𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : (1/2) — as a fan, you send michael some very seductive pictures and letters, without knowing just how much they really affect him. so what happens when you guys finally meet for the first time... ⋮ 𝓌𝒸﹕ 𝟏𝟓.𝟏𝓀◞
𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : chubby/curvy reader. fan/celebrity dynamic. [ ❤︎︎ ]— your name. perv reader & perv michael. dirty love letters/pictures. lowkey delusional reader. but it works. michael jerks off to you. michael is so into you. dirty talking through letters. nudes. he literally sends you a whimpering audio. shy michael. then freaky michael. (wrap it b4 u tap it guys). reader has a bush bc it's the late 70s/early 80s. masturbation. dirty talk. desperate michael. desperate reader. michael just wants you.
𓊆ྀི❤︎︎︎𓊇ྀི : based on 🗯️this! lovely request (๑ᵔ⤙ᵔ๑) i'm splitting this into two parts bc i think it would be to long for one
𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist
Michael had already answered enough questions about Off the Wall that he was beginning to lose track of how many times he'd been asked what it felt like to have an album that was finally, completely his own.
It wasn't that he minded talking about it. He was proud of the record, perhaps more proud than he knew how to express without sounding too serious, and there was still something exciting about hearing people talk about the songs as though they belonged to a world outside of the studio now.
They had been little pieces of music he'd worked on for months, sometimes obsessing over one part until he was satisfied, and now they were being played on radios and in record stores and people's homes. Sitting beneath the studio lights while another interviewer asked him about it was simply another part of that strange process.
Michael sat comfortably in his chair, one leg crossed loosely over the other, hands resting together in his lap as he waited for the interview to begin. He was dressed simply for the occasion, though there was still something carefully put together about him. Every so often he shifted slightly in his seat whenever the lights seemed a little too warm. He'd grown accustomed to cameras by now, but that didn't mean he ever completely forgot they were there.
There was still something about being watched that made him conscious of every little thing he did—where he put his hands, whether he was speaking too quietly, whether he was looking at the interviewer enough. He'd been doing interviews for years, but there was always that small moment before the cameras started rolling where he wondered what questions they'd ask him this time.
The studio around him was fairly quiet, aside from the occasional movement of someone working just outside the frame. A few people were standing behind the cameras, talking amongst themselves while the crew made the last little adjustments. Michael watched one of the technicians lean forward to fix something near the camera before sitting back again. He glanced down at his hands, rubbing his thumb lightly over one of his knuckles, and then looked up when the interviewer finally took his seat across from him.
"Alright, Michael," the man said, shuffling a few papers together. "We're ready whenever you are."
Michael gave him a small smile.
"Okay."
The interviewer turned towards the camera.
"Today we're very pleased to welcome Michael Jackson, whose latest album, Off the Wall, has been receiving an incredible response since its release. Michael, thank you for joining us."
"Thank you for havin' me."
The camera remained on him for another moment before the interviewer turned his attention back towards Michael.
"So, how are you feeling about everything at the moment?"
Michael gave a small laugh, looking down briefly.
"Good. A little tired."
The interviewer smiled.
"Busy?"
"Very busy."
"I imagine so. You've been doing quite a lot of promotion for the album."
"Yeah. It's been... a lot of interviews." Michael laughed softly. "But it's nice. I like talkin' about the album."
"Do you ever get tired of talking about it?"
Michael thought about it.
"Not really. I mean, sometimes I don't know what else to say about it." He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I've already said everything."
The interviewer laughed.
"I suppose that's the difficult part. You've spent so long making the record, and now everybody wants to know what you think about it."
"Yeah."
"And you've worked with Quincy Jones on this one."
"Mhm."
"How has that experience been for you?"
Michael's expression changed almost immediately at the mention of Quincy. He seemed more comfortable talking about the actual work than talking about himself.
"He's wonderful. Really wonderful. He knows so much about music, and he lets you experiment. He doesn't make you feel like you can't try somethin' just because it might be different."
"Was there anything you learned from him during the recording?"
"Oh, a lot." Michael smiled. "Probably more than I could tell you in one interview."
The interviewer laughed again, and Michael did too, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
They continued like that for a while. They talked about the recording sessions, the different musicians he'd worked with, the process of choosing songs for the album, and how much he enjoyed dancing while performing. Michael became noticeably more animated whenever the conversation turned toward music. His hands moved as he explained things, his voice becoming a little more energetic, and every now and then he'd laugh at himself when he realized he'd been talking for longer than he intended.
"And you've said before that you want people to be able to dance to this album."
"Yeah. I want people to have fun with it."
"That's a big part of your own personality, isn't it?"
Michael smiled.
"Yeah. I like havin' fun."
"Do you dance at home?"
Michael laughed, almost immediately looking embarrassed.
"Sometimes."
"Sometimes?"
"Well, yeah."
"How often is sometimes?"
Michael thought about it, then shrugged.
"I don't know. A lot, probably."
The interviewer smiled knowingly.
