🍫summary: One thing Randy will have you is FOLDED!
🍫“Dick so good, got me all in my feelings, got me forgettin’ we not relationship dealing - SupahBadd
It was a random Tuesday night, it was a late night and unfortunately you were up studying for your exams. The more you scrolled through the reviews the more you were ready to check yourself into a mental asylum.
Your eyes struggled to stay open as if they carried 10 pound bricks, your back was sore from being hunched over the screen, and if you saw the word ‘finals’ one more time, you were going to break your laptop. In the midst of your spiraling weakness, a buzz sounded from your phone, screen lighting up.
It was two in the morning so you were a bit confused but once you saw ‘R.J’ you already knew.
Randy Jr.
He was just your sneaky link, nothing crazy. You met at an off-campus party and got along well which led to a night at his apartment. You mutually agreed to keep it casual, too busy and stressed for a relationship.
You didn’t feel like dealing with someone else when you struggled to deal with yourself.
You unlocked your phone, pressing on the notification and reading,
“What you up to?”
You debated on responding, while the bright laptop screen practically yelled at you to lock back in.
Clearly your laptop didn’t scream loud enough as you picked up your phone to respond.
“Just studying, whats up?”
The grey bubbles appeared in no time.
“Can I slide?”
That damned question. If he comes over you know exactly what you’ll be up to, but you need to study. Well…you do understand most of it.
Maybe a little relief won’t be so bad…
“Come on, look at me, mama.” Randy grunted above you. Looking at him was something that felt physically impossible in that moment. Your eyes felt permanently stuck to the back of your head.
He filled you to the brim. So full that you had to remember to breathe. The way he was stuffed inside of you made your brain void of everything else. Not a single care about an exam, not a single care about the R.A down the hall, only his dick.
His fingers lightly tapped your cheek, hips still pistoning in you. The tapping brought you back for a small moment, eyes shifting forward to look at him.
“Thank you, mama. Can you keep looking at daddy?” He cooed. His palms found place on the back of your thighs, holding them down to keep you spread open for him. Your knees were damn near touching your ears, and he only pushed deeper. Absolutely folded.
You nodded—not without struggling—and attempted to keep your eyes on him. He looked heavenly from this angle, thick eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth, and his biceps that naturally flexed.
He was so fine.
“Nngh—Randyyy.” You moaned, back arching against the sheets. “I know baby, you doin’ so fuckin’ good.” He swung your legs over his shoulders, leaning down into a mating press.
You could’ve lost your mind in that moment. The way his tip nudged against your g-spot had you planning a wedding in your head.
Maybe a green wedding dress? Who should be the flower girls? Big or small wedding?
You would be sick to your stomach right now, if you found out some other girl was experiencing this.
“Fuckkkk, waittt.” You cried out, hand pressing against sculpted abdomen. “Shhh, you can take it. You been stressing right?” His voice could’ve soothed you to sleep if it wasn’t for him digging you out.
“Y-yes.” You whimpered, finally getting the small reminder of your exams but that didn’t sit in your head for too long, diminishing with every stroke from Randy.
“Exactly so let me take care of you.” He delivered a soft kiss to your cheek. The tenderness made your eyes roll back, and you fought the urge to say I love you.
Good dick just does that to you.
“Randy, I’m gonna cum.” You moaned. “Yea?” He sat up, angling his hips till his tip kissed your g-spot making your legs shake. “FUCK!” You cried, palms pressing against his abdomen.
“Move.”
One simple demand that you did not bother listening to. He gathered your wrists into one hand, holding them in the air as he rolled his hips against yours.
So how should you propose to him?
“Cum for me, mama.” He said. The knot in your stomach broke, releasing and creaming all over him. He thrust you through your orgasm, refusing to take his eyes off the bliss on your face.
You clenched repeatedly around him, chest heaving from the waves of pleasure. "Mhm, keep takin' that dick." He muttered, pace not faltering. Your legs shook from overstimulation, your back arching towards him.
"You creamin' all on me, fuck!" He groaned, listening to the wet squelch of him pumping into you. You felt brain-dead at this point, body jolting with every pump, hyper-aware of the thumb stroking your thigh.
"You look so pretty, mama." Oh, he knows what he's doing. You couldn't help but clench around him practically keeping him stationary inside of you. Maybe it's a good thing you can't speak because you would have absolutely told him to nut in you. Baby trapping doesn't sound too bad right now.
Maybe he was thinking of you the same way. Probably not, but the way he's looking at you, you couldn't help but wonder.
You felt his large body weigh on you, burying his nose into the crook of your shoulder. Another ball of heat began to unravel in your stomach as you smelled his sultry, cedar wood cologne. You were quite literally covered by him, and it only made your maddening obsession worse.
You were so hyperfixated on the feeling of him thrusting and stretching you out, you didn't realize your orgasm overtook you once again. Shaking underneath him while he peppered wet, gentle kisses on the side of your neck.
At this point the only thing you were thinking is, where is the nearest ring store?
description ۶ৎ: after you and michael breakup, you both move on. or so you thought. when michael finds out that you’re back into the dating scene, he can’t possibly imagine the thought of you with another man.
warnings ۶ৎ: smut, jealousy, cheating (i think), pussy eating, p in v, use of y/n 💔, use of names such as,(baby, mama, tinka), creampie, porn w plot
pairing ۶ৎ: thriller!michael x black!fem!reader
tinka’s note: this long as hell💔💔
when michael broke up with you, he told you it was because of his career. he was just so focused on his music, he just ‘couldn’t love you the way you both wanted him to’. or at least that’s what he said, because his interviews always contrasted the things he’d told you.
he’d tell the interviewers, how he wants a loving woman. and how he wants eighteen children and how he can’t wait to find the perfect girl, which led you to believe that he broke up with you because you aren’t who he wanted. led you to agree with breaking up, because why would you beg him to stay if you weren’t his perfect girl?
after a few, long grueling months of yearning and longing, you decide to get back on the scene. you started spoiling yourself to spoil yourself, spending the same way michael did, just to remind you that you didn’t need him as bad as you felt you did.
currently, you were in a small mini relationship with this guy you met at a club. it was supposed to be a fling, but he seemed really nice, and he wanted more with you, so you agreed. he was sweet, a gentleman, but he wasn’t as sweet as your michael, and it was starting to gnaw at you. you felt so weird, feeling that he must be over you, and that you were so stupid for being stuck like this.
turns out, you weren’t the only one. after someone put a picture in the papers, labeled, ‘trouble in paradise? jackson’s ex girlfriend spotted with another man, turns out they aren’t reconciling!’, he’d seen it, and he wasn’t happy. after he let it bother him for a while, he came to the conclusion that he’d find you again, that he’d find your heart, and merge it into his again. and that he did.
since you were an upcoming model, your agency would make you go to certain events for exposure. tonight, you were attending an award ceremony for some actors you forgot the name of. your manager did inform you that michael would be there, which made you not want to go even more, but you knew you needed it for your career.
you were currently in your closet, getting some help zipping up your dress, and a makeup artist touching up your face.. your silk press was curled, and looking perfect.. you felt beautiful, and like nothing could ruin your mood, until your mood was ruined by the wicked tongue of your manager.
