੭ you look good on camera, baby — michael jackson x woc!reader
context: everyone thinks your marriage to michael is just for show. you happily prove them wrong while dragging him from boutique to boutique in beverly hills. suggestive content ahead!
˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . the california sun is a hot, greedy thing, bleaching the concrete of rodeo drive and bouncing off the impossibly large sunglasses perched on your nose. your gold bra is a constellation of rhinestones against your deep brown skin, catching the light with every exaggerated gesture. "cut!" you yell, not at the director, but at your husband, who is trying to surreptitiously fix the cuff of his crisp white shirt. "no, no, no, mikey, you're ruining my shot."
michael, looking like a dark-haired prince who’s wandered into a hip-hop video by mistake, sighs. it's a long-suffering sound you’ve come to know intimately. "honey, they're not shooting you right now. they're shooting the storefront."
"and i'm in the shot!" you counter, flipping your long, silky hair over your shoulder. you're aware of the cameras, of course. they're like another limb at this point. you've been followed by them for three seasons, your every tantrum, shopping spree, and hungover breakfast captured for the world to see. your marriage to michael jackson, the reclusive king of pop, has been the show's central mystery since your wedding a year ago. everyone thinks it's a publicity stunt. a cash grab. you're about to give them something to talk about.
˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . “we’re starting at dior, people. let’s make it snappy.” you clap your hands, a little staccato rhythm that makes your assistant jump. michael offers the beleaguered-looking boom mic operator an apologetic smile. you grab his hand, your french-manicured nails digging into his pristine skin. “come on, daddy, buy me something pretty.”
his eyes darken at the pet name, a private flicker of acknowledgment that the cameras can't quite decipher. he lets you pull him into the cool, hushed sanctuary of dior. it smells of old money and new leather. you immediately zero in on a rack of jewel-toned evening gowns. while the camera crew sets up to get you "discovering" the perfect dress for the non-existent gala you're attending, you corner michael near a display of obscenely expensive handbags.
“what do you think?” you murmur, holding up a slinky emerald green number. “too much for a tuesday?”
“it’s beautiful, baby,” he says, his gaze dropping from the dress to the swell of your breasts pushing against the gold bra. he licks his lips, a quick, involuntary gesture. “but you’d look beautiful in anything.”
you preen, but the compliment isn't enough. you drop the dress back on the rack with a sigh. “it’s missing something. it’s missing… you.” you loop your arms around his neck, standing on your tiptoes to press your body against his. the tracksuit falls open completely, your bare skin against the fine wool of his suit. you can feel the heat of him, the solid muscle beneath the formal exterior. you know he's uncomfortable, that this isn't him. he's a private creature, and you've dragged him into your very public circus. but you also know he loves it, loves the chaos you bring to his quiet, structured world.
“honey,” he murmurs, his hands coming to rest on your waist, trying to gently push you away. “the cameras…”
“let them watch,” you whisper, your lips brushing against his ear. “let them see how much you love me.”
he shudders, a full-body tremor that has nothing to do with the arctic-level air conditioning. you've found your opening. you grab his hand and pull him toward the menswear section. "you need a new look, mikey. something a little more… me."
he looks at you with a mixture of dread and amusement. "what's wrong with my look?"
"it's too… boomer," you say, as if it's a disease. "we need to get you a little… 'girl gone wild'."
you spend the next twenty minutes dressing him up like your own personal ken doll. you force him into a pair of distressed leather pants that are so tight he can barely bend over. you make him try on a series of sheer, billowy shirts that do nothing to hide the lean, muscular body beneath. the camera crew is in heaven, capturing every awkward moment, every pained expression on michael's face, every triumphant grin on yours.
"this is it," you declare, holding up a black velvet blazer with silver embroidery. "this is the one."
he looks at the jacket as if it's a snake about to strike. "baby, i can't wear that. it's… it's not me."
