╰── summary;
𝄞 𝙔𝙤𝙪 are waiting on Michael to come home from the studio, riled up and impatient after a heated goodbye kiss, so you have to make do with what you've got. You get a little lost in the heat of the moment and Michael walks in on you... he's curious as to what you're hiding!
wc: 3.5k
pairing: thriller era x established gf! reader
tags: smut, use of sex toys, michael finds your vibrator lmao, michael being a tease, edging, masturbation, fluffy dialogue, established relationship, 70s era, fingering, curiosity killed the cat, dialogue driven sex, pwp, humour,
A/N: this was a draft i finally finished earlier today !! i have so many sitting there unfinished and i loved this concept. i have no notes for this other than i was kicking my feet whilst writing it. i need someone to explain why he isn't my boyfriend.....?
Playlist; listen here. i listened to love rollercoaster like 12 times during the writing of this, and i added some more of the songs i was also vibing to..
proof read but not very well probs
18+ minors dnu!! (srsly tho)
The bedroom was warm with late afternoon light, gold pouring through the gauzy curtains, and you'd had the house to yourself for hours. It wasn't often that all of the Jackson's were out at once.
Michael was working on something with Tito at a studio in the city, and he'd left you that morning with a slow, promisin’, sexually driven kiss against the doorframe; the heat of it had trailed you around all day like a hand, possessive, at the small of your back. It was infuriatingly annoying and it was riling you up.
By mid-afternoon you'd given up pretending to read your books. There was no patience for dense college textbooks. You'd read all you could take, but they were no longer serving as a distraction to your impending horniness.
You'd crept up to Michael's bedroom and fished the little pink vibrator out of your bag; a gift from your girlfriend weeks ago, after a conversation centered around 'spicing' it up in the bedroom. she pressed into your hands with a wicked grin and a:
trust me, you'll thank me.
Now you were sprawled across his pillows with your sweatshirt rucked up, chasing the ache he'd left you with, the low buzz of it lost under the record still spinning lazily on his turntable; Love Rollercoaster, loud and woozy in the glimmering afternoon light.
Thank god for new technology.
You were close. So close to it. You were almost sprinting after it deliciously, the music a backdrop of how you were feeling, building with intensity.
The song had warped into something dizzy and psychedelic, swelling in time with the heat low in your belly, and you pressed the buzzing toy harder against yourself, sprinting for the finishline.
Your head was full to the brim of him; his veiny hands, his wet, hot mouth, the weight of him on top of you, the way his rounded innocent eyes peered up over your pubic bone whilst he ate you out, the feeling of your hips rolling up into the line of his cock in his slacks on the couch, the sound of his breath coming fast and ragged whilst he neared his—
You didn't hear the car. You didn't hear the front door either.
You heard nothing until the bedroom door swung open and Michael walked in blazenly, peeling off his jacket, mid-sentence, totally distracted.
"—and Tito kept sayin' the bassline was fine but it was draggin', I could feel it draggin' the whole—"
You scrambled.
In one frantic, graceless motion you jammed the vibrator under the nearest pillow—that ridiculous Alice in Wonderland caterpillar cushion Michael adored—yanked your sweatshirt down to something less incriminating, and sat bolt upright against the headboard covering your naked bottom half with the duvet, heart slamming, face on fire.
"Hi!" you said, far too brightly.
Michael stopped. Blinked. He looked wrung out, curls sort of flat on top where the headphones had pressed against, dark smudges under his eyes where he'd messily drawn on his eyeliner; but something in him clicked the second he really looked at you.
"...Hi," he said slowly.
"How's the track?"
"A bit nonsensical, I guess." His eyes hadn't left your face, and you knew exactly what he was clocking: the flush down your throat, the sheen on your lip, your chest still going too fast.
He saw everything. He always did. "You okay? You're all—" He gestured at the entirety of you. "Red and sweaty."
"Well, uh, it's hot in here."
"It's really not that hot in here, Mother has the heat off because of the weather." He stared at you for a moment longer and then sighed dramatically.
He was clearly too tired to chase the reasoning as to why you seemed to be lying. He crossed to the bed with a low groan, toeing off his loafers.
"God, I'm wrecked. Eight hours arguin' with my brother about one silly line of sheet music." He flopped face-first across the mattress beside you, sighing into the duvet like he was lowering himself into his grave.
"Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Tito has wiped me out. He really did it this time."
You bit down on a slightly hysterical laugh, painfully aware of the small hard shape buried in the bedding inches from his hands. "Poor baby."
"Mm." He stretched then, luxuriously, the way he always did—arms flung up over his head, hands sliding up under the pillows, his whole long body arching out with a contented little sound—
And his fingers closed around something.
He went still.
You stopped breathing.
"...What's this," he mumbled into the duvet, eyes still shut, his hand pawing at it. He dragged it out from under the pillow and lifted his head to squint; small, pink, smooth, faintly ridiculous in his long fingers. He turned it over and frowned. "What is this? Is this one of those gadgets—"
His thumb found the button.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.
The thing roared to life in his hand and he startled so hard he nearly flung it across the room, jerking up onto one elbow.
"Oh."
The single syllable hung there. You watched the realisation land on his face; the buzzing toy, your scarlet face, the rucked-up sweatshirt, the way you'd been sitting up bright-eyed and breathless when he walked in… every piece clicking into place at once behind his eyes.
His gaze lifted to yours. Very, very slowly.
"...Oh," he said again. Completely different. Low. Almost delighted??
A grin breaking across his exhausted face, the studio forgotten, all that quiet knowing focus kindling. He let it keep buzzing in his hand just to watch you squirm.
"You were busy," he said, "while I was gone."
"Michael—give it back—"
"What even is this?" He held it up out of your reach, examining it like he'd unearthed an ancient relic, fascinated and perturbed in equal measure. "I have never ever—where'd you even get this?"
"My friend gave it to me, okay, it doesn't matter—"
"Your friend..." He turned it over, thumbing it off and back on, jumping a little each time it buzzed. And then; because he was, underneath it all, just a guy, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it.
"MICHAEL."
"What!" He reared back, blinking, like he'd done something perfectly reasonable. "I wanted to know if—"
"Why would you smell it—"
"I don't know!" He was laughing now, scandalized at his own hand. "It's instinct! You see a thing, you wanna know—I wasn't thinkin'—"
You lunged for it; but he held it up out of reach, and then you were both gone with laughter, helpless, you behind your hands and him snorting into the pillow, the awful mortified tension breaking apart into something warm and giddy, the way it always did with the two of you. You could laugh in the middle of anything.
"Okay—okay—" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, and thumbed it off. The sudden silence was louder than the buzz had been. The record was now scratching repeatedly on the plastic label.
He set the small bullet on the nightstand, deliberately, out of your reach, and turned the full weight of that focus back on you, all the tiredness burned clean out of him. "Very chill. Very normal. Nothin' to see here."
"Don't start," you warned, fighting a grin.
"You missed me that much, hm?" His voice had dropped now, gone soft and velvet, that teasing dark thread winding through it as he started crawling toward you across the bed, slow, all liquid grace, backing you gently into the headboard. His hand came to rest high on your thigh, thumb stroking. "Couldn't even wait for me to get home."
"You left me like that this morning," you accused, breathless, your laugh going unsteady. "Kissin' me like that and then just— leaving. What was I supposed to do?"
"Mm. I did do that, didn't I?" He didn't sound remotely sorry. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm, his exhaustion transmuted entirely into something low and hungry.
"So tell me, baby. Did you finish? Before I walked in?" His teeth grazed your jaw. "Or did I get home right in time?"
You couldn't answer. Your face answered for you.
A slow, knowing smile appeared on his face. "You didn't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the grin he gave you was pure wicked warmth.
"You got yourself all worked up with your little pink toy... and you didn't even get to finish," he said in mock horror.
"...No," you admitted, mortified and molten in equal measure.
"That's a shame, baby." He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow, his hand sliding higher, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip. "All that. And nothin' to show for it." His mouth moved to your throat, where your pulse was hammering. "Lucky for you I'm home now."
He kissed you then, and it wasn't with the claiming heat of some nights you'd shared together, but something slower, fonder, a smile still pressed into it, his tongue licking warm into your mouth as his weight settled over you and eased you back against the pillows.
You melted into it, your hands finding the hem of his t-shirt, sliding up the warm plane of his stomach—but he caught your wrists, gentle, and pressed them back to the pillows with a soft tut.
"Nuh-uh. Not yet." His grin was wicked. "You don't get to touch yet. You had your fun without me—now it's my turn."
"That's not fair—"
"Mm. Life's not fair, m'girl." He worked your sweatshirt up your body, his knuckles dragging over your ribs, baring you to the gold afternoon light, and the teasing softened into something rawer, his thumb skating the underside of your breast. "Look at you. Already all flushed up for me and I barely touched you."
"That's your fault—"
"you got yourself into this mess" He dipped his head, his mouth closing hot over your nipple, and your back arched off the bed. "Mm. I'm gonna fix it. Gonna take real good care of you. Make up for leavin' you all day." His hand slid down your stomach, down between your thighs, and the first brush of his fingers through how wet you already were drew a groan out of him, low and undone, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.
"God. Y/N. You're soaked."
"I told you—"
"I know. I know you did." His fingers slid through you, slow, finding the slick aching heart of you, circling, and your hips chased his hand helplessly.
"And you tried to hide what you'd been doing, too." He clicked his tongue, mock-scolding, his mouth curving against your skin. "We don't hide things in this house."
"Michael—" you gasped, as two of his fingers sank into you, his palm grinding against your clit, picking up right where you'd been left aching.
"I've got you, m'love," he breathed, his rhythm slow and sure and devastating, watching your face come apart with that dark, rapt focus.
"Got you now. You can finish for me this time." A soft, wicked grin. "Much better than that little pink thing, hm?"
He worked you slow, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face, his fingers curling into that spot that made your hips jump while his thumb kept a lazy, maddening circle.
You were squirming, already close again; you'd been close for hours at this point—and he knew it, the little wretch, watching you climb and deliberately not letting you get there.
"You're doin' that on purpose," you panted.
"Doin' what?" All innocence, his mouth twitching against your skin where he was trying to pepper kisses along your neck.
"You know what—"
"I'm just bein' thorough." He lowered himself and pressed a kiss to your sternum, grinning against your skin. "I had a long day. I gotta concentrate on what I'm doing." And he eased off again, right as you tipped toward the edge, until you made a sound of pure outraged frustration and smacked his shoulder, and he laughed, totally elated, that bright real laugh, catching your wrist and pinning it gently to the pillow.
"Okay, okay," he relented, eyes dancing. Then a thought visibly arrived behind them, wicked and curious, and his gaze slid over to the nightstand. "...Hold on."
"Michael—"
"No, no, I wanna—" He reached over and plucked the vibrator up again, turning it in his fingers, that concentrated frown back on his face like he was studying a piece of equipment in the studio.
"Show me how you had it. When I came in. Where were you—" he thumbed it on, the buzz filling the room, and grinned at his own daring— "puttin' this?"
You buried your face in your hands. "I'm not—oh my God—"
"C'mon. Show me what you were tryna hide from me." He was laughing now, nudging your knee wider with his own, the toy humming in his hand. "I'm nosey, remember? I gotta know what I'm competin' with."
"You are not competing with it—"
"No?" He pressed it, soft, right where you needed it, and your whole body jolted, a cry breaking out of you. His grin went molten.
"Hm. There?" He circled it, watching you arch and grab fistfuls of the duvet, his own breath catching at the sight of you. "Oh, you like that. Look at you, baby. Okay. Okay, I see. I'm learnin'."
He was good at it, the teasing... that was the infuriating thing; of course he was, he was good at everything. he set that focus on reading you, easing the vibration against you and pulling it back, his face inches from yours so he could watch, his free hand pinning your arm to the bed so you couldn't intervene.
You were a mess, gasping, hips chasing it, and he was loving every second, soft little encouragements falling out of him;
that's it, there you go, let me see, you're so pretty like this
"Michael, I'm gonna—if you don't—pull it away—" you choked.
"I know. I know, baby, I've got you—" And this time he didn't pull back. He held it steady, his mouth on your throat, and you came apart with a cry, shaking, your hand flying to grip his wrist as it crashed through you. He worked you through it, gentling, murmuring into your skin, until your body felt like jelly and you were trembling against the pillows.
He clicked it off and set it back on the nightstand. Kissed your slack mouth, smug and tender at once. "There she is. M'beautiful dirty girl."
"I hate you," you breathed, with absolutely no conviction.
"Mm. You love me." He was still hard against your thigh through the blue denim, his own breath uneven despite all his composure. He pushed himself up off you and rose to stand beside the bed, looking down at the wreck of you; sweatshirt rucked up under your arms, skin flushed and gleaming, completely bare from the waist down, while he stood over you still dressed, disheveled, curls wild, eyeliner smudged. The contrast made you squirm.
"All day," he murmured, his fingers going to buttons of his white shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion to bare the lean plane of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel and the little patches of white skin at his hip bones.
"I been thinkin' about you all day. Arguin' with Tito over one stupid line and the whole time I'm picturin' gettin' home to you." The belt came next, the metallic clink of it coming loose, then the button of his jeans. "And I walk in and find you already started without me."
"You left me like that—"
"I know I did." He shoved his jeans and briefs down and stepped out of them, unhurried, without a trace of self-consciousness, fully bare now and achingly hard while you were still half-tangled in your sweatshirt. He was magnificent, all long lines and elegant tension, the tip of him flushed dark pink.
"Lucky for you I'm home now. No more waitin'."
He leaned over the bed, his hands sliding under your hips, and dragged you bodily to the edge of the mattress until your ass was just off the side. He stepped between your splayed thighs, his hands rough and warm on the insides of your knees, pushing them wider.
"No more toys," he muttered, his eyes locked on where you were open and wet for him.
He grabbed his dick firmly and guided himself to your entrance and pushed in, slowly, so slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as your heat enveloped him. It was a deep, stretching, filling sensation that had you arching off the bed, a low moan dragged from your chest.
"That's what you needed," he breathed, sinking to the hilt and holding there, his head dropping forward.
He began to move then, with a rhythm all his own, not too eager, but devastatingly deliberate. Long, deep, rolling thrusts that struck something deep inside you on every stroke. His hands were on your hips, controlling the pace, holding you open for him. Deep, thundering thrusts.
"You feel that?" he grunted, his breath hot. "That's real. That's me."
You could only nod, your fingers scrambling against his sweat-slick back, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him deeper. He was everywhere, his scent, his weight, the sound of his skin against yours, the ragged puff of his breath.
But Michael's curiosity was a retched thing at times. It never switched off.
Halfway through a deep, grinding stroke, he stopped. His eyes, squeezed shut in concentration a second ago, snapped open; dark, hazy with pleasure, but a familiar glittering curiosity cutting clean through the fog.
His gaze darted sideways, landing on the pink vibrator where it still lay on the nightstand.
A slow, almost reluctant grin touched his swollen lips.
"Hold on," he rasped.
He pulled out of you abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before you could protest, he'd reached over and snatched the toy up. He stared at it in his hand, then at you, then at his own painfully hard cock, glistening with your wetness.
"I gotta know," he said, as if apologizing to himself. "Just… once. To see what all the fuss is about."
He thumbed the button.
Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.
He didn't hesitate. He pressed the buzzing head directly against the sensitive spot just under the swollen head of his cock.
The reaction was immediate and violent.
His whole body jerked as if electrocuted. A shocked, strangled sound—half-gasp, half-yelp—ripped from his throat. His knees buckled, and he had to throw a hand out to catch himself on the nightstand, knocking the lamp sideways. His head dropped forward, a shudder wracking his spine.
"Oh—Jesus—" he choked out.
He tried to drag it down the shaft, but his hand was trembling violently. The vibration was clearly too intense, too direct, overwhelming a body already wound past its limit from being inside you.
His hips began to stutter in tiny, frantic circles, completely involuntary. His breath came in ragged, punched-out pants.
"Too—GOD—it's too much—" he gasped, but he didn't let go. His curiosity was warring with sensory overload, and curiosity was losing.
His movements became jerky, uncoordinated. you witnessed a fine tremor run through his thighs. He was biting his lip so hard you thought he might draw blood, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of agonized, over-the-edge pleasure. You'd seen him feel good so many times before, but this was borderline painfully pleasurable.
He was hovering on the brink, his body taut as a bowstring, controlled solely by the relentless, alien buzz of the vibrator. You could see the exact moment his control shattered.
His hand spasmed around the toy, holding it tight against him as his hips gave three sharp, abortive thrusts into the empty air above you.
"uhmhh—" The warning was a breathless, desperate unintelligible plea, but it was too late, he couldn't come back from it.
With a gut-deep groan that sounded pained, his body convulsed. \
He spilled in thick, hot pulses across your stomach and the rucked-up fabric of your sweatshirt, completely undone by it. His eyes had opened at that point, watching the ordeal happen in front of him, watching you and the shock at his premature release..
The vibrator fell from his limp hand, vibrating pointlessly against the carpet as he collapsed forward, catching himself on his forearms beside resting arms, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks.
He was panting, wrecked, his forehead pressed to the duvet beside you. A long moment of stunned silence hung in the room, broken only by the record scratching and the distant hum of the fallen toy.
You looked down at the mess cooling on your skin, then back at his bowed head. A slow, triumphant smile spread across your face.