"I had a feeling you'd say that."
Michael laughed again and shook his head.
"See, now you're makin' me sound strange."
"I don't think anyone would find that strange."
"I don't know."
He smiled, looking down for a moment before settling back into his chair.
The conversation moved on, and Michael seemed perfectly comfortable again. It was easy enough. Questions about music were familiar. They were safe. He knew what he wanted to say about his work, and he knew how much of himself he wanted to give away.
Then, after another question about the response to Off the Wall, the interviewer paused and glanced down at the papers in front of him.
"There is one thing we haven't talked about yet."
Michael looked up.
"What's that?"
The interviewer smiled.
"Your fans."
Michael's expression softened immediately.
"Oh."
"You've been getting quite a lot of attention from them lately."
"Yeah," Michael said quietly. "They're really sweet."
"I understand you've received a rather impressive amount of fanmail."
Michael gave a small, almost bashful laugh.
"Yeah. There's been a lot."
"Do you read it?"
"I try to."
"Really?"
"Mhm."
"All of it?"
That made Michael laugh.
"Well... I try."
The interviewer reached down beside his chair.
"Then I think you're going to like this."
He lifted a large stack of envelopes into view. Michael stared at it for a second. Then he laughed.
"Oh, my goodness."
The interviewer grinned as he lowered the stack onto the small table between them. It was considerably larger than Michael had expected, envelopes of all different shapes and sizes piled on top of one another. Some plain white, some brightly colored, a few decorated with little drawings and stickers that made it obvious whoever had sent them had put far more effort into the envelope than the post office probably deserved. Michael leaned forward slightly, looking over the collection with an expression somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
"That's a lot of letters."
"It is," the interviewer agreed. "A few weeks ago, we told some of your fans that you were going to be doing an interview with us."
Michael's eyebrows lifted.
"You did?"
"Mhm. We asked them to send in their letters, and we told them there was a chance you'd be reading some of them here today."
Michael looked down at the pile again, his expression softening.
"They sent all these?"
"Apparently, they had quite a lot to say. And these are only a selection."
Michael's eyes widened.
"Only a selection?"
"Mhm."
He laughed again, shaking his head as he settled back into his chair.
"I don't know if I can read all of those."
"You don't have to. We thought we'd pick a few."
Michael glanced at the stack again, and there was something almost childlike about the way his expression softened. For all the attention he'd been receiving since the release of Off the Wall, he still seemed genuinely surprised that so many people had taken the time to sit down and write to him.
It wasn't the kind of attention he could simply hear about in a newspaper or see printed on a chart. These were actual people who had gone home, found a piece of paper, written something to him, put it in an envelope, addressed it, and sent it all the way to wherever he happened to be or so that he would get them.
"That's really sweet," he murmured.
"You want to pick one?"
Michael hesitated.
"Me?"
"Sure."
He looked at the interviewer, then at the stack, before reaching out and carefully taking one from near the top. It was a pale blue envelope with handwriting across the front. Michael turned it over in his hands, examining it for a moment before opening it.
"Dear Michael," he read aloud, his voice becoming softer as he followed the words. "Congratulations on Off the Wall. I've been listening to it every day since I bought it..."
He smiled.
"That's nice."
He continued reading silently for another few seconds before his smile grew. "She says her favorite is 'Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough.'"
"Good choice."
"Yeah." Michael nodded seriously. "Very good choice."
The interviewer laughed. Michael folded the letter neatly along its original crease and placed it beside him.
"Thank you," he said, almost instinctively, as though the person who'd written it were actually sitting somewhere in the room. The interviewer noticed.
"You really do read these, don't you?"
Michael gave him a small smile.
"I try to."
"Even when they're this many?"
Michael looked at the enormous pile.
"Well..."
He laughed.
"Maybe not all at once."
They went through another few. One fan had drawn a picture of Michael dancing, complete with a tiny microphone in his hand. Another had written several pages about how much the album had meant to her. One letter was from a young girl who wanted to know what animals Michael had, which led to the interviewer asking him about his pets and Michael immediately becoming far more enthusiastic than he had been about any of the previous questions.
"I love animals," he said, smiling. "They're so sweet. And they're honest."
"More honest than people?"
Michael's eyebrows lifted.
"Sometimes."
The interviewer laughed, and Michael ducked his head, smiling.
Eventually, the interviewer reached for another envelope.
"Alright. Here's one."
He handed it over.
Michael accepted it without looking closely, turning it between his fingers as he had with the others. The envelope was different from the rest, though he didn't seem to notice at first. There was no elaborate drawing on the front, no stickers, nothing particularly eye-catching. Just his name, written in careful handwriting.
"Michael Jackson."
He smiled faintly.
"That's me."
The interviewer chuckled.
Michael opened it.
At first, nothing about his expression changed.
His eyes moved over the first few lines, and he nodded once, as though he'd already settled into the familiar rhythm of reading another compliment about the album. Then he stopped. His eyes flicked back to the beginning. He read the line again. And this time, the faint smile disappeared.
