⊱ Mature!michael who puts you before anything. The second he gets a call saying you need or want something, he drops whatever he’s doing and comes straight to you. No hesitation, no excuses—you always come first.
⊱ Mature!michael who doesn’t play games in a relationship. No pettiness, no silent treatment, no going to bed angry, and definitely no playing hard to get. He knows what he wants, and he knows healthy relationships require effort, honesty, and communication.
⊱ Mature!michael who hates arguing over the phone or while you’re apart. If there’s a problem, he wants to talk about it face-to-face. He values communication and prefers getting straight to the point rather than letting issues drag on.
⊱ Mature!michael who believes in giving 100%. He doesn’t think all the responsibility should fall on the woman. He helps around the house, takes care of you when you’re sick, and makes sure you’re never carrying everything on your own.
⊱ Mature!michael who gives you his full attention whenever you’re together. He listens carefully when you talk, remembers the little details, and always pays attention to your needs. Especially in public, he’s constantly checking to make sure you’re comfortable and doing okay.
⊱ Mature!michael who gets a little possessive at times. He’s been in the industry long enough to know exactly how people can be. If you’re wearing a dress that turns heads, he notices every glance sent your way. Not because he’s insecure—he trusts you completely—but because he knows how others think. He’ll casually pull you a little closer, rest a hand on your waist, or lean down to whisper something that leaves you trying not to smile for the rest of the evening.
⊱ Mature!michael who spoils you endlessly. Anything you want, it’s yours. Every time you walk into a store, he’s already asking, “See anything you like?” with his arm wrapped around you. He rarely looks at the price tag; if it makes you happy, that’s enough for him.
⊱ Mature!michael who carries extra things for you without being asked. Your bag starts feeling heavy? Somehow it’s already over his shoulder. Your jacket is bothering you? He’s holding it. You don’t even realize he’s doing it half the time.
⊱ Mature!michael who always keeps a hand on you in public. A hand on your lower back while guiding you through crowds, his fingers intertwined with yours, or an arm draped around your shoulders. It’s never controlling—it just makes him feel better knowing you’re close.
⊱ Mature!michael who always reminds you to take care of yourself. “Did you eat today?” “Did you get enough sleep?” “Did you take your medicine?” It becomes a running joke because he asks so often, but secretly you love knowing someone cares that much.
⊱ if anyone wants a nsfw version, I can definitely do that!
Content: 2000s Michael Jackson x Trendsetter Fem! Reader
Warnings: 18+ minors dni, p in v, dirty talk, reader got a badonadunk, Michael’s down bad, whale tail trendsetter, Established couple, teasing.
Wc: 1205
The world knew you as the muse of a generation. You weren't just a fashion icon; you were the catalyst for a cultural shift. It had started almost by accident… your curves were simply too lush for the standard cuts of the early 2000s. Girl, you had an ass that didn't just fill out clothes; it challenged them. When you started wearing those super low-rise trousers, the ones that sat precariously on the very edge of your curvy hips, the "whale tail" became your signature. The sight of two thin straps peeking over the waistband had become a symbol of unapologetic confidence.
The media called it scandalous, the haters called it a plea for attention, but you just called it being a fine ass bitch. You moved through the world with a rhythmic grace, knowing that every head turned when you walked away. But while the world stared from a distance, Michael lived in the orbit of your gravity.
Being married to the Michael Jackson meant living in a whirlwind of flashing lights and screaming fans, but inside the walls of your home, the world slowed down. Michael was your sanctuary. He was a man of soft whispers, gentle touches, and a heart that beat with a purity that often left you breathless. He adored you. Not just for the body that the world obsessed over, but for the soul that grounded him. Yet, even after years of marriage, he remained completely undone by your style.
It was a rainy thursday afternoon, and the two of you were lounging in the expansive living area of the estate. The room was filled with the scent of vanilla candles and the soft sound of a jazz record spinning in the background. You were scrolling through a magazine, draped across a velvet chaise lounge. You were wearing a pair of super low-rise denim trousers that hugged your hips like a second skin, sitting so low they barely clung to your pelvic bone. Because of the way you were arched, the shimmering gold straps of your thong, the one with the charms that spelled out Michael, were pulled high and proud, framing the swell of your hips.
Michael had been trying to read a lyric sheet, but he hadn't turned the page in ten minutes. He was staring. He always stared.
"Baby," he murmured, his voice a soft, melodic vibration. He set the papers aside and slid closer to you, his eyes tracing the line where the denim met the gold lace. "You know you're tryin' to make it real hard for me to focus, right?"
You looked over your shoulder, a playful, knowing glint in your eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mike. I'm just relaxing."
