ৎ୭. this blog is black owned. 18. she/her. city girl gon country.
— ᨳଓ . ꒰ fulltime student. I daydream a lot. I love, movies, music, writing and history. I wanna go into an anthropology field (most likely museum work) <3.
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masterlist. <3
request closed again I got overwhelmed lmfao. ‧˚꒰🐾 Gimmie a sec to write ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ)
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⋆˚࿔ pairing . Jackie Jackson x f.blackreader 18+MDNI —
⋆˚࿔ premise . after a heated argument between you and your boyfriend jackie things started to escalate but in a good way, he often let's you be a pillow princess but maybe this time it's time for him to put his princess in work after having such a filthy mouth cussing him out....but he secretly loves being cussed out by you.
⋆˚࿔ contains . riding him, backshots, missionary, both of you taking turns smoking during sex, established relationship, they lowk toxic but in love with each other, jackie smoking (please just act like he smokes in this fic), cussing, arguing, reader having a horrible attitude, nipple play, masturbation, jackie being mean, just pure filthy so enjoy babes !
Los Angeles, California 1972 – your house.
Jackie leaned back in the armchair, blunt glowing between his fingers as you tore into him. Smoke curled from his lips while your voice cracked through the bedroom, calling him every name you could think of. He didn't flinch, just watched you pace, eyes half-lidded, letting the weed mellow the sting of every curse you spat.
"You don't give a fuck about this relationship," you snapped, hands flying. "Flirting with every thirsty bitch that throws herself at you—"
Jackie exhaled another thick cloud straight at you. "Keep talking." His tone stayed flat, almost bored. "See where that mouth gets you, youn' know how to shut the fuck up sometimes." He inhaled another cloud then exhaling another thick cloud at you.
"The fuck you just say to me?," you turn to look at him, your eyes giving him that 'don't play with me' look. "If anything you don't know how to stop being such a jackass, oh I forgot you're already one!" You screamed at him, getting more and more heated by the second.
You kept going, on and on for a few more minutes, until he finally stood. Blunt buring slow between his lips. He crossed the room in two strides, and grabbed your chin hard enough to make you shut up mid sentence.
"I think you outtha lost your mind talking to me like that, the fuck is wrong with you, huh?" He said looking you up and down. You didn't say anything besides giving him a look of pure irritation. "I don't give a fuck." You spat back.
"really?, that's how you feel ma?," he smirked, "strip. Get on the bed, now." He commanded, leaving no room to argue. "Play with that pussy while I watch since you wanna walk around huffin and puffin, now ima give yo ass a reason to huff and puff."
You glared but obeyed, jackie ended up going back to the armchair slouching. Blunt burning slow between his fingers. His eyes tracked every move as you stood at the foot of the bed and peeled your top off first. You dragged it over your head, letting your tits bounce free.
His gaze dropped straight to your nipples, already stiff from the cool air and the heat of the argument. You shoved your shorts down next, stepping out of them so you stood completely naked in front of him. "Keep goin," he said, voice low. He took another long pull from the blunt and let the smoke drift up while he watched.
You climbed onto the bed and lay back against the pillows. Legs spread wise, you slid two fingers down over your pussy, parting the lips so he could see everything. Your middle finger circled your clit in slow, wet strokes. Jackie's stare stayed locked on your cunt as you rubbed faster, silent whimpers babbling out your mouth. The sound of your slick filling the quiet room. He exhaled another thick cloud, the tip of the blunt glowing orange while you pushed two fingers inside yourself and started pumping in and out.
"That's it," he murmured, shifting in the chair. His dick was already pushing hard against his sweats. "Don't stop, get that shit nice and wet for me, ma."
You kept fingering yourself, hips rolling up to meet your own hand, "mmnghm—" you moaned out. Your other hand came up to squeeze one of your tits, pinching the nipple the way you knew he liked. He stared at you, eyes half-lidded, smoke curling around his face as he watched your fingers disappear knuckle-deep inside you again and again. Every time you moaned or cursed under your breath he just smirked and kept smoking, letting you work yourself.
"That's it," he muttered. "Rub that shit. Get it wet f'me." You kept touching yourself, your attitude still showing on your face even as your body responded. Jackie stood again, undressing, his long, perfectly trimmed, girthy dick. It's already hard and heavy. He grabbed your ankle, pulling you towards the edge of the bed
"You got a lot of sass on you, girl," he said with the blunt STILL between his lips. That man loved to smoke, you knew that already, jackie loved him some weed and you loved to smoke with your boyfriend at times so it didn't really phase you.
You batted your eyelashes up at him, small gasps escaping your lips, "and you got a lot of nerve flirtin' with them other bitches." You snapped back almost instantly. He rolled his eyes and spread your legs wide, pushing them up to your perky tits. He started rubbing the head of his tip up and down your slit without pushing in, the teasing forcing a small whimper out of you.
"jackie—don't tease." You looked at him, bringing your lips to your teeth biting down on it softly, you reached down trying to line him up yourself, but he slapped your wrist, "I didn't tell you to touch, stop playin' with me girl." His voice full of irritation and laziness. He continued rubbing his tip over your folds before he finally pushed in fully giving you no time to adjust to him.
You gasped, looking up at him pupils blown wide as you tried adjusting to him, that man didn't give a flying fuck. He started thrusting, hard and steady, one hand pressed down on your thigh to keep your legs wide open, the other one taking slow inhales of the blunt, letting out more smoke.
"You look so pretty, gon' make yo ass a mommy." Every snap of his hips punched a loud moan out of you. "S–slow down baby–shiiiitt!" You moaned, eyes rolling back. Your legs wrapped around him now, heels digging into his back, "I'm–I'm so sorry baby, oh my gosh!" You yelped out, eyes squeezing shut.
"I don't give a damn bout' no worry, Mama, y'know this, don't play crazy now." A dry chuckle came out his mouth. He started pounding into you until the headboard slammed the wall. He took the blunt between his fingers and passed you the blunt and you took a hit while he fucked you slow and deep now changing his pace, his thumb now circling your clit.
"Inhale," he coached, watching your eyes glaze. "Now hold it. Good girl." You exhaled shakily as he picked up speed again, his free hand went to your nipples tugging and sucking one into his mouth as he leaned down while he pounded into you. He moved one of your legs onto his shoulder. This angle had him drilling deeper into you, making you moan out louder.
