SUMMARY: You call Michael from the back of a cab after a night out, testing the boundaries of your professional relationship.
CONTENT: 18+, no smut sorry but lotsss of suggestive themes, reader works for Michael, mutual pining, protective Michael, lots of back and forth banter it’s a phone call duh, a little fluffy & a lot flirty, Michael’s horny af for the reader, mentions of female masturbation
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is probably my favorite thing I’ve written for Michael so far. It’s mostly from his pov which is always a fun little switch up PLUS I’m a sucker for mutual pining!! I wrote this with history era or invincible era michael in mind for the sake of cell phone usage, but fanfiction defies the laws of realism so if you want to imagine bad era michael with a dinky ass land line, don’t let me stop you!
The soft murmur of his cellphone vibrating on the bedside table chased Michael’s sleep away, His eyes opening against the darkness of his bedroom.
Now joined with the clinking of his glasses hitting the lamp, the annoying buzz of his phone carried on as his hand lazily searched for the device among his belongings.
Cool hard plastic met his palm just in time for the humming to come to an end. He caught it right before it stopped, bringing the phone to his ear in a hurried daze. This was his cellphone, accompanied by his very own private number. There were only a handful of people who could reach him there— the people he trusted most, the people he was closest to.
One of those people being you.
His creative director.
Or at least that was your professional title. You were hired to help Michael with his music video concepts— organizing the shoots, overseeing costume design and makeup, communicating his artistic vision to all the departments— mostly the technical things. But somewhere along the way your specialized responsibilities morphed into something much more casual as you became Michael’s personal soundboard to test ideas on. He’d call you at all hours of the day, asking for your thoughts on his demos or insisting you come to the studio to give your opinion on the choreography for his upcoming tour. You were the person he trusted most with his creative endeavors.
And you were currently in the backseat of a taxi with one too many vodka soda’s in your system.
“Michael!”
Your voice blared through his speaker so abruptly that he had to pull the phone back to keep his ears from ringing.
“Is everything alright? You okay?” The usual softness of his voice was traded for a sleep induced rasp, each word running into the next in a panic, because why on earth would you be calling him at nearly— he pulled the phone from his ear to check the time— 2am.
He sat up on his elbows, waiting for your response, ready to jump out of bed to figure out how he could help you-
“Oh I’m great! Daniel just didn’t believe me when I told him I worked with Michael Jackson, so I had to prove him wrong!” There was a joyful shriek in your response that sent your words running together.
Michael’s elbows softened into his mattress, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly upon hearing your voice all giddy and sweet. You were safe. Thank God.
Who was Daniel?
“Who?” Michael’s voice was still drowsey as he spoke against the phone in his hand.
“Daniel! He’s driving me home. You’re on speaker phone.”
This time he could clearly hear you slurring your words. Maybe you had been out drinking. It was the only thing that made sense given that you would never be calling him at this hour if you were sober.
“Oh, hi Daniel.” Michael did his best to give the man a warm greeting, shaking the sleep from his voice.
“See I told you I wasn’t lying.” Your voice got softer on the other end of the line— distracted— like you were holding the phone further from your face.
“I guess I should’ve known better. A pretty face like that would never lie to me huh?”
A new voice hits Michael’s ear, one that he can only assume belongs to Daniel. His compliment is oozing with bad intentions, so much so, that it causes an instinctual frown to form on Michael’s lips.
“Are you on your way home?” Michael raises his voice just enough to make sure you can still hear him on your end.
“Yeah, I wanted to stay out longer but Melanie called me a cab…” your voice was light and airy as it poured through his phone.
He made a mental note to thank Melanie— his booking agent who had evidently become close enough with you that the two of you were out clubbing together on a Saturday night.
“Well, why don’t you stay on the phone with me. Until you get home.” Michael spoke softly.
To anyone else his offer would’ve been strictly cordial. But this went far beyond a formality.
Of course he was concerned for your safety and wanted to make sure you got home, but really he just wanted more time with you— even if it was just with your voice. Because despite both of your attempts to keep your relationship exclusively professional, you were drawn to each other in other ways. There was a hidden sense of understanding and attraction between you, a constant flirtatious connection that fueled almost all of your interactions. To you, it was probably all fun and games. He told himself you probably didn’t think much about your close-knit relationship. But Michael on the other hand, had found himself craving your presence— dreaming about your sweet smile and the way you’d touch his arm when you laughed too hard at one of his jokes.
“No Michael it’s okay, I don’t want to keep you.”
Your sudden thoughtfulness made Michael chuckle to himself, as if you hadn’t already woken him in the middle of the night.
“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” He laid his head back on the pillow underneath him, his hand still holding the phone against his ear. “Tell me about your night.” A smile crept onto his face as he continued talking to you, relishing in the simplicity of the moment.
That got you going. You chattered into the phone about the three different bars you went to and the friends you were out with. Michael listened as you listed off names, recognizing most of them as people who had worked on his music video sets in some capacity.
You were in the middle of telling him all about how much he would’ve loved the tacky 70s themed club that you ended the night in, when a distant voice interrupted you-
“You sure you don’t need help getting up those stairs princess?”
Your drivers voice echoed through his phone and Michael’s body tensed at the sound of his sleazy offer. He nearly sat up in repulsion. A deep nauseated feeling swam through his stomach at the thought of a random man manipulating his way into your apartment.
“I’m fine, thank you!” Your tone was far too kind, making him want to jump through the cell phone and give Daniel a proper response, but Michael kept his mouth shut, happy to hear the car door opening and closing on the other line.
He listened to the distant sound of your heels clicking against the sidewalk, finally free from the backseat of the cab.
“I wish you could come out with us.” Your phone must’ve been pressed against your face as you scoured your purse for your keys, because your voice, paired with a loud metallic jingling, was suddenly much louder in Michael’s ear.
He couldn’t help but let out a laugh at your comment. The sound was deep and unruly, as the back of his head sunk deeper into his pillow.
You met his response with a giggle of your own as you continued, “I know. I know. You hate clubbing.”
To be fair Michael had very little experience going out to bars, but he couldn’t imagine it would be an activity worth exploring. The overwhelmingly loud music, sweaty bodies pushing each other around, everyone drunk or high with absolutely no decorum or manners. It sounded like his own personal hell.
“I just think it would be so much fun to dance with you.”
His heart skipped a beat as those last words left your lips. They slipped through his phone speaker so slowly, it was almost seductive.
With you.
A foggy desire filled his mind as he thought about it. Dancing with you. Holding your body close to his, keeping a hand on your lower back as he pulled you closer. One of his legs slotting between yours as you both moved to the rhythm of the music. Him guiding your movements with your chest pressed against his and his hands all over your body.
He had to force himself out of his trance to make sure he carried on the conversation at hand, “We don’t have to go to a club to dance. You can dance with me anytime.” His voice floated through the phone with a quiet laugh.
You were silent for a few seconds, the only sound coming from the other end of the call was your keys in the door followed by it slamming shut.
“You mean that?” Your voice reached a lower octave, buzzing through his phone in a velvety vibrato.
Surely you didn’t mean to sound so- seductive.
Michael had to quietly clear his throat before responding, “Of course. Just say the word.”
He kept his voice low, not sure if he should try to match the flirtatious undertones of your words. He’d never been caught in such a whirlwind of a conversation before, his sleep clouded mind was running circles around itself with each curveball you threw his way.
He waited for you to say something, anything. The sudden wave of silence making him think maybe he’d said the wrong thing. You’d been so chatty since he picked up the phone, and now, nothing.
He gave it a few seconds, listening intently to see if you were still on the other line. The only thing he could hear was a soft rustling.
“Sorry, I was changing.” Your words rushed into his ear— blunt and breathless.
Now he was the one offering silence to the conversation.
Your nonchalant confession caught him off guard. There was no denying the way the alcohol coursing through your veins had you oversharing tonight. Throughout the entire phone call Michael had to hold back his giggles at your out of character outbursts.
But he definitely wasn’t laughing now. Instead his mind was preoccupied with the most inappropriate thoughts about you.
You had changed right there in front of him. Well, not in front of him, but on the other end of the phone call. You had taken your clothes off as you were talking to him, perhaps sliding a dress down your body, stepping out of the fabric at your feet. Wearing nothing but bare skin as you kept your phone close to your ear.
He thought about what color your underwear might’ve been, or if you were wearing any at all.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep Michael.” Your voice yanked him back into his bedroom. His chest tightened in embarrassment as if you knew what he was thinking— like he’d been caught. But, Oh, the way his name rolled off your tongue made his skin hot.