"it's you now," you say, shoving it into his arms. "buy it. and the pants. and the shirt."
he does, of course, without another word of protest. he pays with a black credit card that doesn't have a name on it, just a series of numbers that signify a level of wealth most people can't even comprehend. you're already out the door, your tracksuit zipped up just enough to be decent, your mind already on the next store.
˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . "next up, gucci!" you announce, pointing a finger at the storefront as if you're christening a ship. michael follows, a silent, long-suffering figure carrying two massive dior bags. the transformation is already beginning. the dior bags are a symbol, a tangible representation of your influence, of your ability to bend him to your will.
inside gucci, the vibe is different. it's louder, more chaotic, a riot of color and pattern. you feel more at home here. you immediately make a beeline for the accessories, your eyes landing on a pair of ridiculously oversized sunglasses with the gucci logo emblazoned on the side in gold. "i have to have them," you say, sliding them on. "what do you think, mikey?"
he looks at you, at the dark lenses hiding your eyes, at the confident tilt of your chin. "they look… very 'you'," he says, a small smile playing on his lips.
"damn right," you say, striking a pose for the cameras. then you turn your attention back to him. "now it's your turn."
you lead him to the men's section, a kaleidoscope of bold prints and even bolder colors. you pull out a pair of silk trousers with a vibrant floral print. "try these on," you command.
"baby, i can't wear flowers," he protests, but you're already pushing him towards the dressing room.
"yes, you can," you say, your voice firm. "and you will."
he comes out a few minutes later, looking deeply uncomfortable. the trousers are a little too long, pooling around his ankles, and the print is overwhelming, even for you. but you're not looking at the trousers. you're looking at the way the silk clings to his thighs, at the way it outlines every muscle, every line of his body.
"well?" he asks, his arms crossed over his chest. "what's the verdict?"
"the verdict is," you say, closing the distance between you, "that you need to take them off."
you don't give him a chance to respond. you lead him back into the dressing room, ignoring the protests of the sales associate and the excited murmurs of the camera crew. you lock the door behind you, the click echoing in the small, confined space.
"what are you doing?" he asks, his eyes wide with a mixture of alarm and excitement.
"showing you how much i love you," you say, your hands on the waistband of the silk trousers. you slowly sink to your knees, your gaze locked with his. "and how much you love me."
˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . you can't do it here. not like this. it needs to be bigger, better, a spectacle worthy of your love. so instead of unbuckling his belt, you smooth your hands down the silk of those ridiculous trousers and rise, a slow, deliberate movement that has him holding his breath.
"not here, daddy. not yet," you whisper, your lips a hairsbreadth from his. "this room isn't big enough for what i'm about to do to you."
you turn, unlock the door, and stride out, leaving him to shuffle back into his own leather pants, a dazed and confused look on his face. you grab the floral trousers and the matching jacket, a chaotic explosion of color. "we'll take these," you announce to the stunned sales associate, handing the pile to michael without a second glance. "and the sunglasses."
michael pays, his movements a little less fluid than before. you can feel his eyes on you as you lead the charge out of the store, the camera crew scrambling to keep up. "chanel next!" you call over your shoulder, a general to her troops.
chanel is another world. quiet, elegant, smelling of camellias and old hollywood glamour. it's a world michael understands, a world that fits him like a second skin. you can see the tension ease from his shoulders as he steps through the door. he's in his element here, surrounded by timeless classics and understated luxury. and that, of course, will not do.
you ignore the racks of tasteful, expensive little black dresses and head straight for the fine jewelry. you're drawn to a display of brooches, delicate, intricate things that cost more than a small car. you pick one up, a beautiful diamond-encrusted cc monogram.
"this," you say, holding it up to the light. "this is what you're getting me."
michael, who has been watching you with a look of fond exasperation, steps closer. "it's beautiful, honey," he says, his voice soft. "but you don't wear brooches."
"i'll wear this one," you say, turning to face him. you step in close, your hand on his chest. you take the pin and, instead of placing it on the lapel of your tracksuit, you reach up and carefully fasten it to the crisp white collar of his shirt. it's a startlingly intimate gesture, a reversal of roles that makes the cameras zoom in, capturing the flicker of surprise in his dark eyes.