"You," you said, your voice dripping with smug satisfaction, "are dead meat for that, Jackson."
He groaned, the sound muffled by the bedding. He didn't lift his head. "Shut up," he mumbled, utterly defeated. "It was a.... curious... inquiry."
"You inquired yourself right into an accidental finish," you teased, poking his heaving shoulder.
He finally lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes dazed and more than a little embarrassed, but a reluctant grin was tugging at his mouth. He glanced at the mess on you, then back at your face, his grin turning wicked. "Yeah, well." He glanced down again. "Looks like my curiosity made a mess of you, too."
He leaned in, his intent clear, and you laughed, kissing him lovingly on the mouth.
OMG PLEASE WRITE ABOUT THRILLER ERA MICHEAL COMING BACK FROM THE GRAMMYS WHERE HE WON LIKE 8 OR 9 AND HIM JUST GOING CRAZY ON YOU FUCKK and HIS KISS MARK LIKE YES
۫ ׅ ℘ need you michael jackson ◞
⊱ thriller!mike • fem!reader ◞ 18+. ⋮ requested 𓍼
tgs ◞ very needy michael, switch michael, worshipping, ‘84 grammys, whimpering, smut, possessiveness, slightly rough sex, established relationship, use of ‘mama’, use of ‘Y/N’ once
The limousine purred through the chaotic, flashbulb-lit streets of Los Angeles, the muffled roar of thousands of screaming fans acting as a constant baseline outside the tinted windows. Inside, however, the world was shrunk down to just the two of you, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of the interior lights.
It was February 28, 1984. Tonight was the 26th Annual Grammy Awards, and the man sitting next to you wasn't just attending; he was about to rewrite history.
Michael shifted on the leather seat, his fingers nervously drumming against his thigh. He was wearing the iconic military jacket—the brilliant blue one adorned with heavy gold braiding, a sparkling sequined sash, and, of course, the single white glove. He looked regal, larger than life, like a king preparing for his coronation. But when his dark eyes flicked over to look at you, all that carefully crafted pop-star mystique completely evaporated. He just looked completely and utterly breathless.
"Oh my god," Michael whispered for what felt like the twentieth time since you’d left the hotel. His voice was soft, rich, and trembling slightly with an intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "Angel… I just… I can’t take my eyes off you. I really can’t."
You couldn't help the brilliant smile that spread across your face, your rich, brown skin glowing warmly under the car's interior lights. For tonight, you had pulled out all the stops. You were wearing a custom-made, floor-length silk gown in a light, stunning white cream that provided a breathtaking contrast to your complexion. The dress hugged every single curve of your body before pooling elegantly around your heels. Your hair was styled to perfection, framing your face beautifully, and your makeup highlighted your features flawlessly. You looked like a literal goddess, and Michael was reacting like a man who had just witnessed a miracle.
"Michael, you've said that five times already," you teased gently, reaching over to place your hand over his gloved one. "You’re going to make me blush, and I don't want to ruin my makeup before we even step onto the carpet."
"I don't care," he insisted, his grip tightening around your hand. He leaned in closer, the faint, intoxicating scent of his cologne—a mix of expensive musk and sweet vanilla—wrapping around you. "I mean it, Y/N. You look so beautiful it’s actually hurting my chest a little bit. Look at you. Just look at how gorgeous you are."
His free hand reached up, his bare fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a reverence that made your heart skip a beat. His eyes were wide, dark, and dilated, drinking in every single detail of your face, your shoulders, the slope of your neck. There was a raw, heavy hunger buried deep in his gaze, a sharp contrast to his usual gentle demeanor.
"You're going to be the most beautiful woman in that entire building tonight," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, gravelly rasp that made your stomach flip. "Everyone is going to be looking at me, but all I'm gonna be doing is looking at you. I'm so proud to have you on my arm. So proud."
"Thank you, angelface," you whispered, using his nickname, a private intimacy saved only for moments like this. "You look incredible too. Tonight is your night."
"Our night," he corrected fiercely, leaning across the small space to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, being careful not to smudge your lipstick but still managed to communicate the sheer weight of his devotion. "Our night, beautiful."
The limousine finally crawled to a halt in front of the Shrine Auditorium. The noise outside swelled into a deafening crescendo. Flashbulbs began firing rapidly against the tinted glass, creating a strobe-light effect inside the vehicle. Michael took a deep breath, the public persona clicking smoothly into place, but as he looked at you one last time before the door opened, his eyes flashed with a promise that made your blood run hot.
The rest of the night passed in a dizzying, historic blur.
From the moment Michael stepped out of the car and reached back to pull you out with him, the world went completely mad. The cameras went into overdrive, the flashes so bright they left spots in your vision. But true to his word, Michael kept you glued to his side. His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his large hand pressing firmly into the small of your back, guiding you through the sea of reporters and photographers. Every few paces, he would lean down, his curls brushing against your cheek, just to whisper, "You look so beautiful, mama," or "They're all staring at you, I swear it."
Inside the auditorium, the energy was electric. It was gonna be a memorable night, and everyone knew it.
One by one, Michael’s name was called. Producer of the Year. Album of the Year. Record of the Year. Best Pop Vocal Performance. Over and over again, he stood up, the crowd erupting into thunderous applause, standing ovations that shook the very foundation of the building. And every single time he stood up, he kissed your cheek first. Every time he walked up those steps to accept another golden gramophone, he looked back at you sitting in the front row.
By the time he walked up to the podium for his final acceptance speech of the night, having tied and shattered records by winning a staggering eight Grammy Awards, the atmosphere was euphoric.
Michael stood at the microphone, adjusting his sunglasses, the crowd finally settling down into an expectant hush. He thanked the academy, he thanked his family, he thanked the Records, and he thanked his fans. His voice was humble, sweet, and filled with genuine awe. But then, he paused. He took off his sunglasses, his dark eyes sweeping over the crowd until they locked onto you.
A soft, incredibly tender smile broke across his face.
"And... I want to thank someone very, very special to me," Michael said into the microphone, his voice echoing beautifully through the massive auditorium. "Someone who has been my rock, my inspiration, and the joy in my life. Y/N..."
The cameras immediately panned to you, your face filling the giant screens in the arena. You offered a shy smile, your heart pounding against your ribs as the crowd cheered.
"Thank you for believing in me when things got hard," Michael continued, his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring the thousands of people watching. "Thank you for your love, your patience, and for just being the beautiful, incredible woman that you are. I wouldn't be standing up here tonight without you. This is for you, too. I love you."
The crowd erupted into an absolute frenzy. Your eyes welled with tears of pure pride and love as you watched him hold up the trophy, his gaze never leaving yours. He wasn't just the biggest star in the world in that moment; he was a man completely, utterly consumed by his love for you.
The moment the televised broadcast ended, the backstage area became a madhouse of executives, celebrities, and security guards trying to steer Michael toward the official after-parties. Everyone wanted a piece of him. Everyone wanted to celebrate the historic night.
But Michael wasn't having any of it.
The second he was clear of the main stage, his hand clamped tightly around yours, his fingers intertwining with yours so fiercely it almost hurt. He was moving fast, his long legs eating up the pavement as his security detail cleared a path through the backstage corridors.
"Michael! Michael, wait!" Frank Dileo, his manager, came jogging up alongside him, puffing on a cigar. "We gotta go to the CBS party, Mike! Clive Davis is expecting you, the press is waiting, we gotta—"
"No, Frank," Michael cut him off, not even breaking his stride. His voice lacked its usual soft, compliant edge. It was firm, absolute, and completely non-negotiable. "Tell them I'm tired. Tell them I'm not feeling well. I'm going back to the hotel."
"But Mike, you just won eight Grammys! This is the biggest night of your life!"
Michael stopped abruptly, turning to look at his manager. He didn't look tired at all. In fact, his eyes were burning with a desperate, frantic energy, a wild hum vibrating through his entire posture. He looked down at you, his eyes raking over your emerald green dress, your exposed collarbones, the rich warmth of your skin, and a visible shudder went through his frame.
"I'm going home, Frank. Secure the car. Now."
Frank looked at Michael, then looked at you, seeing the absolute fire burning in Michael's eyes and the flush on your cheeks. Realization dawned on the manager's face. He sighed, throwing his hands up. "Alright, alright. Security, get the limo around back. Now!"
Within minutes, you were pushed through a back exit and shielded into the waiting limousine. The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise of the world once again.
The car hadn't even pulled away from the curb before Michael was moving.
He didn't wait. He didn't say a word. He practically threw himself across the seat, his large hands coming up to frame your face as he crashed his lips against yours.
This wasn't the gentle, sweet kiss from earlier. This was desperate. This was needy. This was a man who had been starving all night while surrounded by a feast. Michael groaned deep in his throat, his tongue immediately sliding past your teeth to claim your mouth in a deep, wet, possessive kiss. His hands tangled in your hair, completely disregarding the perfect styling, pulling you closer until your chest was crushed against the hard, heavily embroidered front of his bedazzled jacket.
"Michael," you gasped out against his mouth, your hands coming up to grip his broad shoulders as the limousine accelerated. "Michael, wait—the driver—"
"The partition is up," he panted, his lips moving down your jawline, biting softly at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making you arch your neck with a soft sigh. "It's up, mama. God, you don't know what you did to me tonight. You don't have any idea."
His hands left your face, sliding down the silk of your dress, his touch frantic and heavy as he gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly and pulling you right onto his lap. You straddled his thighs, your cream gown riding up over your knees. Michael’s breathing was ragged, his chest heaving against yours. The heavy gold trophies were sitting in a bag at the floor of the car, completely forgotten. The only thing that mattered to him was the feel of your body against his.
"You looked so beautiful," he whimpered, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes dark, wild, and dilated to the point where the iris was almost entirely gone. He looked completely unraveled, his usual composure entirely stripped away. "Seeing you sitting there... watching me... knowing you're mine. All those people staring at you, wanting you. I thought I was gonna lose my mind, baby. I swear I was."
"Michael, I'm right here," you whispered, running your fingers through his damp curls, feeling the frantic heat radiating off his skin. "I'm yours. Only yours."
A broken, needy sound left his throat, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Show me. Please, just let me get you back to the room. I need you so bad. I'm shaking, mama. Look at me, I'm shaking."
He held up his hand—the gloved one—and it was indeed trembling with a raw, kinetic energy. The sheer adrenaline of winning eight Grammys, combined with the agonizing, hours-long torture of wanting to touch you, had pushed him completely over the edge. He was a desperate man, and you were his only salvation.
The trip up to the hotel penthouse was a blur of shadows and hurried footsteps. Michael kept his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his head down, his fingers digging into your hip through the silk of your dress as if he feared you might vanish if he let go.
The moment the heavy wooden door of the penthouse suite clicked shut behind you, the silence of the room was immediately shattered.
Michael didn't even turn on the lights. The only illumination came from the moonlight pouring through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, dramatic shadows across the luxurious room and highlighting the city skyline outside.
He grabbed you by the waist and pressed you back against the closed door, the heavy wood cold against your back, but your front was burning hot against him. He tore off his sunglasses, throwing them carelessly onto the floor, followed immediately by his single white glove.
"Michael—"
Your words were swallowed by his mouth. He kissed you with a ferocious, unbridled passion that left you completely breathless, his tongue plundering your mouth over and over again. He was needy, Whimpering into the kiss, his hands moving frantically over your body, tracing the curves he had been staring at all night.
"I need to see you," he panted, breaking the kiss for a fraction of a second, his eyes wild in the dim light. "I need to see this beautiful, gorgeous body out of this dress. Please, baby. Let me see you."
His hands found the zipper at the back of your cream gown. With a swift, practiced motion, he pulled it down. The silk hissed as it parted, loosening around your frame. Michael didn't waste a second. He pushed the straps off your shoulders, the heavy fabric sliding down your body, pooling at your feet in a dark wave on the carpet.
Michael stepped back just an inch, his breath catching audibly in his throat as he looked at you. You stood before him in just your underwear, your rich brown skin glowing like polished bronze in the soft moonlight. The contrast against the dark room was breathtaking, and Michael looked like he was staring at a masterpiece in a museum.
"Oh, God," he breathed, a hand coming up to cover his mouth, his chest heaving. "Look at you. You are so... you're a goddess, mama. You're so beautiful it makes me want to cry. Look at what you do to me."
He didn't wait for a response. He reached for his own clothes, his movements frantic, almost clumsy in his desperation. The iconic blue bedazzled jacket was unbuttoned and tossed carelessly onto the floor, the gold braid clinking softly against the carpet. His shirt followed, thrown aside until he stood before you bare-chested, his lean, toned muscles rippling in the moonlight, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin from the sheer adrenaline of the night.
He stepped back into your space, his bare chest pressing against yours, the heat of his skin instantly transferring to you. He swept you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all, and carried you over to the massive king-sized bed.
He came down over you immediately, pinning you into the soft mattress with his weight. He didn't give you a moment to breathe. His hands found your wrists, pinning them gently but firmly beside your head, his long fingers locking with yours.
"I need you so much right now, baby," he whispered, his voice cracking with emotion, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "I've been wanting this all night. Every time they called my name, every time I stood up there... all I could think about was this. Was you. How gorgeous you looked. How much I love you. Please... let me show you."
"Michael, yes... please," you groaned, arching your hips up against his, desperate for the contact, completely consumed by his heat and his need.
He moved with an urgent, frantic energy. In a matter of seconds, the remaining barriers of clothing were gone. Michael hovered between your thighs, his body trembling, his skin hot and slick against yours. He looked down at you, his eyes drinking in the sight of your beautiful, dark skin against the white sheets, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"You're so beautiful, mama. So beautiful," he chanted like a prayer, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
He didn't ease into it. Driven by hours of pent-up desire, the adrenaline of a historic night, and a deep, possessive need to completely consume you, Michael drove himself deep into you with one firm, heavy thrust.
A loud, breathless gasp tore from your throat, your back arching off the mattress as he filled you completely. It was intense, overwhelming, and utterly perfect.
Michael let out a low, guttural groan, burying his face in your neck as he began to move. He didn't hold back. He began to pound into you with a fierce, relentless rhythm, his heavy, powerful thrusts rocking your entire body against the mattress.
"Ah, god, my angel... you're so tight, so warm," he gasped out, his voice completely unraveled, stripped of any pop-star perfection. He was just a man, desperate and needy, completely losing himself inside the woman he loved.
His pace was fast, hard, and unyielding. Every time he drove his hips against yours, a soft, pathetic whimper would escape his lips, showing just how much your body was affecting him. He gripped your hips with his large hands, his fingers digging into your plush skin, anchoring you to him as he set a punishing, intoxicating pace.
The room was filled with the heavy sounds of his ragged breathing, the wet, rhythmic friction of your bodies meeting, and the soft, breathless cries slipping from your lips.
"Michael... oh my god, Michael," you cried out, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper into you.
"Tell me you're mine," he begged, his thrusts growing even harder, faster, driving into you with a desperate intensity that brought you right to the edge of a cliff. He leaned down, his sweat-damp curls brushing against your face, his lips frantically kissing your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth. "Tell me, baby. I need to hear it. I need you so bad."
"I'm yours, Michael! I'm yours!" you cried out, your voice breaking as the pleasure began to crest over you.
Hearing those words completely broke whatever restraint he had left. Michael groaned, a raw, dominant sound, and increased his pace even further, his body moving in a blurred, powerful rhythm. He pounded into you, showing you with every single heavy stroke just how much he worshiped you, how much your beauty had driven him insane all evening, how much he needed to claim every single part of you.
The friction was unbelievable. You arched your back, your eyes rolling back as a wave of intense, shattering climax ripped through your body. You clamped tightly around him, your voice crying out his name into the quiet penthouse.
The tight, crushing sensation of your release immediately pushed Michael over the edge. He let out a loud, ragged cry, his body going rigid as he delivered one final, incredibly deep, heavy thrust. He buried himself as deep as he could possibly go inside you, his muscles locking up as he poured himself into you, his chest heaving violently against yours.
For a long, breathless moment, the world stopped moving. There were no Grammys, no fans, no records broken. There was just the two of you, tangled in the sheets, breathing heavily in the moonlight.
Slowly, the tension left Michael's body. He collapsed against you, burying his face in your hair, his breath still coming in ragged, shaky gasps. He didn't pull away; instead, he wrapped his long arms tightly around you, pulling you impossibly closer to his chest, as if he still couldn't get enough of you.
"Oh, god," Michael whispered into your hair, his voice incredibly soft, returning to that sweet, vulnerable tone you knew so well. He was still trembling slightly. "My baby... thank you. Thank you so much."
You smiled softly in the dark, your hands gently rubbing his back, feeling the slow, steady heartbeat beneath his skin. "For what, Michael?"
He shifted slightly, lifting his head so he could look down at you. In the moonlight, his eyes were soft, wet with emotion, and filled with a love so profound it took your breath away. He reached up, his bare hand gently caressing your cheek, brushing away a stray curl.
"For being my real prize tonight," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "Those trophies... they don't mean anything compared to this. Compared to you. You're the most beautiful thing in my world, baby. Never forget that. I love you so much."