“I’ll start showing up at your front door demanding that you teach me how to dance.” The playful threat laughed off your lips, but Michael was still trying to regain his composure.
“And I’ll welcome you with open arms.” His voice held a gentle smile, pairing nicely with your sarcasm as he shook his head. Partly in amusement with the conversation and partly to keep his unsavory thoughts at bay.
“Mmm you’re too sweet Michael.” A happy little sigh came before your compliment and Michael heard a few muffled noises follow your words. You sounded comfortable— content, like maybe you were crawling into bed.
“That’s one of the things I love most about you.” Your voice was so soft it nearly got lost in the static of the phone call, but it was impossible to miss the way your breathing gushed through his phone— soothing and rhythmic.
You were laying in bed, showering him in drunken compliments and all Michael could think about was how beautiful your voice was. How perfect your little sighs were as they hummed through his phone. You made such pretty noises, he couldn’t imagine what you might sound like when you touched yourself. If he were brave and you weren’t so clearly intoxicated, maybe he would ask you to do it— ask you to take your fingers between your thighs just so he could hear the way you’d gasp and moan for him.
“Thank you.” He finally responded to your comment about him being too sweet. Ironic seeing as though he was just imagining what you’d sound like with your hand in your panties.
“You should get some sleep.” He could tell you were getting tired, your breathing was becoming deep and heavy.
“Mhmm you too.” More of your sleepy hums filled Michael’s head as your voice fell into a sleepy murmur.
“Goodnight Michael.”
Your words purred through his phone, making him run his fingers over his silk sheets, picturing your soft skin under his touch.
“Goodnight.” His voice was only a whisper as he listened to your soft little breaths for just a few extra seconds.
He hung up, but instead of setting his phone back in its place on his bedside table, he held it against his chest as he dozed off, just in case you decided to call him again.
Michael would definitely kiss you through your panties before going down on you… I don’t make the rules 18+ mdni
“I like these.” His breath is warm as his words hum against your center. His lips pressing the softest kiss to your clit through your panties. The slight arch of your back off the mattress makes him do it again and again—bucking his own hips against the sheets with every little whimper you let out. He kisses the slick spot at your core with the same delicate touch, kissing and humming into you until the material is completely soaked through— all stuck to your cunt in a mess of drool and arousal.
the concept of michael loving to get nasty in front of the bathroom mirror, watching your reactions and expressions as you take his deep thrusts; it’s almost narcissistic, but he loves making you feel good and he loves SEEING that he’s making you feel good, all while whispering praises and compliments in your ears which only pushes you further to edge. dunno just a thought :D
mmm thinking about michael putting you through the mattress. big, strong hands forcing you into an impossible fold, keeping you still as he plunges his cock into you, over and over and over. every drag of his length feels like liquid-hot lightning, and the veins on the underside of his shaft catch on every notch of your gummy walls, lighting every surface inch of your skin ablaze. his mouth alternates between kissing and biting the slick, balmy skin of your neck, too preoccupied with the way you feel around him to think about anything else. all he knows is that he's close, and that he wants to be even deeper — until he doesn't know where you end and he begins. in his lust-ridden haze, he doesn't even realize how heavy he is atop of you, not until he looks down to see you pressed flat into the mattress, stuttering and gasping for air, clawing crescents into the meat of his back. all he can do is whine a string of apologies into your ear, "'sorrysorrysorry,'" followed by a breathy, "'feels so good, baby. just wanna give it to you good.'"
contains: childhood friends to lovers, 1k words, yearning, obsession, mentions of jealousy and possessiveness.
writer’s note: my obsession with michael is stronger than ever and i couldn’t help trying to write something. i kept thinking about a ‘childhood sweethearts’ trope and this is the result.
long before the world knew his name, michael knew the specific creak of your back porch steps. even as a child, your presence felt like a soft exhale in the middle of a scream. while the jackson house was a whirlwind of rehearsals, rhythmic thumping, and joseph’s booming voice, your porch was a place of stillness.
you were the girl with the gentle eyes who didn't ask anything of him. he’d slip out of his house, sometimes with a bruised ego, sometimes just exhausted from rehearsals, and find you sitting on your back steps.
you were always quiet, possessing that graceful stillness. you didn't demand he perform or dance, you’d simply move over to make room, offering him a piece of gum or a cool glass of water.
"is it loud over there today?" you’d ask softly, your voice a melodic contrast to the harshness of his world.
michael would just nod, his large, expressive eyes searching your face for any sign of judgment. "they’re just... practicing the same turn, over and over. i think my feet forgot how to walk normal," he’d whisper with a shy, tired smile. you’d nudge your shoulder against his and allow him sit in the safety of each other’s company until the sun dipped low.
for a few minutes, he wasn't a prodigy. he was just the boy next door who liked the way you smelled like lavender soap and sunshine.
those moments became his blueprint for peace. he learned early on that love wasn't just an applause, it was the way you looked at him and cared about him when he wasn't performing.
as the jackson 5 took off, the distance between your front doors grew into a breach of fame, but michael’s silent obsession began to root itself in that distance. you become the anchor he tries to hold onto through letters and late-night calls.
he develops a habit of memorizing you, not in a creepy way but more in a devotional way. the rhythm of your voice, the way you tilt your head when you listen, the quiet hum you make when you’re thinking. he carries those details with him everywhere, especially on the bad days.
when things get too harsh, too loud or too demanding, he closes his eyes and imagines your porch, your voice, the soft way you say his name. “michael…” like it’s something delicate, like it matters. he compares every woman he meets to the graceful, soft-spoken girl who used to hold his hand in the tall grass. but they were all too loud, too eager, too demanding.
he started keeping a small candid photo of you tucked into his jacket pocket, a reminder of the only person who knew the boy before the myth. he’d stare at it until the edges frayed, wondering if you were waiting for him or if he was chasing a ghost.
he becomes protective (possessive, even) of your memory. he hates the idea of you changing or, worse, finding someone else who might provide what he did for you.
he became a king, but in his mind, he was still that boy looking through your window. he started calling you from payphones in london, tokyo, and paris, his voice dropping into that breathless, shy register he only used with you.
"do you still have that old swing?" he asks, his voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and desperate longing. "i keep dreaming about it. i dream that i’m sitting there and you’re brushing the dust off my vest. everything is so shiny here, y/n. it’s too bright. i just want to sit in the dark with you for a little while. promise me you won't let anyone else sit on those steps. that's our spot, okay? only ours."
by the mid-80s, michael is at the most successful and burdened moment of his life. you’ve remained in his inner circle, a quiet fixture in the studio. the only person who can walk into a room and instantly lower his heart rate. his crush has evolved into a quiet, simmering obsession. he tracks your movements not out of malice, but out of a deep-seated fear that if you leave his sight, the "magic" that keeps him sane will vanish.
he treats you with a reverence that borders on worship. if you’re in the room, his eyes never truly leave you. he’ll be in the middle of a high-stakes meeting, and the moment you walk in with that gentle, grounded aura, his entire posture softens. he’ll find excuses to touch you, straightening your collar, lingering as he brushes a stray hair from your face, his fingers trembling slightly.
he starts to get protective, borderline possessive, though he hides it behind his gentle demeanor. if you mention another name or a man you met, the air in the room shifts. he doesn't yell; he grows unnervingly quiet, his large, expressive eyes tracking your every movement as if he’s trying to memorize the way your lips move. he begins to realize that the thought of anyone else touching your hand, the hand that used to hold his when he was scared of the dark in gary, is physically nauseating to him.
michael sees you as a piece of his lost childhood that he successfully "saved." he becomes intensely focused on keeping you "unspoiled" by the industry. his obsession manifests in the way he catalogs your likes and dislikes. he remembers a candy you liked when you were seven and has it imported by the crate. he notices if you’re sad before you even realize it yourself.
the confession happens during a private moment at neverland, far away from the cameras. the "safe haven" isn't enough anymore; he wants to own the haven. he’s tired of being the boy next door, he wants to be the man in your life.
he’s pacing the library, the firelight dancing off the curls at his temples. you’re sitting in an armchair, watching him with that same gentle composure that has always been his anchor.
