Camisha ♡ྀི.ᐟ

23 | only uses this app to read smut & to yap about obsessions | one of michael’s good fish

[castielsb1tch]

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅ ABOUT ME .ᐟ ᢉ𐭩

my name’s kelsey camisha but i prefer you call me “camisha”

୨ৎ ESFP - T (entertainer)

୨ৎ she/her

୨ৎ taurus ☼ cancer ☾ scorpio ↑

୨ৎ pls read my carrd .ᐟ ➝ all my basic & current info are here, as well as socials, so pls do check it out byf ♡

୨ৎ i actually just started using tumblr bc of my current obsession with lewis pullman ughhh that man is gonna be the death of me .ᐟ

୨ৎ came back cos i have a brand new hyperfixation: michael joseph jackson

୨ৎ SOCIALS: tiktok | x | letterboxd

୨ৎ pls do check out my tiktok acc .ᐟ i make edits of my current hyperfixations there 🥹 your support would mean a lot to me & i woild very much like it if i became moots with you there as well .ᐟ

୨ৎ i always follow back especially if we share the same interests as stated in my carrd above .ᐟ

୨ৎ i’m currently a 5th year college student taking up doctor of medicine (dvm) & hopefully i graduate next year then start studying for boards (fml)

୨ৎ also i’m looking for moots because i couldn’t yap about my hyperfixations to ANYONE it’s killing me 😭 in order to survive, i need to yap about it to someone who relates KSJDKDH

୨ৎ cami’s lewis pullman characters fic recs masterlist

hopefully this reaches my target audience .ᐟ

[thrillyoumore]

my favourite genre of photos ♡

[aangelfface]

everything about this photo, actually.

[lovelyways]

SMOOTH CRIMINAL // OUTTAKES

[castielsb1tch]

he’s so ridiculously HOT.

[prettypinkdiaryy]

𓏲ּ𝄢 bad!michael’s girl wants.needs him to be rougher with her!

description 𓏲ּ𝄢 michael would always satisfy you in bed, he was very talented, but he was also very gentle. he’d never ever wanna hurt you in bed, afraid of even pulling your hair while giving you the nastiest backshots.. you started to want more, seeing how big his hands were, how he’d look when he was mad, it turned you on so much. you needed michael to manhandle you, and you were gonna get it, one way or another.

warnings 𓏲ּ𝄢 dom!michael, p in v, oral sex (m receiving), hair pulling, squirting, brattysub!reader, choking, use of vibrator, no use of y/n, uses of names such as ‘baby, mama, pretty, sweet girl’,stomach bulge

you were currently sitting in the bed with michael, watching some movie that you found oh so boring, but he begged you to watch it, and who were you to deny that handsome face? even though the tv was playing, your thoughts were drowning out all the noise.

you were staring. hard. you couldn’t help but to look at his fingers, wishing that he’d stuff them in your mouth while—

“baby, you alright?”

that soft, smooth voice cuts right through your nasty thought like a warm knife through butter.

your eyes drift up from his hands to his face, and you nod a little.. he smiles at you, and you gently rub his chest.. “mikey..” you softly says, kissing his cheek.

“yes, pretty?” he murmurs, his eyes staying on the tv and his mouth still fucking up that popcorn..

“y’know.. how we have sex, nd stuff?” you reluctantly say..

he chuckles a bit.. “ i know of it..” he says .. then his smirk drops a little.. “ am i not pleasing you correctly?” he says, making your eyes widen..

“no!, no baby, you please me perfectly.. you’re just.. really gentle with me.. you act like i’m made of glass or something..” you say, pouting a little.

“that’s cus you are made of glass in my eyes, angel..” he says, his eyes trailing back to the tv..

you look at him, and softly sigh at his sweet response. you loved how genuine and kind he was, but you really really wanted more..

“i know, mikey, but have you ever thought about being a little rougher in bed?” you say, looking at him

“rougher? oh no, mama. i couldn’t even imagine being rough with you. i don’t think i’ll ever be able to do it.” he mindlessly says, rubbing your thigh.

all your dreams and hopes seem to crash down, and your face falls a little.. you curl into him, and give up on the conversation for now, but you were gonna get what you wanted, and soon.

it had been about a week since you talked to michael about being rougher in bed. you guys had sex once during that time period, it was great, but he was still gentle, and it wasn’t scratching that itch for you..

it’s a wednesday afternoon, and the sun in shining through the blinds. you’re sitting on the couch, flipping through tv channels, when michael storms in, looking pissed off.

“what’s wrong, baby?” you say, still flipping through the channels.

he plops down next to you, his eyes dark with anger.. “some new producer person, or whatever he was, he was in the studio today, and said my vocals sound horrible. can you believe how ignorant that is, can you, baby?” he says, folding his arms over his chest.

you start to comfort him, then your mind flickers back to your dirty thought about your oh so sweet boyfriend fucking you dumb, and you smile a little..

“well, maybe he wasn’t lying.” you retort, still looking at the tv.

michael’s expression flickers for a quick second, and he turns to look at you. “excuse me?” he says, he jaw clenching.

“i’m just saying, baby. maybe you didn’t sound the best today.” you mutter..

“so you think i sound horrible?”

“i mean.. i wouldnt—“ you start, but remember your plan.. “yea. that’s why i don’t listen to your music. i hate it.” you mutter, lying straight through your teeth jus for some dick.

for a moment, there was silence. then, the remote was snatched out of your hand. before you could say anything, you were being dragged by your arm to y’all’s bedroom. you smile a little, hearing his pissed off muttering.

“done lost your damn mind.. talking to me like that. oughta teach you some respect.” he hisses, pushing the bedroom door open with more force than necessary.

he practically pushed you onto the bed, and by this point, you were soaking wet..

“off, take all that shit off.” he commands in a low mutter, not even looking at you as he slips his loafers off..

“no.” you defiantly respond, crossing your legs.

he looks at you, his jaw tight and his eyes are thin slits of anger. “i’m not playing with you. take your clothes off. now.” he says, pointing at you with a long, straight finger.

you look at him, and you start to strip.. you slowly lift your shirt, irritating him even further. he walks over to you, pushing your hands away and ripping you shirt in half with surprising strength. he tugs your pants down..

“on your knees.” he says.

you shake your head.. “no. why should i?” you says, the bratty tone in your voice driving him crazy.

he grabs your hair, forcing you to look at him..

“because i said so.” he growls, gripping your face with his other hand

you kneel infront of him, looking up at him. he unzips his pants, letting them fall before he pulls out his heavy length, letting it rest on your temple, right between your eyes.

“nasty ass girl. gettin me rowled up like this.” he mutters, stroking himself against your face.

you pout, acting like you don’t want it, knowing damn well that you NEED this.

“open. stick out your tongue, lemme see it.” he murmurs..

you slowly open your mouth, sticking your tongue all the way out.. michael slowly thrusts his dick in your mouth, his tip hitting far back in your throat.. you try to pushes at his thigh, but he grabs both your wrists with one hand.

“don’t touch me. just take this dick down your throat.” he hisses. his head tilts back and he starts thrusting a little faster, enjoy the feeling of his tip being constricted by your throat.

you whine around him, and his free hand tugs at your hair as a warning .. he bites his lip, grinding his hips into a circle..

“fuckkk..” he groans out, gripping your head and holding it tight..

he only pulls away when you gag, loosening his grip on your head, and slowly pulling his dick out your throat.. you pant, staring up at him.

he pulls you up by your arm, and throws you on the bed.. he rips your victoria’s secret panties off of you..

“those were my fav—“ you try, but getting cut off by the sound of his mean voice.

“shut up. m’not trying to hear that.” he says, spreading you legs.. he pushes them up and back, making your knees touch your perky tits.

“but they’re my favorite, you ripped them..” you whined, trying to get a rise out of him.

“what did i just say?” he says, smacking your inner thigh. he reaches into his top drawer, looking through it for a moment, then he pulls out his favorite thing ever ever. the pink wand vibrator stares back at you when you glare at it.

he looks at you, and positions himself at your entrance. he slips in, and at the same time, he turns on the vibrator and presses it directly on your clit, making you let out a loud moan.

“grab it. don’t take it off your pussy, ‘m not playin.” he murmurs, pushes the handle into your hand.. he bites his lip and he starts giving you deep, nasty strokes..

his right hand travels up to your throat, holding.. his thrusts start to get rougher and harder, to the point where he’s pounding into you..

you struggle to hold the vibrator to your pussy..

“nngh! can’t take bothhh!” you whimper, your toes already curling..

“you asked for this, baby, this is what you wanted. take it, stop complaining.” he muttered, his eyes shutting for a second when you clench around him.. he pushes your legs farther back towards your shoulders and bites his lip.. he picks up the pace, slamming into you with wild abandon.

“ oh m’gosh y-yess— michael!” you whined, your eyes rolling back when he hits that good spot on your back walls… you look up at him, but for some reason, his focus was on your stomach.. you look down, and you see the bulge of his cock, everytime he’d thrust inside.

he presses his hand against your abdomen, feeling his dick inside.. “so deep inside this wet, sloppy pussy. mhmm.” he hisses, his eyes fluttering shut .. he wraps both hands around your throat while he fucks you into the mattress

you felt like you could barely take it, you were finally getting what you were asking for.. you press the vibrator down harder on your clit, and at the same time, michael hits your spot hard. he could’ve sworn he seen your eyes cross.

“s’fuckingood—mike don’t stoppp, s’deepp, ohmygoshh..” you slur, your legs trembling a little.

he smirks a little and grinds at the end of every thrust.

“c-choke me harder..” you babble, your toes curling and vision blurring a bit.

he looks at you, and he could tell you really wanted it. he reluctantly tightens his grip around your neck, and your pussy tightens up as well..

“f-fuck yes! nngh! m’so close!” you moan out, your breath hitching in your throat.

“yeah? you wanna cum? beg for it.” he says, slowing down his thrust to a barely there rock..

“nonono, baby please! needa cum! let me cum around y-your dick!” you beg, tears coming to your eyes after being denied an orgasm. the vibrator was still buzzing against your clit, but you needed the both of them to have the orgasm you wanted..

“do you deserve it? hm? do you deserve to cum around me?” he coos, grabbing your face with one hand and smushing your cheeks together.

you nod, looking up at him with teary eyes.. “uh huh..” you manage to get out.. he pushes your head back onto the mattress, and starts fucking you dumb again.

you bite your lip, and your eyes start to roll back.. he shifts to turn up the vibrator, then keeps going.

“oh god! oh god mikey, ‘m soo close!” you gasp, holding the vibrator with both hand.. michael chokes you again, nd your vision blurs.

your back starts to arch, and your legs tremble harder. “ hnngh fuckk! mikey im—“ you try, but he cuts you off.

“i know, baby.. mikey knows..” he coos, thrusting into you faster..

“mikey yesss!” you whined, the heat in your lower stomach exploding as you start you squirt your juices all over his dick.

“ohh shittt..” he hisses, getting closer once he feels you clench and release all over him. you start to take the vibrator off your clit.

“unt unt, i said keep it there, put it back on your clit, girl.” he growls. you comply, and your body jerks a little.. your pussy spasms more and lets out more squirt.

“ ohh fuckk.. mmhm.. i’m cummin in this pussy.. cummin in my pussy..” he groans, giving three deep thrusts before holding himself deep inside you, releasing all in your womb…

you whimper, and he finally allows you to turn the vibrator off.. you lay there, completely cockdrunk..

“was that good for you, baby? was it rough enough? did i hurt you?” he says, propping himself up on his elbow next to you, and stroking your hair.

“s’good, mikey.. should do that more often..” you sleepily mutter, giggling a little.

“do you really hate my music?”

“course not.. just said that so you could fuck me..”

“ you’re nasty..”

and those were that last words you spoke to each other before you slumped against his chest and fell straight asleep.

princess’s note! > i hope you guys like this one too, i kinda got carried away, this isn’t proofread so im sorry about any mistakes, and can someone tell me how to check my word count so i can start putting it on here? :)

[angelcrescent]

𓈒❤︎︎࣪˖ what happens in the bedroom doesn't always stay in the bedroom!

intro ✴︎⸝꙳.˖𖥔݁˖⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ( 5.2k ) childhoodbsf!popstar!reader x bad!michael jackson ╱ after a long night of passion between husband and wife, michael mindlessly rips open his shirt onstage, forgetting entirely about the previous night’s evidence sprawled all over his back… now, that’s something for the public to talk about!

notes ⁺˚♪º·˚ 𝟏𝟖+ established relationship. husband n wife of 8 years. begins with transcribed excerpt from an interview together. reader’s transcribed dialogue is signalled by heart symbol. ;; softdom!michael as always. makin’ sweet love til the break of dawn! mikey is shy in the streets n sexy in the sheets. . . light dirty talk. being overheard in the bedroom. hot n passionate sex. he talks u through it. zero protection. creampie. multiple orgasms. overstimulation. kinda babymaking. allusions to pregnancy. aftercare. sleeping while cockwarming. markin’ up ur sweetheart. . .

𝟎𝟐/𝟏𝟑/𝟖𝟗: 𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑄𝑢𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑜𝑓 𝑃𝑜𝑝 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑖𝑒𝑤𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑦 𝐵𝑎𝑟𝑏𝑎𝑟𝑎 𝑊𝑎𝑙𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛 𝐴𝐵𝐶 𝑝𝑟𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑠𝑝𝑒𝑐𝑖𝑎𝑙.

BW: So, we're getting toward the end of our time together today, but I don't think I could've interviewed you both without bringing up a certain picture that's taken the media by storm in the last couple of weeks.

MJ: Oh God... [shy laughter, holding wife's hand tight]

BW: I have to ask!

♥︎: Do you?

BW: Look, I think we're all just very stunned that your husband went out on stage like that. And he could've kept the shirt completely on to cover up the marks, but he chose to rip it open.

MJ: I didn't—no, I'd forgotten all about, um... what was on my back. [grinning bashfully]

♥︎: Did you really? [smirks & nudges him, to which MJ nudges back] No, I'm kidding!

BW: Seems like you both had a great night prior to the, uh… display. Would be rather unforgettable instead, surely?

MJ: No, 'm serious. I get so lost in my performances that 'm not thinkin' about anythin’ else. I'm a gentleman—I don't intend to do anything dirty.

♥︎: Ha! [a quick, loud laugh] Who the hell do you think you're kiddin', sir?

MJ: No, baby, you know 'm a gentleman.

BW: Well, from the look of your back in that picture, 'gentle' isn't the word that comes to mind...

♥︎: Oh my— [trying not to laugh with MJ]

BW: You'd still describe yourself as a gentleman?

MJ: I think there's a time an' a place for everything. I'm gentle in most ways. I just never meant to bring the, uh... other stuff to the view of the public. But I also don't think it's the worst thing ever though, right? Think this reaction is a little dramatic...

BW: So, do you both think that sort of thing is okay? You're laughing it off like it's normal to be displaying the extent of your sex life in front of the eyes of millions?

♥︎: [rolls eyes w/ a sigh]

MJ: Uh, well, like I said I didn't inte—

♥︎: Okay, here's the deal. We're husband and wife. Married for eight years too, by the way. This isn't the 1950s—everyone knows what married couples do at home, and as long as we're not doin' that on stage, what's the issue? I mean, Barbara, you seem to love talking about it so much—you're obviously entertained.

BW: But you don't think that what goes on in the bedroom should stay in the bedroom? Man and wife do have sex, yes, but should the public be given access to such intimacy?

♥︎: I wouldn't really call it getting access. Unless anybody has our tapes from the bedroom, they have zero access. And that's why I don't think this is an issue. No matter how 'media trained' I might be, I'm not going to conform to what you guys want me to say on topics like these. I'm sure you'll ask the same questions to Madonna, and Prince, and all the other artists who are extremely sexual onstage, right? Way more explicit than anything my husband and I have done.

BW: You make a good point, however I think it's a little different when there are undertones of the artist's real sexual acts. To my knowledge, Prince hasn't yet gone onstage with streaks of scratch marks down his back for all to see. And you've seen the pictures, they were very harsh scratch marks. It was immediately evident what they were—especially when you then came onstage for the next song and ran your hands over them. We haven't forgotten about that part, and I'm sure someone back there has the video for us to play. What was the point of that? Were you trying to mark your territory? Prove how good the sex is to somebody in particular, or to the world in general?

♥︎: [laughter] ‘Mark my territory?’ No, I was definitely not doing that. I'm very secure in my marriage, I can assure you. I don't need to prove to everybody how incredibly my husband makes love to me—

MJ: No, honey, don't say th—

♥︎: [shoos him with a hand] Oh, whatever, Michael, who cares? [laughs under her breath] As I was saying, we're way too secure to have to rely on showing the public 'proof' that we're sexually active—or whatever it is that you're getting at here. I obviously can't speak for Michael and confirm that he truly did forget about the marks, but I don't appreciate the suggestion that he or I would ever wish to prove the reality of our marriage to the world. We really couldn't care less about what the world thinks. As you've shown us throughout this entire interview, and as we've experienced in every other interview we've ever done, everything is always misconstrued, either deliberately or just because you want to be ignorant.

BW: I do understand that. But we have to ask these questions so that the misconstrued narratives can be corrected, don't we? And with that, we also don't have to agree with everything you state. I personally believe, along with many others, that a married couple bringing the privacy of their bedroom onto the stage is a very uncouth thing to do, and that in doing so, whether unconsciously or not—maybe it was just unconsciously—you have both garnered the controversy that's often necessary to keep your names in the headlines.

MJ: [scoffs]

♥︎: You think we need to try to keep our names in the headlines? Don't be silly, Ms. Walters.

BW: Listen, I know the two of you are always in the media no matter what, but it's not hard for us to believe that you would intentionally do something to further that attention, right?

MJ: Listen, Barbara, we can't leave our house without being mobbed by fans and paparazzi. We could try to disappear entirely from the public eye for months, or even years, and still they would attack us from all ends.

♥︎: [rubbing her thumb over his knuckles] Honey, there's no point. You know they always decide on their narrative and then they run with it, no matter what we say.

BW: Is that how you both feel? That as journalists we'll never truly understand?

♥︎: [speaking solemnly] Are you seriously asking us that question? None of you could ever understand even slightly. I would hope that at least some of our fans might try to, but me and my husband live such an insanely complex life that really, all you can do is continue to only attempt to examine it through your biased lens, poking holes in the tiniest of things. We rarely do interviews for that reason.

BW: I do understand that.

MJ: Y' sure?

BW: Yes, but if there were no journalists and paparazzi to help promote you guys—and the same goes for all the other celebrities out there—you wouldn't be half as celebrated and as widely known as you are now.

♥︎: Well, we can agree to disagree. Now, would you excuse me and my extremely explicit husband while we go off and fornicate in the corner? He needs some inspiration for his next song.

MJ: [squinting shyly & laughing, averting eyes]

BW: Oh, very funny.

♥︎: And maybe, if you’re lucky, you’ll hear my sex noises in the background of the next single!

MJ: [eyes widen] Uh, I think we’re done. Thank you for having us today, Ms. Walters.

BW: It was a pleasure…

TWO WEEKS AGO ; 𝓲𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝐨𝐟 𝓳𝒂𝒏𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝟐𝟕, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟗...

"Oh, fuck yes, baby!"

"Honey, don't curse... 's okay, y' close again, huh?"

Michael cooed in your ear as he rocked into you with harsh abandon, slamming his hips against yours with each thrust. His thumb rubbed tight circles over your clit as he had you practically folded in half, your legs spread wide in a V-shape, and pushed up between where his body was a protective cage above you. They'd been up on his shoulders a moment ago, and you were so fucked out that you hadn't even registered the position he'd guided you into, only able to focus on the euphoric pleasure hitting your sweet spot every other second.

"Mikey, y'hittin' it so good, ohhh—right there, baby, keep goin'—"

The two of you had been at it for several hours, impossible in your haze to pinpoint an exact number. You'd lost count of how many orgasms you'd had, and you were honestly beginning to wonder if your body had any left in you. Biologically, how many orgasms could a woman actually produce in one night? You surely were breaking some sort of record here. Almost eleven years together, and while in those years you'd had many a night filled with sex, you were certain it had never been to this extent.

Tonight had been the night prior to Michael's final performance of the Bad world tour. You'd been touring throughout Europe yourself since Christmas, so before now you hadn't indulged in a night together in an entire month. The tour was concluding in Los Angeles, and therefore that meant that Michael had been back home in your shared mansion for the last eleven days during the residency.

Your three kids were currently being looked after by Katherine at Hayvenhurst, because she guessed that you and Michael would want your first night back together to be spent alone. So earlier on, you'd surprised him backstage as soon as he finished his second-to-last concert, and then immediately you were whisked away, nestled dreamily in your silk-laden king-sized bed, draped in pale pink, waiting almost no time at all to be filled to the brim with what you’d been craving since the last time you had the privilege of being fucked into the mattress by your husband. That last night had felt like a century ago now.

You knew exactly how lucky you were, but still you couldn't fathom that this was your reality, especially because you often looked to those days back in the seventies when Michael was the most inexperienced virgin in existence. You'd shown him the initial tips and pointers regarding sex, particularly with demonstrating how his eager mouth should perform oral, but over the years he'd exceeded performing the mere basics. And now you wondered if it was even possible that there could be a man on this earth more sexually skilled than Michael Jackson, because he gave you everything and more. It couldn’t be put into enough adequate words how perfect he was. Each roll of his hips felt like an ascension to the heavens, and my God, had you ascended tonight...

"Yeah, right there, mama?" he whispered through high groans, kneading your breast now and taking the hand that was rubbing your clit up to your thigh to hold it in place. "I know, baby girl... been hittin' it jus' right since we got home... whatever my girl wants..."

"Mhm, oh angel, 'm gonna cum—" you whined, hands gripping at the sticky sheets beneath you. The room smelled entirely of the warm musk of sex, with a hint of the clean sweat scent dripping from Michael's face and upper body; and of course where the element of sound was concerned, such was an amalgamation of moans, loud creaking, and the rough hit of the headboard banging against the wall with each thrust. Surely this piece of furniture would soon break, you thought; but you wouldn't say the concern aloud, because what kind of crazy woman would you be to say something that might have the potential to disrupt such mindnumbing pleasure?

"Ugh, God—rub y' clit, baby, I can't do everythin' at once," he murmured into your neck as he licked and sucked the most sensitive inch of the skin.

You did as he asked you to, bringing two fingers to your incredibly sensitive bud and massaging over it fiercely, desperate to reach your millionth orgasm of the night. Michael's strokes were getting erratic now, and he grunted profusely in your ear, big hands roaming everywhere. You took hold of one, interlocking your fingers, and you felt him smile against your ear, before pulling back to kiss you sloppily.

"Mm, tha's it, angel girl, yeah... keep holdin' my hand, 'm gonna get y' there..."

"Oh Mikey... baby, 's too much, I—ohhhhh—"

Your other hand now felt strangely limp, adjacent to a muscle cramp that made the movements over your clit virtually useless. So aggressively horny, you realised you were rubbing so hard that it was making the twist of your wrist uncomfortable, so you now instead wreathed that hand through your baby's curls, damp with sweat. You tugged on the lower ends of the strands, dragging his face down by his jaw to lick your tongue into his mouth, humming profanities that he always condemned.

"What did I say, hm? Pretty honey, I don't like when y' curse—oh—"

"Michael, you're—ughhhh—fucking me so—mm—dumb right now, I don't even know what I'm sayin'—"

"I know, I know..." he grinned, as he lifted your leg impossibly higher now, and drove into you with somehow even more force.

"Shit, baby—ohhhh my God—oh, 's so good! I can't believe this is real life..."

Your head lolled sideways onto the pillows, back arching as he fed an unbelievable degree of white hot pleasure into your aching body. Surely you wouldn't be capable of walking tomorrow, but you were an incredibly athletic dancer after all, and needed to be onstage for two duets to conclude Michael's tour, so unfortunately you'd have to grin and bear it.

"Been fuckin' you like this for years, honey... Not doin’ nothin’ different…” Michael moaned, head thrown back in euphoria, though pressing forward again to watch the sight of your breasts and the milky white ring around his cock that appeared each time he pulled back to thrust deeper.

"’n I never—shit—I never get used to it, babyyyyy, oh my—"

"Cum for me, beautiful... aw, my perfect lady, need t' feel it, c'mon..."

Your husband's forehead was now settled against yours, his sweat dripping into the beads running down your own face, and he'd never looked so fucking beautiful. The liquid appeared like glistening holiness on a face and an expression so inconceivably angelic, and his hand moved to cradle your jaw as he smiled through the ecstasy.

Your own face felt as limp as your hand had done, where it felt near impossible to say anything with intention; and Michael understood, knowing just how delirious you were after so much mind-blowing sex. And it wasn't merely the act of sex that was exhausting after so many rounds—it was Michael himself, the way Michael performed sex. He did nothing by halves, as was obvious in the way he produced his art, and in his eyes lovemaking was without a doubt the most meaningful, celestial art form in existence, no matter how filthy he had a tendency to make it.

But Michael believed nothing could be filthy that had you at the forefront, and he had carried that same sentiment into this night, a night complete with the sort of thing his mother had spent his entire youth deeming as pure sin. His most cherished sight was to see you reach your climax, and as you came undone yet again in his arms—in equal timing as the spilling of his seed into your welcoming heat—he held you so tight, rubbing his warm thumb over your cheek, gripping your shaky hand with his protection while your body seized and unraveled. He talked you through the comedown, as always, and now the sun was just beginning to come up—dawn was breaking through the silk curtains—so hints of gold and purple shone down all over your body.

In Michael’s eyes, that drapery of colour rendered you the most divine goddess he had ever laid eyes on. He understood in that moment—in the presence of the universe's morning light entwining with your natural, inherent beauty—that this was the most perfect experience involved in last night’s decision to make love until day began.

"So beautiful f'me, baby..." he whispered with the utmost sincerity, slowing his thrusts as he peppered the softest kisses all over your face and returned to knead your tender breasts, one at a time while you caught your breath. That was a specific thing Michael did a lot, providing a gentle massage that although didn't feel gentle in your overstimulation, always worked to calm you.

"Yeah, feel me, sweet girl... love y' so much, mama... my perfect angel..."

As gentle and tender as he never could retreat from, Michael adjusted your overexerted body so that you now lay on your side, with him also sideways, nose to nose with you. He didn't pull out, because he knew you'd whine, and of course he'd always rather stay with his body merged into yours. He kissed you softly, and continued to stroke his hands up and down your body, squeezing your ass, your thighs, and again your breasts, of course. Both of you had impeccable stamina because you were top-quality performers, but it was often the case that even just one orgasm could make you sleepy, let alone as many as Michael had given you in these last few hours. And you hadn't stopped for breath throughout each, so he assumed that now you must surely be done, therefore deciding that he'd give you aftercare until you drifted off into a slumber.

And yet despite all that, miraculously you felt in your heart and in your lower abdomen that you still weren't finished with him.

"Y'want me to run a bath for us, mama?" Michael whispered, pressing soft pecks to your nose and lips as his slender fingers caressed your torso and pulled you close to him, gently dragging your leg over his thigh, before running his hand up and down its softness.

You hummed in content, not even registering his question.

"Y' all spent now, hm?" he tried again, with a small smile at how completely blissed out you looked in front of him.

"Don't want you to pull out, baby..." you sighed deliriously, wrapping your arms around his neck and playing with his curls.

"Oh, but I need to, honey, if you want that bath..."

You did want a bath with your husband, but the mere thought of how it felt to sit between his legs in the water, back against his naked chest, soft member certain to rise against your lower back... it only made your arousal return close to violently. What had gotten into you tonight? Ovulation, probably. But absolutely no protection had been used, so that might prove to be a problem.

"I don't know what I want," you whined. "I want your dick..."

Michael's eyes widened in surprise, and he answered with a chuckle. "Y'want it some more? For real, mama? I don't wanna break this bed. Or you..." He furrowed his brows with genuine concern about your comfort. "Think you're way too sensitive right now, girl—aren't ya?"

"No, Mikey, 'm fine... Want it again... Love how you fill me, baby."

Now you were really just babbling nonsense, but you had to make him see that you were totally serious—unfortunately for your body and its inevitable incapabilities the following day.

"Alright, if you're sure," Michael laughed, kissing your nose. You felt him twitch inside you, and on instinct you bit your lip and shut your eyes tight.

"The sun's comin' up, mama. Been deep in this tight pussy for hours 'n hours..."

Playfully, he delivered a sudden thrust into your sweet spot, and your nails dug into his biceps with a sharp sigh. "Honey, don't... Don't tease."

"Just messin' with y', sweetheart. But first I need to get y' a glass of water, 'cause you’ll be dehydrated. I really put y' through that mattress." He chuckled softly, still gazing into your tired eyes.

"Nooo," you protested, squinting in frustration as you pawed at his upper back.

"Yes. Don't argue w' me—I'll be back in just two minutes, okay?"

"Whatever," you nodded, visibly irritated, but you knew he was right. Having gone the last few hours without water was akin to doing a several-hour workout without a single sip. You definitely needed to replenish your electrolytes, and you knew Michael would make the relevant decision to mix in Celtic sea salt too, to serve that purpose.

To your dissatisfaction, he finally pulled out, the wet pop sound serving as a serious bother to your desperate nervous system, despite how you knew he would be back inside you in under five minutes. A filthy stream of his release slipped out in slow drops between your thighs, coating the sheets beneath, and you made a mental note to make sure you cleaned that up in the morning before the maid unfairly had to.