“now, don’t forget that michael’s gonna be there. play nice, we don’t want anymore tabloids making you out to be something you aren’t.” she says, making you sighs and slouch a little.
“did you really have to remind me?” you complain, wishing a black hole would just open up in the floor and swallow you up.
“i just want to make sure you understand the reality of that. no mistakes tonight, promise?” she says.
“yes stacy, i do promise not to get pissed off, when i see my ex who acts like he’s the king of the world. i do promise.” you say, rolling your eyes before someone hands you your heels.
you slip them on, and check your cartier watch, realizing you don’t have much time to spare, so you quickly grab your clutch and get a move on.
the event had to be the most boring the ever. you’d only been their for an hour of your required stay, and felt like you were losing your mind. that was until lucifer himself decided to play a funny joke on you. you were talking to another model, when someone bumps into you. when you turn around, you see none other than michael fucking jackson, giving you that beautiful smile he knew you adored.
“oh! i’m sorry, baby.. didn’t see you there..” he apologizes, eyeing you up and down before dusting your dress off.. you catch his wrist.
“don’t, michael. please, spare me the embarrassment.” you says, gently pushing his hand away..
“let me help you, girl.. your strap’s loose..” he says, and you knew he was using it as excuse to touch you..
“i can fix it myself. you know what— excuse me please, ill be right back.” you say, cutting yourself off to excuse yourself from the guest you were chatting with. you push past michael and walk into the restroom, sighing.
you fix that fuck ass strap, and calm your nerves. your manager calls you, and she says something that brings your irritation right back to ten.
“we need you to do a short interview with michael, explain that they’re no hard feeling, and that you guys are still cordial.” she says, sounding out of breath.
‘god why me? what did i do?’ you think in your head, before stepping out the restroom.. you find michael infront of a camera, and he beckons you over. you walk over.
a little blond lady walks over, smiling.. “y/n, michael, how are you guys tonight?” she says, already smiling too hard for this interview.
“i’m good, just letting the time fly by..” you says , softly sighing.
“great, great! now we did this interview to get a little insight of you guy’s breakup, we seen some rough stuff in the tabloids about you and your new boyfriend, that you moved on too fast, which led many to think you were cheating the whole time.” she says, tilting her head.
before you could get a word out, michael speaks for you. “no maam, she’d never cheated on me while we were together, our break up was a mutual agreement, and i don’t think we should really get into it here.” he says, and you thank god for something useful finally coming out his mouth..
you nod and smile a little, then she asks the stupid ass question that everyone’s been asking. “are you guys gonna get back together?” she says, looking like the devil him damn self put that smile on her face..
you sigh, and once again, he answers. “i don’t think she’d like to, but i’m willing to try again.” he says, a small smirk forming on his lips at the way you’re looking at him.
“okayyy, well thank you guys for your time tonight, you guys look stunning.” she says before walking off.. you huff, and start to walk off too. that’s until michael grasps your wrist..
“let me talk to you, mama. just for a moment.” he softly says, raising his eyebrows.
“michael. seriously, i’m really not—“ you try, but you were already being dragged into an empty room.
“just let me speak, let me speak for a second.”
he says, turning the light on and sitting you down in a empty chair.. “i miss you, tink. you don’t miss me?” he says, already kinda intimidating you with the look on his face.
you slump a little, and roll your eyes at the dumbass question he knew the answer to, he just wanted to hear you say it. he must’ve been crazy if he thought you were going to give him the satisfaction and say it.
“no michael, no i don’t miss you.” you lie, looking at him with the most bored expression known to man.
“you don’t miss me? hm? so you don’t tell your little friends how you wish that new guy was me? you don’t tell them that while you’re on the phone?” he says, crouching down infront of you.
your eyes widen, not because he was making shit up, because that was in fact true. how the fuck did he know that though?
“michael, what the fuck? you stalkin me?” you says, sitting up.. you look up at him, and the filthy ass grin on his face.
“cmon mama, don’t say it like that. i just been keeping an eye on you, making sure my baby stays safe.” he says, gently rubbing your thighs.
“don’t call me that, and don’t touch me.” you say, but you don’t make a move to push him away, or shut him up.
“don’t be so hostile, tink. now let me ask again.. you miss me the way i miss you?” he says, licking his lips.
you finally give in, and nod. he smiles, and presses a soft kiss to your temple..
“he wasn’t loving you right, baby? was he?” he coos, gripping you chin and looking deep into your eyes..
“no..” you quietly admit, looking up at him with the same hunger that his eyes had. his hands slide up your thighs, gripping at the seams of your thong.
“y’gonna let me touch you, mama? y’know i won’t do it without your consent..” he softly says, tugging at the thin panty line.
you nod, and he slips it off before sliding your dress up to your waist. he kneels infront of you, looking into your eyes the whole time.
“you let him touch you? you let him touch my pussy?” he says, running a finger through your slick heat..
“n-no michael..” you whimper, eyes fluttering a little when his fingertip presses on your clit.
“mhm good girl. you knew better.” he muttered, then he dives in. he ate your pussy like he just got out of prison and you were his first meal. his tongue glides again your clit, and he slides two fingers in, curling him in the way he knew you liked.
“ohmygod.. michael..” you whine, back arching off the chair and toes curling in your heels. your hips start to subtly thrust up into his mouth, and you bite your lip..
he pulls his fingers out and slips his tongue inside, curling it to hit that spot..
“oh! oh my gosh, mikey you c-can’t just—shittt!” you whine, your eyes rolling back.. you arch deeper into his touch, gripping his sleeves..
“i can’t what, baby? what’s the matter?” he murmurs against your pussy, looking up at you. you shake your head, disregarding the message.
“j-just like that, fuck bambi, i’m close, m’so close!” you whimper, covering your mouth.. he hums against your clit, pushing you right over the edge..
“mikey move backk!” you whine, squirting all over his face.. he instead of moving, he pushes his face deeper into your cunt, wanting all that he can get from you..
once you’re twitching and panting, he stands up, grinning like an idiot.
“oh so you really missed me, huh?” he teases, making you roll your eyes..
“shut up..” you mutter, softly panting.. he pulls you up and bends you over a table, pushing your dress back up..
“michael we don’t have time for this, this isn’t even right, i have a b—“ you try, but get cut off by the feeling of his tip rubbing through your pussy. you softly moan, and lay your head against the table..
