.ᐟ.ᐟ TAKE CONTROL
BAD!MICHAEL JACKSON X READER michael leaves the grammys, dejected that he didn't win a single award after all his hard work. he's seething with rage, and the only thing that can make him feel better is you.
help i tried to write smut. this is my first smut trope on here and i think i got a lil carried away (idk i think i'm ovulating — was also listening to the weeknd whilst writing it oop) includes : dominating michael and submissive reader , rough and angry sex , spanking , emotionally hurt and vulnerable michael , self-blame. idk what else you put in smut descriptions. 18+ MDNI ( a ) ( s ) ( f ) ( 4.6k )
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From what you know, Michael doesn’t take losses well.
He often twists them into a fit of self doubt and deprecating thoughts. Blaming himself for his faults. His failures. That he's not good enough. That he didn't work hard enough. That he didn't perfect the moves of his choreography or the chorus of a song.
Oftentimes they're internalised, stuffed into a thick glass bottle that only you can see straight through. The only way to gain access is to smash through it with a large hammer, and even then sometimes it bounces off the surface like a bouncy ball, leaving you helpless in an attempt to enter the prism of his thoughts.
"Michael..." You're sitting in the back of a cab, the partition rolled up between you and the driver. Michael is beside you, still in his outfit from the Grammys, his legs angled away from you as he faces out the window with his chin resting on palm. His gaze is trained on the passing cars and buildings of New York, jaw clenched. "Talk to me..."
"There's nothin' to say," he simply responds, pushing himself closer to the window as though he couldn't bear to face you right now.
"You've always got something to say. Come on, lemme hear it." You're turning in your seat to face him full on, your hand reaching for his that rests lazily across his lap. He glances down when you interlace your fingers. "You can talk to me. You know that, right?"
Michael only hums as though he's uninterested, moving his hand away from your grasp and folding them both across his chest as he finally leans back to rest against the seat. A pair of sunglasses shield his eyes, much like the true emotions he hides from you right now. His bottom lip rolls into his mouth, biting down as though he's currently racking through his brain with thoughts you can't see. He's stiff. Rigid. And if you didn't know him any better, you would say that he's definitely mad.
But Michael isn't just mad, in fact, he's seething with rage. He stretches his hands that threaten to ball into fists with every passing moment, wanting to puncture the skin of his palms with his blunt nails to replace that pain with the ache in his chest. Control is limited and it takes him immense strength to not just turn around and yell at you, or better yet, crash his lips right against yours with fierce aggression to get you to shut up.
Sighing, you shift back into your seat and turn your head to look at the passing city lights as the night looms. But actually you're not watching them, you're staring at Michael's reflection in your window, how his attention has finally switched to you and his chest rises and falls with unsteady breaths.
You ignore him, just as he was ignoring you.
Minutes pass before you finally reach your hotel. Michael doesn't thank the driver like he normally does. Instead he gives a curt nod of recognition as you trail after him into the building. Also ignoring the concierge and hotel staff that never fail to greet him, he makes a beeline for the elevator without so much as waiting for you. "Michael, slow down!" But he doesn't respond as you slip in after him, the doors sliding shut as he presses a button to trap you in the confined space. Tension radiates from every pore in his body, nostrils flaring with every ragged breath as his eyes remain fixed ahead, away from you. "What's gotten into you?"
Again, he's only silent. At this point it's beginning to frustrate you. He won't talk or even look at you, as though you're the reason for his return without a single award after such a highly anticipated event. You're concerned for how he continuously buries his emotions beneath the ground and kicks over them with a layer of dirt, brushing it all off later like it was never a big deal in the first place. It's also just aggravating to see how your boyfriend won't listen to you, or even give a response to your words.
After the elevator reaches the top floor, he's the first to slip out and head straight down the corridor to your shared room. His loafers thud against the muffled carpet with his hurried steps before he unlocks the door, stepping inside for you to follow behind him just a moment later.
You click the door shut behind you and when you turn around, Michael is pacing the length of the small room. His hands thread into his curls, tugging softly before he switches to reaching over and ripping his sunglasses from his face. He tosses them somewhere onto the floor and they clatter against the hardwood as he rounds to the small two-seater in the corner, sitting down with his head buried in his hands.
