love is my message @bambisfantasticfish - Tumblr Blog

𝑔et 𝑜n 𝓉he 𝒻loor !

𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : michael is over at your house and gets inspired for his song get on the floor. 𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : established relationship. childhood sweethearts. smut. mutual masturbation. no p in v. michael & reader are talkers. praise. dirty talk. teasing. fingering. handjob. intense making out. squirting for the first time. reader thinks she's gonna pee. michael is in awe. nicknames 𓏽 ♫ 𝟗.𝟑𝓀 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི : new series? 🎧ྀི

𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist

﹕ ||☰ recovered 𝒹iar𝓎 entr𝓎 no. 𝟐𝟗

꒰𝓈tatus : 𝑢𝑛𝑝𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘩𝑒𝑑 ⤦

⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝒻𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝟐𝟒, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗

❝ I had an amazing day today. I was working on the album, but I was getting frustrated with myself again. I kept rewriting things and listening back to the same parts over and over because I wanted it to be right. I know I put too much pressure on myself sometimes, but I really want this album to be something special. My baby noticed, of course. She always does. She was sorting through her records while I was sitting on her bed with my notebook, and she kept trying to talk to me even though I was barely paying attention. She laughed because I kept answering with “mhm” without actually listening. She knows me too well. Tink asked me to play the demo for her, and I was a little nervous because it wasn’t finished yet. I don’t mind people hearing my music when it’s done, but letting someone hear it while it’s still being created feels different. It’s not perfect yet. But she listened, and she smiled. She told me she liked it and that it made her want to dance. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me up from the bed. I laughed because she always knows how to get me out of my head. We just danced around her room, teased each other, and had fun. For a while, I forgot about worrying if the song was good enough. I’m lucky to have someone like her. She doesn’t just support the music. She supports me when I’m stressed, when I’m overthinking, and when I don’t believe in myself enough. Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself. And then I just couldn't resist her. I never can. I love my beautiful girl so much. I kissed her until we both couldn't breath anymore. I always get like this when it's just the two of us. I think it was also a wonderful day for her too. Things got intense quickly. When I pleasured her, she was starting to panic. She got so scared because she felt like she was losing control she thought she was going to have an accident. But I just held her close and told her she didn't have to be afraid, that I didn't care about any mess as long as she let herself feel good. I just my angel to feel safe with me. When she finally let go, it was more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. She completely surrendered, and she just... she released everything. She sprayed everywhere, soaking the sheets and even getting on me, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. I was just in awe of her. I've never seen anyone so vulnerable and so powerful at the same time. ❞

Michael had somehow managed to occupy nearly every inch of your bed despite lying there alone.

Sheets that had been neatly tucked that morning were now creased beneath him, pillows haphazardly stacked behind his back to prop him upright while one long leg hung lazily over the side of the mattress. Beside him sat an ever-growing collection of loose papers, each one crowded with hurried lyrics, crossed-out verses, scattered arrows and little musical notes that only he himself seemed capable of deciphering. Some pages had already been discarded entirely, crumpled into imperfect balls that littered your bedroom floor like casualties of an invisible war.

The only page he seemed intent on protecting rested neatly inside the leather notebook balanced upon his knee.

Your birthday gift.

Months ago, after growing tired of watching him scribble melodies onto napkins, envelopes, receipts and the backs of grocery lists—only to spend the next week frantically searching for whichever scrap of paper held that one lyric—you'd surprised him with the journal. Rich brown leather, soft beneath his fingertips, his initials embossed discreetly into the corner.

He'd smiled so brightly that afternoon you thought he might cry.

It hadn't been an expensive gift by any means. Just a sturdy leather-bound notebook, warm brown beneath his fingertips, with creamy pages thick enough to withstand the relentless scratching of his pencil. You'd spent far longer choosing it than anyone reasonably should have, standing in little stationery shops with your thumb brushing over countless covers until you'd finally found one that reminded you of him. Simple. Timeless. Something that looked as though it belonged in the hands of someone destined to fill it with songs.

At first he'd simply stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the notebook again.

"You... got this for me?"

You'd laughed softly. "I did, baby. Well, unless somebody else has been hiding in my house, waitin' to give you birthday presents."

He hadn't even smiled immediately. Instead, he'd run his palm slowly across the leather as though afraid pressing too firmly might somehow damage it, before carefully opening the first page. His fingertips lingered over the untouched paper for a long moment.

"It's so nice," he'd murmured, almost to himself. You'd watched him with an amused smile.

"It's just a notebook, you goof."

"I know," he'd replied quietly, still turning the pages one by one. "I've just... nobody ever though of buying me somethin' thoughtful as this. Thank you, baby"

Not because the notebook was extraordinary—it wasn't—but because it had never once crossed your mind that something so ordinary could be unfamiliar to him. Michael, who filled page after page with melodies and fragments of poetry, who carried music around in his head from sunrise until long after midnight, had somehow never owned a place that belonged solely to those thoughts. You remembered reaching over then, gently nudging his shoulder.

"Well..." you'd smiled. "Now you've got somewhere to keep all those genius ideas instead of writing them on the backs of shopping lists."

That finally coaxed a laugh from him.

"I don't write on shopping lists."

You'd simply raised an eyebrow at that.

"Well...not often."

"You wrote a chorus on my electric bill last week."

"It was the only paper I could find," He argued back.

"And then you nearly threw it away."

"'Cause I forgot it was the electric bill!"

You'd shaken your head with a laugh while he grinned sheepishly, already clutching the notebook against his chest like something precious.

"Guess I won't lose 'em anymore."

Of course, the notebook hadn't managed to cure him entirely.

Inspiration, you'd quickly learned, was an impatient thing. It cared very little whether Michael happened to have the journal within arm's reach, and even less whether the nearest writing surface was appropriate. If a melody arrived while the two of you were eating breakfast, he'd seize the closest napkin before the thought had time to disappear. If an idea struck during a drive across Los Angeles, the nearest petrol receipt would become home to hastily scribbled lyrics, slanted diagonally across the paper because he'd forgotten there wasn't enough room. More than once you'd discovered little scraps tucked absentmindedly into the pockets of his jackets, or folded so many times over that you wondered how he'd ever expected to read them again.