He let out a small, breathy laugh, his cheeks tinting a light shade of pink. Even now, he had that bashful quality, that sweetness that made your heart ache. He reached out, his long, slender fingers grazing the skin of your hip, just beside the gold strap. "You just too fine. I mean, look at you. You got the whole world wanting a piece, and I'm the lucky one who gets to keep you. But that thong... it's just a tease, baby. A beautiful, cruel tease."
"You still get shy about it?" you teased, shifting your weight so the trousers dipped even lower, exposing more of the lace.
"I ain't shy," he whispered, though the way he bit his lip suggested otherwise. "I'm just... appreciative. I love how you carry yourself. I love that you know exactly how good you look. It just makes me want to keep you all to myself."
He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I don't think I can handle another minute of just looking."
He didn't rush you. Michael never did. He began by kissing you with a slow, reverent passion, his tongue dancing with yours in a way that felt like a prayer. His hands wandered, sliding beneath the waistband of those super low-rise trousers, his palms warm against your skin. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest.
"You're just a miracle," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "My beautiful, perfect girl."
He gently guided you toward the bedroom, the walk a slow torture of anticipation. Once the door clicked shut, the atmosphere shifted from sweet to starving. He stripped you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, treating your body like a piece of priceless art. When the trousers finally hit the floor and the gold thong was all that remained, he let out a shaky breath.
"I love this on you," he whispered, hooking his thumbs into the straps and pulling you flush against him. "I love knowing you wore this just for me."
He didn't lay you flat on your back. Instead, he guided you to the edge of the bed, urging you to lean forward, pressing your chest against the silk sheets and arching your back. The position put your assets on full display, your hips tilted high, the thong cutting a provocative line across your skin. Michael stood behind you, his breath hitching as he looked at the view. He spent a moment just worshipping you from behind, his hands kneading your cheeks, his lips kissing the small of your back.
"You're so breathtaking," he whispered, his voice trembling with desire. "I can't get over how perfect you are."
When he finally rid himself of his clothes, he positioned his dick at your entrance, the heat between you electric. With one steady, powerful thrust, he slid deep inside you from behind. He let out a long, shuddering moan, his chest pressing against your back.
"Oh, baby... you feel so good," he groaned, his voice a sweet caress even as he hammered into you. "Just stay right there for me. Just like that. You're so tight... so perfect."
He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your skin to anchor you as he pushed himself deeper, hitting that spot that made your back arch and your breath hitch. He was breathless, his chest heaving, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the quiet room.
"I love you so much," he whispered, his voice melodic and full of devotion. "You're mine... all mine, baby."
The tension built until it was unbearable, a coil of heat tightening in your gut. As you reached your peak, Michael let out a guttural sound, his body shaking as he came inside you in long, pulsing waves. He collapsed onto you, his heart racing like a drum against your back, his breath hot and ragged.
For a long time, neither of you spoke. He just held you, kissing your shoulder, his voice returning to that patient, melodic hum.
"I'm sorry if I was a bit too rough," he whispered, though he was smiling against your skin. "But baby... those trousers... that thong... you just drive me absolutely wild."
Michael definitely puts the blame on the kids whenever he mentions Harry Potter.
Prince’s eleventh birthday party? Straight Harry Potter, as if Prince had just received his letter and is attending Hogwarts. Everyone had to dress accordingly to their houses, and if they weren’t sorted that would be taken care of. The food was themed after the wizarding world, and the goodie bags the kids got to take home had little wooden wands, candies like Chocolate Frogs, Bertie Botts, and a little pair of those iconic round, wire rimmed glasses. Michael swore it was Prince’s idea.
For bedtime stories it’s always Harry Potter— Michael says they couldn’t get enough of the Sorcerer’s Stone. Right…
On family movie nights when Harry Potter get’s thrown out, an excited noise escapes Michael’s throat as he bites back a smile.
You can recall a random Tuesday night when the kids were asleep, the house was quiet, and the stars stretched across the fields of Neverland. You and Michael were cuddled on the couch, watching whatever was on cable that night.
Then he blurted: “What’s your house?”
“Huh?” you lifted your head from his shoulder and blinked.
“Your house, Harry Potter… what do you think your house is.”
And if you didn’t know, he’d spend the next 30 minutes carefully sorting you. And if you did, he’d spend those same 30 minutes explaining in detail how your houses are compatible with each other.
And maybe this is a stretch, but in the later years, when The Wizarding World of Harry Potter opened in 2016… he had a ball! He even rented out the park for an entire day just so he and the family could venture through the attraction.
