⟢ the sweetest taboo ── .✦
pairing ➤ Bad era mj x famous singer!reader
╰── summary;
𝄞 𝙔𝙤𝙪 are the sultry voice on Michael's hit, a star who never stays pinned down. After a stolen performance leads to a brutal, binding confrontation backstage, you are more confused now more than ever on your feelings and... his too.
tags: light kink? i guess, reader is a lil tied up, smut, michael is going to try win you over and get you to stop lying about liking him, ;) hes got an ego, possessive, jealous!michael, slight frenemies to ????, a bit of push n pull, you both are manipulative af lol
A/N: this is a lil cheeky one based on this request. i hope u guys like it ;) ive been goin stir crazy writing essays for my exam (had 20k words due this week so...this was hard to write inbetween lmao) if theres mistakes, soz. i am finally free to do some more creative writing! maybe a multichapter fic?
18+ minors dnu
ꫂ᭪݁ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐫 of the crowd was enough to sound like a rocket taking off into space, a tidal wave of sound that hit you in the chest as you walked off stage, drenched in sweat and adrenaline. The desert festival's secondary stage was a beast you'd just tamed, and the encore; a blistering, soul-shredding performance of "I Just Can't Stop Loving You", had left thirty thousand people screaming for more.
The summer night air was thick with heat, spilled beer, and the electric buzz of success. Your success.
Backstage was a chaotic sanctuary. Roadies slapped your back, your manager was babbling into a headset, and someone shoved a cold bottle of water into your hand. You gulped it down, your heart still hammering the rhythm of the final bass note.
You moved yourself out of the chaos and into an outbuilding behind the stage in the field, and into your small makeshift dressing room.
You were still vibrating, the adrenaline a live wire under your skin. You'd done it. You'd switched the setlist last minute, against everyone's advice, and closed your headline slot with the song you and Michael Jackson had recorded several months ago; an absolute show stopper from his 'Bad' album. You'd stood there under the blazing lights, in a costume that was more shadow than anything else; a black lace bodysuit that left perilously little to the imagination, fishnets, and towering heels- and you'd followed the melody to his voice filling the stadium.
You'd sung your heart out, your body moving to the music you'd helped create magic on; a public séance of a private memory. The crowd had lost its collective mind, your fans up close in the front row were so overcome with emotion that they'd cried.
You flopped down onto a director style chair in front of your mirror, still 'made up' for the stage, your black lace corset, pushing up your chest just right. The lace was see through enough that it mapped out your curves, but was still graceful. High cut on the bottom so that the crowd could see your perky bum.
You started blotting your face when a commotion erupted at the door of your dressing room. Startled, you stood up and faced the door.
They filed into your dressing room without knocking: Quincy Jones, in a beautifully pressed cream suit, his expression unreadable behind his glasses; two lawyers with briefcases; Frank Dileo, Michael's manager, puffing on a cigar and looking like he'd swallowed a lemon; and… Michael.
He was the eye of the storm. Dressed in black from head to toe, black shirt, red tie, black trousers, loafers—he looked more… menacing than his usual self. His face was a mask of polite, icy calm, but his eyes, those dark, liquid eyes, were blazing.
They swept over you, taking in the sweat-sheened lace, the smudged makeup, the defiant tilt of your chin, and something in them seemed to fracture.
“Fantastic show, lil lady” Quincy said first, clearly trying to ease the tensions. “We came along to support and well, were surprised to say the least”
Michael continued looking at you, nodding slightly at Quincy’s words. Ringlets of dark curly hair framing his face, bounced slightly as he did so.
"That," Frank Dileo began, pointing his cigar at you, "—darling, was a monumental breach of contract, copyright, and common fucking sense."
Quincy held up a hand, his voice calm. "The performance was… electric, Y/N, totally what we had in mind for a live duet. But, my dear, you cannot just take a master recording, one that features an artist of Michael's stature, and broadcast it to a festival without clearance. The legalities…"
"The legalities are simple," one of the lawyers cut in. "You infringed on intellectual property you do not own. We could sue you into oblivion before breakfast."