"you're doing it again," you say softly in a worried tone. "you're overthinking. come sit down, michael."
he stops abruptly, turning to you. his voice is a whisper, thick with years of unspoken words. "i can’t just sit down anymore, y/n. don't you see? i go out there and i give them everything. i give my blood, my sweat, my childhood... and then i come to you to get my soul back. but i’m tired of leaving it here and picking it up later. i want it to stay with you. i want me to stay with you."
he moves toward you, his movements fluid but desperate, kneeling at your feet and resting his forehead against your knees. “i’ve been obsessed with the way you say my name since i was six years old. please... tell me you feel the weight of it, too."
once he declares his feelings, there is no going back. michael’s love is all-consuming. he wants you in the front row of every show, in the studio for every take, and in the room every time he wakes up. it’s a suffocatingly sweet kind of love; he wants to build a wall around the two of you where the world can’t hurt him and where you’ll never have a reason to look at anyone else.
you are his living sanctuary, and he is a man who has spent his whole life trying to find a home he can finally lock the door to.
synopsis: your ex-partner, still legally your husband, arrives at the grammy’s a few weeks after your split. reporters are down your throat about your breakup & michael kisses a fellow female nominee on stage. michael makes it up to you on the car journey home in the best way he knows how.
warnings: sexual themes, smut, 18+
You could never escape him.
You knew he was here. The screams of pure adoration and idolatry weren’t for just anyone at the 26th Annual Grammy Awards. They were for him.
And, to your private annoyance, every reporter who had your time all had the same question on their lips.
"So, what really happened between you and Michael Jackson?"
Each time, you’d quietly sigh, force a smile, restrain an eye-roll and answer politely through gritted teeth. Truthfully, you don’t really even know why you split up — a bad argument one night ended ugly to where your bags were packed and you were out of Hayvenhurst within the hour. Both of you were stubborn as hell, meaning not one of you would admit wrong-doing or apologise unless put in a passionate position.
The year prior the questions from reporters were varied — When was your next album? Would there be a single released soon? What new music was being produced as of recent weeks? And maybe, if they were feeling nosey, they’d ask about your lover.
The lover they only care to hear about now that he’s an ex.
It was no secret that every news channel, magazine and radio station was milking your separation for everything it was worth — earning every dime off of your heartache. You’d been cornered and screamed at by reporters over the past few months over your break-up from the worldwide superstar Michael Jackson more times than for any music you’d put out.
So, you knew tonight would be no different.
Your manager had already warned you about keeping any responses to questions about Michael to a polite minimum to prevent bad press — but when every single reporter was asking the same thing, your irritation began to rise to the surface.
"Michael Jackson, your recent ex-husband, has just arrived here at the Grammy’s, he’s nominated for 12 awards — is there any resentment towards him now you’ve spilt as you’re only nominated for 2?"
Bitch.
You bit your inner cheek so hard you almost cried out as you forced down a nasty insult, but faked a smile and grit your teeth, "Not at all. He’s a talented man who worked hard for each nomination." You started, "But, I have also worked hard myself for my nominations which I am proud of if I win or not."
"And when will the divorce be final?"
Swallowing thickly, your breath shook as you exhaled gaining composure, "As of right now, there has been no divorce settlement papers drafted. We are just split up."
"So, technically, you’re still together?"
"No." You snapped, a forced smile still on your face, "We are split up." You repeated, trying not to sound too agitated.
"So,—"
"Thank you for your time." You cut off, picking up your dress and walking away.
You knew there’d be a story about that in the morning, but you didn’t care. It was either that or you screamed at her — and that certainly wouldn’t get you a Grammy.
You rushed through each interview, declining questions about Michael which only spurred the reporters on to press you about why you were saying no to questions about him. The inside of your mouth was practically red raw from how often you were biting down to force the agitation back down your throat.
Luckily, the ceremony was a blissful, magical experience — all memories of your ex-lover had been washed away, for the time being, as you watched each of your fellow singers and stars win their awards. A good friend of yours, country singer, Debbie Allen, had just won her award for Best Female Country Vocal Performance for her single ‘Baby I Lied’, who thanked her loved ones & producers, and rushed back down to the table you shared for the night.
"Well done, honey!" You beamed, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek as you embraced in a hug, "So proud of you."
"Thank you, baby." She whispered, "How you been tonight? I hope those reporters haven’t been giving you too much trouble."
You scoffed, taking a sip of your Martini, "They couldn’t have given me more trouble, Deb."’
"Oh, Lord." She sighed, "I’m so sorry, honey, I know this must be real hard for you."
You huffed in defeat, shrugging, signifying you knew there wasn’t anything you could do about the situation. You and Michael hadn’t spoken since you moved out of your shared house, Hayvenhurst in Encino, and back to your own personal home. Since then, the media have spun lies and rumours, only forcing you further apart and building the awkward tension.
You quietened down as the presenters at the stage began talking, "This award is for Record of the Year, where many talented musicians have displayed some of their best work yet." One started, "The nominees are ‘Every Breath you Take’ by The Police," They read names and applause sounded throughout the room as each one was read, "'Flashdance… What a Feeling’ by Irene Cara, and ‘Beat it’ by Michael Jackson."
Your breath caught in your throat at the mention of his name and his smiling face on the screen in front of you. You refrained a gasp from slipping past your lips at his attire — Goodness, he looked good. His bedazzled suit, glove and signature sunglasses made him look like a true king. You were barely paying any attention as your heart hammered in your chest at the mere mention of his name. You hated how he still had an effect on you after all this time.
"And the Record of the Year goes to.." The silence was deafening as you held your breath,
“Michael Jackson ‘Beat it’!"
The room erupted into screams of adoration and loud applause as they all stood to congratulate him. Your heart thumped in your throat — part of you wanted to stand with a proud smile for the familiar lover, but the other half didn’t know whether it was worth the tabloids rumours.
In the heat of the moment, just as you were about to stand, a soft smile creeping on your face, you halted in your tracks.
Michael, your ex-husband of a mere few weeks, turned to his fellow nominee, Irene Cara, who was smiling sweetly at him, and kissed her.
Not once — but twice.
Air was knocked out of you as your mouth fell ajar as you watched him approach the stand to accept the award. Your mouth went swiftly dry and your eyes threatened to well up with tears, but you could feel the eyes on you, and soon the cameras too. So, a fake smile was forced onto your face as you stood to clap — ignoring the people around you glancing at you dramatically, as if waiting for your reaction.
Michael took the stage with his Producer Quincy Jones, who hugged him tightly, then jumped for joy at Michael’s second win of the night. Your chest rose and fell quickly as you watched the stage, your heart shattering as he stood at the stand — a smug smirk on his face while he held his two awards.
"I love all the girls in the balcony." Michael spoke, lifting his bedazzled hands in the air to point at the screaming fans beyond the stage.
Double homicide.
A sick, disgusted feeling crawled into your stomach as you listened to him talk. You honestly couldn’t believe what you were hearing — the man who devoted his life to you a few months ago, promised you children and a future, stability and love till the end of time, was now kissing women backstage at the Grammy’s and thanking his aroused, infatuated female fans. You were mortified.
You zoned out as he thanked his family, and Quincy took the stand to thank Michael and the editors to the album again. Your mind was in shambles as Debbie reached over to place a comforting hand on your arm, offering a sympathetic smile. You pursed your lips at her — trying to ignore Michael’s voice thanking the girls in the balcony once more before he exited the stage.
You swallowed thickly — you were in shock and disgust at the man you thought you knew. He clearly got a taste for being single and had his ego stroked too many times tonight, and decided to act a fool in front of everyone.
Embarrassment was an understatement.
"Men are pigs, sweetie. Don’t let him get to you. You’ve got a Grammy to win." Debbie whispered, squeezing your hand encouragingly.
You breathed out a laugh, smiling weakly at her as thoughts raced through your brain. Despite all the anger, sadness and disgust you felt right now, the most prominent emotion that was infesting your body right now was jealousy. You were sick with envy at Irene Cara — being able to stand up there and kiss your ex-man twice on stage. It made you violently jealous.
"The next award is for Best Female Pop Vocal Performance." The next presenters spoke, their voices pulling you out of your train of thought.
This was your nomination.
Your heart drummed with anxiety once more — the cocktail of emotions in your body knocking you sick as you waited.
"And the nominees are, ‘Flashdance…What a Feeling.’ by Irene Cara,"
Oh, now the competition was really on.
You hated that you secretly felt as though you were competing for Michael, but you couldn’t help but want nothing more than to win against her.
Your name was read last — the camera turning to you as a smirk crept onto your face, waving sweetly into the camera lense, attempting to look as unbothered as possible.
"And the winner is.."
Cheers erupted into the room as your name echoed in your ears, Debbie practically screaming beside you as she clapped feverishly.
You had won.
A wicked thought crept into your brain as you stood up, walking towards the stage with a dangerous grin on your face. This was going to get him back in every possible way. And her.
The applause died down as you were handed the award, which weighed your arms down, as you kissed the female presenter on the cheek. You leant the award on the stand as you approached the microphone.
