✦ pairing: bad era!michael jackson x fem!reader
✦ summary: an argument before michael’s show ends with you accusing him of believing the tabloids’ version of his whereabouts instead of his own. furious in a way you’ve never seen before, michael sends you away and takes the stage. forty-five minutes later, an unplanned performance makes it painfully obvious that the argument isn’t over. when you confront him backstage afterward, neither of you is particularly interested in resolving it calmly.
✦ warnings: 18+ / mdni, explicit sexual content, established relationship, argument/fighting, jealousy, tabloid cheating accusations, angry michael, angry/rough makeup sex, possessive behavior, manhandling, grabbing, hair pulling, jaw grabbing, light throat holding (no choking), biting/marking, degradation, praise, dirty talk, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, mirror sex, rough penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie/internal ejaculation, breeding kink/dirty talk, cum play, overstimulation, multiple rounds, possessive language, “good girl,” michael being petty as absolute fuck, reader and michael desperately needing to learn conflict resolution
✦ content note: all sexual activity depicted is between consenting adults in an established relationship. the fic contains an intentionally heated argument that carries into rough/angry consensual sex.
✦ author’s note: imagine pissing michael off badly enough that this man changes the fucking setlist just to perform leave me alone directly at you in front of an entire arena. personally i would have simply passed away somewhere around the second chorus. anyway, angry michael has been rattling around in my brain bc i’ve been listening to this song sm so unfortunately now he is everyone’s problem. enjoy <3
the fight had started three hours before the show and never really ended.
you’d been backstage in the temporary production office, the air thick with hairspray, warm leather, and the sharp ozone smell of stage lights. michael stood in the middle of the room already half-transformed ‘stage michael’. black leather pants molded to his legs, heavy silver buckles catching every harsh fluorescent, jacket open over a bare chest that rose and fell too quickly. his hair was perfect. the soft curl of his upper lip was not.
“-you don’t get to decide that,” you’d snapped, voice low and vicious. “you don’t get to vanish for two days and then look at me like i’m the problem when i ask where the hell you’ve been.”
he’d gone very still at first. that particular stillness he got when something cut too close. eyes dark, head tilting just slightly in that way that made people forget how soft-spoken he usually was.
“working,” you’d repeated, the word dripping poison. “right. working so hard every tabloid already has a new theory about whose bed you were ‘working’ in-“ he interrupted you mid sentence, something cold and sharp had flashed across his face. “you jealous?”
“it doesn’t matter. i’m done,” you shot back, trying to hold onto your own anger even as the shock of seeing him like this rattled you. “i’m tired of being the only one who actually gives a shit about what you’re doing without me around. just leave me alone, please. i’m done arguing” you said, completely exhausted.
he’d stared at you for a long second, visibly shaking with anger, then forced the words out low and tight. he realized what you said. his voice rose, not shouting, but sharp, loud enough that it cut through the room in a way you’d never heard from him before. “…you didn’t just…you’re going to believe them over me? the tabloids? over your own boyfriend?”
you froze. michael never got angry. not like this. not ever. he got quiet. he got hurt. he got distant. but this… his chest heaving, jaw locked, eyes burning with real, visible fury, was something you’d never seen. his hands were clenched at his sides. his whole body was tight with it, that controlled intensity he always carried suddenly cracking open into something raw.
“you really think that little of me?” he continued, voice still raised, still sharp, every word precise and furious. “after everything? you look at some trash written by people who don’t know a damn thing about me and you decide that’s more real than what i tell you? than what we’ve been?”
“no.” he stepped closer, and for the first time since you’d known him, you could hear the anger in his breathing. “you don’t get to do that. you don’t get to stand there and throw their lies at me like they’re facts. i was working. i told you i was working. and instead of trusting me you went straight to the worst thing they could print.” his voice cracked just slightly on the last word, but the anger didn’t leave. if anything it burned hotter. he looked at you like you’d wounded him and he was furious about it.