“i don’t care nothin about him. stop playing with me, girl. mentioning another man while im bout to get in this pussy, my pussy.” he murmurs, smacking your ass..
you whimper, and he pushes in.. “oh god.. mikey..” you whimper, having forgotten the feeling of him filling you up.
“shittt tink.. so tight..” he whimpered, his head tilting back.. he grips your hips, and he pulls out, then slowly thrusts back in..
“mmph baby.. oh my god.. s’deep..” you gasps. already feeling like he was in your lungs .. he smirks, and start to speed up.. the front of his thighs smack against the back of yours, and he grips your hair. he tugs, forming a deep arch in your back.
“michael! ouu!” you cry, and he smiles in response.. he smacks your ass again, and lifts one of his legs to the table, his foot propped up right by your elbow. he sinks deeper into you, and starts fucking you with strokes that hit your gspot everytime.
“fuckk baby.. i’m hittin it? i feel you gettin tighter.. talk to me, mama. tell me what i’m doin.” he whispered, biting his lip afterwards..
you claw at the table, your eyes rolling back at the deep strokes. “y-yesss! y’hittin it s’good! don’t stop!” you slur, your jaw going slack right afterwards .. drool runs down your chin, and he reaches around to grab your throat, tilting your head back for a nasty kiss.
he catches your lips, sucking on your tongue and clicking your top lip before he pulls away.. he pushes your shoulders down onto the table, fucking into you faster..
“bambiii! i’m closeee!” you whimper, heat pooling in your abdomen.
“cmon baby, let it go. let me feel you squirt on me, let me have it..” he murmurs, rubbing your clit in tight, fast circles..
“ohmygosh yesss!” you gasps, vision becoming blurry with white spots as you start squirting all over his dick, which pushes him right off the edge..
“shit! ohmygod!” he whimpered, slamming in deep and releasing hot spurts of cum all inside you..
his body shudders with each wave of his release, and so does yours. he gently kisses your shoulder, licking the shell of your ear a few times when whispering sweet nothings ..
“get back together with me? please tink, i wasn’t thinking right when we broke up.. i can love you however you want me to, i’ll give you what you need, mama..” he whispered , rubbing your sides ..
you nod, basically too cockdrunk to respond to him with actual words. he smirks, crowning himself as victorious because he did exactly was he was supposed to do. he found you again.
synopsis. you gift michael a stuffed animal during one of his chance public appearances.
wc. 470
tags. fluff. flirtatious!michael. flustered!reader. unprompted kiss. hayvenhurst. fall season (if you squint). no y/n. bill bray mention (my father-in-law!). no specified reader complexion/features (besides nails). walt disney's bambi. late 1970s. encino, ca. use of pet name mama (once).
mims yaps. it's about time that i posted something new! sorry it took so long. i'm going through a rough patch w my writing (who am i kidding—life in general actually 😭). anywho, i just recently had this idea and jumped on it immediately. surprised myself that i stuck w it! it was supposed to be a short drabble but evolved a little. it's short though. does this still count as a drabble in tumblr's eyes?
also, for some reason i wrote this with fall in mind... perhaps because i've been thinking about fall a lot today. idk. silk press season. my birthday. school back in session. yk. regardless, enjoyy! and if you would, disregard any errors. probably missed them in my impatience and eagerness to post this. also, i should note that i prefer not giving the reader a specific outfit or features, but i did with this one (just reader's jacket and nails, but still).
lastly, this is also published in my imagines book on wattpad, dreamers.
Pushing through the flock of fangirls and boys, you advance towards the front. The darkly stained, wooden buttons of your faded, dusty-raspberry-pink corduroy jacket were fastened, keeping close the heat your body exuded. In your manicured hands, a felt plush of Walt Disney’s Bambi is clutched tight, the length of your natural nails digging into the smooth, resistant material.
In front of Hayvenhurst, Michael’s stalling vehicle was surrounded by various individuals—mostly young ladies—the window agape beside the backseat in which he sat. A pale pink, cotton button up covered his torso and arms, tucked into a pair of denim jeans that trailed down to his dress shoes—worn, but polished nonetheless. The first few buttons of his shirt were left undone, his engraved heart locket nestled in the exposed space of smooth, chocolate skin.
As you make it to the forefront, you call out, “Michael! Can I give you something? Please?” His gaze flicks over to you, baby-doll eyes fixed on yours before taking a quick detour up and down the expanse of your figure. “Of course, mama.” He smiles shyly, teeth sinking into the supple flesh of his lower lip, reaching his right arm out. You hand him the Bambi merchandise, fingers brushing one another’s. “I bought it 'cause it reminded me of you, but I wan' you t'have it.” You explain, an instinctive smile seizing your lips.
Your pulse flutters rapidly in the side of your neck, like the wings of the butterflies inhabiting your stomach. You feel your breath shorten as his smile evolves into a grin, his entire face lit up—so much so, that in the eyes of those around him, there's no longer a need for the sun to break from its cloudy concealment. “Oh, thank you! You’re too kind. ‘S very cute—like you.” Michael chuckles, leaning towards you with the plush clutched against his abdomen. “Gimme a kiss?” He queries, though you’re already tilting in to meet him.
You anticipate a mutual kiss on the cheek, but are pleasantly and unbelievably surprised when your lips meet the plush of his in the softest, shortest exchange. You would have lingered, had the other girls not been pulling you back—some jealous, others excited for you. “Be gentle!” He chides them on your behalf, as a chorus of complaints and requests for his affection arise.
“Sorry.” He apologizes for subjecting you to the girls’ enthusiasm with a chortle and equally sheepish grimace, rolling up the window. “‘M sorry I gotta go now, but thanks for tha deer! Disney’s my favorite!” He expresses, quickly adding, “‘N I love your hair!”, before the glass division is fully up.
You stand speechless with an impossibly warm, fuzzy feeling, as Michael’s driver, Bill, pulls off while the singer waves goodbye. The kiss replays in your head as you ponder to yourself, “I jus’ kissed Michael Jackson.”
notes a short drabble of how his big hands and long fingers satisfy you ♡ for ref, his hand is 23-24cm (9-9.5in) long, with a span of 28 cm (11 inches). the avg is 19cm long!
when you're both making love, he wants you to know that you're undoubtedly his. he shows this by grabbing onto your throat as he drills his cock inside of you; the pressure his fingers put onto your neck make you feel so lightheaded. you pathetically attempt to hold onto michael's waist with your legs for support.
just putting one finger inside already sends you over the edge. michael is more than able to hit your cervix—it's that long and thick. when another finger enters into your folds, you can't help but start to cry. he doesn't admit it, but the sight of you trembling under his hands puts a hard tent on his pants.
michael was so shy to do this at first, but over time, he realized how much he loved slapping your ass. he enjoys how plump and hot it becomes, feeling the heat as he rubs the same spot to soothe the sting. your whimpers only make him want to do it harder, but he knows that he can't bring himself to. he loves you too much to risk actually hurting you.
he loves putting fingers down your throat to see you choke on it. the way your eyes water, your lips tighten, and your moans muffle through his digits is his favorite kind of foreplay. it gets him so hard that it makes him so, so impatient to replace his hand with his cock. “just a little more, baby," michael coos.
sometimes, when you both go out together, he'd wear his iconic rhinestone-studded glove. it gets you so wet to think that just the other night, his long fingers were gloved by your pussy instead. you've yet to ever tell him that, but you know he has his own dirty thoughts of you even outside of the bedroom.