You pulled his head down, kissing him sweetly, completely secure in the knowledge that no matter how big the world got out there, right here, in the dark, you were his entire universe.
michael gets a therapist though not for the right reasons
tags. smut MDNI, fingering, porn w/o plot, uhm michael bein a munch, he’s a lil mean too (just bitter), softdom!mike(kinda), post divorce (dick) yayy, HIStory!era, blackfem!reader
note. one thing imma do is write for HIStory era if no one else will. this came to me in a dream and a reblog. i really just wanted fuck him after the divorce and yet that’s not what this is lmao
wc. 1.3k
You weren’t exactly sure how you had found yourself in this position.
Again.
Body slotted under Michael’s on his big plush couch that you knew had to cost an obscene amount of money. His big hands gripping at your hips and lips pressed to yours, devouring your moans.
You were going to lose your job. You were sure of it.
“Michael,” you parted your lips from his, or tried to, head tilting back to the arm of the couch. But he just chased after you with his lips, begging for that connection.
“Michael, we need to talk about-” your voice trailed off as his lips connected to your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses, tongue gently tracing over the sensitive skin. You couldn’t form a thought let alone a word. He just felt too good against you, rubbing up against all the right spots with his big hands. Gripping your breast over your shirt, big palms engulfing your hips and pulling you closer.
“I don’t wanna talk.” he snaked his hand underneath your smart button up top. You’d attempted to look professional for today's session. But that was all thrown out of the window now as his hands worked at the buttons with deft precision, slipping the fabric off your shoulders.
He reached a hand behind your back and unclipped your bra next, without even lifting his head from your neck.
“The whole point of- shit,” you're cut off by his hands gripping your thighs, fingers splayed wide and gripping the flesh, wrapping them around his waist, slotting himself between your legs.
The motion had your skirt riding up and you could feel his dick, hard through his pants, rubbing right over your dripping sex. Grinding slow, body rolling like you’d seen him do many times, and hard like he just couldn’t get enough. Like he was trying to burry himself in you.
It took you a moment to remember your earlier thought, “The whole point of this is to talk,” you attempted to keep your voice even but the slow torturous grind of his hips had you throbbing. The friction just too much. The warm heat of his body over yours.
He was giving increased attention to your neck and god he was such a good fucking kisser. It honestly wasn’t fair. You should have never let him kiss you.
“Your marriage, your ex-wife, that’s why I’m here.” he didn’t seem to like that based on the huff of breath that left his nose.
“If that’s what you choose to believe.” you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
And you didn't get a chance to ask when he suddenly pulled up from you. It registered then when you gazed up at him, curls falling loosely around his shoulders and face, that he was fully clothed and that you were the only one naked, the cool air of his home causing goosebumps all over your exposed skin.
“Okay, you wanna talk? Let’s talk then.” he clicked his tongue, hands gripped your thighs, dragging you further down till you were flat on your back, then he smoothed his hands up your hips and gripped the hem of your panties pulling them down.
Your eyes widened, a breath getting caught in your throat. But you didn’t stop him as he exposed your pussy to his hungry eyes.
And you were embarrassingly wet. No amount of soft ambient lighting was gonna hide that.
“You’re sure that's what you wanna do? Talk?” he pointedly stared down in between your legs, a pool of slick gathering and dripping from you.
You nodded again, a lump in your throat at the attention.
In reality you weren’t so sure anymore. He just sighed and tucked your panties into his back pocket.
“Okay you start then.” and with that he shifted down till his face was between your legs, throwing them over his shoulders, and licking a long stripe over your cunt.
“How am I supposed to- ohmygosh fuck!” your voice broke on a moan, something pitchy and desperate, your breathing picking up. You registered his hand patting your thigh, not enough to hurt, just to get your attention.
“Watch your mouth. N’ go ahead, floors yours.” and he dipped his head back down, lips moving to suck your clit that he found faster than any man you’d ever been with. The pressure had your legs trembling a bit and he’d barely done anything.
You wracked your brain, attempting to form a coherent thought that wasn’t his tongue working between your legs, lewd noises of him slurping and dipping his tongue between your folds gathering your wetness on his tongue that was rolling agonizingly over your clit.
Fuck this man could eat. Of course he could.
He’d just started and you could feel your stomach starting to quiver with the need to cum and completely soak his face. He hit a particularly good spot and you close your thighs around his ears, hips lifting to grind into the pleasure of his mouth.
“Hm- jus like that mama.” he hummed, the vibrations of his voice pulling you closer to the edge. You were humping his mouth now and he seemed to be enjoying it, pulling your hips closer and bringing a finger up to slip inside you.
You were crying out, his name, anything really.
“Didn’t you wanna talk about somethin’?” you think you heard him say.
“Hmm?” too fucked out to notice. He almost laughed.
“I said,” his lips smacked as he detached himself from your slit, to your disappointment.
Fuck why’d he stop. You weren’t above begging.
“Didn’t you wanna talk?”
He picked his head up and you looked down at him tilting your head. And that was a big mistake because seeing Michael Jackson between your legs, eyes blown a bit wider than normal gazing into you, the lower half of his mouth dripping.
It was an unfair sight.
So much so that it took you a moment to realize that his fingers had stopped inside you.
“Why’d you stop?” you were full on pouting now, completely pathetic but you needed more, you were so close.
He just smirked at you pulling his fingers out of your fluttering pussy, your walls gripping him tight trying to drag him back in. You knew he noticed as his eyes were trained on his fingers.
Thankfully, he didn’t comment on it.
“I thought you wanted to ask me questions.” he feigned innocence like he hadn’t been the one to orchestrate this distraction.
“Cant it wait till after? Please, I wanna cum.” you were whining and you knew it. But you didn’t care.
“Nu uh, you wanted t’a ask your questions, now's your chance.” he looked so pleased with himself and you just sighed, head tilted back. He got you so pent up just to pull this shit. He could be so cruel. Or just annoying.
“Fine, what feelings are most common for you these days and where do they manifest in your body?” he took a moment to think before answering.
“Well recently, I’ve been feeling very impassioned… or aroused,” he paused before looking directly into your eyes “and that manifests exactly where you think it would.” you swallowed.
You distantly registered the way he’d been grinding his hips into the couch as he ate you out, seeking stimulation you would happily provide. If he ever let you.
This wasn’t going in the healing direction you’d initially imagined but you pressed on, hyper aware of his still fingers inside you.
You’d give anything for him to keep going. You hoped he’d fuck you soon.
“Alright, how are you coping with these sudden emotions and are they healthy forms of coping?” he took that moment to take his thumb into his mouth, sucking gently, before bringing the digit down to rub circles on your clit, picking the stimulation back up.
“I’d say they were pretty healthy.” fortunately for you, he was done talking now bringing his mouth back down to continue working you back up.
Through that whole “conversation”, if you could even call it that, you’d just gotten wetter and wetter, slick dripping down onto his couch. He didn’t seem to mind the mess. If anything, he just made it worse.
His grip on your thighs tightened as he pushed them higher as he lapped at you, his fingers hitting that spot inside that caused your back to arch, and it was driving you crazy.
“Hmm Mike- m’gonna cum please don’t stop.” your words came out in a breathy whine as he pulled out sounds you’d never heard yourself make.
You weren’t sure you could come back after this. Not for a therapy session anyway.
“Please cum for me, wanna taste you, need t’a feel it baby.” and here he was begging you to come on his tongue.
Though you thought it was more for your benefit than his.
He was relentless as he worked you up not giving you a moment to breathe, constant pleasure and stimulation coiling tight in your gut till the built up pressure snapped and you came on his tongue.
And he eagerly lapped your folds clean, tongue licking a wide stripe up your pussy.
Once he was done he brought his fingers to his mouth like he hadn’t had enough after eating you out straight from the source.
one-shot. smut. inexperienced!pre-otw!mike x experienced!fem!reader. sub!mike. softdom!reader. praise. loss of virginity. blk!reader in mind. not proof-read .✦ ݁˖ mikey’s tired of being a virgin. masterlist
embarrassed was a poor choice of words.
michael was ashamed.
his brothers have wives, girlfriends, hookups, and michael didn’t even get his first kiss yet. he thought he was pathetic, really. and as much as michael is a shy guy, he’s also desperate for advice. so who else would he go to than to his childhood best friend?
you were quite literally perfection is michael’s eyes. beautiful hair that you always styled differently yet so entirely you, radiating smile, tons of attention from boys, and an insane clothing style to the point michael might or might’ve not tried to have his stylists make him matching outfits.
and god, how could he forget those thighs? plump, soft and squishy. he couldn’t help the way his eyes darted to them everytime you guys went swimming together and you wore that tiny hot pink bikini he loved.
you were probably the most gorgeous girl he’s ever laid eyes on. which is why you’re the first person he asks for advice, of course.
“i don’t get it, you’re telling me you never even kissed a girl?” you asked gently, tilting your head as you looked up into his big brown eyes, a small chuckle leaving your lips.
“no! like, i know m’not the best looking, but—“ he muttered, before you stopped him by placing a finger to his lips.
“don’t say that.” you whispered, the tension in the air suddenly getting thicker. “m’not boutta sit here and listen to you insult the prettiest face ever.” you added, a gentle smile appearing on your face as your hands cupped his cheeks.
michael giggled and blush, his cheeks getting all rosy as he looked away. “you don’t mean that.” he replied, his voice soft and silky as he looked back at you, still smiling all flustered.
“oh, but i do, angelface. you just have to be the handsomest boy i’ve ever met.” you added, smiling wider and wider as the seconds passed.
you adored michael, truly. some might even say you were in love with him, truthfully. tho, never have you made a move — you always assumed michael wasn’t into relationships, or all the messes that came with it. you thought he was too gentle, too nice, too sweet to be with you — a maneater. you’ve always told yourself that you’re not the kind of girl michael is into, that he probably loves softer, gentler girls that match his personality style, and you couldn’t have been more wrong.
michael loved dominant women. those who knew their worth, who don’t take bullshit, who aren’t scared to put people in their places. the kind of woman that makes his knees weak, and his mind blank. aka you.
“i can’t believe a girl like you would want to hang around someone like me.” he whispered, his doe eyes staring down into yours.
“what are you sayin’, mike?” you mumbled, your voice softer as you kept your hands on his cheeks.
“i-i just..” he muttered before sighing, his eyes fluttering closed for a second, his long lashes hitting his cheeks. “i feel like such a loser. i-i’ve never.. y’know, done anything with a girl — let alone kiss her. am i that ugly?” he added, his eyes fluttering back open, yet still looking down at his thighs like he was ashamed.
“michael, look at me.” you whispered, your voice a bit more firm now, mike’s head lifting up and staring into your eyes with his big sad ones. “m’gonna show you how pretty you are.” you breathed out, which made shivers go down michael’s spine. “tell me if you want to stop, pretty boy.”
“wha— what?” he mumbled, stumbling over his words as you smiled, looking up at him while his cheeks were bright pink, his eyes scanning all over your face.
your lips slowly went over his, a soft gasp escaping michael’s throat into your mouth. his hands hovered over you, his brain already mush just from the feel and taste of your strawberry lipgloss on his lips. “w-wait—!” he suddenly gasped out, his hands going to your shoulders as you leaned back. “w-what are you— um, what are you d-doin’..?” michael asked gently, his breathing already quicker and heavier as he looked down at you, confused.
“m’givin’ you love.” you replied, voice still gentle — compared to your public persona. “s’okay if you don’t want to, michael.” you added, wanting to make him feel at ease as possible.
“y-you.. you don’t have to do this because you’re pitying me.” He mumbled, looking away as he fidgeted with his fingers.
michael’s words made you stare at him in silence, before a soft sigh left your nostrils, your eyes closing before your hands went back to his cheeks. “michael, m’not doin’ this cause i pity you.” you replied, smiling exasperatedly. “i wish you knew for how long i’ve wanted this. wish you could understand how my heart races when you’re around.” you added, which made michael’s breath hitch, his hands already gripping the sheets while his heart raced.
“you don’t have to reply.” you replied, michael staring into your eyes like he couldn’t peel his gaze away. “d’you want me to kiss you again?” you whispered, your breath ghosting over his lips. michael eagerly nodded his head, which made you smile. “words, baby.” the petname made michael’s body go warm, biting his lower lip in nervousness.
“y-yes, please. p-please kiss me.” he fumbled over his words, which made you smile and kiss him again.
you guided him through it. he was kissing you messily, trying his best to imitate your lips moving against his, his hands shakily resting against your waist, remembering all the stuff his brothers told him before. you could feel his trembling hands wander over you clumsily, not really knowing what he’s doing.
your hands gripped his wrists gently, your lips parting from him which made michael leave out a sad little noise. “michael, you don’t have to act like you know everything.” you whispered, your lips going to his jawline, which made him gasp and immediately throw his head back. “jus’ lemme take care of you.” you added, your hands running over his clothed chest as you lips kept moving down his skin onto his throat — sucking gentle hickeys.
michael fought with his own body, biting back on his lower lip until you gently nibbled down on his warm skin. “i wanna hear all the pretty noises you make, please.” you mumbled breathily against his skin, before going back to pressing kisses and gentle sucks on his throat.
it was like your words set something off in michael, a small whine leaving his lips, sending tingles all over your body. you loved seeing him unravel like him.
your lips traced slowly lower, lips moving across his throat and onto his shoulders, his breathing quickening as his hands trembled. “are you okay?” you whispered against his skin, your hands slowly pulling the hem of shirt he was wearing higher.
“m-m’fine, m-m’just— m’just nervous.” he admitted embarrassingly, looking away with a red face that made you giggle at his shyness.
“that’s okay. that’s normal.” your whispered, pulling the shirt higher until you took it off his shoulders, throwing it away behind you. “but i promise, m’gonna make you feel so good.” you added, pressing a soft kiss on his bare torso, michael’s eyes fluttering closed as he let out a shaky sigh.
your lips traced lower and lower, until your small fingers gripped michael’s belt, making him gasp and grip your wrists.
“w-wait—! i-i can’t let you—!” he mumbled hurriedly, his breathing heavy and loud now.
you looked up into michael’s eyes, yours full of need for the man you’ve craved for so long. “why not? i want to. do you want me to?” you asked gently, the eye contact making michael melt and bite his lower lip.
“b-but.. it’s so dirty.. i-i can’t let you do that..” he mumbled shyly, one of his hands going over his lips, which made you smile.
“s’okay, i wanna be dirty for you.” you whispered, your hands slowly undoing his belt, michael’s breath trembling as he gripped his own thighs.
you unzipped his jeans, tugging them slightly down to see the huge tent in michael’s boxers while he stared down at you. you pressed a soft kiss against his clothed hard-on, keeping eye contact as you looked up into his eyes through your lashes.
michael gasped loudly, his hips twitching up against you, his cheeks bright red. “m-m’sorry—!” He mumbled, before a shaky sigh left his lips as you kept pressing long open mouthed kisses against the thin cotton of his underwear.
“don’t apologize baby, just means m’doing my job right.” you breathed out, your fingers delicately pulling down on the strap of his boxers, making his hard cock slap against your face, making you smile.
michael gasped at the sight beneath him, his mind already dizzy. “o-oh god, oh god..” he panted, hands trembling against his thighs.
you kissed his pretty and flushed tip, making his dick twitch and a choked whimper leave his lips, his eyes fluttering. “breathe, baby.” you whispered, offering kitten licks all over the fat head of his cock, mewls leaving his lips.
as much as michael tried to breathe, he couldn’t slow down his heart. your lips slowly wrapped around his tip, making him gasp and buck his hips up against your face instinctively. the deeper you took him in your throat, the louder his noises were. your throat was so warm, wet and perfect — and you wanted to have him in. you wanted him.
it didn’t take long until you were bobbing your head up and down, loud slurping sounds as you hollowed your cheeks in, tongue swirling around his hard cock nestled deep into your throat. he was huge, and you kept gagging and drooling over him. the sight was so dirty, and michael couldn’t stop the loud moans leaving his plump lips.
“a-agh, g-god—! baby, babybabybaby—“ he cried out, his long slim fingers sliding into your curls, not pushing your head down but just needing to hold you.
you felt him twitch in your mouth, and his whimpers slowly got a higher pitch. you quickly pulled your mouth off him, a loud “pop!” sound filling your ears as you looked up at him, dick pressed against your cheeks with spit all over your chin, smiling with hazy eyelids.
“y-you look so d-dirty..” michael whispered, his cock twitching again — his body in contrast with his words which made you giggle.
“have you ever touched a woman, michael?” you asked gently, sitting back up, your hands slowly peeling the straps of you tank top off your shoulders with a smile.
michael’s breath hitched, his eyes going to your bare shoulders with a huge blush, heart racing. “n-no.” he rasped out, voice shaky as you threw your shirt god knows where, leaving you in a lacy hot pink and black bra.
“do you want to?” you whispered, getting closer, michael’s hands hovering around your bare waist, his lips parted open as he panted.
“p-please.” he whined, his eyes meeting yours, full of need which made you giggle.
your hands went over his, guiding them to your waist, before your lips went back to his, moving slowly as michael’s hands gripped your waist out of instinct.
“you feel so good against me.” you whispered against his lips, slowly crawling over his lap, making michael gasp into your mouth. your clothed pussy was right against his bare cock, still rock hard and needy from the orgasm denial you forced upon him earlier. “d’you wanna see me fully?”
michael nodded quickly and eagerly, his hands still on your waist. “y-yes, yes..” he breathed out, voice trembling while his eyes stayed on your tits sitting so prettily due to your bra.
you smiled gently, your hips slightly raising as you slid your shorts and panties down in one go, your pussy glistening from arousal just by sucking michael’s cock.
you settled back down on michael’s lap, his hard cock sliding between your wet folds, both of you letting out a shaky sigh.