“leave.” he said through gritted teeth.
the words had landed like a slap. you’d waited for the soft apology, the almost shy backtrack that usually came when he realized he’d gone too far. it never arrived. he’d simply turned, collected the rest of his accessories with sharp, controlled movements that still carried the residual tremor of anger, and walked out toward the stage without another glance.
which is how you ended up here: 45 minutes later, stage left, half-hidden behind a stack of monitors, arms crossed so tightly your nails bit into your own skin, watching him own the entire arena like the argument had never happened, except you could still see it in the sharp set of his shoulders, the extra edge in every movement.
the lights drop. the opening synth of “leave me alone” hits like a threat.
you’re fucking lying, you thought to yourself. you leaned over, checked the setlist, and it wasn’t even on there. he did this on purpose.
michael steps into the single spotlight like he was born in it. the crowd detonates. he doesn’t look at them first. his eyes find you in the shadows almost immediately, as if he’d known exactly where you’d be standing the entire time.
and he never looks away for long.
every line is aimed. the way he shapes the words, the slight tilt of his head, the deliberate curl of his mouth, it’s not performance. it’s a public execution. he’s telling the entire arena to leave him alone while staring at the one person who doesn’t want to. the anger from earlier is still in him. you can see it. you can hear it in the sharper way he delivers certain lines.
you feel every lyric twisting in your stomach. you feel genuinely sick.
by the second chorus your jaw is locked so hard it aches. by the bridge you’re shaking with a complicated, ugly mix of fury and heat and guilt you refuse to name. he moves through the choreography with that lethal precision, sharp isolations, the aggressive edge in his shoulders, the way he holds his body like a weapon, but every time the spotlight swings just right, his eyes are back on you. accusing. hungry. still angry. daring you to look away first.
the music strips down. michael’s voice cuts through the arena, soft and razor-edged at the same time, and he turns fully toward stage left. toward you. he doesn’t even pretend to sing to the crowd anymore.
“don’t come beggin’ me
don’t come beggin’
don’t come lovin’ me
don’t come beggin’—”
he’s staring straight at you. unblinking. that intense, under-the-brows look that made entire arenas go silent. one hand gestures, stage left, sharp and dismissive on the words, the other curled near his chest in that classic way, body still moving with controlled aggression that now carries the leftover heat of his rare anger.
“i love you
i don’t want it
i don’t, i don’t, i don’t, i, i, i, i—”
the “ow” rips out of him raw. he never breaks eye contact. not once. the entire outro is delivered like a private message while thousands of people scream around him. he’s telling you not to come begging. not to come loving him. that he doesn’t want it. that he doesn’t need it.
your pulse is a war drum in your chest. rage twists together until you can barely breathe. you’re nearly in tears.
the song ends to thunderous applause. michael holds the final pose a second longer than necessary, chest heaving, sweat already gleaming along the sharp line of his collarbone. then he gives the crowd that soft, almost shy smile that makes them lose their minds, and walks off stage right, in the complete opposite direction of you, like you don’t even exist.
you’re moving before the crowd even pleads for an encore.
you catch him in the narrow hallway that leads to the private dressing rooms. the second the heavy door swings shut behind you both, the arena noise becomes a distant roar.
“what the fuck was that?” you demand, voice shaking with rage.
michael doesn’t even slow down. he just keeps walking toward his dressing room, leather creaking softly with every step, posture still carrying that visible tension of someone who hasn’t cooled off. “i don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“don’t you dare.” you grab his arm. he lets you spin him, but the look he gives you is pure warning, eyes dark, jaw tight, that slight lift of his chin. the anger is still there. still visible. still audible in the tight way he breathes. “you sang that entire song at me. you looked at me the whole time like you were trying to set me on fire. and that outro? ‘don’t come begging me’? really?”
“maybe i was.” his voice is soft but still edged with that rare fury you’d never heard from him before tonight. “maybe i wanted you to feel every word after you stood there and told me you’d rather believe the tabloids than your own boyfriend.”