೯ warning: smut and explicit language, pet names, voyeurism? no incest ( have to make that so clear omg )
— this was req by anon, they do not wish for their info to be disclosed.
೯ summary: jermajesty and his gf join his nosy brothers on vacation, meaning being intimate got a whole lot harder.
the vacation house was a sprawling modern retreat perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean, all glass walls and open decks. you'd been here three days, and the tension between you and jermajesty had been building like a slow tide. his brothers, jaafar and randy, were good company, always laughing, always teasing, but their presence meant no privacy during the day. at night, everyone retired to their own rooms, but the walls were thin. you'd already had to stifle your moans against his shoulder the first night, biting your lip raw.
tonight, you wanted more. you wanted to be heard, or at least, you wanted the thrill of almost being heard. jermajesty grinned when you whispered the plan in his ear after dinner. "you're a menace," he murmured, his hand sliding down to squeeze your thigh under the table. randy was across the room, scrolling through his phone, while jaafar was in the kitchen.
you excused yourselves to the master suite, claiming exhaustion. the moment the door clicked shut, jermajesty pushed you against it, his mouth hot on your neck. his hands were rough, needy, already tugging at the tie of your shorts. you let out a soft gasp as his fingers found your pussy through the fabric, pressing hard.
"fuck, you're already wet," he growled against your ear.
"been waiting all day," you breathed back, your own hands working to unbuckle his belt. his cock sprang free, thick and hard, and you wrapped your fingers around it, stroking once before he spun you around, bending you over the edge of the bed.
he didn't bother with your shorts, just yanked them down to your knees, then guided his cock to your entrance. no more teasing. he pushed in with a single, deep thrust, and you cried out, the sound loud in the quiet room. he clapped a hand over your mouth, his hips already pounding into you.
"shh, babe, walls are thin," he panted, but his rhythm was brutal, relentless. the slap of his thighs against your ass filled the room. your hands clawed at the duvet as he fucked you, each stroke hitting that perfect spot deep inside. you tried to muffle your moans, but they escaped through his fingers, high and breathy.
then you heard it. a door creaking open down the hall. soft footsteps. jermajesty didn't stop, if anything, he fucked you harder, his grip tightening on your hip. the bedroom door wasn't fully closed; a sliver of light from the hallway cut across the floor.
randy's voice, low and rough: "maj? you in there?"
jermajesty grunted, still thrusting. "busy, bro."
but randy didn't leave. the door pushed open wider. you turned your head, face half-buried in the pillows, and saw him leaning against the doorframe. his eyes were wide, fixed on where you and jermajesty were joined.
you moaned louder, deliberately, shamelessly, letting him hear every wet slide, every breathy gasp. jermajesty caught on, his pace quickening. he pulled his hand from your mouth and grabbed your hair instead, pulling your head back.
"yeah, let him hear," he rasped, his voice raw. "let him see how good you take it."
the sight of him watching, pushed you right to the edge. you came with a shuddering cry, your pussy clenching around jermajesty's cock. he followed a second later, burying himself deep, his cum hot and thick inside you. he stayed there, pulsing, while you both caught your breath.
randy finally spoke, his voice strained. "you two are fucking loud." but he didn't leave. he stayed, his hand now gripping his own hard-on through his jeans, his gaze still locked on the wet mess between your thighs.
from the hallway came another voice. jaafar, curious, he called out "what's going on in there?"
randy didn't answer. he just stepped forward, pushing the door fully open.
summary. michael has gotten fed up with your antics.
❛ mean!michael jackson 𝑥 𝒻 black woc!reader ❜ ╱ 𝓶.list 𓂋 mdni. you are beyond spoiled, bratty, & entitled. michael & his sugar baby. age gap. michael acknowledges his age. brat tamer?michael. michael grabs your jaw out of authority. both reader and michael refer to him as daddy (pls don't through rocks at me). no real smut but at the end michael makes you hump his shoe as punishment. ℘ 2.708k
𝓻𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐫𝐞⠀ ⠀𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝⠀!
michael is a patient man, an extremely patient one at that. withstanding more than the normal person from years of deliberate work into maintaining appearances. but he knew from the moment i saw you that you'd put him through the ringer. all pout and entitlement paired with big eyes and long lashes that you only have to bat a few times to get michael wrapped further around your finger like a snug ring.
you tested him like no other and pushed your luck far too many times that caused him to a nearly snap. and tonight? oh, tonight was a complete disaster. the two of you showed up late with clear tension, your hands that are usually photograph all snug under michael's side beneath his suit jacket are snug in your crossed arms, a clear rebellion on your part to show everyone that you are not happy to be here right now. while michael has a tight grip on your waist, partially so he can guide you around the event and partially so he can pinch at your waist to remind you to 'wipe that look of your face'. the photographers couldn't even get a proper photo of the couple because you just kept moving your face, using your hair to shield it from the clicks and lights from the camera. even ducking your head into the crook of michael's neck before you full maneuver your body so the photographers are only catching your backside in the photos, which only entices a stoic "behave" from him.
this behavior only carried on throughout the night. huffing and rolling your eyes at conversation, being disengaged and downright disrespectful michael thinks when you continuously cut him off. during a moment alone michael attempts to get you in check again, "you're acting like a child."
his only hope was that you'd realize this little act that you're putting is not to be tolerated, but all he got was a blank stare, "okay, and?" you replied with clear annoyance. the start of you walking away before michael's hold on your waist brings you back into his chest.