"Firstly, I’d like to thank my Producer, who sadly couldn’t be here tonight, but gives his own personal thanks to all the editors and executive producers who helped us with this song that I’m beyond proud of." You started, smiling sweetly, catching the eyes of familiar faces in the crowd as you spoke.
"I also wanted to say that I am particularly proud of myself for this song as, I’m sure all of you are aware, these past few weeks have been difficult for me." You stated, whispers and shocked glances were shared across the room, "But, regardless, I’m here tonight, winning an award, feeling beautiful and happy to be alive." A round of applause was instigated as you laughed, "You will also know that despite common belief, when a separation occurs between man and wife — they are still, by law and under the word of God, still married. Which means no matter how many people you kiss on stage, I’ll still be your wife, Michael. And, I will always be, if you know you know, the Lady in his Life."
Flashing your wedding ring to the crowd that you still wore, you laughed loudly as the crowd went berserk, before exiting the stage. Screams of joy and shock erupted in the room as people sat near to Michael whispered to him, whose face himself was sporting a playful, shy smile, ignoring Quincy Jones laughing loudly next to him.
The rest of the night, where Michael went on to win 6 more awards, failing to address your call out of his stunt on stage, you were praised by many familiar stars — who claimed your speech was the best they’d heard in years. Unfortunately, you only won the one award, but you didn’t care — as the way you had outed Michael elicited a better feeling than any award could.
The end of the ceremony soon came around, and the after parties were beginning to start. Debbie had dragged you to one before you even got chance to decline, but you wanted to bask in your glory for a little longer before heading home.
Debbie had wondered off somewhere, claiming she needed to talk to Lionel Richie, and scurried off into the crowd — leaving you alone with your 4th Martini of the night.
"Nice little speech you gave earlier."
The familiar soft voice that sounded behind you sent shivers up your spine as you turned around to face the one man you’d wanted to ignore and be close to at the same time all night.
"Thank you." You smiled, "I thought it was fitting."
Michael hummed, nodding as the corner of his mouth threatened to curve into a smile, "I always admired your honesty." He spoke, "Congratulations by the way."
You chuckled softly, "Flattery won’t save you now, Michael."
"What? I can’t compliment my beautiful wife, as you say you are yourself."
Your breath hitched in your throat at his words, "I am when you’re kissing other women in public in front of me, I’m not when you want something from me now you realised you’ve fucked up."
Michael chuckled, taking a step closer to you, the waft of his cologne filling your nostrils — a sickly sweet reminder of his stunning scent that you once had smothered on your bedsheets and in your hair after a night of ecstasy. The thought of your late night love during your marriage sent a wave of uncontrollable arousal throughout your body as you looked up at him.
"I don’t think God would approve of you denying yourself as my wife whenever you please."
"That’s rich coming from you." You scoffed, furrowing your eyebrows, "You were borderline adulterous tonight."
"I would only be adulterous if you were still officially my girl. Yes, you’re legally my wife. But, the last I knew, we were ‘separated’" He teased, taking another step closer, your chests nearly touching as your breathing quickened, "So, unless you’re saying you want me back?"
You scoffed, avoiding the question as you looked away from, not wanting to be the one to admit you missed him, "In your dreams, Michael."
"Sure is."
Your mouth fell agape at his words, trying not to interpret it as sexual — but your already aroused brain instantly went there, eliciting a flush of heat through you.
"You can’t pick and choose when you want me, Michael." You stood strong, ignoring the small waver in your voice, "I’m either your wife or I’ll have the divorce papers drafted for Monday morning."
Michael didn’t speak — just stared at you through his sunglasses, his lips pressed together calmly as he eyed you. Your chest rose and fell quicker as you grew more and more impatient for his response, your lips forming an irritated pout, which you subconsciously forgot he loved as a smirk grew on his face.
"What’s so funny? I’m being seri—“
"Come with me."
Without having a second to comprehend what was happening, Michael grasped your hand tightly and began exiting the party. Your mouth fell open in confusion as his fingers laced through yours while leading you through the crowd, earning a few confused glances from other stars as you rushed past.
The cold February air hit you sharply as Michael guided you outside, the instant intense flash of cameras blazing your eyesight as he smiled at the cameras, squeezing your hand as a push to do the same. You forced a smile as he ushered you into the back of a car, jumping in with you and shutting the door.
"Where to, Sir?" The driver questioned.
"To our home — Hayvenhurst, please." Michael spoke softly, as he always did, your ears perking at the use of the word ‘our’, "And take the long route."
You turned to face the superstar as the partition closed, silence filling the car. Michael was already looking at you, his glasses had been taken off, and sporting a small smile.
"Don’t give me that look. I meant what I said, Michael." You sassed, crossing your arms.
"I know you did." He agreed, "I’m sorry for how I behaved tonight. A man without the support of his beautiful wife is a lost man who makes stupid choices."
You eyed him as he spoke, attempting to not fall for the flattery, which proved to be difficult as he met you with his classic puppy dog eyes.
"Like you said, I wrote that song just for you. That one among many. You are the only lady in my life — you inspire all of my love songs. You are the reason my heart swells with such passion to sing about love."
Your heart skipped a beat at his words — pink flushing your cheeks at the sweet confession as he smiled softly at you. He knew exactly how to play you to get what he wanted.
"Come on, baby, didn’t I make you happy?"
"Michael." You warned, eyeing his smirk as he shuffled closer to you.
"I know I did." He whispered, suddenly as close as he was at the after party, forcing your breath to catch in your throat, "I made you smile, and laugh, and feel content with your life and our future." His hand crept up to your knee, your breathing increasing ever so slightly at the sudden touch, "But, more importantly, I made you feel good, didn’t I?" He mewled, his hand sliding up your dress to caress your thigh.
"Michael." You sighed, arousal building between your legs at his tender touch.
"Admit it. I made you feel so good when I made sweet love to you every night." Michael teased, his hand now snaking around your waist and pulling you flush against his warm body, a gasp ripping from your throat in surprise, "I knew exactly how to pleasure my sweet, beautiful lady."
"Yes — God, yes, you did." You breathed, your chest heaving in pure arousal as your hands clung to his chest and around his neck, finally giving in to him, "Please."
Michael didn’t need to tease and wind you up tonight — he knew you needed each other so badly it would’ve physically hurt to deny each other one another for any longer. His hands around your waist pulled you as close to him as humanly possible, another residing on your red hot cheek as he pressed his eager lips to yours in a feverish kiss.
You instantly hummed in pleasure at the feeling of his warm, soft mouth against yours — your hands flying to tangle in his curls as you moved over to straddle his hips. Michael groaned into your mouth as his hands slid down your exposed back, pressing your body into his as he slipped his eager tongue into your mouth — desperate to taste you everywhere.
His excitable kisses edged down from your jawline to your neck, to your chest, your heartbeat hammering against his lips — love bites being littered across your skin.
"Baby, please."
Michael groaned at the sound of your desperate, aroused plea — his achingly hard cock twitching beneath his slacks.
"Let me make it up to you, darling." Michael started, moving to lay you down on the back seat, and kissing slowly down your body as you whined beneath him impatiently, "Let me taste your perfect pussy — make you feel good."
"Yes — God, yes, please."
Michael didn’t waste a second as the whiny, breathy words of desperation left your lips — bunching your dress around your hips. Michael let out a shaky breath at the sight of your drenched panties — your puffy pussy drooling for him even after the whole ordeal.
He hooked two fingers into your waistband and shimmied the soaked pink cloth off your cunt, the bare sight of your pretty pussy on show for him. He let out a sigh of pure adoration as he admired you, pushing your legs apart.
"Gosh, this pussy is beautiful — so wet for me."
You whined beneath him, bucking your hips in despair as your hole clenched around nothing, begging to be touched. Michael took this as a sign to slide his two fingers between your slit, a loud gasp ripping from your throat as he nudged your sensitive clit, collecting your essence on his digits. Pushing your legs back further, Michael slid his lubricated fingers towards your quivering hole, teasing the outside, earning a loud cry of irritation as you silently begged for him to fill you.
"Be a good girl now — let me make you feel better." He ordered, pressing a soft kiss to your elevated ankle as he slid two fingers inside you, an erotic moan leaving your lips, "Mm, that’s it, baby, let me hear you."
He knew exactly how to take you, how you liked to be pleased and what made you cum instantly. You felt as though even though he was making it up to you, he was also getting off on this. He pumped his fingers in and out of your tight cunt — the squelching of your juices and the sound of your delicious moans filled the car, Michael’s cock throbbing beneath his clothes at the pornographic noises entering his ears.