“feel what? that you’re a childish, petty-“
something snaps behind his eyes again.
he moves faster than you expect. one second you’re standing in the hallway; the next he’s got a fistful of your shirt and he’s dragging you the last few steps into his dressing room. the door slams hard enough to rattle the mirror. the lock clicks with finality.
the room is all harsh fluorescent light and vanity mirrors edged in bulbs, the air already warm from residual stage heat. his water bottles and towels are scattered across the counter. the faint smell of stage makeup and his cologne clings to everything.
michael backs you against the door with his body, one hand still fisted in your clothes, the other braced beside your head. up close he looks wrecked in the most beautiful, furious way, sweat darkening the edges of his hair, chest rising and falling hard, eyes almost black. the intensity radiates off him in waves, but underneath it is the real anger, the kind you’d never seen until tonight. his voice is still tighter than usual. still louder than his normal soft register when he speaks.
“you don’t get to come in here and act like the victim,” he says, voice low and rough but carrying that audible edge of anger, every word measured. “not after you looked me in the face and chose their lies over me.”
“i said the truth, i said what i saw.”
“no, you said you were done.” his free hand comes up and grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him. fingers firm, not quite painful, but absolute. the anger is still written all over him, in the set of his mouth, the heat in his eyes, the way his breathing hasn’t fully settled. “you looked me in the eye and told me you were done. after accusing me of cheating because some tabloid said so. so i gave you what you asked for. i left you alone. on stage. in front of everyone. and you still followed me back here looking for a fight.”
your pulse is hammering under his fingers. “because you were being an asshole.”
a humorless little smile curves his mouth, sharp, almost mean, still edged with that rare visible fury. “an asshole.” he leans in until his lips almost brush yours, voice dropping into that soft, lethal register that somehow still sounds angry. “you think an asshole would drag you in here and do what i’m about to do to you? after you just told me you’d rather believe strangers than the man you’re with?”
the words land hot and heavy between your legs, but the anger doesn’t leave. it just twists tighter with the heat. seeing him like this, visibly, audibly angry in a way he never is, only makes everything more excruciating.
you open your mouth to fire back and he kisses you instead, hard, punishing, all teeth and tongue and residual stage adrenaline and leftover rage. it’s not gentle. it’s a claim and a challenge at the same time. you make a sound against his mouth that might be protest and might be something else entirely, and he swallows it, pressing you harder into the door until you can feel every inch of him through the leather. he’s already hard. thick. unapologetic.
when he finally pulls back you’re both breathing hard, eyes locked in mutual fury.
“you still want me to leave you alone?” he asks, thumb dragging across your lower lip hard enough to sting. the anger is still there in his voice, in the way he looks at you. “or are you going to shut that pretty, smart mouth and take what you actually came for after accusing me of something i’d never do?”
you glare at him, chest heaving. “fuck you.”
michael’s smile turns sharper. “that’s the idea.”
he spins you around so fast the world tilts. your hands slap against the door for balance as he yanks your hips back, grinding the hard line of his cock against your ass through the leather. one of his hands grabs your hair, not quite painful, just controlling. tilting your head to the side so he can drag his mouth along the side of your neck with sharp little bites.
“you’ve been standing side stage looking at me like you hate me,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with a rasp, soft but still carrying the audible edge of anger you’d never heard from him before tonight. “like you want to fight me and fuck me at the same time. after you chose the tabloids over me. so that’s exactly what you’re getting.”
he shoves his free hand under your shirt, rough and possessive, palm dragging over your stomach, your ribs, until he’s cupping your breast through your bra and squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. he pinches your nipple through the fabric and you jerk back against him, a broken sound escaping.