And to stretch even farther, in 2023 when Hogwarts Legacy came out… he enjoyed watching his nieces and nephews battle Poachers and goblins while he was laid back on the couch, fascinated by the graphics, details and thought that went into the game. And of course, he got to give it a go.
pairing: video vixen fem! reader x mature era! michael jackson
warnings: 18+ minors dni, backshots, michael jackson x fem reader, car sex, public sex, no protection (wrap that mf up), p in v, 2000s!Michael Jackson, reader goes where the money go, sugar daddy x baby, trick mike
wc: 1.3k
Everybody knew you as Cherry. The girls at the club. The rappers throwing money. The promoters. The DJs. The security guards. Hell, even the women in the bathroom asking for selfies. Cherry. That name followed you all the way from Atlanta to California.
But Michael? Michael never called you Cherry. Not once. To him, you were ( your name), like he was the only person on earth allowed to know the girl underneath the glitter, designer heels, and attitude. Which was exactly why you were ignoring him.
Your phone had been vibrating for almost an hour. Seventy-eight missed calls. Fourteen texts. (A/N: y'all know he really can't text for shit.) Fifteen voicemails. And somehow, you still hadn't answered. You sat in front of the makeup mirror backstage while a stylist touched up your lip gloss while Rachel stood beside you scrolling through her phone.
Now Rachel was a character all by herself. Tall, pretty, loud, the type of woman who could start a fight and end one in the same breath. You met her years ago at Magic City, back when neither one of you were anybody. Back when your heels were cheap, your rent was late, and every dollar mattered. Rachel was the first girl who ever had your back. The first night you worked there, some drunk customer grabbed your arm too hard. Before you could even react, Rachel launched a drink across the room and nearly climbed over the VIP section. From that day forward, y'all were inseparable. She called herself your bodyguard. Everybody else called her crazy. Both were true.
Rachel glanced at your phone screen and barked out a laugh. "Sista."
"What?"
"He called twelve times in the last thirty minutes."
You shrugged.
Rachel stared at you for a second before shaking her head. "Oh, you trying to die today."
"I'm working."
"No." Rachel pointed at the screen. "You're being annoying."
A smile tugged at your lips. Maybe. But you couldn't help it. You liked getting under Michael's skin. Always had. The man was used to getting whatever he wanted sold-out stadiums, awards, fame, respect. Yet somehow the one thing that could still frustrate him was you.
The memory of your last phone call made you grin.
"I'm taking the job."
Silence. Then— "You're doing what?"
"I'm taking the job."
"Cherry."
"Don't Cherry me."
"You don't need that job Cherry."
"I wasn't asking."
"y/n—"
"Nah you called me Cherry again ? Now you can get up off my phone.”
Click. Rachel had laughed for fifteen straight minutes after that. Your phone buzzed again. A text.
I know you're ignorin me.
Another one. Cute. Then another.
Turn around.
Your smile disappeared instantly. Rachel's eyes widened. "Oh." Slowly, you looked up. The dressing-room door was open. Michael stood there. Watching. The blood drained from your face. Rachel immediately started laughing. "No way." The problem wasn't that he was there. The problem was figuring out how he got there. Then it clicked.
Your location.
Months ago he'd convinced you to turn it on. "For safety." That's what he'd said. Meanwhile, everybody knew he checked it like a detective working a murder case.
Michael removed his sunglasses. His expression wasn't angry, which somehow felt worse. Because when Michael got truly irritated, he became calm. Dangerously calm.
Rachel grabbed her purse immediately. "Nope."
"You leaving?" you asked.
"Absolutely."
"Rachel."
"Baby, this between y'all."
Coward.
She pointed at Michael. "You got it."
Then she pointed at you. "And you deserve whatever speech you about to get." The door shut behind her, leaving the room completely silent. Michael stepped forward. One step. Then another. "You having fun?" You crossed your arms. "Maybe." His jaw tightened. "You ignored every call."
"Was busy."
"You looked at every text." Your eyebrows rose. "You counting now?"
"Yes."
Of course he was. Because Michael Jackson, for all his fame and smooth charm, could be ridiculously petty when it came to you. "You tracked me."
"You shared your location."
"That ain't the same thing."
"It literally is." You rolled your eyes. His lips twitched for a second before he caught himself. "No." He pointed at your outfit. "We're discussing this."
"We ain't discussing nun."
"We are."
"We ain't."
"We are."
You hated how calm he sounded. And you hated even more that he looked good standing there acting like he owned the room. The confidence. The stare. The certainty. As if he already knew how this conversation ended. "You know what's crazy?" he asked.
"What?"
"I gave you exactly two hours before you started missing me."
You laughed. Michael stepped closer.