"there," you murmur, your fingers lingering on the skin of his neck. "now everyone will know who you belong to."
he looks down at the brooch, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. it's a real smile, not the polite, public one he usually reserves for the cameras. this one is just for you. "i think they already know," he says, his voice low and husky.
"good," you say, but the thrill is gone. you've marked him, but he's still too comfortable, too at ease in this cathedral of good taste. you need to shake him up again. "now, shoes. i need new shoes." you lead him to the shoe section, a wonderland of tweed and leather and delicate patent heels. you pick out a pair of classic black pumps with the iconic double c logo.
"i'll take these," you say, sitting down in one of the plush velvet chairs. you extend your foot, a silent command.
michael, without a word, kneels before you. he takes your foot in his hands, his touch gentle, reverent. he slides the pump on, his fingers brushing against your ankle. it's a scene straight out of a fairytale, the prince and the princess, if the prince was the king of pop and the princess was a reality tv star with a penchant for chaos. the camera crew is eating it up, the director mouthing "gold" to his assistant.
but as michael looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with a mixture of love and surrender, you realize you're the one who's been captured. you're the one who's been tamed. and you don't like it. not one bit.
you pull your foot away, a sharp, sudden movement. "they don't fit," you say, your voice cold. "they're too tight."
he looks at you, bewildered. "but they're your size, baby."
"they're my size, but they're not my style," you say, standing up and walking away. "i'm bored. let's go."
you storm out of the store, leaving michael to deal with the sales associate and the abandoned shoes. you can feel the frustration radiating from him, the tension in his shoulders as he follows you out onto the street. you're pushing him, testing him, seeing how far you can go before he breaks. you're not sure what you'll do when he does, but you're eager to find out.
˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . "versace!" you declare, pointing to the storefront like it's the promised land. "this is more like it."
versace is everything chanel isn't. loud, glamorous, unapologetically sexy. it's a riot of gold and black and neons, a temple to excess and hedonism. you feel your spirits lift as you step inside, the thumping bass of the store's soundtrack a welcome change from the hushed silence of chanel.
"now this is what i'm talking about," you say, running your hand over a rack of skin-tight leather dresses. you pick one out, a bright fuchsia number that's so short it's barely a dress at all. "i'm trying this on."
you head to the dressing rooms, a series of gilded stalls with heavy velvet curtains. you don't bother closing the curtain all the way, leaving a gap that's just wide enough for a camera lens. you strip off your tracksuit, letting it pool at your feet, standing in just your rhinestone bra and a tiny thong. you can hear the sharp intake of breath from the cameraman, the rustle of fabric as someone shifts position.
you pull on the fuchsia leather dress, the material cool and smooth against your skin. it's so tight it's a struggle to get it on, but once it's on, it's perfect. it clings to every curve, every dip and swell of your body, ending just below the curve of your ass. you look in the mirror, and for a moment, you don't recognize yourself. you see a stranger, a woman who's confident, powerful, and undeniably sexy. a woman who's in control.
"what do you think, mikey?" you call out, your voice a low purr.
he pushes the curtain aside, his eyes widening as he sees you. he doesn't say anything for a long moment, just stares, his gaze a physical weight on your skin. you can see the desire in his eyes, the raw, unadulterated want. it's a heady feeling, knowing you have this effect on him, knowing you can make michael forget his own name with just a look.
"it's… a lot," he finally says, his voice a little hoarse.
"it's not enough," you counter, turning to face him. you walk towards him, the click of your heels on the marble floor a rhythmic counterpoint to your beating heart. "i need more."
you loop your arms around his neck, your bodies pressed together. you can feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his chest against the soft leather of the dress. you can feel the stirrings of his desire, the growing hardness against your thigh.
"you look beautiful, baby," he whispers, his hands coming to rest on your hips. "you always do."
"but you want to see me out of it, don't you?" you murmur, your lips brushing against his ear. "you want to peel this leather off me, inch by inch."
he shudders, a full-body tremor that has you smiling against his skin. you've got him. you've got him right where you want him.