You leaned back against your dressing table, crossing your arms, which only pulled the lace tighter. You felt a perverse thrill at their anger and the fact Michael had the nerve to show up here despite not being in touch for 8 months.
"The track has my vocal on it. My performance. I was a featured artist. I figured it was fair use. A promotional exchange between teams." You shrugged, a deliberately casual gesture. Which seemed to rile them all up further.
"But if you wanna sue me for performing my song that my voice is on, then go ahead, buddy. The press'll eat it up. 'Y/N sued by megastar for singing her own song.' Sounds great for the Jackson brand."
A muscle ticked in Michael's jaw. He hadn't taken his eyes off you. The quiet in him was more terrifying than the lawyers' bluster. That statement clearly moved him to speak;
"Singing her own song," he repeated, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper. "You forgot we wrote it together?"
The lawyer cut back in over Michael; "We are talking about willful copyright infringement on an international broadcast scale. The damages we will be seeking will not just be punitive; they will be existential for your career."
"Right boys," Michael called out, his hand coming up in the air, gesturing for them to stop dog piling.
"I am sure an arrangement can be made here, Y/N." Michael smiled sweetly, and fakely at you.
He nodded to his entourage to take leave.
"Leave us be for a moment and I'll catch up with you" He said and then his eyes were locked heatedly on yours. Quincy gave a noncommittal shrug and made his way out of the room; the lawyers and Frank filed out behind him, albeit still foaming at the mouth due to the ordeal.
The silence they left behind was absolute and suffocating.
Michael took one step forward, then another, closing the distance until you could see the flecks of gold in his furious eyes, smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne over the stage sweat.
"Long time no see," you said, reaching for the easy, sappy lilt you'd used on him during the making of the song, a tone that always landed somewhere between a joke and an invitation.
It came out a half-step too bright. You heard it yourself. Get there first. Get there before he does.
He didn't smile.
"Am I to assume it was all fake then?" he asked, his voice still deceptively quiet. "Just business? All of it?"
You held his gaze, your heart hammering, and gave him the shrug you'd been giving men your whole career. "It was a good song, Michael."
"That's not what I asked."
"The late nights at the studio," he went on, not waiting for you, the calm beginning to crack. "The way you'd lean over the console, brushing my shoulder. The way you'd look at me when we'd nail a take." He was listing them off — they weren’t like crimes, you realised, but like evidence. a man building a case he already knew the verdict of. “Oh and… basically nearly eatin’ my face off in the live room when no one was lookin’”
He looked appalled at your silence.
"You felt what went on during those 3 weeks. I know you felt it. So why are you standing there looking at me like I'm dome god damn stranger who got the wrong room?"
"Don't be ridiculous," you scoffed, but your voice lacked conviction, and his eyes caught the lack of it. He was so in tune with everything, he was able to feel people’s emotions before they even got the privilege.
"There it is," he murmured.
It unnerved you, how easily he found the seam. So you did what you always did when someone got too close to the truth — you widened it into a joke and let them fall through.
"You want the truth?" You laughed, short and sharp. "I wanted a quick fuck, and if that came along with a fantastic song and my name getting out there, why wouldn't I ham it up a bit?" The words came out clean, practised, a little cruel.
“It would have happened if you aren’t so… deep about everything” you continued on, your voice getting hoarse from all the singing you’d been doing earlier in the night.
"It's all the same in this industry, Michael. Don't act like you don’t get a lil shady when it suits you.”
You waited for it to land. For him to recoil, to call you cold, to give you the rejection you could file away as proof you'd been right not to want anything from him. You knew his kind. Well.. you thought you did.
He just looked at you. Tired, almost. Like he'd watched you do this before and was disappointed to see the trick again.
"No," he said quietly. "You didn't."
"Excuse me?" You asked, confused and frustrated now. Your guard could only stay up so long.
