twister tonight."
They all went back to laughing, and in a series of rather fortunate events, you swooped in to snatch your chance of getting what you came here for: some alone time with Michael.
"I'll play with you," you said, and the light came back to his eyes as quickly as it left.
"At least there's one person around here who knows how to have fun," Michael responded, speaking indirectly to his brothers. "Come on then, the faster we get to my room, the more time we have to play."Â
With haste, Michael bolted to the front door of the house as you chased after him, laughter from the both of you filling the air as you ran past.
Whether 30 minutes had passed or 3 hours, it was difficult to tell. You and Michael had played an unfathomable number of rounds, and that same yawn that you stifled earlier started haunting your throat again. Michael on the other hand still had enough energy to play until the cows came home.
"Let's play one more round," Michael said, mimicking his words from the past 5 rounds while smoothing out the mat.
You weren't sure if you'd be able to handle another round of the same dreary game. It's not that you wanted to stop playing, it's just that you wanted to spice things up a bit. Twister would've been a blast to play on its own for 50+ plus rounds back when you were in grade school, but you were an adult now which meant you had a different, and slightly more raunchy idea of fun.
Just as that thought passed through your head, a light bulb went off and a devious grin crept on your face. Oh yes. Not only would the brilliant idea that just popped into your head make for a much more interesting game, but it would lead you right to where you wanted to be with Michael. Right to where you've wanted to be with him for years now.
"Michael, why don't we switch it up a bit? Play a different version of Twister than the one we've been playing this whole time?"
"A different version? Like what?"
"Strip Twister."
His head shot up. You could tell he was physically trying to restrain his eyes from popping out of his head. "Strip Twister?"
"Yeah, I learned how to play it from an old friend at summer camp several years ago. You play the game like how you normally would, but every time someone falls, that person has to remove an article of clothing and the game doesn't end until one of us is naked."
Michael chuckled uneasily. "I don't know if it's a good idea to play that version."
"Why not?" you asked in feigned oblivion.
"Because one of us is gonna end up seeing the other naked!" Michael exclaimed, though his tone of voice and body language didn't really express the same level of opposition as the words coming out of his mouth.
"Oh please, I took sex ed in school, I know what boys look like down there. Besides, we're not strangers. It's not that much different from seeing each other in our bathing suits."
Michael's face was unreadable. Worried that you had overstepped a boundary, your brain scrambled to find a way to go back in time 30 seconds and never mention the Strip Twister, but what Michael said next nearly made your own eyes pop out of your head.
"50 bucks says I'm the last one clothed by the end."
The same devious grin from earlier revisited your face, and you both shook hands to seal the deal; the last instance of purely platonic physical contact that you two would engage in for the rest of the day.
At the end of round 1, your socks were sacrificed. At the end of round 2, it was Michael's turn to sacrifice his socks. The finale of round 3 constituted the removal of Michael's plain white t-shirt, but round 4 was where you had to give up your Jordache jeans. After Michael's arms gave out on him in round 5, you teased him with a wolf-whistle as he discarded his black sweats, revealing the Mickey Mouse boxers he was wearing underneath. You nearly broke the skin on your bottom lip biting down on it to suppress your laughter. Round 6 was a close game, but your halter top was the next article of clothing that ended up on the floor at the end of that round.
Now in nothing but your second skins, the stakes were at an all time high. Michael was determined to be the last man standing (or clothed in this case) but you needed him to lose this next round to carry out your master plan as intended.
Michael was virtually heaving at this point and sounded breathless every time he spoke. You were shocked that he hadn't gotten a boner yet, especially considering the way he couldn't take his eyes off of your body. He spun the wheel right next to him. "Alright, right hand red."
Bullseye. There was no better body part/color combination that the arrow could've landed on, because with just one convenient placement of your right hand on the red dot all the way to the far edge of the mat, you were now promoted to hovering on top of Michael. The cloth prison that your breasts were still confined in left little to the imagination as your nipples prodded through the thin fabric in perfect line with Michael's gaze. His breath was hot on your cleavage and you could hear just the faintest bit of shakiness in it. And it wasn't long after you got into the new position that you felt something lightly press up against your underwear with more and more force by the second. It was as if whatever the mystery object was that was pressing up against your core was growing. The tiniest gasp escaped from Michael's mouth and he lowered his body as close to the ground as he could without actually touching it. There it was. You now wished you could go back to the crab-walk stance to see the mountain growing in his boxers in real time.
You leaned forward to be able to reach the arrow on the wheel and determine Michael's fate. He had turned his head to the side out of politeness when he saw you reach forward, but his willpower to remain gentlemanly was subpar at best because you clocked several instances of him glancing back at your breasts in the 5 seconds it took for the arrow to land on left foot red.
A Robin Hood Bullseye. Michael's left foot was all the way on the green dot farthest to the edge of the mat in line with where your right hand was. There was no way he would be able to get it all the way over to red without losing his balance and falling, especially with you on top of him limiting the amount of space he had for his leg to move.
He looked up at you with pleading eyes once he realized how rigorous this feat would be to accomplish, but he was only met with a witty smirk in return.
After a great deal of stalling, Michael revved himself up to hoist his left foot off of the green spot and plant it onto the red spot directly next to the one your right hand was on, but his strategy was foiled when his foot got stuck to the mat and caused him to collapse dramatically underneath you.
You cheered in victory, lifting yourself off of him to jump in the air and chant your triumph as he lay in the same position he fell in, his arms crossed weakly on top of his torso and his head rolled back in laughter. As much as he hated losing a game to you, he loved watching you put on a show every time you won. Once you finished rubbing your victory in his face, you plopped down right next to him and Michael briskly lifted his left knee up to hide the front of his boxers.
You rubbed his arms up and down, gently squeezing his lean biceps. "The $50 you can give me later, but Mickey Mouse is gonna have to say goodbye right now." You transitioned your hands from his biceps to the waistband of his underwear, and even through his deep brown skin, you could see the faintest hint of red looming on his cheeks before he covered his face with his hands and playfully tried to kick you away.
"No! Please!" he begged through a fit of giggles. "C'mon, let's do best out of 3."
"It doesn't work like that, applehead."
Michael carried on with his laughing fit for some time while you continued to toy with his waistband. At this point, he was fighting back less and less with each graze of your hand past his navel. In fact, he wasn't really putting much effort into hiding his erection anymore either. His legs now lay completely relaxed and flat on the floor, giving you a full view of the outline of his thick cock laying off to one side and protruding through the fabric, begging for some form of escape.
Curious as to whether he was no longer hiding his growing appendage on purpose or if he simply forgot it was there, you tugged his boxers down the slightest bit, just enough to see where the dark curls of his pubic hair began. He didn't stop you. He simply shuddered as another row of muffled giggles came out of his mouth. When he finally removed his hands from his face, he gazed up at you with a glimmer in his eyes that was anything but platonic.
"You're not stopping me," you pointed out.
Michael shook his head, looking as though he just got hit with Cupid's arrow.
You crossed your arms and sat back on your heels. "You figured out the reason why I suggested Strip Twister in the first place, didn't you?"
Michael nodded.
"So then you know where this is heading?"
He nodded once more.
"And you want me to continue?"
"Please," he squeaked, struggling to quell a smile that almost touched his eyes.
"Well," you swung a leg over to sit on top of him and bent down until his face was a blur in your eyes, "since you asked so nicely."
The gasp that emerged from Michael's mouth as you seated yourself directly on top of his aching bulge was briskly silenced by the delicate kiss you planted on his lips. You pulled back after the first initial peck to catch his reaction, and you were pleasantly surprised to see him lift his head up off the ground in a desperate attempt to meet your lips again.