"wanna be a disrespectful brat? then i'll treat you like one." all of his patience gone and all of his pent up nerves balled up in the word brat.
and so the two of you left the event, the limo still parked from when you two were dropped because he had requested his driver stay for the duration of the event, already know that you would've pushed him too far to even stay for the entire time. but don't mistake michael, you're still his girl and he's still a gentleman that still opens the door for your and guides you into the backseat of the limo.
what caused this you might ask? your dress . . . no serious your dress. makeup had gotten on your dress which caused a domino effect of distress, cries, and into a full blown tantrum from you. not even the large soothing hand of michael's hand rubbing down and up again of the length of your back could cause you to calm down. in fact his reassuring words of how you have a back up dress made it worse. because although you thankfully brought one, you didn't want to wear it, so of course through sobs you spoke incoherently about how you don't want to wear the backup dress, how it's a backup dress for speaking out loud, it's meant to stay as a backup not become the dress. into you babbling about how it's not the vision, how you and michael are no longer going to match and that's your guy's signature.
it got to a point where michael tried. but every time he tried to comfort you a stream of tears only came. so when he look at his watch and saw that there was an hour till the event he ran a hand over his face, "gonna be breathtaking no matter what dress you're wearing," he enthuses, he knows the words are true, but he also knows how you take the material stuff more serious than him. placing a kiss to your temple and walking out of the room, signaling to the crew of people who were getting you ready who were banished by you when the makeup got on your dress to continue their work.
"y'know how much i hate being late." it's the first thing spoken between the two of you since the silent car ride and elevator up to the hotel room. and the comment makes you roll your eyes, something you know you could only be doing because michael unlocked and let you into the room first.
"but my-"
"your dress," michael cuts you off, perfectly in sync with when he turned the lock to the door, "i know all 'bout it, honey."
that, is what ticked you off, his condescending tone. "okay, well you don't have to use that tone with me." stilling in your tacks and turning around just for michael to be right there, taking a small step back.
michael chuckles, darkly, but nonetheless the first real chuckle of the night and it makes your stomach flip because you know it's at you. and you're expecting something from him, a fire back, but he does the worse thing he can do. walk right past you.
gaining your senses and hurriedly following behind him into the bedroom of the hotel and plopping yourself down on the bed, because what he's not going to do is make you look dumb for standing in the hallway all alone.
when you lean down to start undoing the straps of your heels you catch sight of michael undoing his tie with ease with on hand, not only working you up but making you further pissed. "it's not just a dress," said with all pout, the only way you're able to press this argument more is by concentrating on getting your heels off. sitting up and sighing with relief when you kick them off.
"then wha' is it then?" michael asks, stalking towards where you sit at the edge of the bed.
you're eyes shift around the room. you're really grabbing at straws right now. because it is just a dress, you know that, but it's all of the things that unfolded that caused the night to turn out drastically different than you thought it would (albeit to your doing). but all you can think about rather than being rational and sharing this with michael is being the one who wins this argument, if it even is one.
"it's you being inconsiderate."
you royally fucked up. and you know you did from the moment the first word rolled off your tongue, which is exactly why you turned you head to stare out the large hotel window and not into michael's face when you label him as inconsiderate when you know he is the one person farthest from the word.
michael's jaw clenches when that word comes from your lips. your very pretty lips that shine in the dim light of the room from your lip gloss, your very pretty lips that look extra pretty when they're apart as you moan out for him, and look even prettier when they're wrapped around his length to keep you from saying such disrespectful things.
"look at me." it's said with weight, with authority as his voice drops deeper. but you're unmoving. "don' make me have to repeat myself." a shiver runs through your spine, the only movement you made was not to turn and look at him but was to sit up straighter. feeling pathetic that michael compels you this deeply.
a beat of silence follows, and it isn't until your name is said in michael's voice that snaps your head into where he looms right in front of you. because he never says your name. you're baby, or honey, or sweetheart, or princess, or mama. you can really list off all of the nicknames michael uses for you before he ever uses your name to refer to you, not even when he's talking about you to other people does he say your name.
"all it took t'make you listen," he rumbles. still not satisfied that instead of you looking him in the face, your eyes are trained on his abdomen. taking matters into his own hands by grabbing at your jaw with his large hand, fingers pressing into the softness of your cheeks. tipping your head upward so you have other choice but to look him in the face, and michael can't even lie. it takes strength to discipline you, especially when you're staring up at him with your eyes already glazed over.
"when i ask you t'look at me you what?" quizzing you by quirking his eyebrow, expecting you to answer back and pleased when you do.
"look at you." you manage to mutter past michael squishing your cheeks.
michael nods at your words for once, "now tell me wha' makes me so inconsiderate?" except this time he releases your jaw to allow you to properly answer his question, allowing his hand fall down the column of your neck and settle across the base of it just above your clavicle.
you know he's humoring you, but you still answer, just not the way he wanted. "'cus my dress got ruined," pausing to swallow the lump in your throat, you know you're at the point of no return, feeling further on edge at the gentleness at which michael's thumb soothes at the side of your neck, "you saw how upset i was, so we should've just not gone."
michael is surprising calm in this moment, his movements stilled as her glances down at you past his heavy lids. "do i not do enough for you?"
the question is not what you expect, "that's not-"
but just like before, the hand that michael kept in safe distance at the base of your neck raises once more to cup your jaw again. "it's exactly that. 'ave you gone so rotten that y'think i'll no show an event jus' 'cus a dress bought with my money got ruined?" michael proses with restraint that only causes his tone to fall scarily flat.
and for the first time in the night you're left speechless. completely at michael's mercy, much like a lamb caught in the canines of a wolf's. it's the small tap of michael's index and middle finger against your cheek that grounds you, "it was a question, sweetheart."
the use of a nickname causes your eyes to turn from glazed to full blown glassy, tears beginning to swell in your waterline. your mouth opening then closing, because there is nothing, absolutely nothing that you can say to pull yourself out of this. "i-" you start, squirming underneath michael's hard gaze, you don't think there's anything that could pull his attention away from you right now, and you usually relish in that, but now all you want to do is shield yourself from it, "i don't know," is all you can muster out, feeling defeated.
michael's jaw clenches then unclenches, and you swear some of the hardness in his eyes soften over. "think y'jus' love bein' difficult." the hand clasped around you jaw squeezes, your cheeks squishing and lips pouting. "both know i'll give y'the world if y'asked. 'nd we both know i'll buy the entire stock of that damn dress if it made y'happy," he acknowledges, lowering himself down to your eye level, your jaw still in hand, "'m getting old, 'nd my tolerance for this behavior is thinning. so fix it, yeah?"
nodding your head the best you can, "yes, daddy," it comes out meek, but it causes michael to grin from ear to ear. pressing a pack to your pouted mouth before releasing your jaw, standing straight and walking himself over to the armchair in the corner of the hotel bedroom.
when he sits down in the seat he groans, throwing his head back and rolling his neck, letting his eyes fall shut for just a moment. "now c'mere and hump daddy's shoe," said with authority, as the hand that was around your jaw becks you over to him.
rubbing your thighs together and heart pounding into your ears as your eyes trail down the length of michael's relaxed body in the armchair to his sleek black dress shoe, "'nd no touching, so arms behind your back, baby."
ur writing is the reason I wake up in the morning (xoxo 💋) dangerous era!michael getting jealous when martin bashir comes to interview them at neverland ranch and he kept staring at youngerwife!reader. the smut, tension, everythinggg!!! tysmmmm :))))💗💗
tgs ◞ dom!michael, sub!reader, black fem reader, neverland ranch, married, established relationship, smut, martin bashir mentioned, use of ‘y/n’, possessiveness, jealousy, hint of ‘daddy’ kink, age gap (reader is 24), young wife reader
The grandfather clock in the grand foyer of Neverland Ranch ticked with a heavy, rhythmic cadence, echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings and the rich mahogany woodwork. Outside, the California sun was blazing, casting a golden hue over the rolling hills of the estate, but inside the main house, the air conditioning was crisp.