"You didn't want a quick fuck." He took a step closer, and the wounded register was gone now, replaced by something steadier and far worse, because it was kind. "You wanted me. You still do. You're just so sure I'll get bored of you and toss you out that you'd rather throw yourself away first, on your own terms, where it can't sting." His head tilted. "Tell me I'm wrong."
The room had gone very small. You opened your mouth and nothing came out, because the thing you'd have said to deny it was the thing that would have proved him right.
"It's not fair," he said — and there was the crack, the bratty, boyish thing breaking through the calm, a spoiled god whose favourite person kept pretending not to be his. "You don't get to decide I'd leave and then leave first. That's not — you don't get to do that."
"Life's not fair, Michael," you managed. "Welcome to the real world."
Something shifted behind his eyes. The hurt buried itself away, deliberately, the way he did with everything, and what came up in its place was a decision.
"You're right," he said, and his voice smoothed into something silkier and far more dangerous. "It's not."
His hand went to the back of his head. You'd noticed the splash of colour earlier — a deep, blood-red silk ribbon holding his ponytail at the nape of his neck. With a sharp tug, he pulled it free, and his dark curls tumbled around his face, framing features that were now set in a mask of intent.
"What are you doing?" you breathed, taking a step back, but your dressing room was small.
"You said you wanted a quick fuck." He wound the ribbon once around his fingers, testing it. "So that's what I'll give you. Casual. Nothing in it." The corner of his mouth lifted, humourless, daring you to flinch. "Exactly what you asked for. If you can do it with a straight face, I'll believe you."
You just nodded, in full disbelief at what was occurring before you. The condescension, the mimicking of your own words. He was so… different.
He moved with a predator's grace. Before you could protest, he caught both your wrists in one strong hand and drew them up together in front of you. The cool, smooth silk of the ribbon that was once in his hair wound around them, his fingers unyielding as he tied a tight, complex knot.
You struggled, a token resistance, but the thrill of fear was already morphing into something else, something dark and complicated… you liked it.
"Michael, —the others are right outside—"
"I know," he breathed against your ear, his body pressing you forward toward the worn velvet couch against the wall. "They don't care."
He pushed you down over the arm of the couch, your lace-clad backside presented to him, your bound hands stretched out into the cushions before you, pinned under your own weight.
He yanked the flimsy lace of the bodysuit aside, the material tearing with a soft, definitive rrrip.
He freed himself from his trousers, long and veiny, and then he was lining himself up, his tip hard at your entrance, the sweet promise of pleasure; but he felt slightly hesitant.
Like he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to do this, his ghostly touch over your hip oddly gentle… a juxtaposition to the character he was putting on before you.
It seemed he swallowed his doubts, because right after an inhale of breath, he took you.
He wasn't massive, he was quite perfect, annoyingly, but the way in which he had pushed into you, hurt in a dirty way. You cried out, the sound strangled, as he filled you to your brim. Your hipbones were pushing into the couch with crazy pressure and your eyes had started seeing stars at the awkward angle you were held at; you were head down, ass up for him.
He thrusted, a rhythmic pace, each thrust driving the breath from you, rocking you against the couch arm. One hand fisted in your hair, and pulled your head back, while the other gripped your hip.
"Singin' up there scantily dressed, basically moaning along to my voice?" he grunted, his voice thick with rage and a perverse kind of agony. "Hmm? Think I wouldn't have something to say about it?"
You couldn't speak. Pleasure, sharp and shameful, was already lingering deep in your belly, fed by the violence of his provoking words, the illicit danger of the people murmuring just beyond the door.
He pulled out suddenly, dragging you upright by your bound arms. You whimpered at the loss.
He spun you and pushed you back against the door itself, the thin, flimsy barrier separating you from his management team. Your bare shoulders hit the wood. He caught the ribbon between your wrists in one hand and drew your arms up over your head, pinning the knot flat to the door above you.