The whine that left your throat as he disconnected made him shake his head with an amused laugh. He tapped your cheek and kissed your temple, before jumping up out of bed and shrugging on some sweatpants.

Your eyes almost rolled into the back of your head at the sight before you. First, there was the quick glimpse of his ever-hard, aching cock standing up against his stomach, decorated in veiny ridges, the glistening tip resting against his belly button before he tucked it into the grey cotton. Second, there was the view of that same beautifully enormous cock now poking up so harshly against said fabric that his decision to even slip into the sweatpants was rendered useless.

But thirdly, there was the wildest sight of all. Now, to preface, this wasn't the first time that the following had occurred after a passionate night, but you'd never seen it so starkly feral before. That third sight being, of course, the existence of seemingly never-ending bright red streaks of scratch marks running down the plane of your husband's back, and in their depth it felt surprising that you hadn't accidentally drawn blood. He looked as though he'd been mauled and attacked by a wild animal, and that wasn't all too inaccurate, really, as you'd certainly spent tonight behaving like such an animal, so savage and undomesticated with the way you grabbed and pawed at your man relentlessly. You couldn't help it.

As Michael stood up, adjusting the waistband of his sweats, he muttered something to you with a grin. "My entourage are gonna be sick of us..."

Immediately, your face squinted into something of concern. Aloud you gasped as you suddenly learned what you had unfairly been left unaware of.

Indeed, Michael's entire entourage were staying in your house. They were sleeping in various rooms, from the top floor to the bottom, and had been doing so all week of the LA shows. But of course since you'd only just returned to California this afternoon right before the show, and had jumped on your husband with so much aroused aggression immediately upon the show's closing, you hadn't paid attention to anyone else. Michael had made the generous offer to allow his team to stay with him rather than book hotel rooms, since your mansion was more than big enough, but it definitely would've helped for him to have told you so! Clearly it hadn't slipped his mind, and he didn't seem at all bothered by their presence, despite having spent literally all night plowing into you as loud as ever. He stunned you the way he could be so shy in so many circumstances, and so the very opposite in others.

"Wh—? Michael? What do you mean, your fuckin' entourage?"

He only shook his head with a smile, strolling up to the door, dick still pressing up very visibly against his pants. The early sun was shining perfectly over the print, and it made for the most delightful image.

"Shh, 's okay; y'know they're used to it from whenever we've been with 'em in hotels."

"Michael, we're never that loud in hotels. We were insane tonight, what the f—?"

"Aht," he quietened your cursing before it had a chance to leave your lips again. "Whatever, baby. I'll be back in a minute. Play with your clit f'me while y' wait."

You laid there in sheer disbelief, heart hammering with the embarrassment of having sounded like such a filthy slut for hours on end, and with the guilt of almost definitely disrupting their sleep. How would you face them all tomorrow? Michael could be such a mischievous dick sometimes.

Biting your lip in frustration, you pictured his naked image again, how excited you were for him to come back and give it to you all over again—a little quieter this time, or an attempt at quieter—and with a giddy, ditsy smile, you reached a hand down to prepare yourself for what would have to be the final round. Surely.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Michael had come face-to-face with Bill, who had also opted to hydrate, although for the opposite reason.

"You guys finally stopped now?" Bill asked, a slight despair in his tone, but amused all the same.

"No," Michael smiled bashfully, pouring a glass of pure filtered water for himself first. For the duration, he maintained a stance in the corner by the wall that concealed the monster he was packing beneath. Of course privacy had been a foreign word to Michael tonight, but nevertheless, it disturbed him that Bill of all people might see his erection so up close.

"What, is this just a short pause for refreshments before you resume with round one hundred million? How many times, kid? Jesus! I knew you had great stamina but... shit, man."

The younger man shrugged, still smirking as he downed the glass. But then Bill walked from where he'd been standing at Michael's side, to behind him, just to put back his glass on the counter, but with that, encountering something that had him almost speechless.

The marks.

Tonight—or this morning, rather—Michael was a walking picture of sex. His now-frizzy curls had been tugged in all different directions; the bottom half of his face was wrecked with faint lipstick stains; his neck was savagely adorned with deep, bordering on unhealthy-looking lovebites; and aside from the boner he’d done well so far to hide from Bill, there was also another element that you hadn't yourself noticed in the bedroom. The newborn light hadn't been gleaming brightly enough over every area of Michael's body, so while it had shone the perfect spotlight over the marks on his back, it had failed to portray to you the product of your gnawing nails all over his chest. There were faint marks on his biceps, but they were surprisingly not a match for how intense the ones on his chest were. They matched those of his back profile, which Bill was staring in astonishment at.

"Michael, what in the name of—? Damn, what are you doin' to her up there that's got her markin' you up like this?"

Michael's eyes widened upon hearing that Bill had seen the extent of your vicious attack, but he turned casually and laughed, now having poured a second glass for you. He opened up a cupboard and took out the salt.

But now Bill had noticed the other thing. Michael was incredibly naive to assume he could've really hidden a whole erection throughout this entire conversation all the way to his journey back up the twisted staircase. For most men it was a struggle to cover up, but for Michael it was just impossible to. He was insanely huge.

"Oh God," Bill groaned at the sight of what couldn't possibly be obscured beneath Michael's sweats. "Well, I didn't see that when you first walked in. That why you won't look at me properly?"

Michael's head whipped to the side, to look in confusion at the man who he deemed his literal father figure.

"Huh?" he squinted, before seeing where Bill's gaze went. "Oh—uh, oh my God, yeah, I didn't want y' to see that, but y'know I can't really help it, so..."

Bill chuckled, shaking his head as he turned from him and walked over to the centre counter. "You're crazy, kid. You plannin' to go 'til sunrise or somethin'?"

"Whatever my lady wants," Michael hummed as he stirred the salt into your tall glass. "What time is it now? The sun's already comin' up a little."

"It's," Bill checked the watch on his wrist, "5.22."

"For real?" Michael snapped his head around, then snapped it back forward immediately afterward when he remembered he'd rather not be looking at his second father right now.

"Yup. But you didn't get back 'til around eleven thirty, so six hours you've been goin' at it for."

Michael's mouth dropped open. He knew he had excellent stamina, and that you did too, but he couldn't believe that neither of you were ready to go to sleep yet. This night was certainly one he'd title as magical, although it never took much for Michael to class a night with you as part of that category of experience.

Now done with preparing your glass, he began walking back over to the door leading out into the hall, and Bill kept his distance, refusing to look ahead.

"Is there another baby on the way, Mike?"

"I don't know—we'll have to wait 'n see. We're not plannin' on it but we also aren't tryna prevent it either."

"Man, you sure sound like you're plannin' on it, goddamn."

Michael only laughed, leaving the room to make his way back upstairs and into your arms.

He sat you on his lap, let you rock over his heavy, clothed bulge while you sipped the water, refusing to resume the sex until you were properly hydrated. And then you bounced on his cock for what felt like another beautiful lifetime, even more ethereal now as your body glowed with the rise of the sun while you worked your dancer's hips, movements always guided by your man. How you had the energy to ride cowgirl after all those hours was beyond you, but it was one of your most favourite positions, and when you did inevitably begin to falter and feel a little dizzy with the overexertion as you neared your climax, Michael took over, ordering you to now do nothing but rest over him, while he thrusted upward in long, deep strokes. Alongside that provision of pleasure, he murmured sweet nothings in each ear, squeezing your breasts, expressing all his devotion.

Yet again, his hot seed hit deep into your womb, and you fell asleep the way you'd missed so much—with him still inside you, the milky substance having more than enough opportunity to explore your walls and keep its place there for conception.

Neither of you had spoken seriously about having another child, and it really wasn't practical for your careers at this stage; but the idea of a fourth baby had always existed in the background of your conversations, in the subtext of Michael's excitement whenever he would see you hold someone else's newborn, or how you would both gush over the adorable sight of the tiniest clothing; or even in the sadness you both expressed at how quickly your children were growing.

If you did happen to have conceived a child sometime during this passionate night, it was doubtful that either of you would regret such reckless, continual insemination.

angelcrescent © 2026 ˖ ࣪🧁⁺˖꙳◦🍥 ╱ inspired by this thought and the picture that accompanied it. . . ;) see part 2 here!

──── tag list: @slickdickwitchbitchh @xyahx @nuhveah @darkgreengrl @savagenctzen @filmedlovee @imeatingheehee @definitelynotdomanique @nightmaredressedlikeadaydream57 @alientee @yamyam-tuna @michaelswife-jackson @osugahunnyicedtea @loveposiie @deletedkisses @xoxogossipgirl02 @neverstreett @brxght-world @0-n-1-x @wildpandorasky @thrilleronvinyl @chaoticyouthphilosopher @michaelsbabymother @ermwhatthesigma156 @xogianna @pretty4u @j3nnyluvscupc4k3s @thrilleronvinyl @milqyravena @coldeforprez @livingblythedoli @fawnnoverme @onthewallz @cunty000 @ghostbabi @infinitethrills @freakinme @iwasntreddieforthis @bluegangstaaaa @michaeljacksonspyt @ang9lic @giosorr @pervertedreams @pompurinlover1234 @bunnykay

my masterlist ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

[inuminanniheart]

⤷ 1-800-MAKE-ME-COME

pairing: matureera!michael jackson x s3xtherapist!female reader

synopsis: michael jackson is the world’s biggest superstar, but behind closed doors, his prescription drugs leave him entirely numb—so after humiliating himself with twenty-something models, he resorts to clicking a borderline sketchy ad on a sex therapist.

tags: mature content, explicit smut (minors dni!), porn with plot, age gap (reader is 27 / michael is 42), handjob, blowjob, fingering, p in v sex, missionary, creampie, switch!michael, switch!fem reader, crying during sex, michael can't get it up!, mentions of medications, hints of suppressed libido and erectile dysfunction, angst, comfort

word count: 9.3k (i know i got carried away)

an: this is kinda crazyyy! excuse the poorly designed windows layout below. also, first time using animated dividers :p the credits goes to @pixopix @cafekitsune @graphicdesignevident !

Click clack.

In front of the massive, heavy desktop computer in the Neverland Ranch private study, Michael sat with his silver prescription eyeglasses–surfing the web for God knows what.

As the pixelated pointer wandered over the screen, a sketchy, flashing banner ad promising “Discreet, Absolute Healing for Men’s Private Needs” pops up.

Michael’s brows shot up, his posture straightening in the squeaky office chair.

The ad was borderline sketchy. It was unpolished–only consisting of texts and that purple font. “House Calls Only,” the ad read.

He bit his lower lip, the hours of mindless scrolling suddenly had a point.

He remembered the time when he discreetly arranged encounters with the women he found attractive during fan meetings and autograph signing events. Those twenty-something slender models who looked picture perfect in photos. But behind closed doors, those encounters had turned into a recurring nightmare.

Michael remembered the look of polite confusion shifting to an uncomfortable, subtle patronizing pity on a beautiful brunette’s face when his body simply refused to respond to her touch. That quiet humiliation of sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, his head in his hands, his belt unbuckled, while he listens to the rustle of fabric as the girl dressed herself in silence, offering an empty reassurance before slipping out the door.

To them, he was a myth–and finding out he’s a broken piece of a man who couldn’t perform under the weight of his painkillers was a disappointment they couldn’t hide.

He must’ve been the talk of the town among those kinds of girls, he thought.

So he stopped trying to meet women and retreated into the dark, using his desktop computer and dial-up internet to search for a solution. Anything. 

Now, as the ad flashed across his crest fallen eyes, his heart hammered against his ribs as he clicked it, hiding behind an encrypted email and a fake name.

Truthfully, he did not expect anyone to really come to the ranch. It might’ve been a scam. Or worse, it is a plot made by the tabloids to get him.

But now, twenty four hours later, the reality of that desperate click sat directly across him.

Michael had expected a ‘doctor’ his age, or perhaps a senile old man to enter his house. But no. Across his mahogany desk, a woman much younger than him sat in that armchair, looking impeccably professional in a white tailored blazer, cream colored pencil skirt that stopped above her knee, a pair of black pantyhose and those cream colored stilettos that made his breath hitch.

He felt out of place in his own space as he watched her balance a clipboard on her knee, her expression neutral–clinical, focused, and devoid of that wide-eyed eagerness Michael usually saw. 

To her, he wasn’t the biggest, most hunted man on the planet. Tonight, he was just ‘Peter,’ a client who had paid a massive sum for a private house call.

Michael was a nervous wreck. He isn’t familiar with how any of these sex therapies go. He is tucked into his swivel chair, wearing a pair of black silk pajamas, his long, slender fingers tightly laced together between his knees.

“Alright, Peter,” she began, her voice smooth and businesslike as she tapped her pen against the clipboard. “Let’s establish the baseline. I’ve read the file you gave me, and it notes a persistent inability to achieve or maintain an erection, correlating with your long-term medical regimen.”

She looks up, her long eyelashes fluttering as she stares at his face.

“I need you to be precise and discuss what you feel when intimacy is initiated.”

Michael flinched, a deep crimson blush instantly rushing up his neck. He lets out a mortified gasp as he looks down on his lap.

“I…I don’t know if I can say it out loud, it’s…it’s embarrassing.”

She sets her pen down. “Peter,” she said, her tone tightening with that clinical authority that made his pulse spike. “If you wanted a yes man, you should have stayed with those girls who walked away. You paid for a clinical intervention. If we are going to understand the side effects of your medications, you have to strip away the shame. Now, answer the question. What happens when you are touched?”

The demanding edge in her voice did something dangerous to Michael’s heart. For years everyone coddled him, speaking in hushed voices afraid to disagree with him. Being spoken to with an unapologetic dominance left him completely bare.

He swallowed hard, his large eyes vulnerable as he looked up. “I–It starts out okay,” he shyly smiled. “I feel the heat of it. In my mind. I want it so badly I can’t breathe. But then, it’s like I am drowning. I feel like my body is miles away. I go numb, and then…I see the disappointment on their faces, and the panic paralyzes me.

She did not speak to offer empty comfort. She simply nodded, jotting down a quick note on her clipboard before setting it firmly on the mahogany table. She stood up, her movements deliberate as she circled the table and stopped directly in front of him.

“The physical numbness is amplified by acute performance trauma,” she murmurs, stepping directly into his personal space. “We need to re-establish a tactile baseline. Can you unbutton your shirt?”

Michael froze, his eyes drifting from the curve of her hips up to her eyes.

“Here?”

“Right now,” she commanded softly, her eyes with absolute certainty. “Let me see what we’re working with.”

With shaking fingers, Michael reached up and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric parting to reveal the pale expanse of his chest.

She did not hesitate. She leant down, her steady hand reaching over, her palm flattening against his chest. The contrast of her cold skin against the feverish heat of his torso made him let out a ragged gasp.

“Your heart is racing,” she notes, her thumb tracing a soft firm line on his ribs, applying a calculated pressure that made his head loll back against the backrest of his chair. “Close your eyes. Block out every memory of your ‘failure.’ Focus on where my hands are moving. Tell me what you feel.”

“I feel…pressure,” Michael choked out, his eyes squeezing shut as his hands gripped the worn leather of his chair. “I feel your fingers. It’s…It’s hot.”

“Good. Your neural pathways are awake. They’re just blocked by your anxiety,” she whispered. Her hands slowly moved downwards, sliding over his lean stomach, her fingers trailing with a deliberate friction that stopped just at the waistband of his pants. 

She leaned down, her eyes watching his reaction as her lips brushed the sensitive skin right below his ear, her voice losing a fraction of its clinical chill. “Now, do you want to proceed and test our hypothesis?”

Michael’s breath hitched, a shallow, uneven sound in the study. His eyes remained squeezed shut, his lashes trembling against his cheekbones. He was terrified that if he opened them, the illusion would shatter that she would suddenly realize he wasn't 'Peter,' that she would see the myth and lose that clinical, commanding edge that was currently keeping him tethered to the chair.

But the heat of her hand at the waistband of his silk pants was too real to be a dream. It was a grounding sensation that made the rest of the room fade into a blur.

"Yes," he whispered, the word barely a sound. He swallowed, his throat tight. "Please."

He didn't move to help her, he was too paralyzed by the intensity of the sensation, his body waiting for her to take the lead as she had been doing. He felt a strange, dizzying sense of relief in her dominance. For once, he didn't have to be the one in control. He didn't have to be the one who provided, who performed, who led. He could just... receive.

Her fingers applied a steady, deliberate pressure against where his flaccid length rested, Michael’s head lolled back further, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. A soft, involuntary groan escaped him not of pleasure yet, but of a deep, aching tension finally finding a place to land.

"Is this..." He paused, his voice straining as he tried to maintain some semblance of his usual composure, though it was failing him miserably. "Is this part of the...the clinical process?"

Even in his vulnerability, his mind tried to retreat into the safety of her professional jargon, a desperate attempt to rationalize the way his blood was beginning to thrum in his veins.

He felt her move closer, her presence enveloping him, the scent of her–smelling of vanilla and a hint of sanitizing alcohol filling his senses. He was hyper aware of the distance between his skin and hers, the way the air seemed to hum where they almost touched.

"Just focus on the feeling. Tell me how it feels."

Michael nodded weakly, his fingers digging into the leather of the chair so hard his knuckles turned white. 

Her palms flattened against his flaccid length, moving in slow circles as her scrutinizing eyes watched his face.

Michael’s eyes flew open at the sensation, his pupils blown wide. A sharp, jagged gasp escaped him, his chest heaving as the sudden, direct contact sent a jolt through his entire nervous system.

He felt the familiar, terrifying tug of war in his gut. His mind was screaming, yes, more, don't stop, but his lower half felt sluggish as if veiled by an unknown presence.

"It's... it's doing it," he managed to choke out, his voice trembling with a mix of frustration and arousal. He looked down, his gaze flickering toward where her hands were working, before he quickly looked back up at her, his expression desperate. "The heat. It's there. But it's... it's like it's stuck."

He let out a frustrated, shaky breath, his hips giving a small, involuntary twitch upward, seeking more of that friction. He was mortified by how much he wanted it, by how much he was leaning into her touch like a starving man.

"Am I...am I doing it wrong?" he asked, his voice dropping to a quiet, vulnerable pitch. He sounded less like the man on the stage and more like a boy seeking approval. "The numbness...it's trying to come back. Every time I think it's working, it pulls me away."

He reached out, his long, slender fingers hovering near her wrists, not quite daring to touch her yet, as if he were afraid he might break the spell if he moved too fast. He was watching her face intensely, searching for any sign of that disappointment he had feared so much the subtle shift in a woman's eyes when his dick failed to respond.

"Don't stop," he whispered, a command wrapped in a plea. "Please. Just... keep going. Tell me what to do."

She hummed, her lips slightly grazing the skin under his ear. "Don't think. Feel." She seemed unbothered that his body wasn't responding, like this is completely normal. Her focus set on making sure he feels.

The sound of her hum–a low, vibration directly into his skin made Michael’s toes curl against the floor. It was the most grounding thing he had ever felt.

Most women, when they felt the stagnation, would hesitate. They would soften their touch, or worse, they would pull back slightly, their eyes searching his for a sign of apology. That hesitation was like a death warrant for him, it was the moment the shame would flood in and drown the sensation.

But she didn't hesitate. She didn't even blink.

She treated his body like a painting she was admiring, a territory she was reclaiming from the fog of his medication. Her lack of reaction to his lack of response was the most intoxicating part. It stripped away the pressure to perform. For the first time in years, he wasn't a man trying to prove his masculinity, he was just a man trying to feel.

"Don't think..." he repeated her words, the words a ragged breath.

He closed his eyes again, trying to obey her. He tried to let the analytical part of his brain–the part that calculated choreography to simply shut down.

He focused entirely on the friction of her palms. He focused on the weight of her, the scent of her, and the rhythmic, relentless way she moved. He stopped trying to force a reaction and instead tried to simply exist within the sensation.

A slow, heavy warmth began to spread from his groin, moving up his abdomen and settling deep in his pelvis. It wasn't the sudden, sharp spike he was used to chasing, it was a slow, creeping tide.

"It's...it's different," he murmured, his voice thickening. He leaned his head back, his throat exposed and pulsing. 

She feels his length start to harden against her palm very slightly. "You're doing well, Peter." She pauses her movement. "Do you want me to take your pants off? Feel me directly on your skin?"

He looked down at her hands, seeing the subtle change in himself, the slight, tentative thickening of his length beneath her palms. To him, it felt like a miracle.

"Yes," he said, the word coming out more forcefully than he intended. He cleared his throat, trying to regain a sliver of the dignity he usually wore like armor, but his eyes betrayed him. They were wide, shimmering with a raw, unadulterated need.

"Please," he whispered, his voice dropping into that low, velvety register that usually commanded stadiums, but here, it was stripped of all bravado. "No more barriers. Just...you. Directly."

She watches him peel his pants and boxers off. His hands trembling slightly as he pulled the waistband of his silk pants–revealing his pale length, barely half-hard, his length mostly flaccid but the arousal is there. 

She reached into her medical bag, grabbing a small bottle of water based lube, spurting a generous amount on her palm before gripping his length firmly.

The cool, slick sensation of the lubricant was a shock to his system, a sudden, sliding glide that made his entire body arch off the leather chair. As her hand closed around him, firm and unapologetic, Michael let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a sob.

The directness of it was overwhelming. Without his pants to buffer the sensation, every ridge of her palm, every subtle movement of her fingers, felt magnified a hundred times. He felt the slickness coating him, the warmth of her hand mixing with the artificial coolness of the lube, creating a sensory overload that made his head swim.

"Oh..." he breathed, his eyes lidding shut as he surrendered to the feeling. 

He felt so high.

Michael was acutely aware of how he looked–how much of him was still soft, how much of him was still struggling to rise to the occasion. He felt the old, familiar prickle of shame at the back of his neck, the instinct to cover himself, to hide the failure of his body. But then her grip tightened, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along the underside of his length, and the shame was forcibly pushed aside by a wave of pure, unadulterated sensation.

"It's...it's so much," he choked out, his hands finding the armrests of the chair and gripping them until his knuckles were white. "The sensation...I–It's everywhere."

He was beginning to feel it–the blood rushing, the heaviness in his groin shifting from a dull ache to a pulsing, insistent throb. The numbness he had feared so much was being pushed back by the tactile reality of her hand. 

He began to move with her, a slow, rhythmic tilt of his hips that was almost entirely involuntary. He was chasing the friction, desperate to see just how much more of this contact his body could take before it finally, truly woke up.

"Don't be gentle," he whispered, his voice cracking, his eyes opening to find hers with a look of raw, hungry intensity.

Her pupils dilated as she saw his length coming to life, now standing tall inside her palm as she pumped him slowly. 

The moment he felt himself fully harden, a surge of triumph rushed through him. The blood was there, the tension was there, the connection was there.

He let out a long, shuddering breath, his head falling back against the chair, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He felt invincible. He felt like he had finally cracked the fucking code.

"Yes," he groaned, his voice a low rumble of satisfaction. "Yes, right there. That's it."

He began to move more rhythmically, his hips meeting her hand with an increasing, desperate urgency. The sensation was incredible–the slick glide of the lube, the firm, steady pressure of her grip, and the overwhelming heat of her proximity. He felt alive, more alive than he had in months.

But then, the familiar, dreaded sensation began to creep back in.

It wasn't a sudden crash, but a subtle, insidious softening. The intense, pulsing pressure began to ebb, the rigid strength in his length slowly, agonizingly giving way to a familiar, heavy lethargy. 

Panic, sharp and cold, flared in his chest.

"No," he whispered, his eyes snapping open, searching her face with a sudden, frantic vulnerability. He tried to tighten his muscles, to force the blood to stay, to fight the inevitable retreat. 

He looked down, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs as he watched the very thing he had just achieved begin to wilt under her hand. The triumph was being replaced by a crushing sense of déjà vu.

"It's happening again," he choked out, his voice thick with a sudden, desperate frustration. He gripped her wrist, his fingers trembling, not to pull her away, but to hold her there, to anchor him to this moment before it slipped through his fingers like sand. "Please, what should I do?"

She stilled her hand. "Interesting. The erection lasted for more than three seconds before turning flaccid." She pulls back, her eyes staring into his. "Don't try to force it. Don't chase it. Just feel." She gently murmured before leaning down, uncaring of the taste of the water based vanilla lubricant as she licked his flaccid length, straight from balls to the foreskin covered head.

The moment her tongue made contact, Michael’s entire body jolted as if he’d been struck by lightning. A sharp, strangled cry escaped his throat–a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. 

He had expected her to pull back, to look at him with that clinical, disappointed scrutiny when he softened. He had expected her to reach for her clipboard to record his failure. But she hadn't. She had leaned in. She had gone even lower.

The sensation was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It was a sensory explosion–the vanilla scent, the heat of her mouth, the wet, sliding friction, it was too much and yet, not fucking enough.

His hands flew to her hair, his long fingers tangling in the strands, not to push her away, but to steady himself as the world began to tilt. 

He forced himself to breathe. He just let himself be a man being worshipped.

"Oh God," he whimpered, his eyes rolling back, his head thumping against the leather of the chair. "It's...it's not going away. It's different this time."

He felt the blood returning, not as a sudden rush, but as a steady, pulsing tide, driven by the relentless, wet heat of her mouth. He was beginning to realize that she wasn't just treating a symptom; she was rewiring him.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, his voice a low, guttural rasp, his fingers tightening in her hair. "Please...don't stop. Just keep doing that."

She stares into his eyes as she takes all of his hardening length into her mouth, humming softly as she feels him slowly grow inside.

The sensation of her taking him fully into her mouth–the warmth, the tight, velvet pressure, and the rhythmic hum of her throat against him sent a shockwave through Michael that felt like it might actually shatter his ribs. 

As he felt himself growing inside her, the slow, steady expansion of his length against the heat of her mouth, a low, guttural groan vibrated deep in his chest. It was a sound of pure surrender.

"Ahh..." he choked out. 

He felt the numbness retreating, the failure he had feared was being replaced by a sensation so profound it was almost overwhelming. He wasn't just getting hard, he was becoming alive.

His hands, which had been gripping her hair, slid down to her cheeks, his thumbs tracing the line of her jaw as he looked down at her. His eyes were dark, glazed with a mixture of arousal and awe. He saw the focus in her eyes, the unwavering professionality that made this feel so much more intimate than a mere sexual encounter.

"It's...it's coming back," he whispered, his voice thick and heavy.

He began to thrust, his movements no longer tentative or desperate, but slow, deep, and rhythmic. He was finding his own tempo, a steady, pulsing drive that matched the incredible sensation of her mouth.

"Don't let go," he commanded, his voice dropping to a low, commanding rasp, his eyes locking onto hers with a sudden, intense clarity. "Don't you dare let go."

She gripped his thighs as she began to create a suction–sucking his length as she bobbed her head.

The sudden, intense pressure of the suction was the breaking point. It was as if she had found the exact frequency required to shatter the last of his defenses. Michael’s back arched violently, his spine curving like a bow as a sharp, high pitched gasp was torn from his lungs. 

"God!" he choked out, his hands sliding from her face to her hair, his fingers digging into her scalp with a strength he didn't know he possessed. 

He was no longer in control. His hips began to move with a frantic, uncoordinated urgency, his body trying to meet the incredible suction, trying to push deeper, to find more of that overwhelming pressure. Every time she bobbed her head, a new wave of electricity surged through him, making his toes curl and his vision blur into a haze of white light.

"Please," he gasped, his voice a broken, desperate thread. He was hovering on the precipice, the tension in his body reaching a fever pitch that felt like it might snap him in two. "It's too much..."

But even as he said it, he was leaning into it, his head lolling back as he surrendered to the exquisite torment. He could feel the climax building, not as a sudden explosion, but as a massive swell of energy, a tidal wave that was about to crash over him.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in ragged, sobbing hitches. He was terrified of the loss of control, of the sheer vulnerability of the moment, but he was even more terrified of her stopping.

"Don't stop," he groaned, his voice a low, guttural command that was more of a plea. 

As she moved to move her focus on sucking his swollen head, her eyes gazed at his like an apex predator. Waiting for the exact moment her prey surrenders.

The vacuum-like pressure to the very tip of his dick made Michael felt like his consciousness was fracturing. He felt like she was pulling his life source directly out of his marrow.

But…it was her eyes that truly undid him.

She wasn’t looking at him like a doctor, or even a lover. There was a terrifying dominance–that he was hers to dismantle, hers to study, and hers to break.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he choked out.

He wasn't even sure if he was accusing her or thanking her. The tension in his lower abdomen was a coiled spring, wound so tight it felt as though his very skin might tear.

"Look at me," he commanded, though it sounded more like a desperate prayer. He needed to see her, to anchor himself to the woman who was currently unmaking him. "Don't... don't look away. Watch me."

He was begging for the humiliation of being seen in his most undone state, because the alternative the thought of her losing that predatory focus was more terrifying than the pleasure itself. He was on the absolute edge, the tidal wave of his climax looming large and heavy, and he wanted her to witness every second of his collapse.

When he exploded, she groaned against his length as he came inside her mouth–painting her throat a pearlescent white.

To Michael, the world fucking shattered. His entire body went rigid, his spine arching so sharply it felt as though he might snap. A long, broken sound halfway between a sob and a roar tore from his lungs.