"Such a sweet, good girl for me. And I’m such a bad husband, aren’t I? But, I’m gonna make it all better, hm?"
"N-No, you’re p-perfect, Mike." You forced out, your voice wavering as he pleasured you.
But, Michael knew exactly what was going to make you forgive him. Leaning down in between your legs, he littered your thighs in kisses before attaching his lips around your throbbing clit. His fingers still curling to hit that spongy spot inside you had your back arching off the seat, your cries reaching their loudest as your built up sexual frustration for your husband came to its peak.
"O-oh— Michael, God, I-I’m gon—gonn—“
"Cum for me, baby, give it to me." He egged on, his lips never leaving your clit, as his fingers sped up inside you to help push you over the edge.
You came with a scream, your hand flying to his curls to tug on while your legs clamped around his head — his name flooding from your mouth as you shook around his head, his tongue lapping up your juices as they leaked from your abused hole.
Michael didn’t waste any time after you came down from your high, perching up on his knees to free himself from his slacks and boxers, shoving them down his thighs to let his painfully hard cock spring free. You hummed in arousing anticipation as he spat a dollop of his saliva onto his hand and slicking his cock in the natural lubricant — pumping himself a few times with a hiss before positioning himself by your shaking cunt. He slid his cock between your slick folds — nudging your swollen, sensitive clit, earning a pathetic cry as you grasped his bicep.
"Ready to feel how sorry I am, sweet thing?"
You nodded with a whine as he pushed your knees closer to your chest in a brutal mating press — before pushing his tip into your tight walls. Both of you let out intense cries of pleasure at the feeling of one another’s genitalia after so long — the sexual frustration melting away as he slid in further and further. You always struggled to take his thick, heavy dick — but tonight you didn’t care. You were so caught up in your emotions that the burn and stretch of his fat cock didn’t phase you tonight. You just needed him to take you over and over again to prove his apology and how much he loved you.
Michael bottomed out with a groan, "Oh." He shivered, "I’ve missed this perfect pussy, Jesus." He leant down to capture your lips in a messy, passionate kiss, tongues and teeth banging together as he pulled out all the way, to slam back into you. Both of your explicit noises filled the car mixed with the stench of pure sex as he fucked you into the seat.
"M-Michael!" You whined, your hand reaching up to touch his face as his pelvis rubbed against your pathetically sensitive clit — that and the feeling of the tip of his cock abusing your G-Spot had you seeing stars and threatening to cum again already.
Michael, lost in the pure ecstasy of your weeping cunt, had words failing him as he slammed into you repeatedly — pure excitement flooding his veins at the feeling of you squeezing him in as you reached your climax once again.
"M-Michael, Michael, I’m there — I’m cumming!"
Michael cursed under his breath as his flopped forward, his face nuzzling into your neck as you arched your back into his chest, your fingers curled in his hair as you tightened around his aching cock — cumming with a loud cry against him.
Michael wasn’t far behind at the feeling of your pussy clenching him so hard as you finished — milking him for all he’s worth. He came with a growl into your neck, your name and little moans of pure pleasure whined from his lips as he stuffed you full of his load.
Michael flopped against you as his orgasm feathered away, being careful not to crush you under his weight. His legs shook as he slipped out of you with a hiss and a curse under his breath — the feeling of his warm cum trickling out of you had you whining quietly.
Michael leaned down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss — this one now delicate and tender, compared to the intense one prior. He took time with your lips, a soft hand on your neck as he lovingly pecked your lips.
"I love you so much, baby. I don’t wanna be without my wife any longer. I’m sorry for everything I’ve done — please don’t leave me again." He admitted, pressing his sticky forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut.
Your heart swelled at his gentle, kind words, suddenly feeling so full of love and purpose once more.
"I love you too, Michael.” You breathed, a shaky hand coming up to stroke his cheek, "And I’m sorry for embarrassing you tonight. I won’t ever leave your side again."’
Michael smiled against you, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, before sitting up to tuck his softened cock back into his boxers. He then assisted you back into your underwear, fixed your dress and smoothed your hair for you, before calling out to the driver to tell him to head towards home.
"Does this mean you’re my official girl, wife, everything again?" Michael whispered, wrapping an arm around your sleepy frame as you slumped against him.
You nodded weakly, "Yes, Mike, I’m your everything again."
summary ⋆ michael’s anonymous late night fan forum lurking takes an unfortunate turn when his spouse discovers the fanfiction archive. what starts as merciless teasing over dramatic titles slowly becomes something softer, as they realise the stories are less embarrassing than they are weirdly tender.
content ⋆ 3.07k words, married! michael jackson, gn! reader, domestic fluff, fanfiction meta, humour, embarassed michael, gentle teasing, emotional comfort, reader being a slight menace, i just want my man to happyyy, tooth rotting fluff, y'all are so cute together ew
⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꒰ঌ ♡ ໒꒱ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ michael jackson x spouse! reader
author's note ⋆ WOAH THIS ONE IS META. fun fact, apparently michael jackson was actually known to browse his own fan club websites and read the fanfiction that was written there, so this story was very much based on that. i have no sleep schedule anymore writing for this man is my sleep now
author's note 2 ⋆ also i personally imagine the reader as speaking with a very stereotypical london accent, do with that what you will. AND MY LAST MICHAEL JACKSON FIC, Y'ALL ATE IT UP. THANK YOU SO MUCH. HERE'S ANOTHER ONE FROM MY MANY MANY DRAFTS XOXO. expect more really soon ::loudly crying face emoji::
michael jackson has a habit of lurking on his own fan forums.
not publicly, obviously.
he insists it is simply him “checking in on the fans” and “listening out for objective feedback,” though you personally believe that creating anonymous accounts to browse message boards about yourself at two in the morning borderline constitutes as a form of mental self-harm.
especially since he takes everything so personally.
one woman on a forum once described his gold pants as “a little much,” and the comment proceeded to haunt him for the rest of the evening like some victorian ghost. you had wandered into the kitchen nearly an hour later to find him pacing fervently across the polished marble floor. still in the clothes he’d been wearing all day, except now holding the infamous gold pants stretched between his hands. you’d reckon if he stared at the trousers any harder he would’ve burned a hole straight through the fabric.
“baby,” he had asked with complete sincerity the moment he saw you (it took him 5 minutes and a gentle cough from you to realise you were in the room), “be honest with me.”
already a terrible start. you leaned against the counter cautiously. “…about what.”
“the pants.”
a pause.
“what about them?”
“that woman online said they were ‘a little much.’”
you stared at him. then at the pants. then back at him again.
“…you’ve been thinking about that for forty minutes?”
“i need objective feedback.”
michael held the trousers up higher, genuinely alarmed now.
“are they too shiny?”
“no.”
“too tight?”
“mmmm… ehhh… borderline.”
“too theatrical?”
“michael,” you interrupted, “you literally sing and dance for a living.”
“that’s not the point.”
he resumed his pacing immediately, still clutching the gold fabric in visible turmoil. “she said they looked too tacky.”
you were physically made to sit down after that. meanwhile michael continued spiralling restlessly around the kitchen island as you noiselessly wheezed into actual tears. by the end of the night the pants had somehow become an active third participant in the conversation. at one point michael placed them solemnly across your lap and asked: “…do they make me look difficult to approach.”
“you’re asking me if the disco trousers are intimidating…?”
anyway…
so, in short, occasionally you will find him curled up in bed late at night — a bulky silver laptop balanced carefully across his knees — silently lurking through fanclub websites. using usernames so painfully obvious that they somehow loop all the way back around into being believable again.
that last one, in particular, made you seriously question the observational skills of the internet as a whole.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁﹏𓊝﹏. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁
rain taps gently against the bedroom windows in slow, unpredictable rhythms, blurring the world outside into distant amber streetlights and dark silhouettes. somewhere downstairs, the grandfather clock ticks quietly through the stillness, while an old jazz record spins low enough to barely exist, a soft hum of white noise. all of existence seems to dissolve into the warm hush of midnight. the bedside lamps cast everything in muted gold, illuminating the satin sheets and discarded books slumped half-open across the duvet. the faint shine of michael’s wedding ring catches the light whenever his fingers move across the keyboard, sending flickering reflections dancing against the ivory-colored wall.
michael sits on the bed, propped up comfortably against the headboard in charcoal silk pyjamas—damp, fresh-out-the-shower curls falling loosely around his face and catching the dim glow of the lamplight. his reading glasses rest low on the bridge of his nose. every few moments, his mouth twitches upward at something on the screen, a small smile he quickly attempts to hide before it can fully form.
draped halfway across his side, you’re dressed in an oversized t-shirt—at least three sizes too large—and a pair of fluffy white pyjama bottoms. your limbs are warm and heavy with exhaustion as you absentmindedly play with his fingers in your lap, tracing over their long lines while sleep slowly threatens to pull you under from reality. one of his hands remains trapped beneath yours while the other scrolls steadily through forum posts with deep concentration, occasionally smiling tenderly whenever somebody compliments a performance or defends him against tabloid nonsense online.