"I'm not to be messed with," he warned, his eyes locking with yours. He let your bound arms loop down around his neck, the ribbon holding them there, and got his hands under your thighs, lifting you easily. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your back braced flat against the door as he guided himself into you. Only once you were seated on him, pinned and held, did one hand come up to cup your cheek, broad and warm, the scent of cocoa on his skin filling your nostrils.
"I'm just as petty as you, if not worse,"
This angle was deeper, more intimate, and utterly devastating. You moaned against his palm, your eyes rolling back. You could hear Frank's muffled voice saying something about "she's a liability, we can't take her on tour." You could hear the clink of glasses from the hospitality area.
"I always get what i want, Y/N" The line came out shakier than he meant it to, you thought; rehearsed, like he'd settled on it beforehand and was only now hearing how it sounded out loud.
He watched you come apart against his hand, his own breath coming in ragged gasps, his brows furrowed. "This is what you wanted…casual sex? For me to come seek you out?"
He continued thrusting, his control barely there, the rhythm frantic and uncoordinated; "if you want a successful and long career, then you should listen to what i tell you to do…" His forehead dropped to your shoulder as he said it, the menace of the words at odds with the way he pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in like he'd lost the thread of the threat halfway through.
His eyes were trying to be hard and serious. The hand beneath you shifted, hitching you higher, gripping your ass to drag you down onto each thrust, squeezing roughly. He was so deep.
"I put you on the charts in this country", his words were almost venemous, if you believed them - and where his hand had hold of you, he was soft. Fingers settled on the curve of your hip.
Despite this supposed “casual” sex, he was still being so… gentle and careful. Nice with you. Your brain didn’t know what to make of anything.
The rhythmic thrust of his cock up inside you, the taboo of it all happening feet away from his entire team, was completely blocking your normal motor functions.
You tied up all ruined and pretty for him. Your mouth just formed an 'o' shape whilst he continued to fuck you, not even able to bring a rebuttal against his claims or line of questioning.
"You… and your little smart mouth… teasing me all those weeks in…. Ugh, the studio." he was thrusting in between words, losing himself in you too. "Where's that filthy mouth of yours now, hm? Where's that—" he started, and the question fell apart in his mouth, and short guttural moans came out instead.
It was as if he'd given up on the manipulative charade; he widened his stance all of a sudden, both hands gripping you now, your bound arms still clinging around his neck as he held you up against the door. He was enjoying this too much to be a prick — hell, you were enjoying it too much to keep a hold on your unchecked feelings for him.
Your orgasm came unexpectantly, your brain not even in your body, you convulsing crazily around him. It was a long torn out moan and a coarse string of curses that came out of you when you reached the peak.
As the last waves of your pleasure were still rippling through you, leaving you weak against the door, he pulled out quite abruptly as if he was going to come.
The sudden emptiness was a shock. You gasped, your legs trembling so badly as he placed you down on two feet; you would have slumped to the floor if he hadn't been holding you up.
He brought his arms to grab yours; your bound hands caught between your chest and his. His eyes, dark and glittering with unsated hunger, scanned your face—the dazed pleasure, the vulnerability.
Without a word, he took the ribbon on your wrists between you. His elegant fingers worked at the knot of the red silk.
It loosened, then fell away, the blood rushing back into your wrists with a prickling ache. The ribbon slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor, forgotten between you, his gaze never leaving yours.
Then his hands were on your hips, spinning you away from the door. A soft, surprised cry left your lips as he guided you, stumbling, the few steps to the worn velvet couch. He pushed you down onto it, gently. You landed on your back, the plush fabric cool against your heated skin, the torn lace of your bodysuit a ruined banner across your stomach.
"Spread," he commanded, his voice a low, rough scrape.
Your mind was fogged, your body still singing from the orgasm. You hesitated for a second, your thighs instinctively wanting to close, to protect the oversensitive, wet core he'd just abandoned.
His hands settled on your inner knees. Not forcing, but a firm, undeniable pressure. "I said spread your legs."