“o-oh g-god, you’re s-so wet..” whimpered michael, his head throwing back as you slowly grind down against him, your wetness coating his length, gentle sighs leaving your lips.
your eyes scanned over him, realizing his size. sure, you weren’t unexperienced, it’s not like you’ve never seen a dick before — but god, michael was big. not super thick — but he was long. you bit your lip at the mix of the image of mike’s cock glistening with your wetness and your clit grinding against said length.
“i-i need to feel you inside me. y’gonna let me? gonna let me ride you?” you whispered, grinding a bit faster against michael, his eyes fluttering closed as his hips bucket up against yours.
“p-please.” he cried out, and you didn’t need to be asked twice.
you lined yourself up with michael’s twitching dick, shivering before you slowly slid down, inch by inch, feeling him stretch you open. your eyes fluttered closed, loud moans leaving your lips as your body adjusted to michael’s size. michael was whimpering, his hands squeezing your waist as they trembled, eyes practically rolling back as you slid down his length.
once you bottomed out, michael whined your name, his arms wrapping around your face as he hid his face in your neck, panting heavily between whimpers. “o-oh b-babyyyy, f-feels soooo good..” he whimpered, hips twitching as he trembled.
you slowly started bouncing your hips over his, the tip of his cock hitting those perfect spongy spots inside you that already had you seeing white. “c-can’t believe m’your f-first, g-god fuck—“ you whimpered, slowly speeding up as wet sounds filled the room, a continuous “shlick , shlick , shlick” mixed with moans and whimpers. “w-wanna have you everyday, m-my boy..” you whispered against michael’s hairline as he kept his face in the crook of your neck, hypnotized by the feeling of your tight walls around him.
michael’s whimpers got louder and louder at your words, and you could feel him twitch inside you as you kept riding him, his hands now roaming all over your body in desperation — a stark contrast in confidence compared to earlier.
“i-i can’t, y’feel t-too good, o-ohhh—“ michael cried out, his head throwing back as your fingers went down to rub your swollen clit.
“m’so close, angel. p-please cum with me.” you whispered, breath ghosting over michael’s face as you kept riding him, ass bouncing against him.
michael’s eyes darted down, looking at your tiny hole swallowing him with each bounce until you started clenching around you — and it was all too much.
michael came deep inside you with cries of your name, his eyes closing as his hips twitched up, squeezing your waist. “o-oh—! i-i love you—!”
his words sent a spark down your spine, making you cim quickly after him. loud mewls left your lips as you clamped down around him, sucking his cock in like you never wanted to let go.
you collapsed against his chest, panting heavily while small drops of michael’s cum slid out of you, rolling down against his thighs while you sat seated on his lap.
“i love you too.” you whispered against michael’s shoulder, pressing a soft kiss as he panted heavily.
a/n: PHEWWWW this is my longest fic yet 😭😭😭 i hate how i wrote this eughh also my first mj fanfic pls b nice … pls accept my blog mjtumblr also PLSS CAN U TELL I LIKE DIRTY TALK
michael is tired of watching from the sidelines as you get hurt again
tags. smut MDNI, inexperience!michael x experienced!reader, sub!mike, loss of virginity, p in v, no protection (don’t do this), creampie, spit as lube (wouldn’t recommend), blackfem!reader, thriller!era
note. based on this request. wc. 2.8K
i’m not as pleased with this as i’d like to be but we ball
The rain was gently beating down against Michael's window, almost drowning out the sounds of the record he had spinning.
Your favorite album, that he thought would cheer you up. You were laid on his chest curled up into him as you two sat in comfortable silence, the conversation having died down a moment ago.
He’d been through this before with you. Same routine everytime. You’d tell him you had a date with your boyfriend, all pretty and excited and he would pretend to be happy about it. You’d get all dressed up, only to be disappointed when your boyfriend eventually let you down.
A never ending cycle.
One that Michael was, quite frankly, getting sick of. He couldn’t keep watching you do this to yourself. You deserved so much better than some schmuck who couldn’t even give you the time of day.
But you kept going back. And Michael as your closest friend, constantly protested against it, more slick than obvious detestation. Snide comments that he thought were well deserved.
“You gotta stop seeing this guy, he' s hurtin’ you.” was what he went with this time.
“I know.” nothing else, just small and meek. You were never that, so to watch another person reduce you to that hurt Michael.
For the first time, Michael didn’t know what to do to fix this. Or if there was anything he could do. He missed hearing you talk to him, tease him, laugh. Anything really. He harbored such intense feelings for you that it scared him sometimes.
“Michael?” he immediately perked up at the sound of your voice giving you his full attention, his hand pausing at the small of your back.
“Yeah?”
“How come you’ve never had a girlfriend?” the question hits him in the chest and he avoids the eye contact your forcing him to make.
“Oh uhm, m’not sure. I just haven’t found anyone I’m interested in I guess.” a bold faced lie. The girl he wanted was laid across him right now crying over another man.
“Hmm, I know you’d be a great boyfriend to some girl one day.” you spoke a bit sadly plopping your head back down.
Michael thought he could be that for you. If you ever let him.
“You think so?”
“I know so. You’re very sweet and loving, attentive, far more than any man I’ve met. And you’re so cute, I jus’ wanna eat you up.” your praise had Michael’s face heating up and he brought a hand up to palm over his mouth to hide his grin.
Distantly he thought if you thought all that, then why won’t you just choose him?
“You know, I actually did break up with him. Before I came here.” your hand traced absentminded circles over his t shirt, not even being aware that you’d just turned Michael’s whole world upside down.
“You did? Seriously?” he sounded too eager to his own ears. You nodded.
“Well that’s great…well not great but it’s- I mean- “ your laugh cut off his rambling. “It’s okay I get what you mean.” you pat his chest pausing a moment before your next words.
“I know you didn’t like him.” Michael didn’t even try to argue with you. He wouldn’t lie to you. Not ever.
“I just think you deserve better. I would treat you so much better than him.” he didn’t mean to let that last part slip out.
You sat up to look at him then, staring deep into his eyes and he stayed with his head pressed firm to the pillow, nervous at your reaction.
“You would?” you looked uncertain. But like you so badly wanted to believe him. Michael inhaled a sharp breath before continuing.
“Yes I would. If I was your boyfriend, I’d never leave you alone like that. Never stand you up.” you bit the skin of your lip drawing it into your mouth.
“What else?”
“Well, I’d buy you anything you wanted. You name it and it’s yours.” and he meant every word he said. You could feel the sincerity bleeding from his words and you knew Michael. He would never lie to you.
“I’d do anything to make you happy.” he registered your hand reaching for his that was sat atop his thigh, lacing your fingers together.
The contact had Michael swallowing down his sudden nerves, eyes darting across the room for a moment before returning.
“You would do anything for me?”
“Yes.” completely breathless but not a moments hesitation.
You made a move then, slowly crawling closer to Michael and bringing your faces close together. You could feel his breath hitch as his lips parted a bit. His eyes flitting down to yours like he couldn’t help himself.
“Michael.” the way you said it sent shivers running down his spine. Just the sound of you saying his name had his hips shifting against the bed.
“Hm?”
“Can I kiss you?” you asked him politely, your tone slightly seductive. Or maybe that’s just how he heard it because he wanted you so bad.
“Yeah but- I don’t know if it’ll be good I- uhm I’ve never kissed anyone before.” his breathing had picked up at just the prospect of your lips on his. But he didn’t want to embarrass himself. After all, you’d been with others before. He hadn’t.
“Never? Well that’s okay, I can show you. S’no big deal.” you smiled at him and Michael felt his heart flutter in his chest.
With his go ahead you swung a leg over his hips, not putting your weight on him, but kneeling over his body on all fours. “I hope this is okay.” you spoke, seemingly a bit shy yourself.
“Yeah this is okay.” and with that you brought your lips down on his. It was just a touching of lips at first, Michael’s body completely freezing up for a fraction of a second. And once he got over the initial shock that you were actually kissing him, he relaxed a bit.
You pressed a few pecks to his lips and he liked those. He liked them a lot. So much that he chased your mouth every time you pulled back from him.
You went to pull back to see if he was still okay but he protested immediately, hands shooting to your waist to keep you still.
“Wait, please don’t stop.” he drug your body down to his, making you straddle him fully now. Your hips flush together. You could feel him begin to get hard under you.
“Are you sure?” you were still asking him for reassurance. You wanted this. You just wanted to make sure he did too.
“Yes, please please.” His soft voice begged, breathless. And he didn’t care how borderline pathetic he sounded begging you to kiss him. He needed to feel your lips against his again.
You brought your lips back to his, kissing him more feverishly and Michael melted into the mattress under you.
The kiss wasn’t bad at all but you could see how Michael was inexperienced. Your teeth clashed together one moment and you and Michael just laughed. At one point he turned his head and your noses bumped together a bit hard as he went back in. But you just smiled and kissed the tip of his nose.
You felt honored that he chose to have you for his first kiss. And he loved every moment of your lips on his. It’d been something he’d dreamed about a long time, alone in his bed fighting the urge to touch himself to thoughts of you.
But none of that could compare to the feeling of you rolling your hips down on his, grinding slowly against his bulge. He immediately broke the kiss letting out a low whine at the contact.
“Omg are you okay?! I didn’t hurt you did I?” your lips broke from him and you were frantically searching his face, hands coming up to hold either side.
“No m’okay, you didn’t hurt me. It uhm… feels good.”
You seemed to sigh in relief knowing that he was fine and enjoying himself.
You continued on to grind your hips harder on him, the friction of your panties rubbing your clit delicious.
He was absolutely in heaven, tipping his head back and moaning at the feeling. His big palms, a little sweaty, grabbed at your hips. He didn’t try to change your movements. He was just holding on.
You could feel him twitching between your legs, growing and prodding your slit.
And he felt big. Like really big.
Especially when he started thrusting up into you like he was trying to bury himself in you, like he couldn’t help himself. You just felt so good and his needy whines and moans we’re turning you on so much.
“Mm you feel so good mama.” his voice, more breathless than you’d ever heard. You brought your lips back down to his and he met you eagerly, head lifting up.
This time he was much better, getting the hang of the action quickly. But it wasn’t enough for him anymore.
You felt his tongue gently prod at the seam of your lip and you opened your mouth to him. You heard him hum a little in his throat when you brought your tongue to his. Despite inexperience, Michael was still a good kisser.
Between your lips, you could feel the saliva spilling from his mouth a bit onto yours. It wasn’t a crazy amount but you didn’t mind either way. He tasted so good, like cinnamon, probably from the obscene amounts of gum he chewed. It was making your head spin.
He gently gnawed on your lip, sucking it into his mouth and that had you throbbing.
“I want more. Please.” his hands started reaching for your shirt then, hands gripping the hem. He didn’t pull it up, just held it there.
He was trying so hard to keep some control.
You started trailing kisses down his neck then, sucking the soft skin into your mouth leaving light hickeys for him to find later.
You moved further down till you reached his belt, loosening the thing and dragging it through the loops. Your eyes landed on the bulge you were now eye level with and you bit your lip. You were sure he had to be pretty big based on what you saw.
Michael noticed how you paused, eyes trained on his crotch. He began to get nervous then.
“Is somethin’ wrong?” his voice was soft and a tad bit concerned. He hoped that he didn’t do anything wrong. Or that you didn’t want to do this anymore. Because you didn’t actually want him the same way he wanted you.
“No no I promise nothing's wrong it’s just uhm,” you weren’t sure how to phrase what you were thinking so you just shook your head and continued on.
You wiggled his pants from his hips and legs leaving him only in his bright red briefs. Now you were certain he was fucking huge. Bigger than you’d had at least. Which to be fair, wasn’t a hard mark to beat.
“Alright, what’s wrong talk to me.”
“Nothin it’s- you're just big. Bigger than I’ve had. M’not sure if it’ll fit. If that’s what you want.” Michael got shy at the compliment hand coming up to cover the grin breaking out on his face. Nervous habit of his to smile in situations that probably didn’t warrant it.
“Of course I want it.”
Finally you pulled his boxers down and he sprang out, he was already embarrassingly wet, leaking pre cum off the tip. And he shivered as the cold air of his room met his sensitive flesh.
You brought your hand up to your mouth, wetting it, bringing it down to stroke him, mixing your spit with his pre cum.
“You have a really pretty dick.” you couldn’t help but tell him, your eyes trained on his trying to soak up every reaction. And it was true. He was the prettiest you’d seen and you’d seen some pretty ugly ones.
You weren’t even sure if he heard you at first when he didn’t respond, eyes squeezed closed at your ministrations.
God your hand felt so good on him. Far better than his own if he was being honest.
“Mmm thank you.” it felt a bit awkward to say while trying not to cum all over your hand. And he was nearly there, squeezing his body uncomfortably tight trying not to let go.
He wanted to hold out for you.
His hand moved to your thigh gripping the flesh a bit hard. “Please I can’t take this. Need you now.” he didn’t exactly know how to voice what he wanted.
But he hoped you got the message as he brought his hands to wedge between your thighs. He didn’t touch you where you wanted him to. Just rested it there, gently caressing the skin of your thigh.
“Okay m’ sorry, just a sec.” you removed your hands from him and moved to take off your shorts and panties, your shirt and bra quickly following. And he’d never seen this much of you. This much of anyone.
But only this moment mattered to him.
You straddled his hips again and brought your hips down over his dick and you were so wet, your slick coating over his shaft as you made contact.
The feel of your pussy on him was absolute heaven and it was driving him crazy. He couldn’t help but buck up into you. “Oh my gosh please.” he didn’t know what exactly he was begging for. But he knew he needed more of you.
You canted your hips back and forth, him slipping between your folds. You were a bit worried about his size but you’d been thinking about this for so long yourself, you were determined. You had to have him inside you.
You leaned down to kiss him more before you lifted up and sank down on him.
You were torturously slow to lower your hips and as soon as your warm wet heat wrapped around his tip, he knew he was a goner.
It was a small struggle to take him but you were so wet his size wasn’t that much of an issue. But there was an obscene amount of pressure in your gut at the amount of space he took up. Practically smooshed to your walls. And you were tightening around him more and more, heightening the sensation.
He was practically vibrating with need and energy as you slid down further until your pelvis was flush to his, bringing your hands up to his chest, you start to ride him, slow at first.
Michael had kept his eyes almost closed this whole time but there was no way he was going to miss this. They way your eyes rolled back and squeezed shut, head tipping back to expose your neck.
He swore he was in heaven.
“Hmm Michael y’feel so good ohmygosh.” you were blabbering and he was eating up all your praises.
He couldn’t help but rock his hips up when it started to feel too good. Your wet heat gripping him so tight, he was on the verge of cumming already. He wanted to hold out so bad.
“Ahh please please!” he didn’t know if that was his voice or yours. It was probably him he guessed.
You were in complete ecstasy, unable to focus on anything but the slide of his dick in and out of you as you bounced in his lap. Your combined wetness was leaking over causing obscene noises to ring out as your skin met.
You just couldn’t stop. And you didn’t want to. He had to be the best you’d ever had. And he’d never even had sex before this.
“M’gonna cum, m’sorry I can’t anymore.” he whimpered out, looking into your eyes. His were blown wide and darkened with lust and desire.
“S’okay baby, jus’ cum I’ve got you.” and the way you spoke to him had him tipping over the edge, hips stalling as he came deep inside you.
And he came a lot, ropes and ropes spilling and oozing out of you.
You brought your hand to your clit, rubbing circles as you kept going, chasing that feeling in your gut that had been building.
Michael watched you with rapt attention, mouth hanging open trying to catch his breath. The sight of you chasing your high and bouncing in his lap was too much.
He was getting hard again.
And god that friction was leading into overstimulation for him and he didn’t know if he could take much more. His toes were curling in his socks and he was a mess under you.
That was what did you in and you came crying out his name then slumped on his chest.
He was still twitching inside you moments later when you didn’t pull off of him.
“I’m glad you were my first time.” he spoke when his breathing finally calmed down, his hand rubbing soft soothing circles on your back.
“I’m glad I was too.” you sat up to look at him.
“Y’know Michael, I would do anything for you too.” you referenced his earlier words, a conversation not long forgotten.
He nodded at you a bit unsure where this was going.
“I know that.”
“I wasn’t gonna say anything because I wasn’t sure if you felt the same about me but- I really like you. I have for a long time and I just wanted you to know. You’re one of the most important people in my life.” you confession was nervous and rambled out. And you didn’t exactly dream of it happening with you sat on him and leaking his cum out of you.
But you couldn’t think of a better moment.
“You have no idea how happy it makes me to hear you say that.” he was beaming at you, eyes full of light and love.
“I’ve always loved you. From the very beginning really.” you couldn’t help but to kiss him then.
i know he would’ve absolutely loved this movie and i wish he would’ve been around to see it
“There are legends of people born with the gift of making music so true, it can pierce the veil between life and death. Conjuring spirits from the past... and the future. This gift can bring healing to their communities, but it also attracts evil.”