This was violent. This was raw. It was a visceral, pulsing outpouring of everything he had been holding back the exhaustion, the loneliness, the pressure, and the sheer, overwhelming need to be known.

He felt the rhythmic, heavy pulses of his climax, the sensation of himself being emptied into her warmth, and for a moment, he felt as though he were floating, untethered from the earth, drifting in a void of pure, white light.

His hands, which had been gripping her shoulders, slowly lost their strength, his fingers sliding down her skin as his muscles began to quiver with the aftershocks. His head fell back against the leather, his eyes lidded and glazed, staring up at the ceiling as he struggled to find his breath.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the scent of vanilla lubricant and the musk of their shared heat.

He slowly lowered his gaze to her, his eyes searching hers through the haze of his exhaustion. He looked at her with a quiet, intense reverence, a look that went far beyond the clinical boundaries of their "session."

"Did you..." He swallowed hard, a small, dazed smirk flickering on his lips, though his eyes remained deeply serious. "Did you get the data you needed?"

The vulnerability of being so completely undone was terrifying, yet it left him with a hunger that the release hadn't satisfied. He felt the phantom sensation of her mouth, the way she had looked at him like a prize she had successfully claimed, and it ignited a new, different kind of desperation.

He wasn't satisfied with just being the subject. He needed to be the force.

As the tremors in his limbs began to subside, a quiet, intense resolve settled over him. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip, still glistening from him. 

"It wasn't enough," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated between them.

He wasn't talking about the climax. He was talking about the connection, the sheer, unadulterated power of what had just happened. He felt the heavy, pulsing ache in his groin beginning to stir again not the frantic, panicked need from before, but a slow, deliberate rebuilding of strength.

"I need to feel you," he whispered, his eyes searching hers with a sudden, piercing intensity. He wasn't asking as a patient anymore. He was asking as a man. "Not just...not just like that. I want to feel you against me."

He was watching her every expression, looking for that clinical detachment to crack, for the predator to show a hint of the woman underneath.

"I want to see if it works," he said, his voice dropping to a deadpan whisper, though the heat in his eyes betrayed the seriousness of his mission. "If I can do that to you. If I can make you lose that...that control."

He moved his hand from her cheek down to her waist, his fingers splaying against her skin, pulling her just an inch closer, enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.

"Tell me you want to see if I can handle you. If I can please you." 

She blinks. Her hands suddenly clammy as she holds onto his shoulders.

"I don't usually hook up with my patients," she teases though her voice is starting to get rid of that clinical tone.

Michael didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched a tiny, almost imperceptible smirk.

"Then don't think of it as a hookup," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register that carried a weight of quiet authority. "Think of it as...making sure your patient is a hundred percent recovered."

He didn't let her pull away. Instead, he gently pulled her until she was draped across him, her skin meeting his in a way that made his breath hitch. He was acutely aware of the way his body was responding to her proximity–the slow, steady rebuild of his arousal, a heavy, pulsing heat that felt much more stable than the frantic spike from before.

He watched her closely, his observant eyes noting the slight change in her breathing, the way her pupils were still wide, the way the clinical coolness in her gaze was being replaced by something much more dangerous.

He shifted beneath her, a slow, grounding movement that allowed him to feel the weight of her against his growing hardness. He wasn't rushing. He was being patient, a man who knew that the best performances and the best sensations came from a controlled, steady build.

"So," he whispered, his eyes locking onto hers, intense and unblinking. "Are we going to keep talking about your professional ethics...or are you going to let me see if you can keep that composure when it's my turn to lead?"

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the sound of their synchronized, slightly uneven breathing. Michael didn't look away from her face. He kept his gaze locked on hers, observant and intense, as if he were trying to memorize every flicker of emotion that crossed her features. 

He stood up from the swivel chair, carrying her body with him as he set her down to sit on the mahogany table.

His movements were slow, almost agonizingly so. He wasn't in a rush to reach the goal, he was savoring the tension, the anticipation that sat between them like a physical weight. His fingers, long and steady, reached under her skirt and hooked into the waistband of her pantyhose. He felt the slight resistance of the fabric, the delicate texture against his skin, but he didn't let his focus waver from her eyes.

He watched her pupils dilate. He watched the way her jaw tightened ever so slightly as he began to peel the sheer material down her thighs. 

"You're being very quiet," he murmured, his voice a low, dry vibration. It was a tease, a way to acknowledge the tension without breaking it.

He continued the descent, his hands working with a calm, controlled precision. He moved the fabric past her knees, then her thighs, his touch light but intentional, ensuring she felt every inch of his progress. 

As the fabric cleared the curve of her hips, he finally allowed his gaze to drop, just for a second, to the skin he had revealed, before snapping back up to her eyes to demand her attention.

"There," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "No more barriers."

He let the pantyhose pool around her ankles, leaving her exposed to his gaze and his touch. He wanted her to feel the heat of his attention, the way he was looking at her not as a therapist, but as a man who was very much aware of exactly what he wanted to do to her.

He leaned forward, his movements fluid and graceful, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of her ankle. The sound of her heels hitting the carpet was a dull, heavy thud that seemed to echo the sudden pounding of his own heart. He stayed there for a moment, his forehead resting against her skin, simply breathing her in.

Then, he began to move.

He started at her ankles, his lips tracing the delicate bone, his tongue sweeping in slow, wet strokes that sent shivers racing up her legs. He moved with a quiet, intense focus, his eyes occasionally lifting to catch her expression, watching for the slightest tremor of pleasure. 

His mouth traveled up the length of her calves, his kisses becoming more fervent, more demanding. He used his hands to hold her legs steady, his fingers spreading wide against her skin to anchor her as he worked his way upward. Every inch of her skin felt like a new territory to be explored, a new sensation to be mastered.

He reached her knees, his tongue swirling around the kneecaps as he bunched her skirt up her hips before his lips moved to the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the subtle, involuntary twitch of her muscles as his mouth neared the most intimate parts of her.

He slowed down even more, his breath hot and damp against her skin. He was being meticulous, almost surgical, in the way he teased the sensitive skin of her upper thighs, his lips grazing the edges of her heat without quite touching it. 

He wanted her to ache. He wanted the anticipation to become a physical weight, a pressure that she couldn't ignore.

"Tell me," he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet rasp as he pressed his face into the crook of her thigh, his breath hitching. "Tell me if you're still just 'observing' me."

He looked up then, his eyes dark and heavy with a quiet, predatory hunger, his face inches from her, his lips still wet from her skin. 

"You paid me to make sure you feel good. My pleasure is out of the question," her voice losing all of the clinical tone. Her posture suddenly shy and uncertain.

He stopped his movement, his lips still hovering just inches from her inner thigh. Then, he slowly sat up, his movements graceful but heavy with intent. He didn't look at her with the eyes of a patient anymore. He looked at her with the eyes of a man who had just been given the keys to a kingdom.

Michael stood up, his hands sliding under her thighs to hook beneath her, lifting her slightly so he could settle himself more firmly between her legs. He wanted her to feel the sheer, unyielding reality of him. He was finally fully hard.

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his dark eyes searching her face with an intensity that was almost overwhelming. He saw the way her breath was coming in shallow, uneven hitches. He saw the way she was looking at him not as a subject, but as her master.

"You're wrong," he whispered, his thumb catching her bottom lip and pulling it down just enough to expose the wetness of her mouth. "Your pleasure isn't out of the question. It’s the entire point."

He shifted his weight, his hips pressing firmly against her, making sure she felt every inch of his length against her most sensitive skin. He was being direct, his touch possessive and steady.

He moved one hand to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair, not to pull, but to guide. He leaned forward, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a command that was both a promise and a decree.

"Now," he breathed, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Let me try and worship you."

His thumb moved, pressing firmly into the center of her panties, Michael felt the truth of her words. The fabric was heavy, saturated with a warmth that told him everything his eyes already suspected. She wasn't just submissive; she was desperate.

He didn't pull away. He didn't move to strip the last of her clothing immediately. Instead, he stayed there, his thumb moving in a slow, deliberate circle, grinding the damp silk against her most sensitive point. He wanted to feel the exact rhythm of her arousal, the way the moisture pooled and shifted under his pressure.

A low, dark sound halfway between a growl and a sigh vibrated in his chest. The control he usually prided himself on was fraying at the edges, replaced by a heavy, pulsing need to bridge the gap between the fabric and her skin.

"You're a terrible liar," he murmured, his voice a thick, honeyed rasp. He didn't look up, his eyes were fixed on the way her hips instinctively hitched upward, seeking the very pressure he was providing. "You said your pleasure was out of the question...but you're soaking."

He increased the pressure, his thumb pressing harder, more insistent, feeling the slick heat through the thin barrier. He was being clinical in his observation, but the intent was entirely carnal. 

"Don't try to hold it back," he commanded, his voice dropping to a quiet, intense whisper as he hovered just above the damp fabric. "Let me feel how much you want this."

He slid her panties aside. He felt the slick heat of her, a directness that made his heart hammer a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He was driven by a singular, focused intent, his hips moving with a slow, heavy determination as he notched himself against her entrance. 

He began to rub the swollen head of his dick against her dampness. He wanted to feel every nuance of her friction, the way she pulsed against his hardness.

And then, as if the world had suddenly lost its gravity, the tension snapped.

It wasn't a sudden drop, but a slow, embarrassing receding of the tide. The hard, pulsing strength began to soften, the heavy throb in his veins turning into a dull, heavy ache. The sensation of her heat suddenly felt distant, as if a layer of thick glass had been placed between them.

Michael froze.

He didn't move for a long time. He stayed positioned against her, his weight still pressing into her, but the commanding presence was gone. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of frustration, followed by a wave of quiet, stinging vulnerability. The man who was always in control, the man who managed every rehearsal and every public moment with precision, had just lost his grip on the most important thing in the room.

He didn't look up at her immediately. He couldn't. He stared down at where they were joined, his jaw tightening, a muscle leaping in his cheek.

"Damn it," he whispered, the words barely audible, a dry, self deprecating rasp. 

He didn't sound angry at her, he sounded frustrated with himself. He felt the urge to pull away, to hide, but he forced himself to stay. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing him flustered, even if his heart was currently a chaotic mess.

But Michael can’t help the frustrated tears from escaping his eyes.

He had spent his entire life learning how to hold his face still, how to be the calm center of every storm. But here, stripped of his clothes and his pretenses, the frustration of his own body betrayed him. It wasn't just the physical loss of his arousal, it was the overwhelming weight of the vulnerability he had allowed himself to feel. He had let her see him undone, and then, in the most crucial moment, he had failed to be the man he wanted to be for her.

The tears were silent, hot, and unbidden, tracing stinging paths through the sweat on his cheeks. He felt a deep, hollow ache in his chest that was a humiliation he wasn't prepared for.

When he felt her lean in, he instinctively braced himself  for a clinical observation, or worse the silent, polite pity of a doctor. 

But instead, he felt the incredible softness of her lips against his skin. 

She wasn't judging him. She was kissing the salt from his cheeks, her touch so tender that it felt like a benediction. The warmth of her mouth against his damp skin acted like a balm, soothing the jagged edges of his frustration. 

Michael let out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes closing tightly as he finally allowed his muscles to go limp. The tension that had been coiled in his shoulders for hours perhaps even years began to bleed out of him. He didn't feel the need to be the performer anymore. 

He reached up, his hands trembling as he cupped her face, his fingers sliding into her hair to pull her even closer. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin, his forehead resting against her shoulder.

"Don't," he whispered into her skin, his voice a wrecked, vulnerable thread of sound. "Don't be kind to me because you feel bad for me."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes red rimmed and raw, but the intense, observant light was returning to them.

"Don't feel bad Peter. You're just starting to get back on track." she smiles softly before rubbing his cheek.

Michael let out a breath that was half laugh, half sigh. He leaned into her hand as she rubbed his cheek, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he savored the simple, grounding sensation of her touch.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted his weight, moving his body closer to hers until there was no space left between them. He reached down, his hand finding hers where it rested on his cheek, and he pressed her palm more firmly against his skin, as if he were trying to absorb her warmth.

"Back on track," he repeated, the words a low, dark vibration. He let his gaze drop to her lips, then back to her eyes, his expression turning serious, almost predatory in its quietness. 

He moved his hand from hers, sliding it down her neck to the nape of her hair, his fingers tangling in the dark strands to tilt her head back just a fraction. He wasn't rushing this time. 

He leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a tease of a kiss, a slow, testing contact that was meant to reignite the fire he had felt slipping away. He was watching her, observing the way her breath caught, the way her eyes darkened, waiting for the moment he could prove to her and to himself that he could handle everything she was.

He decided. If he can’t please her with his damned dick, he will do everything to make her feel good.

Michael’s eyes never left hers. He was watching the way her expression shifted, the way her pupils swallowed the iris as he moved his hand lower. 

His fingers were steady, despite the lingering tremor in his heart. He moved with a calm, surgical focus, his touch light and teasing at first as he circled her clit. He was exploring, feeling the way the heat intensified under his touch, the way she began to arch her hips instinctively toward his hand.

He increased the pressure, his movements becoming more rhythmic and deliberate. He used the pad of his thumb to apply a firm, consistent pressure, circling the sensitive peak with a slow, agonizing precision. He watched her face with a quiet, intense hunger, noting every hitch in her breath, every small, involuntary gasp that escaped her lips. He was looking for the exact frequency of her pleasure, the exact moment where her control would finally, irrevocably shatter.

He wasn't just trying to please her, he was trying to reclaim himself through her. Every tremor in her thighs, every soft moan she let out, was a testament to his power over her, even when his own body felt momentarily out of sync.

"There," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dark, velvet rasp as he felt her muscles tighten, her breathing becoming shallow and frantic. He leaned in closer, his face inches from hers, his eyes dark and heavy with a quiet, commanding intensity. "Don't hold back. Give me everything."

He shifted his hand, his fingers sliding a little deeper, providing a different kind of friction that made her entire body shudder. 

"Show me," he commanded, his gaze locking onto hers, unyielding and profound. "Show me exactly how much you need this."

Then, the sound of her gasp loud, uninhibited, and completely devoid of that clinical composure was the most beautiful thing Michael had heard all day. It was the sound of a total surrender.

As she shuddered, her body arching violently against his hand, he felt the hot pulse of her release flooding over his fingers. He didn't pull back. He didn't even flinch. Instead, he leaned into it, his hand remaining steady and firm, his fingers moving with a slow, grounding rhythm to ride out the waves of her climax. He wanted to catch every single sensation, to feel the very moment her muscles clamped around his hand in the peak of her pleasure.

He watched her eyes roll back, his own gaze intense and unblinking, absorbing the sight of her undone. He felt a profound sense of triumph, he was able to make her feel good.

As the intensity of her orgasm began to ebb into long, shaky aftershocks, Michael didn't immediately move to reclaim himself. He stayed right there, his hand still cradling her, his thumb continuing to trace slow, soothing circles over her sensitive skin to soothe the ache of the climax.

He waited until her breathing began to level out, until the frantic tension in her thighs softened into a heavy, relaxed warmth. Only then did he lift his hand, his fingers glistening and wet, and he brought them up to his own mouth, tasting her with a slow, deliberate movement of his tongue.

He looked at her then, his expression calm and composed once more, though his eyes were still dark with a lingering, quiet heat. The vulnerability from before hadn't vanished; it had simply transformed into a deep, grounded connection.

"Did the patient exceed the doctor’s expectations?" he murmured, his voice a low, dry rasp, a tiny, satisfied smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. 

He leaned forward, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead, his touch incredibly gentle. He stayed close, his body still pressed against hers, refusing to leave the space she had just created.

He shifted, his weight settling more firmly between her legs, and as he did, he felt the familiar, heavy throb returning to his own body. The frustration was gone, replaced by a singular, focused purpose.

"Now," he said, his voice a quiet, commanding velvet. "Let's see if I can finish what I started."

As he felt his length rise fully, he guided himself to her entrance.

As he sank into her, the sensation was overwhelming a tight, searing heat that felt like coming home. He let out a long, low exhale, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as he felt the friction of her dampness welcoming him. 

But he didn't lose himself in the sensation. Instead, he forced himself to stay present, to stay observant. He opened his eyes and locked them onto hers, his gaze intense and unwavering. He wanted to see the exact moment the pleasure hit her, the way her expression would shift from the soft afterglow of her climax to the sharp, focused intensity of his presence.

He began to move, but it wasn't the frantic pace of someone trying to prove something. It was slow. Deliberate. Heavy. Each thrust was a long, dragging motion, designed to maximize the contact between them, to make sure she felt every inch of him stretching her, filling her.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, dark vibration. He wanted her eyes on him, wanted to be the only thing she could see, the only thing she could feel.

He watched the way her pupils dilated, the way her breath hitched in her throat as he hit a particularly sensitive spot. He saw the slight tremor in her hands as she gripped the sheets, and the way her head fell back, only for him to catch her chin with his hand, pulling her gaze back to his.

"Don't close your eyes," he murmured, a hint of his usual dry, teasing tone returning, though it was weighted with a heavy, primal hunger. "You wouldn't want to miss your patient recovering, would you?"

He increased the depth of his strokes, his movements becoming more purposeful, more rhythmic. He was no longer the frustrated man from moments ago; he was a man in total control of his rhythm, using the slow, grinding pace to build a new, much more dangerous kind of tension. 

"There," he whispered, his voice a velvet rasp as he felt her body begin to tighten around him again. "That's it. Just like that."

"Peter!" she moans as she holds onto his shoulder, her eyes growing heavy lidded as sweat dribbled down inside her blazer.

The sound of his alias ripped through the heavy, erotic air like a discord in a perfect melody. It was a name for a man who was a patient, a man who was not the one currently driving her to the brink of madness.

Michael’s rhythm didn't falter, but his expression sharpened. The slow, grinding motion of his hips became a little more insistent, a little more demanding, as he felt her fingers dig into the muscle of his shoulder. He leaned down, his hands moving to unbutton her blazer–freeing the tank top underneath soaked by her sweat.

"No," he murmured, his voice a low, velvet growl.

He paused for a heartbeat, his length still deep inside her, the sudden stillness making the sensation of him even more overwhelming. He waited until she was looking at him, until he had her full, breathless attention.

"Not Peter," he commanded softly, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a firm, possessive pressure. "He’s not the one in here."

He gave a slow, heavy thrust, a deliberate movement designed to remind her exactly who was currently claiming her body. He watched her eyes, waiting for the realization to sink in.

"Call me Michael," he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. "I want to hear my name when you lose your mind."

He didn't wait for her to answer. He resumed the slow, torturous rhythm, his gaze never wavering from hers, his eyes challenging her to drop the last of her pretenses and give him the truth. 

She licks her lips. "You feel so good. I can see why those girls were disappointed when you couldn't get it up." she moans out as her eyes rolled back

A sharp, short exhale escaped him a sound that was half laugh and half growl. Most men would have been insulted, but Michael simply felt a surge of dark, amused energy. 

He didn't slow down. If anything, the jab seemed to fuel him, the slight sting of her sarcasm acting like a catalyst for the tension building in his gut.

"Is that so?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerously low, velvety register. 

He leaned down, his chest pressing firmly against hers as he drove a deeper, more forceful thrust into her. He watched her eyes roll back, the sight of her undone by his very presence a silent answer to her teasing. 

He increased the tempo, the slow, grinding rhythm evolving into something more urgent, more demanding. The friction was intense, the heat between them reaching a fever pitch. He was no longer just 'getting back on track'; he was driving toward a finish line that he intended to cross with her.

"Tell me again," he commanded, his voice a rough, commanding rasp as he felt her hips begin to buck against him. "Tell me how good it feels. And use my name this time."

She bites her lips before looking at him with glazed eyes. "You feel so good inside me,  Michael. So deep inside me."

The way she said his name, thick with lust and heavy with the heat of her climax was the final blow to his restraint. 

"Damn you," he rasped, his voice breaking slightly. 

He didn't just move, he drove into her. He abandoned the slow, measured tempo for a more powerful, rhythmic drive, his hips hitting hers with a heavy, bruising intensity that made the bed frame groan. 

He watched her glazed eyes. He wanted to be the only thing she could feel, the only thing she could think about.

"Deep?" he echoed, his voice a dark, commanding vibration. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his breath hot and ragged. "Then let's see how much more you can take."

He reached down, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together, pinning her hand to the wood beside her head. He wanted to be tethered to her, to feel the exact moment her body reached its limit.

He increased the pace, his movements becoming a blur of friction and heat. He was watching her, his eyes wide and dark, tracking every spasm of her muscles, every frantic gasp of her breath. He was waiting for the storm, for the moment her body would tighten around him in that final, exquisite crescendo.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a raw, desperate rasp as he felt the tremors of his own release beginning to pulse through him. "Look at me when you break."

The moment she broke, it was as if the world had finally caught up to the intensity they had been building. Michael felt her entire body seize, her internal muscles clamping around him in a fierce, rhythmic desperation that was almost too much to bear. She let out a long, shattered cry, her head tossing back as the waves of her orgasm crashed over her, her body trembling with a violence that was both beautiful and terrifying.

The control he had worked so hard to maintain, the composure he wore like armor, shattered completely. 

"Shit! " he gasped. 

He drove into her one last time, a deep, final thrust that seemed to bury him entirely within her. As he hit his own peak, he felt the sudden, explosive release, a powerful surge of heat that felt like it was pouring from his very soul into her. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that started in his chest and tore from his throat, his eyes snapping shut as he surrendered to the overwhelming sensation of coming inside her.

He didn't pull away. He couldn't. He collapsed forward, his chest heaving, his sweat slicked skin pressed tightly against hers. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in ragged, uneven stabs, his entire body vibrating with the aftershocks of his release.

The air was heavy, thick with the scent of skin and sex and the quiet, profound aftermath of what they had just done.

Slowly, he lifted his head, though he didn't move away. His eyes were dark, heavy lidded, and filled with a quiet, intense adoration that he rarely allowed himself to show so openly. He looked at her, seeing the flushed skin, the messy hair, and the beautiful, exhausted haze in her eyes.

He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a damp strand of hair away from her face. His touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the primal intensity of moments ago.

"You're a very good therapist," he murmured, his voice a low, dry rasp, though the corners of his mouth twitched with the smallest, most genuine hint of a smile. 

He leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering, and incredibly tender kiss to her lips.

She closed her eyes, her hands coming up to cradle his jaw as he pulled away.

He grinned—that handsome lopsided smile that always showed a sliver of his lower teeth.

"Same time tomorrow?" 

an: sooo...what do you guys think about the fic? you might be so weirded out why i attached slipknot's scissors to this but i think the track perfectly mirrors the frustration of wanting to rip through your skin to feel human again—to break free from the very drug consuming you, making you feel numb. also, you don't have to listen to it while reading! i just thought it fitted the fic while it played on my shuffle :’)

taglist: @misscowboyhat @persie123 @thrillerhaze @mylilikiwi @bernardmatthews @meowwnchild @appleheadsleftoe @srose1907 @azucarmorena26 @savemjfiction @girlyglitterprincess @beausophia22 @ididintliketheusernames @bluugangsta @canireadinpeace @tired-ginge

[itzzkaylaaa]

THEY BETTER KISS

[filthytabloidpress]

thinking about mature!michael x college student!reader eating you out while you study…

mainpage | masterlist

warnings: eater michael, biting & nibbling, age gap (duh), dom!michael, fem!reader

requests: open

a/n: it’s 3am and im sleepy and horny, so be kind.

when you’ve got loads of schoolwork to do, he’s gotta reward you. you’re boyfriend enters the study, kissing and touching you all over, which of course is a bit distracting- but you’ve got so much work to do.

you type away, “mm, not now baby, ‘m busy,” a slight whine escaping your lips as he kisses a sensitive spot on your neck.

“princess, you’ve been working so hard… let me make you feel good, kay?”

michael ignores your pleas, and rolls the desk chair bacl a bit. he kneels under the table, looking up at your warning expression that read “i said i’m busy, michael.” michael lifts up your skirt, exposing the slight wet spot that formed between your legs. slightly embarrassed, you bit your lip.

“my pretty girl,” michael smiled with pride, “so busy and oh so worked up.”

he licked a striped on your clothed cunt, your hips bucked into his face- but he held your body down. he kissed your inner thigh, nibbling and sucking on your “busy” body.

“mike,” you sighed, the firm grip on your thighs reminded you of how much you desired him- school was taking up a majority of your time and you rarely had time for him.

you felt your release bottling up inside you, entirely forgetting whatever work you were drowning in a few moments ago. your boyfriend took note of this, placing circles on your clit. the study was full with the lewds sounds of his mouths making out with your cunt and the rocking of the desk chair.

“‘m close, mike…”

“mm, mhm?”

you nodded, desperately.

michael kissed your slick before pulling away and rising onto his feet. your eyebrows furrowed and lips began to pout.

“you’re busy, right now, princess,” he gently smiled, “i’ll help you later, okay?”

he pulled down the fabric of your skirt, smoothing out the knit as you blankly stared into his prideful eyes.

“but-“

“ah- ah, my girl has to focus on her studies.”

michael glided your chair back into place and kissed the top of your head. he started to head out the study, “no touching yourself while you work,” he commanded before shutting the door.

for the next hour, you sat shuffling about in your seat trying to relieve yourself as you very quickly typed away.

[carmaloves]

Could I request Micheal is always taking reader with him to the studio where she just falls asleep every time. She’s got her own little blanket and eye cover and snoozes her way through his rehearsals. Everyone finds it hilarious she can fall asleep with all the noise. A lot of fluff from Micheal

𝑪𝒐𝒛𝒚 𝑳𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝑪𝒐𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓

Michael Jackson x Reader

Synopsis: You slowly build your own little corner in Michael's studio Content/Warnings: Fluff, short, reader is a sleepaholic, Michael being a menace, you can imagine any ear but I made it with pre-thriller in mind Word Count: 850

Masterlist

Being in a relationship with Michael meant him dragging you along to the studio or to rehearsal. Not that you were complaining, you felt honored that Michael felt comfortable enough to bring you along with him.

You had grown accustomed to the chaotic and stressful nature that was music, video, and dance rehearsals. Whether it was Quincy and Michael arguing over a 3 second vocal snippet, or Michael stressing out over the sharpness of a single flick of the wrist, you knew it all very well.

And while of course you enjoyed being there and witnessing history in the making... you were tired... a lot. Honestly, borderline narcoleptic. Since you were little you could fall asleep virtually anywhere. It was honestly impressive.

This, combined with the fact that you would show up to the studio after a long day at work, meant frequently falling asleep during rehearsals. It had happened so often now that it was essentially a routine.

Leave work, grab lunch for everyone who was scheduled to be at the studio that day, be everyone's hero when you walked in with bags of food, talk to Michael about how your day was, head to the nice leather couch in the corner, wrap yourself in blankets, and take a nice cat nap.

Michael sat back in his chair, talking loudly with Quincy about a harmony that wasn't sitting right, when he glanced over at the couch. He smiled at the familiar sight of you snug in a bunch of blankets, an old cat sleep mask resting over your eyes, and very quiet snores leaving your mouth.

Quincy gazed over, "I really can't get over how quickly she falls asleep."

Michael nodded, "Yup, that's my girl, a sleeping machine."

"It's impressive. Y'know one time while you were in the booth, the playback was pushed to full volume and came blaring through the speakers... she didn't even flinch, just kept on snoozing."

Michael let out a small laugh, shaking his head with a smile. "It's cute. Although that does make me concerned about her safety at her apartment."

"Nah, don't be. Women have like an internal alarm system. Pegs is the same way. I swear she slept just as heavy as your girl, but the second the baby cries, she's up immediately."

Michael smiled, watching your chest rise and fall slowly. He swore he could watch the sight all day and never get tired. Part of him was slightly envious of your uncanny sleeping abilities, but a larger part felt all warm and fuzzy because it meant you were comfortable enough in the space.

These little moments became so frequent that Michael ended up buying a large ottoman, stocking it with the fluffiest blanket he could find, a silk sleep mask, and a plush pillow.

He had made a little poster to hang over the little corner of the couch, it said 'sleeping station,' which you thought was just the sweetest thing ever.

One of Michael's favorite things was seeing the reactions of others when they realized there was virtually nothing that was going to wake you up. He loved seeing people eye your sleeping figure when there was a loud noise or a heated argument, only for them to slowly come to terms with the fact that you were dead asleep and not waking up.

It had gotten to a point where he and Q started taking secret bets testing how long it would take you to fall asleep. Michael, knowing you best, won almost all of them to which Quincy learned to stop betting actual money. Once Q refused to bet with him, Michael moved onto scamming unknowing sound engineers and instrumentalists. He had a whole scheme going on, which you were unknowingly helping him with.

But more than the bets and the reactions, Michael loved getting to wake you up. He loved sitting on the edge of the couch, gently rubbing your back as he quietly pulled you from your dreams. Your body would instinctively lean into his touch, humming as he called out your name with so much sweetness it dripped in honey. He would gently remove the sleep mask from your head, fixing up your hair for you as he smiled down at you. You would smile sweetly as he came into focus, yawning adorably as you sat up.

"Sleep well?"

"Mhm, as always." You wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him happily.

He hugged you back, "Good, I'm glad my little cat got her nap in."

You pulled back, looking at him with a raised brow, "Your little cat?" You repeated.