"You laughed."
"Because you're delusional."
"Mhm."
"You are."
"You checked your phone every time it buzzed." You opened your mouth. Closed it. Because he wasn't wrong. The grin that spread across his face told you he knew it too. There it was. Victory. Annoying, smug victory. “You done proving your point?"
"No." His gaze softened slightly. Just enough. "You could've answered."
Something in his voice made your chest tighten. Because underneath all the jealousy, all the possessiveness, all the arguments, he'd genuinely wanted to hear from you. And unfortunately for your pride, that realization made it a lot harder to keep playing with him.
He turned on his heel and started walking out the door
"Get in the car," he said. "We’re leaving."
The drive started quiet. City lights blurred past the windows. Michael kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. After a few blocks he spoke again.
"All you wanna do is play games with me."
You shifted in the passenger seat, skirt riding higher on your thighs. "Maybe I like the way you look when you ready to play with me." He glanced over, jaw tight. "Keep talking like that and we won’t make it home."
You leaned closer, voice dropping. "Then pull over." Michael’s hand left the gear shift and settled on your bare knee. His thumb traced slow circles. Michael doesn’t wait for the next red light. The second the van rolls to a stop at the curb, he kills the engine, shoves open his door, and yanks yours wider. His hand clamps around your wrist and drags you into the back before you can catch your breath. He slams the rear doors shut, flips the lock, and crowds you against the padded bench seat.
"You like making me wait," he growls, already shoving your skirt up to your waist. "Like making me come find you." His fingers hook into your panties and rip them down your thighs in one rough tug. You barely get a nod out before he spins you around, bends you over the seat, and kicks your feet apart.
Michael frees his cock in two quick motions, thick and already leaking. He lines up and drives straight in, burying every inch in one hard thrust. Your pussy stretches around him, wet and tight, the sudden fullness punching a moan out of your throat. He doesn’t give you time to adjust. He fucks you fast and deep, hips snapping against your ass with wet, filthy slaps. One hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back; the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
"Fuck, you’re soaked," he grunts, pounding into you. "Been thinking about this the whole ride, haven’t you?" Each thrust slams you forward, the van rocking with the force. His cock drags over every sensitive spot inside you, relentless, the wet sound of your pussy taking him echoing in the tight space. He reaches around, rubs your clit in tight circles while he fucks you harder, balls slapping against you with every stroke.
"Answer me," he demands, voice rough. "Tell me how bad you wanted it." You try to speak but only manage broken moans as he rails you, cock stretching you open again and again. Michael leans over your back, teeth scraping your shoulder. "That’s it. Take it. You’re not going anywhere until I fill this cunt."
Michael grips your hips with both hands, yanking you back onto his cock with each thrust. The sharp slap of skin fills the room as he pounds into you from behind, his rhythm never slowing.
"He can’t trick on you like me," he growls, voice low and cocky. "You let him touch my pussy?" He slams in harder, "He don’t fuck you like this."
Your arms shake as you try to hold yourself up, but the overstimulation already has your thighs trembling. Michael’s stamina is unreal, his hips keep snapping forward without mercy, driving his thick cock deep every time. You can’t keep up. Every thrust knocks the air from your lungs and sends another wave of raw pleasure crashing through you.
"Who paid for them shoes you wore in the video girl?" he asks, punctuating the question with a brutal thrust that makes your whole body jolt. "Oh alright." He laughs under his breath, sounding pleased with himself as he keeps fucking you without pause. "That’s what I thought."
Your pussy clenches around him again and again, overstimulated and dripping. Michael doesn’t let up. He leans over your back, one hand sliding under to rub your swollen clit while he keeps driving into you. The combination makes your vision blur. You’re moaning loud, legs giving out, but he holds you up and keeps going.
"That’s it, take it," he mutters against your ear. "You go where the money go, don’t you?" Another deep thrust. "And right now the money’s right here, fucking this pussy raw."
You can’t answer. Your body is too far gone, twitching and clenching as he pushes you through another orgasm. Michael just keeps moving, hips steady, cock hard and relentless, and that’s exactly why you always end up back under him.
Content: Mature Era! Michael Jackson x Mean BM! Reader
Warnings: 18+ minors dni, black reader, use of n word, p in v, porn with a plot, jealousy, toxic relationships, manipulation?, baby trapping?, no protection (wrap it up), they’re not leaving each other anytime soon.