"You are impossible, bambi" you'd sighed one evening after rescuing a verse from the back of yesterday's newspaper before it disappeared into the rubbish.

Michael had looked up from where he'd been searching beneath your sofa cushions for another missing page.

"I know where everything is."

"You've been looking for that lyric for twenty minutes."

"...I know where most everything is."

But whenever the songs mattered—whenever he wasn't merely chasing inspiration but inviting it to stay—he always reached for the notebook first.

It rested across his lap now, its once-pristine pages softened by months of use, little corners bent from being carried between studios and your house, the leather worn smooth wherever his thumb habitually rested while he thought. It had become less a birthday present and more an extension of him, holding pieces of songs long before anyone else would ever hear them.

Today, however, the notebook seemed to be testing him. What had once become a place of comfort, now lay open across his lap with pages that refused to cooperate, its cream-coloured paper gradually disappearing beneath relentless scratches of graphite and heavy lines drawn through verses that had only existed for mere moments before being condemned. Every now and then Michael would pause, his pencil hovering uncertainly over the page as he quietly mouthed a lyric to himself, hearing it exactly as it sounded inside his mind. Then came the inevitable disappointment. His brows would pinch together almost imperceptibly, the pencil would move once more, and another thought would disappear beneath a thick, impatient strike before he flipped to a fresh page with a sigh that grew progressively heavier as the afternoon wore on.

You knew better than to assume the words themselves were bad. In truth, if somebody else had happened upon those discarded pages, they likely would've found perfectly respectable lyrics scattered across them. The problem had never been whether Michael could write a good song. The problem was that good had never once satisfied him. Somewhere inside his head existed a version of every melody that was brighter, fuller, more alive than anything he seemed capable of translating onto paper, and until those two versions matched, he simply refused to settle. It was a habit that had followed him for as long as you'd known him, though lately it had begun to consume him with a fervour you hadn't witnessed before.

That was hardly surprising. Off the Wall wasn't simply another album to Michael. If anything, calling it merely an album felt like diminishing everything it represented. This wasn't another Jacksons record where responsibility was shared amongst his brothers, nor another Motown project carefully shaped beneath the opinions of executives who had spent years deciding what Michael Jackson ought to sound like. This was the first time he had been handed genuine creative freedom, the first time people were asking him what he wanted his music to be. Quincy Jones had seen something inside him that so few people had ever truly acknowledged—not simply a gifted singer, but an artist with instincts worth trusting—and Michael carried that belief with equal measures of gratitude and pressure. He wanted to prove that Quincy's faith hadn't been misplaced. More importantly, he wanted to prove it to himself.

Over the past several weeks, you'd watched that determination quietly bleed into every aspect of his life. Music had become something he carried with him rather than something he left behind at the studio. He'd arrive at your house with melodies already tumbling around inside his head, absentmindedly drumming complicated rhythms against your kitchen counter while waiting for the kettle to boil, stopping halfway through conversations because a line had suddenly appeared in his mind and simply couldn't wait to be written down. There had been mornings where you'd woken before him only to discover he wasn't beside you anymore, finding him instead sitting cross-legged at your dining table in yesterday's clothes, curls sticking out in every direction, completely oblivious to the cold cup of coffee he'd made for himself hours earlier. Inspiration seemed incapable of respecting ordinary routines, and Michael, in return, refused to ignore it whenever it arrived.

It was one of the things you admired most about him. There was something endlessly beautiful about the way music seemed to exist as naturally within him as breathing itself. Yet admiration didn't stop your heart from aching whenever that same devotion began turning against him. For every evening he'd rushed through your front door with a grin so infectious that he could hardly get his words out quickly enough before humming a new melody into your ear, there was another like today, where every crossed-out lyric seemed to convince him he was somehow drifting further away from the masterpiece he knew he was capable of creating. It was in those moments that you were reminded just how much of himself Michael poured into his art. He wasn't merely writing songs. Piece by piece, he was trying to introduce the world to the man he was becoming.

While Michael attempted to wrestle inspiration onto paper, you had resigned yourself to an entirely different task.

Your record collection had become an absolute disaster over the last several months, sleeves shoved wherever there'd happened to be room after late evenings spent searching for a particular album, promising yourself each time that you'd organise them properly another day. That day, it seemed, had finally arrived. The floor beside your shelves had disappeared beneath little piles of vinyl, separated only by whichever system made the most sense inside your own head. Soul together, disco together, funk together. Every so often you'd pause, smiling fondly as your fingers traced over an album cover you'd not pulled out in months before carefully returning it to its rightful place.

Music had always found a home in your house, long before Michael had begun spending half his life there. Now, though, the rooms seemed incapable of existing without him filling them with melodies of his own. You smiled to yourself as you pulled another record from the shelf.

"Oh, I forgot I had this one."

Michael hummed absentmindedly from somewhere behind you.

"Mhm."

You glanced over your shoulder. He hadn't even looked up. His notebook remained balanced upon his knee, his pencil tapping softly against his bottom lip while his brows knitted together in concentration.

"You didn't even ask what it was."

"...What is it?"

You laughed.

"Too late."

Another quiet mhm.

That one almost made you giggle. He wasn't listening to a word you were saying at all. You turned your attention back towards the shelves, humming softly as you slid the record into its place before pulling another from the pile. Marvin Gaye. Stevie Wonder. Earth, Wind & Fire. Bee Gees... Little by little, the shelf began looking far less chaotic than it had an hour ago. Behind you, however...

Scratch. Scratch, scratch.

A sigh.

The cassette player clicked as Michael rewound the tape.

Again.

The same few seconds drifted through your bedroom before abruptly stopping.

Scratch.

Another sigh.

You paused, another record halfway back into its sleeve. For a few moments you simply listened. The music. The scratching of graphite.