“aw,” he murmurs suddenly into the void.
you glance lazily toward the screen without lifting your head properly from his shoulder.
“hm…?” you replied, the call of sleep interwoven within the timbre of your voice.
“this person said my speech in munich made them cry.”
a familiar note of astonishment colors his tone, the same fragile awe that surfaces whenever he encounters sincere affection rather than a public performance, as if he still struggles to grasp that people could offer him devotion without a hidden agenda.
you squint sleepily at the username beneath the comment.
‘billiejean_420’
a snort escapes you. “nice.”
michael’s mouth twitches with the faintest hint of a smile, but he says nothing, choosing instead to gracefully ignore the fact that this touching declaration of love came from someone named after one of his songs and a strain of weed. he simply keeps scrolling, the glow of the screen painting blue light across his cheekbones.
the room slips back into its gentle hush — the low click of keys, the shuffling of duvet covers, the forgotten record player murmuring somewhere across the room. you’re just beginning to drift again when something at the edge of the browser catches your eye.
a tab labelled: fanfiction archive.
you blink, suddenly more awake.
“…what’s that?”
michael goes very still beside you. his fingers freeze over the trackpad.
“nothing,” he says, a little too quickly.
that is, unfortunately, the worst possible answer he could have given.
you narrow your eyes, lifting your head from his shoulder. “michael.”
“it’s not important,” he adds, already reaching to click the tab shut.
you push yourself up on one elbow, now fully alert and deeply entertained. “michael joseph jackson, do not close that tab.”
michael looked heavenward in despair, pulling the laptop closer and attempting a frantic three-finger salute to shut it down, but you were faster. your hand shot out, grasping the edge of the silver screen and yanking it firmly back toward your side of the bed.
“nice try,” you declared, already maneuvering the cursor with wicked intent.
michael let out a deeply distressed sound the moment your fingers touched the trackpad.
“no, no, no—baby, don’t read the titles first,” he pleaded, his low sleep voice suddenly pitching higher. “the titles are always so dramatic.”
“that is exactly why i’m reading them,” you said, already grinning as you began scrolling.
your eyes moved down the list, and almost immediately they widened.
“oh my god.”
michael physically sank lower against the headboard like a man preparing for impact, one hand coming up to cover half his face. the tips of his ears had gone noticeably pink beneath the damp curls.
you kept scrolling, barely containing your violent chortles.
“‘your man in the mirror’? really?”
he groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “i didn’t write the titles.”
“‘the king and i’… ‘moonlight and magic’…” you paused, biting your lip. “michael. there’s one called ‘smooth criminal, rough play.’”
a muffled, mortified grimace came from beneath the pillow. “please stop.”
you were laughing properly now, shoulders shaking as you leaned against his side. “this one is a 40 chapter long slow burn entitled ‘heal the world… and then me.’”
he peeked out from under the pillow just enough for one mortified eye to meet yours. “you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“immensely,” you confirmed, scrolling further. “there’s an entire tag list. ‘angst then fluff,’ ‘mutual pining,’ ‘jackson family drama,’ and—oh, this is my favourite—‘protective!michael.’”
he made a helpless sound and gently tried to tug the laptop away, but you held on, still reading titles aloud between bursts of amused giggles. the rain continued its steady rhythm against the windows, the jazz record long since ended, but the room felt brighter somehow, warmer, filled with the rare sound of michael jackson dying of embarrassment beside you.
eventually, still cackling to yourself, you clicked one open before michael could successfully wrestle the laptop away from you.
“baby—”
“oh this one has a description.”
“i don’t wanna hear the description.”
“you are literally the main character. you have no choice.”
michael released another deeply pained “ughhh” before dropping backward onto the pillows. you bit back a smile, eyes still flitting across the screen as you kept reading.
“okay,” you began, trying to compose yourself enough to read properly. “‘a lonely king burdened by fame discovers that love may be the only thing powerful enough to heal the darkness in his heart.’”
you let the dramatic summary hang in the air for a second, then glanced sideways at him.
“…that’s kind of sad.”
michael peeked out from beneath the pillow, one eye narrowed in suspicion. “it’s sad?”
“a little,” you admitted, softer now.
you clicked into the first chapter. the page loaded with a flourish — glittering cursive headers and tiny animated stars drifting magically across the top banner like a private constellation.
“oh, this person is committed,” you murmured, impressed.
michael’s features seemed to collapse inward at that, a sinkhole of grief pulling his eyes and mouth into one deeply perturbed expression. you prodded him lightly with a finger, a wordless instruction to keep it together. then, clearing your throat with immense theatrical importance, you began reading aloud in your best storytelling voice.
“‘the rain lashed violently against the stained glass windows of neverland as michael stood alone in the grand hallway, consumed by thoughts too painful to name.’”
you stopped reading mid-sentence.
the words hung in the air for a beat before you slowly turned your head toward him, one eyebrow raised. “do you stand in hallways when i’m asleep?”
michael’s answer came instantly. “no.”
“that was way too fast.”
he spoke into the bedding covering him. “no, i do not stand in hallways when you’re asleep.”
“you wander, though.”
“i do not wander.”
“you’re a wanderer,” you said with absolute certainty. “i’ve seen you. midnight hallway patrol. very dramatic.”
michael sighed deeply, the sound vibrating against the pillow as he burrowed further into it. but you could see the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile even as he pretended to be mortified. you turned back to the screen, now fully invested, voice slipping back into your dramatic reading tone.
“‘consumed by thoughts too painful to name…’” you announced, glancing sideways at him again. “should i be concerned?”
michael reached over without looking and gently poked your side. “keep reading before i close the laptop.”
you chuckled under your breath and obeyed, nestling closer against him as the ridiculous story continued to unfold between you.
“‘his chocolate eyes darkened with longing as he loosened the first two buttons of his cotton shirt—’”
you barely got through the next line before beginning to snort again.
“‘—revealing a glimpse of the smooth, moonlit skin beneath, a silent invitation to the one who alone could soothe his weary soul.’”
michael pressed his face harder into your hairline, his body shaking with silent laughter and abashment.
“moonlit skin,” you repeated, delighted. “michael, this is all very poetic. i feel like i should be taking notes.”
“please don’t.”
you kept reading anyway, voice rich with mock seriousness.
“‘a single tear traced down his perfect cheek as he whispered her name into the empty night—’”
he poked your side again, harder this time.
“i’m learning things about you,” you said innocently, scrolling down. “apparently you whisper names dramatically in hallways. and you cry beautifully. good to know.”
michael moaned in protest, but his arm had slipped around your waist, holding you closer instead of pushing you away. his fingers idly played with the hem of your sleep shirt, an unspoken betrayal of how much he was secretly basking in the attention.
you continued in a hushed, theatrical whisper:
“‘she approached him slowly, her heart pounding with the weight of destiny—’”
he lifted his head just enough to peek at the screen, curiosity finally winning. “what happens next?”
you glanced at him, eyebrows raised. “i thought you weren’t interested.”
“i’m not,”
you collapsed against him, leaning more comfortably against his side while continuing to scroll through the chapter. eventually, he even started peeking openly at the screen beside you, faintly correcting details under his breath.
“i’ve never owned curtains like that.”
you turned toward him slowly. “you’re fact checking the fanfiction.”
“i’m not fact checking.”
“you just got upset about the curtains.”
“they said velvet drapes.”
“and?”
“do you see any velvet drapes around us?”
that broke your composure, your forehead dropping against his shoulder while michael finally gave up entirely and let the laptop rest across both your laps.
some time had passed until you noticed how quiet he had become beside you.
he wasn’t upset, exactly. just… shy. his face was still glowing a deep shade, obvious against the background of his skin, and he kept his face half-hidden in your hair, as if he could will the entire situation away by not looking at it.
your chest tightened.
“y’know, baby,” you murmured, gently nudging his shoulder with your own. “i’m not making fun of you.”
michael peeked out from under the pillow, one cautious brown eye meeting yours. he looked so disarmingly vulnerable like this — curls messy, reading glasses slightly askew, pyjamas rumpled — that it made something tender ache behind your ribs.
“i actually think it’s kind of sweet,” you added, voice warm and sincere.
he blinked at you, searching your face like he was waiting for the punchline that wasn’t coming.