“sensitive,” he notes, almost amused, but the anger is still there under the heat, still visible in the tight line of his jaw. “good. i want you sensitive. i want you feeling every second of this while you’re still mad at me for being angry that you’d believe them over your own boyfriend.”
he doesn’t bother undressing you properly. he just shoves your shirt up, and gets both hands on your bare chest, kneading roughly while he grinds against your ass. the leather is warm from his body. you can feel how hard he is, how thick, the heavy length of him pressing insistently between your legs.
“quiet.” the hand in your hair tightens just enough to sting, that controlled sharpness he always carried on stage, now layered with real anger. “you had your turn talking. you had your turn yelling at me and telling me you were done and that you’d rather trust papers than me. now you listen.”
he bites the side of your neck, harder this time, then spins you again, walking you backward until the backs of your thighs hit the edge of the makeup counter. the mirror is right there, reflecting the two of you under the bright vanity lights, him in full stage regalia, eyes dark and intense and still visibly angry, you already flushed and half-undressed, both of you still vibrating with it.
michael’s eyes meet yours in the mirror as he drops to his knees with that same controlled grace he moved with onstage.
the sight of him like that, leather, hair still perfect, mouth already shiny from kissing you, looking up at you with pure challenge and leftover fury, hits harder than it should. he yanks your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, not even bothering to get them all the way off. they tangle around your thighs. he spreads your legs as far as the fabric will allow and looks at you like he’s starving and still pissed about it.
“already wet,” he says, voice gone darker, that soft edge turning filthy while the anger still simmers underneath. two fingers drag through your folds, slow and deliberate, collecting the slick evidence before he holds them up so you can both see it in the mirror. “look at that. you were standing there pretending to hate me while you were soaked. listening to me tell you not to come begging after you accused me of cheating. dripping for me while you still believe that over your own boyfriend.”
you try to close your legs out of sheer spite. he doesn’t let you. he leans in and drags the flat of his tongue through you in one long, filthy lick, and the sound you make is broken and angry all at once.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against you, breath hot. “let me hear it. you’ve been arguing with me all day. now you get to moan for me while i make you feel good.”
he eats you like he’s still fighting you, messy, focused, relentless. tongue fucking into you deep, then switching to long, broad strokes over your clit, then sucking hard enough that your hips jerk and your hands fly to his hair. one of his hands pins your thigh open; the other slides two fingers into you without warning, curling immediately, searching for that spot that makes your vision blur. he finds it fast and works it ruthlessly, pumping his fingers in and out while his tongue circles and flicks and sucks.
“louder.” he pumps his fingers harder, tongue working your clit in tight, vicious circles. “i want you loud. i want you remembering this every time you try to start another fight. every time you think about believing some trash magazine over me. your pussy’s gripping my fingers like it never wants me to leave. so much for being done with me.”
he adds a third finger, stretching you open, the wet sounds of him fingering you loud in the quiet room. his tongue never stops, licking and sucking at your swollen clit while his fingers curl and thrust. you can feel how soaked you are, how easily his fingers slide in and out, the way your walls clench around him every time he hits that spot just right.
“look at you,” he murmurs against your dripping folds, voice low and dirty, still carrying that rare edge of anger. “standing there all mad earlier and now you’re riding my face like a needy little slut. this pussy is dripping down my chin. taste how wet you are for me after accusing me of something i’d never do.”
he pulls his fingers out just long enough to hold them up to your mouth. “open.”
you glare but obey, and he pushes his slick fingers past your lips. you taste yourself on him, salty, messy, and he watches with dark, still-angry eyes while you suck them clean.
“good girl,” he says, almost mocking, then shoves them back into your pussy and goes back to eating you like he’s starving. he doesn’t stop until you’re shaking, thighs trembling, the pressure coiling so tight it hurts. the orgasm hits hard and sudden, ripping through you while he keeps licking and fingering you through it, forcing it to stretch out until you’re whimpering and trying to twist away out of oversensitivity and lingering anger.
he stands, mouth shiny with your cum, eyes almost black, the visible anger still not fully gone. the sound of his belt and the zipper is obscenely loud in the quiet room. he shoves them down just far enough, and then his cock is in his hand, thick, hard, the head already wet and flushed, a bead of precome sliding down the shaft. he strokes himself once, slow, watching your face, then rubs the head through your soaked folds, coating himself in your wetness.