Content: basically you doing the "i cant pay rent" trend on Michael
"Michael, I can't pay rent," you said, putting your head down in hopes of not showing the laughter that threatened to rip through your throat. The camera was discreetly set up so that Michael didn't suspect a thing as he sat across from you, his glasses sliding so far down that his eyes could be seen over the frames as he read his book. The confusion on his face became more apparent as he tilted his head, brows furrowed with utter bewilderment.
"Baby, what are you talking about?" He spoke, his book still in his hands. His fingers were still in position to flip the next page.
"Like, I can't pay rent this month," your smile was becoming more apparent by the second.
"Are you okay? You don't pay any month," his book was now shut. The bookmark was placed in the spot for when he eventually came back to it.
"Michael!"
"What? It's true! You know I don't let you pay for anything," his hands were up now, the confused look phasing into a more playful one.
"Wait, is this that tiktack trend?"
The camera shook from your laughter, becoming blurry as it caught another confused look.
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : mikey is falling hopelessly in love with the only woman on earth who treats him like an outlook calendar notification.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : personal assistant + office siren!reader, boss!michael, he’s getting lovesick, reader has absolutely no clue, heavy yearning, workplace romance, third person pov, slow burn, female reader.
There are very few people left in Michael Jackson’s life who interact with Michael before they interact with Michael Jackson. Fame has a peculiar way of flattening relationships into these predetermined roles. His beloved fans come to shows and meet and greets already convinced they know him. Executives approach him with sparkly, green dollar signs in their pupils and yeses on their tongue before Michael even speaks his proposal. Journalists and reporters adjust their attitudes depending on what headline they hoped to walk away with. Even the people closest to him unconsciously fall “in line” around the awe of his name, careful not to overstep, eager not to disappoint and constantly aware that he is someone extraordinary.
The room bends at his will before he ever asks it to.
Then? Then she arrives and treats him with the exact same professional courtesy she’d give to a judge in court.
It isn’t disrespectful, really. If anything, it’s just the opposite. She’s unfailingly polite, attentive and composed.. but she refuses to participate in the mythology everyone else has spent years preserving around him.
To her, he is Mister Jackson. Her employer. A man with an impossible schedule, an endless list of obligations, and responsibilities that require meticulous organization. His fame matters only insofar as it affects logistics, it determines how many security guards accompany him, how early they leave for venues, how many interviews fit into a day and how quickly a crowd can form outside a hotel. It doesn’t determine the way she speaks to him, the way she looks at him or the amount of space she allows him into her life.
Perhaps that’s what unsettles him more than anything else? She doesn’t actively resist his celebrity as she declines to acknowledge it beyond what her job requires. She offers him neither awe nor intimidation, there’s no such thing as careful tiptoeing or exaggerated enthusiasm, or even concealed excitement over working beside Michael Jackson. She’s professional in a way that feels clinical and sterile and because of that, she becomes the only person in the room who never seems to want anything from him besides his cooperation.
(Name) enters his life shortly after his previous personal assistant quietly burned out under the demands of preparation for the Bad Tour nearly a year ago, yet another casualty of trying to keep pace with a career that has long since stopped resembling an ordinary life. Assisting Michael Jackson is less about managing a calendar and more about surviving a constant state of absolute chaos. Flights become rehearsals. Rehearsals become interviews. Interviews become recording sessions before dissolving into charity appearances, business meetings, wardrobe fittings, and promotional events that seem to materialize overnight. Somewhere beneath all of it exists a man expected to smile through exhaustion because the world rarely remembers that fame does not exempt someone from being human.
Most people last a few months and some don’t even manage that. And she lasts a week before everyone realizes they no longer have to worry.
She isn’t hired because she’s charming—charm doesn’t keep an international tour running. And she isn’t hired because she’s beautiful, though she undeniably is. Beauty can get you far in life, but even that can’t reorganize three countries’ worth of travel plans before lunch. She’s hired because competence, when refined to its absolute limit, begins resembling something intimidating. Because within days she has memorized everyone’s names, corrected scheduling conflicts that had gone unnoticed for weeks, reorganized filing systems no one else bothered to touch, and somehow untangled years of accumulated administrative clutter without announcing she’d done any of it. Problems disappear around her because she solves them before anyone else realizes they’ve become problems at all.
The thing about (Name) is that she never rushes. And that becomes one of the most fascinating things about her.
Everyone else in Michael’s orbit exists in a perpetual sprint. Managers are answering phones while crossing hotel lobbies and publicists apologize mid stride as they chase photographers down hallways. Security is constantly frazzled, scanning and redirecting. Every day seems to unfold with an underlying sense that everyone is already five minutes behind. And she alone seems immune to that urgency, walking the same pace regardless of whether she’s crossing an airport terminal or backstage at Wembley Stadium. (Name) is granted the luxury because she’s already accounted for the unexpected. She planned for delays before they happened and built room for mistakes into the schedule before anyone had the opportunity to make them. Watching her move through chaos without ever becoming chaotic herself is strangely mesmerizing. She’s always the stillest object in every room she enters.
The title never changes—his title, I mean.
“Mister Jackson.”
Always.
At first, he assumes it’s habit. Then he assumes maybe she’s nervous. Eventually, curiosity gets the better of him and one afternoon he smiles real shy at her in the limo, and tells her she can call him Michael. God, he wants to hear how his name sounds coming from those pretty plump lips. Most people fucking leap at invitations like that, to be addressed by a first name is intimacy, however small. It’s permission to cross a line. (Name) “accepted” the sentiment with genuine appreciation, thanked him politely, but then.. continued referring to him as Mister Jackson before the conversation has even ended. There wasn’t a trace of stubbornness in her tone, her response was so matter of fact that it leaves him without anything to argue against.
Slowly, he realizes it isn’t habit at all, it’s discipline.
Professional boundaries, to her, are not flexible depending on who occupies the other side of them. If she addresses executives formally, she’s address him formally. If she protects her private life from coworkers, she’ll protect it from him. She doesn’t create exceptions just because someone is famous, charismatic, or no matter how kind.
That consistency is precisely what makes her so difficult to understand. Michael has spent his life wondering whether people see him or merely the image they’ve built around him. She does something stranger. She sees him exactly as he is, acknowledges every practical reality of his life and still refuses to let that change the structure of their relationship.
Ironically, being treated exactly like everyone else is what makes him feel the most singled out.
Michael finds himself in a relationship where his fame grants him absolutely no advantage. His success can’t impress her because she’s already accounted for it. His kindness doesn’t soften the boundaries she’s spent years constructing. His charm earns him nothing beyond the same polite smile she’d offer anyone else. There is nothing to perform because she refuses to become a part of his audience. And maybe that’s what fascinates him most. She’s the first person in a very long time who seems completely uninterested in the version of Michael Jackson the world has created, leaving him with an unfamiliar, almost unsettling question.
If she doesn't care who Michael Jackson is, then what would it actually take for her to care about Michael?
It baffles him.
He’s spent his entire adult life asking people to relax around him, only to discover the one woman who actually refuses to blur the line. She doesn’t laugh at his jokes, doesn’t linger after conversations have ended. She doesn’t seek his approval or his attention. She completes her work, reminds him to eat, hands him the folder, and disappears until she’s needed again.
The funny thing is that she’s perhaps the most attentive person in his life.
(Name) notices when he’s exhausted before he does, quietly removing interviews from his afternoon if rehearsals run long. She remembers which tea helps his throat after recording sessions, which hotels have mattresses he sleeps best on, which fabrics irritate his skin, which reporters tend to ask invasive questions. She knows his routines better than most people who claim to know him personally, yet never behaves as though that knowledge grants her intimacy.
For her, care is practical. It exists in solutions rather than sentiment.
She shields him from the unnecessary stress. Producers who overstep suddenly find themselves speaking to her instead and pushy photographers somehow lose backstage access. Meetings that would have drained his energy mysteriously disappear from his schedule. (Name) doesn’t ask if he needs protecting, she simply protects him because it’s part of doing her job correctly.
The people around Michael eventually begin consulting her before consulting him.
If she says he needs another hour of rest, they believe her. If she says he’s unavailable, they don't argue. If she says the conversation is over, it's over. She never raises her voice, her authority comes from her competence rather than volume or her attitude.
Her.. appearance only deepens the contradiction. At work she exclusively favors fitted pencil skirts, silk blouses, classy blazers, pointed six inch heels, dainty jewelry, and a french tip. Everything about her makes the people around stop and look. She is undeniably beautiful, but not in a way that feels inviting. It’s the kind of beauty that suggests distance rather than attention. Men often approach expecting charm and leave vaguely intimidated and insecure after realizing they’ve learned absolutely nothing about her.
Michael finds himself staring more often than he’d ever admit. It isn’t merely that she’s beautiful, and again, she unquestionably is. It’s the composure she carries with her, the way she seems completely untouched by the crazy that follows him everywhere. She smooths a page in her planner with elegant fingers, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear without breaking conversation, adjusts the sleeves of her blazer before stepping into a meeting meant to fire someone. Even under the harsh lights of rehearsal studios or after fourteen hour workdays, she somehow remains.. perfect. He catches himself watching her when she isn’t looking, studying the effortless grace with which she moves through crowded hallways, wondering how someone can appear so perfectly composed while everyone else is barely holding themselves together. The realization that she’s become the first thing he looks for whenever he enters a room arrives long before he’s willing to admit what it means.
It becomes something of an obsession for him. And it’s not like she’s playing hard to get. There’s no game to participate in because she’s put up a wall so completely that it barely feels like rejection. It simply exists.
And Michael, for the first time in years, finds himself chasing someone who has absolutely no interest in being chased.
Seven o’clock had become her hour.
No one had assigned it to her, but somewhere over the last several months, she’d developed a habit of arriving at his hotel suite at precisely seven every morning with the day’s itinerary tucked neatly beneath one arm, a fresh folder of revised schedules in the other, and the information to keep the next sixteen hours from collapsing into complete disorder. She was never late.l, not even by a minute. Michael had even started waking a little earlier because of it, though he’d sooner admit to forgetting his own lyrics than confess that to anyone.
She knocked twice before letting herself in.
“Good morning, Mister Jackson.”
“Good morning, (Name).” He greets, eyes lingering on her figure.
She crossed the suite, heels clicking against marble with the same pace she did everything else, setting the folder on the dining table before unclasping the leather strap of her watch to adjust the time by a minute. He’s watched her do it enough times to know she always synchronized it with the hotel’s clock. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d noticed in the first place, only that somewhere along the way he’d begun collecting tiny observations about her the way other people collected photographs.
She slipped her glasses from her handbag and settled them onto the bridge of her nose. They only ever appeared when paperwork was involved: contracts, schedules, expense reports. The rest of the day they remained tucked away as though reading was the only occasion that justified wearing them. He wondered if she didn’t care for wearing them the same way he would later in his life. It was another detail he’d silently committed to memory, alongside dozens of others she likely had no idea he’d noticed. The way she tied her hair tighter on days she anticipated difficult meetings. The faint crease that appeared between her brows whenever someone was running late. The cup of coffee she’d make every morning only to forget about until it had gone cold, drinking it anyway because she refused to waste it. The careful way she aligned every stack of papers with two precise taps against the edge of the table before handing them over.
It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he knew an embarrassing amount about a woman who had never voluntarily told him a single thing about herself.
“...Following rehearsal, CBS requested an additional fifteen minutes for promotional photographs. I’ve declined on your behalf and rescheduled them for Thursday. Quincy would like to see you after lunch regarding vocal arrangements. Security has adjusted tomorrow’s departure by twenty minutes due to expected crowds.”
Michael heard every word and he processed almost none of them. Instead, he watched her straighten the paperwork with those familiar taps before sliding the folder toward him.
“..The revised contracts are on top. I’ve highlighted the sections requiring signatures.”
He nodded as she closed her planner with a soft snap before removing her glasses and folding them neatly back into their case.
“Your car will be downstairs in twelve minutes, Mister Jackson.” Gathering the remaining paperwork against her chest, she turned toward the door.
He watched her leave. Or rather, he intended to.
“...! Have breakfast with me.” The words left his mouth before he’d fully decided to say them.
(Name) paused and looked back over her shoulder. There wasn’t surprise on her face, nor discomfort. Only the same attentive professionalism she brought to every conversation.
“I’m sorry?”
“Breakfast,” He repeated, suddenly aware of how strange the request sounded now that it existed outside his head. “You’ve.. got a few minutes, haven’t you?”
He wasn’t asking her on a date. At least, that wasn’t how he’d intended it.
Michael simply wanted twenty uninterrupted minutes where she wasn’t reading through tomorrow’s schedule or reminding him about contracts that needed signing. Twenty minutes where she wasn’t acting as his assistant and he wasn’t being managed as her employer. He wanted to know what she talked about when there wasn’t a planner in her hands. What made her laugh. Whether she preferred tea or coffee when she actually had the time to enjoy either.
(Name) didn’t hesitate. “I’ve already eaten.”
The answer was so immediate, so natural, that he couldn’t even be disappointed by the words themselves. Whether she’d actually eaten that morning was almost beside the point. He knew instinctively that if she hadn’t eaten, the answer still would’ve been the same. Breakfast with her employer existed outside the boundaries she’d drawn for herself, and she protected those boundaries with the same consistency she protected everything else in her life.
“I hope you enjoy yours, Mister Jackson.” She offered him the same polite smile she always did before quietly excusing herself from the suite.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the room suddenly, almost conspicuously, silent.
Michael stared at the untouched breakfast waiting on the dining table before letting out a quiet laugh under his breath. It wasn’t disappointment that settled over him so much as embarrassment. He’d allowed himself to believe that perhaps she might make an exception because he was.. him.
Right.
Of course not.
To her, he wasn’t Michael.
He was Mister Jackson.
And Mister Jackson had a car waiting downstairs in twelve minutes..
(Name) pulled the suite door shut behind her with the same care she seemed to apply to everything else, the soft click swallowed almost immediately by the muffled sounds of the hotel corridor. The folder remained tucked securely against her chest as she glanced down at her watch, mentally recalculating the morning.
Twelve minutes until departure. Three before she needed to confirm the motorcade was in position. Five to stop by security. Two to remind wardrobe about the revised fitting after rehearsal.
Her mind resumed its familiar rhythm almost effortlessly. And yet.. her pace slowed, if only slightly.
“Have breakfast with me.”
The request replayed itself with surprising persistence. It hadn’t sounded flirtatious. Not overtly, she thinks. Really, he’d seemed hesitant.
That, more than anything else, was unusual.
Michael was many things, but uncertain wasn’t one of them. Shy, certainly. Soft-spoken. Gentle to a fault. Yet when he wanted something professionally, he simply asked for it. There had been something oddly tentative in the way he’d said it, as though he’d surprised himself as much as he’d surprised her.
She frowned imperceptibly.
Sharing breakfast with him wouldn’t have been inappropriate in itself. They’d eaten at the same tables countless times during tour, award shows, and production meetings. Entire teams did. But that wasn't what he’d asked, was it?
Michael asked her.
Just the two of them.
The distinction mattered. She hadn’t believed he’d intended anything improper, she genuinely didn’t. Michael Jackson had never once given her reason to question his character, and she trusted him far too much to leap to conclusions over a single invitation.
But personal invitations had a way of quietly eroding professional boundaries.
Not all at once.
An exception here.
Another there.
Lunch became conversation. Conversation became familiarity. Familiarity became assumptions neither person had intended to make. (Name) seen it happen in other workplaces often enough to recognize the first loose thread before anyone else noticed the seam unraveling.
It was better not to tug at it. Besides, she’s already established her boundaries nearly a year ago.
He was Mister Jackson. She was his assistant.
The relationship functioned as well as it did because neither of them expected it to be anything else. Still.. as she stepped into the elevator, she caught herself wondering what had prompted the question in the first place.
Had he simply wanted company?
Had something happened she hadn’t noticed?
Had he skipped dinner the night before and assumed she had as well?
(Name) replayed the conversation in her head, searching for some practical explanation she’d overlooked.
There always was one. But by the time the elevator reached the lobby, she decided there probably wasn’t anything more to think about.
He’d asked.
She’d declined.
The morning continued.
And somewhere upstairs entirely unbeknownst to her, Michael was sitting alone with an untouched breakfast, while she was still trying to determine what logistical reason could possibly have inspired such an uncharacteristically personal question. Neither of them realized they had walked away from the same conversation thinking about it for entirely different reasons.
summary: reader wants to name their next baby after marlon’s twin brother. that’s it. that’s the plot.
word count: 891
content warning: infant loss
author’s note: we’re back in the mimi universe baby! i had so many feelings writing this. anon, kiss your brain for this one.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
You were laying in bed next to Michael, his hand lazily drawing patterns on your stomach through your nightgown. He had a habit of resting his hand there, even when you weren’t pregnant, like it had become a second nature.
He was obsessed with feeling the baby kick. Every little flutter made him light up like a kid on Christmas morning—like it was a gift just for him. It was the same no matter how many babies you had, and it seemed that the novelty would never wear off.
You loved that about him.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Hm?” He wasn’t listening to you, too lost in his own little world.
“I said I’ve been thinking.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh?”
“That usually means you’re up to no good. Last time you said you’d been thinkin’, we had to rip out all the kitchen cabinets and get new ones.“
You laughed, shaking your head.
“It’s nothing like that.”
“What is it, then?”
“I think we should name this baby Brandon.”
His hand went still.
“What?”
“Let’s name him Brandon.”
He looked suddenly choked up.
“Why?”
“For your brother.”
“I don’t… how do you even know about that?”