He nodded, kissing your nose, "Cause you sleep like a cat."

"I do not!"

"Totally do. It's cute." He laughed.

You shrugged, giving in immediately, "As long as it's cute and I don't snore." Michael didn't respond, suddenly finding the stitching on your mask very interesting. "I don't snore... right???"

Michael stood up, "Oh would you look at that, Q needs me back in the booth." He bolted into the booth

You sat up, swinging your legs off the couch and chasing him, "Michael! Do I snore!!!?"

Taglist: @chloethefantastic @swag313gur l@melosdelusions @1lvie @wildlaufey3 @jaiana-b-blog @lordswagprincess @mikeyspyt @khxna @plan3tch1ld @macncheesy16 @heyitsm4di @raefoxiegirl @smoothcriminalgf @itsopinionsbased @hello-its-lana16 @mizermouse @irissunshines @starryeyedmoonlight @forgottennoot @tellybearryyyy @sugacor3 @sugarrushbell @laniundercoverr @zhadyax @kneelarmhstrung @badussyussysstuff @devynrulesboisdrool @kryka83 @appleheadannie @amoravelee @a-motherfcking-fish @blythecat1 @migualllll @7viiseven @zzeraphilm @michaeljacksonfan01 @graysislosingit @18lkpeters @alientee @aristoleyaferrarii @gingerrsnapp @urthem00n @alientee @animegamerfox @sebbysbaby @umafanficdoidaqualquer @delictezz @artflooo @owls-see-in-the-dark @actuallyanebonymuse

[kissmyglxck]

CAP N’ GOWN ── .✦ Michael Jackson 1988

“Mmh, baby m’so proud of you.” You breathe heavily. Michael’s breath hitches, face heating up as he stare at you. “Y-yeah?” His voice close to a whimper.

Michael received an honorary doctorate today for his contributions to the black education system. Oh you loved him so so much, he was so caring.

That’s why you were riding him right now to let him know just how much you appreciate him.

You lean down, moaning into his mouth as you roll your hips, giving him all of you. He moans into your mouth, hands finally leaving the sheets to grip your hips.

“Hmnh-“ he whimpers, brows furrowed and biting his lip as he runs his hands over your curves. “Love you so much..” he expresses, big doe eyes on yours.

“I love you too baby,” you hum, sitting up and pressing your hands against his chest. “You make me so proud,” you praise.

He whines in adoration, staring up at you like he was gonna melt.

“You do everything for everybody..so handsome..” you moan, rolling your hips slow. Causing him to throw his head back and grip your hips tighter with those big hands of his.

“You’re so caring Michael. So sweet, and an even sweeter soul. Y’know that Mikey?” You ask breathlessly as you tilt your head.

Tears prick his eyes from how good he feels, nodding vastly. “Yes…yes, yes, I know, I swear I know,” He cries, still focused on you. His baby. His lady. All his to love on him.

“Oh my gosh.” He groans with a cry, throwing his head back harshly as his eyes practically roll to the back of his head. He tries to suppress a whimper, but ultimately fails miserably as he moans, sending a few thrust up into your pulsing cunt til your finishing right with him.

You whine, nails digging into his shoulders as you ride out your high, collapsing against him.

After a few moments, you lift your head. Arms crossed underneath your head as you look down at him. “Congratulations ‘graduate’.” You giggle, tracing patterns on his chest.

He sits up ever so slightly, pecking your forehead with a worn out smile. “Thank you mama. I really appreciate that.”

You peck his lips a few times before he’s got a sly grin on his face and his cheeks are real high, an idea coming to him.

“Since you’re so proud of me…you wanna ride me again?” He suggests.

“Just a thought.” He quickly defends as you stare at him with a blank expression.

A/N: idea randomly came to my head, but I love this video of him sm you guys don’t understand.

taglist ৻ꪆ: @swavydadon @jeonsblackgf-writes @callmelyriic @watermielonnn @blkkbratt @szalipcombo @siighrns @angelfacediary @killathrxlla @mattbymills @angelcrescent @3leni go to post linked to join! (Any moots of mine if you wanna be tagged lmk)

[tabloidangel]

This recent discourse in the mj fandom is incredibly disheartening. As a black woman i’m truly embarrassed to know that i’ve had personal conversations with a writer that has been participating in digital blackface. Who truly would’ve thought? I can sit here and say i truly enjoyed a few of that writers works and still hold her ACCOUNTABLE for the blatant ignorance and disrespect of her actions. And this is not to say I can’t have personal one on ones with creatives outside of my race. But I’d NEVER cosplay as one of them. And that? That is truly heartbreaking when you thought you’d been being encouraged by someone of the same fucking cultural background as you..

And before we use this crutch, this precious crutch of “Michael is for everyone”. Yes michael very much advocated for equality and peace amongst all. We all know this. Still Michael Jackson was apart of the black community. A community that suffers at the hands of the world stealing our art, dimming our light, and silencing our cries. This current discourse includes harm towards THE BLACK COMMUNITY and yet we still have to extend grace and remember to be inclusive..? This is the same black man who’d faced racism in the industry with MTV cause they didn’t broadcast black artist. A black man who advocated for his people, who celebrated our art, and redefined the very pop culture we all love. Michael wanted inclusivity, but he still called out the bullshit that occurred within black communities. he LOVED to incorporate black women and black culture in his short films and music videos yet those same black women must give grace to the woman cosplaying for traction..? Y’all can kiss the blackest part of my ass, disrespectfully!

As a writer, who loves to share ideas, creativity, and experiences. Even in past eras such as the ones i’m currently working on right now. So I encourage ALL my BLACK writers to please COME TO THE FRONT and comment your favorites, let’s all connect! Share ideas. Help each other perfect our writing skills. Encourage more black creatives to share their work. Show each other love.

Here are some of the authors of my favsss & i’d love to have more!

— mwuah, junkie 🪽.

@bvtterfliess @prettyangeliczz @theonlyonlinefish @cherrishkissed @brownsugarletters @kissmyglxck @buckysgirlll

[lovelyways]

BAD 25 (2012) dir. Spike Lee

[3leni]

put that DICK AWAYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!😭😭😭😭 DOES HE HAVE A LICENSE FOR THAT THING

(VIDEO LINK BC IT’S REAL😭)

[michaelmuse]

—𝐑𝐄𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄

—𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒; being married to michael jackson had its perks and downsides — the latter ultimately leading to your divorce. ex-wives, demanding jobs, and loneliness all lead to your split while you’re pregnant with his fourth child — but your secret, mutual love never falters. but, at your son’s seventh birthday party hosted at neverland, and multiple bottles of wine — can the love be rekindled?

—𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆; SMUT, 18+, p-in-v, creampie, mentions of love-bites & bruising, oral (f!receiving) ANGST, lots of it, failed relationship, divorce, mentions of pregnancy, birth, labour, etc, heavy drinking, fluff mixed in there too.

—𝐀/𝐍; sorry this took so long, it’s cuz it’s so long so strap in and enjoy! heavily inspired by @michaeldiary mwah love u

Alcohol often does incredulous things to people.

And right now, you finally understood why.

Waking up with a pounding headache, throat dryer than the Sahara, eyes squinting almost painfully from the bright light that shone through the ajar curtains, and an unsettling bubble of nausea growing in your stomach — all roads led back to alcohol.

What didn’t lead back to alcohol was a noticeable sting between your thighs, and a dull ache from blooming bruises on your hips.

In the shape of fingers..?

And the puzzle piece only started slotting into place when your head turned to the side, eyebrows neatly furrowed into your forehead, as a hand came up to rub your tired eyes—Ouch!

Your hand retracted instanetously when something cold, hard and metallic scraped along your eyelid — your eyes blowing wide open at the jewellery clad on your ring finger.

Your wedding ring.

One you had taken off over a year ago — was now firmly pressed back onto your ring-finger like it hadn’t left at all.

And oh! If that wasn’t enough to remind you of your previous night.

Your stark naked ex-husband, Michael, littered in lovebites and smudged lipstick, sleeping soundly next to you, in his bed, at his house, was more than enough to do so.

Looking down, reality hit you like a ton of bricks — you had evidently had sex with your ex-husband. Plain and simple — and embarrassingly clear. The deep, indented, slowly forming bruises now adorning your hips were, painfully obviously, in the shape of the hands of the man deep in slumber next to you.

Eight years together makes things like that easy to spot.

And that daunting fact, slowly, but surely, let the ever-so-wonderfully reminding thought that you were in fact divorced, creep back up into your pounding brain.

You were divorced. Split up. Not together anymore. Legally binding from February 2003.

But, this didn’t look very divorced right now.

“Oh, God.” You mumbled, voice hoarse and croaked as you sat up, stomach churning and the relentlessly thumping in your head never letting up, as you sighed, running a, wedding ring free, hand over your face.

Your hands fell lazily and defeated into your lap as you shook your head at your heedless actions — vision locking on the diamond-encrusted wedding band that fit like a glove on your finger, and was twinkling in the morning light.

The divorce had been messy, and rushed for that matter. A meticulous, devastatingly, continuous stamp on your heart every time you had to appear in court — bags evident under your eyes, the same ones that were glassed over in constant tears, and hands shaking from adrenaline and sheer emotion over having to recount the same story of your marriage over and over again to the Judge.

It wasn’t as though anything particularly nefarious had happened in your marriage that would cause such a divorce, something horrible like infidelity or abuse, no, far from it, Michael was the perfect husband — until he started slipping.

He slowly, but nevertheless painfully, turned from the doting, present husband — to so brutally consumed in his career that it felt as though you were a single mother. Late nights at the studio, events that stretched long into the night, tours all across the States, even going as far as globally — all of it added up. Pushing you further and further into a lonely pit of despair — begging for the man you once knew.

Michael never did this maliciously, and that was quite possibly worse, he didn’t even realise what he was doing. Nor the damage he was causing. And every time you’d bring it up to him, whenever you finally got a night just to the two of you, cuddled up in bed, a hand on your small, growing bump — he would act none-the-wiser, as if the pain you were feeling didn’t exist. Promising that he would be home soon, be around more, that things would change — but, alas, they never did. If anything, he only got busier.

Having three kids was difficult, especially so when a fourth was on the way, and even more so when you have a career like Michael Jackson does — having to juggle recording, then interviews, then tours, then gala’s, and award shows, then signings, and then coming home to help look after three children and your pregnant wife.

But, none of it phased him — at the start. He was, and is, an excellent father. Spending every last second he could with his children before leaving for an eighteen hour day, or coming home at three-AM and kissing his children on their foreheads as they slept, and then retreating slowly into his bedroom, where his pregnant wife slept, and pulling her close, and holding her all night.

It came naturally to him — he was made to be a lover, and a father. And he adored every minute of it.

But, where the waters got muddied was when he began to blend those two separate aspects of his life — music and family. And when music seemed to become a higher priority than his family.

A house polluted with the noise of three screaming, giggling kids, a children’s television show blasting throughout the living room, or toys screeching out nursery rhymes from a plastic, worn out speaker that was staticky and stuttered pathetically, fighting against the electrics of the old mechanism — was now also filled the noise of demo’s, loud business men laughing, inappropriate jokes and guitar strings, plugged into an obnoxiously loud speaker.

In August 2002, you’d had enough.

It was the hottest summer the 2000’s had seen yet — the sun was beating down relentlessly over California, and the humidity was at its highest. Mixing the warmest weather you’d ever experienced in your lifetime with having a five-year-old, Prince, with the energy of a wild animal, a four-year-old, Paris, who was constantly screaming for her Father, and a clingy six-month-old, Blanket, who daren’t not be on your hip or else he’d wail the place down, all the while being four-months pregnant, wasn’t a good cocktail.

You silently cursed yourself for having such an attractive husband and being so horny only two-months postpartum that now led you to this mess.

And on top of all of that, Michael had so kindly, not, invited some friends, musical and not, round to work on some new demos he’d been cooking up late in the studio recently.

But, it wasn’t the fact that he’d invited people over, that you didn’t care about, you could handle the kids, to an extent, on your own just fine — it was the noise.

Michael was shy, and often quiet anyways, but with his pals round, his infamous loud laughter, mingling in with the loud strums of a guitar and the deep, rumbling voices of men you’d never even met before, was now sounding throughout the house like thunder. All that jovial, unnecessarily high in decibel, laughter blending with the screams and squeals from your children had now manifested itself inside you in a blinding headache.

This headache, now bordering on a migraine, wasn’t just your average Joe — it was a deep, dark thud of pain that stretched from behind your eyelids to the nape of your neck. Any noise was a shrill, blood-curling scream in your head — grating through your bones like nails on a chalkboard.

It had to stop.

And it forced you to reach that extent

Usually, whenever Michael and whoever he had brought round for the umpteenth time this week, would make noise and near enough trash the house with cans of beer, cartons of orange juice (For your Michael) and boxes and bags of devoured KFC, you’d let them be — let the boys have their fun.

But, today, enough was enough.

“I know, baby, but Mama’s feelin’ a little sick right now, okay? We can play outside later when Daddy’s not with his friends, how does that sound?”

“Noooo! ‘Wanna to go outside, now!” Prince, tears now forming in his lower lash-line, demanded, stomping his little foot onto the carpet of his bedroom, now pushing your hands away abruptly as you attempted to change his shirt which was smothered in his lunch.

You sighed, your patience beginning to wear thinner and thinner as you repeated yourself for the thousandth time that day about not going outside as Prince refused to let it go.

You raked a hand over your face, a noise of frustration leaving the back of your throat as you met Prince’s eyes — whose were now streaming with tears as he cried violently, cheeks flushed and stained with the evidence of his upset.

“Baby, please, stop crying for Mama, please? I promise—Mama pinky promises we can go outside later, okay?” You tried one last time, trying to put on the most motherly, comforting voice you could as you forced the irritation down your throat.

Just as Prince began to consider diminishing his resolve and abandoning his tantrum, Paris ran into the room, “I wanna play outside, too, Mommy! Please, please, please!”

The groan that left you was failure of suppression — your eyes fluttering shut as the two small children now teamed up against you, both now chanting in their high-pitched voices to go outside. And if that wasn’t enough to send you over the edge, baby Blanket began wailing at the sudden loud noise of his siblings screaming to do what you distinctively told them not to repeatedly over the past morning — his screeches and cries of displeasure colliding with the sound of Paris and Prince begging loudly.

You scurried to your feet, a lump in your throat forming, as you took Blanket in your arms, rocking him gently in your grasp, cooing softly into his ear as you attempted to nurse him to silence.

No avail.

For once, baby Blanket wanted nothing less than to be in your arms — you tried every rocking sensation you knew he liked, but no luck. He continued to scream — tears staining his cheeks now flushed a dark shade of crimson, as his little fists bawled up tight at his sides.

You had reached your wits end.

You only realised your feet were moving until you reached the stairs — turning on your heel to watch as your two younger children ran after you as you exited Prince’s room. Their relentless chanting to go outside had been, finally, abandoned — but, now replaced with ‘Where are you going, Mommy?’ ‘Why is Blanket crying, Mommy?’ ‘What’s wrong with Blanket, Mama, is he okay?’ ‘Mama get Blanket to stop crying! It’s hurting my ears!’

It was incessant.

You absolutely adored your children — but moments like these you wished you could just run away.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You stormed down the stairs, checking back every so often to make sure Paris and Prince weren’t on the brink of falling, before heading directly towards the loudest area of the house. If that was even remotely possible with the screaming baby in your arms.

You marched into the room — eyes landing on Michael who was sat on the couch, surrounded by at least twelve other men, not that you even had the brain capacity to count in the moment, all laughing and shouting as they recounted former memories.

“Baby.” You spoke, voice trembling.

No answer.

The conversation continued, as if you weren’t even there, the loud laughter only worsening the pain that consumed your brain.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael!”

For the first time in weeks, the room fell silent.

The sound of your distraught, wrecked shout of his name even sent your wailing baby in silence — for about three seconds, before his screeches of discomfort sounded throughout the room once more. Everyone’s eyes were on you, including your confused husband, whose were now wide with shock at the sight you — eyes now also streaming with tears, lip wobbling, hands shaking with a screaming Blanket in your arms, and Prince and Paris at your feet, now also babbling about the garden and tugging at your clothes.

“I can’t—I can’t take this.”

Michael rose to his feet, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t you ‘What’s wrong?’ me!” You exclaimed, “Look at me!”

He was lost, and quite frankly, worried — he had never seen you so wrecked, a silent plea for help as you shook where you stood.

“Ta—Take him.” You extended your still wailing baby out into the air, eyes fluttering as droplets of tears you didn’t even realise had fallen, drooped from your eyelashes.

Michael rushed over to you, instantly taking Blanket into his embrace — rocking him slowly in his arms as the crying slowly fading into soft whimpers as Michael comforted him.

You let out a scoff of a laugh at the irony of the situation — Michael, who got to sit around and play with instruments like toys with his friends all day, soothed your crying baby in three seconds as if you hadn’t been dealing with it all day with no prevail.

“I’ve gotta go. I actually can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Michael.” You started, voice rapid and racing, buzzing with emotion, “You—You can’t sit around all day and do nothing, and expect me to deal with this all day—I can’t, I just can’t.”

“Baby, please, what are you talking about?” Michael questioned, concern and confusion laced in his tone, “What happened?”

“What didn’t happen!” You exclaimed, not caring that thirty pairs of eyes were all on you as you blew up what you’d been holding in for weeks, “Prince threw his lunch everywhere, all over the floor and his clothes, and then refused to change, and then begged and begged and begged to go outside even after I told him no.” You breathed out a laugh, despite finding none of the situation amusing, “And Blanket barely slept last night and neither did I, and he will not stop crying—it’s been on and off all day, and I’ve got a pounding headache and I’m tired, and I just can’t take it anymore.”

Your rant ended with a loud sob, one that echoed throughout the room as your Nanny, one that had failed to be absent while all of the commotion from your children had occurred, took a concerned looking Paris and Prince away from the room by their small hands, as you ignored the way they stared at you worriedly as they exited.

“And don’t even get me started on you.” You spat, pointing an accusatory finger at Michael, “You’ve been at this for weeks! You’re a father too, y’know! I need help, I’m pregnant for fuck’s sake and doing everything while you sit around and fiddle with guitars like children and laugh at a fucking thousand decibels.”

“Honey, wait—calm dow—“

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me to calm down.”

He could tell you were serious. To your core. You had never ever spoke to him that way, ever. You looked absolutely destroyed — like the world had literally come crashing down on you all at once.

“I’ve had enough. Enough, Michael.” You exclaimed, watching as the Nanny returned to pry a now sleeping Blanket from Michael’s arms, before scurrying out of the room once more, “Whether it’s phone calls at three-AM, or late nights at the studio, or events that end you up in the club until early hours, or inviting God knows into our house—you’re not here!” Tears were now streaming down your face with no sign of stopping, every word now a silent sob as you broke down, “I feel like you’re not—sob—not even here anymore! I feel like I’m doing this all alone, and we’ve got another one on the way for fuck’s sake! I can’t—I genuinely cannot do it anymore, Michael, I’ve had it up to here.”

As your hand raised to demonstrate the intensity of how thin your patience has deteriorated — Michael couldn’t help notice the way your hand shook aggressively.

It all finally rained down on him.

Like violent meteorites — all his wrong-doings came crashing down in an abrupt realisation.

Every point you made was correct, and that’s what hurt most. You weren’t exaggerating or overreacting — you were speaking the plain, distasteful truth. A truth that flooded guilt and heartache throughout his system harder than he’d ever felt it. His subconscious absence had pushed you over the edge — without him even realising he was doing it.

You had promised him, the day you started dating, that you would always be there despite his demanding career — but, you, nor him, imagined it would get this bad. So bad to the point you were considering walking away from the family you had built from the ground up. A family you had literally created in utero — and formed from a lousy blind date your friend set you up on, now blossomed into a committed marriage with three, nearly four, children.

In your romantic pledge, you didn’t ever mean this. Never meant that you’d let yourself be humiliated and abandoned so brutally to the point where you were metaphorically, and nearly literally, tugging your hair out.

And Michael’s flabbergasted silence only made things worse.

He couldn’t even find the words to claw himself out of this grave that he’d dug — mouth opening and then closing as he stared at you, eyes still blown wide open as he watched you heave, still sobbing violently.

Instead of waiting for an apology you knew wouldn’t fix things now, you scoffed and turned on your heel, storming out of the room as another sob wracked through you. Michael instantly chased after you, ignoring the tension that had settled from the uncomfortable audience behind him, his longer legs catching up to you as you made it to the front door.

“Hey, hey, stop—baby, wait!” He reached you, hands grabbing your arms and stopping you in your tracks, “Baby, wait, please, don’t do this, please.”

Another loud, distraught gurgle of tears left you, your head shaking as you stared at the ground, “I—I can’t take anymore, Michael”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry.” He started, “I’m so so sorry, baby. I’ve been the worst husband in the world, I’m so sorry.” His heart clenched as another sob left you, “I should’ve been there, I’m sorry, I know better, I do. Things—Things have been hectic with the new album, and I just—I don’t even have a reasonable explanation, I should have been around, there’s no excuse.”

At the sound of his declaration of wrong-doing and his utmost apologies — your loud cries turned into soft sniffles and hiccups. You finally lifted your head, bloodshot and glossy eyes meeting his worried ones — lip quivering as you settled.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Michael whispered, voice breaking ever so slightly, “Please, don’t leave. If it’s not for me, please don’t leave the children. They need you.” He went silent, “I need you.”

“I needed you, Michael. But, where were you when I did?”

The words hit him directly in the chest.

It wasn’t because they were hurtful, or disrespectful, or offensive — it was because they were true.

When they said the truth hurts — he never imagined he’d experience it this way.

Watching as his wife, mother to now four of his children, literally begging for his presence for weeks, and subconsciously taking no notice, had broken his heart — but, not nearly as much as he broke yours, which made things twice as bad.

“Baby..” His voice trailed off, quiet and broken, a beg for you, not that he was even in the place to do so right now.

You shook your head, another silent cry leaving your mouth, tears cascading down your cheeks in a slow, aching reminder to Michael of exactly what he’d done — a twang vibrating through his heartstrings.

“I’m sorry, I just—I need some space.” You spoke, a loud, huff of a shaken breath leaving you as you stepped back, retreating from his embrace.

“Baby, please,” Michael begged, “Please, don’t go. What about the kids?”

“Only for a little while. I’ll be at my Mom’s, just for a few days while I think.”

“Think? Think about what?”

“Whether or not I can take anymore of this.”

Michael didn’t think it was possible to feel anymore heartbroken and scared — but your final sentence before turning your back to him and walking out the door exceeded that. His heart ached, a hand coming up to rest against his chest, as he watched you climb into the back of a car and whizz out the driveway — the last evidence of you being dust and dirt that flew up into the air at your exit.

That night Michael called your Mother’s house phone twenty-seven times — each time going straight to answerphone, as you begged your Mother to just ignore it as she held you while you cried into her lap. And each time, Michael would leave a message on her answer machine.

‘Baby? I don’t know if you can hear this but I love you, and the babies love you. I miss you already and I’m so so sorry. Please come home soon.’

Beep!

Riiiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother, I know you’re upset, and I know it’s ’cuz of me, but I just—I can’t leave you there knowing you’re so broken and it’s all my fault. I wish there was something I could do to turn back time. I love you, baby, please come home.’

Beep!

Riiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘Please, call me back, baby. I need you. I’m so sorry I let things get to this. I’m sorry I let things get so bad. I’m sorry for everything. Please, baby, please, I love you so so much, I can’t do this without you. And that quite possibly makes it so much worse, as that’s exactly what you needed from me and I subconsciously denied it from you for so long. I’m such an idiot, a total, complete and utter idiot. I should’ve been better, I’m so sorry. Please, honey, please.’

Each time the answer machine would beep and another message would come through, now late into the night as you curled up on the couch and drifted off to sleep, Michael’s voice grew more and more wrecked, now laced with silent sobs and broken whispers to prevent waking the children. And each time, you would continue to cry — face smushed into the cushion, now soaked with your tears, until the answer machine finally went silent at four-AM.

The next morning, your chest sported a dull, deep ache of emotional distress as you awoke — eyes swollen from the relentless crying. The headache had subsided, thankfully, but now replaced with an intense heartache that you knew would never diminish.

Not after everything that had happened.

After a few days to allow the dust to settle, you decided returning home was a reasonable idea — letting your Mother lecture you about ‘not putting up with anymore shit’ before you left her house, a bag full of dirty over-night clothes and an old toothbrush slung over your shoulder.

The drive back to Neverland was unusual — you weren’t quite sure what the forefront emotion you were feeling was.

Worry? Sadness? Hurt? Confusion? — it wasn’t clear. But, the waves of anticipatory nausea that flooded through you were enough to show that you were definitely concerned about where this left your relationship with Michael.

You had spent the last three days at your Mother’s pondering on what to do. The much needed space, despite calling your children every night to remind them that Mommy still loved them and was coming home soon, allowed you to think about whether or not your marriage was still fulfilling anymore — whether you could continue to live in a house that, despite being full to the brim of people, felt so unbearably lonely.

The walk up to the house felt longer than usual. Like you were moving in slow-motion as you reached the door, hands trembling, not only from the lack of sleep you’d gotten over the past seventy-two hours, but increased anxiety for what you were about to walk into.

And if you’d known what came forth — you never would’ve stepped back into the house at all.

Your heart stopped as you pushed open the door, vision locking on the scene before you — face scrunching into a look of undisguised shock and despair, an array of swirling emotions buzzing round your body in a brutal battle to become the forefront.

But, the one that took the cake was disgust.

There, stood in foyer, laughing, smiling, joking, and holding your baby was Lisa.

Lisa Marie Presley.

Your husband’s ex-wife.

When you described to people after the divorce what really happened, when they pried for answers to their personal, probing questions, you claimed you struggled to find a time where you knew the marriage was over.

But, you knew the truth.

You knew that this very moment before your eyes was that time.

And you knew Michael knew it too.

His eyes instantly shot towards the door, smile still pressed on his face at something she had said — before it fell faster than a brick to the ground. The sheer altitude of how swift the grin wiped itself off his face was almost cartoony — like the main character in a corny, children’s TV show had just had a nanosecond change in expression in the freeze-frame.

Alas, this wasn’t a show nor fictional — this was your life. And the extent of the situation was becoming all too real for the both of you.

“Baby?”

Michael’s voice sounded out first, breaking the atmospherically intense atmosphere that had skyrocketed from thin air — the squeaked sound of his surprised, scared voice filling the room.

At first, words failed you — all of the thousand things you could’ve screamed or yelled or cried lodged themselves in your throat like a hard piece of candy swallowed too quickly. It felt as though you’d been punched by world-class boxer in the stomach — knocking all the air from your lungs in a brutal, nefarious blow.

“I—I swear—I promise it’s not what it looks like.”

The classic one-liner.

You scoffed, the sound almost coming out gurgled as the lump in your throat formed — eyes glassing over in tears.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

He took one slow step forward, hands out in front of him, creeping like a man to a provoked bear, in attempt to keep you where you were. Your eyes darted between them — Michael, who looked as thought he was attempting to save million-dollar porcelain china from falling off a thousand foot drop, and Lisa, who looked like she’d been caught in the act, an expression of bewilderment and shock plastered across her face.

“Honey, please, calm down. I swear there’s an explanation.”

A breathless laugh left you as a single tear slipped down your face — cheeks flushed with exceeding adrenaline as your nervous system went into overdrive.

“Why the fuck is your ex-wife here, Michael?” You snapped, voice a harsh, bitter spit of venom.

Michael sighed, eyes wrecked as he attempted to piece things back together helplessly, “I—I just—I got overwhelmed with the kids, and Blanket was crying and Prince was crying—all for you, they wanted you, and I didn’t know what to do.” He let out a broken breath, “I didn’t know what to do, so, I called the first person I thought of who had children and would know what to do.”

Your heart sank.

No, no, more like violently plummeted — straight to your stomach, mingling with the growing nausea that never let up, concocting together in a ruthless cocktail.

“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice came out shaken and depleted, tears now streaming down your cheeks in a merciless storm, “You—You called your ex-wife for help with our children? You called your fucking ex-wife instead of the Mother of those children?”

You were shouting now — pointing and yelling as your voice hit a higher decibel than you knew it even could, sobs croaking from your throat in wrecked, consuming wails.

“I didn’t know what to do! I was a mess—A total mess, I—I was scared and worried, and you had left, and I—“

“I only left because of you!” You roared, “All of this—this fucking mess—is because of you, Michael! You!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I—I’m so sorry.” The curse left him before he could even stop himself. In another scenario, if your brain wasn’t total mush, you would’ve realised Michael’s apology was sincere due to his usual lack of using curse words, but you were too far down the rabbit hole of despair to notice.

As Michael began another spout of meaningless explanations behind his reckless decision, your glassy eyes landed on Lisa, who stood awkwardly by the stairs, vision locked on Michael’s apologetic frame and your angered own — eyes refusing to meet your own.

But, upon further inspection, your stomach dropped again — as if on a never-ending rollercoaster that relentlessly dropped you from high heights, toying with your body like a game of cat and mouse.

“Did she fucking sleep here?”

The room fell silent — that was all the answer you needed.

You’d figured that distressing fact out by paying close attention to Lisa’s clothes — her body sporting one of Michael’s pyjama t-shirts, one that you had bought him at Disneyland on one of your anniversary’s.