You don’t move from your spot at the door. You've seen Michael angry before but it's always been about little things such as minor jealousy involving you or small frustrations over his busy schedule that he can easily amend. This is different. This is something completely out of his control and something that is not involving you in any way. Something that triggers the dedication and perfectionism within him because he thought he was doing good. He thought he was making history again. Breaking records, sealing more deals, gaining more awards.
Apparently it wasn't enough.
You're cautious to approach him when he's in such a vulnerable state, but when you do you take slow steps to stand at his side, hesitant to prod any further considering how he untangled your hands in the cab earlier. "Michael, baby... I'm really sorry about how this all turned out. Nobody saw this coming. It's not your fault." He answers you with a stretch of silence, and you take another step forward. "Tell me how I can make you feel better. Talk to me. What do you need—"
Your words catch in your throat when his head suddenly jerks up. "I don't know what I need. Okay? I don't know." His voice is sharp and loud, slicing directly through your gentle tone with a knife. His frustration has seeped to the top, overflowing with angry crimson bubbles. "All that... work. All those late nights, all that planning, all those blisters and aches and..." He rises to his feet, storming past you as he begins to pace again. "It still wasn't enough? Really? Y'know how much fucking time I spent on that album?"
You flinch when he curses considering how it's unusual to slip past his mouth even when he's in a fit of rage. He's staring at you as though he's waiting for an answer, his eyes dark and glossy with the onset of frustrated tears. You're taking a step forward in an attempt to comfort him. "Yes, Michael, I know—"
"No! You don't. Nobody does." His blunt voice causes you to swallow as he tears his gaze from yours and he steps away again. His tone is laced with anger but it's not directed at you, just frustration spilling out wherever it can. "I put my fucking heart and soul into my music. I spend hours and hours writing. Singing. Dancing. Rehearsing. But it's not enough. It's never enough. I have to do more." His footing stops at the window, the spread of New York city expanding far out of view.
"Michael, I hear you. Loud and clear. But it really isn't your fault. You're being too hard on yourself—"
"Don't," he snaps, his head flicking to you in a split second. Tears brim in his eyes. "Don't tell me I'm bein' too hard on myself. I'm not. I know my work and I know I haven't done enough. I can do better."
His words linger quietly. You're not quite sure how to respond to him. His anger is self-targeted and you don't think your involvement would help him change his mind. He's much too stubborn. "Michael, do you want me to give you some space? Should I leave?"
But then he's shaking his head, a hot stray tear spilling down his cheek as he faces the ground between you. "No, stay. Please." He wipes the tear away with the back of his hand, sniffling once. "I'm sorry. I'm just so... angry. I don't even know what to do with myself. I—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard. Then he closes the gap between you with a few long strides, his arms enveloping you in a bone-crushing hug. "I'm so sorry."
You manage to sneak your hands past the underside of his chest to return the embrace, but if anything the embrace is more so vicehold keeping you locked in place. His grip only tightens, his frustration slipping through into his actions yet he's still mindful not to hurt you. Head resting against your hair, heart thumping rapidly against his chest, he realises that even your soothing sway isn't enough to extinguish the fire within him.
He pulls back first, peering down at you with his hard dark eyes. "Tell me, how can I help you?" Your hand slithers up in the tight gap between you to rest on his cheek, thumb brushing the skin of his cheekbone and the further tears that have slipped past their barrier. "I'll do anything to make you feel better. Just tell me what you need."
His gaze draws over your face slowly, as though he's searching for something. Trailing from your eyes, to your nose and then to your lips, lingering there for seconds longer than normal. A breath of air passes them upon the weight of his stare. "Michael?"
And then his hands slide from their place on your back, one reaching up towards the back of your neck and the other heading down to your waist, wrapping around you firm and tight. Then he leans in, and his mouth crashes against yours in a bruising kiss. You're flush against him, following his lead as he further tilts his head for extended access. There's almost nothing gentle about it. It conveys every fiery emotion buried deep in his heart and every frustration from the night that slipped between his fingers. But it feels good. It feels wanted. Needed. Passionate.
Your arms wrap around his neck as he dips you down slightly. His kisses are fast, almost sloppy, and then he pulls you up, turning you both around and leading you backwards till you feel the cool glass against your spine all without breaking the kiss.
When you finally pull back for air, he stays close, murmuring against your lips, "look, I don't wanna argue. I don't wanna take anythin' out on you, I just..." His chest rises with a breath, his tongue darting out to leave a coat of sheen on his plump bottom lip before he rests his forehead against yours. You notice how his eyes are still glassy with resentment and leftover tears, but now there's something else burning in them. Something raw and hot and fierce. A feral, desperate hunger. Then his voice drops low, just above a whisper. "I need you. God, I need you."