The vast space smelled faintly of expensive lavender cologne, vanilla wax candles, and the subtle, sweet scent of your cocoa butter lotion.
You smoothed down the front of your dress, taking a deep breath to steady the fluttering in your chest. It was a simple, elegant A-line piece in a light sage green, that complemented your rich, brown skin beautifully. Michael had picked it out for you himself, as he often did. He loved dressing you up, treating you like the rare, precious jewel you were to him.
To the rest of the world, he was an untouchable, larger-than-life icon, but to you, he was the man who brushed your curls out of your face with trembling devotion, who held you like you were made of glass, and who anchored you when the world became too loud.
At twenty-four, you were significantly younger than your husband, a fact the media loved to chew on and spit out in sensationalized headlines. But inside the gates of Neverland, the age gap didn't exist. There was only the deep, unyielding bond the two of you shared.
Right now, however, the weight of the outside world was knocking on your front door.
Michael stood by the tall French windows, looking out over the sprawling amusement park rides and manicured gardens. He looked magnificent—a striking vision of sharp angles, sleek lines, and undeniable power. His black hair fell in perfectly sculpted, glossy curls around his chiseled face, a few damp strands framing his sharp jawline. He wore a crisp, crimson button-down shirt with black armbands, tucked into tight black trousers that accentuated his lean, dancer's frame. His hat rested on the side table, and his dark eyes were temporarily shielded behind his signature aviator sunglasses.
He was nervous. You could tell by the way his slender fingers rhythmically tapped against his thigh—one, two, three, four.
"Michael, honey," you murmured, stepping toward him. The soft click of your heels drew his attention instantly.
He turned, the rigid tension in his shoulders melting the second his eyes landed on you. He reached out, his large, warm hand instantly wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against his chest.
"You look beautiful, ‘y/n’," he whispered, his voice a soft, breathless rasp near your ear. He used your full name only when he was feeling intensely affectionate or incredibly anxious. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Are you sure you want to do this with me? You don't have to be on camera if you don't want to. I can tell them to leave."
"I'm sure," you said gently, resting your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid, steady beat of his heart beneath the silk of his shirt. "We agreed on this. A documentary to show the world who you really are. Martin Bashir promised he wanted to show the truth, right? I'm right here by your side. We’re a team."
Michael smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your lips. He tasted like the peppermint he'd been chewing to calm his nerves, his mouth tender and warm against yours. "My brave girl," he murmured against your skin, his thumb caressing the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped.
"Just stay close to me. Don't leave my side."
A chime echoed through the house, signaling the arrival of the production crew. Michael’s grip on your waist tightened for a fraction of a second—a quiet, protective squeeze—before he reluctantly let you go, slipping his sunglasses off and placing them next to his hat.
The heavy oak doors opened, and in walked Martin Bashir, followed by a small crew hauling cameras, tripods, and lighting equipment.
Bashir looked exactly as he did on television—shrewd, calculated, wearing a sharp, dark suit and a smile that felt a little too perfectly practiced, a little too eager. But as his eyes scanned the room, they bypassed the gold records on the walls, bypassed the sprawling art installations, and locked straight onto you.
Michael stepped forward, his posture instantly shifting into that of a global megastar—polite, poised, yet intensely guarded. "Martin. Welcome to Neverland," Michael said, extending a hand.
"Michael, an absolute honor," Bashir said, shaking his hand firmly. But even as he spoke to Michael, his eyes flicked right back to you, taking in the curve of your collarbone, the warmth of your skin, and the youth radiating from your face. "And this must be the lovely lady of the house. The elusive Mrs. Jackson."
Bashir stepped closer, stepping right into your personal space, and extended his hand to you. "Martin Bashir. It is an absolute privilege to finally meet the woman who captured the Michaels heart."
Before you could even raise your hand, Michael shifted. It was a subtle movement, but incredibly deliberate. He didn't just stand next to you; he partially stepped in front of you, his broad shoulder cutting off half of Bashir’s view.
"My wife," Michael said. His voice was still soft, but there was a distinct, icy drop in his pitch that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "Her name is Y/N."
"Y/N," Bashir repeated, his voice dropping into a smooth, performative cadence as he bypassed Michael's defensive stance to take your hand anyway. Instead of a standard handshake, he brought your knuckles close to his lips, his eyes locked onto yours, lingering far longer than courtesy required. "An absolute vision. Michael, you are a very lucky man. She possesses a quiet... captivating youthfulness."
You felt a sudden, sharp spike of discomfort. The way Bashir said youthfulness felt dirty, like he was trying to probe a bruise, analyzing the dynamic between you and your husband with a clinical, judgmental gaze. You gently but firmly pulled your hand back, offering a tight, polite smile. "Thank you, Mr. Bashir. Welcome to our home."
Behind you, you heard the sharp, distinct sound of Michael clearing his throat. When you looked back at him, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped beneath his smooth skin. His dark eyes, usually so warm and full of gentle light, had narrowed into slits of pure, unadulterated ice. Michael was a man fully aware of his power, his sensuality, and his territory. And right now, someone was stepping on it.
The interview began in the grand living room, seated on a pair of opulent, gold-trimmed velvet couches. Michael sat closely beside you, closer than he normally would on camera. One of his long arms was stretched across the back of the sofa behind your head, his fingers lightly playing with a stray curl at the nape of your neck, effectively branding you as his in front of the lenses.
Initially, the questions were standard. Bashir asked about the music, the inspiration behind his latest projects, and the creation of Neverland. Michael answered eloquently, his soft voice filling the room, but his body language remained rigid. Every time Bashir asked a question, his eyes would wander from Michael's face down to you.
"Now, Michael," Bashir said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes sliding down to your legs, which were crossed elegantly beneath your green dress, before flicking up to Michael. "The public is endlessly fascinated by your private life. And, of course, your marriage. Your wife is quite young. Quite beautiful. A stark contrast to the chaotic world you inhabit. Tell me, how does such a young woman adjust to the... unique lifestyle of Michael Jackson?"