Your legs started shaking, pressure building fast, "I'm–fuck–im gonna." You tried talking, each other turned into a moan. "You gon' what?, I can't hear you baby," he slapped your inner thigh. "Speak up f'me." He ordered. You put the blunt out on a nearby ashtray being very careful not to drop it, you absolutely tried running from the dick, it felt like he was trying to fuck a five babies into you.
"stop playin' with me," you held you down by your hips, your legs now opened up into a V shape. "You know I don't like that shit, now take it." He drilled in deeper in this position. Causing you to see stars, maybe even galaxies at this rate, "oh fuck—hiccup!—m'so sorry, baby." You whine, lips coming out to a pout.
You felt a tight pressure in your stomach, "jackie—wait a minute, slow downnn." If anything that made him go faster. Sound of skin slapping filled the room mixed with his groans and your moans. "Whatchu finna' cum on this dick?, hm?, answer me girl." One of his hands snaked up around your throat applying a bit of pressure. You nodded your head unable to answer, "mmnghm!—" your body had enough, liquid gushing out around his dick as you came hard, soaking the sheets.
He didn't stop, fucking you through it. "Look at you making a mess all ova' me." He looked at you, making eye contact with you. "That's my girl," he kissed your face. "I'm so proud of you—knew you could do it." He praised you trying to get you to relax after an intense orgasm. You finally relaxed your breaths a little ragged.
But he still wasn't done with you, especially after all that stuff you were saying in his face earlier. He finally got up from you and flipped you over. A small gasp coming out your lips, "What the hell are you doing -" a hard slap to your ass made you cry out.
"Quiet woman, don't really wanna hear' you speak right now." He slid his dick into your cunt again. He took both of your hands, dragging them to meet behind your back, then wrapped his own hands around your wrist, and he started pounding into you harder this time. His head thrown back, Adam's apple bobbling in his throat. He looked so good, sweat all over his body glistening him.
"Oh yes, Mama, grind that ass back on meee," he whined, "so pretty, baby, you should see the view." He slapped your ass drilling into you deeper and harder.
"so good, baby—"
He bit down hard on his lip. The sound of you moaning and throwing your ass back on him had him obsessed and mesmerized. His thrust became sloppy, "I'm so—oh shitt," he groaned. His hot sticky cum exploded into your walls, both of you moaning at the feeling of his warm dick stuffing you full and painting your walls.
He pulled out of you, still not satisfied nor done with you. He climbed onto the bed and pulled you on top of him without asking. "Ride it." He said, gripping your hips. "And ride it right or get the fuck off me."
You sank down on his dick, gasping at the stretch. He let you set the pace at first, watching your tits boune while you moved. His hands slid up to your nipple, pinching and rolling them between his fingers until you moaned. "Oh m'gosh y-yess— jackie!" You whined, your eyes watering. You look at him.
His hands cup your ass. "So deep inside this wet, sloppy pussy. mhmmm." He hisses, his eyes fluttering shut for a second. "Just like that baby," he praised, voice nasty. "Look at you takin' this dick after all that shit you talked. This pussy so wet, fuck."
You tried to keep your bratty attitude, still muttering curses under your breath while you bounced. His hand shot up and wrapped around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your head spin. "You gon learn to watch ya' mouth?," he asked mid bounce, "or I'm gon remind you everytime who this pussy belong to." He started thrusting up to meet you.
"Fuck you," you hissed, still trying to talk shit even as your pussy clenched around him. "You think this gon' fix shit?"
Jackie laughed low, hips still thrusting up into you, "this gon' fix that attitude. Keep runnin' it and see what happen."
You tried to curse him out again but the words dissolved into a broken moan when his fingers found your clit from underneath. He rubbed tight circles until your thighs shook and you came down on his dick again, "oh my gosh!—fuckk!" You moaned out. Your body jerks a little, your pussy spasms more and lets out more cum.
He thrusted his hips up again a few more times, "ohh fuckk...mmhm, I'm cummin in this pussy... shit baby," he groans, giving three deep thrusts before holding himself deep inside you, releasing all in your womb.
You collapsed against his chest, still twitching, his cum leaking out around his softening dick. He stroked your back, voice soft now. "Don't ever talk crazy to me like that again, mama." He kissed your head.
You nodded weakly against his skin, too fucked-out to argue. "Yes, baby.."
Synopsis ꨄ︎ Michael is looking for a girl for his new music film 'thriller' he's been a fan of you for some time and decides to give you a call.
contains some inaccurate history events lmao but idc. fluff ! 𝜗ৎ
October 1983. Boston, Mass
ℐt was a Saturday evening, you had just taken the train back home. You lived in a nice apartment in Roxbury, and you loved it. This was home, this was your place. Your family lived around the way, but you wanted your own place. The streets were always alive, cars passed and taxis stopped in front of the sidewalks. Music was always somewhere nearby, coming from an open window, a corner store, or a neighbor who didn't mind sharing their favorite song with the whole block.
The noise was something you got used to. It was a reminder that no matter how loud life was, you still could make your own peace.
Your heels clicked against the stone pavement as you made your way down the sidewalk, the hem of your dress moving with the breeze. Michael Jackson played through your Walkman, mixed in with a few Donna Summers songs, two voices you never got tired of hearing. Your head gently bobbed along to the music, curls bounced with every step, still fresh from the salon. You had to keep up with your appearance. As a small-time model, looking put together came with the job.
Besides, your face was becoming familiar around the city. People recognized you from magazine ads, local campaigns, and the occasional billboard, earning you a few smiles and second glances wherever you went.
You got hollered at one time by Ronnie DeVoe while walking down the street to pick up a food plate, some cheesy Mac, yams, little bit of greens and some barbecue ribs. In all honestly, you still chuckle about the moment. It was a small funny interaction between the two of you. You turned him down however, you said you was focusing on your career.
Not too long ago, you were just another girl in Boston chasing a dream. Now, people were starting to recognize you, slowly but surely. Many loved your voice and just how natural you seemed. You weren't trying too hard to impress anyone, you were just yourself, and that was what people connected with. Your name became even bigger after you did that radio show. Oh, everyone loved it, of course they did, people love gossip.
"Everybody loves you Ms. Y/n, im talking bout you got people just walking up to you on the streets" the host said, chuckling. "What's yo secret?"
"Honestlyyyy?" you laughed, leaning closer to the microphone. "I'm just doing my thang, you know? I'm not gonna sit here and act like I got some big secret. I'm just being myself. I tell people a lil bit about me and if they like it, they stick with me."
