( ˶°ㅁ°) !! 0.8k, fluff ) husband!michael jackson x fem wife!reader: you and michael get shitfaced at an event & feed each other cake <3
cws: intoxication (you're both drunk; everyone is?), cake being smeared everywhere, you're both hot, lowkey freaky messes but it's okay
you've never gotten drunk with michael before. usually, it's only one of you drinking, while the other stays sober and plays a more responsible role. tonight, though, you're both torn the fuck up, giggling over nothing as you stumble around together. you don't even remember who's birthday party this is, if it's your friend or michael's. maybe a mutual friend, this time?
you slur your way through happy birthday, confident in your singing ability when you really, really shouldn't be. michael's hand rests along your lower back, accidentally (or so you assume) groping your butt every so often because he's just as drunk as you are. he hiccups, then whines when you're handed a sizeable slice of cake meant for the both of you, his soft, pink lips forming a small frown. you can't help but laugh at his mild envy, swinging around in an overdramatic turn to tell the server, the poor lad, that this cake slice was fine and to ignore your husband's pouting.
"you're being mean," michael manages in your ear, reaching past you for a fork, "i wanted my own slice. you eat all the frosting." with his free hand, he brushes a few black strands out of his face, though it does nothing to tame his mane. hairs stand every which way, all wild as though he'd just been with the kids.
"you look ridiculous," you laugh. you're both still standing by the cake line when you get a very bright (messy) idea, your eyes lighting up. "you want some cake, baby? here," you say, picking up half the cake slice with your bare hand and shoving it against his mouth.
there's a pause, a brief moment where several onlookers stare with wide eyes at michael jackson's face covered in cake.
then, like hyenas, you and him both cackle, and just like that, the party continues.
a few cake chunks fall from michael's lips as his mouth moves to allow laughter out, landing on the floor along your feet and on his shoes. "oh, it's like that? huh, 's like that?" he asks loudly, his hands animated as he speaks. after licking his lips, taking in the flavor of the cake and humming at how good it is, michael leans in, kissing you on the mouth and making more of a mess in the process. "here, have some cake, honey," he teases, his hands gripping your waist tight to keep you still.
squealing, you turn your head this way and that, only succeeding in spreading the cake further along your face. frosting and cake land in huge smears against your cheeks and your nose, with some smaller bits even managing to find your eyebrows and eyelashes. most, however, land right on target: your lips. your lipstick's long gone by the time michael starts sucking on your lower lip, licking the frosting off only to add more with his finger afterwards. it becomes a drunk, sloppy game of who can add more frosting to who's face, with both you and michael grabbing leftover cake by the handful and covering each other's faces (and then outfits) with the dessert.
it takes a couple of friends to finally coax you two into stopping. though, by the time they choose to intervene, the two of you decide together that messily making out and moaning into each other's mouth's about how the cake is so sweet and so good is much more fun anyways.
"mr. and mrs. jackson, everyone!" someone calls out, and drunken applause and cheers sound out all around the room as you and michael grab, hold, and kiss each other.
...needless to say, it was a hell of a night. the next morning is far calmer, although your head is quick to start pounding like a snare drum in your skull as soon as you open your eyes. "shit," you hiss, rolling over into— "ew," you mutter quietly, lifting your face off of your pillow.
your frosting covered, cake crumb coated pillow.
you barely have time to truly grasp the concept of your pillow having cake bits on it. as you move in bed, your husband groans, and you realize as his lips close that your index finger's in his mouth. the wetness of his saliva and the softness of his lips is suddenly all you can register. when michael wakes up a couple minutes later, suffering from a similar sense of disorientation, he glances over at you and immediately laughs.
"you're being so loud," you mumble, rolling your eyes and removing your finger from his mouth before shoving him gently.
"'m not. you're covered in cake, look in the mirror, sweetie," he says, gesturing towards your vanity.
you scoff, reaching up and feeling your cheeks. right, that tracks. the cake on your pillow had to come from somewhere, right? "you're covered in cake, michael," you counter, "even more cake than me."
"no," your husband coos, "definitely not. you're covered." he sits up just to scoot closer, his tongue flat as he drags it lightly along your cheek, tasting the overnight smear of blue. "mmm..." what a freak!
anyways, note to self: either you get drunk or michael gets drunk. never both, unless you want cake crumbs in your sheets again!
based off this post which i said i would delete later and never did LOL. happy-giggly drunk MJ oh we'd need a babysitter between me and him bc i'm a shenanigan type of drunk so we'd be getting into bullshit straight up. sigh, happy-giggly drunk MJ i love you. sloppily kissing my drunk hubby sighhhh. i imagine him looking his most androgynous in this piece so i'm sloppily kissing my drunk pretty hubby. love him.