"we have to go," he says, his voice tight with strain. "the cameras…"
"let them watch," you whisper, echoing your words from dior, but this time, the meaning is different. this isn't about proving your love to the world. this is about a raw, primal need that's been simmering between you all day, a need that's about to boil over.
you pull away, a slow, deliberate movement. you turn your back to him, presenting him with the zipper of the dress. "unzip me," you command.
he hesitates for a fraction of a second, then slowly, carefully, lowers the zipper. the leather falls away, pooling at your feet. you step out of it, standing in front of him in just your bra and thong. you can hear the cameras whirring, can feel the eyes of the crew on you, but it's all just background noise. all you can see, all you can feel, is him.
"get out," you say, your voice sharp and clear, directed at the crew. "get out now."
there's a flurry of activity, a muffled scramble for the door. you don't turn to watch them leave. you keep your eyes on michael, watching as he slowly, deliberately closes the velvet curtain, sealing you both in your own private world.
˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . michael emerges from the dressing room first, a faint flush on his high cheekbones and a look in his dark eyes that's a potent cocktail of satisfaction and complete, utter bewilderment. he's holding the fuchsia leather dress with a delicacy usually reserved for antique lace, as if he's afraid it might bite him. you follow a moment later, a triumphant, cat-who-got-the-canary grin on your face, your brown tracksuit zipped up as demurely as if it were a habit. the cameras, which have been waiting outside like hungry wolves, immediately swarm you, the director yelling for a close-up on your face.
"so," the interviewer, a perky blonde with a clipboard, asks, her voice a little too bright. "did you find anything you liked?"
"oh, i found something i loved," you say, your gaze sliding over to michael. he doesn't look at you, just stares straight ahead, a muscle working in his jaw. "but i think mikey's going to have to break it in for me before i can wear it in public."
michael clears his throat, a discreet, almost inaudible sound. he pays for the dress, the credit card slipping from the slot with a quiet beep that sounds like a starting pistol.
back in the cavernous cool of the limousine, you immediately claim your territory. you kick off your heels and swing your legs up, plopping your feet squarely in michael's lap. he flinches, then settles, one hand coming to rest automatically on your ankle, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. the camera crew, crammed on the opposite jump seat, is trying to act casual, but you can feel the hum of their anticipation. they know something happened. they just don't know what, and it's killing them.
"so, that's versace done," the interviewer chirps, leaning forward. "is that it for the day? are you all shopped out?"
you look at michael, a slow, deliberate sweep from his still-flushed face down to the hand on your ankle. you begin to move your foot, a languid, stroking motion up and down his thigh. the fine wool of his trousers is warm under your sole. you can feel the tense muscle beneath, the coiled energy. "shopped out?" you repeat, your voice a low, throaty murmur. "honey, the day has barely begun."
you trail your foot higher, tracing the seam of his pants, your toes brushing against the rapidly hardening length of him. he sucks in a sharp, silent breath, his fingers tightening on your ankle like a vise. you can see the reflection of the crew in the dark tinted of the window, their faces rapt, their lenses pointed at you like hungry mouths.
"what's next?" the interviewer presses, oblivious. "more jewelry? shoes?"
you laugh, a low, wicked sound. you slide your foot away, leaving michael breathless. you sit up, leaning across the space between you, your breasts nearly spilling out of the rhinestone bra as you brace a hand on his chest. you can feel the frantic beat of his heart against your palm.
"we're not done," you whisper, your lips so close to his they're almost touching. "not even close."
you look directly into the main camera, a slow, deliberate challenge. "we're going to one more place. a little boutique i know. very exclusive. very private."
you lean back, a satisfied smirk on your face as michael shifts uncomfortably, adjusting himself with a subtle movement that you, and only you, notice. "floor it, jerry," you say, rapping on the partition. "last stop."
the limousine glides to a smooth halt in front of a storefront that is the antithesis of rodeo drive. it's small, discreet, with no name on the door, just a single, ornate gold lock. you don't wait for the driver. you push the door open and step out, michael and the bewildered crew trailing behind you. the inside is dim, lit by a single chandelier that throws fractured rainbows across the walls. it's not a clothing store. it's a lingerie store, but not like any you've ever seen. the pieces on display are less underwear and more works of art, concoctions of silk and lace and chains that look like they were designed by a fallen angel.