You rolled your eyes, nudging him affectionately. “Because I know things. And because your mama told me.”
When Katherine had first told you about Marlon’s twin, you couldn’t believe Michael had never mentioned it. But then you realized why.
Losing a baby was his worst nightmare. It was why he was so, so careful with you when you were pregnant.
Maybe he was scared that if he talked about a baby dying, he would somehow will it into existence. Or maybe the idea was too painful to think about at all. Either way, you’d known it would be a touchy subject, which is why you hadn’t brought it up before now.
“We don’t have to.” You said, when he didn’t respond. “But I think it would be nice to honor him somehow.”
His eyes were welling up before you even finished that sentence.
“Sorry.” He laughed once, sniffing and shaking his head like he couldn’t believe he was crying about this. “I don’t know why I’m cryin’ over somebody I never met.”
“He still would have been your big brother.” You took his hand and squeezed. “Losing him hurt your mama. I’m sure it hurts Marlon, even if he doesn’t talk about it. And you have such a big heart that when someone else hurts, you do too.”
Michael lifted both of your hands to his lips and kissed the back of yours. “I love you.”
“I know. I love you too.”
“Marlon’s gonna cry.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. He’s just as big a baby as me.”
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
“Helloooo. It’s Grandma and Uncle Marlon! You rang?”
Months later, Marlon poked his head in the door of your hospital room, grinning like a fool. He looked utterly delighted to have been bestowed the honor of being the first uncle to meet his new nephew.
“Come in.” You laughed, beckoning them inside with your hand.
You were propped up in bed, and Michael was in the chair next to you with the baby asleep on his chest. This was his favorite place to be—next to you, holding a newborn in his arms, memorizing every detail about the new little person.
He was such a good Daddy.
“Oh, honey. Look at you.” Katherine beamed, kissing the top of your head first, then Michael’s. She’d loved you like her own from the moment he’d introduced you to her—to the point where the brothers got pouty about it sometimes, whining about how you were Mama’s favorite.
“He’s beautiful.” She whispered, like she didn’t want to disturb the baby’s sleep. Michael just nodded, not even looking at them, and if there weren’t currently an IV in your arm, you would have smacked him.
“Michael. Let your mama hold the baby.”
He looked so disappointed that it was comical. Like he wasn’t about to spend every waking second with his son. But he did what you asked, reluctantly handing him over.
“Be careful.” He warned, as if his mother hadn’t had an entire brood of children herself.
“I’ve got him.” She promised, taking his concern in stride. She’d watched her other boys become fathers too, but there was something different about Michael. She found his gentleness almost as endearing as you did.
“Hey, little guy.” Marlon peeked over her shoulder, waving at him.
“What’s his name?”
You and Michael exchanged glances, having a silent back-and-forth.
You tell him. No, you tell him.
Ultimately, he was the one who did it.
“Brandon.”
“Oh.” Katherine’s eyes filled with tears immediately, but his brother didn’t seem to have quite processed that answer.
“Do what?”
“His name is Brandon.” You echoed Michael, and Marlon looked at you, his expression cloudy with confusion.
“Like… my Brandon?”
“Like your Brandon.”
His expression crumpled into something between grief and gratitude, and he stooped down, pulling you into a hug so tight that Michael had to elbow him and tell him to knock it off before he hurt you.
“Thank you.” He whispered, looking at you like you had personally hung the moon and stars.
That was the first time you ever saw Marlon cry.
(And you could practically hear Michael in your head. I told you so.)
warnings: cursing, arguing, smut(mdni), choking, hair pulling, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap that willy).
author’s note: surpriseee, i know i said i was dropping monday but the writing spirit consumed me today idk.
word count: 1700
“come on baby, i don’t understand what’s got you all worked up,” michael groaned as he stood against the doorframe of your shared bedroom.
you rolled your eyes as you fluffed your curls out. you and michael were supposed to be at a cookout hosted at the hayvenhurst estate this afternoon, to celebrate his parents anniversary.
the problem was y’all were expected there an hour ago. for the past hour, you and michael had been bickering back and forth. well, mainly you fussing at him.
“you know why i’m upset. i literally told you the new bag and shoes that i wanted. and you can’t even get them. it’s not like i’m asking for much,” you whined, your brown lined glossed up lips pouting as you placed your hoop earrings in your ear.
“for the last time, no. now, i’m tired of talking about this. get your purse and come on. i’ll be waiting for you in the car.” his toned was slightly raised, not quite a yell, but firm, which was very rare for you to be at the receiving end of.
before you could even rebuttal, all you saw was the back of his body moving further and further away from the room. you rolled your eyes as you heard his feet practically bouncing down the steps. fine, two can play at this game.
you sprayed a few spritz of your vanilla and jasmine scented perfume onto yourself before heading downstairs and out the door. you mouthed a ‘thank you’ to bill for holding open your door.
you quickly entered the limo, pressing your head into the cool glass window as your aviator shades covered your eyes.
“you look beautiful, smell even better,” michael complimented you, his charming smile could be seen glancing your direction from your peripheral. you looked over and gave a slight awkward smile before shifting your focus to scenic nature that flew past the window as the car was in motion.
silence.
michael furrowed his eyebrows in confusion but shrugged it off. thinking to himself, maybe you just didn’t hear him. for the next twenty minutes of the ride to his parents, michael tried to make small talk with you, each sentence falling on deaf ears.
truth be told, you hated ignoring him. but during your arguments, you tended to hold a grudge longer than he did. so if talking like rational adults weren’t gonna get you the gifts you wanted, then maybe the silent treatment would.
you felt the car come to a halt. you looked out the window and saw that you had just pulled through the gates to hayvenhurst.
“thanks bill,” you said as you stepped out of the limousine, michael right behind you. the smell of barbecue filled your nose as you got closer to the backyard.
“look who finally made it, y/n we missed you girl,” tito says as you flash him a smile before giving him a hug.
“hey little lady, how you doing girl,” jackie’s soft spoken voice called out to you, wrapping his left arm around you for a hug, spatula that he was using for the grill in the other. his strong arm slightly lifted you off the ground. if looks could kill, you and jackie would be dead from the account of michael, who stood behind you scowling, arms tightly folded across his chest.
you made your rounds throughout the house and backyard to greet everyone. short after you and janet started catching up near the pool, jackie called everyone over to the table to eat.
“here’s your plate little mama, let me know how it tastes,” jackie held your plate out in front of you, flashing you that charming smile of his. out of your peripheral view, you could see how hard mike was clenching his jaw. you smirked, deciding to take things up a notch.
“of course jackie, it looks and smells so good. can’t wait til it’s in my mouth,” you purposely brushed his hands as you took the plate from him. michael scoffed loudly, visibly appalled at his realization that you were trying to get underneath his skin on purpose.
you had one more trick up your sleeve that you know would send him up the wall. after fixing his plate, jackie grabbed the first open seat that he saw, which was right next to you.
just as his bottom touched the white plastic chair, your arm knocked into the glass full of sweet tea, spilling all over jackie’s khaki shorts.
“oh my gosh jackie, i’m so sorry. here let me help you,” you voice feigned innocence. you grabbed the paper towels that sat near your plate and began wiping his pants, getting awfully closer and closer to his crotch with each swipe.
everyone’s eyes at the table were on the two of you, but shrugged it off, thinking it was a simple mistake, including jackie himself.
except michael. this was his last straw, he pushed his plate away from him, too irritated to take another bite. just as you stood up to grab more napkins,he hopped up from his seat, grabbing you by your forearm firmly, making a beeline to the house.
“michael what the hell is your problem?” your once sweet voice just below a yell as you followed him through the living room and up the staircase.
“what the is my problem? what the hell was that?!” his once soft spoken tone hidden, voice ridden with rage and disbelief, echoing the walls of the bathroom the two of you stood inside of.
you smirked before shrugging your shoulders nonchalantly. you were enjoying every moment of this. michael loved to deny it but he was an easily jealous man. this stunt with jackie was only adding more fuel to the already lit fire from your argument that begun earlier in the day.
“michael, i don’t understand what’s got you all worked up,” you mocked his words from earlier. just as you turned on your heels to leave, door slightly ajar, he slammed it shut and locked it.
he kissed you roughly, slightly tugging on your hair as he backed you up against the cold, marble countertop. you moaned as his tongue began to explore all around your mouth, his hands gripping onto your bottom as he lifted you onto the counter.
his lips began to make their way down your exposed neck and chest, nipping at it every few kisses, you hissed as his teeth left little marks on your brown skin.
“such a fucking brat,” he said as he spun you around, bending you over the cold counter top. you watched in the mirror as his gold metal belt buckle clang to the tile floor.
you tried you best to stifle a moan as you felt the tip of his hardened member rub up and down your slit.
“michael please,” you whimpered, biting your lip as he teased your wet entrance. your whimpers grew louder as he filled your tight, moist canal.
you fingers tightly gripping onto the counter that your head rested on. your eyes rolling to the back of your head as michael thrusted deeper and deeper into your pussy.
“so fucking tight,” he leaned down and whispered into your ear. his hand snaked around you and gripped around your neck firmly.
you cried out as he whimpered into your ear with each stroke. you loved how michael wasn’t afraid to be vocal in the bedroom, or bathroom for this case.
from the desperate whimpers, deep and raspy groans, unison moans shared between the two of you, you loved to hear it all.
“look at your self baby, look at how pretty you look with me all stuffed inside of you,” he gripped your hair back forcefully, making you look up into the mirror, the two of your eyes locking, your mouth agape as sweet whimpers fell from your lips, which was music to his ears.
you prayed that no one else was upstairs because of how loud the two of you were. the slapping of skin as it connected. you didn’t know who was whimpering and moaning the loudest, you or mike.
“right there, right there don’t fucking stop.”
“i know baby, i know.”
your body temperature rose as the pit of your stomach began to feel immense pressure. michael’s breath hitched as he tried to stop his own peak from rising before yours, his hips rapidly smashing into you.
“that’s right baby, cum for me,” he groaned as your juices coated his throbbing cock, splashing as he continued to pound into you.
“where you want me to finish baby?”
“inside of me, i want you to leave it in,” his big brown eyes widened, you rarely let him leave it in but when you did, he filled you to the brim. he love the potential risk of you growing swollen with his child. he grunted as he pumped his warm seed inside of you.
after catching your breath, the two of you scurried and put your clothes back on as you heard a heavy knock at the door. after smoothing out your clothes and trying your best to make sure neither of you looked like y’all didn’t just fuck each others brains out.
as michael opened the door slowly, your head peaking around his shoulder, revealing marlon standing at the door.
“hurry y’all nasty selves up, we about to play some spades,” the two of you chuckle as you began to make your way down the stairs.
just as you reached the bottom of the stairs, you were about to open your mouth to say something michael cut you off, saying “yes babe, i’m still gonna get you that bag and shoes, we can go as soon as we leave here.” you pressed a kiss to his warm cheek. mission accomplished.
—𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒; everyone sees the soft-spoken, gentle, respectful michael jackson — but, after opening night for the victory tour in kansas city and a few bottles of hard liquor, you see how alcohol turns that sweet mouth real dirty
—𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆; smut, 18+, heavy alcohol consumption, reaaaaal dirty talkin, soft-dom!mike, semi-public sex (tour bus), cunnilingus, cursing, jackson brothers are such teasing lil shits, creampie.
—𝐀/𝐍; HIII, i’m baaaack! did you miss me :D also new layout who dis
Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.
It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.
The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.
All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.
Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.
As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.
Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.
Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.
You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.
And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.
Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.
Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.
But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.
Michael.
He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.
But, you liked him that way.
Oh, boy, did you like him.
La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.
You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.
It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.
But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.
And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.
Literally and figuratively.
You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.
You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.
But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.
In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.
And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.
You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.
And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’
The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’
But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.
And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.
Like I said — always doting.
“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.
Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.
“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.
Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.
“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.
Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“
“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.
She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.
“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.
You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”
The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”
Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.
“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.
“In what way?”
“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.
In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.
“Or, you can remain a pussy.”
“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.
With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.
One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.
Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.
“Beat that, fucker.”
The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”
“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.
Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.
Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.
When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,
“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”
Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.
“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.
“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.
“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”
“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction
“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.
Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”
You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”
“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.
Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.
You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”
The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?
That theory was soon diminished.
An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.
As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.
You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.
The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.
Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.
But, that wasn’t all.
He became twice as handsy.
It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.
Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.
Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.
Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.
“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”
Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.
“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.
“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.
“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”
“No, I do.”
“Nope.”
“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”
“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”
Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.
“Fine, we will.”
You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.
Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.
Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.
You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.
The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.
Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.
“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.
You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.
But, this—this—was different.
His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.
This was the alcohol talking.
But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.
“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”
Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.
“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”
He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.
“Please.”
The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.
His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.
Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.
“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”
You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.
In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”
“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”
You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.
In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.
“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.
“Michael, pl—please.”
The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.
You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.
“Oh—Oh, God—“
The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.
Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.
As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.
He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.
Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.
And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.
Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.
He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.
“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”
You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.
“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”
You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.
“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.
Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.
Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.
“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.
Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.
You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.
“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."
You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.
His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.
“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“
Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.
“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”
Now, that did it for you.
Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.
“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.
He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.
The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.
His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’
It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.
His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.
Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.
“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”
A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.
You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.
“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“
He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.
Then came the silence.
The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.
Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.
But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.
However, all actions have consequences.
Unfortunately for you.
So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.
Then, it hit you.
Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.
You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.
You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.
Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.
Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.
The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.
You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.
For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.
Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.
“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.
“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”
The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.
“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.
“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.
“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”
You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.
“What’s so funny?”
Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.
You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.
Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.
“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”
You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.
Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.
“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆thriller!michael feeling guilty because his personal assistant practically lives around his schedule ☹️ 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
like one night it's almost midnight and you're still sitting in the studio with your planner open, crossing things off tomorrow's itinerary while everyone else has already gone home. michael looks up from the piano. "...you ever do anything for yourself?" you don't even look up. "this is for myself."
"no," he laughs softly. "this is for me." you shrug like it's no big deal. "i don't mind." and that's somehow worse. because he starts noticing everything after that. how you always eat after he does.
how you never leave until he's safely back at the hotel. how every weekend somehow turns into another workday because if michael needs something, you're already there before he asks. one evening he finally sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "you know... you're a pretty young thing."
"...thanks?"
"i'm serious." he smiles sadly. "you should be out with friends. on dates. doin'... whatever people our age do." you laugh. "our age?" he points at you.
"your age."😭 you just shrug again. "i like being here."
"...because it's your job?"
"...because it's you."
…silence. michael just stares at you. because you said it so casually, like you didn't even realize what came out of your mouth. you freeze about three seconds later. "...i didn't mean—"
"yeah," he says quietly. you immediately start rambling. "i mean, i did mean it, just—not like—"
"hey." he steps closer. "look at me." you finally do. he's smiling. (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) "you deserve somebody who looks at you the way you spend all day lookin' after everybody else." you blink. "...michael..."
before you can overthink it again, he reaches up and gently brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. "thank you," he whispers. and then, almost like he surprises himself...he leans in and kisses you.
so gently it almost doesn't feel real. just the lightest press of his lips against yours. lowkey testing. like he's giving you every chance in the world to stop him. instead...you kiss him back.
michael lets out the quietest little breath against your lips, almost relieved. his thumb brushes your cheek. he kisses you again. this time slower…..and trying to add tongue *ehem*
your brain goes completely blank. you've imagined what kissing him might be like more times than you'd ever admit, but nothing compares to the reality of it. he's impossibly careful.
like you're something precious. when you finally relax, your hand finds the sleeve of his jacket without thinking, gently holding onto it. michael smiles into the kiss. he absolutely melts.
so do you. for a few perfect seconds, the schedules, the rehearsals, the cameras, the job title...none of it exists. it's just michael. just you.
his forehead rests lightly against yours when he pulls back for air, both of you breathing a little unevenly. "...wow girl," he whispers.
you can't even answer. he laughs softly, almost shy. "been wanting to do that for a while." your cheeks burn. "...really?" he nods once.
"...really." he leans in again almost instinctively, brushing another soft kiss against your lips, a little more certain this time. you almost let yourself disappear into it—until your eyes suddenly fly open. "...oh no." michael blinks. "...what?"
you gently pull back, staring at him in complete disbelief before covering your face with both hands. "...this is not what Joe- mr Jackson would've wanted." there's a complete silence. michael just... stares at you. "...that's..."
his shoulders start shaking."...that's your first thought?" you peek through your fingers, mortified. "I panicked!" he bursts into laughter. the kind that makes him bend forward slightly, one hand over his face.
"I kiss you..." he says between laughs, "...and you're worried about Joseph?"
"I'm trying to process this!"
"Oh, Lord..." he's still laughing when he reaches for your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face.
"There’s my pretty young thing’."
"I'm embarrassed."
"I can see, but it’s okay."
"You should've noticed before you kissed me."
"I definitely wasn't thinkin' about Joe Jackson." That only makes you groan louder. He smiles so warmly it almost hurts to look at him. "...Neither of us is ever gonna live this conversation down, are we?"
You sigh dramatically. "...Probably not."