"I like that, I like that," the host said, laughing. "You know, I heard Mr. DeVoe was talking to you..."
Your eyes widened slightly before you laughed into the microphone. You brushed a curl away from your face.
"Well... you heard right," you admitted, shaking your head with a smile. "I let him down slow. No disrespect to you, Ronnie—I love your band and your music. I just told him I'm working on my career you know?"
The host laughed. "So you turned him down?"
"Not like that, cmon now" you quickly added, laughing. "He's a sweet guy. I just wasn't looking for you a relationship or anything. I told him I appreciate the love, so we still cool you know. Like, alot of women my age, I think we should be focusing on our careers you know?"
"Right right, I feel you. Why rush?"
"Exactly," you said nodding. You bring up your hands slightly while talking, "I mean...if I meet somebody I meet somebody. If I don't thennn I got millions of other things I could spend time doing you know?"
You had no idea that a little moment would become one of those 'funny stories' people brought up later. Strangely after the interview you did, the song "Poison" would come out. You heard it and rolled your eyes, guess Ronnie felt some type of way.
Well, you're welcome for that hit Ronnie, you thought to yourself.
❀⋆ ‧₊ ♪˚⊹ ℒ.a
While you sat in your small apartment, hanging with friends and doing whatevs.....across the country, you had already caught someone's attention. You were just living life, not knowing that someone was flipping through your magazines, watching some interview clips, and thinking you might be exactly what he was looking for.
Michael sat in the break room, flipping through magazines like he always did during his breaks. It was something he enjoyed, seeing new styles, reading about artists, and keeping up with what was happening outside of his own world.
There was one magazine he always looked forward to, and there you were, right on the front page.
Michael paused, looking over the photograph with a small smile. As he flipped through the pages, he found a few more pictures of you, each one showing a different side of your personality. You stood out to him. You seemed like someone he would actually want to sit down and talk with. He was so caught up in the article that he didn't notice someone walking up behind him.
"You're smiling pretty hard," a voice teased. "You know her?"
Michael glanced up, letting out a quiet chuckle as he shook his head. "No," he admitted. "But I would like to."
"I've seen her before," Quincy replied, "Pretty girl." Michael agreed, looking back down at the magazine.
He flipped through the pages again, studying the photos, "You know, with the video coming up…" he began tapping his fingers lightly against the magazine. "I still haven't found the right person for the girl."
Quincy glanced over at him while sipping his coffee. "For Thriller?"
Michael nodded. "Yeah. I need someone who can you know," he looked back at the picture of you, "I think she could do it."
Quincy raised an eyebrow, amused. "You serious?"
"Yeah. I am."
"Well, the video is still being put together. We'd have to see if she's available, talk to her people, make sure the schedule works…"
Michael nodded, "I know."
"And you don't even know if she'd want to do it."
"Then we ask."
Quincy shook his head chuckling, flipping through the pages. "So you really have your mind set on her?"
Michael looked back at the photo. "Yeah," he said simply. "I think she'd fit." Quincy chuckled, handing the magazine back. "Alright, I'll see what I can find."
A few minutes later Quincy came back with a small paper slip in his hands. "Y/n l/n, the other number is her managers contact info" he said sliding the slip on the table. Michael continued looking over your photos.
I hope she says yes, he thought.
He then glanced at the phone number Quincy had written down. Calling someone he admired was easy when it was for business. But calling someone because he wanted to meet them? That was different.
"You nervous?" Quincy asked. Michael immediately looked up. "No," but the way his fingers tapped said something different.
Quincy raised an eyebrow, "I didn't even finish asking the question," he said, laughing. Michael smiled, looking away as he tucked the paper closer to him.
"You should probably call her later," Quincy said, giving his shoulder a reassuring pat. "Give yourself some time to calm those nerves."
Michael shook his head, laughing softly, "I'm not nervous." Quincy just smiled.
"Sure, Mike."
❀⋆ ‧₊ ♪˚⊹
You got home around 7:43, still somewhat early. You finished another photo shoot, went to your favorite place to dance and eat then went home.
After kicking off your heels, you slipped out of your clothes and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water wash away the day. Once you were done, you moisturized with your mango vanilla balm, just like you always did.
Every day followed the same routine. Nothing too 'boom' you know, nothing out of the ordinary. You liked your moments, your little piece of peace after a long day.
Then the phone rang.
Your brows lifted in surprise as you glanced over at the sound. You weren't expecting anyone. You walked over and picked up the phone.
"Hello?" you answered sweetly.
A handsome voice replied on the other end of the phone, though there was a slight nervousness behind it.
"Hello… um, is this Ms. Y/n l/n?"
Your brows lifted slightly. "This is her," you replied, "May I ask who's calling?" you leaned against the counter with the phone pressed to your ear.
There was a brief pause, like the person on the other end was gathering his words. "My name is Michael… Michael Jackson," he said softly.
For a moment, you were quiet. Then a small laugh escaped you. You shook your head, already convinced someone was playing a joke on you.
"Sure," you replied, trying not to laugh. "And I'm married to Sam Cooke. Have a good day."
You started to pull the phone away from your ear, ready to hang up, Whoever this was, they had a sense of humor. Because there was no way the Michael Jackson was sitting somewhere calling you on a Saturday evening.
But you heard the man speak again.
"Wait hol on i'm serious," he says quickly. You chuckled again and roll your eyes, still not convinced.
"Alright, i'll entertain it," you walk over to your counter and scoop out some ice cream. You take a scoop before talking again, "Go on Mr. Jackson."
On the other end, Michael smiled. He could already tell you liked to play around a lot. "I know it sounds strange," he admitted softly.
"I probably should've started with something else..."
You smiled to yourself, shaking your head a little. "Maybe so," you teased. "But go ahead and talk to me."
There was a small pause before he continued, almost like he was making sure he said everything right.
"Well I'm doing a video soon, and I would like for you to be a part of it. I was looking for someone to play the girl in the film, and I've seen your modeling work. I really love it."
You stayed quiet, listening.
"And actually…" he added with a small laugh, "I'm a big fan of yours. It's just been so hard trying to get in contact with you. I only just got your number today."
You blinked, suddenly feeling a little caught off guard.
Wait… was this actually serious?
The idea that Michael Jackson, the Michael Jackson had been trying to reach you was something you never expected to hear. Your heart skipped a little. You almost couldn't believe it. This was really him. The same Michael Jackson whose music played through your Walkman, who's records were in your apartment, the who you had admired for years, was now calling your apartment and asking you to be in his new music video.