“really?” he asked.
“really.” you turned the laptop slightly so the screen faced both of you again. “all these people… they’re not just fans. they’re dreaming about you. building entire worlds just to spend more time with the version of you they love. it's kind of beautiful.”
michael remained silent for a long moment, his gaze lingering on your face instead of the glowing archive, finding a more profound truth there than in the flurry of words. slowly, the tension in his shoulders ebbed away. he let the pillow he was previously holding onto for dear life slide to his lap and reached out, his fingers grazing your arm with a feather light touch. you shifted into his space, curling into the familiar heat of his side until your head found its home against his chest. his heartbeat was a steady, grounding thrum beneath your cheek. beneath the weighted blankets, his hand found your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, hypnotic circles against the plush fabric of your pyjamas.
you continued to read vacantly.
“oooooh.”
“what now,” he asked warily.
“it says that your eye contact alone can single handedly ‘rewire the female nervous system’,” you tilted the screen slightly. “and apparently you smell like warm cinnamon.”
michael made a wounded sound , pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. “…why does everybody keep saying that? i’ve never even been associated with cinnamon.”
you grinned. “i can see what they’re going for.”
he exhaled a long, melodic sigh, the last of his grievances dissolving into the silence. you began to read again, your voice possessed a subtle lilt that carried snippets of their devotion into the room—descriptions of his effortless grace under the stage lights, the way strangers dissected his silences like sacred scripture, and entire paragraphs and theories devoted to his sunglasses, as if they were symbols of a deeper mystery.
and slowly, you noticed something.
despite the occasional embarrassed protest, michael’s expression kept softening. not at the grand romantic declarations or the dramatic love scenes. but at the more intimate observations. the ones that described him as kind. lonely. soft-spoken. misunderstood. every time one of those lines appeared, his thumb would hold on your thigh for a second, as if he were absorbing the words.
you leaned your head against his shoulder again, the laptop warm between you both.
“this person says you ‘carry sadness gracefully.’”
michael paused for a beat.
“…that’s nice,” he mumbled.
you glanced up at him. there it was again — that small, surprised look he wore whenever someone saw past the headlines. past the performer, past the myth, just him.
you nudged your arm gently against his. “see? they like you.”
michael huffed, exhaling through his nose. “they don’t know me.”
“no,” you replied, still scrolling slowly through the archive, “but i think they’re trying to.” a small smile tugged at your mouth. “and honestly… who wouldn’t want to know you.”
the room settled into a hush, warm blankets twisted around your legs. michael’s fingers traced lazy, absent patterns over yours.
he leaned in a little closer, pointing toward another story entitled ‘captain eo’s love story’. “…what’s that one about?”
you grinned, unable to hide it. you responded in a sing-song-y manner; “see, you are interested.”
“i’m not interested,” he muttered, though he didn’t pull away.
“you literally just leaned in.”
“i can’t see well from here, you’re hogging up all the laptop space"
“uhuh.”
you clicked the story open anyway.
and though michael kept up the act — sighing dramatically at the more over the top lines and hiding his face against your shoulder whenever a sentence became particularly outrageous — he never once actually asked you to stop. by the time the clock crept past three in the morning, the two of you were still curled together beneath the blankets, shoulder to shoulder in the dark, reading fanfiction side by side while trading commentary and sharing occasional bursts of breathless amusement. outside, the rain had long since passed, leaving the windows silvered beneath moonlight now that the clouds had finally begun to disperse.
much later, when michael had finally fallen asleep beside you, his curls now dry where they fell across his forehead, you glanced once more at the glowing archive page still open on the laptop between you.
for a moment you simply watched him — the way the screen’s faint light caught the curve of his cheek, the faint crease between his brows that had finally smoothed out in sleep. then, as noiselessly as possible, you reached over and bookmarked the page.
just in case his nights on tour stretched too long again.
author's note ⋆ HIII thank you again for all the love for my last mj x reader fic. i didn't expect it to get that much traction. I SHALL BE WRITING MORE AFTER THIS I'M ON AN MJ HIGH
˚₊✩‧₊ note . . . felt so silly writing this bc i never thought i'd write rpf but here we are. anyway, had to get all my feral thoughts out so take whatever this is :3
his hands find you with unbridled urgence. that's how it is on nights like this — when he's high on unadulterated bliss, electric and buzzing, after having a successful recording session in the studio. he comes to you then, immediately after, and not a moment later. already insatiable. already teeming with the anticipation of what's to come next.
and there's not much room for pretending. you know what comes next. he knows what comes next — it always leads to this. with you sprawled beneath him; your head thrown back, eyes clenched shut, hands bawling the fabric of his shirt into fists as he kisses down the column of your neck.
"g-good day in the studio, i take it?" you breathe, though, it comes out more whiny and pathetic than you intended. a shiver travels down the length of your spine when he nips the area of skin just below your collarbone, blowing on it before opening his mouth to speak.
"shh, don't wanna talk about that," he says, "wanna focus on you... on this. been thinking about it all day."
your thighs clench from the admission. you've been aching for him all day; your panties are practically confirmation. embarrassingly sodden and clinging to you with a stickiness that surely outlines the shape of your cunt. he'd see how wet you are if he pulled up your skirt, and with your leg hiked around his waist, all it'd take is one shift. one deliberate press forward — and he'd feel it, even through the fabric of his pants.
it excites you, kind of. picturing the expression he'd make when he notices, or the gasp he'd let slip out upon realization. that you've been waiting so patiently all day for him, so wet, and pliable. ready to take him and please him after a long day in the studio. you flutter around nothing at the thought, and bring a hand to rest at the nape of his neck.
"hmm, is that so?" you question, tone teasing, "you needed this all day, baby?"
michael pulls away from your neck, kisses across the slant of your jaw, all the way up to your mouth. he presses a gentle kiss to your lips, drawing back only briefly, before he finds them again with an impatience that threatens to consume. your mouth parts wider for him, slick and obedient, as his tongue licks the soft plush of your bottom lip for entrance. something between a sigh and a moan escapes your throat when he pulls away.
"yeah, baby," he replies breathily, "gonna give it to me, right?"
the question is more rhetorical than anything, doesn't even wait for permission. you peel your eyes open slowly, watching him with bated breath as he makes his descent down your body, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses in his wake. he halts when his lips get to the waistband of your skirt, and you inhale sharply, flexing your stomach instinctively from the heat of his exhaled breaths.
his fingers linger over the apex of your thighs for a second, and then he's lifting the hem of your skirt up, folding it over until the entirety of your panties are on display. a smirk plays on his lips, eyes immediately fixed on the darkened patch of wetness seeping from the centre of you. experimentally, he presses his thumb to your slit, prods your through your panties and watches curiously as his thumb disappears into your clothed hole.
his eyes flit intermittently from your face, to where his digit is pressed to you. "you're so..." his voice trails, barely above a whisper, "so wet."
you know he's not exactly expecting a response, so you ignore him, a frustrated sigh leaving your lips, hips squirming in his grasp. taking the hint, he lets out a light chuckle, making quick work of your panties and discarding them somewhere to be forgotten on the floor. now you're fully bare beneath him, and the air shifts from playful to something a lot more suffocating. a lot more serious, hungry.
in the span of a breath, his mouth is on you, lapping at your weeping slit with a reverence he's only ever reserved for you. he grabs your leg and hikes it over his shoulder, licking tight, sloppy circles around your nub, while his free hand inches closer to your entrance. your hand finds the top of his head, and you card your fingers through onyx curls, pulling slightly with your lip tucked between your teeth.
a shaky moan rips through your throat, and he uses it as an opportunity to slip the tip of his middle finger into you, pushing all the way until the skin of his knuckles is flush with your folds. your hips lift off the bed and his name leaves your lips in a whisper, dissipating somewhere in the heated air of the room.
"mike..." you shiver, pulling tighter on his hair. "more—ngh—want more."
obeying your request, he withdraws briefly, then pushes back in with both his middle and index finger, pressing in all the way to the hilt, hooking the tip of his fingers as he does so. your pussy clenches involuntarily from the stretch, and your thighs almost close around his hand, but he keeps you open with a firm press on the back of your thigh.