“turn around,” he orders, voice soft but absolute, still edged with that anger you’d never seen in him before tonight. “hands on the counter. look at yourself while i fuck the attitude out of you.”
you do it, still breathing hard, still angry, still so wet it’s practically dripping down your thighs. the mirror shows everything: your flushed face, your bare breasts, the way his hands look gripping your hips as he lines himself up. he doesn’t ease in. he pushes the thick head against your entrance and drives deep in one long, ruthless thrust that punches the air out of your lungs and makes you cry out.
“that’s right.” his voice is strained now, the control fraying at the edges, but the intensity is insane, focused, sharp, almost elegant even while he’s burying his cock in you, and underneath it the leftover fury of a man who almost never gets angry. he sets a hard, deep rhythm immediately, hips snapping against yours hard enough that the counter digs into your thighs. “take it. take every thick inch of this cock like the greedy, argumentative little thing you are. this is what you get for believing them over me.”
the wet sound of him fucking you fills the room, obscene, rhythmic, filthy. every thrust forces more of your wetness out around his shaft, dripping down your thighs. he reaches around, one hand sliding between your legs to rub your clit in rough circles while the other comes up to wrap lightly around your throat, not choking, just holding, possessive, forcing you to keep your eyes on the mirror.
“look at us,” he demands, breath hot against your ear, voice low and rough and still carrying audible anger. “look at how well this tight pussy takes me. you’ve been fighting me all day and now you’re dripping down my cock, making those filthy little noises. pathetic. beautiful. mine. this is what happens when you choose anything else over your boyfriend.”
every thrust is deep and punishing. the angle is perfect, the thick head of his cock dragging over that spot inside you on every stroke until your arms are shaking and you’re moaning openly, past caring who might hear. he fucks you like he’s still angry, like the song wasn’t enough, like he needs to carve the point into your body with his dick.
“still want me to leave you alone?” he growls, hips slamming harder, the wet slap of skin on skin loud and dirty. “or do you want me to fill this pussy until it’s leaking down your thighs? tell me. use that smart mouth for something useful instead of accusing me of cheating.”
“fuck you,” you snarl back still angry, “…h-harder-” pushing your hips back to meet him.
he gives a short, sharp laugh against your neck and obliges, pace turning brutal. sweat drips from his chest onto your back. his free hand leaves your throat to grab a fistful of your hair again, arching your back so he can go even deeper, balls slapping against you with every thrust.
“feel that?” he pants, voice wrecked and filthy, the rare anger still threading through it. “feel how deep i am? this pussy was made to take my cock. you’ve been talking so much shit all day and now you’re look at you. say it. tell me who this pussy belongs to.”
“you, fuck- fuck it belongs to y-you,”
“that’s right.” he pounds into you harder, the mirror showing every detail, the glazed look in your eyes, the thick length of him disappearing into you over and over. “mine to fuck. mine to fill. next time you want to argue with me or believe some trash over my word i’m just gonna bend you over and remind you how good it feels when i shut you up with my cock.”
he slows down suddenly, grinding deep, circling his hips so you feel every inch of him stretching you open. then he pulls almost all the way out, just the head left inside, and slams back in hard enough to make you cry out.
“gonna cum inside you,” he warns, voice low and dirty, that soft intensity cracking into pure filth while the anger still simmers. “gonna pump this pussy so full of my cum you’ll feel me for days. every time you try to start another fight or think about believing anyone over me you’ll remember how hard you came with my dick buried in you and my cum dripping out of you. you want that? want me to breed this tight pussy while you’re still mad at me?”
“please what? use your words. tell me exactly what you want.”