Wait till you tell your mama.
"Oh my goodness, I'm so sorry," you said with a small laugh, your nerves finally catching up to you. "M'sorry, it's not everyday I get a call like this, from someone so... you know" you chuckled.
"Someone like me?" he repeated with a small laugh. He then laid more comfortably in his bed, yes, he called you as soon as he got home. His feet were crossed as he leaned back against the pillows, socks still on.
"You don't have to think of me like that. I'm just Michael."
You rolled your eyes, smiling to yourself, "Oh, don't downplay yourself, Mr. Jackson."
"Michael," he corrected you softly. "Call me Michael."
You smiled at that, getting comfortable already. "And it's true," he continued. "I'm just like everyone else."
He looked up at the ceiling, "Besides, I thought you'd be used to calls like this. You've got this whole look about you, and it's…" He paused, searching for the right words. "It's something I think people would pay attention to," his voice softened.
Hearing Michael praise you was such a good feeling, one you could defteintly get used to. As a small time model, you'd never imagined someone like him would see your photos, let alone go out of his way to find you.
"So, you been watching me?" you chuckled against the phone.
Michael gave a nervous chuckle, in a way yes. More like reading into you, he had collected a few magazines from local stores that featured you even if it was just a clothing brand.
"In a way, yeah," he admitted. "Not like... watching watching you or anything," he quickly added, making you laugh. "I mean, I've just been keeping up with your work. I love art and fashion myself and well, you embody that."
"I've collected a few magazines that had you in them. Even if it was just a clothing ad or a small feature, I noticed you. I saw your interview too," he smiled to yourself. He found the whole thing between you and Ronnie pretty funny.
Your face suddenly felt a little warmer than before. It was cute hearing how much he admired you and your work. But of course he saw that interview. You let out a laugh, "Oh did you, ain't it crazy? And then he gonna release that lil song,"
"Yeah, catchy song. You gotta admit," Michael chuckled.
There was a small pause on the other end before you heard him quietly hum a few notes of the melody, almost like he couldn't help himself.
You immediately laughed. "Oh my goodness, are you really humming the song right now?"
Michael laughed, a little embarrassed. "What? I was just proving my point."
"Just over here chirping away..." you chuckled and shook your head. "But I mean… I guess I do, it's an interesting message cuz men be the same lil way too, but it's all good."
"You think so?" he asked, amused.
"Oh I know so, I know a few of em" you replied confidently, taking another bite of your ice cream. Michael sat up in his bed, suddenly more interested. Somehow, he had forgotten this was supposed to be a casting call.
"Well....now I gotta ask…" he said, a little teasing.
You let out a loud chuckle, already knowing what he was talking about. "Oh, you wanna hear the story?" you teased.
Michael laughed softly on the other end. "I mean… yeah. I do."
"I thought you called me about a music video, Mr. Jackson," you joked.
"Michael..." he said again smiling. "And I did, I just got curious."
That made you smile, and before you knew it, you were talking to Michael a little more, sharing a few stories about people you had met along the way. Michael laughed softly on the other end, clearly entertained.
"I ain't gonna say no names but then he..."
You tangled the phone cord around your finger, lost in the convo. There was something so easy about talking to Michael. A few minutes ago you were talking to a stranger, but now it just felt like you were talking to someone you knew for your whole life. Eventually you circled back to the main topic ahead.
"But honestly thank you so much Michael," you said, smiling as you took another bite of your ice cream.
"Youre welcome and well, this isnt weird, is it?" he asked, his voice a little unsure. "I don't want to, you know...make you feel rushed or anything. I know I just called out of the blue, but your work is just amazing. I love it alot."
"No, Michael, it isn't weird. It's actually very sweet of you," you reassured him. "And... I love you as well," you added. Before he could react, you quickly laughed. "Your work, I mean. I have a few of your records and even some magazines too."
You heard him laugh on the other end of the phone, a quiet, genuine laugh that made you smile. "Oh, really now?" he teased. "You got a favorite song of mine too?"
"Of course I do," you replied, settling into a seat yourself. You were starting to forget you were on the phone with Michael Jackson. It didn't feel that way anymore. It just felt like you were talking to some Michael you'd known all your life.
"I love 'I Can't Help It.' It just brings such a good feeling whenever I hear it. It has this… warm feeling to it." You smiled, thinking about the lyrics.
"They're so sweet. I don't know, they just make me happy."
There was a small pause on the other end. "Really?" Michael asked, sounding genuinely interested.
"Yesssss," you said. "It's one of those songs that just makes you smile."
Michael smiled to himself, his eyes falling to the comforter beneath him.
"Well, that makes me happy to hear. I always hope people feel something when they hear my music."
"You do a good job of it, Michael. You don't sing just to impress people… at least, I don't think you do. You sing from the soul," you felt your smile growing. "That's what I love about you."
The line went quiet for a moment, you sat up from the couch, "Michael?"
Michael blinked, "Yeah...i'm here," hearing this from you as such a high. It settled somewhere deep in his chest, warm and genuine. Out of all the compliments he'd received over the years, yours felt different. It wasn't about his fame or the records he'd sold. You had listened to him—really listened. Somehow, you understood exactly what he hoped people would hear whenever he stepped into a recording booth.
"Thank you," he said softly. "It....it really means a lot when you say that. I never wanted to make music just for people to hear it." He paused. "I always wanted them to feel it."
"So... hearing you say that...it makes me feel like I'm doing something right." Michael wanted to talk to you some more, but you were probably getting ready for bed. He then softly cleared his throat.
"Well…" he said, drawing the word out. "I guess I should probably get back to the reason I called. Will you?"
"Will I what?" you teased.
"Be in the video!" he replied, smiling. "Will you be my leading lady? I really can't picture anybody else anymore." You could hear the hopefulness in his voice. He really wanted you to say yes. Deep down, Michael had already started picturing it. The two of you on set, bringing the story to life, acting out the scenes while the music played around you. He could see the vision in his head—the way everything would come together. A small smile tugged at his lips as he imagined it, and he let out a quiet chuckle to himself. He hadn't even met you yet, and somehow he already felt like you would fit perfectly.
You let out a flustered laugh, "Yes of course, I would love to. Just let me know when."
He let out a relieved laugh, one you could almost picture through the phone. "I was thinking…" He hesitated for a second.
"Tomorrow?"
Your brows shot up. "Tomorrow?" you repeated, nearly laughing.