"...Worth it, though." And before you can come up with another panicked excuse, he steals one last quick kiss—grinning the entire time you gasp in protest.
summary: Three weeks apart was entirely too long. So when Michael finally carried you into the quiet mansion, a private viewing of the custom Grammy jacket you designed was bound to turn into something far more explicit. ☆
warning: sexual themes, smut, 18+, established relationship, oral sex (female receiving), unprotected sex, breeding kink, light praise kink, emotional intimacy & filthy unholy talk, maybe some mild possessiveness as well
a/n: this has been in my drafts for so long, finally finished it!!! so enjoy this little story in this crazy heatwave ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎ big kiss to all of you gorgeous angels
The front door clicked shut behind him with the soft nudge of his loafer, the sound echoing through the quiet expanse of the Jackson mansion like a secret finally sealed. You were still giggling—breathless, giddy—your arms looped around his neck as he carried you through the dimly lit hallway. His lanky frame belied the quiet strength in his arms, the way he held you so effortlessly, as though you were something precious he’d been aching to bring home.
Your dark curls swayed gently with each step, brushing against his shoulder. Three long weeks apart had felt like an eternity. Late-night phone calls had kept you tethered to each other, but they were nothing compared to this—his warmth, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with a faint trace of vanilla from your own perfume.
“Mikey,” you murmured against his skin, half-giggling, “put me down. Your family could still be here and I— my dress is all ridden up.”
He slowed but didn’t stop. Those huge, fawn-like eyes looked down at you, pupils already blown wide in the low golden light of the hallway. A small, mischievous smile tugged at his lips. “No one’s home, angel,” he whispered, voice low and warm like melted honey. “Just you and me tonight.”
The realization bloomed slowly across your face. You bit your lip, smiling. “Oh…”
He carried you all the way into the kitchen before gently setting you on the edge of the cool marble island. For a long moment he simply stood between your parted knees, hands resting on your waist, thumbs brushing slow circles over the fabric of your dress. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize every detail he’d missed. “I thought about this every night,” he admitted softly. “Hearin' your voice wasn't enough. Kept wishin' you were here.”
The words hit you like a warm wave. Your heart clenched in the best way, a rush of love so strong it made your chest ache. You felt yourself melting under his gaze, a soft, helpless smile spreading across your face as warmth flooded your entire body. You reached up and cupped his cheek, thumb brushing gently over his skin. “Mikey…” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I missed you so much too.”
He leaned in and kissed you—slow, deep, devastatingly tender. The kind of kiss that carried every missed night, every quiet ache of separation. When you finally pulled back, palm pressed to his chest, you felt the rapid flutter of his heart.
“You still owe me a fashion show,” you said softly, eyes lingering on him, voice playful. “That jacket I made for you… deserves a private moment. Just for me.”
Michael let out a shy laugh, cheeks flushing. “Do I have to?” he asked, even though he already knew he’d do anything you asked of him.
You gave him a stern look. “Yes, baby. I helped design it. I deserve a private little viewing.” Your expression softened into a playful pout as your finger traced slowly down his chest. “And I did miss you wearing it on your Grammy night.”
He went quiet for a beat under your touch, smile turning a little shy. “Alright…” he murmured softly. “Just for you.”
You gave him a big grin, letting out a soft, excited yay! and leaned in to press a quick peck against his lips. He turned down the hallway, his playful laugh lingering behind him.
The kitchen suddenly felt bigger in the hush that followed. You swung your legs gently, your wooden heels tapping a soft, rhythmic pattern against the marble island. Dim golden lights cast warm pools across the counters, catching on the edges of glass and metal. The only other sounds were the faint, steady hum of the refrigerator and the quick, eager beat of your own heart.
You heard the quiet rhythm of his loafers against the tile as he returned. The moment he stepped into the soft light, the sight of him made your breath catch. The jacket looked even more stunning in person. The details you’d poured late nights into designing caught the light beautifully, making him shimmer like he belonged on another plane of existence. He looked ethereal. Starlit. Yours.
“God, Mikey… you look so pretty,” you whispered, the words slipping out full of awe. “Please… a little spin for me?”
He gave you a shy eye roll before complying, giving you a bashful little spin, arms outstretched in that effortlessly playful way only he could manage. You let out a soft laugh. “Good boy,” you murmured, like you didn’t quite mean to say it out loud.
He went still for a second, like the words had caught him off guard. His gaze flickered down before meeting yours again, softer, his cheeks darkening as he stepped closer. His hands slid slowly up your bare thighs like he couldn’t quite stop himself. “I feel like you’re trying to embarrass me on purpose,” he murmured, voice low, a shy smile tugging at his lips even as he stayed right there.
You rolled your eyes fondly and smiled, reaching up to tug him down by the lapels of the beautiful blue sequined jacket. The kiss deepened quickly—hunger slipping through the softness, weeks of quiet longing spilling into the way your mouths moved together.
Your fingers threaded through the soft curls at the nape of his neck and tugged gently. He whimpered — actually whimpered — into your mouth, pressing closer, hands tightening on your waist as if he needed you even nearer. “I need t' see you… I need t' taste you. Been missin' you so much, baby… please.”
The raw ache in his voice made heat flood through you. You pulled back just enough to brush your lips against his ear. “Good thing I didn’t wear any panties tonight, Mikey.”
Michael's breath hitched sharply, in that raw, unguarded way only you could ever pull from him. His knees actually buckled for a moment as he dropped his forehead to your shoulder, trembling, hands gripping your waist like a lifeline.
"Lord have mercy..." he breathed, the words dissolving into a prayer against your skin. "You're testin' me tonight, angel. Sent straight from Heaven to test my faith."
You giggled softly, but the sound faded as you tightened your fingers in his curls and pulled him back into a deep kiss. This time he moved with more desperation—small sounds escaped his mouth as he kissed down your jaw, then your neck, slow and open-mouthed, sucking gently, as though he wanted to leave traces of his devotion behind. One of his gentle hands rose to cup your breast through the thin fabric, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple with aching care.
You whimpered, dizzy from his touch after so long apart. He pulled back slightly, eyes dark and shining with pure adoration as he looked at your flushed face. “This dress…” he whispered hoarsely, fingers tracing the hem, “needs to come off.”
With careful, almost worshipful movements, he lifted the fabric over your head. Your dark curls tumbled wildly around your bare shoulders as the dress fell away. The dim kitchen light bathed your bare skin in a soft, golden glow. Michael stayed standing for a long moment, simply drinking you in—eyes wide, lips parted, completely lovestruck.
Here you finally were, completely bare for him after so many excruciating weeks apart, ready to be devoured. All those Grammys, all the applause and glittering prizes… none of it mattered. Not when he had you right here, open and glowing just for him.
You’d never been quick to feel shy, but the way he was looking at you made heat flood your cheeks. You glanced away quickly before forcing yourself to look back at him with a small, teasing smile. “Not nice to stare, pretty boy.”
“You’re gonna ruin me… y’know that, angel?” he murmured with a shy, breathless smile.
You giggled softly. “Oh… I’ll be glad to.”
His grin widened — big, ecstatic, pure joy illuminating his face — before it softened into something heavier. Slowly, gracefully, Michael sank to his knees in front of you, still wearing the glittering Grammy jacket. His hands came to rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking soft, soothing patterns as he looked up at you like you were the answer to every prayer he’d ever whispered.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “I missed you so much it hurt. My angel… my everything.”
The sweet words spread like wildfire through your veins. You lifted your legs, draping one over each of his shoulders. “Show me how much you missed me then, Mikey,” you whispered.
He looked up at you, those big brown eyes dark and shimmering with open want. “Baby…” he breathed, warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. “Y’ don’t know how badly I’ve needed this. I’ve almost forgotten what you feel like… how sweet you taste.”
The sight of him — the biggest star in the world, still wearing that iconic Grammy jacket, kneeling between your thighs like you were something sacred and uttering all these words— made your head spin. Your breathing grew heavier, almost intoxicated.
Before you could respond, he leaned in and began trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses up your legs, savoring the warmth of your skin after so much time apart. Each lingering press sent sparks racing through you. When he reached the sensitive crease of your inner thigh, your leg twitched, goosebumps rising across your flesh.
He let out a soft, trembling whimper.
“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” he murmured against you, the words vibrating sweetly. “Gonna love you properly… make you feel like you never want to leave me again.”
The promise pulled another needy whimper from your throat. “Mikey…”
As if that was all the permission he needed, he dragged his tongue in one long, slow, worshipful stroke up your center. A shaky moan escaped you. Michael answered with a broken sound of his own, pressing closer, almost desperately. He was hungry — achingly so — but every movement remained full of devotion. His tongue moved in slow, reverent circles around your clit before flattening into long, savoring licks, as though he wanted to memorize every inch of you. The way he used his tongue was almost up there with his musical talent, always managing to pull those helpless cries from you. He licked and sucked with growing hunger, moaning softly against you like your pleasure was the only thing keeping him alive.
The cool marble beneath you contrasted sharply with the wet heat of his mouth, sharpening every sensation.
You tried to stay quiet at first, biting your lip, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as pleasure rolled through you in deep waves.
But Michael noticed immediately.
He pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny, eyes full of tender longing.
“No, baby… don’t hide those pretty sounds from me,” he whispered. “We’re all alone. Please… let me hear you. I need to know I’m making my angel feel good. I’ve missed your voice so much.”
You barely managed a broken “fuck” before it melted into another moan as he leaned back in. He kissed your clit softly, then continued with slow, devoted strokes of his tongue.
“You taste so sweet… like heaven,” he murmured thickly. “Come on, my pretty girl… let me hear how much you’ve missed this.”
“Jesus Christ—” you gasped as pleasure spiked.
Your hand flew to his thick curls, gripping tight. Michael whimpered at the tug, clearly pleased. One of his big hands slid up to press you gently but firmly against the cool marble.
“That’s it… just like that,” he encouraged tenderly, voice low and warm. “You sound so pretty like this. Don’t hold back for me, angel.”
“I wish I could stay right here on my knees for hours,” he whispered, voice muffled and adoring. “Just lovin’ you like this.”
Your moans grew louder, filling the quiet kitchen. Michael’s tongue moved faster, more insistently—alternating between broad strokes and tight circles on your clit. The pleasure built higher and higher until it became overwhelming.
“Mikey— fuck, just like that, baby,” you gasped, voice shaky. “You’re so good… you’re making me feel so good. Don’t stop, please—” You began grinding against his mouth, hips rolling desperately as your fingers tightened in his curls.
“That’s it, angel… let go for me,” he breathed against you. “I wanna feel you come on my tongue.”
The coil inside you finally snapped. Pleasure crashed over you in heavy, shuddering waves as Michael moaned desperately against you. Your back arched hard off the marble, thighs trembling around his shoulders while you came with a broken cry of his name.
Michael didn’t pull away until you were gently pushing at his head, oversensitive and panting. Only then did he rise, lips shiny, eyes dark and full of adoration as he looked up at you like you’d just given him everything.
You were still catching your breath when you reached for him desperately, grabbing onto the sequined jacket and pulling him up into a messy kiss. Your teeth clashed, and you tasted yourself on his tongue. “On the counter, Mikey,” you whispered, voice husky and breathless. “Lay down for me, please baby.”
His eyes widened, a mix of surprise and excitement flashing across his face. He hesitated only a second before carefully shrugging off the iconic Grammy jacket and placing it beside you on the countertop. Then he hopped up onto the cool marble island and stretched out on his back.
As you slid off the counter, legs still a little shaky, you glanced at the jacket beside you. An idea quickly passed through your mind and you reached down to pick it up. The fabric was heavy with stardust and memories. You slipped it on over your bare skin. It swallowed you—the shoulders too broad, the sleeves too long—but the way it felt, warm from his body and shimmering under the kitchen lights, made you feel powerful.
Michael’s reaction was immediate. His breath caught sharply, eyes going wide and glassy as he took you in. “Fuck… angel,” he breathed, voice wrecked. His hand moved down instinctively, palming himself through his pants like he couldn’t help it. “You look… you look so good in my jacket. So good.”
He looked completely lost, chest rising and falling fast as he stared up at you. The shy, gentle Michael was quickly unraveling right in front of you.
You climbed back onto the counter, moving over him until you were straddling his hips. The jacket hung open on your frame, brushing against his chest as you leaned down to kiss him deeply. He moaned into your mouth, hands sliding under the fabric to grip your ass with desperate reverence.
You ground down on him, your wetness leaving a slick spot on his jeans. The rough fabric sent goosebumps racing across your skin. “Mm, Michael,” you breathed, before reaching between you to free him from his pants. Not wasting any time, you slowly sank down onto him.
The stretch was perfect after so many weeks apart. Broken sounds fell from both of you as you took him in.
Michael moaned loudly, head falling back against the cool marble. His hands squeezed your ass before sliding up to grip your hips. “So warm… so wet… ngh… so tight, angel,” he groaned, voice thick with that Gary accent.
You started moving, slow and deep at first, rolling your hips in a steady rhythm. The jacket slipped off one shoulder as you rode him, exposing your plump breast, nipple hardening in the cool air. The contrast of the glittering fabric against your bare skin was visibly driving him insane. His grip on your waist tightened. His eyes kept fluttering between your face and the way the jacket moved with every roll of your hips.
“You like this?” you teased breathlessly, bracing your hands on his chest. “Me wearing your award-winning jacket while I fuck you?”
Michael let out a wrecked whimper, hips bucking up to meet yours. He could barely get the words out between soft, desperate sounds. “Yes— God, yes. You look so gorgeous and dirty like this… s’that what you wanted? Wanted me to take you like this, wearin’ my jacket right here in the kitchen?”
His bolder words took you by surprise. Your sweet, usually reserved Michael was rarely this vocal, but the way he spoke made you clench hard around him. He noticed your reaction immediately. His hands tightened on your hips as he started fucking you harder, deep and desperate.
You pressed down on his chest and took control again, riding him with deep rolls of your hips. “You’re so deep like this,” you moaned, grinding down on him. “Feels so good, Mikey…”
Your words seemed to break something in him. He took control again, planting one foot on the counter for leverage before he started pumping into you—deep, hard, and fast. He pulled you closer, almost cradling you against his chest, hands gripping your ass as he thrust up into you. The sound of skin slapping grew louder, echoing through the empty mansion along with your moans.
Through the stars dizzying your vision, you managed to pant desperately against his ear, “Baby please… I want you to come inside me.”
“Y-yeah?” His voice broke, shaky and raw. “Want me to come inside you, angel? Fill you up so deep…” He swallowed hard, almost embarrassed by his own words, cheeks burning. “Gonna make you never leave me again… m’gonna put a baby in you.”
The filthy words sent a fresh rush of heat crashing through you, tightening the coil in your belly even more. Michael gently grabbed your face with one big hand, squeezing just enough to make you meet his eyes while he kept pumping deep inside you. “Look so pretty like this,” he whispered, voice trembling with awe. “Gonna come for me, angel?”
You could only nod desperately, broken whimpers slipping out as pleasure threatened to overwhelm you completely. Michael moaned, voice trembling. “I’m close— angel, I’m so close…” His forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and ragged. “Come with me. Please… I wanna feel you come around me while you’re wearin’ my jacket. Missed you so much—”
Your second orgasm hit you hard, clenching tightly around him as you cried out his name. Michael followed right after with a soft, broken moan of your name, hips stuttering as he spilled deep inside you, painting your walls with warm spurts. His arms wrapped around you tightly like he never wanted to let go.
For a long moment, the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the faint hum of the refrigerator. You collapsed onto his chest, the oversized jacket pooling around both of you like a glittering blanket. Michael pressed soft, lazy kisses to your temple, murmuring sweet nothings against your skin. “You’re everything to me,” he whispered, voice hoarse and full of love. “My beautiful girl…”
SYNOPSIS: Reader learns about Michael's little nickname for pretty women, and now he's in the doghouse. Can he make it up to her?
CONTENT: smut, 18+, fluff, NO MINORS, descriptive dirty talk, needy!Michael, soft-dom Michael, physical affection, dangerous era!Michael, era 1991, wife!reader
Author's Note: Hi babies 💕 so this was inspired by a video I saw of Mike at the mall fishing lol. I had to write something warm and fuzzy about it, and I love a lil Marlon/Mikey moment. Enjoy 💕
The third time that you passed by Michael without letting him touch you, he knew something was off.
He was miserable.
It seemed like you were doing everything except speaking to him. As of right now, you were cooking dinner. Michael had followed you into the kitchen like a lost puppy. He had tried wrapping his arms around your waist while you stood at the stove. Kissing on you. Of course, you'd shrugged him off with a stern,
"Boy stop. I'm busy."
Sighing, Michael leaned back against the counter behind you, watching your every move.
"What did I do, baby?" he asked softly. "Why aren't you talking to me?"
The hurt in his voice almost made you give in. Almost. Until you remembered what started this whole mess.
Two days ago, it had been movie night. Michael had been upstairs on the phone with Frank while you rummaged through the cabinet beneath the television, searching for a VHS tape the two of you hadn't watched a hundred times already.
Your fingers landed on one labeled neatly in Michael's handwriting.
Michael with Fans — October 1990.
Curious, you smiled to yourself and slid it into the VCR.
Seeing Michael's public persona had always fascinated you because it was so different from the man you knew behind closed doors. The world knew Michael Jackson. You knew Mike.
The screen flickered from blue static to grainy camcorder footage. Michael stood in the middle of a shopping mall, absolutely surrounded by screaming fans. He laughed, signed autographs, hugged little kids, kissed grandmothers on the cheek. It was sweet.
Then he looked toward the cameraman and said—
"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."
You blinked.