Your hand found its way to the back of his head, cradling his curls, dampened by preliminary sweat, as you brought your lips to his once more. You lingered there for a little while longer this time, making sure to savor his taste. You hadn't realized just how starving you were for him until now, and neither did he. His hands maneuvered to your back to hold onto you, pulling you in until your bodies were pressing against each other. As your lips fought to consume one another, you grabbed hold of his hands and guided them to the hook of your bra. With a swift unclasp, the bra slid right off and down your arms before being thrown onto the pile with the rest of the discarded clothes.
A mini sigh of relief fell from your lips and trickled into Michael's mouth. Your breasts lay freely on his chest and your hearts synced together, thumping at a rapid pace as the dizziness in your heads made you both feel like your brains were being carried by ocean waves. Was this actually happening? Or did you fall asleep while watching the brothers play basketball and you were just dreaming right now? You would've pinched yourself to know for sure, but you much preferred the feeling of Michael's fingers desperately gripping your thighs as opposed to your own.
As much as Michael's sickly sweet lips satisfied your craving orally, your core still remained starved for the delicacy that lay between his legs. Lightly, your hips began to rock back and forth on his clothed member. Michael whimpered, his legs wriggling beneath you and his hands dancing in a mixture of balling themselves into fists and retracting.
The slickness from your cunt began to coat the entire bottom of your panties, making the part of Michael's boxers that his shaft hugged so tightly sopping wet as well. For whatever part of his boxers wasn't soaked from your juices, the precum oozing out of him finished the job.
What started as a gentle back-and-forth motion eventually turned into aggressive grinding. These damn panties and boxers were in your way, barricading you from the real thing, and no matter how hard you rubbed yourself on Michael, it wasn't enough. He must've felt the same way, because while you were both still tongue-deep in each other's mouths, you felt his fingers tuck themselves into the sides of your panties, signaling to you that he wanted you to take them off.
You lifted yourself up, met with a whiny protest from Michael, and bit your lip as you smiled pompously. "I'm sorry, was I the one that lost Twister?" you asked him.
He shook his head, his eyes stark on your tits.
"That's right. You were the one that lost, which means these have to come off first," you said, playfully tugging at his boxers.
You teased him for what was realistically about 2 minutes, but to him, it felt like hours. You snaked your hands underneath the boxers to squeeze and knead his trembling thighs before migrating them over to his cock, which was still fully clothed, giving him a lazy hand job that made him squirm and writhe defenselessly.
"Please⊠Just take it off⊠I can't⊠I need⊠Mmph."
You giggled, butterflies going haywire in the pit of your stomach. You had never seen him act like this before, so needy and entirely helpless at your disposal. You would've teased him for even longer just to see how much he could handle before he cracked, but at this point, your legs were starting to quiver as well, and you had become so wet that you could physically feel the fluid dripping out of your pussy in real time.
"As you wish," you gladly stated, and with one sturdy pull, his boxers were dragged down from his hips and off of his legs.
Michael sighed in relief as his dick sprang free, slapping his stomach and leaving a thin string of precum connecting his glistening tip to the spot that it hit before standing fully upright.
You swallowed your breath. They say that the camera adds 10 lbs. Well, it must've been the case that Mickey Mouse boxers subtract 10 lbs, because the silhouette of his dick in his underwear could not even begin to compare to how big it looked when it was wild and free.
Slightly curved towards himself with speckles of lighter skin all around and a broad vein running down the shaft, you guesstimated that his dick must've been at the very least 7 and a half inches, maybe even 8. You became a bit nervous. You weren't a virgin, unlike Michael, but none of the other guys you had been with in the past were even remotely close in size to him. Was all that going to fit inside of you? There was only one way to find out, and God, you couldn't wait to find out the answer.
In a tantalizing manner, you grabbed hold of his hands and tucked his fingers into the waistband of your panties, silently giving him permission to do what he wanted to do 3 minutes ago. With shaky hands, he carefully slid your underwear off of you, his hands gliding down your thighs before you briskly passed your feet through the holes and threw them onto the pile, topping it off like the star on a Christmas tree.
Eager for the main event with your slickness now crawling down onto your inner thighs, you pounced on top of Michael, grabbing hold of his face and planting your lips onto his once more. As your tongues danced with each other and his hands went back to caressing your body, focusing on the parts that weren't accessible to him until now, yours slithered down, gliding past his throat where you could feel his heart beating inside of it, past his chest covered in a thick sheen of perspiration, past his stomach where you traced the lines that made up his delicate abs, and past the mound of curly black pubic hair until they wrapped around his pulsating cock.
Michael expelled a drawn-out mewl as you stroked him thoroughly, starting at the very bottom of the base and pushing up until his foreskin swallowed the tip before you glided your hand back down and the glistening head bloomed once more. The squelching noises accompanied by Michael's kitten-like whimpers were music to your ears.
"Please, please," he begged as you continued to fondle him, rotating your hands as you went up and down to ensure that no part of his dick was left unstroked, "I just wanna be inside you already, pleaseâŠ"
You fought hard to suppress a shudder, having almost came right then and there from hearing him say that. You had spent this whole time having a ball teasing Michael to the point of madness that you hadn't realized just how close you were to your own tipping point until he said those magic words in that delectably high-pitched voice of his. It was in that moment that you released your hands from his cock and pulled him up so that he was sitting upright, leaning against the edge of his bed as opposed to laying flat on the floor like he had been this whole time. You needed to be face to face with him for this moment.
You maneuvered yourself to hover over his cock, wrapping your arms around his neck and touching your foreheads together as he gripped and kneaded your ass with desperation. It almost felt like he was trying to push your hips down. You took the hint and finally lowered yourself onto him at long last. As his lubed tip began to pierce through your hole, shockwaves of pleasure emanated through the both of you, starting at the base of your groins and dispersing all throughout your bodies until you could feel the tingles passing through each follicle of hair on your scalp. Michael's head rolled back as a moan of intense relief escaped from his throat, and your mouth hung open as you felt his member stretch your ribbed walls inch by inch.
Your thighs trembled like mad trying their absolute hardest to hold your weight as you slowly drew yourself down. 1 inch, 2 inches, 3 inches, 4 inches. It burned so good. You viciously sucked on his neck trying to distract yourself from the pain, knowing that pure bliss was coming soon, and the vibrations that his moans set off on your teeth helped open your cunt to let him in deeper. 5 inches, 6 inches, 7 inchesâŠ
Soon your pussy swallowed all 8 inches of him and your trembling thighs were finally rewarded with resting on top of his as you both let out a low-drawn groan in unison. You stayed there for a little while, wanting to relish in the feeling of his dick being hugged tightly by the slick walls of your cunt.
"God, you're so big, it's making me so full," you whispered breathlessly against the skin of his neck. "You want me to start moving up and down?"
An incomprehensible noise emitted from Michael's throat as he furiously nodded his head, a couple beads of sweat shaking off of his curls as a result.
"I need an audible answer, baby."
"Hmmph," he said, digging his fingers into your hips in an attempt to try and lift you up.
Dissatisfied with him not listening to you, you snatched his wrists and yanked them up so that his hands hung above his head. He looked at you with a feeble pout, his eyes beginning to turn glossy from the tears of desperation that were burning in the back of his skull.
"You are gonna answer me with a verbal 'yes' or 'no' like a good boy or I'm gonna put my clothes back on and walk out of here right now." You were bluffing, of course. You wouldn't dream of walking out of the room during a moment as beautiful as this, but Michael didn't need to know that. "One more time, do you want me to start moving up and down?"
"Y-yes please. Please just move, hmph, I've been waiting forever for this, just please do it already~"
"I've been waiting forever for this." There it was. The proof you needed that the feelings you had for Michael for years now were indeed mutual. And no amount of "please's" or magic words were as effective in giving Michael what he wanted as that sweet phrase that you yourself had waited forever for.
"As you wish," you repeated yourself from earlier.
Fighting through the ache in your thighs, you lifted yourself all the way up until nothing but the very top of his tip was still inside of you and slammed yourself back down, both of your thighs creating a deafening clap on impact.