Not because he was upset or something. If anything, he looked startled.
Michael's fingers tightened slightly around the paper. The interviewer noticed immediately.
"Everything alright?"
Michael looked up.
"Yeah."
There was a tiny pause.
"Yeah."
He looked back down at the letter. His cheeks had begun to color. The interviewer leaned forward a little, curious.
"Interesting letter?"
Michael gave a nervous little laugh.
"Uh..."
He folded the paper once. Then again.
"It's... nice."
"Nice?"
"Mhm."
The interviewer smiled.
"That's all you're giving me?"
Michael looked at him, then quickly looked away again.
"Yeah."
There was another little laugh from behind the camera. Michael's cheeks grew warmer. He tried to tuck the letter beneath the others, but the interviewer caught the movement.
"Wait, wait. You can't just hide it."
Michael immediately shook his head.
"No, no."
"Why not?"
"It's just..."
He glanced down at the letter. His mouth twitched with an embarrassed smile.
"It's personal."
That earned a louder laugh from the crew. Michael ducked his head, laughing too, clearly wishing they would all stop looking at him. The interviewer held up his hands.
"Alright. Alright. We won't make you read it."
"Thank you."
"But now I'm curious."
Michael shook his head.
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"No."
The smile was still there, though.
He carefully folded the letter again, much more neatly this time, and placed it beneath the others rather than on top of them.
The interviewer watched him.
So did everyone else in the room.
And, on the other side of the television screen, so did you.
You hadn't moved.
For the last few minutes, you had been sitting exactly where you had been when the interview began, your attention fixed entirely on the television. You had watched the interviewer place that enormous stack of letters in front of him. You had watched Michael smile at the first few. You had listened to him read them, watched the way his expression softened whenever somebody mentioned how much they loved the album, how much his music meant to them.
You'd smiled along with him.
It was sweet.
That was what fanmail was supposed to be, wasn't it? People telling him how much they loved his music, how much they admired him, how excited they were about Off the Wall. Little pieces of affection from people he'd never met.
You had written one of those letters yourself.
Except yours had been sitting on that table.
Your eyes dropped briefly toward the floor before returning to the screen.
You hadn't actually expected him to pick it.
Not really.
You had known there was a possibility, of course. That was why you'd sent it in the first place. But there were so many letters. The stack had looked almost ridiculous when they'd first shown it on camera, and you'd assumed yours would simply disappear somewhere among all the others.
Maybe someone would open it.
Maybe they wouldn't.
You had never seriously imagined that Michael himself would be the one holding it.
And yet there it was.
You recognized the envelope immediately.
The handwriting across the front.
The way you'd written his name so carefully because you'd rewritten it twice before finally deciding it looked right.
"Michael Jackson."
You had heard him say it.
You'd heard that quiet little laugh afterward.
"That's me."
A nervous smile pulled at your lips, you couldn't help it. Then he'd opened the letter, and you'd stopped smiling.
It was one thing to write something down in the privacy of your bedroom. There had been no cameras then. No audience. No interviewer sitting across from him. No Michael Jackson actually holding the paper between his fingers and reading the words you'd spent so much time deciding whether or not you should write.
Now there was.
You leaned a little closer to the television without even realizing you'd done it. His eyes moved across the page. You followed his face. You watched him read.
At first, there was nothing unusual about his expression. He looked the same as he had with the other letters, quietly attentive, occasionally smiling to himself. Then his eyes stopped.
You held your breath. He read that part again. Your fingers curled slightly into the fabric beneath you.
Oh.
He'd reached that part. You hadn't meant for it to sound quite so bold when you'd written it. Well—
❝—Dear Michael,
I've started this letter four times and torn up every one of them, so this is the version I'm letting myself send. If you're reading this, I've either been very brave or very stupid, and I won't know which until the last line.
Everyone writes to you about the music. The records, the dancing, the way you move on stage. I could write that letter too, but you get a thousand of those a week and I don't want to be polite about you. I want to be honest.
I think about your mouth.
Not the smile— everyone gets the smile. I think about the way your lips part right before you sing, that half-second before the note comes out, and I wonder what it would be like to be the reason you made that sound instead.
I think about your hands. The way you curl them when you dance, like you're holding something you won't let go. I've wondered more times than I should admit what they'd feel like. On my hip. On my throat. In my hair, pulling just hard enough that I'd forget my own name.
I think about the rest of it too. The part they never print in the magazines. What you look like when no one's watching, when the shirt's off and the lights are low and there's nobody to perform for. I think about climbing into your lap in the dark and finding out what makes the Michael Jackson go quiet.
And I think about your voice. God, Michael, your voice. The low part. The breathy part you do when you talk instead of sing. I've listened to interviews with my thighs pressed together, and I'm not even sorry. I'd let you talk to me like that for hours. I'd let you talk to me like that with your hand between my legs and your mouth at my ear, telling me exactly what you're going to do to me next.
There. That's the brave part. Or the stupid part. I'll let you decide.