Michael winced a little at how quickly you said it. " Ah I know, I know," he chuckled. "It sounds sudden. But we've been trying to get everything together, and I'd really like for you to meet everybody. No pressure if it's too soon."
"Plus if you need anything, I wouldn't mind giving it to you," he added on.
Hearing that made your face burn a little more. There was something about the way he said it, so casually, like helping you was the easiest thing in the world.
"Like what Michael?" you teased.
He gave a nervous laugh. "Oh, well, you know… anything. Like makeup, food if you get hungry and, uh…" He paused, thinking for a moment. "Wait, have you ever been to Los Angeles?"
"No, I haven't," you admitted. "Heard it's nice."
Michael smiled brightly on the other end of the phone. "It is. I could give you a tour if we have time. Which we will. I can probably show you my llama too"
You make a face before chuckling, "You have a llama??"
Michael laughed, "Yes I just got him, Jermaine took me to get him. His name is Louie, he's a good one. Very sweet."
"I would love to meet Louie," you chuckled, "You know i've always wanted a panther, I find them so cute."
"A panther?" he chuckled.
"Yes," you said, laughing. "They're cute."
"Cute" Michael repeated, amused.
"Don't laugh!" you say chuckling. You laughed yourself, it did sound ridiculous but that's what you wanted.
"I'm not laughing," he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm just trying to imagine you with a panther, a sight," he chuckles.
"I'm sure you would think so," you teased. "However, what time should I be ready tomorrow?"
Michael paused for a moment, thinking.
"Um… I'd say around 9:45am? I don't want to rush you or anything. A car will come pick you up and take you to the airport. I may or may not be there," he admitted with a small laugh. "It all depends on how things go tomorrow."
"Okay, sounds good. I'll be ready," you said, smiling. "Thank you again for this Michael."
"Of course," he replied softly. "I really can't wait to see you. You'll do great, I know you will. Just make sure you get a good night's rest, okay?"
"Okay Michael I will, you get a good nights rest too okay? Talk to you soon."
"I will y/n, goodnight."
"Goodnightttt," you said songfuly.
Michael smiled as he gently ended the call. In a way, he seemed more excited than you. On the other line, you immediately started packing.
(old draft I wanted to get rid of lmao <3 not rlly proofread)
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: jacksonsera!michael jackson x black bsf!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: sneaking into a cramped tour bus bunk at 3:00 am changes everything between you and your childhood best friend. trapped behind a velvet curtain mere feet from his sleeping brothers, the unspoken tension finally breaks in the dark. but in a world where everyone is watching, a single sound could cost you everything.
𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: friends to lovers, established friendship, forbidden, high stakes, slow burn to high heat, fluff, smut, fingering (f.recieving), cunnilingus (f.receiving), p in v, creampie, afterglow, emotional shift, set around the destiny tour.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 4.7k
𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: first and foremost, i wrote this at the request of my sistas (they know who they are). this is another idea that popped in my head when i found myself watching the destiny tour footage last night cause i couldn't sleep. michael in the 70's? untouchable, beautiful, brilliant.
The digital clock on the small dashboard up front glowed a faint, radioactive green: 3:14 AM.
Outside the tinted windows of the Custom Coach tour bus, the dark, flat stretches of the Midwestern highway blurred past in a monotonous hum. Inside the cabin was a narrow cavern of shadow, smelling of stale upholstery, Aqua Net, leather jackets, and the lingering, sweet scent of fast-food grease from a late-night pit stop three states back. The engine vibrated beneath the floorboards, a steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of tires against the asphalt seams that acted like a mechanical lullaby for the ten exhausted people crammed into the vehicle.
You lay perfectly still in your narrow, mid-level bunk, your eyes wide open, staring at the padded vinyl ceiling just a foot above your face. You couldn’t sleep. You hadn’t slept properly since Pittsburgh.
Being hired as a wardrobe assistant and personal coordinator for the Jacksons’ 1979 Destiny Tour was supposed to be the break of a lifetime. As a young black woman trying to break into the industry, having the biggest family in music on your resume was golden. But the reality was a dizzying whirlwind of high-stakes pressure, endless rows of silver-sequeled shirts, ironing out creases under the blinding backstage lights, and navigating the intense, chaotic energy of the five Jackson brothers.
And then, there was Michael.
Your best friend. The boy you’d known since you were kids, back before the world fully claimed him, back when he was just the skinny kid with the biggest laugh and the loudest talent in the neighborhood. You’d stayed close through the Motown transition, through the move to Encino, through the name change to the Jacksons, and now into this monumental moment where he was shedding his teen-idol skin and stepping into something terrifyingly mature, brilliant, and magnetic.
But being his best friend on a tight, claustrophobic tour bus where his overprotective brothers, an eagle-eyed tour manager, and their security detail were always watching? It was a recipe for pure, agonizing tension. Because lately, the way Michael looked at you hadn’t felt very brotherly at all. And the way your heart hammered against your ribs every time he leaned in close to whisper a joke in your ear was getting impossible to hide.
A sudden, sharp rattle from the bus’s suspension made you flinch. You held your breath, listening.
Across the narrow, carpeted aisle, tucked behind a matching set of heavy, dark blue velvet curtains, Marlon was snoring softly. Below him, Jackie was dead to the world. The whole bus was an obstacle course of sleeping bodies and strict boundaries.
J*e Jackson wasn’t on this particular leg of the tour, but his spirit lingered in the rigid discipline expected of the brothers. No distractions. No scandals. No messing around with the crew. If anyone caught you so much as holding hands with the lead singer, you’d be off the tour and on a greyhound bus back home before sunrise, and Michael would face the wrath of a family dynamic that demanded absolute focus.
Suddenly, the soft, distinctive slide of plastic rings against a metal rod broke the silence of the cabin. Your chest tightened. You froze, your ears straining over the low drone of the engine.
Slow, hesitant footsteps padded softly against the thin carpet. They were weightless, almost silent–the unmistakable gait of someone who spent his life dancing on his toes. The footsteps stopped right outside your bunk.
For a second, there was nothing but the steady hum of the highway. Then, the heavy velvet curtain of your bunk parted an inch. A silver of the low, amber floor lighting cut across the dark interior, revealing a familiar, striking silhouette.
Michael.