"What the hell...fish?"
On the television, Michael immediately made his way toward another group of beautiful women, reaching for one of their hands before posing for a picture. Your eyebrows slowly rose in disbelief.
"...Hold up."
You rewound the tape.
Click.
"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."
You stared at the television.
"...Fish?"
Another rewind. Clicked play.
"...There's some more good fish over here."
Your jaw slowly dropped.
"Hell naw."
When the tape finished, you ejected it so hard it nearly flew out of the VCR. Absolutely not. Marching straight to the phone, you dialed the first Jackson brother that came to mind. The one who knew everything there was to know about Michael. They were practically twins.
The phone rang twice.
"Marlon speaking."
"What does fish mean? And don't lie."
Silence trilled through the receiver.
"...Marlon?"
More silence and then Marlon sighed.
"...Mike done got himself in trouble, huh?"
"What does it mean, Marlon?" Another pause. You were tapping your foot impatiently, growing tired of waiting.
"...It's what we used to call pretty girls."
Your eye twitched. Suspicions confirmed.
"...Excuse me?"
"I mean—"
"So he was fishin'?"
"No!" Marlon barked, already laughing. "No, no, not like that!"
"Then why was he walkin’ over there talking about, 'there's some more good fish over here?'"
Marlon had absolutely no defense. His brother was caught.
"...See... when you say it out loud like that..."
"It sound crazy, don't it?"
"...Lil bit."
You thanked your brother-in-law, hung up the phone, and walked upstairs without another word. No movie night. No cuddling. No goodnight kisses for Michael. Nothing.
Now, two days later...
Michael Jackson had absolutely no idea why his wife wouldn't speak to him.
Later that afternoon, Michael again sauntered into a room he knew you inhabited. He gazed at you quietly for a moment, large doe eyes watching you carefully and waiting patiently like a good boy to be acknowledged.
Early afternoon glow began to settle over the room, highlighting your features with a soft golden warmth. You were seated at the kitchen table reading a new book. You sensed his presence. Like you always did. But you refused to raise your focus from your book.
You were a stubborn woman, he had to admit. Once you committed to something, you’d burn the house down with yourself in it. So, he brushed his lips against the back of your neck and gave a soft “I love you”, laying down your favorite flowers on the table next to you.
You hummed in approval,
“Thank you, they’re beautiful.” The phrase came out simply. No kiss or smile attached. No reinforcement for Michael. Sulking, Michael silently retreated from the room.
He needed advice.
“She won’t talk to me for nothin’” Michael was exasperated, rubbing his hands up and down his face frustratedly. He hated being ignored. Especially by you. You were quite literally his favorite person on the planet, other than his mother.
He was so desperate that he’d driven to his sister’s place, praying she had some insight.
La Toya continued to organize her closet, bustling about as she listened to Michael’s woes.
“Women don’t give you the silent treatment for this long, Mike. Somethin’ happened.”
“I haven’t done anything! I’m so lost.” The poor man was needy for your attention, and he couldn’t get to the root of the problem.
His sister was no help. So, he wandered to Marlon’s next. Really just bored and looking for companionship.
“What’s wrong Mike, you in the dog house?” Marlon pulled his brother in for a hug, patting him on the back gingerly. Michael rarely stopped by unannounced. Usually when he did, something had been troubling him.
Michael sulked over to the couch, plopping down with a sigh.
“I don’t even know WHY”
Unbeknownst to Michael, immediately his brother became fidgety and nervous. Uh oh.
“She won’t even let me touch her.” Michael whimpered, dropping his face into his hands.
Marlon scratched the back of his neck and looked away, eyes growing wide. He remembered his last call with you. Very well.
“Soooo… hypothetically… if a man got caught calling women fish by his woman…”
Immediately Michael’s head snapped toward Marlon.
“What you mean?” Michael’s eye contact never left his brothers, burning a hole in the side of his profile as Marlon feigned distraction and gazed in the opposite direction.
“I’m just saying. Hypothetically.”
Slowly, Michael’s eyes widened. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.
“She talked to you? And you didn’t tell me?” Under the pressure Marlon cracked. He immediately held his hands up in surrender as his brother shoved him.
“I ain’t say nothin’!”
“You told her!”
“I didn’t tell her!” Marlon exclaimed, now dissolving into a fit of giggles.
Michael stood up, officially agitated.
“You supposed to be my brother, and you’re telling my girl our secrets. Come on man” Michael rolled his eyes, of course this was Marlon’s fault. Marlon continued to explain himself through broken laughs.
“I’m her friend too, Mike!”
“I’m leaving.” Michael grumbled.
“C’mon Mike, just apologize.” Marlon said, laughter dying down. “You did call them fish.”
“So did you, but did I tell Carol!”
“Hey, this ain’t about me!”
“Bye Marlon” Michael grumbled, finally making his way toward the door. His brother’s giggles followed him out the front door, further agitating him.
When Michael finally arrived back home, he closed the front door behind him silently. His head dropped against the door behind him as he sighed heavily. He was in trouble.
He found you in the kitchen, he hadn't bothered to call out to you. He had grown used to your sweet voice not answering him when he was looking for you.
But when he found you, he felt a very familiar heat building in the pit of his stomach. There you were, standing at the kitchen sink and absentmindedly humming a tune. Michael’s eyes trailed up your figure, admiring the way the sundress you wore perfectly hugged your body, framing your hips and cutting just above your ankles to expose your pretty anklets. Your ass raised in the hair as you leaned over to grab more dish soap.
The kitchen smelled like lemon dish soap and the faint trace of the smothered greens you’d made earlier, the radio in the living room still playing Luther Vandross low and slow like it knew what was coming. You stood at the sink in that soft little yellow dress—the one that always made Michael’s eyes go heavy—scrubbing the last plate, warm water up to your wrists, hips swaying just a little to the music without even thinking about it.
You didn’t hear him at first. But you felt him. That solid heat sliding up behind you, chest to your back, the familiar weight of his arms wrapping around your waist like he’d been starving for the shape of you all day. His nose brushed the side of your neck, breath already shaky.
This time, you didn’t pull away.
“Been watchin’ you all day, baby” he muttered, voice low and rough from hours of holding back. “All evenin’. Makin’ the bed, foldin’ clothes, standin’ here doin’ these damn dishes like you ain’t the finest thing I ever seen. Got me hard just lookin’ at you, girl.”
You felt it then—thick and insistent, pressing against the curve of your ass through his loose black slacks. He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him already straining, already leaking. The grind was filthy, unhurried, like he had all night to ruin you right here against the sink.
“Mike…” you whispered, fingers still curled around a wet plate. He didn’t answer with words. Just another deep grind, cock sliding heavy between your cheeks. One big hand slid down to fist the hem of your dress and yanked it up over the swell of your ass in one smooth motion. The cool air kissed your skin for half a second before his palm was there, squeezing, spreading you open like he owned it.
“I missed you all day, baby…”
It was muttered on a sharp exhale as he bent you forward over the edge of the sink, your chest pressing into the counter, water splashing over your forearms. He made quick work of your panties, dragging them down to your ankles with one impatient tug. Two fingers pressed against your lips, tapping gently.
“Open,” he breathed. You obeyed immediately.
He slid them in, slow, letting you suck them wet and warm while he worked his zipper down with his free hand. You could hear the low, filthy sound of him pulling his cock free—thick, heavy, the head already shiny with pre-cum from hours of watching you move around the house like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he groaned against your ear, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. “All soft and domestic. Got me thinkin’ about bendin’ you over every surface in this house.”
Those same fingers, still slick from your tongue, slid straight between your thighs and pushed deep into your cunt without warning. You squeaked, the stretch sudden and perfect, back arching as he curled them immediately, finding that spot like he had a map to get to it.
“If only they knew,” he whispered, voice dark and sweet at the same time. “How this smart, pretty girl turns into such a needy little thing the second I get my hands on her. How bad you love letting me play your pretty little body like an instrument. Am I right, mamas?”
You made a choked, gaspy noise when he started fucking you with his fingers—fast, precise, obscene wet sounds filled the quiet kitchen. Your knees nearly buckled. He allowed saliva to slowly drip from his lips down onto his aching length, slicking himself up with a low groan that went straight to your core, and then the blunt head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.
He pushed in slow. So slow you felt every thick inch stretching you open, the burn and the fullness making your eyes flutter. When he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, you both moaned, his deep and cracked, yours high and shaky.
“Say thank you, baby,” he whispered against your ear, one arm sliding around your waist, the other hand coming up to rest lightly at your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, owning.
You tried. The first sound that came out was nothing but a whimper.
His palm cracked across your ass, hard enough to make you jolt and clench around him.
“T-Thank you,” you gasped, voice already cracking. “Fuck—thank you, Michael—”
“That’s my girl,” he hummed, and then he started moving.
Not fast. Deep. Rolling his hips in those slow, grinding circles that dragged the head of his cock over sweet spots only he could touch on every pass, the faint swell of him pressing against your lower belly from the inside. You could feel it every time he sank in to the hilt, relishing in the way he flattened his palm there.
“Feel that?” he rasped, grinding deep, staying buried while his hips worked in tight, filthy rolls. “That’s me, baby. Stroking all those little spots only I can reach, ain't that right sweetheart?”
Your fingers clawed at the edge of the sink. Your thighs started shaking as you leaned forward on your tip-toes. The wet, obscene sound of him fucking you—slow and heavy, mixed with the low music and the occasional drip of water from the faucet you’d never turned off.
He felt you getting close, felt the way your walls fluttered and squeezed.
“There it is,” he cooed, voice going soft and dangerous. “Come on, mama. Let me feel it. Cum for me.”
When it hit, it was hard.
Your eyes rolled back so far your vision blurred. A needy cry tore out of your throat as your pussy clenched and gushed around him, sticky arousal sliding down your thighs. His hand around your throat eased its hold but stayed there, steady and warm, keeping you upright as the pleasure kept rolling through you in thick, helpless waves. Your eyes stayed rolled back, walls squeezing and fluttering tight around his thick cock while he pressed soft kisses to your temple and along your jaw, nose nuzzling gently against your cheek until your body went slack and heavy in his arms.
Michael didn’t stop though. He just adjusted his pace into long, lazy, deep strokes, grinding in slow circles while you came, letting you ride it out while he kissed the side of your neck, your temple, nuzzling his nose against your cheek like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. Saliva dribbled down your chin as you tried to gather your thoughts to no avail.
Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, eyebrows furrowing at how your pretty face contorted with pleasure through his torment.
“Good girl,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Such a good fuckin’ girl for me. Look at you… droolin’ all over yourself. So pretty when you can’t even talk.”
You were still twitching, still fluttering around him, when it started building again, deeper, harder, the hand at your throat tightening just enough to make your head spin in the best way.
Your second orgasm crashed into you before you were ready, thighs shaking so bad you almost collapsed. He caught you, arm locking tight around your waist, hips never stopping.
“Michael—fuck—too s-sensitive—oh my God—”
“I know, baby,” he groaned, voice breaking into something raw. “I know. But you can give me one more, can’t you? My good girl can take it.”
He pulled out slow, the wet sound filthy, your essence combined with his pre-cum was dripping down your legs in messy strings. Before you could even catch your breath he was turning you, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, knocking a clean plate into the sink with a clatter.
Your dress was bunched around your waist, panties still around one ankle, and he stepped between your spread thighs like he belonged there. He gently tugged the strapless dress below your breasts, cooing softly at how your nipples hardened when they touched the cool air.
You tried to hide your face, suddenly shy under the bright kitchen light, under the way he was looking at you hungrily—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, catching your chin, making you look at him. His eyes were glassy, lips swollen, voice already raspy. “Wanna see those pretty eyes roll back again.”
He pushed back inside in one smooth thrust, and you sobbed, overstimulated, stretched so wide around him it burned in the sweetest way. He stayed deep, grinding in those slow, devastating circles, one hand on your lower belly again so you could both feel the way he moved inside you.
He rolled his hips in slow, searching circles, the thick head of his cock prodding gently at your insides as he tried to find that little spot. The one that always made you fall apart. He adjusted the angle with each careful roll, hips moving with focused intent until—oh, he found it. The second he did, your whole body jolted, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he locked right there, grinding against it with every pass like he was trying to etch it into your memory.
Your third orgasm built slower, your whole body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it was, how much it was. You couldn’t even form words anymore—just incoherent little sounds, stuttering attempts at his name.
As he rolled his hips in those deep, filthy grinds, your voice came out small and shaky between gasps. “I love the sound of your voice… when you talk to me like that. God, Michael, it does something to me…”
He continued to roll his hips slowly, eyes darkening with fresh heat, a slow, wicked little smile tugged at his swollen lips at your admission. Music to his hears after being ignored for two days.
“Yeah?” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, rougher, the way he knew drove you crazy. “Then be a good girl… touch yourself for me and I’ll keep talking for you.” The words landed softly, touching something hot and sensitive deep in your core.
He would say whatever you wanted him to, hell he’d sing every word, if it meant you’d finally speak to him. And you did. You chanted his name like a prayer.
Your hand slipped down between your bodies without hesitation, fingers finding your swollen clit while he stayed buried deep, grinding in those slow, perfect circles that made your toes curl. He didn’t stop talking, he kept that low, raspy praise pouring right into your ear like he promised.
“That’s it, mama… rub that pretty clit for me while I’m deep inside you. Fuck, you feel so good squeezin’ me like that. My good girl. My perfect girl...Look at you, touchin’ yourself just ‘cause I told you to… so fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart for me. I could stay right here all night, just grindin’ in this sweet pussy, listenin’ to every little sound you make…”
Your fingers moved faster, the combination of his voice and the thick drag of his cock against your g-spot pushing you right to the edge again. Your thighs shook around his hips, free hand clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.
Michael’s own control was slipping. His hips stuttering every few rolls, breath coming in broken little groans against your neck, but he kept talking, kept praising, voice cracking with how good it felt for him too.
“Come on, baby… let me feel you. One more time, please? I got you. Always got you. That’s my girl…” When it hit, it wrecked you completely.
Your eyes rolled back hard, mouth falling open on a silent scream as your pussy fluttered helplessly, clenching down around him as you gushed again, soaking his cock, his thighs, the front of the counter. Michael grunted with approval. Your whole body shook like you were coming apart at the seams, fingers still working your clit through every pulse while he held you through it, whispering the whole time.
Michael followed you over with a low, guttural moan—hips stuttering and his cock jerking deep inside you as he came hard, flooding your walls with rope after rope of warm cum. The excess leaked and smeared around him with every trembling thrust. His voice cracked on your name and his face was buried in your neck. Arms locked around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.
He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried to the hilt, rocking in these tiny, overstimulated grinds while both of you trembled through the aftershocks. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin. Yours was worse, little hiccuping gasps, tears still sliding down your cheeks, drool on your chin.
“Shhh,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse, kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth. “I got you, baby. Breathe for me. That’s it… my good girl. My everything.”
His hands moved slow and careful, rubbing your lower back in those deep, soothing circles you loved, thumbs pressing into the sore muscles from being bent over. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in like he needed it to live.
“I love you,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer. “Love you so much it hurts sometimes. You don’t even know what you do to me… how you make all the noise in my head go quiet.”
You were boneless in his arms, still twitching around him, still full of him. He stayed inside you until the trembling eased, until your breathing slowed, until the only sounds left were the low music and the occasional drip from the faucet.
Then he finally pulled out, gentle, careful, watching with dark, tender eyes as his cum spilled out of you in thick, messy rivulets down your thighs and onto the counter. He felt his cock twitch at the sight, already ready to have you again.
He grabbed a clean dish towel, wet it with warm water, and cleaned you gently, murmuring soft apologies every time you whimpered from oversensitivity.
When he was done he lifted you off the counter like you were made of glass, guiding you into the living room with his arms wrapped around you, soft kisses pressed to the top of your head. He laid you down on the couch and stripped off what was left of your dress, pulled his own shirt over his head, and climbed behind you, pulling you back against his chest.
One big hand kept rubbing slow circles into your lower back while the other stroked your hair, your arm, anywhere he could reach.
“You okay, mama?” he whispered against your shoulder, voice soft and a little shy now that the storm had passed. “Was I too rough?”
You shook your head, nuzzling back into him, still too fucked-out to speak properly.
He smiled against your skin, pressed a kiss behind your ear.
“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t nowhere near done lovin’ on you tonight. Just… let me hold you for a minute first. Let me take care of my girl.”
And he did. For a long time.
A comfortable silence had settled over you both. Michael held your smaller hand in his, calloused fingers gently pressing into the muscles in your hand.
“So you been talkin’ to Marlon, huh?” he mumbled sleepily, amused.
“No” you said quickly. But Michael felt your body tense. You were never able to lie to him, and he loved it.
“You know… you’re my favorite fish baby.”
He erupted into laughter when you huffed and elbowed him. Unfortunately, you couldn’t help the giggles that slipped past your lips too at the joke.
“I’m kidding baby, only joking. Don’t be mad with me anymore.” His fingers continued to stroke your belly gently.
“You had me out here thinkin’ you’re shopping, and you out here fishing.”
“Baby, never. I wasn’t. I’m yours. All of me.” He murmured against your neck, lips lazily brushing the skin there.
You couldn’t help the cheesy grin that broke through.
“I know, I just needed to hear you say it”.
BABY IM HIS BADDEST FISH 💋 @thebaddestfish - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