A shiver, equal parts fear and desperate want, went through you.
Slowly, you let your knees fall apart, opening yourself to him completely. The cool air of the room kissed your most intimate flesh, making you acutely aware of your exposure, your utter vulnerability.
He didn't move for a moment, just knelt on the floor between your splayed legs, his eyes drinking in the sight. The mess he'd made of you.
The evidence of your climax glistening on your thighs and on him. His expression was one of fierce, emotional hunger.
Then he leaned forward, his hands sliding up to cradle the backs of your thighs.
The implication slammed into you a second later. He wasn't just going to look. He was going to… to put his mouth there. After everything. After the sweat of the performance, the frantic, angry coupling against the door, the sheer animal mess of it all.
"N-no," you gasped, the word a sharp, instinctive rejection. You tried to push at his shoulders, but your arms were weak, trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm and the strain of being bound. "Michael, no, I'm… I'm all sweaty, I'm… you can't…"
His hands, which had been cradling the backs of your thighs, tightened, holding you firmly in place. He looked up from between your legs, his chocolate eyes meeting yours. There was no disgust there or hesitation. Only a fierce, unyielding hunger.
"I don't care," he said, his voice low and final. It wasn't a growl, or a command barked in anger anymore. It was a simple, devastating statement of fact. He didn't care about the sweat, the stage makeup, the evidence of how turned on he made you, glistening on your skin. He wanted it. All of it. He wanted you, clearly, despite your behaviour.
Before you could form another protest, he leaned forward. You felt the warm puff of his exhale, then the first, deliberate stroke of his tongue.
It was a broad, slow, claiming lick from your entrance to your clit, a savouring that made your entire body jolt. A strangled sound, half-protest, half-moan, escaped your throat. Your hands, which had been pushing weakly at him, now fisted in his dark, tousled curls, not to pull him away, but to anchor yourself.
He laughed against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core, and you cried out, your head falling back against the arm of the couch. Your earlier resistance melted, incinerated by the sheer, shocking intimacy of the act. He was there, in the most private, vulnerable part of you, and he was treating it not with revulsion, but with a genuine effort to please that felt more violating than any roughness.
"See?" he murmured, his lips brushing against your sensitive flesh. "You don't care either."
He took his arms; wrapping around your legs, pulling you tighter against his mouth as he began to feast on you. His tongue was clever, mapping every fold and circling your clit with a precision that had your hips bucking off the couch. One hand slid from your thigh, his fingers trailing through the slickness before pushing one long finger inside you with a slow, deliberate thrust.
You were babbling, a stream of broken pleas and half-formed curses, your earlier coherence utterly destroyed. The pleasure was everywhere, sparking and sizzling under your skin, amplified by the sheer taboo of it, the post-show sweat, the angry energy still crackling in the room, the knowledge of who he was and what he was doing on his knees for you.
"That's it," he coaxed, his voice a dark, seductive murmur against you. His fingers curled inside you, finding a spot that made you see stars, while his tongue focused on your clit with devastating accuracy.
He was orchestrating your pleasure with control, and you were his willing, open to him.
You were so close, the pressure coiling unbearably tight, your thighs trembling with the strain of being held open.
But a sliver of your mind, the part not drowning in sensation, noticed something. Through the haze, you felt him shift. You felt the hard ridge of his arousal earlier, pressing against you when he'd taken you against the door. Now, as he knelt between your thighs, devouring you, you could feel… nothing.
The fierce, insistent pressure was gone. He was still fully clothed from the waist down, and there was no sign of the desperate hardness that had driven into you minutes before.
Why isn't he hard? The thought was a cold splash of water in the inferno. He hasn't come. It was as if he'd mentally clocked out of the 'bit' midway through.
He was only orchestrating your pleasure and denying his own, and you understood, dimly, that this maybe was the point? Or you thought you did. Because the longer he stayed down there, the less it looked like punishment and the more it looked like hiding; his eyes shut, his jaw working, a man who'd rather drown in you than let you see his face and read whatever was written on it.