His massive, perfectly rounded afro was backlit by the faint amber glow, framing his face in a halo of soft shadow. He was wearing his favorite, oversized red and white striped pajama pants and a thin, white cotton shirt that clung to the lean, dancer-cut lines of his chest and shoulders. His brown skin, smooth and dark, caught the dim light, looking damp and glowing. His large, expressive doe eyes searched the darkness of your bunk, wide and restless.
“You awake?” he whispered.
The sound of his voice was barely a breath, a soft, raspy murmur that vibrated straight through the quiet air and sent a shiver down your spine. He sounded so young, so gentle, yet there was a heavy, breathless weight to it that made your pulse instantly quicken.
“Michael?” you breathed, pushing yourself up slightly on your elbows, the thin cotton sheet pooling around your waist. “What are you doing? Oh my god, go back to bed.”
“I can’t,” he whispered back, his bottom lip turning out in a slight, boyish pout that you could just make out in the dim light. He shifted his eight from one foot to the other, looking around the dark cabin nervously before looking back around the dark cabin nervously before looking back at you. “My brain won’t turn off. I’ve been laying there for three hours just staring at the ceiling. The music won’t stop playing in my head. It’s just… buzzing.”
“Michael, your brothers are right across the aisle,” you hissed under your breath, your heart beginning to slam against your ribs like a trapped bird. You glanced frantically toward Marlon’s curtain, terrified it would twitch open. “If Jackie wakes up, or if the driver looks in the rearview mirror and see you standing here—”
“They won’t,” Michael cut in softly.
A tiny, teasing smile tugged at the corner of his lips, his eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and pure exhaustion. He leaned a little closer, lowering his head into the opening of your bunk. “Marlon sleeps like a log, you know that. You could fire a cannon in here and he’d just roll over. Please? Just let me sit with you for a little bit. Just until I calm down.”
You looked at him–really looked at him. Away from the stage lights, away from the screaming fans and the demanding producers and the pressure of his family’s expectations, he just looked like the boy you loved.
There was a raw, vulnerable tiredness in the slope of his shoulders, a quiet plea in his eyes that you had never been able to resist. You had been his safe haven for years, the one person who didn’t want anything from him except his happiness.
You let out a long, defeated sigh, though your heart was hammering so loud you were certain he could hear it.
“You are going to get me fired, Michael Joe Jackson,” you muttered, shifting your body all the way back against the cold, carpeted wall of the bus to create a narrow sliver of space on the mattress.
“No, I won’t. I promise,” he whispered, his smile widening, instantly lighting up his features.
With agonizing slowness, he lifted one long leg and slid into the bunk, his movement incredibly fluid and careful to avoid making the mattress creak. He pulled his other leg in, turning around so his back was to the opening, and reached out. His long, slender fingers gripped the heavy velvet curtain, pulling it completely shut until the plastic rings clicked softly together.
Instantly, the ambient amber light was cut off. You were plunged into total, velvety darkness.
The atmosphere inside the tiny bunk shifted instantly. It was a space designed strictly for one person; with Michael inside, it became an impossibly tight, suffocatingly intimate cocoon. You were forced chest to chest, your knees tangling with his long legs beneath the sheet just to fit within the narrow confines.
The first thing that hit you was his warmth. Michael radiated heat like a stove, his skin burning through the thin cotton of his shirt. The second thing was his scent–that intoxicating, distinct mixture of classic Bal à Versailles musk, clean sweat from the high-energy performance he’d given hours earlier, and the faint, comforting smell of cocoa butter. It filled the tiny space, completely overwhelming your senses.
“Gosh, it’s small in here,” Michael murmured, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating directly against your collarbone.
“I told you,” you whispered back, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against his chest to keep a sliver of distance between you. You could feel the rapid, steady thudding of his heart between your palms. He was just as wound up as you were. “You shouldn’t be here, Mike. Seriously. If your brothers find out, they’ll think… they’ll think something else is going on.”
“Let ‘em think,” Michael whispered softly.
Your breath hitched. That wasn’t the shy, giggly boy from the afternoon interviews. That was the voice he used when he commanded a room, low and steady and filled with a quiet, undeniable confidence.
In the pitch black, you felt him shift. His long arms came around your waist, his large hands spreading across the small of your back, pulling you firmly against him. The friction of his satin-lined pajama pants against your bare legs made your skin tingle. You were so close that every time he breathed, his chest expanded against yours, his nose brushing against the soft cloud of your hair.
“You smelled s’good today backstage,” Michael murmured, his voice a raspy, warm current against your ear. He tilted his head down, burning his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. “I was on stage, singing ‘Rock With You’, and I looked out into the wings and saw you holding that silver jacket, just smiling at me. I swear, I forgot the words for a split second. You just… you just looked so beautiful.”
A hot flush traveled up your neck, your cheeks burning in the dark. “Michael…” you breathed, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that. You know we can’t. We’re best friends. And this… this tour is everything to your family. You can’t let anything mess it up.”
“You’re not a mess-up,” he said softly, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin right beneath your jaw as he spoke, sending a wave of electric goosebumps cascading down your arms. “You’re the only thing that keeps me sane out here. Everyone wants a piece of me. Everyone’s pullin’ at me, telling me how to sing, how to dance, who to be. But when I’m with you… ‘m just Michael. I’m just me.”
He pulled back just enough so that you could feel the warmth of his gaze, even if you couldn’t see his eyes in the dark. His hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers framing across the side of your face. His thumb, slightly calloused from years of holding microphones, gently traced the line of your cheekbone, smooth and tender against your brown skin.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about you all night,” he confessed, his voice dropping into a desperate, breathy register that made your pussy ache with a sudden, sharp heat. “Ever since we left the venue. I just… I want to be close to you. s’close.”
The sheer honesty in his voice broke something inside of you.
The walls you had spent months building up–the professional distance, the reminders that he was a global superstar and you were just a girl from the neighborhood crumbled to dust in the dark of that tour bus bunk. You loved him.
You loved him in silence for god knows how many years, burying the need beneath laughter and shared secrets. But tonight, with the world locked outside that velvet curtain and the steady rumble of the highway beneath you, the temptation was too beautiful, too overwhelming to fight.
“Michael,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly as you leaned into the touch of his hand. “We have to be quiet. If anyone hears…”
“Shh,” he whispered, his thumb moving to brush against your lower lip, tracing its fullness. “I’ll be quiet. I promise. Just let me… let me love you tonight.”
Before you could respond, his head tilted, and his lips found yours.