“Baby, please, I swear, we didn’t sleep in the same bed.”

Michael’s frantic plea for you to listen went on deaf ears as you stumbled back out the door — heart hammering nearly medically worryingly fast as you clutched onto the doorframe for support.

“Oh, my God, I’m gonna be sick.”

And that you did.

Hunching over and vomiting violently into the grass that adorned the front yard of Neverland — stomach churning as you emptied your guts from the sheer panicked and distraught truth that came before you.

Michael rushed to your aid, calling your name in a frenzied, worried manner as he pinned your hair behind your head, making sure none of your aggressive release got into it.

You instantly shoved him away — standing upright, and wiping your mouth, “Don’t fucking touch me, Michael.”

For the first time in his life, Michael truly understood what it was like to not be the heartbroken, depressed, wrecked person, and finally be the one to be inflicting the pain — a feeling he never, ever, in his deepest, darkest nightmares, thought he’d be giving to someone.

Let alone his loving, devoted wife.

A loud wail sounded out through the room, this time not from you, but from Blanket who writhed in Lisa’s arms.

Anger became the fore-front emotion rapidly.

You stormed past Michael, barging past his shoulder harshly as you went, and marched straight up to the woman who was curating this argument. The sound of her comforting Blanket sent shockwaves of coursing fury through you — as if you’d been struck by lightning as you pried the baby from her arms.

“Don’t you fucking dare come near any of my children again, do you hear me?” You yelled, face like thunder as you grit your teeth, not caring how deluded and psychotic you must’ve looked covered in tears, spit and vomit, as you came face to face with her.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, breathlessly as a single tear slid down her face.

You laughed a bitter, choked, unamused laugh, “What the fuck are you crying for? Realising you’ve broken up a marriage? Oh, boohoo, poor Lisa, always the victim.”

“Wait, what?”

The room fell silent as Michael’s devastated voice hit your ears.

“Broken up a marriage?” He sounded windless and confused, eyes now brimming with tears as he locked onto your gaze, “So, you—you’re leaving me?—“

“Prince! Paris!”

You ignored him as you shouted your children’s names, refusing to listen as Michael stumbled over his words at your insinuation.

Soon, two pairs of pattering feet came storming through the house, innocent giggles and squeals of excitement masking the sound Michael’s broken stutters. Prince and Paris screeched in excitement as they clung to your legs, exclaiming their adoration for you, as they tugged at your clothes.

“Mama, why are you crying?” Prince asked, a pout forming on his face as he took in your devastated expression.

You knelt down to his eye-level, pressing a kiss to both his and Paris’s cheeks, “Mama’s okay, baby, I’m just a little sad, but Mommy will be okay, I promise.”

“Don’t be sad, Mommy.” Paris chimed in, resting her cheek on your knee as she mimicked her brother’s pout.

“I’m not, baby, don’t worry.” You smiled at her as maternally, and convincingly as possible, “Go get in the car for me, okay? We’re gonna go stay with Grandma for a while.”

“No, baby, please.” Michael’s voice cut through the discussion, “Please don’t do this.”

As Prince and Paris, now in the care of the Nanny, with a baby Blanket in her embrace, taken from your arms, were escorted out of the home, you stood back up to face him.

Anger had been replaced by unadulterated, hopeless anguish.

“Why, Michael?” You whispered, another sob threatening to wrack from your throat, “Why would you do this to me?”

Michael finally let himself break — a miserable, wretched wail escaping from his mouth, streaks of unstoppable tears falling from his eyes.

His hands reached for you as you stepped towards the door, “Please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me, baby, I beg of you. Please let me make things right, I—I swear things will be better, I—“

“I thought you loved me, Michael?”

I thought you loved me.

Those were the last, non-legally binding words you spoke to Michael, one’s that rang in his head every-day since, before you left for good. Turning on your heel in a slow, wobbled movement, and scurried down the driveway, letting yourself cry for a few seconds more, before you hopped into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes, wiping your eyes and putting on a brave face for your children. You blocked out Michael who chased after the car in a screaming, dejecting protest as it sped off, leaving him in a cloud of dust, and a swarm of tears.

He was served the divorce papers the next morning.

From then on, it was everywhere — every news, radio and TV station was covering it, plastering pictures of you and Michael over the front cover with a taunting, exaggerated headline. You tried to block it out, like you always had done, but reading ‘Not even this one could hold Jackson down for even a decade’ definitely had a negative effect on you.

After a long, mentally-depleting five months of court, the divorce was finalised in February, and you were now nine-months pregnant and over it. Your large belly had dropped — signifying you were creeping nearer to labour. You knew the stress of the break-up and the gruelling divorce wasn’t good for the baby, so you took time after court steady.

Back in December, right before Christmas, you moved into your own place. It was a beautiful house, not as large as Neverland, nothing ever could be, but it was home. Unfortunately, or not, the home had been plagued before you even stepped foot into it.

As Michael had paid for it.

You had told him a thousand times that you weren’t together anymore, that you were no longer ‘Mrs Jackson’, so therefore paying for such lavish things like a whole house, wasn’t necessary. But, as he always did, he insisted — and demanded you never attempt to give him even a cent back. Whether it was a sly con to get you back, you didn’t know — but it certainly didn’t work.

In the midst of the divorce, you settled for shared custody — that was a given. Michael was a fantastic father, and you’d never deprive him of his children. You thought just because your relationship broke down, didn’t mean his with your kids had to. So, every week, Bill would turn up outside your front door in the same black Mercedes he always did, with an excitable Michael in the front seat — grinning like a Cheshire cat, opening the door before Bill had even stopped. He’d race out the door and scoop up the children in his arms, kissing their faces all over and letting them ramble on about what they did with you that week. You’d stand in the doorway, watching with a soft smile as Paris would instantly cling to Michael’s clothes like she was scared he was going to disappear while Prince would pinch his cheeks, and a now nearly one-year old Blanket, nestled into the crook of Michael’s neck.

If he couldn’t be a husband, he was definitely going to be a dad. And a good one at that.

But, the damage had been done. And whenever Michael would approach you, letting Bill scurry the children into the backseat, clipping them into their car-seats, the awkward tension would arise. The conversation would be polite and acquainted, as if you’d never met before, with a simple ‘How are you?’ and ‘Were they good?’ or ‘How many weeks left?’

The last question always made your chest ache, not only because you knew you’d soon be a single mother, and having to accommodate your now ex-husband into your routine after the baby was born, but because you knew he already knew — he had kept a strict track of your pregnancy, knew every trimester, how many weeks, your cravings, discomforts, how you liked to sleep, how many kicks you’d had that day, he knew it all. So, every time he’d ask, you knew he was trying to be polite, and come across as nonchalant — like he didn’t know you like the back of his hand.

But, the nonchalance melted into nothingness once the baby came.

It was a cooler day in February, clouds settling over the skies of California, and your back had been aching from the moment you woke up. Luckily, a lazy morning was in order as it was Michael’s week to have the kids — so once eleven-AM rolled around, you forced yourself out of bed.

Unlike at Neverland, where personal chefs were at your beck and call whenever you so pleased, you had to grow to love cooking for yourself. Luckily, you often cooked for your children, even when you lived with Michael, and even more so now you lived alone, so cheffing up a quick breakfast wasn’t too taxing.

But, trying to ignore the dull, relentless ache that settled itself in your lower abdomen was growing harder to do so, gritting your teeth as you scrambled eggs on the stove. This wasn’t a usual cramp or crotch pain like you’d experienced — it was a familiar feeling that you’d felt three times prior.

And your suspicions only came fact when you turned on your heel to fetch salt from the pantry when a flood of liquid gushed through your shorts and onto the floor.

Contractions started simultaneously — growing more and more frequent from the car-ride to when they situated you into a private hospital room. You had been attempting to pace your breathing, the sharp, brutal pains of labour sending you into tachycardia as pain consumed you, the minutes between them decreasing quicker than you remembered they were supposed to, giving you no time to recover.

You were alone in the room, figuratively rather than literally, as dozens of nurses swarmed you, but no loved ones were present. And that was quite possibly worse, your anxiety was sky-rocketing, important people were asking important questions you didnt have the brain power to answer, and hands were all over you, attaching a cannula — it was all too much.

“Mrs Jackson, I’m going to have to ask you again to sit down, you’re bordering on seven centimetres, so baby could come at any time soon, and it’s important you’re in a sensible position.”

You groaned loudly, choosing to ignore the way the nurse referred to you as ‘Mrs Jackson’, as your head hung low, eyes squeezed shut as you hunched over the bed once more, legs wobbling from the sheer intensity of the contraction.

“Ma’am, I going to have to—“ “Enough.”

You breathed a loud sigh of relief, one that your more mentally stable being would’ve kept to yourself, as Michael’s voice sounded throughout the room.

The room fell into hushed silence as he stepped forward, ignoring the eyes on him and shared glances between nurses, and pressed a hand on your back, glistening in tiresome sweat.

“Do you want all these people in here, baby?”

The familiar pet-name fell from his lips before he could even stop himself — an all too welcoming feeling spreading across your chest as you shook your head, mumbling an almost inaudible ‘No’ that mingled into a loud whine of agony.

“You heard my wife, if you’re not going to be delivering our baby, please leave.”

Michael was never rude to workers, but right now he was stern and he wasn’t apologetic about it — he wanted nothing more than your comfort in one of the most important moments in both your lives.

But, even in your pain consumed state, you still managed to pick up on his words, “I’m not your wife anymore, Michael.”

He shushed you gently, rubbing soft circles into your back, before leaning down to press a tender kiss into your hair, “I know, but, just for today, baby.”

You would’ve scolded him if you had the ability, tell him off for acting so husbandly and loving even though only a mere few weeks ago your divorce was finalised — but you hadn’t the energy. And secretly, you needed all the love and support you could get right now.

Luckily, shortly after Michael ordered the dozens of nurses out of the room, your baby was born. You had decided to keep the sex a secret to you both for when it was born, a surprise meant to be then shared and celebrated once the two of you went home together — it was beautiful, but bittersweet, as you knew you would both go off to your respecting homes afterwards instead.

It was a boy — your third boy of the family, and now the littlest. Age and weight, he was, unlike most babies born after their siblings, smaller than your others — weighing seven pounds, three and a half ounces, all of beauty and wonder.

The birth was tiring, but luckily short, not diminishing your energy as much as the others had, and left you unscathed of any tearing. You liked to believe it was the universe giving you a little luck after the heartbreaking few months you’d had to endure.

Once you’d settled in your bed, blanket pushed up to your chest as you held your little boy in your arms, body aching nonetheless, Michael entered the room, pushing the door open quietly.

“Is he asleep?” He whispered, popping his head through the crack in the doorway.

You smiled, “No, come in.”

Michael did so willingly — creaking the door open fully before stepping inside the room, and closing it gently. He walked softly, with a proud smile on his face as he approached you, taking a firm seat in the chair next to the bed with a sigh.

“He’s perfect.” He spoke tenderly, voice cracking ever so slightly as he brushed a delicate finger over his son’s cheeks.

You giggled as you watched your son’s eyes darting around the room, totally entranced by the lights and noises surrounding him, “He is, isn’t he?”

“Have you thought of a name yet?” He asked quietly, eyes still locked on the way his son’s nose twitched and his lips smacked as he became accustomed to life.

“What do you think about Mickey?”

Michael could’ve sworn his heart had grown twice the size already today at the birth of his third son — but this moment was slowly tripling it.

His eyes flicked up to yours — a raw, deep, utterly loving expression crossing his face.

“Y’know, ‘cause you love Disney and Mickey Mouse so much..” You trailed off your explanation, “He can still be Michael Joseph, but, I don’t know, I just thought it was sweet.”

“Baby..”

Your expression softened at him for the first time in nearly a year — he was wrecked. Slow, overwhelming tears trickling down his cheeks that flushed crimson, lip wobbling and eyes full of adoration at your idea of his son’s name — chosen solely from his love for Disney.

“Do you like it?”

“Honey, I love it.” He whispered, sniffling, a hand coming across to rest over your own that cradled the baby’s head, “I love it so much, baby, thank you. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“‘S okay,” You whispered, smiling softly at him, “So, Mickey it is?”

“Mickey it is.” He confirmed, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss known to man-kind to the top of Mickey’s warm head, “Mickey Jackson. Heh, kinda sounds like Michael, huh?”

You chuckled, “Bad or good?”

“Good. Real good.”

You noticed the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked over your knuckles — a romantic display of his utmost adoration and gratitude for you for bringing his fourth baby into this world. And in that moment, your heart had never felt so full — even after the worst pits of hell you’d felt you’d crawled into over the past few months after everything that had occurred, none of it mattered in that room, holding your baby as he drifted off into a slumber, with the father of said baby holding your hand as he did so.

The overwhelming hormones and emotions from birth hit you like a truck as tears began to fall — cascading down your cheeks just as Michael’s did.

“Hey, what’s wrong, honey?” Michael question, a tight knit in his eyebrows as he glanced at your upset expression.

“Nothing, nothing, I’m—I’m okay, I just—I’m just happy.” You sniffled, “Happy you’re here.”

You looked up from peering at Mickey’s sleeping face and meet Michael’s eyes — ones that were full of devotion. His hand left the embrace of your own, and reached up to wipe the tears that slipped from your waterline.

“Me too, baby.” He spoke delicately, his hand coming across to cup your flushed cheek, “Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward or forced like it had been recently since the divorce, no, it was raw — a subtle demonstration of overpowering intimacy that needed no words, only a look of sheer joy at the miracle that had been brought onto this Earth from the love you both shared. The intensity of the soul-baring, vulnerable, cherished sensation that flooded both of your systems became overwhelming — the sound of both of your hearts hammering in your chests blasting in your ears as you remained locked in a sincere gaze.

“Michael.”

He didn’t even need confirmation — he leant forward before he could stop himself and connected your lips in a gentle, warm, deeply devoted kiss that send shockwaves of electricity throughout your body. You gasped into his mouth, hands tightening ever so slightly around Mickey to steady yourself as he moved his mouth slowly against your own. You kissed back immediately — a sound almost like a sob leaving your throat as more tears spilled from your eyes, as your lips collided together in a scared, dreamlike connection.

You pulled away to catch your breath — panting softly as your head lolled forward to rest your forehead against his own, the scent of his cologne becoming intoxicating from the closeness.

No words were spoken about that kiss ever again.

Not when yours and Michael’s family came to see the baby, especially so when your three children came to do the same, and even more so when you returned home and went about your lives. And there was definitely more than enough time to discuss it, even though it never was, especially when Michael was at your house practically every day to come check on you and help out with Mickey.

Some nights he’d even sleep on the couch downstairs, and take the night shifts to let you rest, or he’d take the kids out into the garden or back to Neverland to play, with Mickey, while you showered and cleaned the house, or took everyone out for dinner to save you cooking — he was always there. And instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like you assumed it would’ve been while you were still pregnant, it was surpisingly pleasant. And felt like old-times.

But, once Mickey reached the four-five-six month old mark, you didn’t need as much help — and your old routine went back into motion. And with all things considered, everything between you and Michael was jovial.

Until Wednesday.

Today, Friday, thirteenth of February 2004, the day of your son, Prince’s, seventh birthday — you had to battle showing a brave, excitable face for your son, who was buzzing in joy over all the presents laid out in the living room of your home, with the undeniable fury that flamed inside you at what Michael had done.

On Wednesday, Michael had been spotted out at a lavish, fancy restaurant in Manhattan with his ex-ex-wife, Lisa Marie Presley.

Oh, yes! The same woman that helped break up your marriage two years ago — that Lisa!

Why Manhattan? Why that restaurant? Why the secrecy? Why two days before his son’s birthday? Why Lisa?, most importantly — a million questions swirled around your head, and you knew it’d be difficult to keep them there, and not spewing out of your mouth.

Especially when you were seeing him in an hour.

Michael had decided to host a massive gathering for Prince’s birthday at Neverland, inviting all of his family over to celebrate — and obviously, being Prince’s mother, included you. And you definitely weren’t going there looking like you usually did, oh, no, you had to make a statement. Remind him of who gave him four children, who stayed even though the marriage was failing, and carried his baby all through an exhausting divorce — you.

So once Paris was in her prettiest dress, Blanket and Prince in their finest dress shirts, and baby Mickey in an ironic Mickey Mouse t-shirt, you slipped on the most eye-catching, jaw-dropping dress you could find appropriate for the occasion.

It was black, Michael’s favourite colour on you, and figure-hugging — clutching your hips and curves in all the right ways, and showing just enough cleavage to make Michael sweat. It was perfect — and just enough to make him realise what he was missing.

Not that you were intending to make him come back, or so you thought.

The drive was boisterous — nearly one-year old Mickey was, unusually, wide awake, most likely from all the noise his siblings were making as they chatted loudly in the backseat. Paris, now six-years old, and Blanket, two nearly three, were old enough to engage in playful conversations as Prince recounted to you, and Bill who chuckled in the drivers seat, all of his favourite presents, which, surprise surprise, was all of them.

“Thank you, Bill. Nice to see you.” You spoke kindly, offering him a sweet smile as you pulled Mickey onto your hip, as the others clambered out the car.

“And you.” Bill replied, “Tell Michael I said hi.” You smiled thinly, knowing there was nothing you wanted to do less than speak to him, “If he’s still surviving after seeing you in that dress, that is.”

You laughed loudly as Blanket took your hand, now old enough to walk, “Well, if you don’t hear from him, then you know why.”

Bill chuckled softly as he waved goodbye to the children, before driving away. Paris and Prince instantly took off towards the door, squealing as they went. Blanket, although confident and more than capable of running, was still the clingy baby you birthed nearly three years ago, and liked it better by your side, as Mickey nestled his face into your collarbone, sucking his thumb.

You took a long, precise, deep breath as you reached the door, collecting yourself and pushing your anger further down your nervous system before pushing the door open.

The room erupted in excited laughter and shouts of your names as they locked eyes on your presence entering the home. Prince and Paris, of course, had sped off in the direction of where all the noise was — jumping into the arms of their uncles and aunts, and accepting countless kisses from their Grandma Katherine, Michael’s mother.

Blanket’s hand slipped from your own as you shut the door as he jogged towards an all too familiar face that emerged from the crowd.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Applehead!”

The hilarious term of endearment Michael had given all of his children rang in your head as Blanket jumped into Michael’s embrace — instantly wrapping his short little arms around his neck as he cuddled into his shirt.

“You okay, buddy? How was your morning at Mama’s?” Michael asked, smoothing his hair across his forehead.

“Good, Prince got loads of presents.” Blanket revealed, as you fought the urge to laugh.

“Well, that’ll be you in a few weeks, bud.”

Michael was right, Blanket’s birthday was only around two weeks post-Prince’s, thankfully, not, for your bank account. Michael looked up from Blanket’s smiling face to meet your gaze, and he folded instantly. He didn’t even try and hide the expression that spread across his face — jaw slack and eyes blown as his vision trailed along your frame, clad in a gobsmacking dress and heels.

However, your stare was ice-cold, and he noticed — watching as you daren’t smile as you sauntered near him, heels clicking against the floor.

“Hey, you okay?” He spoke, clearing as throat as he attempted to regain some composure.

You hummed in response as you stopped next to him, watching as he gulped thickly.

“Hey, little man, how’s my littlest boy, hm?” Michael turned his attention the smallest son your hip, who now blabbered and kicked violently in your arms at the sight of his daddy — now slobbering all over himself.

Michael reached over and used his free hand, the one not holding up Blanket, to use his bib to wipe his mouth clean, “How was he this morning? Prince didn’t wake him up with all the noise, did he?”

“No, he’s been good. They’ve all been good.” You forced out jovially through gritted teeth, eyes only focusing on Mickey who giggled as Michael squished his cheeks.

“So, Prince had a good morning, then? I’ve been so busy recently, I can’t believe how fast his birthday has rolled around.”

“Busy, huh?” You fired back as Blanket wriggled from Michael’s grasp and ran towards his Auntie Janet who beckoned him over, “You been real busy, Michael?”

You knew you didn’t need to say anymore, as you walked away, from the look on Michael’s face — he knew you knew now and it was obvious in his expression. His jaw twitched as it fell ajar ever so slightly, his eyes squeezing shut as you walked away, muttering under his breath, shaking his head.

“Hey, girl!” Janet called, her voice excitable as she smiled at you, waving you over as she just did Blanket, who was now playing with her hair.

“Hey, Jan.” You smiled, leaning over to kiss her cheek, as she did the same “How ‘you been?”

“Oh, yeah, good, good. What about you?”

The conversation flowed from there as if you saw one another yesterday — laughing wildly and joking playfully about all of her brother’s and sister’s, who fawned over your kids dramatically, while discussing her relationship with American rapper, Jermaine Dupri, who she’d been with for two years at this point.

“Yeah, he’s so good to me, it’s so refreshing.” Janet told you as you settled on the couch, shortly after saying hello to the rest of Michael’s family, “We’re going away to Hawaii in April, I’m convinced he’s gonna propose.”

Although you smiled and gasped in joy, grasping her hands and asking a thousand questions about her possible engagement, you couldn’t help but let your heart ache at the mention of the start of a new beginning — your mind instantly jumping to the memory of Michael proposing, and then your wedding, and into the start of your marriage.

“Girl, I know that look, talk to me.” Janet cut herself off, raising her eyebrows at you as she took a sip from her glass of red-wine.

You groaned, rolling your eyes with a playful smile— Janet knew you nearly as much as Michael did, playing the part of a real sister, even if you weren’t married to her brother anymore.

“It’s just—Please tell me you saw it too.” You started, not even wanting to say it out loud.

Janet instantly knew what you were referring to, “Honey, everyone saw it.” She scoffed, “I think he’s a complete idiot for doing that.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Well, it’s not like we’re together anymore, so there’s no loyalty there, but, why her, y’know? Out of everyone he could’ve chosen to take out, or even date, it had to be her.”

“She’s a vulture.” Janet spat, “I never forgave her for going on vacation with her ex while they were together. Totally unforgivable. And I will support Michael till the day I die, and I did when he didn’t speak to her for six weeks after that, but this? This is a big no.”

You sighed, “Yeah, me too. He’s the father of four of my children, so, I’ve gotta keep the peace for their sake—but, fuck, Jan, I’m livid. I didn’t think I could even get this angry anymore.”

Janet rest a soft, comforting hand on your knees as you let out another audible breath, “Honey, I don’t blame you. Not after what she did before you broke up. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” Janet leant in, “But, I doubt Michael had such, how do I put this?, devious intentions. Like you said, he is technically single and can date whoever he likes, but I doubt he’d ever do it to hurt you. He’s just too polite for his own good and it ends him up in bad situations. But her? She’s got an ulterior motive — ‘cause she’s a bitch.”

You chuckled again, harder this time, “No, I know. I know he would never intentionally hurt me, but I just get more irritated when it’s her, y’know? Especially after everything that happened between us three.” You let a breathless laugh escape you, “I mean I’d rather it be Diana.”

Janet cackled, “Girl, I reckon that’s ten times worse.”

The two of you shared more laughs and glasses of wine as you changed the subjects quickly — discussing vacations, work, your children, fashion, family, everything. Janet had always been your favourite, after Michael of course (not that you’d ever admit that to him now), and then Marlon, who was now approaching you from across the room.

“There she is! My favourite baby mama!” He called, arms out wide as he entered your orbit.

You snorted in laughter as you stood up to hug him, “What the hell, Marlon? I’m pretty certain all of my children are Michael’s.”

“Let a man dream, alright?” He quipped, nudging your shoulder with a playful grin, “Hey, later on, all of us are gonna have some drinks once the old fogey’s leave and the kids are asleep — just like old times. Whadda’ say?”

What Marlon referring to was when you and Michael first started dating, you would often go with him to Hayvenhurst when he visited his parents, alongside his siblings. And once Katherine and Joseph went up to sleep, all the siblings and their partners, including you, would all huddle in the living room and drink to your heart’s content — the house getting increasingly more loud as the group of you got more and more intoxicated. Michael never got that drunk at that age, and especially so when he felt a responsibility to take care of you — which he did. More often than not after one of those evenings, carrying you to bed once you returned home, undressing you and taking your makeup off while you babbled and kissed him all over, before passing out, which often amused him.

“Uh, duh.”

Marlon laughed, clapping his hands together in anticipatory excitement to his future drinking, before Katherine’s voice sounded out into the room.

“Cake time!”

Prince practically exploded with excitement as he raced over to you, squealing like a little piglet as he clabbered onto your lab. He sat with his small back facing your chest, legs kicking wildly against your shins as he radiated with joy — little hands grabbing at the material of your dress in anticipation.

Soon, the room fell into silence just as Blanket and Paris climbed next to you, nestling into your sides, as the lights flicked off before Michael arose from the darkness, a large buttercream frosting covered cake with seven ignited candles standing atop — as his melodic, sweet-symphony of a voice sounded out into the room.

Everyone soon joined in, even your two little ones next to you, for the famous Happy Birthday song, even Katherine. You knew birthdays and Christmas weren’t celebrated amongst their family due to Katherine’s religion — so, you felt an extra splash of gratitude for the Jackson’s when it came to celebrating the day of your son’s birth without their faith in mind. But, you knew Kate would do whatever her grandbabies.

Just as Michael reached you, crouching down to Prince’s level as he giggled, the song came to an end, and the birthday boy blew out his candles, with a slight struggle from his little lungs. And as the room enclosed into darkness and cheers of ‘Hip-Hip Hooray!’ echoed in your head, your eyes landed on Michael’s, whose were already locked on you.

The look in his eye was a familiar one — a glint that he wore four times previously, and on this day seven years ago when his first baby was born, was one of pride and intense adoration. The same look he also sported before the intimate lock of lips you shared in the hospital last year when Mickey was born — the look of love.

It was undeniable — the way his lip wobbled as his eyes glassed over in proud tears, cheeks flushing a sheer shade of burgundy, and the raw shine of adoration in his vision.

You soon adorned the same look, a simple, unspoken expression that said a thousand words, as well as one more plain sentence of ‘That’s our baby boy’.

But, the lights flicked on and you both snapped out of it — clearing your throats and swallowing thickly as you looked away from one another, forcing your attention onto Prince who demanded a slice of cake that had to be bigger than Paris’s. And soon, the night continued as it had done, now with bellies full of cake and, for the adults, wine.

However, as ever, Michael’s intense and noticeable gaze was hard to ignore — every conversation you slotted yourself into was always dragged away by a subtle eye movement behind said person, and catching the locked stare of Michael, who watched you like a hawk, often letting his bottom slip between his teeth before looking away. Every time your stomach would jump — a flare of burning electricity coursing through your veins like wildfire.

And, as it always does, the party began filtering out — offering hugs and kisses to cheeks before heading out the door. Even including Joseph, who grumbled a good-bye, and Kate, who engulfed you in a tight embrace, kissed your cheek and thanked you for bringing her beautiful grandchildren into this world, before leaving with Michael’s eldest sister, Rebbie, who had to send her children off to bed.

You did the same — sending your four babies up the stairs of Neverland, and into their respecting bedrooms, cooing each little one to sleep with a sweet, hushed bedtime story or a recount of their day, before they all succumbed to a much needed slumber. And as Mickey, who fell asleep in your arms, was laid carefully in his crib-like bed in Michael’s room, you shut the door and head back down the stairs to where the party awaited you.

And then, there were nine — You, Janet, La Toya, Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and, of course, Michael.

The dozen of you situated yourselves in the living room adorning three large couches — all spreading across the furniture in equal numbers. Michael, tactically, sat across from you. You knew exactly why — he wanted to keep staring. But, you’d let him — what else was the dress for?

Marlon took a firm seat before letting three bottles of wine clatter onto the small table that sat in the middle of the room — before grabbing one himself and pouring a large glass.

“Let’s get the real party started.” Jermaine laughed as he took the bottle from Marlon, and topped his one glass of.

“Hey, that’s my baby’s birthday party you’re dissin’.” You quipped, chuckling as you thanked La Toya for passing you the bottle after she’d finished with it.

“I’m not dissin’” Jermaine defended with a smile, taking a sip of his wine, “I’m just sayin’, ain’t this way more fun?”

“Love Prince, but absolutely.” Marlon joked, sending the room into laughter.

The room settled into a comfortable buzzed environment — everyone quietly conversed with those nearest to them, occasionally engaging in a large group discussion, as the multiple glasses of consumed wine took over everyone’s blood-streams.

“Oooh, you know what we should play,” La Toya squealed, “‘Never have I ever?’!”

Jackie laughed, “Seriously? Are we fifteen?”

“What? It’s fun!” Toya defended, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I mean,” Marlon started, grinning playfully, a joke clearly pending, “We are in Neverland.”

“You are so corny.” Randy shot with a chuckle, “I’m down.”

“Yeah, me too.” Janet said with a grin, “Why not?”

As everyone, including yourself, agreed, all eyes landed on Michael — who had remained deliberately quiet.

“You in, Mike?” Tito question, placing his nearly empty wine glass on the side table, peering over at his brother next to him.

Michael let out a breathy laugh, eyes flicking up to you before he nodded, “Sure.”

Everyone cheered before putting one hand in the air as La Toya cleared her throat, before stating the first prompt.

“Never have I ever spent more than $50,000 in one day?”