The occasional impatient exhale that Michael himself probably didn't even realise he was making. He'd been at it for nearly two hours now.

"Angelface?"

"Hm?"

"Y'know..." You smiled faintly, turning another record over in your hands. "If you keep frownin' like that, your face is gonna get stuck."

This time, he did look up. The smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before disappearing almost as quickly as it'd arrived.

"'m alright."

"You sure?"

"Mhm."

His eyes had already returned to the page. You watched him for another quiet moment. The way he unconsciously bit at the inside of his cheek. The way his pencil hovered uncertainly before another line was scratched out. The way he leaned back against your headboard with a frustrated sigh that sounded heavier than the last.

Who was he kidding.

You gently slid the final record into place before dusting your hands together, remaining seated on the floor as you looked over at him.

"Peter Pan."

"Mhm?"

"You've said 'mhm' about seventeen times in the last five minutes."

That earned you a proper laugh.

"...Sorry."

"You don't gotta apologise." You tilted your head, studying him with the quiet fondness that always softened your expression whenever he became lost inside his own head.

"I just..." You shrugged lightly. "You're usually excited when you're writin'. Makes me sad to see you all distressed."

Michael's smile faded again. His fingers absentmindedly closed the notebook before opening it once more. For a little while he said nothing. You'd long since learnt that Michael wasn't someone who spoke simply because silence had become uncomfortable. If there were words, he'd find them eventually. If there weren't, you'd happily sit beside him until there were.

Finally, he let out a slow breath.

"'m scared."

The confession was so quiet you almost wondered whether he'd meant to say it aloud. He looked down at the notebook resting in his lap, running his thumb along its worn leather cover.

"I want this album t' be..." He paused, searching for words that felt big enough. "...Everythin'."

"It will be."

"But what if it isn't?"

His voice cracked ever so slightly.

"What if people hear it and just..." He shrugged helplessly. "...Don't care."

You frowned.

"Oh, Mikey..."

He shook his head before you could answer, "I know, I know... Quincy keeps tellin' me not t' think like that." A humourless chuckle escaped him. "Says I'm my own worst critic."

"He'd be right."

"I just..." He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "This one's different, baby. This one's mine."

You understood exactly what he meant.

This wasn't another Jacksons record, where the weight of success rested upon six pairs of shoulders instead of one. Nor was it another chapter in the life of the little boy who had spent years standing in front of microphones, singing words somebody else had written, beneath the watchful eyes of producers, executives and, above all, his father. For the first time in his life, Michael was being asked what he wanted to say. What he wanted to sound like. Every decision, every lyric, every melody would ultimately lead back to him.

When people held this record in their hands, there would be no brothers standing beside him, no familiar family name to soften either praise or criticism. Across the front cover would be just two words—Michael Jackson—and with those two words came every hope he'd carried since he was a little boy dreaming far beyond the walls of his childhood bedroom.

He wanted to prove that he was more than a child star. More than Joe Jackson's son. More than the lead singer of a family band. He wanted the world to finally see him as the artist he knew, somewhere deep inside himself, he was capable of becoming. And that was precisely why nothing he wrote ever seemed good enough—not because it lacked quality, but because he refused to let this moment become anything less than extraordinary.

It pained you to watch him carry that weight so quietly.

You understood why this album mattered to him. In truth, nobody understood it better than you. You had watched him speak about it for months with stars in his eyes, watched him excitedly ramble about working with Quincy until words tripped over one another in his haste to get them all out. There had been evenings where he'd burst through your front door before you'd even had a chance to greet him, immediately launching into animated explanations of new arrangements they'd experimented with, or a bassline he simply couldn't stop thinking about. His enthusiasm was infectious; whenever Michael spoke about music, it was impossible not to fall in love with it yourself.

Which was exactly why seeing him like this hurt.

His excitement hadn't disappeared. If anything, it had grown so large that it had begun collapsing in on itself, every ounce of passion slowly transforming into pressure. The closer Off the Wall came to becoming reality, the more determined he became to ensure it deserved to exist. Every lyric had to mean something. Every melody had to feel alive. Every song had to earn its place. He wasn't chasing perfection because somebody else demanded it of him anymore. The voice urging him onwards now belonged entirely to himself.

You looked around your bedroom for a moment, smiling softly despite yourself.

The room had become such a reflection of the two of you. Your records lay scattered neatly across the floor in organised little piles, waiting patiently to be returned to their shelves, while Michael's side of the room looked as though a small hurricane had swept through it. Crumpled pages surrounded the bed, his jacket had somehow found its way over the back of your desk chair, and three sharpened pencils lay abandoned atop your duvet despite the one tucked securely between his fingers.

He always did leave little pieces of himself wherever he went.

You reached for another record, smiling fondly as your thumb brushed over its worn cardboard sleeve.

"I haven't listened to this one in forever." Michael hummed distractedly.

"Mhm."

You raised an amused eyebrow.

"'Mhm' again?"

That earned you the faintest smile.

"...Sorry."

"No, you're not."

"...No."

His answer came so quickly that you couldn't help laughing.

"There he is."

"What?"

"My Bambi."

Michael finally looked up properly, confusion giving way to a sheepish little smile as he watched you holding the record against your chest.

"You disappear when you get like this," you said gently. "I keep tryin' t' talk to you and all I get is..." You lowered your voice into a teasing imitation. "'Mhm.'" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking adorably guilty.

"I don't even realise I'm doin' it."

"I know."

"You aren't mad?"

You stared at him for a second before breaking into a smile.

"Baby..." You shook your head. "How could I be mad at you for thinkin' too much?"

His shoulders loosened just enough for you to notice. Still, the notebook remained open in his lap, his eyes drifting back towards the half-finished page as though it were pulling him away from the conversation. Even now, while he was looking directly at you, you could almost see the gears turning behind those dark eyes, another lyric trying desperately to piece itself together.

You'd seen that look before.

It usually meant he needed someone to gently pull him back into the room.