If this reaches you and it doesn't make you smile, you can burn it and I'll never know. But if it does make you smile —
Write me back. I want to hear the breathy part.
Yours, if you'll have me,
The girl who thinks about your mouth — [❤︎︎ ]❞
That was a lie.
You had. You had known exactly what you were doing.
It had seemed easier on paper. Almost harmless, really, sitting alone with a pen in your hand and allowing yourself to write down the things you would never have had the courage to say aloud. You could tease him without having to see his face afterward. You could be a little daring because you would never have to know what he thought of it.
Until now.
Michael's expression had changed.
Only slightly.
But you noticed. You noticed everything. The faint pause. The way his fingers tightened around the paper. The small shift in his posture. And then, slowly, the color beginning to rise into his cheeks.
Your heart gave one hard beat. You stared at him. He looked down at the letter again. Then back at the interviewer.
"Everything alright?"
"Yeah."
You almost smiled.
He sounded nervous.
Your eyes stayed on the screen. You didn't dare look away. Not now. Not when Michael was still sitting there with your letter in his hands. Not when he was trying so hard to pretend there was nothing unusual about it.
The corner of your mouth had started to lift before you even realized it. You tried to stop it, pressing your lips together, but that only seemed to make it worse. There was something about watching him sit there looking so quietly flustered that made it impossible not to smile.
Beside you, your friend shifted against the couch. You ignored her. She watched the television for another few seconds. Then she looked at you, then back at the television, then at you again.
"Girl what are you cheesing about?"
Your eyes immediately flicked toward her.
"'m not."
She gave you a look.
"You are."
You turned your attention back to the television, trying to make your expression neutral.
"I dunno what you're talking about."
"You're smiling."
"I'm not!"
"You are!"
You bit the inside of your cheek. Your friend leaned a little closer, trying to see what had apparently become so fascinating on the screen.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Mhm."
She narrowed her eyes at you. You kept looking straight ahead. The television continued to play quietly in front of you, Michael still visible in the frame, the interviewer sitting across from him with the rest of the letters waiting on the table.
Your friend looked at the screen once again. Then at you. Then back at the screen.
"Did he say something?"
"No."
"Then why are you smiling like that?" You shrugged, attempting to look completely uninterested.
"I just like the interview." She stared at you for another second.
"You've been watching this interview for twenty minutes."
"So?"
"So you've barely said anything."
You smiled again. You couldn't help it. Your friend noticed.
"There."
"What?"
"That."
You frowned.
"What "that"?"
"That stupid little smile."
You reached over and nudged her with your elbow.
"Shut up."
She laughed quietly.
"Okay, okay."
You settled back into the couch, pulling one leg beneath you. For a moment, neither of you said anything. You were grateful for that. Your attention returned entirely to the television.
The studio lights were bright enough that they gave everything on the screen a slightly warm appearance. Michael was still sitting with his hands close to his lap, the letter now folded beneath the others. From this distance, it looked like nothing more than another envelope in a pile.
But you knew. You knew exactly which one it was. And knowing that made your stomach flutter all over again. You wondered if he would keep it.
The thought came so suddenly that you almost dismissed it. Of course he wouldn't. It was just a fan letter.
He probably received hundreds. Thousands. Maybe he'd forgotten about it already.
Except he hadn't looked like someone who'd forgotten. You watched him carefully. The interviewer's attention returned to the stack.
"So," he said, "should we try another one?"
Michael looked at the letters. There was the slightest pause. Then he nodded.
"Yeah."
He reached toward the pile. Your heart jumped again. His fingers moved over the envelopes, brushing past one, then another. He picked one up, turned it over, examined the handwriting.
The interviewer smiled.
"Any reason you chose that one?"
Michael shook his head.
"No."
He smiled faintly.
"I just picked it."
The interviewer laughed.
"Fair enough."
Michael began opening the next letter. You exhaled slowly. Only then did you realize you'd been holding your breath.
Your friend glanced at you from the corner of her eye. You pretended not to notice. On the television, Michael unfolded the new letter.
And just like that, the interview continued. The subject moved on to something else, and after a while the earlier excitement in the room seemed to settle back into something more ordinary. Michael answered a few more questions about the album, talking about the recording sessions and the people he'd worked with, and then the interviewer asked him about performing and what it was like having people respond so strongly to the new record. Every now and then, they returned to the fanmail, opening another envelope and letting him read a few lines before moving on to the next. Michael seemed much more comfortable now, laughing easily and occasionally ducking his head whenever the interviewer complimented him, and before long, the little moment with your letter seemed to have disappeared beneath everything else.
Except it hadn't for you.
You were still thinking about it.
You tried to pay attention to what he was saying, and for the most part you did, but every so often your eyes wandered toward the stack of envelopes sitting on the table in front of him. Your letter was still somewhere in there. You knew it was. You could picture exactly where it had gone, folded neatly beneath the others after he'd finished reading it, and the thought kept making something warm and restless twist in your stomach. You wondered if he would remember it once the cameras stopped rolling. You wondered if he would keep it with the others or if somebody from the studio would gather everything up afterward and take it away. You wondered, briefly, whether he might read it again when nobody was watching. That last thought made you smile to yourself, and you quickly looked back at the television before your friend could notice.