The room chuckled as Jermaine, Michael and Janet put a finger down — but, Michael was a given. He was Michael Jackson after all.

“That’s so tame, sis.” Marlon laughed, “Never have I ever had sex in a pool?”

“Ew, Mar, what the hell?” Janet scrunched her face up, as Marlon cackled with laughter.

La Toya, Tito, Jackie and Jermaine put a finger down, succumbing to the teasing that soon followed from their siblings as the room erupted into laughter once more.

“Alright, alright, if that’s the route we’re going down, Never have I ever had sex more than ten times in one day?”

Well, shit.

Your eyes locked on Michael’s as the room fell into silence as everyone’s visions darted towards everyone’s hands — but, soon chaos ensued as you and Michael’s fingers slotted down.

“Oh, my God, Mike.” Jermaine cried, clutching his stomach, “You dog.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you recounted the memory clearly in your head. It was the night, and more so day, after your wedding — and you spent the whole twenty-four hours after tying the knot making love. So much so, you both slept for at least fourteen hours that night, both covered head to toe in sweat, spit and cum — and completely spent.

“We’d just got married, what did you expect?” You giggled, the deep smile on your face on deepening as Michael dropped his head as he laughed breathlessly, clearly embarrassed from such intimate talk.

A few more intimate, hilarious and interesting rounds followed — memories from the siblings childhood, as well their respecting relationships and embarrassing moments all being revealed with each breath. As well as more wine.

“I can’t believe you peed on Randy, you two.” Janet gasped for breath as she laughed.

Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head, as he recounted the memory of sharing a bed with his brothers, “He’s such a liar.” He spoke, his words slightly slurred as the alcohol took over.

“I am not!” Randy fired back.

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Michael giggled, raising his eyebrows in Marlon’s direction who screamed with laughter.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go, little brother.” He winked, ignoring the way Randy cursed at him, “Alright, if you wanna come for me, Never have I ever got caught having sex by Mom?”

Randy groaned as he put a finger down, just as you gasped, “Oh, fuck’s sake, that includes us!”

“No way! When?” La Toya gasped as the room bustled with questions at your drunken revelation.

“Oh, come on, girl, why’d you tell ‘em?” Michael whined, his voice drawled as his cheeks flushed, as he slotted a third finger down.

The alcohol had clearly hit everyone, including you, as your cheeks flushed pink and your body buzzed with a heavy, noticeable daze of intoxication, as you began retelling the story. It had been a night just like this, five years ago, when Paris was still young, and your Mother had been looking after her and Prince while you had a party-night at Hayvenhurst with all the siblings. But, this time, Michael got equally as drunk as you, and was too under the influence to attempt to get home, so opted for spending the night at his parents. And, as most couple’s do when drunk, you began having sex, albeit much louder than you intended to. But, you hadn’t let Kate know you were staying over — so, when she marched into the room, wondering if there was a burglar, she witnessed you, naked, atop of her son, riding him.

Michael’s hands enclosed around his face as Tito shook his shoulders with a laugh, teasing him, as you added Kate had a stern talk with you the next day, like you were irresponsible teenagers, about safe sex, especially after having a baby.

“That was your fault.” Michael pointed at you, a lazy grin spread across his face, as his eyes drooped slightly.

You giggled, “Me? You came on to me.”

“More like into, but sure.”

“Oh, good, God, Michael!” La Toya squealed, covering her ears as everyone laughed.

“I always forget how he gets when he drinks.” You slurred with a chuckle, “As the story reveals.”

“Oh? You wanna go there?” Michael fired, “Never have I ever broke a mirror during... it?”

You gasped, folding a finger down as the memory of your legs giving way, and falling forward when Michael was fucking you from behind in front of the mirror, and it smashing from the weight of your tumble, hit your brain.

“Alright, Never have I ever fell asleep during sex?”

Marlon cackled as Michael pursed his lips together, “It was after the tour, girl, I was tired!”

“Put that finger down, Michael.”

“Fine, speaking of fingers, Never have I ever broke a finger during sex?”

As you slot a finger down, recounting the way you jumped on Michael from the edge of the bed, in between switching positions, and broke his pinky finger, you shot back, “Never have I ever slipped in the shower during sex?”

Michael cursed with a laugh as he put a finger down — the tension of his previous actions melting into nothingness as your teasing continued.

“Never have I ever been pregnant?”

“Oh, that’s playing dirty.” You gasped, putting a finger down until one was left, “Never have I ever woke the kids up from how loud you were being?”

“Fine, Never have I ever argued with me during sex?”

“Never have I ever been an asshole that it required an argument?”

Michael’s jaw clenched as the room fell into uncomfortable silence, “Never have I ever divorced the one man who actually put up with you?”

Oh, now he was pissed — and so were you.

“Oh, fuck you.” You spat, the tension rising back up as you dropped your hand, now not caring about the game, “Never have I ever ruined my marriage by letting my ex-wife sleep over at my house and take care of my loving wife’s kids while she was crying at her Mom’s house because of what I’d done?”

“You know it wasn’t like that.” Michael spat through gritted teeth, his hand also abandoned.

“Oh, really? So maybe, Never have I ever took my other ex-wife out for dinner who ruined my marriage, two days before my son’s birthday, is more fitting?”

Before Michael could even get another word out, you slammed your wine glass onto the table and stormed out of the room — heels clicking wildly against the floor, covering the sound of your quiet sobs as tears slipped from your eyes.

You soon found one of the many downstairs bathrooms, slotting yourself inside with a stumble due to your intoxication, and locking it shut. You hunched over the sink, letting tears drip onto the cold tiles that surrounded the basin as you choked out a sob.

‘Divorced the one man who put up with you’ rang in your head like a blasting speaker in your mind — circling around in your drunken thoughts. Michael had never been cruel, even when drunk, but his words had been harsh, which allowed your slurred brain to run away with itself, believing that it was true.

After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded onto the wood of the door, “Honey? It’s me.”

Janet’s quietened voice hit your ears from behind the door, as you stood up with a huff and unlocked the wooden barrier, pulling it open. She sighed sadly at the sight of your crying frame, before pulling you into a tight hug, rubbing your back as a few stray tears fell from your waterline.

“I’m sorry, honey, I—I have no idea what happened back there, but, I think you two have a lot to discuss.” She spoke gently as she pulled away, offering a small smile, “We’re all heading home now, do you need a ride?”

You let out another long sigh, “No, I’m okay. And you’re right, we should probably talk. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t stress it, sweetie. Call me if you need, okay?”

And with quiet goodbyes with his brothers at the front door, who teased you carefully about your dispute with Michael, letting the tears dry and soft laughter erupt from your chest, the house fell into loud silence — the kind where you could move one step and it would echo.

You breathed out again, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, before heading back to where the group had once been. Your chest ached at the sight of Michael — head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, body unmoving, now in dim lighting, the main light dialled down to a softer array of light across the room.

Michael’s head lifted at the sound of your heels clicking as they had done all day, your footing still unstable from the lingering alcohol, as you approached him. You took the high road, sitting firmly next to you with a huffed breath, hands settling on your thighs as you got comfortable.

The room, if it was even at all possible, fell into deeper silence, the only sound radiating between you was the sound of your slurred, slow breaths.

“I’m sorry.” Michael finally spoke, voice croaked and quiet as he sighed, “I—I don’t know why I said that.”

“Why did you?” Your voice a near whisper as tears threatened to brew at the reminder of the sentence that was haunting you, “Was I really that bad?”

“Not at all.” He spoke quickly, turning towards you briskly, his eyes meeting your own, “I was just angry and I blurted it out.” He ran a hand across his face, “I don’t know why I did.”

“That really hurt, Michael.” You breathed, “And, when you—sigh—when you, y’know, with Lisa the other day.” You swallowed down the lump in your throat, “Why?”

Michael grew quiet, pursing his lips together as he breathed out once more, “I don’t even know. I was bored, and in Manhattan for a gala, and she called me asking if I was free. I just—I just wanted to catch up.”

“Catch up with your ex-wife? After all that happened?” You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, I hear it, I do. I don’t even know why I agreed really, but, we didn’t go home together, or kiss, or nothin’, if that’s what you’re thinkin’, ‘cause I bet you are.” You let a soft chuckle at his words, which were undeniably true, “It was harmless, to me at least. I definitely see how it looks.”

“Looked real bad, Mike.” You laughed breathlessly, “Jan said you were probably just being polite, and I guess she was right. But, it still hurt, Michael, seeing you with her, it was like opening an old wound that I worked so hard to heal.”

Michael didn’t reply right away, just stayed locked in your gaze, eyes a sunken display of his upset — hurt in the way he’d caused you pain. The look in his eyes was a watered down version of the way he looked at you when you caught him with Lisa the day you split up — the vision sending shockwaves of irrevocable pain coursing through your traumatised veins.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled again, a hand coming down to rest over yours that crumbled together in your lap, “The last thing I want is for us to fall out when we have kids. It’s not fair to you, as well as them. That’s the last thing I want for us.”

The latter word hung heavy in your head the second it left his lips — a spike of a familiar adoring feeling spreading through you.

“Us.” A smile drifted onto your face, as you glanced down at your connected hands, “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Michael watched as you toyed with his fingers, rolling the digits between your own, rubbing the soft skin with the pad of your thumb so delicately his heart skipped a beat at the touch.

“We were pretty good together.” He admitted softly, “You made it perfect.”

Your smile deepened, “So I wasn’t hard to put up with?”

Michael chuckled softly as you reciprocated, “No, not at all.” He confirmed, “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, and that’s a positive thing. I mean I’m a dad of a four now, and I love being a father, and I love our kids, and I love yo—“

He cut himself off, visibly tensing, before he could finish the sentence — but, it was too late. The way you gasped softly revealed you’d heard it — his casual revelation for his love for you, even after all this time.

“Michael.” You whispered, peering up from your entwined hands to meet his gaze, “What did you say?”

You had heard, loud and clear, but you needed confirmation before you let your heart burst, while it hammered violently in your chest.

“I said I love you.” Michael sighed, accepting defeat and owning it, “I do now, as I always have done, even after everything. The break-up, the divorce, the kids, Lisa — everything.”

His voice was lazy and slurred, and strong smelling of alcohol as it drifted over your nose from his breath.

“Michael, I—“

“You don’t need to say anything. I know you left for a reason, and a valid one at that. I know I fucked everything up, before and after we split up, I just—I don’t think I can go another day without you.” He let out a broken, shaken breath as a single tear slipped down his face, “I still love you so much, so much it physically hurts whenever I see you leave when you pick up the kids. I can literally feel my heart breaking in my chest whenever we talk like we didn’t spent eight years together. Eight years learning routines, and favourite dinners, and—and little quirks. Eight years of sleeping next to one another, washing together in the shower, and rubbing each other’s feet after a long day, or taking off your make-up when you’re too drunk to do it.” You laughed softly at his words, “Eight years of marriage, seven of being parents to the most wonderful children on the planet, I just—I can’t bear that they think their Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore, when that’s not the truth.” He finally took a breath after he rambled, “At least it isn’t for me.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until salt lingered on your tongue from where your tears trickled onto your lips — eyebrows tucked deep into the crease of your forehead, lip wobbling as you let him pour his heart out, a raw, vulnerable display of his adoration.

“I never stopped loving you, Michael.”

The sound that left Michael was a broken choke, half a sob as his hands enclosed tighter around your own.

“I was mad at you—fuck, so mad at you. So mad and distraught and lonely, and you saw none of it. You were just so busy and cooped in your own insanely demanding career that you took me for granted. Assumed I’d always be there, that I’d never leave, that I’d always put up with it.” You sniffled, wiping the tears that dripped from the tip of your nose, “But, I just couldn’t. I let you push me closer and closer to the edge, until I willing jumped off, y’know? I just couldn’t take anymore.” You continued, “But, that never meant I stopped loving you.”

As you finished, you let out a deep, trembling breath that released all of the past two years of stress from your body — your shoulders slumping ever so slightly as more tears slipped from your eyes.

“I could never, ever stop loving you, Michael.”

Michael didn’t waste a beat — hands flying from your enclosure to cup your cheeks, and connect your lips.

You gasped into the kiss, your own instantly taking a hold of his shoulders as he moved quickly against you. He was making up for lost time — his hands moving from your face, to your neck, to your waist, pulling you closer to his body radiating pulsing heat, as he hummed into your mouth. A low, deep grumble left him as you crawled onto his lap, lips still connected, instantly finding a familiar comfortability as your legs settled either side of his. Your tongue swiped his bottom lip, requesting entry, as your hands splayed across his panting chest, as he let you in. The kiss only got frequently more frenzied, hands running across one another’s bodies, as if attempting to remember the shape, as your tongues glided together — the kiss growing warm, wet and messy.

If alcohol wasn’t in the equation, you most likely would’ve left it there — pulling away from the kiss and continuing the conversation about your relationship, maybe even attempting to reconcile or rekindle, but not now. Not when your hips slowly began grounding down on the obvious tent in his slacks, moaning into one another’s mouths as his hands cupped the curve of your behind through your dress. The same one that had ridden up your thighs, now revealing your delicate, lace panties that sported a wet patch from where you drooled from anticipatory arousal — now rolling against Michael’s crotch.

“Oh, God, I missed this.” Michael panted, lips leaving your own, revelling in the way you whined into the air, as his mouth trailed down your jaw, to your exposed neck, as your head lolled back, “Missed you, shit, I missed you so much, baby.”

His mouth licked and sucked the skin of your neck, erupting in red-hot heat from the alcohol, and the ecstasy his mouth was providing — littering your skin in dark, blooming love-bites, ones he soothed with his tongue afterwards.

“Michael, please.”

Michael groaned at the sound of your needy plea — a hand guiding your rocking hips against him as he leaked into his boxers at the sensation, “Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

“Need—fuck, need you, baby, Oh—“

Your breath caught in your throat as Michael lips reached your breasts — pressing open-mouthed, spit-stricken kisses against your cleavage as a hand crawled up to cup your left breast, kneading one in his palm.

“Yeah?” He breathed, voice panted and wrecked, mouth now covered in your lipstick, “What do you need, baby?”

You whined, loud and desperate, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he grazed your erect nipple with his teeth, your back arching at the feeling, “Make love to me, please.”

How you ended up in Michael’s bedroom was a blur — a rushed, hushed and stumbled run up the stairs, shedding clothes before you even made it to the room, stealing kisses and subtle touches in the dark, in quietened voices to not wake your sleeping children.

But, once you made it, Michael pounced like a lion on its prey — guiding you backward as he kissed you until your legs hit the bed, before laying you down gently. Michael had always been a tentative, doting lover in the bedroom, making sure you always finished first, and had the most pleasureful, comfortable experience possible — and even after all this time, he was the same.

He had already rid his shirt outside the room, and managed to pull your dress halfway up your legs, so when he fell to his knees in between your bare thighs, he only had to push your dress the other half of the way off, before you were bare before him, aside from your panties.

He shimmied your soaked underwear down your legs and shuffled back on his calves — eyes trailing over your stark naked, trembling frame.

“Wow.” He breathed, “My beautiful lady. God, the things you do to me.”

“I think I have somewhat of an idea.” Your voice was teasing and tantalising as a bare foot, your heels left to rot on the stairs, pressed firmly onto the bulge in his trousers.

Michael cursed under his breath, head falling forward to rest against your knee as his hand gripped your ankle at the sensation — he hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with a woman, besides hugging, since you split up a year ago, and by God, was he desperate now.

As your foot retracted and he gained composure, he pressed swift kisses up from your knee and along your thighs — before two large slowly parted your legs as he slot his face between them.

Before he delved in to where you needed him most, he peered up at your panting frame, eyes blow at the anticipation of his mouth, “Can I taste you, baby?”

“Oh, God, please, ye—Oh, fuck, Michael!”

The cry left you before you stop yourself as his tongue flattened against your sex — a low rumble of a groan leaving his lips, vibrating against your core as he let the taste of you settle on his tongue. You writhed at the vibration, soft gasps and whines leaving your throat as he began slow, practiced figure-eights along your throbbing clit — your hands flying to capture his hands that rest against your thighs in a tight grasp to steady yourself.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I remembered, mama.” Michael mumbled against your sex, licking a long stripe from your weeping hole, to where your clit twitched violently.

He dove back in, but this time, slipping a slender finger inside you — revelling in the way your back arched and you cried his name, the pleasure you yourself too hadn’t felt in a year consumed you entirely. His fingers found that spot instantly — rubbing the part of your drooling cunt that made you cry out in overwhelming pleasure repeatedly as you saw stars.

With the dual sensation of his fingers and relentless mouth now suckling your clit into his mouth, releasing it with a pop! and then swirling his tongue around it — your orgasm approached quicker than you expected. And hit you like a freight train.

“Oh, my, God, I’m gonna—fuck, Michael, I’—“ You sounded awfully desperate and whiny as you panted, legs shaking as your first non-self-inflicted orgasm washed over you.

His name fell from your swollen lips like a chant — hitting his ears as he contained to stimulate you, his tongue and fingers never letting up as you rode the wave of your release.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” Michael coaxed, his fingers slowing as you slumped against the sheets, “Did so good for me, baby.”

Michael gasped as you sat up and grabbed him by the belt — dragging him to his feet as his crotch became level with your face from where you sat on the bed. Your nimble fingers worked open his belt with practiced ease, an action you’d performed thousands of times over your relationship, as you pushed his slacks and boxers to his ankles.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of him — you’d seen his cock, hard and soft, a million times before, but this time was different. He looked the hardest he’d ever been — twitching cock flushed a deep shade of pink against the mauve-coloured tip, pulsing veins painting the underside of his shaft, and sporting a drool of perfectly white pre-cum from the head that stained his abdomen as it slapped against it.

You pulled him down by his hips as you lay flat against the sheets — back hitting the bed as Michael crawled atop of you. He connected your lips instantly, but, this kiss was gentler than the previous — his mouth moved slowly and delicately against yours, as if savouring the taste of sweet red-wine and buttercream frosting on your tongue, mixing with the familiar taste of your saliva.

His hands moved quicker than his mouth — pulling your legs up into the air by the back of your knees, and slotting them onto his shoulders, as he nestled closer to your chest. With a spare hand that wasn’t cupping the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, Michael took a firm hold of the base of his cock and slot it between your folds with ease only a former husband of eight years would know to do, even in an intoxicated state.

“Please, baby.”

“Patience.” He whispered against your mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before sitting up on his knees, “Wanna do somethin’ first.”

He leant over to the nightstand next to the bed, ignoring how you whined from the lack of touch, and retrieved a small black box. He lodged himself back between your raised legs, and chuckled, opening the black box, as you gasped.

“Wanna be my wife again for the night, baby?”

There, in the black, velvet box, the same one he opened nine years prior on golden sands in Italy at sunset, held your engagement ring, and nestled neatly above it, your wedding ring, the same one you wore for eight years, and mailed back to him the day after you broke-up. One that he kept all this time in the drawer of his nightstand — a subtle way of holding onto you all this time.

Michael pulled the wedding ring out of the box, saving the engagement ring for safe keeping, and threw the box across the large bed. He slotted your legs over his shoulders once more, slithering his cock between your glistening folds, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth at the sound of your breathy whine — before guiding himself to your clenching hole.

With one swift, beautifully erotic jerk of his hips — Michael sheethed himself inside you, at the same time as he slipped your wedding ring back onto your ring-finger.

The sensation of not only being stuffed to the hilt of the cock you’d missed for two years, the one you touched yourself to the thought of every night since you left, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around the size of him, but also your finger now snug with your wedding ring around it once more had your pussy gushing and pulsating around the length of him.

Michael didn’t miss it — leaning forward, slotting himself only deeper with a huff, and pressing his mouth against yours, “Oh? You like that, huh?” He teased, lips ghosting against your own, “You like the idea of being my wife again, baby?”

“Mmh—fuck, yeah, baby—” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the tip of his cock nudged your cervix — a sensation that had you gasping for breath at the fullness.

“That’s right, darling,” Michael breathed, pulling back slowly so only the tip of him remained, “‘Wanna make you mine again so bad.”

And his relentless thrusts began — hips moving at such a pace that you lost your breath, eyes rolled so far into the back of your head you became dizzy, and noises of undeniable pleasure so loud you were certain at least one of your children were to wake. Michael always had insane stamina, especially so after your wedding, but right now it was unstoppable — so pent up for your body for over a year that you didn’t think he’d ever stop.

His hands rest harshly on your hips, grip so hard you were certain it’d leave a mark, and that it did, as he fucked you back down onto his cock — the sound of your squelching cunt filling his ears.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Michael breathed, breath warm against your skin, “Listen to that—y’pussy’s so wet f’me, honey. Missed your husband that much, huh?”

“So—fuck—so much, Mikey—God.”

Your noises were whiny and needier than you’d ever heard them, not that your drunken brain was registering in the moment, as you buried yourself into the crook of his neck — lips instantly finding solace in his warm skin, covered in a sheen of sweat, that danced on your tongue as you sucked marks into the flesh. Michael groaned near the shell of your ear, hands tightening around your hip as you clamped down on him — now rutting impossibly faster at the sensation of your spasming cunt and your lips against his skin.

“Michael!—Holy fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—“

You only got louder, and therefore whinier, when he pressed your legs against your chest in a brutal mating press — now despicably deeper inside you, and relentlessly abusing the sweet spot, the one he previously curled his fingers against, as your second orgasm crept up your abdomen.

“God, baby, you feel—Jesus, just like how I remember.” Michael panted, moving his head to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss once more, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cried out indefinitely into his mouth, hands threading through his soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck, “I love—Mmh!—love you so much, Michael.”

He cursed under his breath, jaw hanging swiftly slack as his eyes squeezed shut — cock now twitching violently inside you as he quickened his thrusts swiftly. Your orgasm was dangerously close — now only a few ruts against your G-spot away as Michael continued to pepper kisses over your lips and face, groaning against your skin.

“Fuck, baby, I—“ He cut himself off with a whine, deep from his chest, “Wanna give you another baby so bad.”

His words sent you over the edge — cunt clenching him so hard his thrusts faltered ever so slightly as he cried out at the sensation. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks — your back arching and mouth falling open for frenzied pants and whines to escape your throat as the sweet, delicious familiarity of an orgasm coaxed out by Michael consumed your body. Irrevocable ecstasy coursed through you like buzzing electricity — setting you alight as you mumbled incoherently into the air.

“Jesus, is that what you want, mama? You wan’ a fifth? Oh, Jesus—“

Speaking the filthy words aloud, Michael threw himself into his own release — hips sputtering as he pushed himself impossibly deeper, spilling inside you with a loud groan, muffled by the safe haven of your collarbone, his teeth sinking into the skin to soften the noises. His pushed his incredibly, obviously, fertile seed further inside you — retracting his teeth and licking the marks in your skin in a soothing manner as his hands tightened around your hips, the jerks of his own slowing with each lazy thrust.

Soon came the silence — now this time not angered, or tense, or awkward, or saddened, but familiar. The ragged pants of breaths as you attempted to catch them, and gentle, loving, soft kisses stolen on necks, jaws, cheeks and lips — whispering heartfelt desires and thoughts into one another’s skin, promising love and devotion.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and crumbled next to you — instantly pulling you to his chest, and situating you under the blankets. His head hit the pillow with a sigh as you nestled onto his skin — both your brains swirling with alcohol and adrenaline-induced intoxication.

Just as your eyes fluttered shut, sleep threatening to take over, Michael pressed an adorably gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes squinted open, fighting sleep in a loosing battle, as you met his too sleepy gaze.

“Whatever happens in the morning,” He whispered, “Just know I love you.”

He didn’t expect a reply, especially so when your eyes fell back shut and you drifted off to sleep, as moments later he did the same.

And that’s the reality of the night that had hit you in this very moment — sat upright in Michael’s bed, more hungover than you anticipated, and swarming with dread as you stared down at the wedding ring on your finger.

The night wasn’t unpleasant — it was far from it. If anything, it actually fixed the main problem in your life — being a single mother of four, and having to pretend like you didn’t still have feelings for your ex-husband. But, fucking him drunk wasn’t exactly the route you thought you’d take to reconcile your relationship.

“Baby?”

Michael’s hoarse, croaky, morning voice hit your ears, making you jump as you gasped softly, breaking out of your train of through as you met his sleepy gaze. He mumbled softly as consciousness erupted in his system, rubbing his tired eyes as they settled on you — covered in love-bites, bruises and completely stark naked.

“Oh, Jesus, did we—?”

“I think that’s fairly obvious, Michael.” You forced out a scarce laugh, pursing your lips against one another as Michael slotted the puzzle pieces together, “Do you—Do you remember anything, or..?”

“I—I think so, I don’t—Is that your wedding ring?”

You peered down at the shining jewellery, as a soft chuckle escaped you, “Uh, yeah. I think we kinda got re-engaged last night.”

“Oh, my God.” Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands bashfully, “I’m so sorry, I just know it was me who instigated that.”

Another genuine laugh slipped from your mouth, mingling with Michael’s in the air of the bedroom, “Yeah, seems like it.”

Silence followed shortly — but, as it had been ever since you revealed your unspoken love for one another after everything, it wasn’t tense. Nor unsettling. If anything, the silence was calm and peaceful — like you both had so much to say, yet felt no pressured obligation to do so frantically.

“Well, you, um, you put it on.” Michael spoke shyly, “So, do you want to—do we, uh, shall I—“

You slipped the ring from your finger, and presented it to him, “I think we should have this discussion when we’re of more sound mind.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Michael replied quietly, taking the ring from your grasp.

You could tell from the way he spoke that he was disappointed — like you had shattered his heart all over again.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to discuss us, and what was said last night. I’m not closing that off for good, so, don’t worry. I just think getting engaged before we even discuss getting back together is a bit far-fetched.”

Michael chuckled, a real laugh escaping him as a smile danced onto his lips, “Yeah, you’re right, good idea, mama.”

You couldn’t help but let your heart flutter with fondness at the easiness of the nickname — the familiarity of it sending waves of butterflies through your stomach.

The rest of the morning was jovial — you washed and dressed yourself, in a pair of Michael’s old joggers and an old Victory Tour t-shirt, with light banter and easy conversations with him, both of you waking the children up together and curating breakfast for the whole family. You managed to shut down any probing questions Prince and Paris hounded you with, like ‘Mama, why are you here if you don’t live with Daddy anymore?’ or ‘Mama, are you and Daddy back in love?’ and ‘Daddy, are you gonna marry Mommy again soon?’

You diminished them all with a stern warning to stop asking, before exchanging hushed giggles and side-eyed glances to one another at the comedic timing of your two eldest.

But, all good things must come to an end, as Michael helped you with yours and the children’s belongings to Bill’s car, which awaited you out front. As Michael conversed with Bill, you ushered the children into the back seat, clipping them in like you had done the day previously, before turning to Michael.

“Come here.” He smiled, opening up his arms.

You chuckled softly, walking into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around your waist, as yours situated against his chest, the sound of his rhythmical heart beating making your heart flutter. He pressed a swift kiss, while the kids weren’t looking, to your forehead before you pulled away.

“Call me, okay?” He spoke to you, blowing a kiss to Paris as she waved at him through the window, “We can talk about everything, whenever you want.”

“Okay, Michael.”

You returned the smile he offered to you as he pulled the car door open for you, and pushing it gently shut once you’d climbed in. Michael waved theatrically goodbye as the car sped off out the driveway — his frame becoming smaller and smaller in the wing-mirror as Bill drove further away.

“The dress trick worked then, huh?” Bill teased with a playful smile.

You laughed, “Don’t even start.”

From then on, you contacted Michael frequently — calling him, even if it was just to ask him about his day, often, just to hear his voice. You didn’t know when you wanted to discuss that night, as you were the one who ended the relationship, and as dearly as you loved him, you had to be sure that things were going to change. You didn’t want to mess yourself around, as well as your children, by getting back into a relationship out of infatuation and attachment, rather than knowing for sure.

So, Michael would take any opportunity he could to show you just how much he meant what he said. He took you out anywhere and everywhere, just the two of you, dates like the old days when you first got together — dinners, theme parks, movies, bowling, dancing, all child-like and utterly ridiculous, but yet so meaningful. And he never once talked about work, unless you asked, never answered a phone call, or started mentally drifting away from the conversation as his mind slipped back into work mode — he was there. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He started making a real, true, genuine effort — and one that you never asked him to.

The first time you called him after that night was a few days afterwards — just to check in. And he asked you out — said he would love to take you out to dinner to the restaurant you both used to religiously go to when you were married. Your favourite Mexican restaurant in all of California.

And from that point on, he never stopped — never let up on his effort. He took you everywhere, and treated you like you weren’t his ex-wife whom he was attempting to get back. He was behaving out of pure love and devotion to you — proving himself and making up for lost time. Meanwhile, not once did he ask nor expect sex — your drunken night had been intoxicated led, and as much fun as he had, he strictly told you that the time you were spending together wouldn’t be sexual, as he wanted it to be meaningful. When you teased him that you thought he was saying your sex wasn’t heartfelt, he quickly shut it down — reminding you that although sex between you two is sacred to him, earning your trust and respect back was more so.

At the six week mark of you and Michael beginning to rekindle your relationship — you had never felt so high. Your children were let on to a ‘little secret’ that Mommy and Daddy are close friends now, and can be around one another — so dinners and trips out were spent as family again. Their adolescent brains didn’t question it for very long — but you could tell your eldest were secretly pleased. Especially Paris, who whispered to you one night while you coaxed her to sleep, with Michael stood in the doorway, watching happily, that she was happy you and her Daddy were friends again, and that she loved you both so much, before falling asleep.