You'd learnt early on that there was very little use in trying to compete with the music whenever it wrapped itself around Michael's mind like this. If a melody refused to leave him alone, no amount of coaxing would persuade him to forget about it. Equally, telling him to simply stop worrying was perhaps the least effective advice one could give. Michael had never known how to switch his mind off. He loved too deeply, thought too deeply, dreamt too deeply. felt too deeply. It was one of the many reasons you adored him so much, but it also meant that every disappointment—no matter how small—seemed to linger inside him far longer than it ought to.

What he needed wasn't a solution. He needed permission to breathe.

Your gaze drifted towards the little cassette player perched beside him on the bed, the tape inside no doubt having been rewound so many times that afternoon it was beginning to protest. You'd lost count of how many snippets of unfinished melodies had floated through your bedroom over the last few hours, each one cut short before it had truly begun as Michael searched for whatever elusive feeling refused to reveal itself.

A small smile tugged at your lips.

"Hunny?"

He looked up almost immediately this time.

"Mhm?"

You reached over, gently plucking the pencil from between his fingers before he could absentmindedly return it to the page. His brows lifted ever so slightly, though he made no attempt to take it back.

"I think your notebook deserves a lil' vacation."

A soft huff of laughter escaped him.

"...A vacation?"

"Mhm."

"'Cause I've been workin' it too hard?"

"'Cause you've been workin' it too hard."

His eyes softened, and for the first time all afternoon, the corners of his mouth stayed lifted for longer than a second. You set the pencil atop the notebook before nodding towards the cassette player.

"Play it for me, baby."

His expression immediately turned bashful.

"Huh? The demo?"

"The one you've been drivin' yourself crazy over."

"It isn't finished."

"I know."

"It still needs a lot."

"It probably does."

He blinked.

"...That's not very encouragin'."

You laughed.

"It wasn't supposed t' be."

He couldn't help smiling properly now, his dimples finally making an appearance.

"I just mean..." You shifted closer, resting your chin against the edge of the mattress as you looked up at him. "You've been sittin' here listenin' to the same few seconds over and over again that I don't think you're hearin' it anymore. Lemme hear it."

Michael looked down at the cassette player, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. There was something strangely vulnerable about playing unfinished music for somebody else.

The world would one day hear polished arrangements, perfected vocals and lyrics that had survived countless revisions, but this... this was different. This was raw. Bare. A song still finding its feet, uncertain of what it wanted to become. Letting somebody into that process felt oddly intimate, as though he were asking you to look inside his mind before he'd had the chance to tidy it. Not that he'd ever minded you seeing those parts of him.

Quite the opposite. If there was one opinion Michael trusted above all others, it was yours.

Not because you always praised him—you didn't. In fact, there had been more than one occasion where you'd wrinkled your nose, told him a lyric sounded clumsy, or admitted that a melody hadn't quite caught your ear. You'd never been cruel, but you'd always been honest, and that honesty had become something he relied upon. There wasn't a trace of ego between the two of you when it came to his music. He wanted your genuine reaction, not your reassurance.

After a moment, he finally reached for the cassette player.

"...Okay." His thumb hovered over the play button.

"But y' gotta promise not t' laugh."

You looked at him in mock offence.

"I have never laughed at your music."

"You laughed at that one love song."

"'Cause you rhymed fire with desire."

"It worked."

"It was painfully obvious."

Michael pointed at you with narrowed eyes.

"I still think it worked."

You grinned, "And I still think Quincy would've thrown that page straight in the trash." He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against your headboard.

"Baby..."

"What?"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, of course."

You reached over, smoothing one of his little curls away from his forehead.

"Always yours."

With a quiet exhale, he pressed play.

he familiar hiss of the cassette filled the room for a brief moment before it gave way to the music, rough around the edges in all the ways unfinished songs often were. There were no polished vocals, no perfected arrangement, no final flourishes Quincy would inevitably insist upon before the record was complete. It was little more than an idea caught on tape—a groove searching for its identity, instruments feeling one another out, melodies still deciding where they belonged. Yet to you, it already possessed something unmistakably Michael. Even stripped bare, there existed a buoyancy to the rhythm that seemed incapable of sitting still, a brightness that filled your little bedroom as effortlessly as the afternoon sun pouring through the curtains. It made the room feel alive.

Neither of you spoke.

Michael watched your face expression intensely

His dark eyes scarcely left your face, searching for the tiniest shift in your expression with an attentiveness that would've made anybody else nervous. You, however, had long since grown accustomed to it. This was how he'd always shown you his music. He never listened to your words first; he listened to your face. Whether your eyebrows lifted at an unexpected chord, whether your lips pursed thoughtfully at a lyric, whether your fingers unconsciously began keeping time against your leg. Long before you ever voiced an opinion, Michael had usually gathered one of his own simply by watching you exist within his songs.

You hardly realised you were moving.

It began with nothing more than your foot, tapping lazily against the floorboards in quiet companionship with the beat. Then your shoulders followed, rocking ever so slightly, your head beginning to nod without permission as a smile slowly, almost absentmindedly, found its way across your face.

There was something infectious about the groove. It wasn't loud, nor particularly complicated in its current state, but it had attitude. It had swagger. It felt playful in a way that made you want to grin for reasons you couldn't quite explain. Michael noticed immediately.

"...You like it?"

His voice was almost hesitant. You turned to him, surprised he'd interrupted the music.

"Hm?"

"The song." He scratched lightly at the back of his neck.

"Do y'..." He shrugged one shoulder, unable to hide the uncertainty colouring his expression. "Do y' like it?"

You stared at him for a second before softly laughing through your nose.

"Baby."

"What?"

"You've been watchin' me this whole time."

"...Maybe."

"And?"

His lips twitched.

"I wanna hear y' say it."

Your smile only widened.

"I think it's wonderful."

Relief flickered across his face so quickly that it almost escaped notice.

"It sounds..." You looked back towards the little cassette player, listening more carefully now as another section rolled by. "...Happy." Michael tilted his head.

"Happy?"