"Please," you sobbed, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.
"Please what?" he murmured against you, his tongue flicking mercilessly.
"I… I can't…" you choked out, your orgasm coiling tight, an unbearable pressure.
"You can," he insisted, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot again. "And you will. For me. Again. Now."
The command, coupled with the exquisite torture of his mouth and the situation was the final key.
Your third climax of the night shattered through you, this one different from the others; deeper, longer, a rolling wave of sensation that left you sobbing his name, your body convulsing wildly.
As the it crashed over you, you felt a fresh, shocking gush of wetness, a hot rush that spilled over his chin and fingers.
He made a soft, delighted sound, pulling back for a moment to look. "Look at that," he breathed, his voice thick with awe and a dark kind of triumph. It was as if that was his first time illiciting such a response. He swiped his fingers through the new slickness, holding them up for you to see before bringing them to his lips, tasting you with a deliberate, obscene relish.
"Someone's a fan of my work." He winked up at you sarcastically. The wink landed a half-second late, and didn't quite reach his eyes; he was reaching for something cocky to say because the alternative was saying something… true. You groaned, the sheer horror and embarrassment of this ordeal. He'd swindled you; reversed the roles.
And the worst of it was that he'd been right. You did want him — had wanted him since the studio, since before the studio — and you'd buried it under bravado because wanting him meant handing him the power to get bored and put you down like every man before him had. Better to be the one who didn't care. Better to leave first. When you'd recorded that song you'd played the one-and-done energy on purpose, sure he'd want nothing real, certain that beating him to the punch was the only way it wouldn't end with you cast off.
Then he lowered his mouth again, drinking down every last tremor until you were completely spent, a trembling, nervous wreck on the couch.
Slowly, gently, he withdrew his pointer and finger from inside of you.
He unwound your trembling legs from around his neck, lowering them carefully. He pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his mouth and chin with a fastidiousness that felt like its own kind of insult. Then he stood up, towering over you where you lay exposed and ravaged.
He tucked the handkerchief away, then calmly, methodically, began to fix his clothes. He straightened his tie, smoothed his shirt, tucked it back into his trousers. He zipped his fly. Every movement was precise, detached.
The dark, passionate man who had just had his face between your thighs was gone, replaced by the icy, calculating character he was playing tonight.
You lay there, unable to move, watching him through half-lidded eyes, the aftershocks of pleasure still making you twitch. The hollow ache of confusion and unmet need was a physical pain in your chest.
He finally looked down at you, his expression unreadable. "The legal team will draft new paperwork," he said, his voice perfectly even, businesslike.
"You'll open the North American leg of the 'Bad' tour. You'll perform that song as a duet with me. Live. Every night."
He paused, letting the words sink into the sex-scented air.
"That's the deal. It won’t be lawsuit. No bad press. You get your exposure and break America once and for all and I get…" his eyes swept over your prone, used body, and for a second the businesslike cadence deserted him, the sentence hanging unfinished while he looked at you a beat too long.
"…assurance that my work is presented with the correct… fit."
He bent and picked up the red silk ribbon from where it had fallen on the floor. He held it up, the delicate fabric stained and crumpled. A humorless smile touched his lips.
"Consider it a binding contract," he said softly, then dropped the ribbon into his pocket.
He turned and walked to the door.
At the threshold his hand paused on the frame, just for a moment, like he might turn around. Then he slowly did. “You keep telling yourself there’s nothing here… after that little performance, the only one believing it... is you.”
He then opened the door - the sounds of the distant afterparty; laughter, clinking glasses, a bassline from a stereo, spilled into the room, a cruel reminder that you still had to go out and socialise.
Then he was gone, closing the door softly behind him.
You were left alone in the sudden silence, the taste of salt and sex still in the air, the ghost of his touch on your skin, and the weight of a deal you had no choice but to accept. The game you were both playing was far from over.
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