A stunned wail erupted from Michael's throat at the initial drop. He clung to you as if a gust of wind was enough to drag you away from him, burying his head into the crevice of your shoulder. You could feel the warm tears leaking out of his eyes and onto your collarbone as you maintained the same pattern of stroking his cock with your pussy from tip to base.
"Ooh, ah, ah, it feels so good... You feel so good~" Michael's voice wobbled with every bounce you did. After several strokes, you had finally gotten used to his size and could pick up the pace, bouncing so fast that Michael could no longer keep his head buried in your shoulder. You lifted him up by his curls and giggled at his face. The face of a man who was in shambles at this very moment in time. The face of a man who didn't have an ounce of control over anything and liked it like that. The face of a man who would do whatever you wanted right now, so long as you kept riding him.
His tear-stained eyes couldn't pull themselves away from your breasts jiggling to the rhythm. You were just about to start getting close, you could feel it, but you needed an extra push.
"Michael, baby," you cooed, "d'you wanna be a good boy and suck on my titties for me?"
No verbal response yet again. Instead, he answered by grabbing your right breast and enveloping his lips around your areola, visibly trying to shove as much of your tit into his mouth as he could. You moaned in surprise pleasure, enraptured to see him so eager to fulfill your request without second thought.
You continued riding him at a steady pace, both of your juices blending to form an off-white elixir that presented itself as a ring around the base of Michael's cock where you landed with each recoil. Your hands gripped and kneaded his curls, forming knots in his hair that he could care less about as his tongue swirled in circles and figure eights around your erected nipples. He sucked and slurped your breasts like it was his last meal, his toes curling as you pounded down onto him repeatedly.
It was when he began to lightly tug at your nipples with his teeth that you could start to feel it. That fire kindling deep within the pit of your stomach that gave you the warning. Hastily, you shoved Michael's face deeper into your chest, not wanting him to stray even a centimeter away from where he was, and he obliged with pleasure as you thrusted yourself all the way down onto his member and started to vigorously grind your throbbing clit on top of his pubic mound.
The friction from Michael's course pubic hair against your clit sent you into a frenzy as you felt the sensation of fireworks going off inside of you. Your hips stuttered against his as your diaphragm squeezed itself against your will to fill the room with your boisterous moans. Your nails dug into his scalp and your eyes rolled back until you could see nothing but the unidentifiable color of your eyelids. As you bucked your hips, riding out the last bit of your euphoria, your thighs squelched as all of the juices that expelled from your pussy found its way past the barrier that Michael's rock hard dick planted inside of you and spilled out of you and all over him, leaving itself as a glimmering puddle on his lap.
Your grinding slowed as the aftershocks of your cunt pulsing every few seconds like a heartbeat squeezed Michael's cock, but he frantically urged you not to stop now as his high was nearing.
"No, no, no, please, I've been a good boy, please don't stop now, I feel it coming~"
Suddenly regaining all of your energy, you went back to riding him in full force, pulling him away from your breasts and into your line of view so that you could watch his climax in all its glory.
"Yes, you've been such a good boy," you assured him, knowing full well that the floodgates would burst open the more you praised him. "You'll be the best boy in the world if you cum inside of me, baby. Don't be afraid, just let it all out."
"Uuuuughhh, mmmmph~" His eyes squeezed shut in concentration and his hips started to buck against yours, causing you to fall out of rhythm for a few seconds before you both found the right beat, your thighs pounding against each other with resounding claps before Michael's breathing hitched, his back arched, and he latched onto you.
"Ohh, ahh, I'm cumming, oh my God, I'm cumming!" he cried out. Your name fell mercilessly from his lips as thick ropes of warm cum spurted out of him and splattered onto the rigid walls of your pussy. Your cunt dragged his creamy liquid up and down his shaft, coating his entire dick as you still continued to ride him while he was finishing, doing your best to milk him dry. Loud wailing moans soon turned into mewling whines as the last bit of cum weakly dribbled out of Michael's fully pumped cock and you slowed down in time to feel him pulse inside of you before shrinking back down to his flaccid size.
None of you said anything for a while as you both caught your breaths and tried to register what just happened. Michael's head rested on your shoulder and you rubbed his back while murmuring praises in his ear about what a good job he did. Although when you did so, you could've sworn you felt one last gush of cum expel out of him as he jolted ever so slightly in your arms.
"Do you feel better?" you asked him. He lifted himself off of your shoulder, nodding his head and gulping heavily as if attempting to swallow a tablespoon of peanut butter before reaching over to his wallet, which had been resting on the ottoman pressed up against the bed this whole time, and pulling out a crisp $50 bill. You chuckled, having completely forgotten about that part of the deal before snatching the bill in between your index and middle finger like it was a cigarette and grabbing your jeans from the pile to tuck it into the pocket of.
"So, uh," Michael gulped once more, "what should we do now?" He was visibly love drunk, though you weren't sure if a cold shower would be enough to sober him up.
At this moment in time, you knew that it was in your guys' best interests to clean yourselves up and get dressed before anyone came in, but just for the sake of wanting to be funny, you had to ask:
Iâm probably so annoying about this because i incorporate it into basically every fic, but i justâŠcanât stop writing you calling michael daddy solely to tease him, and not even because you like it for yourself. You do it just to get a rise out of him too, not even only in sexual contexts. Youâll greet him in your living room after a studio session, already feeling pent up from a day without his touch and wanting to tease him. âHi daddy, how was work?â Youâll be golfing with him and his siblings and remember that they call him big daddy as a joke, so you join in because you know itâs different when you say it. âYeah, big daddy. I thought you were good at golf.â Heâll be balls deep inside of you, and you can feel his dick twitch, signaling heâs closer to his unraveling, so you give him that extra push he loves to hear from you. âF-fuck, daddy. Cum inside. Make me a mommy.â
The only satisfaction you get from it is his reaction; heâll be flustered and itâll stroke his ego a LOT, mostly because thatâs the kind of stuff he saw in porn when he was inexperienced, so it makes him less insecure about being submissive. But itâll also mindfuck him because howâs he daddy but youâre always in charge? Isnât that reserved for girls who let their guys take control? Why does being called a name with suchâŠassertiveness behind it but being a living footstool for you turn him on so much? As much as he enjoys it, he still feigns being disinterested with the honorific.
The first time you say it, he almost loses his shit. âOh, God. Thatâs so dirty!â heâll giggle, trying to ignore the way it makes blood flow through his whole body. Or, the first time you actually find out about the siblingsâ big daddy joke, and he gets flustered because of the devious look on your face at the information. When you two sneak off from the group, he almostâŠcockily explains to you how the nickname is because of his star power. âYeah, they call me that because of all the girls who used to say it to me on tourâŠFeels special cominâ from you though.â And there are the times where youâll have been teasing him all day, letting him âplayâ dominant outside in public but making him try to take everything he wants in bed, saying stuff like âYou want me to touch you? Oh, but youâre daddy, remember? You should know exactly what to do. You should know how to take it on your own,â and heâll respond by saying âS-stop calling me that,â or, âYouâre right, Iâm not daddy. Iâll stop pretendinâ, pleaseâ or, âNoâŠIâm angelfaceâŠâ when heâs at his weakest.
summary: you and michael havenât seen each other in weeks. as he waits for you to get home, his curiosity (aka: nosiness) gets the better of him and he discovers the one thing you hoped he would never find. (and heâs never gonna let you live it down)
pairing: pre-thriller!era Michael Jackson x Reader
disclaimer: i give absolutely no one permission use my writing to train AI âŒïž (alsoâŠâŠ heavy use of em dashes aheadâshield ur eyes if ur illiterate)
Michael is halfway through zipping his jacket up when the phone rings.Â
The room is washed in that late-afternoon haze that makes everything feel a little softer, a little quieterâsettling over Hayvenhurst like a sigh.