"Mhm." You nodded thoughtfully. "Not childish. Just..." You searched for the right word, your fingertips still absentmindedly marking the rhythm against your knee. "...Free. Like it doesn't care who's watchin'."

His eyes softened. That was exactly the feeling he'd been chasing. You hadn't known that, of course. You simply heard it.

"You really think so?"

"I do." You smiled, your eyes drifting back towards the cassette player as the groove filled the room once more. There was something undeniably infectious about it. Even unfinished, it possessed a rhythm that seemed to slip beneath your skin before you even realised it, coaxing movement from places entirely beyond your control. Your foot had been keeping time almost since the music began, and now your shoulders followed, swaying ever so gently as you sat beside him.

Michael noticed. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"You're dancin'."

You blinked.

"What?"

"You are."

You looked down at yourself, only then realising your knee had been bouncing with the beat.

"...Oh."

"Told y'."

"I didn't even notice." His grin widened, the first truly carefree smile you'd seen on him all afternoon.

"I did."

You laughed softly, unable to help yourself as the rhythm continued carrying you along. "Well..." You shrugged, still absentmindedly bobbing your head. "Can you blame me?"

He watched you for another moment.

"...No."

"It just..." You searched for the words, looking towards the cassette player again. "I dunno, Mickey. It makes me wanna move."

Michael's smile softened.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"It's not finished."

"I don't care."

Your answer came without hesitation. The simplicity of it made something inside him loosen. You looked back at him then, only to find him still sitting exactly where he'd been for the last two hours—criss cross applesauce atop your bed, notebook forgotten beside him now, though the crease between his brows had finally disappeared.

You smiled to yourself before climbing to your feet, smoothing imaginary creases from your jeans as the music continued to play. Michael watched curiously.

"What're y' doin'?"

You held a hand out towards him.

"C'mere."

He looked from your hand to your face.

"...Why?"

"'Cause."

"That's not an answer."

"It is today."

A quiet laugh escaped him, though he made no move to stand.

"'m serious."

"So am I."

He raised an amused eyebrow.

"What if I don't wanna?"

You gasped dramatically.

"Oh, don't be such a grouch."

"'m not a grouch."

"You've been sittin' in one spot pouting at that notebook for two hours."

"I was not poutin'."

"Michael."

"...Maybe a little."

You wiggled your fingers at him impatiently.

"C'mon."

Michael looked at your outstretched hand for another second before slipping his own into it. His long, slender fingers curled naturally around yours, warm as always, and with only the gentlest tug you pulled him up from the bed. He laughed under his breath.

"You are so bossy."

"And you're stallin'."

"I just don't know what we're doin'."

You stepped backwards, still holding onto his hands, a mischievous smile spreading across your face as the rhythm continued spilling from the cassette player.

"c'mon..." you said, giving his hands another playful tug.

"Just get on the floor 'nd dance with me."

Michael laughed.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm."

"You really just want t' dance?"

You beamed at him.

"That's what music's for, isn't it?"

Before Michael had the chance to answer, you gave his hand another gentle tug, encouraging him away from the bed and onto the open space of your bedroom floor. He came willingly this time, though not without an amused shake of his head, his notebook forgotten amongst the rumpled blankets where it'd occupied him all afternoon.

"You are unbelievable," he laughed, still allowing you to lead him.

"I've been told."

"Mostly by me."

"And yet you keep comin' back."

"I do."

"You must like me."

Michael looked at you with mock contemplation.

"...A little."

You gasped dramatically.

"A little?"

"Mhm."

"That's all?"

He couldn't suppress the grin spreading across his face.

"I'll let your ego wonder."

"Oh, you're awful."

"So I've been told."

"Mostly by me."

The music continued to drift through the speakers, its steady groove wrapping itself around the two of you as naturally as conversation always seemed to. There wasn't any choreography, nor any concern over whether either of you looked particularly graceful. You simply moved however the rhythm asked you to, swaying opposite one another with easy smiles, your joined hands occasionally pulling one another into little spins before finding each other again.

You'd always loved dancing with Michael.

Not because he was extraordinary at it—though he certainly was—but because he never danced at you. There was no performance when the two of you were alone, no audience to impress, no expectation to be perfect. The polished precision that captivated crowds gave way to something softer within the walls of your home. He laughed when he missed a step. He exaggerated little movements simply to make you laugh. Sometimes he'd deliberately copy your sillier dance moves with complete seriousness until you were giggling too hard to remain standing. Today proved no different.

"You call that dancin', girl?" he teased, raising an eyebrow as you bounced your shoulders with exaggerated enthusiasm. You narrowed your eyes.

"It absolutely is."

"It looks more like..." He demonstrated your movement with shameless exaggeration, earning an immediate laugh from you. "...Whatever that is."

You pointed accusingly at him.

"Oh, don't start."

"'m not starting anythin'."

"You are."

"I merely made an observation."

"You're a mean."

"So you keep tellin' me."

You rolled your eyes affectionately before slipping your hand from his and turning away from him with an intentionally dramatic flourish, letting the music carry you as you spun across the floorboards. The movement was playful more than anything, your laughter filling the room as you swayed your hips a little more dramatically than before simply because you knew he was watching. Behind you, Michael let out a soft whistle.

"Mmm..."

You glanced back over your shoulder.

"What?"

A mischievous smile slowly tugged at his lips, his eyes sparkling now in a way they hadn't all afternoon.

"I like the way you shake your thing, baby."

You burst into laughter.

"My thing?"

He immediately covered his face with one hand, already laughing at himself.

"'m sorry. it jus' slipped out."

"You mean my ass?"

He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly unashamed despite the ridiculousness of the phrase.

"...It sounded better in my head."

"Oh, Mikey," you giggled, walking back over to him. "You're hopeless."

"I know."

"No, really."

"I know."

Still smiling, you reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt where it'd twisted from dancing, your fingertips brushing lightly over the fabric. Michael watched you quietly, his grin softening into something infinitely more affectionate as your eyes met again.