She noticed anyway.
She had been sitting beside you for most of the interview, occasionally making little comments whenever something caught her attention, but now she stretched her arms above her head and gave a long, exaggerated yawn. You glanced over at her just as she settled back against the couch, looking toward the clock.
"Alright."
You frowned. "Alright what?"
"I'm out."
You blinked at her. "Now?"
She laughed and reached down for her things. "Yes, now."
"But it's not even that late."
"I know." She slipped her shoes on, then stood and brushed her hands down the front of her clothes. "That's why I'm leaving now instead of when it's actually late."
You gave her a look.
"You could stay."
"I could," she agreed, completely unbothered. "But then I'd still have to go home eventually."
You laughed under your breath and shook your head, following her toward the door while the television continued playing behind you. Michael's voice followed faintly through the room, softened by the distance, and you caught a few words without really listening to them. Your friend gathered the last of her things, checking that she hadn't left anything behind, before turning toward you with that same little expression she'd been wearing ever since she'd caught you smiling at the television.
"You're gonna watch the rest?"
"Probably."
She raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"
You shrugged. "Maybe."
"You've already been sitting there forever."
"I know."
"And you're still interested?"
You gave her a small smile. "It's Michael Jackson."
She stared at you for a second before laughing.
"Right. Of course."
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. She opened the door, then paused with one hand on the frame and looked back at you. "Don't stay up all night."
"I won't."
"You always say that."
"This time I mean it."
"Sure you do."
You laughed, and she stepped out into the hallway.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
The door closed behind her, and for a moment you remained standing there with your hand still resting on the knob. The house felt noticeably quieter without her. The television was still going in the other room, but now the sound seemed distant, almost like it belonged somewhere else. You stood there listening to it for a few seconds before finally turning around and making your way back to the couch.
The interview was almost finished by then. You sat down in the same place you'd been sitting before, pulling one leg beneath yourself again and reaching for the remote to lower the volume. You didn't turn it off. You just let it play quietly while you stared at the screen, watching the last few minutes without really taking in what was being said. Your mind had already drifted away from the interview and back to that one particular moment, replaying it without any help from you. Michael opening the envelope. His eyes moving across the page. The pause. That tiny change in his expression when he'd reached something he clearly hadn't expected. The way he'd looked at the interviewer afterward, suddenly shy and almost embarrassed, before folding the letter and hiding it underneath the others.
You smiled.
Then you caught yourself smiling and looked down at your lap.
It was silly. You knew it was silly. You were sitting alone in your living room, grinning to yourself over a man who didn't even know what you looked like, simply because he'd blushed at something you'd written to him. But that was the part that kept getting to you. He hadn't looked annoyed. He hadn't laughed at you. He hadn't tossed the letter aside like it was something ridiculous. If anything, he had seemed almost... pleased by it. Embarrassed, certainly, but not uncomfortable. And now that you thought about it, you weren't entirely sure whether the little smile he'd tried to hide had been because the letter had embarrassed him or because he'd actually liked what he'd read.
The possibility made your stomach flutter.
You leaned back against the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while, letting the thought settle somewhere in the back of your mind. Then, slowly, your eyes moved across the room.
Toward your desk.
You could see it from where you were sitting. The little pile of stationery you'd bought a few weeks ago was still sitting there, along with the pen you'd been using lately. Nothing about it looked particularly interesting. It was just a desk. Paper. A pen. An ordinary little corner of the room that you'd barely noticed before.
You looked at it for another few seconds. He didn't know what you looked like...
Then you smiled. You could change that.
The television suddenly went quiet as the interview came to an end, and the room fell completely silent. You reached for the remote and switched the screen off, leaving the room dim for a moment before getting to your feet.
You didn't hurry. There was no reason to. You simply walked across the room, pulled out the chair at your desk, and sat down.
Your fingers rested lightly against the edge of the paper. You looked at the blank page. Then at the pen. And, after a moment, you picked it up.
—Even after you switched off the television, Michael still remained in the studio.
The interview was over, but nobody had quite left yet. The cameras were still pointed toward the chairs, though the bright lights had already been switched off, leaving the room noticeably softer than it had been while they were filming. The sudden change was something Michael always noticed. A moment ago, every movement had felt deliberate, every word had been heard by several people at once, and now the room had begun returning to its ordinary state. Crew members moved around him, speaking quietly to one another as they gathered cables and equipment, while the interviewer stood nearby talking with one of the producers about the next part of the day's schedule.
Michael remained in his chair for another few moments.
He hadn't realized how warm the studio lights had made him until they were gone.