The kiss was a revelation. It started soft, hesitant, a gentle press of warm, plush lips in the dark, testing the waters, asking for permission. But as you let out a soft, shaky sigh against his mouth, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap around the back of his neck, the kiss deepened with a sudden, intoxicating hunger.
Michael groaned softly into your mouth–a low, throat-centered sound that you quickly swallowed, terrified it would travel past the curtain. His lips were incredibly soft, moving against yours with a natural, rhythmic grace that matched the way he moved his body on stage. He tasted like the peppermint candies he always sucked on before bed, sweet and sharp.
His tongue swept out, lightly tracing the seam of your lips, and when you opened for him, the kiss became deep, possessive, and thick with a desire that had been building between you for years.
His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you so flush against him that you could feel the hard, unmistakable ridge of his dick pressing through his pajama pants straight against your thigh. A sharp gasp caught in your throat, but Michael caught it with his lips, his tongue tangling with yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that made your head spin.
He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, both of you panting softly, your hot breaths mingling in the confined space. He didn’t let you go; instead, he rained a trail of soft, biting down the line of your jaw, his lips finding the sensitive pulse point on your neck. He sucked gently, his teeth grazing your skin, and you had to bite down hard on your own lip to keep from crying out as a surge of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot straight between your plush thighs.
“Michael… oh god,” you whimpered, your fingers tightening in his thick, soft afro, holding him close.
“You’re so soft,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire, his breath hot against your collarbone. “s’beautiful. Gosh, you drive me crazy…”
His hand slid down, his long fingers hooking into the hem of your oversized nightshirt. With slow, deliberate care to avoid any sudden movements that might rock the bunk, he pushed the fabric up, his warm palms skimming over the smooth skin of your thighs, your curvy hips, until the shirt was bunched around your ribs. When his bare hand made contact with the bare skin of your waist, you both shivered at the contrast of the cool air of the bus and the intense heat of his skin.
He shifted his weight, his knee gently prying your legs further apart so he could settle himself directly in between them. The sheer weight of him, lean but incredibly muscular from hours of daily dancing, pressing down onto you blew your mind. The bunk creaked–just a tiny, metallic groan from the springs, and you both instantly froze.
Your heart felt like it was about to burst out of your chest. You lay completely paralyzed, your eyes wide in the dark, listening intensely.
Outside the curtain, the steady thump-thump of the tires continued. Then, a heavy, rustling sound came from Jackie’s bunk across the aisle. Someone turned over, a low, sleepy mumble echoing in the dark cabin before settling back into silence.
Michael let out a silent, shaky laugh against your neck, his shoulders trembling slightly against yours. The sheer, dangerous adrenaline of the moment was like gasoline on a fire, making the desire between you burn twice as hot.
“See?” he whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe. “We’re okay. We’re okay, mama. Just stay right here with me.”
Instead of pressing forward immediately, Michael began to slide downward, his chest brushing against your abdomen as his hands firmly but gently gripped the supple flesh of your thighs, parting them wider.
“Michael, wait, what are you doing?” you gasped in a frantic whisper, realizing he was moving toward the foot of the bunk. The danger felt amplified tenfold now.
“Shh, let me,” he murmured from the darkness near your hips. “I want to taste you. Let me take care of you first.”
Your breath completely caught as you felt his warm, large hands slide under the small of your back, tilting your hips upward. You clenched your jaw, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the thin mattress beneath you. His fingers gently pulled aside your panties and when his warm, wet tongue made its first slow stroke from the entrance of your pussy up to your aching clit, a bolt of pure electricity shot straight up your spine.
You had to shove the fabric of your nightshirt into your mouth to muffle the high, desperate moan that tore from your throat. Michael was incredibly attentive, his mouth alternating between sucking your clit in and a soft, rhythmically flicker of his tongue.
He swirled his tongue over your clit, parting your lips with his fingers to lay the hood bare. He sucked gently, drawing the tiny, swollen bud into his mouth, finding a steady, agonizingly perfect lap that drove you absolutely wild. The heat radiating from his face against your inner thighs was overwhelming, making your dark skin slick with a mix of sweat and pooling slickness.
He paired the relentless friction of his tongue with his fingers, his slender index finger gently pressing against your entrance, slicked completely by your own heavy cream, before slowly sliding all of the way inside of you.
The sudden, blunt stretch of him filling you made you gasp against the cloth that was lodged between your teeth.
His finger pushed deep, tracking your internal curves. Michael let out a muffled hum against your pussy, clearly pleased by how hot and ready you were for him. He added a second finger, spreading you open from the inside, his long digits pumping slowly, deeply, curling upward to stroke the ribbed wall of your g-spot in a slow, bedroom groove that mimicked the heavy basslines he danced to every single night.
“Michael… please,” you whimpered through the cloth in your mouth, your thighs shaking violently, your lower body completely at the mercy of his tongue and his hands.
He was slicking your folds, his mouth widening to suck more of your flesh, his fingers thrusting in a wet, heavy rhythm that had your slick dripping down his hand. You were right on the edge, the coil of white-hot tension in your stomach tightening into an unbearable, beautiful knot.
He knew exactly what he was doing. He quickened the pace of his tongue, flicking hard and fast against your clit while his fingers bottomed out inside you, over and over. The dual sensation shattered you.
The dam broke, and you went completely rigid, a violent, trembling orgasm cascading through your entire body. Your muscles clamped down like a vise around his fingers as you shook, your muffled cries completely swallowed by the fabric of your shirt as your cum flooded over his hand.
Michael stayed right there, drinking in your orgasm, lapping up the sweet taste of you as your body bucked. He held your trembling hips steady until the last pulsing waves rippled through you, then pulled his fingers out slowly with a soft, squelching sound. He kissed the inside of your thighs before crawling up the length of your body, panting softly.
When he reached your face, he gently pulled the shirt from your mouth, slamming his wet mouth over yours to taste yourself on his lips. The kiss was deep, sloppy, and thick with shared, reckless passion. He reached behind himself, his long arm moving with fluid grace as he pushed his pajama pants down, his thick, heavy dick springing free in the dark. It was fully erect, dark and glistening with pre-cum, pulsing with a life of its own against your hip.
When the warm, blunt tip of his dick brushed against your dripping pussy, a sharp gasp caught in your throat. You didn’t waste time, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, the need to be filled by him overriding every ounce of fear left in your body.
“Michael, please,” you begged in a frantic, barely audible whisper, your hands gripping his broad shoulders, feeling the defined muscles of his back ripple under your touch. “I need you. Please.”