"You know," you murmured, now closer to his face, "I think I like this version of you a whole lot better."

He tilted his head.

"What version?"

"The one that laughs."

His expression gentled.

"So do I."

Without breaking eye contact, Michael reached out, his hands finding your waist with a familiarity that felt like coming home. He didn't pull you close with any force or demand; instead, his touch was tentative, almost reverent, as if he were still awed by the simple fact that you were standing there, swaying with him in the quiet of the room. His thumbs traced idle, lazy circles against the fabric of your shirt, seeking out the heat of your skin beneath.

"You're so beautiful, hunny," he murmured, now suddenly feeling completely overwhelmed by you. "Sometimes I gotta remind myself 'm not dreamin'"

A soft laugh bubbled up in your throat as you leaned into him, closing the scant distance between your bodies. "You're not dreaming, baby. 'm right here."

When your lips finally met, it wasn't the desperate, bruising kiss of someone starved, but something far sweeter a slow, exploratory press that tasted of comfort and promise. It started soft, but as your arms wound around his neck and your fingers tangled in those familiar curls at the nape of his neck, the kiss deepened. Michael let out a shaky exhale against your mouth, a sound that was half sigh and half whimper as he surrendered to the sensation.

The dance continued, though the rhythm had shifted from something structured to something primal and instinctive. You both swayed softly from side to side, your hips rolling in lazy synchronization with the music that seemed to fade into the background of your own shared breath. Michael pulled you closer to remove every possible millimeter of air between you, seeking the friction of your bodies as you moved.

His mouth wandered from yours to the corner of your lips, then down to the sensitive sensitive line of your jaw, leaving trails of wet, heated kisses in his wake. "I love you so much it hurts sometimes, angel," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and uneven. "I really do."

The make out session grew more passionate, tongues tangling and teeth clashing in a wet, rhythmic dance that mirrored the swaying of your bodies. Every time you pressed closer, Michael would respond with a needy little hum, his hands sliding down from your waist to splay across the small of your back, holding you.

Michael's mouth left yours only to trail along the sensitive column of your throat, and you hummed at the sensation. His teeth grazing your skin with just enough pressure to make your knees weaken. Hands sliding lower to cup the swell of your ass through your clothes, guiding your hips to roll against his in a way that made the friction feel almost sinful.

"You got that look in your eyes again, baby," he murmured against your pulse point, his breath hot and unsteady. "That look like you're plannin' something. Makes my head spin just thinkin' 'bout what you're gonna do to me once we get past this music."

You let out a breathless laugh, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers tightening their grip on his shoulders. "Maybe I am. Can you blame me? Look at how you're holding me. You're acting like you're scared 'm gonna float away if you let go for even a second."

You leaned down to nip at his earlobe, feeling the way his entire frame shuddered beneath your touch.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare. "Now you keep swaying like that, and I might just forget we're supposed to be bein' civilized."

"Oh, I think we passed 'civilized' about twenty minutes ago, Mikey," you teased, sliding your hands down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart beneath your palms. "Besides, if you're gonna act this needy, you might as well commit to it."

Michael let out a breathless, giddy laugh, the sound vibrating against your skin as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. "Needy? Me? baby, you know damn well you're the one who started this fire. Now I'm just the poor fool tryin' to keep from burnin' up."

He pulled back just enough to capture your lips again, but this time the kiss was hungrier, tasting of desperate wanting even as his touch remained impossibly gentle.

"C'mon, girl, get your thing on this bed. Before I end up beggin' you right here on the floor."

You and Michael were a giddy mess of laughter and messy kisses as you both stumbled backwards. He kept his arms wrapped around you, his kisses never ceasing tracing your jaw, your throat, the sensitive shell of your ear as he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling you into his lap.

"Y' so sweet, baby," he murmured against your shoulder as you stumbled through the doorway. "Every time I think I can't love you more, you go and do somethin' like this."

"You say that all the time, Mikey," you teased, though your voice was thick with affection. He grinned up at you with that boyish smile, before rolling you over, maneuvering you under him.

He pressed his forhead against yours as your fingers trailed down his chest amd to the bulge of his jeans. His hands cradled your face with such careful delicacy, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if you were made of spun glass. "Just wanna look at you, hunny. wanna see every single little expression you make while I'm takin' care of you. You're so precious to me, angel."

"Then keep lookin', baby," you whispered, your own voice thick with arousal as you wrapped your fingers struggled to pull his cock out of his jeans. He let out a giggle as he watched you struggle, to which you gave him an unimpressed look. "Don't laugh at me now, Michael. Help me get you out of those damn jeans before I rip 'em."

He kissed your forehead and let out an amused huff. "'m sorry baby. 'm not laughing at you." He backed off the bad to discard his boxers along his jeans before crawling on top of you again.

"You totally were laughing at me, mister." You mumbled, pulling him in by his shirt as he leaned in to kiss you again.

Your fingers delicately wrapped around the tip of his thick lengh, to which he let out a soft noise against your mouth. You began to stroke him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, watching how his pupils dilated. "Y' so handsome when you look at me like that."

"'s 'cause y' so pretty. so, so pretty baby. Your body's magic," he whimpered, his voice cracking slightly. He let out a shaky breath as your grip tightened just a fraction, his hips rolling upward to meet your hand.

Michael's breathing was loud now, a ragged series of exhales that fanned across your skin as he watched you work on him. "God, you're killin' me, angel baby... just killin' me with how good y' make me feel." He let out a low, guttural sound when your grip tightened around his cock, his hips rolling upward instinctively to chase the friction of your palm.

"Y' love it though," you teased breathlessly, your eyes locked on his as you maintained that steady, maddening rhythm on his dick.

"love everythin' 'bout you," he whimpered, as he leaned down to capture your lips in another messy kiss. When he pulled away, he didn't go far, nuzzling his face against your neck and inhaling sharply. "Y' smell so good angel."