His eyes flutter shut after his statement, body tightly pressed against yours and you’re afraid if he pushes any harder you might just break the glass of the window behind you. But how could you resist him when he’s being so vulnerable with you. “Have me,” you whisper back, holding him equally as tight. “I’m yours.”
Grabbing a hold of your hips, he quickly scoops you up before setting you down on the wall beside the bed. His large hand gently wraps around your throat, his thumb pushing your jaw so your cheek meets the cool wall. He leans over to hush in your ear, “tell me you want this, my love. Tell me you’re gonna let me have my way tonight. Tell me it’s okay for me to take control.”
You’re not exactly sure when the conversation escalated, but what you are sure of is the tingle that his soft yet dominating voice sends down your back and straight towards your core. His voice is dripping with arousal and longing. Your thighs squeeze together in growing need, your words simpering past with a soft gasp, “yes, baby. You can take control.”
“Good.” He relieves the pressure on your neck and your head turns back to face him before he crashes against your mouth together in another hot kiss. It moves with indiscernible urgency. His tongue swipes against yours, a hand drifting into your hair to tug gently, the other looping around your waist to set you flush against his growing bulge. When he breaks the kiss, your breaths are heavy, his lips wet and glossy when he murmurs against yours, “gonna fuck you so hard. Gonna make you scream so loud.” Another tingle sent down your spine. “And you’ll take it all, yeah? Cause you’re my sweet angel. My princess.”
Your eyes flutter shut upon hearing his words, your mouth parting with a breathy whimper. Michael’s been rough before, many times, but it’s never contained this amount of desperation. Something about his rawness has you yearning for more, but because he wants to take control, you don’t push any further. “Yes, Michael.”
And that’s all the confirmation he needs before he’s spinning you around to push your front up against the wall. He pins you with a hand wrapped around the back of your neck, his other trailing up the slit of your olive green slip dress. His fingers leave a touch of fire as they skim up your thigh, a finger curling around the waistband of your panties before he tugs them down. “Hm, bet you’re so wet already ‘n I’ve hardly touched ya. Am I right, angel?”
The combination of his filthy words and sweet pet names has you pushing back against him, arching in order to feel his thick bulge that presses against the seam of his trousers. “Yes.” You’re barely whispering, so tangled up in need. Your hands press up against the wall before you. “Mikey, fuck me. Please…”
“You looked so beautiful tonight.” His voice uses the same hushed tone as he lets your panties drop to the floor, barely giving you time to step out of them before his hand is slithering beneath the front of your dress to find your slit. A finger dips in between your folds to collect the wetness that has already pooled. "God, you're too generous." His free hand threads into your hair, pulling your head back. "All this for me?"
"All for you," you breathe out. He only hums as he swirls a finger around your clit with light pressure, circling it before edging down towards your entrance, the tip of his finger barely tipping past before he's trailing up again. "Baby, please."
He shushes your whining, removing both his hands from your body to hike up your dress. He pushes it over the curve of your ass, a breathy moan slipping past his lips at the sight of your plumpness. His fingers press into the soft skin to draw your cheeks apart and he leans over to gaze at your wetness that is practically dripping down and covering the inside of your thighs. Then he puffs cool air onto your slick heat, causing you to shiver. "Fuck—so beautiful. Tell me, who do you belong to?"
"You." The word passes quickly, desperate in an attempt to please him and stop his teasing. "I'm all yours, Michael."
He readjusts your dress to stay collected at your hips and then you hear the buckle of his belt behind you as he slides it off. The sound only has you further needy, back arching in chase of his hands or his cock to fill you up. He steps closer to you after freeing his length from the restriction of his trousers, pressing it up against the curve of your ass. His ankles nudge yours apart, your heels still on, before he dips the tip between your folds. One hand plants firmly against your hip beneath your bunched up dress, and the other guides his cock up and down, circling your clit before pressing his thick length up towards your entrance. "Look at you. My sweet angel, my beautiful princess. So needy. So filthy. Hm?"