He lowered his eyes to the little table beside him. The fanmail was still there. The pile looked different now that the cameras weren't focused on it. During the interview, it had seemed almost enormous, each envelope representing somebody somewhere who had taken the time to write to him. Now it was simply a stack of paper sitting on a table, surrounded by the remnants of the interview—papers, notes, a glass of water he'd barely touched.
Michael reached for the glass and took a small sip.
He glanced at the envelopes again.
His eyes lingered. He wasn't sure why.
He had received fanmail for years. There had always been letters, sometimes more than he could possibly read, and he had always tried to make time for them when he could. Most were sweet. Some were funny. Some were incredibly personal in ways that surprised him. People told him about their lives, their families, their dreams. Sometimes they simply wrote his name over and over because they didn't know what else to say.
He liked that.
He liked knowing that there were people listening.
The interviewer passed behind him, giving his shoulder a light pat.
"Good interview."
Michael looked up and smiled.
"Thank you."
"You alright?"
"Yeah."
"You seemed a little surprised by some of those letters."
Michael's smile became smaller.
"Some of them."
The interviewer laughed.
"I won't ask."
Michael ducked his head, smiling to himself.
"Thank you."
The man moved away again, and Michael looked back toward the table. Your letter was somewhere in that pile. He knew it was. He could still remember the handwriting. More importantly, he could remember the feeling of reading it.
There had been plenty of compliments. He was used to people telling him they liked his voice, his dancing, his songs. He'd heard people say all sorts of wonderful things about him, and although he was grateful for them, there were still moments when he didn't quite know what to do with so much attention.
But that letter had been.... quite different. Michael wasn't entirely sure what he thought about that yet. He knew he'd been embarrassed. He knew he'd wanted the interviewer to stop asking questions. And he knew that, despite all of that, he hadn't wanted to give the letter back.
One of the crew members approached the table and began gathering the papers.
Michael watched absentmindedly at first.
The interviewer was already halfway across the room when another member of the team reached for the stack of envelopes, picking them up together with the loose papers beneath them.
Michael's head lifted.
"Wait."
The man stopped.
Michael stood almost immediately.
"Sorry. Could you—"
He hesitated, glancing at the pile in the man's hands.
"Could you not throw those away yet?"
The crew member looked at him.
"The letters?"
"Yeah."
"Alright."
He set them back down.
Michael nodded.
"Thank you."
The man moved on to something else without questioning it.
Michael stood there for a moment. Then he walked back toward the table. He didn't quite know what he was looking for at first. He simply started going through them, slowly.
One envelope at a time.
He picked up the first, looked at the name on the front, and set it aside. The next one had a little drawing in the corner. Another had handwriting that covered almost the entire front. He remembered some of them from the interview. A few made him smile when he recognized the names.
Then he found it. His fingers stopped.
There was the handwriting. He recognized it immediately. Michael turned the envelope over in his hands, his thumb brushing lightly over the edge. He glanced around the room. Nobody seemed to be watching him. The interviewer was speaking with one of the producers. Someone else was rolling up a cable near the cameras. Another crew member had already begun carrying equipment toward the door.
Michael looked back down at the envelope. He could have put it back.
Instead, he slipped it beneath the other letters he'd decided to keep. Then he hesitated. His eyes moved over the rest of the pile. After a moment, he selected a few more—the ones he'd genuinely enjoyed reading during the interview—and placed them together with his letter. It made the whole thing look less obvious. At least, that was what he told himself.
When he finally gathered the small collection into his hands, he held them against his chest for a moment.
"Michael?"
He looked up. One of the producers was standing nearby.
"You ready?"
Michael nodded.
"Yeah."
He gave the letters one last glance before slipping them carefully into the folder he'd been given for the day.
"Just about."
He followed the others out of the studio a few minutes later, carrying the folder beneath his arm. He didn't mention the letter again. Not to the interviewer. Not to the producer. Not to Bill. Not to anyone.
By the time Michael got home, the sun had already begun to sink lower over the neighborhood, leaving the sky outside the windows washed in the soft colors of early evening. He stepped through the front door with the folder still tucked beneath his arm, closing it quietly behind himself before pausing in the entryway for a moment.
Home always felt different after a day of interviews. There was no studio lighting, no camera pointed at him, no one waiting for him to answer a question. Just the familiar sounds of the house around him—the television somewhere deeper inside, voices drifting in and out of conversation, the faint clatter of something being moved around in the kitchen. His mother was the first person he saw.
"Michael?"
He looked up.
"Hi, Mama."
Katherine smiled as she came toward him, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"How was your interview?"
"Good."
"Just good?"
Michael smiled.
"It was alright."
She reached up and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before looking at the folder underneath his arm.
"You've been gone all day."
"Yeah. We talked about the album."
"I know." Her smile grew. "I watched some of it."
Michael's expression changed slightly.
"You did?"
"Mhm."
He looked down.
"Was it alright?"
"It was very nice."
"Thank you."
He started toward the hallway, already thinking about getting out of his clothes and disappearing somewhere quiet for a little while, but before he could get very far, a voice came from the living room.
"There he is."
Michael stopped. He slowly turned his head.