That was all the confirmation you were making the right decision that you needed.

Michael had woken at his own house alone, this morning, for once — you had spent the evening out with his sisters last night, and requested a solo night at your house. A choice he respected — which led him to awake in his bed all by himself. He had the kids round, which meant his peaceful morning would probably be disturbed in a matter of minutes, with Prince, Paris and Blanket leaping on bed, before he fetched Mickey from his.

But, the first disruption was the loud sound of the phone ringing.

Michael jumped — body seizing as the sound rattled through him. He cursed under his breath as he reached for the phone, picking it up and bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Michael?”

The sound of your voice would usually bring a smile straight to his face, and flutters throughout his body — but, you sounded panicked. And he instantly noticed.

“Baby? Are you alright?”

“You better get that wedding ring out again, Mike.” You laughed, but clearly sounded unamused as Michael furrowed his eyebrows.

“Huh? What do you mean, honey?” He replied, confusion swarming his senses.

“I’m pregnant.”

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[cinnafaith]

Michael Jackson !

Size difference

content ! 18+, unprotected p in v, praise, sweet sex, pet names (baby, honey)

"fuck!" you cry, throwing your head back and letting your jaw go slack. michael is pistoning his hips against yours relentlessly, the only sounds in the room being the lewd skin slapping and the heavy panting and moans emitting from both of you.

"i know, honey" he coos, trying his best to be sweet verbally despite how rough he's being with you physically. "m'sorry babygirl" he tries.

the stretch was borderline excruciating. he was just too big. the funny part is he doesn't even know he's that big! or atleast he didn't know it until you started screaming complaining about it.

"s'too big, michael!" you mewl, squirming under him, but you can't help but arch into him. it's almost instinctive.

"just breathe, baby... breathe" maybe he should take his own advice, because he's barely able to take in a full breath with just how tight your gummy walls are squeezing and fluttering around him.

"i- can't-" the pleasure becomes overwhelming when michael reaches in between the both of you to aimlessly rub at your clit, anything to get you to stop whining. he immediately notices your eyes roll back and your breath hitch. "s'that better honey?" he asks, "that feel a little better?" you nod frantically, barely able to compute his sweet words as you feel yourself growing closer and closer to coming undone. the sniveling and the cries coming from you morph into delighted moans as the stretch becomes euphoric, his praises egging you on impossibly.

"there she is" he purrs, a small, knowing smirk playing on his face.

"there's my girl" he litters your face with small kisses in an effort to calm you down as he continues his thrusts, growing closer to the edge himself.

"g-gosh- baby," he groans, his big fingers still working at your clit.

"feels s'good michael!" you moan, right at the edge. "yeah?" he moans right back at you. "that feels good, huh?" he speeds up his thrusts, making you squeal. "feel me so deep, yeah?" he looks down and sees himself poking through your lower belly. he reaches down and presses on the bulge, making you wince at the tightness. the bulge is disappearing and reappearing with every thrust. "shi-shoot, honey" he mutters.

you feel the white hot band in your tummy snap, pleasure shooting through your body as you cry out his name. that alone is enough to push him over the edge as well. he cums deep inside you, fucking into you a few last times. you both lay there, panting. he's heavy on top of you, laying sweaty on top of you (not that you mind). and of course, michael is quick to comfort you.

he pushes some of the hair out of your face, off of your damp, flushed skin. "you did so good, baby... m'sorry i was so rough" he speaks gently, kissing your forehead.

you're gonna be so sore tomorrow.

[ytrhbz]

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ type : one–shot (requested)

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ genre(s) : smut

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ pairing : michael jackson x reader

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ tags : mature!michael, reader is a college student, teacher x student, age gap, smut, porn with plot, michael is a musical teacher

𓏲 ࣪ ˖ a/n : a tear ran down my leg while i was writing this no joke

ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ is your handsome musical professor just being simply nice with you ?

the sun had barely dipped below the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the polished hardwood floors of the music wing, but room 304 was still buzzing with the faint, residual hum of the day’s final chords. for michael, this room was a sanctuary, a fragile ecosystem of sheet music, heavy velvet curtains, and the rich, woody scent of the grand piano that occupied the center stage. teaching high school music was a chaotic endeavor—most afternoons were filled with the discordant scraping of violin bows or students treating the drum kits like toys—but there was always one hour of the day that made the endless grading and administrative noise entirely worth it.

you.

in a senior class brimming with apathy and superficial talent, you were the undisputed anomaly. you weren't just the best student in the entire graduating class; you were a force of nature when it came to music theory, composition, and performance. while your peers struggled to memorize basic chord progressions or skimmed through the syllabus just to secure an easy passing grade, you lived and breathed the curriculum. you were the type of student who arrived early just to tune the instruments, whose notebooks were filled with meticulously scribbled annotations in the margins, and whose understanding of rhythm and harmony rivaled that of seasoned musicians.

and secretly, deeper than he would ever dare to admit aloud, you were michael’s absolute favorite.

he kept his professionalism locked tight behind a gentle, encouraging smile and a soft-spoken demeanor, but internally, his entire energy shifted the moment you walked through his door. you were incredibly studious, possessed a rare, innate discipline, and approached every assignment with a quiet, burning passion that mirrored his own lifelong devotion to the art form. to michael, watching you play or listening to you dissect a complex piece of classical arrangement wasn't just a part of his job—it was the highlight of his day, a breath of fresh air in an otherwise exhausting routine.

on this particular evening, the bell had rung nearly forty minutes ago, and the rest of the campus had emptied out into the quiet twilight, yet the two of you were still caught in the orbit of the classroom. you were sitting at the piano bench, the soft glow of a desk lamp illuminating the sharp focus in your eyes as your fingers hovered over the keys, working through a particularly intricate piece of counterpoint that michael had assigned.

standing just a few paces away, his arms crossed loosely over his chest, michael watched you with a mixture of intense pride and a strange, quiet ache that he had to constantly push down. he was wearing his usual teaching attire—a slightly oversized button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a simple black vest, and his hair loosely tied back, a few stray curls framing his face. his dark eyes followed the movement of your hands, tracking the seamless transition from one chord to the next, entirely captivated by how effortlessly you commanded the instrument.

"no, wait, right there," michael said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet room like a warm melody. he stepped closer, the leather of his shoes tapping lightly against the floorboards as he leaned over the side of the piano, pointing a slender finger toward a specific measure on your sheet music. "you’re rushing the transition into the minor key. don't just play the notes, let the silence between them breathe. you have the technique down perfectly—you always do—but let yourself feel the shift."

you paused, looking up from the keys to meet his gaze. the proximity was dizzying, close enough that you could catch the faint, comforting scent of his cologne mixed with the old paper of the music books. you took a slow breath, nodding seriously as you re-centered your hands over the ivory.

"like this?" you murmured, playing the sequence again, this time deliberately lingering on the bridge, letting the melancholy of the chord hang in the quiet air of the empty room.

a genuine, breathtaking smile broke across michael’s face, his eyes crinkling at the corners with pure admiration. "yes. exactly like that. beautiful." he leaned a bit closer, his hand resting lightly on the polished wood of the piano just inches away from yours, his gaze holding yours a second longer than necessary. "i knew you'd get it right away. you always do."

the subtle shift in the air wasn't entirely lost on you. as his compliment lingered in the quiet room, you felt a sudden, distinct warmth blooming in your chest, your eyes dropping down to where his hand rested on the piano. it was so close that if you shifted your fingers just an inch, you would brush against the soft fabric of his sleeve. for a fleeting second, the space between you felt hyper-charged, heavy with an unspoken intensity that had nothing to do with sheet music or minor keys.

but you quickly shook the feeling away, forcing a polite, grateful smile to your lips.

he’s just an incredible teacher, you told yourself, packing your notebook into your bag as the silence returned to the room. he’s passionate about music, and he’s just happy to have a student who actually cares. it made perfect sense. michael was dedicated, deeply invested in his craft, and naturally gentle with everyone. there was no reason to overthink a lingering glance or a soft tone of voice. you were his top student, and this was just the bond of mentorship.

except the weeks that followed did absolutely nothing to help you keep that neat, comfortable rationale alive.

as autumn deepened, the boundaries of your ordinary student-teacher dynamic began to blur in ways that became impossible to ignore. it started with the little things during your advanced theory blocks. whenever michael lectured the class, his eyes would inevitably find yours, anchoring his gaze to the front row as if he were performing for an audience of one. if a classmate made a joke, he’d laugh, but his eyes would immediately dart to you to see if you were smiling too, sharing a silent, private language across the crowded room.

then came the afternoon study sessions. with the upcoming winter showcase approaching, you found yourself spending almost every free period in room 304, and michael never seemed to mind the intrusion. in fact, he welcomed it.

one rainy tuesday, you were sitting at a desk struggling with a complex orchestral arrangement, your fingers frustratedly tapping against the wood. without a word, michael walked over, placing a warm cup of tea right next to your papers.

"you've been staring at that page for twenty minutes," he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur as he leaned over your shoulder to look at your work. he was so close you could feel the heat radiating from him, his breath brushing past your cheek. "take a break. you're overthinking it."

"i just want it to be perfect," you admitted, your heart doing a strange, sudden flip at his proximity.

"it's already beautiful because you wrote it," he replied softly. he didn't pull away immediately. instead, his gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and offering a small, almost nervous smile. "just... don't push yourself too hard."

by the third week, the doubt had settled deep into your mind, turning into a constant, dizzying hum. it was there when he gently guided your hands to adjust your posture at the piano, his long fingers lingering against your skin just a moment too long. it was there in the way his soft-spoken guidance became increasingly tender, and how his dark eyes seemed to hold a profound, aching vulnerability whenever the two of you were finally left alone after the final bell.

you couldn't deny it anymore. it wasn't just professional encouragement, and it wasn't just your imagination. michael was looking at you differently, treating you with a fragile, carefully guarded devotion that was starting to make your heart race every single time you walked through his door.

the university library was completely swallowed by twilight, the towering rows of oak bookshelves casting long, skeletal shadows across the carpeted floor. it was well past eight in the evening, and the usual bustling hub of students had thinned out to almost nothing. you were tucked away in a secluded corner alcove, surrounded by a fortress of heavy musicology textbooks, scribbled sheets of staff paper, and a cold cup of coffee. your eyes were burning from hours of reading, but your relentless drive to stay at the absolute top of your class kept your head buried in the pages.

the quiet click of leather shoes against the marble floor broke the silence of the aisle.

you didn't think much of it until the footsteps slowed down, stopping right at the edge of your cubicle. you blinked, lifting your heavy gaze from a complex breakdown of 19th-century symphonies, and your breath instantly caught in your throat.

standing there, half-illuminated by the dim, golden light of the library lamp, was michael.

he looked slightly undone from a long day—his tie was loosened at his collar, his dark blowed curls were beautifully unruly, and a soft wool coat was draped over his arm. he had a few reference books cradled against his chest, clearly having come to do some research of his own. when his dark eyes met yours, a look of profound surprise flickered across his face, quickly melting into something intensely tender.

"i thought i was the only one crazy enough to be losing track of time in here," michael murmured, his voice dropping to a low, velvety whisper to respect the silence of the library.

"just... trying to get ahead on the next composition block," you replied, your voice suddenly feeling very small, very dry.

instead of wishing you a good night and walking away, michael stepped fully into the narrow space of your alcove. the sheer size of him in the cramped corner made the air feel instantly thick, suffocatingly close. he set his books down quietly on the edge of your desk and leaned against the wooden partition, looking down at you with a gaze that was entirely devoid of his usual teacher-student boundary.

"you're always working so hard," he said softly, a faint, melancholic smile playing on his lips. he reached out, his long, slender fingers hovering over the edge of your desk before he gently, almost subconsciously, tapped the corner of your notebook. "sometimes i worry you forget to take care of yourself outside of my classroom."

in the quiet stillness of the empty library, the tension didn't just feel real—it was deafening. it was in the way the shadows fell across the sharp contours of his jaw, the way his dark eyes locked onto yours with a heavy, magnetic pull, and the absolute absence of anyone else around to pull the two of you back to reality. you could hear the steady, rhythmic ticking of a wall clock somewhere in the distance, but inside this tiny alcove, time had completely stopped.

your heart was hammering against your ribs so loudly you were terrified he could hear it. you looked from his eyes down to his parted lips, then back up, completely paralyzed by the sheer gravity of the moment. you couldn't pretend anymore. you couldn't hide behind the excuse of him just being a dedicated mentor. the raw, aching affection radiating from him was palpable, hanging in the inches between your faces like a physical weight.

"mr. jackson..." you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you used his formal name, a desperate attempt to remind both of him and yourself of where you were.

but the name seemed to have the opposite effect. hearing it slip from your lips in that breathless whisper made michael’s gaze darken with something fierce and undisguised. he leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer, his breath warm against your forehead, his eyes fixed on yours with a terrifying, beautiful vulnerability.

"michael," he corrected in a breathless undertone, his voice thick with a longing he had suppressed for months. "when it's just us like this... please."

the moment the name left your lips, the last fragile thread of restraint between you seemed to snap.

michael’s breath hitched, a soft, barely audible sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. slowly, deliberately, he lowered his hand from the wooden partition and let his fingers brush against the back of yours. his skin was warm, his touch incredibly gentle as his long, slender fingers slid over your knuckles, tracing the sensitive skin with a slow, feather-light caress. the contrast of his large hand enveloping yours in the dim, golden light of the library alcove was dizzying.

"yes... michael," you breathed, the confession slipping out before you could even think to stop it.

his eyes darkened at the sound of his name, a look of pure, unchecked devotion washing over his features. his thumb stroked the side of your hand, a rhythmic, intoxicating motion that made the rest of the world completely fade away. the tension in the tiny space expanded, becoming so thick and electric that it felt like a physical wire stretched taut between you. he leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours, his gaze dropping down to your lips with a heavy, magnetic longing. you could feel the heat radiating from him, his scent wrapping around you, drowning out every rational thought you had ever possessed.

but just as he tilted his head, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around yours in a unspoken plea, the distant, heavy clang of the campus clock tower chimed the hour.

the sharp sound shattered the spell.

a sudden, cold rush of reality hit you like a wave of ice water. you looked at his hand wrapped around yours, then up at his face—at your teacher, the man who gave you your grades, the man whose career and reputation hung in the balance, just like your own future. a knot of intense panic and guilt tightened in your stomach. what am i doing the thought screamed in your mind. This wasn't just a lingering look in the classroom anymore. this was dangerous. it was completely unprofessional.

with a sharp, breathless gasp, you pulled your hand out of his grip, stepping back until your chair scraped loudly against the floor.

michael blinked, looking momentarily dazed by the sudden loss of contact, his hand left hanging emptily in the air. a flash of deep hurt and immediate regret crossed his features as he realized what he had done.

"i... i can't do this," you stammered, your voice shaking as you frantically began shoving your notebooks and pens into your bag, not even caring if the pages got crumpled. your hands were trembling so badly you could barely zip it shut. "mr. jackson, this isn't... we can't. it's not professional."

michael closed his eyes for a brief second, swallowing hard as he pulled his hand back, clenching it into a fist against his side. when he looked at you again, the intense longing was still there, but it was heavily masked by a painful, guarded restraint. "i'm sorry," he whispered, his voice thick and rough with emotion. "i didn't mean to—"

"i should go," you interrupted quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs as you slung the heavy bag over your shoulder. you couldn't look him in the eye, terrified that if you did, you would run right back into his arms. "it's really late. goodnight, mr. jackson."

without waiting for him to reply, you brushed past him, the fabric of your sleeves rubbing together in the narrow aisle. you hurried out of the secluded alcove and down the long, empty rows of bookshelves, leaving him standing completely alone in the shadows of the library.

the walk back to your dorm room was a blur of cold air and burning tears of sheer mortification. the moment you closed your door behind you, the weight of what had almost happened crashed down on you. you felt a suffocating, intense wave of shame pooling in your stomach. you had whispered his first name. you had let him caress your hand. you had sat there, completely paralyzed, almost letting your music professor kiss you in a dark corner of the university library.

the thought made your face flush with a deep, prickly heat. you felt incredibly embarrassed—not just because it was a dangerous violation of the rules, but because you had let your guard down so completely. you were supposed to be the top student, the serious, untouchable academic force of the graduating class. instead, you had acted like a cliché.

determined to fix your mistake, you made a silent vow to yourself that night: you were going to draw a thick, iron-clad line between yourself and mr. jackson.

when the next music block rolled around, the change in your behavior was immediate and drastic. usually, you were the first to arrive, sitting front and center, eagerly participating and exchanging knowing smiles with him. but now, you purposefully timed your arrival down to the exact last minute, slipping through the door just as the bell rang. you chose a seat near the back corner, hiding behind the larger students, keeping your eyes glued stubbornly to your desk or your notebook.

whenever he asked a complex question to the lecture hall—questions he usually directed straight at you with a spark of anticipation in his eyes—you kept your mouth shut, staring intently at your paper and pretending to be buried in notes. you stopped staying behind after the final bell. the second the class was dismissed, you packed your things in a flash and vanished into the hallway before he could even clear his throat to speak to you. you became a ghost in his classroom.

and michael noticed every single second of it.

to him, your sudden absence felt like a physical ache in the room. the vibrant, electric connection that used to fuel his teaching was completely gone, replaced by a cold, suffocating distance. during his lectures, his eyes would instinctively drift to the back corner of the room, tracking your quiet, averted gaze. he would linger on your face, his expression laced with a profound, quiet sadness that made his chest tighten. he missed your voice. he missed your insights. most of all, he missed the quiet understanding you used to share.

every time you brushed past his desk at the end of the hour without making eye contact, michael felt a heavy, dull pain in his heart. he knew exactly why you were doing it—he remembered the panic in your voice at the library—but seeing you shrink away from him, seeing the girl who loved music more than life itself suddenly trying to become invisible in his presence, was a punishment he could barely handle.

two weeks passed in this excruciating silence, the tension in the classroom building up like a heavy storm cloud, until michael finally reached his breaking point.

it was a rainy friday afternoon, and the final bell had just echoed through the hallways. true to your new routine, you shoved your binders into your backpack, keeping your head down as you stood up to escape. but just as your foot crossed the threshold of the doorway, his voice cut through the empty room—soft, trembling slightly, but carrying a weight that made your feet instantly freeze to the floorboards.

"please don't run away," michael murmured from the front of the room, his voice thick with an aching vulnerability that broke the silence. "just... give me two minutes. please."

the sound of his voice felt like a physical hand anchoring you to the spot. you closed your eyes for a brief, agonizing second, your heart instantly leaping into your throat. as much as every instinct screamed at you to run down the hallway and lose yourself in the crowd of students, you couldn't do it. he was still your professor. defying a direct, desperate plea from the man who held your academic future in his hands felt impossible, and worse, it would only make your guilt more obvious.

slowly, you turned around, the heavy straps of your backpack digging into your shoulders.

the moment you stepped back inside and the heavy wooden door clicked shut, the atmosphere in room 304 shifted entirely. the air became instantly thick, suffocating, and charged with a raw, undeniable electricity that made your skin prickle. you stood near the back row, keeping a fortress of empty desks between the two of you, but michael’s eyes tracking your every move made that distance feel entirely useless.

the tension wasn't just there; it was a living, breathing entity in the quiet room.

michael didn't stay behind his desk. instead, he began to walk toward you, his movements slow, deliberate, and entirely focused. he had discarded his usual gentle, careful demeanor; there was a newfound, intense gravity in his step that made your breath hitch. as he drew closer, navigating the rows of desks, his dark eyes never broke contact with yours. there was a fierce, burning hunger in his gaze—an unyielding, intense possessiveness that he wasn't even trying to hide anymore. it was a look that said he had endured two weeks of your silence, two weeks of you ghosting him, and he was absolutely done letting you slip away.

he stopped just a few feet away, effectively cutting off your easiest path to the exit. the sheer intensity radiating from him was dizzying. he looked down at you, his chest rising and falling with heavy, shallow breaths, his jaw set in a tight, desperate line.

"you've been hiding from me," michael murmured, his voice dropping to a low, velvety register that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards. it wasn't a question; it was an accusation, thick with a deep, aching frustration.

"i've just been... focusing on my work, mr. jackson," you lied, your voice trembling slightly as you tried to maintain a professional wall, backing up until your spine pressed against the cold plaster of the wall.

but michael didn't let the lie stand. he stepped even closer, completely invading your personal space until you were trapped between the wall and the overwhelming heat of his body. he leaned in, his shadow completely enveloping you, his scent of rich cologne and old paper locking you in place. he didn't touch you, but the way he hovered over you felt entirely dominant, almost as if he were claiming every single inch of the air you breathed.

"don't do that. don't look at the floor when i'm speaking to you," he whispered, his tone carrying a soft but terrifyingly commanding edge that made your knees weak. he tilted his head, his dark curls brushing against his temple, his eyes locking onto your lips before snapping back to your eyes with a desperate, fierce intensity. "i've watched you sit in the back of my room for two weeks pretending i don't exist. you think you can just vanish? you think you can just erase what happened?"

he leaned a fraction closer, his hand coming up to rest flat against the wall right beside your head, trapping you completely within his frame. the possessive pull in his eyes was blinding now. "you are the most brilliant thing in this entire institution. you belong in the front row. you belong here, talking to me. i won't let you become a ghost because you're scared of how much we want this."

pinned beneath the heavy shadow of his frame, your breath caught completely in your throat. you looked up into his dark eyes, searching the fierce, burning intensity hidden behind his gaze, and a sudden, terrifying wave of clarity washed over you.

he was right.

the realization hit you like a physical blow, making your heart thud violently against your ribs. you couldn't deny it anymore, couldn't minimize it, and couldn't hide behind the comforting lie that it was just an overactive imagination or a simple case of academic admiration. the way the air throbbed between your bodies, the desperate heat radiating from his skin, and the sharp, electric current that zipped through you whenever he breathed your name—it was undeniable. there was a profound, dangerous, and incredibly real connection stretching between the two of you, pulling you together like a pair of opposing magnets.

but as the truth crystallized in your mind, the sheer panic inside you only grew louder.

"michael..." you whispered, your voice a fragile, trembling sound in the quiet space between your lips. you wanted to lean into his touch, wanted to close the agonizing inches left between you, but the heavy weight of reality slammed back down on your chest.

you shook your head slightly, your eyes wide with a mix of longing and pure fear as you forced yourself to look away from his intoxicating gaze. "no. i can't. even if... even if you're right, it doesn't change anything. it’s not professional. you're my teacher, michael. if anyone found out, if anyone saw us look at each other like this..."

your voice cracked, the suffocating terror of losing your academic standing, your future, and seeing his entire career ruined flashing vividly behind your eyes. you were terrified of the sheer depth of what he was offering, terrified of how easily you could lose yourself in his possessive orbit.

"i'm scared," you admitted bluntly, a lone tear finally slipping down your cheek as your hands gripped the straps of your backpack like a shield. "i want to ignore it. i have to ignore it. please, just let me go back to the way things were."

the sight of that single tear breaking down your cheek seemed to crack something wide open inside of him. the fierce, possessive tension in his shoulders instantly melted, replaced by an expression of pure, agonizing tenderness.

slowly, his hand left the wall and his long, warm fingers reached up, his thumb gently catching the tear right before it reached your jaw. his touch was so incredibly soft, a feather-light caress that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine.

"shh, don't cry. please don't cry," michael murmured, his voice dropping to a low, soothing cadence that felt like a warm blanket wrapping around your trembling frame. he leaned down a bit further, his forehead nearly resting against yours, his breath mingling with your own. "look at me. open your eyes and look at me."

you forced your eyelids open, meeting the deep, liquid warmth of his gaze.

"you think we’re the first ones to ever feel this?" he whispered, a small, reassuring smile playing on his lips as his hand moved to gently cup the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "people understand, darling. things like this... a connection like ours, it doesn't just happen. it's rare. it's beautiful. no one is going to ruin this for us. i won't let them. i will protect you, i promise you."

his words were like a sweet, intoxicating poison, pouring directly into your ears and wrapping around your resolve. standing this close to him, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heartbeat and the desperate sincerity in his voice, your mind was screaming at you to just let go. every single cell in your body wanted to lean into his palm, to grab the lapels of his vest and pull his lips down onto yours, to finally drown in the ocean of desire you had been fighting for weeks.

internally, you were locked in a brutal, suffocating war against yourself.

just collapse into him, a voice pleaded in the back of your mind. he loves you. he’ll protect you. just close your eyes and stop fighting.

but the logical, studious girl who had spent years working tirelessly for her future was screaming back, digging her heels into the dirt. no! it’s wrong, it’s dangerous, he’s your professor! you clenched your fists so hard your nails bit into your palms, your entire body stiffening as you fought against the magnetic pull of his chest. your breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, your lips parting as you struggled to find the strength to push him away, even as your heart begged you to do the exact opposite.

the moment he felt the slight, trembling hesitation in your frame, michael leaned into it, capturing your weakness with a quiet, devastating precision. he didn't pull away. instead, his touch became bolder, shifting from a comforting gesture into something deeply tactile, intoxicating, and intensely deliberate.

his hand slid down from your cheek, his long, warm fingers wrapping around the nape of your neck, his thumb lightly stroking the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. a gasp caught in your throat as a searing jolt of electricity shot straight down your spine. but he wasn't done. his other hand came up, resting firmly against your waist, his palm burning through the thin fabric of your shirt as he gently, unyieldingly pulled your body a fraction closer to his.

the sudden, total friction of his chest pressing against yours made your head spin. you were completely trapped in his warmth, entirely enveloped by the rich, masculine scent of his cologne.

"michael..." you breathed, a desperate, broken syllable that sounded more like a plea than a protest.

"i've got you," he whispered against your skin, his voice a dark, velvety murmur that vibrated straight into your chest. he tilted his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear before tracing a agonizingly slow line down the column of your neck. "stop fighting it, darling. just let me..."

the sheer sensory overload of his touch was making it impossible to think. every point of contact felt like a live wire, burning away the neat, professional boundaries you had fought so hard to maintain. your hands, which had been pressed flat against his chest to keep him at bay, were losing their strength, your fingers instinctively curling into the soft fabric of his vest just to keep yourself upright. your knees felt completely weak, your body betraying you by melting right into his possessive hold.

the tension in the room didn't just rise; it reached a suffocating, feverish peak. the air was thick with the sound of your ragged, uneven breathing and the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart echoing against your own. he shifted his weight, pressing you firmer against the wall, his gaze dropping to your parted lips with an unvarnished hunger that made you feel completely exposed—and utterly, dangerously tempted. you were standing on the very edge of the cliff, your entire body aching to take that final step into the dark with him.

the distance between your faces completely evaporated. michael tilted his head, his dark eyes fixed onto yours with a heavy, unblinking intensity that made your heart hammer frantically against your ribs. his fingers tangled deeper into your hair at the nape of your neck, his thumb caressing the soft skin of your jawline with a desperate, burning tenderness that made your mind go entirely blank.

slowly, inevitably, he leaned down. you thought his lips were going to meet yours, but instead, he shifted his focus, his gaze dropping to the exposed line of your throat.

he turned his face into the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your sensitive skin a second before his lips finally made contact.

the first kiss was a soft, feather-light brush against your collarbone, but it sent a violent jolt of pure electricity straight to your core. you let out a sharp, breathless gasp, your hands clutching tightly at the fabric of his vest. michael groaned softly at the sound, encouraged by your reaction, and began to press a slow, rhythmic trail of warm, lingering kisses up the column of your neck. his lips were soft but incredibly firm, marking your skin with a possessive, aching devotion that made the last remnants of the classroom walls completely crumble around you.