His overnight bag sits neatly by the door, having been packed and ready to go for hours now. Heâs been ready to leave all day, practically buzzing at the thought of finally seeing you, of getting to spend the whole weekend together, counting down to the occasion like a holiday.Â
It had been far too long since youâd shared more than a rushed phone call or sleepy goodnight. With him confined to the studio working on Thriller, and you drowning in back-to-back hospital shifts, you had been living on opposite schedules for weeks. This weekend was the first time they had aligned in what felt like forever.
He crosses the room to where the phone sits on his nightstand, and picks up. âHello?â
âOh, thank goodness you havenât left yet!â Your voice bursts through the speaker in a breathless rush.Â
âHey, pretty girl,â He says, plopping down on the edge of the bed, smiling at the sound of your voice. âYâalright?â
âIâm fine,â you respond. In the background he can hear the typical hospital noiseâthe clatter of something in the distance, overhead pages, phones ringing urgentlyâa chaotic soundtrack heâs grown used to hearing whenever you call him from work. âIâm just⊠held up. Again.â
He can picture you clearly: scrubs wrinkled, hair messily pulled back, your foot tapping as you anxiously fiddle with the phone cord.Â
âLet me guess⊠Your coworker?â
âYes,â you groan. âThe same one. Late, again! I swear she lives in a different time zone.â
Michael chuckles under his breath, trying to ignore the slight pang of disappointment in his chest at the thought of your long-awaited plans being delayed. He didnât want to make you feel even worse. âI was about to head downstairs for Bill.â
âI know, I know, and Iâm sorry, baby.â You say quickly. âBut listenâI still want you to come over. Just head over to my place. Use your key.â
The key.
Even after months of having it, the reminder of it still makes something flutter in his chest. His palm lands softly on his front pocket, where the small silver key sits on its own ring.
You had tried to be nonchalant as you handed it to him, but he hadnât missed the way you blushed and stumbled over your words when offering itâstill nervous and giddy around one another despite nearly two years together.
âYou sure?â He asks, now having taken the key out of his pocket, fiddling with the cold metal between his fingers.
âPositive.â You assure him. âIâll only be an hour⊠or two. Tops.â
Your voice lowers. âAnd before you say anythingâI bought groceries this time.â
He blinks, chuckling at your declaration. âYou did?â
âYes, Michael. Real groceries. My refrigerator now contains more than stale bread and expired milk.â
âI wasnât gonna say anything!â He laughs again, warm and bright.Â
âYou absolutely were!â You counter. âBut you canât, because I stocked up on your favorites.â
That gets him.
He feels itâthe soft, quiet bloom of warmth in the center of his chest at the feeling of being considered. Youâre tired, juggling a dozen things at once, and still, you thought of him.
âAlright,â he says, cradling the phone between his ear and shoulder as he stands up to zip his jacket the rest of the way. âIâll head over now.â
âGood.â You say, a smile in your voice. âMake yourself at home, okay?â
He bites his lip shyly; smiling at nothing, at everything. âI always do.â
Thereâs a small pauseâthe kind that only happens when neither of you wants to be the first to hang up.
âI love you,â you say softly.
His smile deepens, that feeling in his chest growing even warmer. âI love you too, baby. See you soon.â
You both linger for a beat before the line finally goes quiet.
By the time Michael arrives at your apartment, the sun has dipped low enough to paint the sky in soft pinks and golds. He thanks Bill, throws his bag over his shoulder, and exits the vehicle with a quiet, eager energy he hasnât felt in weeks.Â
Itâs been too longâtoo many late nights for him in the studio, too many early mornings for you at the hospital, too many missed calls and âsorry baby, I just got home,â messages, and he misses you.
He misses thisâthe simple act of spending the weekend with his girlfriend.
He reaches your door, pulling out his key and slipping it into the lock.
He steps inside and closes it behind him with a soft click, shrugging off his jacket and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. He toes off his loafers with a relieved sigh, nudging them aside neatly with a soft scrape against the floor.
He exhales, shoulders finally relaxing as he takes in the space.Â
He loves your apartment, he always has; each and every corner a reminder and reflection of you.
Photos line the wallsâsome crooked, some perfectly straightâmore stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets. Knickknacks and trinkets cover every shelf and surface; mismatched decor, tiny animal figurines from your childhood, little gifts heâs given you over the years.
Your books and record collection are neatly arranged, meanwhile a heap of mail is stacked in a slightly chaotic pile on the counter. A few dishes from breakfast sit in the sink. Your diplomas hang proudly on the wall outside of your bedroom. Below, a small mountain of laundry waits patiently on the floor.
Itâs lived-in. Itâs warm. Clean, despite the clutter. It smells like youâfamiliar and comforting.
He smiles to himself, wandering further into the kitchen. When he opens the fridge, he actually laughs out loud. You really did buy groceries.
An unopened gallon of orange juice sits front and center: a blue post-it with your handwriting pasted to the front of the jug: âfor angel face <3â
He blushes, shaking his head at your shameless flirting, and is about to close the door when something on the fridge catches his eyeâa photo tucked under a magnet shaped like a strawberry.
A photo of him.
It was taken the night of the Off The Wall release party in 1979. Heâs smiling wide, laughing at something or someone outside of the frame. He has a hand in the pocket of his blue jacket and he balances on roller skates.Â
He remembers the night vividlyâbut not because of the party.Â
Because of you.Â
Michaelâs smile softens as the memory pulls him inâ
The rink was buzzing that nightâmusic loud, neon lights spinning, people laughing as they wobbled around on skates.Â
You were working part-time at the roller rinkâjuggling shifts between nursing school classes and study groups. It wasnât glamorous, but it paid the bills. You were behind the rental counter that evening, exhausted and burnt out, but still smiling at everyone who came your way.
Then Michael walked in with his friends and family, and the whole atmosphere of the room shifted.
Of course, you had recognized himâall of them, actuallyâinstantly. Aside from being a fan, you knew the group was coming, your manager having told the whole crew in advance about the party being held in honor of Michael Jackson releasing his new solo album, Off The Wall. You were all under strict instructions not to make a sceneâor swoonâwhen they arrived.Â
The same could not be said for Michael himself, though.
He had walked into the room excited and proud, ready to finally celebrate the album he had worked so hard on with some of his favorite people, but the moment he saw you, he stopped in his tracks. Completely.Â
You were laughing at something a coworker said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he felt itâa sudden, ridiculous flutter in his chest.Â
âMike,â Jackie nudged him. âYou good?â
He didnât answer. He was too busy staring.
âEarth to Michael,â Tito added, waving a hand in front of his face.
Nothing. He was hopelessly, helplessly smitten at the sight of you in your cute little uniform, totally oblivious to his swooning just ten feet away.
When he finally approached the counter to collect his skates (or was he shoved?), you looked up at him with that bright, open smileâthe one he would eventually come to love more than anythingâand he was speechless. Utterly speechless. As in, literally unable to form words.Â
âWhat size?â You had asked, pen poised over the rental sheet.
He didnât respond. He simply stared at youâopenly, hopelesslyâessentially forgetting the whole reason he was there the second he laid eyes on you.Â
âUm⊠what size skates do you need?â You repeated, blushing.
He blinked, snapping out of it. âOhâsorry! Uh, size⊠nine? Yeah, nine. Please.â
You handed him the skates, trying not to be too obvious as you stared into his pretty brown eyes.
âHappy birthday,â you had said, shy but sincere as you recalled the date.
He smiled, but shook his head. âThank you, but⊠weâre actually here to celebrate the release of my new album. Would you like a copy?â
He gestured to the box his team had brought with themâsigned copies of the album to give to the staff as a âthank youâ for hosting the party.
âOh! I would but I⊠kinda already have one.â
He blinked. âYou do?â
You nodded, a blush rising to your cheeks. âI stood in line for hours at the record store this morning. IâmâŠkind of a big fan.â
His heart did a full somersault at that, his smile turning boyish and shy. âWell, then⊠you should have a signed one too.â
Before you could protest out of sheer politeness, he reached into the box and handed one to you, trying not to become flustered as your hands accidentally brushed.