Your whimpers melt into a moan when he finally pushes inside you. All the way. His thick, hard cock trapped between your slick walls. Throbbing at the pressure of your tightness, he guides himself out once slowly before burying back in, his gaze trained on the way your bodies meld into one. His free hand pushes your head against the hard wall, cold against your cheek. Then he does it again, although this time faster, gradually picking up speed each time he's thrusting in and out of you. Your mouth falls open at the speed but also at the hardness, the roughness of the pace, the way his whimpers melt in with yours to tangle together in your pleasure.
He pulls you back, arching your back further, your hands plant against the wall as both of his settle on your hips, fingers digging into your skin before he drives into you with a commanding force. The quick snap of your bodies together has you crying out with pleasure. He removes a hand from your hip to lift it up and smack it down against your cheek, hard. A moan filters past your lips at the resounding impact, his fingers reaching over to massage the soft skin before he does it again. And then once more. Your jaw drops open at the slight sting that has a familiar knot building up in your stomach. "Pretty, pretty girl. All mine,” you hear him grumble beneath grunts. A hand reaches over to swirl at your throbbing clit, the pressure continuing to build.
"Michael, I'm gonna..."
He retracts his hand immediately but his pace remains equally as brutal. "Already? Nuh-uh. Not until I say so. You're gonna hold it for me, yeah? Hold it for me whilst I fuck you hard against the wall. Aren't you, baby?"
You let out a quiet "yes" and finally turn to look at him over your shoulder with a pleading look. His curls are a mess, grazing his shoulders and sticking to his temples with sweat. His eyes meet yours, his bottom lip sucking between his teeth as his nostrils flare with a breath. The look on your face almost has him hurling towards his own orgasm.
Suddenly he pulls out, spinning you around to face him. The absence of his warmth inside you has you whining softly. "My beautiful girl's gonna have me cummin' too quick with that look." He chuckles darkly, lips hovering just above yours. "Lemme hold off a little longer. Get on the bed, clothes off."
You comply immediately, kicking off your heels and stepping out of your dress. Michael kicks off his loafers, stepping out of his trousers. He unbuttons his shirt and watches as you crawl onto the bed, peering down at his thick, swollen cock that leaks with your arousal with such patience.
Such a good girl. All for him.
"On your stomach."
You turn around, arms stretched above your head against the pillows whilst your knees bend, hips rising into the air. He groans behind you at the sight of you quietly presenting yourself to him. The bed dips down behind you with the weight of his body, his warmth approaching you from behind. His hand comes down to strike your ass once more, and then again, causing you to gasp. Then he quickly aligns his tip with your entrance before pushing back in. You moan at the feeling of him reentering your walls, his pace picking up exactly where it left off.
"Always so tight," he breathes out between snaps of his hips. "Always so good to me. Always listenin’. Such a good, good girl. Lettin' me use you. Lettin' me have my way. Tell me, whose pussy is this?"
"Fuck—yours," you moan between his deep strokes. "It's all yours, Michael."
Groaning at your words, his grip on your hips tighten hard enough to leave marks. "God, I needed this. Tell me you love it. Tell me you love it when I have my way with you, my precious baby."
"I love it." His filthy words mingled with sweet praises make it difficult for you to hold off your peak. "I love it. So much. Love being yours, Michael."
His response is a tangle of his hand into your hair, drawing your head up from its position muffled against the sheets. He leans down, his chest lowering to collide with your sweat slicked back, his other hand wrapping around your stomach to hold you in place. The new angle has him even deeper inside of you. The tip of his cock is pushing against a familiar spot that would have you writhing if it weren’t for his tight grip on you. "Good girl. Taking it just right." His breath tickles your ear, warm and soothing despite his unforgiving speed. "Just hold on a little longer for me, yeah? I know you're close."
You're unable to respond as he continues pounding into you at. The knot begins to form slowly and it takes all strength from you not to lean into the feeling of pleasure and climax on the spot. Your whimpers and moans gradually increase in frequency. "Michael, please. I can't—"
"Yes you can." He continues his deep strokes, tears brimming in the corners of your eyes as he begins to feel the onset of his own climax approaching. He lets out a wrecked moan then reaches around your body, fingers instantly finding your clit when he begins to rub quick, tight circles. "That’s it. Cum for me, pretty girl. Give it to me."
You let go. The pressure builds and builds till the coil in your belly snaps. Your orgasm comes in waves, rendering a loud cry from you along with his name spilling from your lips like a helpless prayer. Your walls clench around him, a grunt slipping past his lips. "Oh—fuck, Michael."