Several of his brothers were sprawled across the couches, the television still on in front of them. Randy was sitting near one end, half-slouched into the cushions, while Jackie had one arm stretched along the back of the couch. Jermaine glanced over at Michael with an expression that immediately made him suspicious. Michael narrowed his eyes slightly.
"What?"
Randy grinned.
"Nothin'."
Michael looked between them.
"Why are you lookin' at me like that?"
Jackie laughed.
"We saw your interview."
Michael's shoulders dropped a little.
"Oh."
"Yeah," Randy said. "We saw it."
Michael shifted the folder beneath his arm.
"Okay."
There was a pause. Then Jermaine smiled.
"That one letter."
Michael's eyes immediately dropped.
"What letter?"
Randy laughed.
"Oh, come on."
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"The one that made you turn red."
Michael's cheeks immediately warmed.
"I did not turn red."
"You did."
"I didn't."
"You absolutely did," Jackie said, laughing.
Michael shook his head and started toward the hallway again.
"You're all crazy."
Randy leaned forward.
"What'd she write?"
Michael stopped. He turned around slowly.
"Who?"
The room erupted in laughter. Michael's face fell into his hands for half a second before he dragged them down again.
"Nobody."
"Nobody?" Randy repeated.
"Mhm."
"Then why were you blushin'?"
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I was just hot."
Jackie looked toward the television.
"From the air conditionin'?"
Michael stared at him.
"Yes."
That only made them laugh harder. Michael shook his head, trying not to smile himself.
"Y' guys are ridiculous."
Randy pointed toward the folder.
"Y' kept it, didn't you?"
Michael's eyes flickered toward it. Just for a second. It was enough. Randy's grin widened.
"Ohhh."
"No."
"You did!"
"I ain't say that."
"Y' didn't have to."
Michael tightened his grip around the folder.
"'m tired."
Jackie laughed.
"That's your excuse?"
"Yeah."
He turned toward the hallway again.
"Michael."
He looked back. Jermaine was smiling.
"At least tell us if it was a good letter."
Michael stared at him for a moment. Then a tiny smile appeared despite his best effort.
"It was fine."
"Fine?"
"Mhm."
"That's all?"
Michael nodded.
"That's all."
Randy laughed.
"You're no fun."
Michael smiled faintly and shook his head.
"I'm goin' upstairs."
He didn't wait for another response. He walked down the hallway with the folder still tucked securely beneath his arm, hearing his brothers laughing behind him as he disappeared from view.
Only once he reached his room he closed the door.
Michael stood there for a moment with his back against it, listening to the muffled voices downstairs. Then his eyes dropped to the folder in his hands.
He left the overhead light off. Just the lamp by the bed, the one with the soft shade, throwing warm shadow up the walls. Enough to read by. Not enough to feel watched.
The folder went on the nightstand. He toed off his shoes, shrugged out of the jacket, then the shirt. The air touched his skin and he shivered once, though the room was warm. Downstairs, the house had gone quiet— the television a low murmur through the floor, his brothers' laughter faded into whatever they'd settled on.
He sat on the edge of the bed.
The letter was where he'd left it, folded beneath the others he'd kept. He lifted it out and let the rest slide aside. Just this one. Just the envelope with his name in that careful hand.
He'd read it once already. On camera. With half a room watching. He'd held it together then— barely. Now there was nobody to hold it together for.
He opened it.
Dear Michael,
He read it slow this time. On camera he'd skimmed, caught the shape of it, the heat rising up the back of his neck, and he'd buried it. Now he let each line land.
I've started this letter four times and torn up every one of them.
That got him first—the picture of it, really. Some woman sitting alone at a desk somewhere, probably with a half-finished letter beside her and a little pile of crumpled pages she'd decided weren't good enough. He could almost imagine her writing something, stopping halfway through, staring at the words for a while before tearing the page out and starting again.
Maybe she'd written his name too many times, or crossed something out because it suddenly felt too embarrassing to put into an envelope. Maybe she'd sat there with the finished letter in front of her for several minutes, debating whether she should actually send it at all, before finally deciding that this was the one she'd let go.
The thought made something warm and strangely tender settle in his chest. Out of all the things she could have done with those thoughts, she'd chosen to put them on paper, fold the pages carefully, seal them inside an envelope, and send them all the way to him.
I think about your mouth.
He swallowed hard.
Not the smile — everyone gets the smile. I think about the way your lips part right before you sing, that half-second before the note comes out, and I wonder what it would be like to be the reason you made that sound instead.
His stomach pulled tight. He read on and the warmth climbed into his face, same as in the studio, only now there was no camera to hide behind. She wrote about his hands. On my hip. On my throat. In my hair, pulling just hard enough that I'd forget my own name.
His breath went shallow. He shifted on the mattress, denim dragging, and he was hard.
Already.
Just from words on a page, from a woman whose face he couldn't picture.
That was the strangest part. He had no body to attach to the voice in his head. Not yet. Just the handwriting, careful and deliberate, and the things she'd admitted to. He read the part about his voice twice. Three times.