"michael... please," you whispered, the words trembling past your lips. you were trying so hard to hold back, to find that iron-clad discipline that had always defined you as a student, but your body was entirely refusing to cooperate.

every single touch of his lips was a devastating blow to your restraint. a deep, dizzying sensation was blooming in your lower stomach, a heavy, intoxicating warmth that spread through your veins like wildfire. you could feel the sharp friction of his belt buckle against your waist, the intense heat of his palm firmly anchoring your hip against the wall, and the heavy, ragged rhythm of his breathing echoing directly into your ear.

you were fighting a losing battle against your own senses. your eyes fluttered shut, your head instinctively tilting back against the plaster to give him better access, a soft, involuntary whimper escaping your throat as his lips pressed into the sensitive spot right beneath your ear. you were drowning in the sheer feeling of him, entirely consumed by a dangerous, illicit pleasure you had never experienced before.

without breaking the intoxicating rhythm of his lips against your skin, michael shifted his weight. his large hands remained locked firmly around your waist, his grip tightening just enough to guide you. with a slow, smooth deliberateness, he used the gentle pressure of his body to guide you backward, away from the cold plaster of the wall.

your heels dragged lightly against the floorboards until the back of your thighs hit the edge of one of the heavy wooden student desks.

before you could even process the change in posture, michael’s hands slid under your hips, effortlessly lifting you just enough so that you were sitting flat on top of the desk. the smooth, varnished wood was cool beneath you, a stark and grounding contrast to the overwhelming, feverish heat radiating from him.

the moment you were seated, the dynamic completely shifted. michael didn't waste a single second. he stepped forward, pushing himself flush against the desk and positioning his frame directly between your parted thighs, completely closing any remaining space between you. he was entirely commanding now, locking you into his orbit so securely that the rest of the empty classroom ceased to exist.

his hands slid back up to anchor fiercely around your waist, his long fingers digging into your skin with a brand new, unyielding intensity. the tenderness from before instantly morphed into something deeply passionate, a raw, heavy hunger that had been suppressed for months behind lesson plans and professional boundaries.

he brought his face back up to yours, his dark eyes burning with an unvarnished devotion before he buried his face right back into your neck. this time, his kisses weren't feather-light or hesitant. they were deep, bruising, and heavy with a frantic passion that left you completely breathless. his lips moved hungrily against the sensitive skin of your throat, biting softly at the juncture of your shoulder, making you arch your back instinctively into his mouth.

a ragged gasp escaped your lips, your hands flying up to tangle into the soft, thick hairs at the back of his head, pulling him even closer as the last bit of your restraint dissolved into the quiet, shadowed room.

the heavy friction of his lips against your neck was already making your thoughts fracture, but then, his touch shifted in a way that made your entire body go completely rigid.

one of his large, warm hands slowly detached from your waist. his fingers slid down the curve of your hip, moving with a torturously slow, deliberate precision until his palm brushed the fabric covering your thigh. you caught your breath, your fingers tightening convulsively into the dark curls at the back of his head, but michael was entirely consumed by the moment. slowly, his hand slipped further down, sliding directly between your parted thighs to gently, feather-lightly caress the sensitive skin of your inner thigh.

the contact was electric. a sharp, searing wave of heat shot straight through your core, triggering a deep, undeniable pull in your lower stomach that you could no longer pretend wasn't there. you were becoming intensely aroused, your body reacting instantly to his dominance, the heavy ache of desire pooling between your legs with a terrifying force.

panicking at how fast your control was evaporating, you tightly closed your eyes, arching your back slightly away from him as you tried to suppress the feeling, desperate to mentally ignore the way your body was completely surrendering to his touch.

but michael felt the sudden, involuntary tremor that rippled through your frame. he felt the way your breathing hitched into a ragged, broken stutter, and how your inner thighs instinctively tensed against his hand.

he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

a low, deep hum of pure satisfaction vibrated against your throat as he realized how deeply affected you were. michael paused his kisses for a fraction of a second, lifting his head just enough to look down at you. his dark eyes were completely clouded with passion, a knowing, possessive smirk playing at the very corners of his lips as he watched your flushed face.

"you can't hide it from me, darling," he whispered against your lips, his voice a velvety, breathless growl that made your heart hammer frantically. his fingers moved just a fraction higher on your inner thigh, his thumb brushing against your skin with a light, intoxicating friction that shattered your last attempt at denial. "i can feel how much you want me. stop trying to fight it."

the cool air of the classroom hit your skin for a fraction of a second as michael’s hand slid beneath the hem of your skirt. his palm was blazing hot against your bare thigh, his long fingers tracing a slow, agonizingly deliberate path upward, moving closer and closer to your center. the sheer intimacy of the gesture, combined with the heavy weight of his body pressed firmly between your legs, sent a violent wave of heat straight to your core. you were drowning in the feeling, completely overwhelmed by how much your body was craving his touch.

but as his fingers brushed against the delicate fabric of your underwear, a sharp jolt of panic flared through your haze of arousal.

"michael... wait," you gasped out, your voice trembling as you placed your hands flat against his chest, weakly trying to create even an inch of space between you. you shook your head, your eyes wide and glossy with a mix of tears and desire. "i... i can't do this. please, mr. jackson, i really can't do this. it's wrong."

michael paused, his fingers resting still against your inner thigh, just inches away from making you completely lose your mind. he lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that was dizzying. he didn't look angry; instead, his expression was filled with a profound, unyielding certainty that made your protests feel entirely futile.

he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your lips as his hand firmly but gently anchored your waist, pressing you down against the wooden desk.

"shh, don't say that," michael murmured, his voice a low, velvety purr that completely filled your senses. he tilted his head, his thumb brushing a soft, hypnotic circle against your skin. "it's not wrong, darling. look at how much we want this. look at how perfect you feel right here with me."

"but the rules... my grades... your career..." you stammered, trying to hold onto the logic that was rapidly slipping through your fingers.

"forget about the rules," he whispered fiercely, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes with absolute devotion. "it is completely possible. it's acceptable because we care about each other. no one is looking, no one is going to know. just trust me. let me take care of you."

the touch was definitive, erasing any lingering illusion of control. michael’s hand slid the final, agonizing inch, his long fingers pressing through the thin lace covering your center. the moment his palm made contact with the heat radiating from you, he felt it—the unmistakable, slick dampness soaking through the fabric, a physical testament to exactly how deeply aroused you were.

your head snapped back against the desk, a broken, trembling gasp escaping your lips as his fingers moved slightly, spreading the intense warmth across your skin.

michael let out a low, breathy chuckle, a sound thick with pure satisfaction and an unyielding, possessive triumph. he didn't pull away; instead, he leaned his entire upper body over yours, his chest flattening against your breasts, trapping you completely beneath his heavy, intoxicating frame. his eyes, dark and heavy with a dangerous level of desire, locked onto yours, forcing you to look at him as he exposed your body's betrayal.

"see?" michael whispered, his voice a velvety, wicked murmur directly against your lips. his hand remained pressed firmly between your thighs, his fingers applying a torturously slow, rhythmic pressure that made your hips instinctively twitch upward. "you can say whatever you want with your mouth, darling... but even your body says the exact opposite."

you bit your lower lip so hard you could taste copper, trying desperately to swallow the whimper that was building in your throat. you wanted to argue, wanted to cling to the shred of sanity that told you this was a classroom, that he was your professor, but the sheer, agonizing pleasure of his hand moving against your damp skin was making it impossible to form a single coherent thought.

"look at what i do to you," he purred, his thumb sliding over the lace with a deliberate, friction-filled stroke that sent a jolt of pure lightning straight to your core. "you're so wet for me. you're completely ready. stop lying to yourself, my beautiful girl. you are mine tonight."

the last barrier vanished with a quiet, rustling slide of fabric. michael’s fingers hooked into the delicate edge of your lace underwear, gently but unyieldingly pulling it to the side, completely exposing your burning, aching center to his gaze and his touch.

the sudden touch of his bare skin against yours made you let out a sharp, ragged gasp that echoed softly in the quiet room. his fingers were warm and incredibly smooth as he brought his hand back, pressing his palm flat against you, immediately smoothing the slick, heavy dampness across your sensitive skin.

he didn't rush. instead, he began to lightly, agonizingly slowly caress you, his long fingers tracing soft, rhythmic circles directly over your core.

every single stroke felt like pure lightning zipping straight through your veins. any remaining shred of your internal struggle, your panic about the rules, and your fear of the consequences completely melted away, burned to ash by the sheer intensity of the pleasure flooding your system. it felt too good. it felt absolutely incredible. a deep, helpless warmth blossomed between your thighs, and without even realizing it, your hands moved from his chest to grip his shoulders, your fingers digging tightly into the fabric of his vest as you anchored yourself to him.

you completely stopped fighting. you let your head fall back onto the smooth wood of the desk, your eyes fluttering shut as you finally let yourself submit to his touch, a soft, breathy whimper escaping your parted lips.

michael felt the exact moment your body finally surrendered to him. a look of intense, possessive satisfaction washed over his features, his dark eyes watching your flushed face with absolute devotion. he leaned down, pressing a hot, lingering kiss right to the side of your jaw, his breath trembling against your ear as his hand continued its slow, torturous friction below.

"that's it... just like that," he whispered in a low, velvety purr, his thumb shifting to apply a fraction more pressure against your most sensitive spot, making your hips instinctively twitch upward against his palm. "give it all to me, darling. you feel so perfect."

the slow, rhythmic friction against your skin had already pushed you to the absolute limit, but michael was entirely consumed by the desire to see how much deeper he could pull you into his orbit.

with a slow, heavy breath that fanned hot against your cheek, his fingers paused for a fraction of a second. then, with an agonizingly smooth and deliberate motion, he curled his long, slender finger and gently slid it inside of you.

your eyes snapped wide open for a brief second before fluttering tightly shut as a sharp, gasping cry tore from your throat. the feeling of him filling you—slick, warm, and incredibly firm—was an absolute shock to your senses. it was an entirely new tier of pleasure, a deep, heavy ache that rippled through your lower stomach and made your inner muscles instinctively clamp tight around his finger.

"oh god..." you whimpered, your hips bucking up off the wooden desk completely on instinct, desperately seeking more of the incredible friction. your fingers dug so hard into his shoulders that your knuckles turned white, your entire body trembling beneath his frame.

michael let out a low, ragged groan at your reaction, the tight, burning heat of your body squeezing around his finger making his own restraint shatter. his dark eyes flickered with a fierce, possessive pride as he watched your face twist with pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

"you like that, don't you?" he whispered, his voice dropping to a dark, breathless undertone that vibrated right against your lips.

he began to move his finger, slowly sliding it in and out, testing your limits while his thumb firmly pressed down on your center outside. the combination was devastating. you were completely helpless under his touch, your head tossing from side to side on the desk as you let out a continuous string of soft, breathless whimpers. every single stroke felt like pure lightning, completely obliterating any remaining thought of the classroom, the rules, or the world outside. you were entirely his, drowning in a wave of pleasure that kept building higher and higher with every movement of his hand.

with his right hand maintaining that slow, devastating rhythm inside of you, michael’s left hand left your waist to explore the rest of your trembling body. his touch was smooth, burning hot against your skin as his long fingers slid up under the fabric of your shirt, tracing the sensitive curve of your ribs before flattening against your stomach. every single touch felt like gasoline poured on a fire, sending fresh waves of intense goosebumps rippling across your skin.

he slid his palm further up, his thumb lightly brushing against the underside of your breast through your bra, making you let out a high-pitched, broken cry that echoed loudly in the quiet, shadowed classroom.

you couldn't stay still anymore. the overwhelming sensory overload—the deep, rhythmic stretch inside you and the feverish caresses mapping out your skin—was completely driving you crazy. your hips bucked and writhed against his hand on the desk, your legs trembling violently as you subconsciously tried to swallow the friction, moving in every direction just to chase that agonizingly perfect feeling. your head tossed wildly from side to side on the wooden surface, your hair spreading out in a messy halo as a continuous stream of breathless, desperate whimpers escaped your parted lips.

michael leaned back just a fraction, his chest rising and falling with heavy, jagged breaths as he watched you unravel beneath him.

seeing you like this—completely broken down, thrashing and shaking under the absolute control of his hands—triggered something primal and fiercely possessive deep inside him. a dark, breathless smile tugged at his lips, his eyes completely wide and clouded with an unvarnished, hungry adoration. he absolutely loved seeing what he did to you. he loved that the brilliant, quiet, top student of his class was completely falling apart, reduced to a trembling, shivering mess solely because of his touch.

"look at you," michael growled softly, his voice a low, velvety whisper that vibrated with raw passion as he deliberately accelerated the pace of his finger inside you, his thumb pressing down even harder on your swollen center. "look at how beautifully you move for me, darling. you're so good... so perfect for your teacher."

the sheer intensity of the pleasure was becoming too much to bear, pushing you right to the absolute edge of a cliff you didn't want to step back from. your thoughts were completely fractured, evaporated into the heated air of the classroom. as his hand accelerated beneath your skirt, sending a devastating wave of friction straight to your core, you lost the last shred of your pride.

"michael... please, don't stop," you cried out, your voice a breathless, begging whimper that broke in the quiet room. your fingers gripped the fabric of his vest tightly, pulling him down toward you as your hips bucked up against his hand in an unspoken, desperate plea. "please, just... don't stop."

hearing those words slip from your lips—hearing his top, most disciplined student completely beg for his touch—sent a violent jolt of pure adrenaline straight through michael’s veins.

a low, deep growl of absolute triumph escaped his throat, his dark eyes darkening until they were almost completely black with desire. his satisfaction was immense, wrapping around his chest like a tight coil. it excited him to a point of pure madness to see you like this—completely unraveled, helpless, and begging him to keep commanding your body. the thrill of his control over your pleasure made his own breathing turn ragged and frantic.

"i won't stop, darling. i've got you," he whispered fiercely against your lips, his voice thick and rough with an unvarnished hunger.

he pushed himself even deeper between your thighs, locking his frame flush against yours on the desk. matching your desperation, he added a second finger inside your soaking heat, widening you completely as his thumb began to stroke your center with a fast, heavy, and merciless rhythm. the sudden fullness made your eyes roll back, your entire body shaking in every direction as you thrashed under the heavy weight of his chest. michael watched your flushed face twist with pure ecstasy, his chest heaving with heavy pants as he drove you faster and faster toward the edge, completely intoxicated by the sight of you falling apart in his hands.

the air in the room was suffocatingly hot, thick with the sound of your frantic, uneven breathing and the wet, rhythmic friction of his hand moving between your thighs. you were completely lost in the haze of it, your body shuddering with every single stroke, entirely at the mercy of his fingers.

michael paused his movements for a fraction of a second, leaving his fingers buried deep inside your soaking warmth, holding you perfectly still against the wooden desk. the sudden lack of motion made you let out a whimper of pure frustration, your hips instinctively twitching upward to seek the touch.

he leaned down, his chest pressing heavily against yours as his dark eyes locked onto your blown-out, glossy gaze. his breathing was just as ragged as yours, a stray curl falling over his forehead as a dark, fiercely possessive smile played on his lips.

"do you want more, darling?" michael murmured, his voice a low, velvety growl that vibrated straight through your core. he tilted his head, his thumb lightly pressing against your swollen center just enough to make you gasp. "tell me. do you want your teacher to give you more?"

"yes... yes, please, michael," you cried out, completely stripped of any remaining pride. you clutched at his shoulders, your voice breaking in a desperate, breathless plea. "please give me more."

hearing those words slip from your lips sent a violent, heavy rush of arousal straight to his chest. michael’s eyes darkened with absolute, unbridled satisfaction. he absolutely loved seeing you like this—so incredibly obedient, completely stripped of your usual academic restraint, and begging him for exactly what your body needed. the fact that you were actively asking for it, submitting to his authority in the middle of his own classroom, excited him to a point of pure madness.

"such a good girl," he whispered fiercely against your lips, his voice thick and rough with desire. "so obedient for me."

without making you wait another second, he slid his hand out of your skirt just long enough to frantically unbuckle his belt and lower his trousers. he positioned himself right at your soaking entrance, his large hands gripping your thighs and pulling them wide apart over the edges of the desk. he looked down at you one last time, his chest heaving with heavy, shallow breaths, completely intoxicated by how ready and willing you were for him.

the transition from the torturous friction of his fingers to the sudden, overwhelming reality of his full weight was completely breathless. michael gripped your hips with a fierce, unyielding intensity, his knuckles turning white against your skin, and with one slow, deep thrust, he slid entirely inside of you.

a loud, high-pitched gasp tore from your throat, your back arching off the wooden desk as your eyes flew wide open. the sheer fullness of him was staggering—he was so large, so incredibly warm, stretching you completely and filling the deep, aching void that had been building inside you for weeks.

for a few seconds, both of you froze, completely paralyzed and utterly subjugated by the sheer intensity of the sensation.

michael let out a low, ragged groan that vibrated deep in his chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck as his whole body shuddered. the tight, burning heat of your skin enveloping him was a sensory overload that shattered whatever remained of his professional restraint. he clung to you like a drowning man, his breathing coming in frantic, shallow pants against your skin.

clinging to his shoulders, your mind was completely spinning in a dizzying blur of ecstasy and disbelief. i'm actually doing this, the thought echoed frantically behind your closed eyelids, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. i am on a desk in room 304, being taken by my music professor. the absolute taboo of the situation, the knowledge of who he was, and the memory of him standing at the blackboard just hours ago lecturing on harmony made the pleasure ten times more acute, bordering on overwhelming.

but right alongside the shock was a wave of pure, unadulterated awe at just how incredible he felt. michael wasn't just passionate; he was precise, moving with a deep, natural rhythm that mirrored his lifelong mastery of tempo and cadence.

"michael... oh god, michael," you whimpered, your head tossing back onto the desk as he began to move.

he withdrew slowly before driving back in with a heavy, deliberate push that made you cry out, your inner muscles clamping tightly around him. he didn't rush the tempo; he kept it slow, deep, and utterly merciless, ensuring that every single stroke maximize the friction against your swollen center. the absolute mastery with which he commanded your body was terrifyingly good, completely obliterating any lingering shred of doubt or guilt. you were entirely at his mercy, utterly subjugated by the intoxicating rhythm of your teacher.

with every deep, unyielding thrust that slid inside of you, michael’s voice became another layer of your undoing. he didn't stay silent; his breath was hot and ragged against your skin, filling the quiet space of the classroom with a low, velvety commentary that made your ears burn just as hotly as your core.

"look at you... look at how perfect you take me, darling," michael growled softly, his voice thick with an unvarnished, heavy passion as he pushed deep against your center, making you let out a broken, high-pitched whimper.

he lifted his head, his dark eyes clouded with absolute devotion and an intense, possessive pride as he looked down at your flushed, undone face. his hands gripped your waist even tighter, anchoring you to the hard wood of the desk as his hips maintained that agonizingly slow, bruising rhythm.

"you're so tight for me," he whispered breathlessly, a low groan escaping his throat as your inner muscles clamped instinctively around him with every movement. "you were made for this. you were made for me, do you hear me? forget about everything else outside this room. right now, you are just my beautiful girl."

the absolute contrast of hearing his voice—usually so articulate, poised, and professional behind his podium—turn into this deep, primal murmur completely shattered your mind. you could only toss your head back against the varnished wood, your fingers digging frantically into his shoulders, leaving red marks through his shirt as you tried to ride the overwhelming waves of pleasure he was dictating.

"michael... please," you gasped out, your voice fracturing as he hit a spot deep inside that made your entire body shudder violently.

"tell me how it feels," he commanded softly, his tempo accelerating just a fraction, matching the desperate hitch in your breathing. he leaned down, his lips brushing against your earlobe, his voice dropping to a dark, intoxicating purr. "tell your professor how good it feels to let go. say it, darling."

"it feels... so good... please, michael," you cried out, completely stripped of your defenses, utterly obedient to his voice as the friction built to a suffocating, feverish peak between your thighs.

the visual in the dim light of the classroom was nothing short of breathtaking—a scene of pure, unadulterated eroticism. there you were, completely undone, your body arching and moving in every direction against the hard surface of the wooden desk, driven entirely by the overwhelming pleasure flooding your senses. your hair was spread out in a wild halo, your skin flushed and slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and your hips instinctively chasing the heavy, rhythmic friction of his body.

and above you was michael, dominating the space with a striking, hypnotic contrast of power and profound delicacy.

even as he drove deep inside you, his movements possessed an innate, poetic grace. he didn’t treat you roughly; instead, he took you with a fierce tenderness, his large hands worshiping every single inch of your body. while his hips maintained a relentless, intoxicating tempo that made you cry out, his left hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers trailing a path of fire across your stomach, over the curve of your ribs, and up to the sensitive skin of your throat.

every touch of his palm was a breathless caress, mapping out your frame as if he were memorizing the very blueprint of your pleasure.

he leaned down lower, his chest flattening against yours, pinning you softly beneath his heavy, warm frame while his lips traced a frantic line of kisses from your jaw down to your collarbone. you were thrashing beneath him, completely helpless and vibrating with ecstasy, while he anchored you with absolute devotion, his dark eyes fixed on your face to drink in every beautiful, vulnerable expression you made. the sight of your total surrender—coupled with the gentle, possessive mastery of his hands roaming all over your bare skin—turned the empty classroom into a private sanctuary of pure, suffocating desire.

he didn't let you drown in the silence of the room. with every heavy, deep slide of his hips against yours, michael kept his lips pressed close to your skin, his voice a ragged, breathless murmur that vibrated directly into your core.

"you feel so incredible, darling," he panted, his hands sliding underneath your lower back to lift you slightly, tilting your pelvis to make the contact even deeper, even more devastating. "look at me. open your eyes for me."

your eyelids fluttered open, your vision blurred with tears of pure ecstasy, only to find his dark eyes burning down into yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

"you're doing so well for your teacher," he whispered fiercely, a low groan escaping his throat as your tight warmth squeezed around him. "tell me you're mine. say it, beautiful. tell me you belong to me in this room."

"i'm... i'm yours, michael," you cried out, your voice fracturing into a breathless sob as he drove deep into that perfect spot inside you once again.

"yes, you are," he purred, his tempo accelerating just a fraction, matching the frantic rhythm of your racing heart. his fingers caressed the side of your face, brushing away a damp strand of hair with absolute, consuming devotion. "forget the world outside. right now, this is our classroom, and you are learning exactly how much i love you."

the quiet, empty classroom was completely filled with the sound of your undoing. you couldn't hold it back anymore; with every deep, relentless push of his hips, a loud, trembling moan escaped your lips, echoing softly against the high walls and the chalkboard. your whimpers turned into high-pitched, breathless gasps, a continuous string of pure pleasure that you couldn't suppress even if you tried.

hearing those beautiful, broken noises coming from you drove michael absolutely wild.

a heavy, ragged groan tore from his chest, his whole body shuddering against yours as he buried his face deep in your neck. the sound of your moans was like gasoline on a fire, pushing his excitement to a point of pure madness. he loved it. he loved hearing exactly how much he was making you feel, knowing that every single breathless cry was entirely because of him.

he lifted his head slightly, his dark eyes wide and darkened with a heavy, hungry satisfaction as he watched your flushed face. seeing your eyes rolled back, your lips parted as you cried out his name, and your body shaking in every direction beneath him gave him a feeling of absolute, intoxicating power.

"yes, darling... cry out for me," michael growled breathlessly, his voice thick and rough with passion as he deliberately accelerated the tempo, his thrusts becoming faster and harder against your soaking center. "let me hear you. i want to hear exactly how good your teacher is making you feel."

the overwhelming build-up of friction was becoming too much to handle, a tight, electric coil winding tighter and tighter deep inside your lower stomach. with every fast, breathless thrust michael made, the pressure intensified until you could feel the edge right there, just seconds away. knowing you were so close to the precipice didn't make you hold back; instead, it gave you a sudden, frantic rush of motivation.

your hips began to move even faster against his, arching up off the wooden desk completely on instinct to meet every deep push, desperately chasing that final, shattering release.

"michael... oh god, michael, i'm... i'm close," you cried out, your voice breaking into a ragged, desperate sob as you wrapped your legs tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper inside you.

seeing your sudden surge of desperate energy, michael let out a low, victorious growl that vibrated heavily against your chest. he felt the intense, involuntary tremors beginning to ripple through your inner muscles, clamping around him like a vice, and it pushed him right over the edge of his own control. his hands gripped your hips with an unyielding, bruising force, locking you in place as he threw his entire weight into a fast, merciless, and blindingly deep rhythm, driving both of you straight toward the finish line.

he felt the frantic, helpless tightening of your body around him, your breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps as you teetered on the very edge of the precipice. a heavy, ragged sigh escaped his lips, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your flushed face, watching the pure ecstasy take over your features.

"go ahead, darling... just let yourself go," michael whispered fiercely against your mouth, his voice dropping to a low, velvety command that completely broke your remaining restraint.

"give it all to me," he growled breathlessly, his hips driving into yours with a final, mercilessly deep tempo that sent you completely over the edge, anchoring you tightly as your world completely shattered into brilliant waves of pleasure.

the sight of your body completely convulsing beneath him, your eyes rolling back as you surrendered to a shattering climax, was the absolute breaking point for his restraint. the tight, rhythmic squeezing of your inner muscles around him sent a violent, blinding shockwave straight through his entire frame.

michael let out a low, deeply primal roar of pure triumph, his voice thick and entirely unrecognizable as it echoed off the classroom walls.

his fingers dug bruisingly deep into the soft skin of your hips, locking you flat against the wooden desk as his body took over completely. with three final, heavy, and devastatingly deep thrusts, his entire frame shuddered violently. he collapsed heavily against your chest, burying his face into the crook of your neck as he released everything inside you, his breath coming in ragged, frantic gasps against your burning skin as both of your heartbeats hammered wildly together in the quiet room.

the heavy, suffocating heat of the classroom slowly began to settle around you, the only sound left being the ragged, synchronized rhythm of your breathing. michael didn't move. he stayed exactly where he was, his full weight pressing you down against the smooth wood of the desk, his face buried deep in the crook of your neck as his heart hammered wildly against your ribs. his skin was hot, slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and he held you with a quiet, fierce intensity, as if letting go would mean letting the reality of the outside world rush back in too soon.

for a long, quiet moment, he just held you, his chest rising and falling in deep, exhausted pants.

slowly, the frantic racing of his pulse began to ease. with a soft, trembling sigh that fanned warm against your collarbone, michael shifted his weight. he pushed himself up slightly, resting his forearms on either side of your head so he could look down at you. his dark eyes were incredibly soft, completely cleared of that heavy, hungry clouds of desire, replaced instead by a gaze of pure, unvarnished devotion.

he reached up with one long, slender hand, his thumb gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your flushed cheek, his touch incredibly tender.

"darling..." he murmured, his voice a low, velvety whisper that sounded completely raw in the quiet room. he stared down at your undone, breathless state, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips. "i need you to listen to me for a moment. just look at me."

you blinked your glossy, heavy eyes open, looking up into the face of your professor, your heart still fluttering from the aftershocks of his touch.

"from the very first day you walked into my classroom... i knew," he whispered, his thumb lightly tracing the line of your jaw. "i sat behind that podium, watching everyone else just drift through the lessons, but you... you were entirely different. i saw it in the way you listened to the music, the way your mind worked, the quiet discipline you carried yourself with. you had this brilliance, this deep, rare understanding that completely captivated me from the start."

he leaned down slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead before looking back into your eyes, his gaze intense and unwavering.

"i tried to be just your teacher. god knows i tried to keep that distance, to follow the rules," michael confessed softly, a low, breathy laugh escaping his chest. "but it was impossible. every single day, seeing you sit there, you completely pulled me in. you are so special, darling. so completely unique. i knew from the beginning that we were going to end up right here... because a soul like yours doesn't just come along every day. you're the only one who truly understands me."

hearing his words—hearing the deep, vulnerable confession coming from the man you had admired from afar for so long—felt like a final, beautiful shattering of the wall you had built around your heart. the tears that had blurred your vision finally slipped down your cheeks, warm and free, as a shaky, breathless laugh escaped your lips.

you reached up, your trembling fingers wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him just a fraction closer so you could look directly into his dark, earnest eyes.

"i love you too, michael," you whispered, your voice cracking with the sheer weight of the emotion you had kept hidden for months. "i love you so much... and it completely terrified me. every single day i walked into this room, i was so scared of what i was feeling, scared of how much power you had over me just by standing there."

michael’s eyes widened slightly, a profound, breathtaking softness melting across his features as he listened to you speak your truth.

"i thought i was losing my mind, thinking about my professor like this," you continued, a soft, relieved smile breaking through your tears as your thumb brushed against the soft skin of his nape. "but hearing you say all of this... knowing that you feel the exact same way about me... i'm just so incredibly happy. i've never been happier, michael."

a radiant, incredibly tender smile broke across michael’s face, erasing every last trace of his usual gravity. he let out a low, breathy sigh of pure relief, leaning down to press his forehead firmly against yours, his closed eyes squeezing tight as if to lock this exact moment into his memory forever.

"oh, darling," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion as his hands cradled your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears on your cheeks. "you have no idea how much it means to hear you say that. you don't ever have to be afraid with me. we're in this together now."

the heavy weight of the secret they now shared seemed to soften the air around them. michael slowly shifted, carefully withdrawing from you with a low, reluctant sigh. instead of immediately pulling away, he remained close, his hands remaining incredibly gentle as he began to help you sit up on the smooth wood of the desk.

your body felt completely heavy, liquid and beautifully exhausted from the sheer intensity of what had just happened. seeing your slight tremble, michael immediately moved to support you, placing a strong, steady arm behind your back to guide you up.

with an innate sense of chivalry and care, he didn't just let you fend for yourself. he reached down for your scattered clothing, his long fingers carefully gathering the fabric. one by one, he helped you slip your clothes back on, his movements completely devoid of urgency, treated with the same meticulous precision and tenderness he gave to everything else. he smoothed down your shirt, his hands lingering on your shoulders for a brief moment just to ground you.

once you were fully dressed and sitting securely, michael stepped closer, framing your face with both of his large, warm hands.

his thumbs lightly traced the curve of your cheekbones, wiping away the very last traces of tears and sweat. he looked down at you with a gaze so pure and fiercely protective that it completely banished any lingering shred of anxiety or guilt that might have tried to creep back into your mind.

"look at me, darling," michael murmured, his voice a low, velvety purr that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. a soft, incredibly reassuring smile touched his lips as he leaned down to press a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. "everything is okay. all that fear, all that worrying... it's gone now. everything is going to be alright now, i promise you."

tags: @micahelone23 @starliqhtsworld @viktxriaaa @looenx @thaissette @tic-tac-my-toes @smoothcriminalgf @callmelyriic @cinephile444 @appleheadannie @fmalewokk @starryeyedmoonlight