"You gonna take me?" He hushes into your ear as he rides out your high with his continued quickening pace. "Gonna take every single last drop of me, yeah princess?"
"Yes, please—I want it all." Your eyes flutter shut as he pushes your head into the sheets again, breathing heavy and hard. A moment later he lets out a loud groan, your name falling from his lips along with a string of praises as his thick, hot seed shoots and paints the inside of your walls. His cries are mixed with your own as his pace slows, his length twitching inside of you and his breathing ragged as he bathes in the glow of his climax.
He stills, catching his breath, eyes trailing over the expanse of your figure below him before he slides out with a hiss from the two of you. Immediately, he flips you over and collects you into his arms with a hug. You feel like jelly under his touch, your body heavy with the weight of both your climaxes and aftermath of his unforgiving pace. Yet it still felt good. It felt hot. And maybe, the most aggressive yet best sex you’ve had together.
"I'm sorry."
You're trying to even out your breathing when you pull back to take a look at him. His eyes, previously dark with a combination of frustration, need and hunger now only hold guilt with a hint of concern. "What do you mean?"
"I was so rough—I, I didn't mean to do that." His usual tone of voice is laced with a little sadness, his fingers threading through your hair to keep you close. "Did I hurt you?" His eyes trail down your body, past your exposed breasts and to your hips to see angry red marks, left on his own accord. "I did..."
"No, Michael. You didn’t hurt me, it's okay." You tuck a stray curl behind his ear, planting a kiss to his forehead as he continues to stare at your hips, his thumb soothing over the marks.
"It's not okay." He moves to set you down against the sheets, planting himself on his forearms to hover just about you. "I was too rough. I used you. God—I was so mad and upset and I just. . . I didn't even realise what I was doing and—"
"You didn't use me, sweetheart." You drag both your hands up the length of his arms and onto his shoulders before cupping both his cheeks. "I just gave you what you wanted. You've been rough before. This is no different."
"This is different." He shifts to move over the rest of your body, settling back so that his face lines with your stomach. His hands gently rest at the dip of your waist, his lips grazing over the faint marks littering your hips. "I've been rough before, I know. But that's just playin'. I'd never actually hurt you. But this time, I..." His eyes catch yours, gleaming with worry. "I took my anger out on you. I used you."
"Michael, no—come here." You tug on his arms to drag him back up, softness in your expression. "It was none of that, okay? Yes, you were mad. But I let it happen. I wanted to be there for you. Especially because you wouldn't talk to me."
His gaze falters from yours before he sighs, pulling away his weight to lay beside you. He pulls you in close, sliding an arm beneath your head and another around your waist. "I'm sorry for actin' like that before. I was just so angry... I was so in my own head. I didn't even know what t'think of it all."
You listen along, smoothing a hand up his arm. "That's completely understandable. What were you thinking?"
He pauses, taking in a deep breath. "I just... what if I never reach Thriller success again, y'know? What if it was a one off that, no matter how hard I work, I'll never reach that level again." He looks down at you, eyes searching yours as though you held all the answers. "What if that was it and my career is over?"
"Mikey..." You shake your head in the minimal space, your hand reaching up to feather through his curls. "If you're talking about winning a grammy, then you've already done that. You've won loads. You can't just let those awards define your worth." He listens intently as you continue. "You're incredible, Michael. Genuinely. I know how hard you work and you deserve the absolute world. I know you pour your heart and soul into your music. Everyone does. And you've got your entire career ahead of you. So many more opportunities and songs to be written." You plant a gentle kiss on his cheek. "It's okay to be mad. It's okay to be angry or sad. But just know that it's not the end. Okay?"
"Yeah." He releases a slow breath of air that tickles your temple, absorbing your words like a sponge for a few moments. "You're right, angel. You always are. I love you."
Then he draws you in for a kiss to your lips. It’s different from before, now sweet, breathy and soft. You pull back first to speak. "I love you too." A smile grazes his lips, and you're mirroring it, before yours slowly morphs into a cheeky smirk. "By the way, that was possibly the hottest sex we've ever had."
He bursts into a surprised laugh, one that rumbles in his chest and bubbles out between his perfect white teeth. "Yeah? You liked that?" He licks his bottom lip, biting it gently between his teeth before speaking again. "Maybe I should be mad more often."
Your eyes flick between his devilish stare and heart shaped mouth, leaning in again. "Hm, maybe you should."
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