He giggled nervously as you thanked him, quickly disappearing into the crowd in hopes of not embarrassing himself further.Â
He tried to act normal the remainder of the night, he really did, but he failed. Miserably.Â
Every few minutes, heâd drift dangerously close to the wall because he was craning his neck to catch another glimpse of you. At one point, heâd nearly collided with a group of kids doing tricks, almost wiping out himself.
His brothers noticedâbecause of course they didâ and didnât hesitate to tease him mercilessly.
âIâm not!â Michael protested, while actively staring.
âUh-huh,â Tito adds. âOur little Mikeyâs in love.â
âShut up Tito!â He hisses under his breath, cheeks becoming hotter by the minute.Â
âJust go talk to her!â Jackie urged.
âI did talk to her,â Michael shoots back, his cheeks turning more and more red the further they taunt him.
âYeah,â Marlon said. âAnd you stared at her like a lovesick fool. Go ask for her number, you pathetic schmuck.â
By the end of the night, after watching him sneak glances and make a fool of himself for hours, the entire group had had enough. Marlon himself eventually grabbed Michael by the shoulders, and physically shoved him toward the rental counter.
âGo. Now. Before I do it for you.â
âMarlon!â Michael hisses, mortified, heart hammering in his chest as he stumbled toward you. If he were being truthful, the only thing worse than him making a move and being rejected was the thought of Marlon making a move and getting your number instead.
He set the pair of skates on the counterâharsher than intendedâand immediately began rambling. âUhâhi. I meanâhello. Again. I just, uh, wanted to return these. The skates. Obviously. And also IâwellâI was wondering if maybe, if itâs not too forward or anythingâif I could, umâŠhave your number? Your⊠phone number?â
You froze, jaw falling open in shock as he babbled, totally unconvinced that you werenât simply daydreaming.
Taking your silence as rejection, Michael immediately began to regret all of his life decisions and had opened his mouth to backtrack when you began to scramble wildly for anything to write onâa receipt, a napkin, a scrap of paper, anything.Â
You finally settle on a crumpled up candy wrapper and scribble your number down with shaky hands, and hand it to him, your fingers brushing once again, sparks igniting at the brief contact.
You both pretend not to hear his brothers hooting and cheering in the background.
-
Michael closes the refrigerator door gently, continuing to smile fondly at the photo. The memory continues to unfoldânot just that night, but everything that followed.
The truth was, you never expected him to actually call.
You were flattered of course, dizzy with disbelief. You had practically floated home that night, clutching the signed album to your chest as if it were made of gold.Â
But you knew who he was: famous, busy, traveling the world and performing for millions of people. And you were just⊠well, you: an ordinary girl working part-time at a roller rink trying to survive college.
But he did call. The very next day, actually.
You were in the middle of studying for an exam when the phone rang. Then you heard his voiceâsoft and shyâand you nearly dropped the receiver.
âItâs Michael. Remember? From the roller rinkâŠ?â He had said. You had to hold back a giggle at his introductionâacting as if he were just some random guy who had asked for your number, and not Michael Jackson himself.
You didnât get any more studying done that night, the call lasting hours.
He called the next day too. And the day after that. And the day after that.
Even when he was on the road, even when you were drowning in exams and clinical rotations, you talked. Somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, the two of you always made time for each otherâsometimes five minutes, sometimes hours, and sometimes just enough to say âI miss you.â
You had clicked instantly.
Not simply as a crush, but as friendsâreal friends. The kind who could talk about everything and nothing without ever running out of things to say.Â
The kind who laughed until your stomachs hurt, the kind who felt strangely familiar from the very beginningâsaying things to one another that you had never said out loud to another soul.
It wasnât long before he asked you on a date, and it took even less time for him to ask you to be his girlfriend.
His first girlfriend. His first everything. And he wouldnât have wanted it any other way.
You had fit into his world with an ease that surprised everyone around you. His sisters adored you. His mother welcomed you with open arms, always insisting you stay for dinner or come by whenever you had time. Even Joseph tolerated your presence⊠well, somewhatâwhich was about as high of a compliment as you could get from that man, so Michael took it as a win.
His brothers teased the both of you relentlessly, flirting with you shamelessly simply to get under Michaelâs skin. You never missed a beat, though, effortlessly putting them in their place with a quick comeback or humbling retortâand they loved you for it.
Michael loved you even more for it.
He loved the way you held your own with his family, the way you made him laugh, the way you treated him like a person rather than a superstar. He loved the way you made everything feel lighter on even the heaviest days.
It wasnât until your third dateâa quiet dinner with the two of you sitting close enough that your knees brushed beneath the tableâthat you finally admitted to him that the night at the roller rink hadnât actually been the first time you met.Â
Months earlier, you and a friend had won a radio contestâfront row tickets to The Jacksonsâ Destiny Tour that included a meet and greet with the group.
When you told him, he was absolutely devastated. âYou were there? And I didnât remember you?â His voice had gone soft, quivering slightly as if he had failed you somehow.
You reached across the table, grasping his hand. âMichael, donât be silly. You were exhausted. And it was so quick, you probably met hundreds of fans that day.â
Still, he was crushed. In his mind, he was mourning the extra months he could have had with you. You, on the other hand, seemed⊠relieved? âHonestlyâŠIâm kind of glad you donât remember.â
âWhy?â He blinked.
âI meanâŠâ You shrugged, cheeks growing hot as you tried to deflect. âI was so excited to meet you all. I probably embarrassed myself.âÂ
He was sure that wasnât trueâyou were always perfect in his eyes. You insisted though, so he let it go and he accepted your reassurance, despite his disappointment.
Michael finally shakes himself from the memory, feeling hopelessly lovesick as he tears himself away from the photo. You couldnât get home soon enough.Â
A half hour slips by before Michael grows restless. He tries to be patientâreally, he does.
The first ten minutes pass easily enough.
He puts on one of your records, something he knows you like, letting the music fill the quiet of your apartment. He sits on the couch for a while, stretching out and tapping his fingers against his knees, humming along to the soft tunes.Â
Another ten minutes pass. He checks the clock. Then checks it again two minutes later.Â
He even considers taking a nap, leaning back against the cushions and closing his eyes for a moment. But the stillness of the apartment, the soft hum of the record spinning and the faint scent of your perfume lingering in the air all make him restless in a way he canât quite shake.
Then, his curiosity wins out. It always does.Â
He tells himself heâs not snooping. Heâs just⊠looking around. Appreciating the space. He really tries to believe it, but after a few minutes of wandering around the living room with his hands in his pockets, he sighs and admits it to himself:
Alright. Heâs snooping.
Itâs a terrible habitâone heâs had since he was a little boy. Heâs always been endearingly curious, poking around drawers and closets he had no business opening. His mother used to scold him for it constantly, telling him it was bad manners and just plain rude.
He should know better by now, he really shouldâbut he canât help it. He loves your spaceâloves the little pieces of you tucked into every corner, and he never gets tired of learning things about you that you never think to mention. It makes him feel closer to you, even when you're not there.
And, frankly, you should have known better than to leave him unattended and bored.Â
He starts with the bookshelf, running a finger along the spines of your novels and old nursing school textbooks. At the end, a few cookbooks.Â
He snorts softly. You own cookbooks.
You, who barely has time to buy groceries, let alone cook. He shakes his head in amusement, imagining you optimistically buying them and then promptly forgetting they exist. He pulls one out and quickly leafs through itâfinding not a single page dog-eared, nor one stain or smudge. He snickers under his breath before sliding it back into place.
And thatâs when he spots itâa thick, slightly worn high school yearbook wedged in at the end.
He pulls it out carefully, glancing nervously toward the door like youâre about to walk in at that exact moment, then settles onto the couch with it resting on his lap. He examines the pages slowlyâscanning the class photos and candid shots of students laughing in hallways. It takes him less than a minute to find you.