His hands wandered down from your face, sliding past your ribs to the waistband of your panties. He didn't hesitate, his fingers hooking into the fabric with a slow, deliberate tug that made your hips arch off the mattress. "I been thinkin' 'bout gettin' these off the second I saw you," he murmured against your pulse point. "Been thinkin' about what's hidin' under here."

He peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. The cool air hit your skin for only a second before he moved back between your thighs, his gaze dropping to where you were already dripping wet for him. "Look at her," he breathed, a genuine sound of awe escaping him as he saw how slick you were. " Y' got the prettiest pussy ever, hunny. Seriously. She's so gorgeous."

"Michael " you whined, the bluntness of him just praising and talking to your pussy sending electricity straight to your core. "Don't just stare at it. 'm workin' real hard on you over here."

"I know you are, babygirl, 'nd y' doin' amazing," he muttered, voice thick with arousal. He reached down, his large hand cupping your thigh to spread you wider, exposing your cunt completely to his intense gaze. "'m gonna make you feel real good, girl."

His middle finger found your clit first, circling the sensitive bud with just enough pressure to make your toes curl. "There we go... yeah, just like that," he whispered as you let out a broken moan. "Yeah, feels good baby, doesn't it?"

"Just like that, baby... oh my God, Michael, fuuuuck," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer while your other hand continued to stroke his cock.

"Baby, don't curse... Yeah? Do I make y' feel good?" he whispered, his own hips jerking as your hand moved faster on his dick. He slid one finger inside your wet cunt, then two, his eyes fixed on your face to catch every moment of your pleasure. "Oh wow. Y' so slick, sweet girl... so perfect. Jus' lemme take care of you."

Michael's breathing was ragged now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched your face contort with pleasure. He pushed two fingers deeper into your wet cunt, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your hips buck involuntarily, curling them just the right way to hit that spongey spot.

"Oh my God— Michael yes, right there—" you gasped, your head rolling back against the pillows. Your free hand was clawing at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto as the friction of his fingers against your walls sent waves of heat crashing through you. "Fuck— don't stop, please, don't you dare stop."

"'m not goin' nowhere, angel. I've got you," he promised, his voice a soothing balm even as his actions became more intense. While his fingers worked deep inside you, finding that perfect spot that made you whimper, his thumb continued to circle your clit in firm, maddening motions. Then, slowly, he began to withdraw, leaving you aching and wanting. "I wanna see all of you, sweetheart. wanna worship every inch."

He started to trail kisses upward, his lips warm and soft as they moved from your inner thighs to your stomach. "Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. "Just so beautiful." He moved higher, pressing tender kisses against your ribs before finding the sensitive column of your throat. He lingered there, sucking gently at your neck.

With one hand still holding yours tight, he used his other to hook beneath the hem of your shirt. He slowly slid the fabric upward, exposing the lace of your bra before deftly working it free to reveal your breasts. "There they are," he breathed, his eyes full of wonder. "My pretty girls." He leaned down, capturing one nipple between his lips. He sucked on it with a gentle, reverent hunger, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak until you couldn't help but cry out. His free hand reached up to find yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours, squeezing gently, anchoring you to him as he moved his other fingers in and out of your pussy

"Shit baby— " you whined, your hips rolling involuntarily forward.

"Shh, jus' feel it. Jus' feel how much I love you," he whispered against your breast. Then he pulled away to continue his descent. Still holding your hand lovingly, he pressed his face against your stomach, showering your soft skin with sweet, lingering kisses.

The pleasure was building to something monumental, a tidal wave of heat that started at your clit and rolled through your entire body.

But just as you reached the precipice, something shifted. The sensation changed from a sharp, focused climax to a heavy, terrifying pressure deep inside your pelvis.

"Michael—oh no. wait—" you gasped, your hips freezing mid roll. Your breathing turned shallow and panicked. "Michael, stop, something's wrong."

He pulled back immediately, his face contorting with instant concern. "What? What is it, baby? Did I hurt you? Did I go too hard?" His hands moved to your hips to steady you, his thumbs brushing your skin with anxious tenderness. "Tell me what's wrong, sweetheart. We can stop. We're stoppin' right now if you need to."

"No, it's not " you stammered, your hands clutching at his forearms. Your heart was hammering against your ribs as that strange, full sensation intensified. "I just—don't know. It just... Michael, I feel like I'm gonna pee. Like, I'm gonna pee myself right now. It feels weird. It feels too much."

A flash of genuine panic crossed your features as you tried to process the conflicting signals: the pleasure was still there, humming beneath the surface, but the fear of losing control was overwhelming.

Michael watched you closely, searching your eyes. He didn't laugh or dismiss you; he just listened, his expression softening as he processed what you were saying. "You feel like y' gonna pee?" he repeated gently, his voice low and steady. "Like that pressure right there?" His hand slid down to press lightly against your lower abdomen, offering a grounding touch.

"Yes! And it's it's good, but it's scary, Michael. I feel like I'm gonna lose it," you whimpered, your thighs quivering against his chest.

He didn't hesitate. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, sugar, if it feels good, then it's right. That's all that matters to me." He leaned up to press a tender kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. "If that's what your body's tellin' you it needs to get to that good place, then y' let it happen."

"But what if I—"

"Hey, hey, look at me," he interrupted softly, cupping your face in both hands so you had no choice but to meet his adoring gaze. "Look at me, baby. Nothing to be scared of. A little pee not gonna hurt nobody. Not you, and certainly not me. 'm right here. I got you, and 'm not goin' nowhere."

His voice soothed your worries. "'s okay, lovely. Jus' let it happen. 'm right here with you." His thumb resumed its maddening, gentle circle against your clit, while his other hand reached up to find yours again, intertwining your fingers in a tight grip.

"I'm tryin', Mikey, but 's a bit scary" you gasped, your voice breaking as another wave of that heavy, full pressure rolled through your pelvis. Even as you panicked, your other hand couldn't help but tighten around his cock, your palm slick with his pre cum as you instinctively sought friction to counter the overwhelming sensation.