“I’ve got you,” he whispered back, his voice trembling with the effort it took to control his own breathing. He raised himself up on his forearms, his hands coming up to trap your wrists gently against the padded vinyl wall of the bunk right above your head to anchor you both. “Look at me. I know it’s dark, but look at me. Hold onto my arms. Don’t make a sound, okay? Just let me love you.”
You nodded frantically in the dark, your eyes locking with where you knew his were.
Slowly, deliberately, Michael shifted his hips forward, aligning himself perfectly. He plunged into you with one, smooth but slow push.
The feeling was so intense, you felt so overwhelmingly full and hot, that your mouth flew open to scream. He was thick, stretching your gummy walls to their absolute limit as he sank deeper and deeper, the wet friction making a soft, sliding sound between your thighs. But Michael was already prepared.
He dropped his head, catching the high, breathless cry in the back of his throat with his own mouth. He groaned deep in his chest, a low, vibrating rumble that you felt through his chest walls as he sank completely inside of you, burying his hips hard against yours until he was fully bottomed out.
You broke the kiss, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck, your teeth gently biting into the hot skin of his shoulder to keep yourself silent. Your fingers dug into your palms as he began to move.
Because of the incredibly tight space, he couldn’t take long, sweeping strokes. Instead, he moved with short, shallow deep thrusts. His hips rolling against yours in a slow rhythm that mirrored the sensual, funky groove of his own music. He pulled out nearly all of the way, letting the slick head of his length graze your entrance, before burying himself back inside you with a heavy, wet thud of his hips.
It was pure, concentrated friction, every single movement designed to maximize the pleasure while keeping the physical impact completely silent.
“Oh, gosh,” he rasped, a breathy, broken sound escaping him as his pace quickened just a fraction.
His forehead rested against yours, his afro mixing with your own curls as his sweat began to drop onto your skin, warm and slick. “You feel so good. s’tight… s’warm. I can’t… I can’t get close enough.”
Your hips instinctively rolled up to meet every deep, heavy thrust, your slickness squelching loudly between your bodies in a way that made your face flush with heat. The pleasure was building rapidly all over again, a tight, second wave of tension that threatened to shatter you. Every time his dick hit that perfect, deep spot inside you, your toes curled and a wave of pure euphoria washed over you.
The high-stakes nature of the environment only heightened every single sensation. The danger of the dark cabin, the knowledge that his brothers were sleeping mere feet away, the rhythmic thump-thump of the bus tires acting as a metronome to your hidden sin–it made every touch feel forbidden, sacred, and incredibly intense.
Michael’s control was staggering, but you could feel him reaching his limit. The muscles in his back were tight as steel cords under your hands. His breathing coming in shallow, ragged gasps that he forced himself to smother against your hair. He unpinned your wrists, his large hands sliding down to grip your thighs, lifting your legs higher onto his shoulders to drive himself deeper, harder, with a quiet, desperate urgency.
He began to pound into you faster, his hips slamming against yours in a frantic, quiet rhythm, his dick sliding through your cream over and over again until you were completely delirious.
“Hold onto me,” he whispered, his voice cracking with the sheer force of his movements. “Don’t let go. I’m right here. I’m right here with you.”
You wrapped your hands around his biceps, pulling him down until there was absolutely no space left between you, your bodies completely fused together in the dark, sweating and slick. You rocked against him, your rhythm matching his perfectly, driving him wild.
“I’m close, Mike… I’m gonna…” you breathed, a tear of pleasure slipping from the corner of your eye.
“Cum for me, mama,” he rasped into your mouth, his lips finding yours again, his thrusts becoming faster, deeper, more intense, bottoming out against your cervix with every strike. “Do it for me. Keep it quiet… just let it go.”
With one final, deep, rolling push of his hips, the coil inside you snapped for a second time. A beautiful wave of release crashed over you, your internal muscles clamping down tightly around his dick in a series of intense, pulsing contractions. You bit down so hard on his shoulder that you could taste the salt of his skin, your entire body trembling as you came harder than you have ever done before.
The tight, intense clenching of your body instantly pushed Michael over the edge. He let out a muffled, broken groan against your mouth. His body tightening into a rigid cord as a violent shudder wracked his frame. He split himself deep inside you, pulsing hard as he flooded your walls with thick, hot ropes of his cum. He gave two more slow, heavy, trembling thrusts, driving himself as deep as he could possibly go, before freezing completely. His forehead resting against your shoulder as his breath came in ragged, gaspy hitches.
For a long time, neither of you moved.
The only sound in the tiny bunk was the heavy, synchronized sound of your breathing, gradually slowing down to match the steady, familiar drone of the tour bus engine. Michael remained buried deep inside you, his heavy body pressing you comfortably into the mattress, his skin warm and slick against yours.
Slowly, the adrenaline began to fade, replaced by a deep, heavy, and incredibly fluffy wave of warmth.
Michael shifted, letting out a long contented sigh that ruffled the hair near your ear. He carefully slipped out of you, a soft and wet sound breaking the silence that made you smile in the dark. He reached down, finding his discarded shirt at the foot of the bed, and gently cleaned you both up in the dark, his touch incredibly tender and sweet.
Once finished, he didn’t make any move to leave. Instead, he pulled the thin cotton sheet back up over you and him, shielding you from the cool air of the bus. He shifted his long body, pulling you back against his chest so that you were cradled perfectly in his arms, his chest to your back, his knees tucked behind yours in a perfect spooning position.
His long arms wrapped securely around your waist, pulling you tightly against his warm, bare chest. He tilted his head down, kissing the back of your neck softly, his lips lingering against your skin.
“You okay?” he whispered, his voice returning to that soft, gentle, boyish register you knew so well.
“Yeah,” you whispered back, a soft smile spreading across your face as you rested your hands over his large ones that were splayed across your stomach. “I’m more than okay, Mike. But you really need to go back to your bunk before the sun comes up. If Marlon wakes up and sees your curtain open…”
“Five more minutes,” Michael murmured, his voice already sounding heavy and thick with sleep.
The restlessness that had plagued him hours ago was completely gone, replaced by a deep, profound peace. He snuggled closer, burying his nose into the soft curls of your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction around your waist. “Just five more minutes. This is the best sleep I’ve threatened to get all week.”
You let out a soft, quiet laugh, closing your eyes as the steady, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the highway tires lulled you both into a deep, dreamless sleep, wrapped up into the beautiful, forbidden warmth of the night.