Wc: 1k+
click here for more: Ch. 1
And he says he'll treat you well, he can't treat you like me
The night had started with a desperate need to forget. You’d spent the last few hours at a dim, upscale lounge with a man who was everything Michael wasn't: predictable, straightforward, and completely unaware of the chaotic pull Michael had on your soul. You’d been drinking, knocking back a few cocktails until the edges of the world blurred and the heavy weight of your longing for Michael felt a little lighter. You were trying to move on, trying to convince yourself that you could find peace with someone who didn't play games with your heart.
But as the night wound down, the alcohol had clouded your judgment and your sense of direction. You didn't notice when your date went all in your purse looked for your address on your photo ID, which just so happened to still have the same old 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441 on it. In his defense he didn’t know where the hell you lived. You didn’t even notice the man missing the turn to your place. You were too busy giggling, leaning your head back against the leather seat, feeling the buzz of the night vibrate through your veins. It wasn't until the massive, ornate gates of Neverland swung open that you realized exactly where you were.
The car rolled up the long driveway, coming to a stop right in front of the main entrance. As the engine idled, the front doors opened and Michael stepped out. He looked effortless, wearing those black slacks that were hanging dangerously low on his hips, a simple fitted black top clinging to his frame. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were locked onto the car with an intensity that could burn through steel.
Your date, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from the man on the porch, glanced out the window. "Who the fuck is that?" he asked, sounding confused.
You let out a drunken, airy laugh, reaching for the door handle. You didn't even look at the man you'd spent the evening with. "That's just my bitch ass baby daddy," you drawled, your voice thick with liquor. You leaned over and planted a quick, dismissive kiss on your date's cheek. "Thanks for the ride, babe. Get out of here though, cause his people get crazy when he tell ‘em to."
The moment the car peeled away, the silence between you and Michael became suffocating. You stepped out of the car, your balance slightly off, your high heels already stripped off and dangling from your hand. You walked up to him, the smell of alcohol and expensive perfume clinging to you. Without saying a single word, you lifted your hand and shoved the pointed heels hard against his chest, forcing him to take them.
Michael caught them, his grip tightening on the straps. He didn't move, his gaze searching your face, his voice soft but laced with a sharp edge of jealousy. "You're tipsy," he whispered. "And you were with someone else."
"And what about it?" you snapped, your voice louder than intended, the alcohol making you bold and irritable. "I'm trying to live my life, Michael. I’m not just gon’ sit around waiting for you to decide when you want me."
"You can't move on from me," he replied, his voice remaining gentle, almost melodic, but the possessiveness in his eyes was screaming. "You know you belong here. With me."
"I don't belong to anyone!" you yelled, stepping closer into his space, poking a finger into his chest. "You think you can just pull your strings and I'll come running back? You delusional, nigga!"
The argument escalated quickly, your drunken rambling clashing with his quiet, stubborn insistence. You were cursing him out, calling him every name in the book, your movements erratic and aggressive. But Michael didn't yell back. He just watched you, somehow getting you to drink down a huge amount of water in between it all. His desire growing as he watched you yell in front of him for hours. The more you fought, the more he wanted to silence you.
Suddenly, his hand shot out, grabbing your waist and pulling you flush against him. The shock of the contact made you gasp, your words dying in your throat. He didn't give you time to recover, steering you blindly into the house and shoving you back onto the oversized velvet couch in the living room.
"You're so loud when you're tipsy," he murmured, his voice a sweet contrast to the way he pinned your wrists above your head.
He stripped you quickly, his hands trembling slightly with a mix of anger and desperation. When he slid his pants down, his dick sprang free, hard and pulsing. You reached down, your fingers curling around him, pulling him toward you with a needy groan.
Michael entered you in one smooth, raw thrust, filling you completely. You arched your back, a loud moan escaping your lips as he began to move. He wasn't gentle now; the jealousy had pushed him into a primal rhythm. He fucked you with a steady, punishing intensity, his hips slamming against yours, driving deep into your pussy with every stroke.
"Tell me you're mine," he whispered, kissing your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "Tell me no one else touches you like this."
"You're... you're such an asshole," you gasped, though you were wrapping your legs tight around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Fuck... pa’, right there..."
He didn't respond with words, only increasing the pace. He hammered into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the quiet room. You could feel his dick hitting your cervix, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your alcohol-fogged mind. You clawed at his back, your nails digging into his skin as the tension built to an unbearable peak.
As you screamed his name, your walls clamping tight around him, Michael let out a shaky breath, his body shuddering as he came deep inside you. He collapsed on top of you, his heart racing against your chest, holding you as if he were afraid you'd disappear the moment he let go.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, a small, triumphant smile on his lips. "You won’t be going on any more dates for a long time, or anywhere for that matter.” he whispered softly, kissing your forehead.
(a/n: and what’s that supposed to mean mike? 🙂↕️👀)