He spots your photo and immediately breaks into a grin that he couldnât hide even if he tried. You look younger, of courseâsofter around the edges and hair styled differently, but still undeniably you.
He giggles under his breath, tracing the edge of the photo with his thumb. He reads the messages your classmates wrote to you in the marginsâgrinning at the inside jokes he doesnât understand and the sweet notes from friends heâs never met.
He wonders, not for the first time, how differently things would have turned out if the two of you had gone to school togetherâif heâd seen you in the hallways, or sat behind you in class, or watched you laugh with your friends at lunch.
Would you have gone to prom together? Went to football games hand-in-hand? The thought makes him smile, then laugh softly at himself.Â
Who was he kidding? He was nearly too shy to talk to you when he met you at age twenty-one. If he had met you as a teenager, he probably would have tripped over his own feet trying to say hello.Â
He allows himself another moment of reminiscing before putting the yearbook away where he found it.Â
He continues exploring. On the bottom shelf of your TV stand, he finds an old shoebox with a lid that doesnât quite close all the way. He hesitates for barely a second before picking it up and lifting the lid.Â
Inside is a jumble of old memoriesâsome new, some old: friendship bracelets, faded movie tickets, a few Polaroids, some photo negatives, a folded note or two. He smiles as he sifts through them, careful not to bend or misplace anything. It feels like flipping through a scrapbook of your life before he knew you.
Then, he finds something else tucked near the bottom of the boxâa bundle of photos with a rubber band holding them together. He pulls them out gently.Â
On top is a ticket stubâThe Jacksonsâ Destiny World Tour. 1979.
Jackpot. He thinks to himself, immediately sliding the rubber band off and beginning to look through the photosâgrainy, slightly overexposed shots of the stage. The crowd. Him and his brothers mid-dance.Â
Then he finds one that makes his heart skip a beat: a photo of himâheâs mid-spin, completely unaware that somewhere in the crowd, a girl he hadnât met yet was watching him with a camera in her hands. The girl he would fall in love with.
The girl he would marry somedayâheâs sure of it.
He continues flipping through the stack of photos, settling deeper into the couch. He recognizes some of the photos, you had shown them to him before, back when you first told him about the concert you attended.
He had to coax you into letting him see them at allâhe recalls how shy you were, insisting they were so embarrassing. Michael disagreed.
He flips to a photo of you and your friend outside of the venue, both of you pointing excitedly at the billboard advertising the tour. Youâre both grinning so wide it looks painful.
You both wear white t-shirts: âThe Jacksonsâ and âDestiny Tour 1979â spelled out in bright lettering across the front, the design clearly homemade. He had tried to tease you about the DIY project when you originally showed him the photos, but heâd barely gotten a sentence out before you smacked his arm playfully and told him to hush.Â
âWe were broke college students! We had to make our own merch!â
He remembers laughingâhe had never seen someone look so adorably proud in a t-shirt they had designed themselves with a pack of fabric markers.
He moves onto the next photo, another shot of the two of you outside the venue, this time with your arms thrown around each other mid-laugh, the crowd buzzing behind you. He can feel the energy radiating from the photoâthe anticipation, the excitement, the electricity.
Then, he reaches the first photo from the meet-and-greet.
Heâs seen his photo before too, but for some reason, it hits him differently this time. Maybe itâs because heâs sitting in your apartment, surrounded by your things, thinking about your history all afternoon.
There he isâright in the middle, where he was always positioned.
Youâre sandwiched between him and Marlon, and your friend stands on the opposite side between him and Randy.
Him and his brothers look exhaustedâsweaty, flushed, hair sticking to their foreheadsâbut theyâre smiling, bright and genuine, still riding the adrenaline high from the performance. Always excited and grateful to meet fans.Â
Michael canât stop looking at you in the photo; so young, so excited and unbelievably cute.
It still drives him crazy that he canât remember you. He knows he shouldnât feel badâ heâs told himself that a million times. It was after a show, he was exhausted. You were one face in a sea of faces.
But still.
He wishes he remembered you, that he had noticed you that day, that he had looked up and seen the girl who would someday become the most important person in his life.
He flips through the rest of the photos with a quiet fondness, taking his time with each one as the stack gets smaller and smaller.Â
Then he reaches the last photo and freezes, nearly dropping the whole pile in surprise.
Heâs never seen this one, heâs sure of it. He would have remembered.
It's another shot taken in front of the venue, but this one was taken from behindâyou and your friend standing with your backs to the camera, hips popped out dramatically, each of you pointing your thumbs toward writing on the backs of your DIY t-shirts, the lettering bold and bright.
Written on the back of your friendâs shirt:Â
âRandyâs #1 Girlâ
On yours?
âMarlonâs #1 Girlâ
Michaelâs jaw drops.Â
Then, he bursts out laughing. It's loud, sudden and completely unrestrainedâthe sound surprising even himself. He doubles forward, hand flying over his mouth, shoulders shaking. His cheeks flush, partly from amusement, and partly from the sheer irony of it all.Â
âOh⊠oh lordâŠâ He wheezes, wiping at his eyes.
He should be jealous, he thinks.
And a year or two ago, he probably would have spiraledâmaking up all sorts of ridiculous scenarios in his head, convincing himself you would have preferred someone else, letting his insecurities gnaw at him until he was sick.
Maybe he is a little jealous, just a tiny bit.
But more than that? Heâs delighted. Absolutely thrilled.
Because thisâthisâis leverage. Real leverage. The kind he never gets with you.
You almost always have the upper hand when it comes to teasing.
Youâre quick, clever, merciless in the most affectionate way. You know exactly how to fluster him, exactly how to make him blush, exactly how to get him sputtering and defensive.
He tosses the rest of the stack to the side and holds the photo up, grinning like he just discovered buried treasure.
âGirl⊠you are never living this down.â He murmurs to himself.
Admittedly, if it were anyone else, perhaps he would have been jealous, but it's not anyone else. Itâs Marlon.
You and Marlon bicker like you were siblings yourselvesâloud, dramatic, ridiculous, and completely harmless. Michael has never once felt threatened by your relationship with any of his brothers. Even if he does get irritated at times, he knows their natural flirtiness is just part of who they are, and youâve always handled it with humor and a scathing comeback.Â
Besides, it was Marlon himself who gave him the final shove toward you at the roller rink. A fact that his older brother likes to bring up constantly, essentially crediting your entire relationship to his self-proclaimed matchmaking genius.
Michael leans back into the couch, snickering to himself.
He cannot wait for you to walk through that door.
-
You finally pull into your driveway, turning off the engine and letting your head fall back against the seat for a moment, closing your eyes and letting out the kind of long, heavy sigh that only comes after a shift that lasted far too long.Â
What was supposed to be a normal twelve-hour shift had stretched into fifteenâcutting into your perfect evening with Michaelâall because your stupid coworker was late. Again.
Youâd spent the last few hours trying not to fall asleep on your feet, counting down the minutes until you could go home and fall into his arms.Â
Youâre exhausted in that bone-deep way that only healthcare workers understand. All you want to do is to peel everything off and stand under a hot shower until the day melts off of your skin.
Preferably with your very pretty boyfriend in there with you.Â
Despite the exhaustion, though, a spark of energy remains humming beneath your ribsâthe excitement thatâs been building for days.
Because the rest of the night belongs only to you and Michaelâmovies, snacks, and a whole weekend with no interruptions, no opposite schedules, and no rushed phone calls squeezed in between responsibilities.
Just the two of you, finally in the same place at the same time.
It had been too longâtruly too long.Â
Youâre so incredibly proud of himâof the work heâs pouring into Thriller, of the long nights and early mornings he spends in his studio, of the way he talks about his music like itâs aliveâan entity of itself.Â
You canât wait to hear the final record. You have no doubt that the sneak-peeks and demos he sometimes lets you hear do no justice to the finished project.