"welcome back, miss," a woman with a severe black bob and a measuring tape draped around her neck says, emerging from behind a velvet curtain. she doesn't even glance at the cameras. "we have the piece you requested."
she gestures to a mannequin in the center of the room. displayed on it is a web of black straps and tiny, strategically placed swarovski crystals that barely passes for clothing. it's obscene, it's ridiculous, and you've never wanted anything more in your life.
"it's perfect," you breathe.
michael, standing beside you, looks like he's about to pass out. he's gone from mortified husband to willing participant to a man on the verge of a complete public meltdown in the span of an hour. you can see the sweat beading on his upper lip, the way his adam's apple bobs as he swallows.
"you like it, mikey?" you ask, turning to him, your hands on your hips. "think it'll look good on me?"
he opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. "it's… very… creative," he finally manages, his voice strangled.
"i'll take it," you say, ignoring him. "and that one too," you add, pointing to a white lace corset that looks like it was carved from a cloud.
while the saleswoman carefully packages your new purchases, you circle michael like a shark. you run your finger along the embroidered collar of the dior shirt he's wearing, tracing the line of his shoulder. you lean in, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear.
"i'm going to try this one on," you whisper, your breath hot against his skin. "and i think i'm going to need some help."
you disappear behind the velvet curtain, leaving him standing there, a statue carved from pure, unadulterated panic. you don't bother to call for him. you wait. you know he'll come. you can hear the muffled whispers of the camera crew, the shuffling of feet outside the curtain. then, you hear the soft swish of the velvet as he pushes it aside.
he steps into the small, private space, and the air immediately crackles with an unspoken tension. the room is lit by a single, warm bulb, casting everything in a soft, intimate glow. you're standing with your back to him, your tracksuit a puddle on the floor at your feet. you're wearing only the rhinestone bra and your thong, your skin glowing in the dim light.
"help me with this," you say, your voice husky, holding up the intricate web of straps and crystals.
he moves forward, his movements stiff, robotic. he takes the garment from you, his fingers brushing against yours, sending a jolt of electricity through you. he's so close you can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell the faint, clean scent of him mixed with the lingering aroma of expensive stores and your shared arousal.
"it's complicated," he says, his voice rough. "i don't know how to…"
"you'll figure it out, daddy," you murmur, turning to face him. you reach up, your hands on his chest, and push him gently against the wall. "you're a smart man."
you stand there, your bodies inches apart, your gaze locked. the air is thick with expectation, with the weight of everything unsaid. you can see the struggle in his eyes, the battle between his desire for you and his desperation for privacy. you know you're pushing him to his limit, testing the boundaries of his love, of his patience. you also know you're about to win.
"i can't," he whispers, his hands coming to rest on your waist, his grip tight. "not here. not with them right outside."
"yes, you can," you whisper back, your lips a hairsbreadth from his. "and you will."
you close the remaining distance between you, your lips crashing against his in a hungry, desperate kiss. it's not a gentle, loving kiss. it's a battle, a war of wills, a raw, primal declaration of ownership. he responds in kind, his hands tangling in your hair, his tongue delving into your mouth, claiming you, tasting you. it's a kiss that says, "you win," a kiss that promises a delicious, devastating surrender.
you break away, your breathing ragged, your body humming with a restless energy. you take the lingerie from his trembling hands. "never mind," you say, your voice a low, husky purr. "i've got it."
you pull on the web of straps and crystals with a practiced ease that surprises even you. it's a perfect fit, the delicate chains accentuating your curves, the tiny crystals sparkling against your skin like a constellation of stars. you turn to face him, a slow, deliberate movement, your chin held high.