Michael’s fingers, resting on the velvet behind your head, twitched. "She handles everything with grace," Michael said, his voice clipped and precise. "She is my rock. She doesn't just adjust to my world, Martin. She is my world."
Bashir smiled, a slow, greasy smirk that made your stomach turn. He turned his gaze entirely to you, ignoring Michael completely. "And for you, dear? It must be overwhelming. Being married to a global icon. A man so much older, with so much history. Do you ever feel... isolated here? Do you ever feel like you're living in a gilded cage, trapped by a man who demands your total isolation?"
The bluntness of the question made you gasp softly. "No, not at all—" you began, but Bashir cut you off, leaning even closer, his eyes scanning your face with an intense, invasive scrutiny that felt borderline predatory.
"Because looking at you now," Bashir murmured, his tone dripping with a faux-sympathetic warmth, "one can't help but see a beautiful, vulnerable young woman. A woman who perhaps needs a different kind of... protection. A different kind of attention. Are your needs truly being met here, Y/N?"
The room went dead silent. The camera crew held their breath, the heavy silence stretching thin.
You felt a cold dread wash over you, not because of the question, but because of the sudden, terrifying change in the atmosphere next to you. The air in the room felt like it dropped twenty degrees in a single second.
Michael slowly stood up.
He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He never raised his voice at you, and even now, his fury was entirely directed outward, away from his precious girl. But the sheer aura of dominance he radiated as he stood was suffocating. He stood at his full height, looking down at Bashir with a look of such lethal contempt that even the seasoned journalist visibly blinked, sliding back into his seat.
"We're taking a break," Michael announced. His voice wasn't soft anymore. It was deep, commanding, and absolutely final. It was the voice of a man who commanded stadiums of a hundred thousand people with a single flick of his wrist. "Turn the cameras off. Now."
The director scrambled, instantly barking orders to cut the feed.
Michael didn't wait for them to pack up. He turned to you, his expression softening instantly into one of pure tenderness. He reached down, his large hand gripping your wrist firmly—not enough to hurt, never to hurt—but with a bruising, unyielding possessiveness that left no room for argument. He pulled you gently but quickly up from the couch.
As he led you past Bashir, Michael stopped. He didn't look at the journalist, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, but his voice cut through the room like a blade. "If I catch you looking at my wife like that again, Martin, this interview is over. And you will be escorted off my property by armed security. Do you understand me?"
Bashir swallowed hard, his face turning a pale shade of grey. "Michael, I merely meant—"
"We are done for the day," Michael snapped, cutting him off entirely.
Without another word, Michael guided you along, his grip tight and protective around your hand as his long legs ate up the distance across the marble floor, leading you out of the living room and straight toward the private wing of the house.
The heavy mahogany doors of Michael’s private master bedroom shut with a loud, definitive thud, and the lock clicked into place with a sharp, final sound.
The moment the world was locked out, the tension in the room exploded.
Michael let go of your hand, turning around to pace the length of the massive bedroom. His hands flew to his hair, pulling at his curls, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. The calm, collected global superstar was gone; in his place was a man consumed by a raw, primal protective instinct.
"The nerve," Michael muttered, his voice shaking with a dangerous mix of anger and adrenaline. "The absolute, disgusting nerve of him. To come into my home. To sit on my furniture. And to look at you... to look at my wife like you were something he could analyze, something he could covet."
"Michael, baby, breathe," you said softly, stepping toward him. You weren't afraid of him; you knew his heart, knew that his anger was born out of a fierce need to protect you. "It's okay. He was just trying to get a reaction—"
"I am not angry with you, Angel," Michael interrupted quickly, his voice instantly softening as he turned to face you. He stepped toward you, his eyes wide, dark, and filled with a desperate devotion. He reached out, his large hands framing your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. "Never with you, my beautiful girl. Please know that. But the way he looked at you... it made my blood boil. He looked at your lips. He looked at your body. Thinking about what's mine. Thinking he had any right to even breathe the same air as you."
He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. "Do you know what that did to me? Sitting there, having to watch another man look at you like that?"
"Michael..." your voice was a breathy whimper. The sheer intensity radiating from him was making your heart race, a sudden, intoxicating heat pooling in your lower abdomen. You had never seen him quite this consumed by possessiveness, and it was deeply, thrillingly arousing.
"You are my wife," Michael growled softly, his voice dropping into a register so deep, so gravelly, it sent a shiver straight down your spine. His hands moved from your face, sliding down to grip your hips, his long, taped fingers digging into the fabric of your green dress, anchoring you to him. "You are mine. Every single inch of this beautiful, soft skin belongs to me. He has no right to look. Nobody does."
"I am yours," you gasped out, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his broad shoulders. "Only yours, Michael."
"Prove it to me then," he demanded, his voice a dark, sensual command. "Because right now, I feel like ripping the world apart, and the only thing that's going to stop me is making sure you remember exactly who you belong to."
Before you could answer, Michael’s mouth slammed down onto yours.
It wasn't his usual gentle, worshipful kiss. This was a bruising, dominant claim. He groaned into your mouth, his tongue forcing its way past your lips, tangling with yours in a desperate, hungry rhythm. His hands moved from your hips, sliding down to grip the underside of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, letting out a breathless sob into the kiss as he carried you the two steps to the bed, coming down over you like a dark wave.
The mattress swallowed you up, but Michael’s weight pressed you down, pinning you completely. He broke the kiss, panting heavily, his dark eyes burning into yours. His hands flew to the buttons of his crimson shirt, tearing them open with an impatient tug, sending a couple of buttons flying across the room. He threw the shirt off, exposing his lean, muscular chest, glistening with a light sheen of sweat.
He looked magnificent. Wild. Driven entirely by his love and desire for you.
"Michael, please," you begged, arching your hips up against his, feeling the heavy, thick ridge of his arousal pressing through his trousers straight against your center.
"Tell me what you want," Michael rasped, his hands grabbing the hem of your green dress and shoving it up past your hips, exposing your lace panties. His dark eyes roamed over your exposed thighs, his breath catching at the sight of you. "Tell me who takes care of you, princess."
"You do," you whimpered, your hands running over the smooth skin of his chest, your nails digging into his shoulders. "You take care of me."
"Say it," he whispered, his hand sliding up your thigh, his long fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your underwear, making you gasp and arch your back. "Let me hear it, baby."
You looked up into his intense, burning eyes, seeing the man who shielded you from the world, the man who provided everything, who demanded your total safety in his arms. The raw power dynamic shifted, settling into a deeply erotic rhythm.
"Daddy," you breathed, the word slipping out like a quiet prayer. "Please, Daddy. I need you."
A dark, triumphant smile tugged at the corner of Michael’s lips, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat. The word acted like gasoline on a fire. "That's my good girl," he purred, his voice dripping with a heavy, possessive praise that made your heart swell. "That's my girl. You don't ever look at another man, you hear me? You only look at me. I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this."