"keep 'em open," he says softly, looking up at you while his fingers begin working you open. you reply with a nod, and watch as he lowers his mouth back down to your clit, eyes half-lidded and fixed on the rise and fall of your breasts. slowly, he thrusts them in and out of you. pulls all the way until just the tip of them are left, then pushes all the way in with cruel precision.
the room echoes with the loud and obscene squelch of your cunt. you're sure you'd find it embarrassing if your mind was somewhere a little more closer to reality, but with the way his fingers are pulling you apart at the seams, and the way his tongue is gliding over you, wet and relentless — you find it difficult to care. all you can focus on is him him him.
the heat of his mouth, the soft sighs he lets escape his lips, the avian flutter of his lashes as he loses himself in the embrace of your thighs. the air is suffocating, and you can feel the knot in your stomach winding tighter, and tighter. you're close, and michael can tell as much, your trembling thighs a telltale sign of your impending release. he begins sucking harder on your clit, alternating between circling and pulling, all the while his fingers continue their merciless pace.
"m-mike, d-don't stop—!" your voice comes out in a stutter, "pleasepleaseplease!"
michael pulls away just enough to say, "come on, baby. give it to me."
with a few more harsh thrusts of his fingers, your release comes unceremoniously. sharp and fast. your back arches off the bed, and a guttural moan erupts from your lips, echoing off the walls in the room. instead of removing himself, he continues to pump his digits inside of you, his tongue still flicking sloppily at your tingling folds. after a few moments, he withdraws, and sits back on his haunches, panting and spent from the exertion.
once your breaths begin to settle, and your heart returns to a normal rate, you sit up from the bed, reaching forward to capture his lips in a searing kiss. a self-satisfied grin plays on the corner of your mouth when you taste yourself on his lips; a mixture between something tangy and sweet. you break the kiss, pressing a heated palm to the erection in the confines of his pants.
SUMMARY: You and michael spend some quality time together while he works late in the studio
CONTENT: fluff, smiley giggly michael, lovey dovey established relationship, not smut but it gets just a little saucy at the end, a brief make out sesh, mentions of dry humping if you squint, was picturing bad era michael when i wrote this but feel free to choose your fighter
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Alrighttt the Michael biopic has me revisiting my decade long hyper fixation. That’s right!! we’re writing some mj fanfiction because I have no shame!! This little drabble came to me in a dream so I had to write it out lol hope you enjoy
You shut the book in your hands, gently setting it down in your lap. The words on the weathered pages started to lose their meaning as you finally gave up on reading.
Repetitive melodies and the quiet murmuring of lyrics from the man sitting a few feet away made it nearly impossible to focus.
He had assured you it wouldn’t be too loud in the studio tonight as he practically begged you to come sit with him while he worked on new music.
Michael made a habit of it— asking you to join him for brainstorming sessions. He once teased that you were his greatest muse.
He was extremely private, never directly involving you in his writing or recording process. Most of the time you would simply sit in the room with him while he worked. You’d thumb through a book and let the incomplete tracks and rhythmic tune of his voice act as background music to your reading.
Tonight was no different. He was focused on the notebook in front of him; sticky notes and scribbles littered the pages. The same melody filled the air over and over again as he hummed along with different words, each one acting as a piece to the never ending puzzle of his next album.
The weight of your book sunk into your lap as you let your back rest against the cushion behind you. Your lids felt heavy and your mind was foggy with sleep as you began dozing off.
“Sleepyhead.”
The familiar voice carried to your side of the room, lulling you out of your slumber before you could completely drift off.
You opened your eyes just enough to see Michael turned around in his chair, facing you with a gentle smile tugging at his lips.
“Well forgive me, I didn’t realize you’d be working well into the early morning hours when you invited me to tag along.” Your sarcasm only made his grin widen.
He watched you for a minute, a small giggle fighting its way past his lips.
“C’mere” He motioned you over to him with a slight tilt of his head toward his notebook.
“I need your opinion on something.”
His voice was soft against the quiet of the room, and a smile still stained his lips as he turned back around to face the array of sticky notes plastered on the surface in front of him.
You stretched from the couch, closing the distance between you and Michael in sleepy strides.
You stood next to him, following his gaze to the words written on the notebook below.
He sat in his chair, fingers tracing the lines of lyrics in front of him.
“Which do you like better?”
Without even looking at you, he began playing the unfinished track that you’d been hearing all night.
You listened to his voice as he sang the first string of lyrics written in his notebook, watching as the written words flowed so effortlessly off the paper and into the room to the tune of his voice.
He played it twice, each time singing a different set of lyrics, both similar yet somehow entirely different.
You leaned down, peering at the two different options written on the page, Michael still humming softly next to you.
As you studied them, you felt the warmth of his palm rest at the base of your spine.
Michael was no stranger to physical touch— not with you.
He was obsessed with having his hands on you, even in the most innocent ways.
He was constantly reaching for your hand, intertwining your fingers with his; always wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you closer.
“I think I like the first one.” Your stare was still fixed on the notebook below, as your body angled further over his.
“It feels right.” Your mind was still sleepy as you gave your final verdict.
The room fell silent for just a few seconds, and you felt his thumb rubbing gentle circles against your lower back— tender and soothing.
“It feels right.” His voice was a delicate chuckle as he repeated your words into the nearly empty room.
“First one it is.” His words still held a subtle giggle.
With one hand on your back, the other reached for a pen as he wrote a few more words in his notebook.
He looked up at you, admiration in his gaze and that same sweet grin on his lips, “Thank you.”
His hushed words were simple, yet laced with an abundance of gratitude and love.
The gentle devotion in his voice and the careful touch of his fingertips along your spine sent you leaning down further as you placed the softest kiss on his cheek.
“Anything for you.” Your response met him with the same adoration.
You lingered like that, staring at one another. Smitten smiles nestled into your cheekbones, faces only inches a part.
“Yeah, you mean that?”
Michael’s tone shifted ever so slightly. There was a certain playfulness in the way he spoke; the question tucked behind a veil of mischief.
You loved this side of him; when his quiet, gentle demeanor was replaced with something more light hearted and whimsical.
You murmured a quiet, “mhmm” nodding your head and leaning in even closer, this time just barely pressing your lips against his.
It was a quick, gentle kiss, but it was enough to cause Michael’s hand that was once at your back to snake around your body, lightly grabbing your waist and pulling you against him.
Your body responded to his touch, sinking down into his lap, your legs straddling his and your hands cupping his jaw.
This time the kiss shared between you was much deeper, and it was impossible to miss the way he smiled ever so slightly against your lips.
His hands gripped your waist pulling you completely against him. Your lips moved in harmony; a whirlwind of hunger and affection as you melted further into his touch.
You began trailing kisses toward his jaw, under his ear, down his neck…
Each touch of your lips on his skin was determined and methodical— your actions ruminating in the passion radiating between you.
Soft hums fell from his lips as his fingertips tightened at your waist, fighting the urge to guide your hips against his.
You continued peppering kisses to his skin
down
down
down—
Your mouth was dangerously close to his collar bone when you felt one of his hands loosen from your hip.
He was reaching behind you, grabbing the pen from beside his notebook and jotting something down on one of the ink filled pages while your lips were busy on his neck.
“michael…” you sighed in defeat as your face fell into his shoulder.
“Hold on, hold on,” his words were a breathless hush as they spilled from his lips.
You buried your head deeper into the crook of his neck, your giggle muffled against his skin.
You sat there for a moment soaking in the warmth of his chest against yours. Letting him scrawl out whatever idea just came to him.
michael jackson doesn't get jealous. he's michael jackson, for goodness sake!
and sure, he is probably holding onto your waist a little too tight while you engage in a conversation with some famous actor you like. and maybe he is shooting him death-daggers behind his aviators--but, he's not jealous.
michael was supposed to be rubbing elbows with his fellow industry-mates, but once this schmuck wandered over to you, he suddenly had nowhere to be.
michael isn't territorial, though. territory is such a crazy word itself and michael would never think of you like that. never. you’re his precious little p.y.t., the whole reason he wrote the song, obviously.
still he cannot shake the feeling that the man wants you, as if you aren’t already michael jackson’s girl. official, at that.
and michael knows he shouldn’t care. he knows attention comes with the territory of being seen in public with him. people stare. people hover. people flirt because they think it’s harmless or funny or impossible.
but he's human before he's michael jackson.
so he just stays close to you for the rest of the night, closer than he usually does. his hand retires its hold from your waist and finds your lower back instead. every photo taken, he stands to where everyone knows your his.
by the time you get home, after all the glamorous clothes are off and the makeup is wiped, he holds you from behind in the bathroom.
"did you have fun tonight?" translation: did you forget about me?
you turn in his grasp and kiss his lips, "i had fun 'cause you were there."
that was really reassuring.
"i'm sorry if i was too close, i just hate sharing you, girl," he mumbles it into your cheek.
see, michael jackson isn't jealous. maybe a little clingy, but really just in love.