"well?" you ask, your voice a challenge. "what do you think?"
he looks at you, his dark eyes burning with a hunger so intense it almost frightens you. he doesn't say anything. he just looks, his gaze a physical caress, a silent promise of the things to come.
"good," you say, a triumphant smile on your face. "i'm glad you approve."
you turn and, with a flick of your wrist, pull the velvet curtain aside. you step out into the main room, a vision in black leather and crystals. the camera crew freezes, their cameras whirring as they capture the spectacle. the saleswoman, a professional to the core, simply raises an eyebrow and begins to package the white lace corset.
michael follows you out, his face a mask of carefully controlled composure. but you can see the cracks in the facade, the fire in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders. you've pushed him too far, and you're about to reap the rewards.
"we'll take it," you say, your voice bright and cheerful, as if you're just discussing the weather. "and the corset. and," you add, your gaze sweeping over the room, "that little black number in the corner."
michael pays, his movements stiff, his jaw tight. he doesn't look at you, just stares at the saleswoman as he signs the receipt, his name a scrawl on the dotted line. you can feel the crew's eyes on you, their excitement a palpable thing. they know. they all know.
with the speed of a seasoned performer, you dart back behind the velvet curtain, a flurry of limbs and sequins. the rhinestone bra and thong are swapped for the comforting familiarity of the brown tracksuit, now feeling like a costume for a character you're about to shed. you emerge a minute later, your hair curled, your lips glossed, a satisfied smirk playing on your face. michael is waiting by the door, a mountain of shopping bags at his feet. he looks at you, and for a split second, you see something new in his eyes. it's not just desire or frustration. it's pride.
˙ ﹢﹒ ୭౿ . you lead the procession out of the store, the camera crew in your wake, a bizarre, little parade of hollywood excess. the california sun is beginning to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. it's beautiful, but you don't notice. all you can see is the black, gleaming limousine pulling up to the curb, a chariot waiting to take you to your next, and final, destination.
the crew is ready to swarm, their cameras poised to capture the final scene of the day. the interviewer, her clipboard clutched like a shield, steps forward, her face a mask of professional enthusiasm.
"so, that's a wrap on beverly hills!" she chirps, her voice a little too loud in the sudden quiet of the street. "any final thoughts on your shopping extravaganza?"
you ignore her. you turn to michael, your hand resting on his chest. you look up at him, your expression softening, the hard edges of your public persona melting away to reveal the woman beneath. you can feel the steady beat of his heart under your palm, a slow, reassuring rhythm that grounds you.
"not so fast," you say, your voice quiet but firm, cutting through the interviewer's cheerful babble. you turn to the crew, your gaze sweeping over them, a dismissal. "you guys can take the other car. we'll send one for you."
the interviewer blinks, her smile faltering. "the other car? but, we were hoping to get a few more shots of you and michael in the limo, talking about your day…"
"my husband and i would like some alone time," you say, your voice dropping to a low, intimate murmur. you lean in, your lips brushing against michael's ear. "wouldn't we, daddy?"
he doesn't answer, but you can feel the shudder that runs through him, the way his body tenses with anticipation. you smile, a slow, triumphant curve of your lips. you turn back to the crew, your eyes flashing with a mixture of defiance and desire.
"we're done for the day," you say, your voice a final, irrevocable pronouncement.
you don't wait for a response. you open the limousine door and slide inside, pulling michael in behind you. you give the crew one last, triumphant look, a queen retreating to her chambers, and then you slam the door shut, the thud echoing in the sudden silence of the street.
the tinted windows seal you in your own private world, the sounds of the outside world muffled, the prying eyes of the cameras finally gone. you turn to michael, a slow, deliberate movement, your eyes locking with his. the air in the limousine is thick with unspoken words, with the promise of a release that's been building all day.
"now," you whisper, your voice a husky, triumphant purr. "where were we?"
ꕀ ﹑ slim’s letter⠀⑅ ⠀ ֺ i want to make this a series. thoughts?
slim ┆@copineinterrupted © do not repost, translate, or claim as your own.