“cum inside me, f-fill me up…fuck the attitude out of me”
he groans at that, the sound rough and almost broken, and starts fucking you in earnest again. deep, heavy, relentless strokes that force wet sounds out of you with every thrust. his fingers work your clit faster, rubbing tight circles while his cock drags over that perfect spot inside you again and again.
“cum for me,” he orders, voice dropping into that quiet, commanding register that still carries the edge of his rare anger. “cum on my cock like a good girl so i can fill you up. let me feel this pussy milk me. squeeze my dick while i pump you full.”
the second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first. you cry out, body clamping down around him in rhythmic pulses, walls fluttering and squeezing, and michael groans low and rough, almost a growl, hips stuttering as he follows you over. he buries himself to the hilt and stays there, cock pulsing as he empties into you in thick, hot spurts. you can feel every twitch, every heavy pulse of him flooding you, the excess already starting to leak out around his shaft in warm, sticky trails that drip down your thighs.
he doesn’t pull out right away. he stays deep, breathing hard against the back of your neck, one hand stroking almost roughly over your stomach while the other still grips your hip. his reflection in the mirror still carries that angry intensity, eyes dark, mouth soft but set, body coiled even in the afterglow, the visible anger finally starting to burn down into something heavier.
“still done?” he asks eventually, voice quieter now, rough around the edges, the rare anger still faintly audible but softer. “still think the tabloids know me better than you do?”
you meet his eyes in the mirror. your own reflection looks wrecked, flushed, marked, thoroughly fucked, still breathing hard with residual fury. his looks the same, but sharper somehow, the anger you never thought you’d see from him still lingering in the set of his jaw.
“no,” you admit, voice hoarse. “i’m not done. and… i shouldn’t have believed them over you.”
michael’s mouth curves, small and real this time, but still edged. he finally eases out of you, and you both watch in the mirror as his cum immediately starts to slip down your inner thighs in thick white streaks. he reaches down, gathers some of it on two fingers, and pushes it back inside you with slow, deliberate pressure, eyes locked on yours.
“good,” he murmurs against your ear, voice soft and filthy and still carrying that precise intensity. “because i’m not finished with you either. next time you want to throw attitude at me like that… i’ll just fuck it out of you again. clear?”
he turns you around, lifts you onto the counter properly this time, and steps between your thighs again. his cock is already half-hard, smeared with both of you, and he rubs the head through the mess of cum and slick coating your folds before pushing back inside in one long, slow thrust that makes you both groan.
“look at that,” he says, voice low and dirty, watching in the mirror as he sinks into you again. “taking my cock so easy now that you’re full of my cum. this is what happens when you run your mouth at me. i fuck you until you can’t talk back.”
he starts moving again, slower this time but no less deep, long strokes that let you feel every inch of him sliding through the mess he left inside you. one hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider, while the other cups your breast, thumb rubbing over your nipple.
“still mad?” he asks against your mouth, thrusting deeper. “or did i fuck some of that attitude out of you already?”
you don’t answer with words. you just pull him closer and kiss him hard, and he takes that as permission to keep going, drawing it out, fucking you through another slow, intense build until you’re both shaking again, until he cums inside you a second time with a low, broken sound, filling you even fuller while you clench around him and moan his name.
by the time security finally knocks to say he’s needed for the encore, you’re both a mess of sweat and cum and half-removed stage clothes, and the only thing either of you wants is more.
he kisses the side of your neck one last time before reluctantly pulling away to fix his clothes with those precise, controlled movements.
“we’re not done talking about earlier,” he says, eyes still dark, his stare locking onto yours, the rare anger finally cooling into something quieter but no less intense. “i love you. next time that mouth of yours gets smart… i’ll just fuck the attitude right out of you again.”
you watch him walk back toward the stage, leather pants once again perfect, the only evidence of what just happened the faint flush high on his cheekbones and the way he glances back at you one more time, intense, unblinking, before the door closes.
you can still feel him inside you, warm, possessive, impossible to ignore.