He slid his hand inside your panties, his long fingers instantly finding your slick, soaking heat. You cried out, your head tossing back against the pillows as he began to stroke you, his thumb rubbing circles over your center with an expert, heavy pressure.
"Look at me, baby," Michael commanded gently, his voice sharp but full of deep affection.
You forced your eyes open, blinking through the haze of pleasure, locking your gaze onto his.
"You're so wet for me, aren't you?" Michael murmured, watching your face twist with ecstasy as his fingers slid deeper inside you, stretching you, testing your readiness. "So tight. All made for me. Bashir can look all he wants, but he'll never know how sweet you taste. He’ll never know how you scream my name."
"Michael—Daddy, please, I'm going to—" You rocked your hips against his hand, the friction driving you over the edge.
"Hold it," Michael ordered, his fingers suddenly stopping, holding you right at the precipice. You let out a whimper of protest, your eyes pleading with him. "Not yet. I want to be inside you when you break. I want to feel every single squeeze."
With a speed that left you breathless, Michael reached down, unbuckling his belt and shoving his trousers and briefs down his legs. When he freed himself, he was thick, fully erect, and throbbing with a desperate need.
He positioned himself between your thighs, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling them back, opening you up completely to him. He looked down at the contrast of his pale hands against your rich, dark skin, a look of profound reverence passing over his face before the possessive hunger took over again.
"You belong to me," he whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Say it one more time."
"I belong to Daddy," you cried out, your hands gripping his hips, guiding him to your entrance. "Please, Michael, now!"
With a heavy, powerful thrust, Michael buried himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke.
The breath was completely knocked from your lungs. He was so big, so full, stretching you to your absolute limit. You let out a high-pitched cry, your fingers digging deep into the muscles of his back as your walls clamped tightly around him.
Michael let out a loud, ragged groan, his eyes snapping shut as he threw his head back, his neck straining. "God, baby... you're so tight... so perfect," he gasped out, his hips already beginning to move.
Driven by the lingering adrenaline and jealousy, his paces were hard, deep, and utterly possessive. Every thrust was a declaration, his heavy frame slamming against yours with a rhythmic, mesmerizing force. The headboard rattled against the wall, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room.
"Ah! Michael!" you screamed, your vision blurring as the pleasure washed over you in intense, electric waves. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, biting his skin to keep from screaming too loudly.
He loved it. He let out a dark laugh, his hands gripping your waist tightly, anchor lines holding you in place as he dominated your senses.
"That's it, take it all," Michael rasped, his pace quickening, becoming frantic, completely losing himself in the feel of your body. "Tell me who owns this body. Tell me!"
"You do! You do! Ah!"
Your words triggered your release. Your internal muscles clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic spasms. The pleasure was too intense, shattering your mind completely as a loud, sobbing cry escaped your lips.
Feeling the crushing, tight warmth of your orgasm, Michael lost all control. He let out a deep, primal roar, burying himself as deep as he could go, his hips stuttering as he came inside you. He poured himself into you, his length pulsing inside your warmth as he flooded you, his chest heaving heavily against yours.
He collapsed on top of you, taking care not to crush you, his face buried in your curls, both of you panting as the aftershocks of the climax rippled through your bodies.
The room was quiet now, save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon outside, casting long, golden shadows across the bedroom.
Michael slowly shifted his weight, rolling onto his side but keeping you securely tucked against him. His long arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your back against his chest in a tight, protective spooning position. He pulled the silk sheets up over both of your naked bodies, shielding you from the world once more.
He began to plant soft, apologetic kisses along your bare shoulder, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your stomach.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice returning to that soft, gentle melody you knew so well. "I didn't mean to be so rough with you, my beautiful girl. I never want to hurt you. I just... when I saw him looking at you like that... I lost my mind. The thought of anyone else thinking they can have a piece of what is ours..."
You turned your head slightly, kissing his jawline, feeling the smooth texture of his skin. "Don't apologize, Michael. I loved it. I needed to feel you, too. I'm yours. No one else matters. Let him look all he wants; he can never have this."
Michael smiled, a genuine, warm smile that finally filled his dark eyes with light. He squeezed you tighter, burying his face in the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, completely content.
"Tomorrow, Bashir will finish his interview," Michael murmured, a quiet, confident edge returning to his voice. "But he will look only at me. Because everyone in that room will know exactly who you belong to."
You smiled, closing your eyes, completely safe, completely worshiped, and entirely claimed by the man who held your heart.
Can you write a fanfic where reader calls Michael “sexy” and he gets all shy about it 🤭
݁ ˖Ი𐑼⋆ Dont say that ! • Michael x reader
⤷ ゛Synopsis ˎˊ˗ Michael seems to always get shy when you call him sexy no matter how long you two have been together !
𑣲⋆ warnings : None !
It was already way past your bedtime, long past the time when the sun had gone down, and the stars and moon came up for the night, signaling to all the night creatures that it was time to come out. The high-pitched sounds of crickets chirping outside the window made it even clearer that it was way past the time you usually slept. The light from your laptop veiled over the room as Michael sat with his glasses nearly slipping off his nose, taking his own trip down memory lane.
It all started with a simple video of him during his Jackson Five era. That iconic video of him in his purple hat, which sat at an angle on top of his small afro, singing "Who's Loving You."
“Aw, Mikey, you look so cute,” you pointed at the screen, giggling at how cute he looked with his big, round, doe-like eyes and his hat that seemed almost too big for his frame, but it was fitting for the time as he swayed to the music.
Then, the making of Thriller appeared in the YouTube suggestions, that big boyish grin on his face as John Landis flipped him upside down and he yelled out. His laughter cut through the speakers of your laptop.
“I had a lot of fun with Thriller,” he spoke, pointing at the screen and laughing at one of the moments on the screen.
“I really wanted people to create better.”
“What are you saying, the videos at the time were complete trash?”
“No, no, I didn't say that,” he put his hands up defensively, earning a laugh from you as you clicked on the next video of him during Bad era at Wembley. The giant belt strapped across the waistline of his black pants, paired with the thigh belts that were loosely strapped to his thighs, became the star of the show in your eyes.
"Oh, Mikey, you look really sexy here, still do too," you cooed, placing a hand on his arm as you nudged him.
"C'mon, don't say things like that."
"What? That you're sexy?" You teased lightly, watching that familiar look, like a boy whose crush just talked to him for the first time.
"Exactly, it makes me all shy. It's embarrassin" he nudged his glasses upwards, pushing them higher on the bridge of his nose as he tried his best to keep his composure
"We've been together this long, and you can't handle me calling you sexy?"
"It's still just as embarrassin as when you did it the first time."
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