But more than anything, you canât wait to have him to yourself for a little while.
The thought of coming home to him tonight makes your heart flutter in a way you try not to think too hard aboutâespecially when itâs quickly followed by the thought of coming home to him everyday.Â
The idea of moving in together has crossed your mind more than onceâslipping in between late-night phone calls and early mornings when youâre half-awake and missing him more than anything.
You wouldnât have to worry about going weeks without seeing each other if you shared the same bed every night and woke up next to each other every morning.
Maybe soon. Maybe once the album is out. Maybe when life slows down just enough for the two of you to breathe at the same time.
You gather your thingsâyour bag, your change of shoes, the lunch you never had time to eatâand step out of your car into the cool evening air.Â
Your body aches, your feet hurt, and youâre dog-tired, but none of that matters because Michaelâyour Michaelâis inside waiting for you, and suddenly the day doesnât feel quite so heavy anymore.Â
The moment you push open your apartment door, the familiar warmth of home wraps around you like a blanketâthe soft lamplight, a hint of vanilla from a candle Michael must have lit while waiting for you, soft hum of a record spinning in the background, and a whiff of his cologne coming from his jacket draped over the chair closest to the door.Â
You barely step one foot inside the threshold when you hear itâthe unmistakable sound of footsteps hurriedly making their way toward you.Â
Then Michael appearsâor rather, launches himself into the roomâskidding around the corner. He couldnât possibly look more goofy as his socked-feet slide a little on the hardwood and he catches himself on the wall.
He straightens himself quickly, like he meant to do that, and hadnât just sprinted toward you like a puppy greeting its owner. He tries to look casual, lifting his chin as he leans nonchalantly against the doorwayâbut the bright, boyish excitement in his eyes gives him away instantly.
You, meanwhile, donât even pretend to play it cool.Â
You drop your things to the floor in a completely ungraceful heap, and youâre in his arms before either of you can say a word.Â
He catches you easily, arms wrapping around your middle with a kind of desperation that makes you want to melt into him and resurface. He squeezes you tight, lifting you just slightly off the ground before setting you back down, but not letting go yet.
âHi, baby,â you murmur against his skin, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply.
He smells like homeâthe scent hitting you so hard that you almost do meltâright then and there.Â
He hums a soft soundâsomething between a laugh and a relieved sighâand presses his cheek against the top of your head. You can feel him smile against your hair, his arms tightening even more. âHi.â
You pull back just enough to get another look at his handsome faceâand you lean in and kiss him. He sinks into it, his warm hands gliding up your back simply for the opportunity to hold you a little closer.
âI hope you didnât get too bored waiting for me,â you say, finally breaking away for air, brushing your thumb along his jaw.
Before he can respond, the dam breaksâthe exhaustion and frustration of your very long day comes rushing back all at once, and you start shedding layers as you talkâyour coat first, then your scrub top, the long sleeved undershirt getting tangled along with it as you pull the fabric over your head and throw it aside. You kick off your shoes haphazardly, causing them to land messily next to Michael's neatly-placed loafers.
You ramble on without taking a breath, words spilling out in a rush as you stand there in your bra in front of him, long past any shyness or decorum.
âYou would not believe the day I hadâfifteen hours, Michael, fifteen! I swear if my coworker is late one more time Iâm going to lose my mind. Iâm starving, Iâm exhausted, I feel gross. I just want to shower for an hour and then order pizza and put on a Disney movie andââ
You stop when you realize heâs staring at you. Not in a worried or confused way, or in a âmy girlfriend is standing in front of me half-nakedâ kind of wayâbut in a way that is so foreign it makes your stomach flip and your brows knit together.
Heâs tryingâvery poorlyâto suppress a smirk, and heâs holding one hand behind his back.
You narrow your eyes. âWhat are you doing?â
âNothing,â he says, far too quickly.
âMichael Jackson.â You say sternly, crossing your arms at his evasion.
âNothing!â He gigglesâactually gigglesâthe sound bubbling out like he just canât help it. âI just missed you.â
You squint at him, suspicious. âThen why are you looking at me like that?"
He shrugs, all innocence, though the corners of his mouth twitch. âJust looking at my girl.â
You soften a little at that, and begin to turn away to gather your dirty clothes off the floorâuntil he adds with a casualness so deliberate it was practically glowing:
âMy #1 girl.â
You freeze.
Oh no. Oh no, no no.
Your entire body goes stillâhis words hitting you like a jolt of electricity.
You spin around on your heel so fast you nearly lose your balance, because you know exactly what heâs referencingâthat exact phrasing.
And he knows you know.
He stands there, tryingâand failingâto hide the cocky grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, hand still tucked behind his back like heâs holding an explosive.
You stare at him with a wild, startled look. Your pulse jumps as your eyes dart around the room, and then you see it: the source of his smugness.Â
Your memory box, wide openâsitting on the coffee table in the background like a glowing neon sign that reads: you fucked up!
Your soul briefly leaves your body as you look back up at him to see what heâs holding.Â
The photo. That photo. The one you probably should have burned.Â
He pinches it between two fingers, dangling it in the air like baitâa victorious expression spread across his stupidly pretty face.
You let out a horrified, choked soundâand immediately lunge for it.Â
But heâs faster.
He lifts his arm effortlessly, holding the photo high above your head. Damn your height. Damn his height. Damn the universe for giving him such long arms.Â
âMichael!â You whine, standing up on your tip-toes, fingers brushing uselessly at the air.
He giggles again, stepping back just enough to keep the photo out of your reach.Â
âOrâŠâ he says, drawing the word out torturously, eyes sparkling with mischief. âIs it Marlonâs #1 girl?â
You gasp, making another grab for the photo. He lifts it even higher. âMichael Joseph Jackson! You nosy littleââ
You jump again, uselesslyâyour fingertips missing the photo by a good four or five inches.
You can only imagine how pathetic the scene would look to anyone watchingâyou, dressed only in a bra and wrinkled scrub pants, leaping like a frantic gremlin while your boyfriend stands there laughing at you.Â
âYou werenât supposed to find that!â You whine, continuing to stretch your arm as far as it will go. You briefly consider getting a stepstool.
You stop jumping, finally admitting defeat.
Your shoulders slump as you let out a long, dramatic groan, dropping your head until your forehead lands against his chest. Michael simply stands there, smug and delighted. He looks so pleased with himselfâtoo pleased, really, for your tasteâand you know thereâs absolutely no recovering from this.
You should have known better. You did know better.
Leaving your sweet, curious boyfriend alone in your apartment with nothing but time and his lifelong, incurable nosiness to keep him company? That was on you.
âBaby?â You mumble against his chest, your cheeks warm.
âHm?âÂ
âAre you mad?â You ask, suddenly feeling a little guilty and ashamed for hiding the photo from him at all.
The question hangs in the airâsoft, genuine, vulnerableâand for the first time since he flashed that stupid smirk, his expression changes. The teasing fades just a little, replaced by something else entirely. Your chest tightens.Â
He lowers the photo a fraction, dark bambi-eyes softening as he looks down at you, then back at the photograph.Â
His expression shifts into something thoughtful, humming softlyâthe sound low in his throat, and says, almost to himself, âI mean⊠I probably should be mad.â
You look up at him with wide, pleading eyes, searching his face for any sign of real hurt or insecurity. He doesnât give you one, and the uncertainty makes your breath catch.
You would almost rather die than hurt his feelings, intentionally or not.
âI really should,â he continues, nodding solemnly while keeping his eyes on the photo. His tone is slow, deliberate and downright torturous, each word landing heavier than the last.
âI meanâŠmy girlfriend, my sweet, beautiful girlâŠâ He pauses, tilting his head slightly. ââŠswooning over another man. Right in front of me.â
He lifts the photo a little higher, examining it like evidence. Your face burns even hotter. âAnd over my own brother, no less.â
Now, your entire body feels like it's on fire. With every teasing word, your embarrassment grows. You want to disappear into the floor. Or snatch the photo and run. Or both.