The dual stimulation his mouth on you and your own desperate grip on his dick was pushing you toward a breaking point you couldn't control.

"I know, baby. I know," he murmured against your inner thigh, his breath hot and steady. "Don't fight it. Just give in to it. Let whatever happens happen. I love every single part of you, even the messy parts." His fingers slid deeper into your cunt, stretching you open to accommodate the building pressure, while his tongue worked with increasing urgency.

The sensations overwhelmed you. That feeling became an unbearable, throbbing fullness that seemed to occupy your entire lower body. "Baby, oh fuck, 'm gonna—"

"Do it, angel. Let it go for me," he urged, his voice a low, commanding caress. "Jus let it all out."

With a choked cry that was half sob and half moan, the dam finally broke. The terrifying pressure exploded into an intense, convulsing climax that felt like lightning striking your core, but it wasn't just a feeling it was a physical eruption. Your muscles spasmed around his fingers with such violence that you couldn't have stopped it if you tried.

"Oh fuuuuck," you whined, your body arching so violently off the bed that your spine nearly snapped. In that instant of total surrender, you felt yourself spray. The release was powerful and uncontrolled, hot jets of fluid shooting forth from your cunt with enough force to send droplets flying in every direction.

It splattered across Michael's jaw as he leaned in close, the warm, clear liquid catching the light before streaming down his chin. His hand, still buried between your thighs, became instantly slick and drenched as the torrent soaked through his fingers and up his wrist. A few stray arcs even landed against his bare chest. Below you both, the sheets were instantly completely and utterly soaked.

"Oh... oh my God..." you whimpered between gasps, your body still twitching uncontrollably from the aftershocks. You felt exposed, raw, and completely spent, staring up at him through teary blurred eyes in shock.

Michael didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. Instead, he looked down at the mess you'd made, then back up at your face with an expression of pure, unadulterated wonder. His eyes were wide. "Baby..." he breathed, his voice reverent, almost awestruck. "That was... you were incredible."

He looked at his wet hand and the soaked sheets as if they were sacred relics, his chest heaving. "Look at what y' did, baby," he whispered, a grin of pure adoration breaking across his face. "Y' just... y' pure magic, angel."

The sight of his awe, the way he looked at you not with judgment but with absolute worship despite the chaos between your legs, made your heart swell even as your body continued to tremble. "Michael, I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't you dare apologize," he interrupted immediately, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss to your sweat slicked forehead. "Don't you ever apologize for being this beautiful. I love every single drop of you."

The adrenaline began to ebb, leaving you feeling boneless and hypersensitive. Your breathing was still shaky, each inhale coming in uneven stutters as you stared up at the ceiling, feeling the dampness of the sheets clinging to your thighs. "Michael, I—" you started, "I'm so embarrassed, I— I didn't know I could do that... I made such a mess of everything, I—"

But Michael was already moving. He didn't care about the soaked fabric or the droplets clinging to his skin. He crawled up your body with careful, reverent movements, settling beside your head so he could cradle your face in his hands. "Shh, shh, none of that, angel. None of that," he murmured.

He began to pepper your face with kisses soft, feather light presses of his lips against your temples, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. "You're okay, sweetheart. Y' so okay. Y' were perfect. Amazing baby."

"But Michael," you whispered. "What about you? You're... you're still..." You gestured vaguely toward his still semi-hard cock. "You need to—"

"Shh," he interrupted softly, pressing his lips against your forehead before moving down to kiss each of your cheeks. His thumbs stroked over your cheekbones, wiping away stray tears with tenderness. "Just let me love y', baby. That's all I wanna do right now. Just you."

He lowered his head to nuzzle against your neck, breathing in your scent as if it were oxygen. "I don't need nothin' else but you right here. Just let me take care of you, angel baby. Lemme hold you." His touch was so gentle, so utterly focused on your comfort, that the embarrassment began to melt away, replaced by a warm, overwhelming sense of being cherished beyond measure.

Against his chest, his arms remained wrapped around you like a shield against the world. The dampness of the sheets still lingered beneath you, but it no longer carried even the slightest trace of embarrassment. It simply existed as quiet evidence of what the two of you had shared. You felt safe. Boneless. Entirely adored.

For a little while, neither of you spoke.

Michael absentmindedly traced lazy circles along your back while his breathing gradually evened beside your ear. You'd almost drifted off when you felt his chest vibrate with a quiet murmur, the words too indistinct for you to catch.

"What'd you say, baby?" you asked sleepily, lifting your head just enough to look at him. His eyes weren't on you anymore. They'd drifted somewhere else entirely.

"...Get on the floor," he repeated under his breath, almost to himself this time. You blinked.

"What?"

He didn't answer. Instead, his brows knitted together ever so slightly as though he were trying to catch hold of a thought before it escaped him again.

"What do you mean, get on the floor?" you laughed softly, your voice still hoarse. "Angelface, I love you, but I'm exhausted. I can barely move." That finally brought him back.

"Oh—" He laughed breathily, shaking his head. "No, no, baby. That's not what I meant."

A slow smile began creeping across his face. The kind you recognised immediately. You'd seen it countless times before. It was the smile that appeared whenever inspiration found him.

He reached up, gently brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips lingering against your cheek as though he hardly realised he was touching you.

"I remember what you said," he murmured, his eyes beginning to brighten. "Back when I played you the demo..." You looked at him curiously.

"When you started dancin'..."

He smiled a little wider.

"You took my hand..." He chuckled quietly, almost hearing the memory play back inside his head. "...An' you said..." His gaze flickered upward for only a second before returning to yours.

"'So c'mon...'"

His smile grew.

"'Get on the floor and dance with me.'"

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly.

"...Baby."

"What?"

He sat up just enough to look at you properly now, excitement slowly replacing the sleepy contentment that had settled over him only moments before.

"I think..." A little disbelieving laugh escaped him. "I think that's it."

You frowned in confusion. "What's it?"

He looked at you as though he could hardly believe the answer himself.

"The song."

A grin spread across his face, brighter with every passing second.