âMichaelâŠâ You whisper, fully mortified.
Michael looks at you fully now, biting his lip, and finally lowers the photo, extending it toward you.
You snatch it back gently but urgently, gripping it with both hands and holding it protectively against your chest, effectively hiding it from the world.Â
Your cheeks burn, the heat blooming all the way to your ears. You can barely look at him in the eye, your embarrassment so intense it borders on dizzying.
Before you can open your mouth to defend yourselfâor scold him some more, you havenât decidedâhe leans down and kisses you.
Not a quick, teasing peck, but a deep, steady kiss that anchors you right where you stand, immediately silencing every frantic thought swirling around in your head.Â
His hands cradle your face for a moment, warm and steady, before one pinches your cheek gently, affectionately, causing you to let out a surprised squeak.
His hands trail down your sides and land on your bottom with a soft, mischievous squeeze. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze intense.
âIâm not threatened by anyone,â he says quietly, but firmly. âEspecially not Marlon.â
You let out a long, shaky sigh of relief, shoulders finally relaxing.
âGood,â you murmur, still clutching the photo that has begun to crumple slightly in your grip. âBecause I love Marlon, but as a brother. As a friend. There were never any sparks. Ever.â
You pause at that, and add with a groan, âAnd he can never find out about this photo. If he does, Iâll never hear the end of it.â
Michael laughs at that, clearly imagining exactly how unbearable Marlonâand the rest of his brothers, reallyâwould be with this information.
You roll your eyes and continue, âBesides, my other friendâyou remember Kayla? From middle school?âhad already claimed you as her favorite member. I couldnât break girl code like that. So naturally I had to pick someone else.â
Your cheeks heat up in embarrassment as soon the words leave your mouth. Good god, you sound like a 16 year old.Â
Michael simply laughs again, shaking his head. He pinches your cheek again. âIâve been in this industry for a very long time, sweet girl. I am very familiar with fangirl logic. Itâs very cute.â
You smack his shoulder lightly, your embarrassment finally giving way to amusement. âWell, if it makes you feel better, my favorite has definitely changed.â
He nods, eyes sparkling with mischief again. âGood. Because we are going to the store first thing in the morning to pick up fabric markers so you can make yourself a new shirt.â
You groan, burying your face in his chest again. He giggles again, wrapping his arms around you again.
He pulls away slightly, studying you for a momentâyour flushed cheeks and embarrassed little frown, the way youâre still clutching the photo like it might leap out of your hands and betray you for a second timeâand he kisses you again.
You melt into him without thinking, the tension of your day dissolving with the warmth of his mouth against yours.
When he finally pulls away, he doesnât go far. Instead, he presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your cheek. Then the other. Then the tip of your nose. Your forehead.
You start to giggle helplessly as he continuesâkissing all over your face with exaggerated affection, each one softer than the last.
He trails down your jaw, your chin, the crook of your neck, beginning to nip and bite at your collar bones. He continues until youâre laughing openly, half-heartedly pushing at his shoulders.
âMichaelâ!â You squeal, half-laughing, half-pleading as he continues his assault.
He grins against your skin, clearly delighted by your reaction. His hands glide down your waist, fingers curling gently as he delivers a playful tickle against your bare skinâjust enough to make you squirm and laugh harder.Â
âStop, stop!â You shout breathlessly, attempting to twist out of his grip. He finally relents, pulling back to take another look at youâcheeks flushed, eyes bright, breath unsteady from laughing. He smiles, impossibly in love.
He turns you by your hips, pushing you gently towards your bedroom, delivering a light, affectionate swat against your backside to send you on your way. âGo on, get in the shower and change into something comfy fâme.â
You watch as he begins walking in the opposite direction with a little bounce in his step. âAnd what are you doing?â
âOrdering us a pizza!â He calls over his shoulder.
You bite your lip, shaking your head as you start down the hallway toward the washroom. Your heart is impossibly fullâstill fluttering from his kisses, cheeks warm from his teasing, ribs aching from how hard he made you laugh.Â
You can hear him hummingâsomething soft and unfamiliarâand you canât help but smile. Then, you realize youâre still holding the photo and another thought hits you.Â
You stop dead in your tracks, spinning around so fast your hair whips in front of your face. You clear your throat loudly, and he freezes mid-stride, turning to look at you with confusion.
You narrow your eyes, lifting a finger to point at him with all the authority you can muster for a person who was just kissed breathless. âDonât you dare get into anything else while Iâm gone. I mean it, Michael. Not one drawer. Not a single cabinet. Not one.â
He blinks innocently, lips twitching as he tries to think of a retort. You continue, âBecause if you do, I swear to god my new shirt is going to say âJermaineâs #1 Girl.ââ
His jaw drops in faux-outrage, clutching his chest as if he were mortally wounded. ââŠYou wouldnât.â
âWouldnât I?â
âNow youâre just playinâ dirty.â He shoots back, hands landing on his hips.
âOh really?â You raise an eyebrow. Clearly, it was time to show him exactly what âplayinâ dirtyâ actually looked like. You casually reach behind your back and unclip your bra. âTry me.â
He watches as it falls to the floor. He chuckles slowly, taking a single step toward you. âYou better run, girl. Youâre in for it now.â
You let out a yelp as you bolt down the hallway, laughter spilling out as he chases after you.Â
Pizza and movies would have to wait. You have a long and eventful night ahead of you. Itâs good to be home.
a/n: thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading this far. this is my first time writing for michael, please enjoy and be kind!
any and all feedback is greatly appreciated.
Janet's toenails were painted the color of a fresh,ripe strawberry, that deep red catching the sunlight every time she shifted on her towel.
The bikini straps dug into her shoulders just slightly enough that she'd have faint lines later.
She'd bought it for the polka dots, white on navy blue.
The sunscreen bottle was nearly empty, and she knew exactly how much was left, enough for one final application.
She didn't turn her head when she spoke, just let the words drift lazily between breaths, "Heyâmind getting my back?" The request hung in the thick air, casual but deliberate, the way she always asked for things when she wanted them.
your shadow eclipsed hers as you stood, the sunscreen bottle clicking softly in your grip. She arched slightly, pressing her stomach into the towel beneath her,waiting for the first cool touch of your fingers.
You squeezed a dollop onto her shoulder blade, watching the white cream melt against her tan before dragging your thumb downward in slow, deliberate strokes. Her breath hitched just once when your palm flattened between her shoulder blades, pressing heat into her skin.
The scent of coconut and salt rose between you as you worked the sunscreen into the dips of her spine, your fingers tracing the ridge where her ribs flared beneath her skin. She exhaled through her nose,long, unsteady as your touch lingered near the clasp of her bikini top, her muscles tensing then relaxing like a cat stretching in sunlight.
"Does it feel nice?" you murmured, barely louder than the waves lapping at the shore ten feet away. Her answer came slow, syrup-thick. "Mmm. Too nice." You could hear the smirk in it.
Your fingers wandered lower now, past the knot of her bikini, tracing the ladder of vertebrae disappearing beneath the fabric. She shivered when your thumbnail grazed the dimple at the base of her spine.
"You missed a spot," she murmured, but her voice was all breath. You dragged your palm up the length of her ribs,again further up feeling the way her skin tightened under your touch, goosebumps blooming in your wake.
Your fingertips dipped beneath the edge of her bikini top, just enough to graze the underside of her breast.
She giggled softly at it, a sweet sound.
The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of saltwater and coconut oil, mingling with the warmth radiating from her skin. You let your fingers linger there, not pushing further, just tracing lazy circles against the sensitive skin where fabric met flesh. Her breath stuttered again, the rhythm of it syncing with the distant pulse of the calm tide.
idea- @slugstarzz (I hope you don't mind me tagging you!!!)