I've listened to interviews with my thighs pressed together, and I'm not even sorry.
He set the letter down beside him. His hands weren't quite steady. The shame sat hot in his chest and the want sat lower, and he couldn't pull them apart. His pulse beat in his throat and at the base of his cock, which strained against the zipper, and for a long moment he just sat with it.
Then he unbuttoned his jeans.
His fingers fumbled once. The button gave. The zipper came down. He shoved the denim off his hips and his cock sprang free, thick, leaking at the tip. He wrapped a hand around it and hissed through his teeth.
He thought of a woman.
No face. He kept it that way— truer, filthier, to want only the words. He pictured her in a dark room somewhere, thighs pressed together, listening to his voice, slick through her panties because of the way he'd said something on some forgotten interview. The thought made his hips jerk up into his fist.
He stroked slow. He didn't want to rush it. He wanted to stay inside the letter as long as he could, let each line replay behind his eyes.
The part about climbing into his lap. Weight on his thighs, heat through thin fabric, her mouth at his ear asking what made him go quiet.
His grip tightened. His other hand found the letter, held it open against his knee. He read and stroked at the same time, eyes jumping, breath ragged.
"You don't even know," he whispered. "You don't even know what you did."
He thought about her sealing the envelope. Her tongue on the glue. Dropping it into a mailbox and walking away like it was nothing, going back to her life, while he sat here with his cock in his hand reading it over and over.
His hand sped up. The sound of it filled the room— skin, breath, the rustle of paper in his grip.
She'd never know. That was the cruelest part. She'd sent it off and moved on, and he'd be hard for hours thinking about her thighs and her mouth and the breathy voice she'd asked him for.
He imagined giving it to her. Alone in the dark, he let his voice drop low and ruined, the way she'd wanted.
"Tell me what you want, baby."
And he imagined her answering. Her body under his hand, slick and shaking. He imagined being the reason she made a sound like the one she'd written about— lips parted, a half-second before the note.
He came with a muffled groan, teeth in his bottom lip, spilling over his fingers and onto his stomach. The letter was still in his hand, creased at the corner where he'd gripped too hard.
He sat there, breathing. The ceiling above him. His heart loud in his ears. The shame slid back in slow, behind the pleasure, and he let it.
He should burn it. She'd said he could.
He didn't.
He cleaned himself off with the edge of the sheet, taking his time before finally sitting there for a moment, breathing quietly as the last of the heat slowly left him. His eyes drifted toward the letter lying nearby, the pages slightly rumpled now from the way he'd been holding them, and something about seeing it there made him feel almost shy all over again. Carefully, he picked it up and folded it along the creases he'd made earlier, smoothing each fold with his thumb until the pages were neat again, almost absurdly careful with something that had already been read and reread enough times to lose its crispness.
He crossed the room to his dresser and opened the top drawer.
For a second, he simply stood there with the letter in his hand.
Then he placed it inside.
Not thrown in with the rest of his things. Not tucked away carelessly beneath a pile of clothes. He set it down carefully, making sure the pages were flat before closing the drawer.
Michael stood there for another moment, his hand still resting against the wooden handle.
Then he turned away, climbed into bed, and pulled the covers up over himself. The room was quiet now, the only light coming faintly through the curtains, and he lay on his back staring at the ceiling while his mind stubbornly refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see the handwriting again. He could hear the words in his own head, remember exactly where he'd stopped reading, exactly when he'd realized what she meant.
He turned onto his side.
Then onto his back again.
A small, embarrassed smile touched his mouth.
He'd read it again.
He knew he would.
Maybe tomorrow, when he had some time alone. Maybe the night after that, too. He'd tell himself it was only because he was curious, because he'd never received a letter quite like it before, because he wanted to understand what had made him react that way.
But even as he thought it, Michael knew better.
There was something about those pages that had gotten under his skin.
And he wasn't quite ready to admit how much he liked that.
Michael didn't sleep much.
He tried.
He turned the pillow over when it became too warm, pulled the covers higher when he felt cold, then kicked them down again a few minutes later. At some point during the night he'd gotten up for a glass of water, standing barefoot in the dark kitchen while the house remained completely still around him. When he finally went back upstairs, he told himself he was going to stop thinking about it.
Of course he didn't.
Every time he closed his eyes, the letter seemed to come back to him. Not even the entire thing at first. Just little pieces. A sentence here. A phrase there. The way she'd written his name. The particular choice of words that had caught him so completely off guard.
And then, inevitably, the thought of her. He didn't know what she looked like.
Eventually, sometime in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion won. When Michael finally woke again, the sunlight had already begun slipping through the curtains. After getting dressed, he made his way downstairs, one hand sliding lightly along the banister as he descended. The house was already awake. He could hear voices coming from the kitchen and the faint clatter of dishes being moved around. Someone had the radio on somewhere, low enough that he could barely make out the song.
He was still rubbing one eye when Janet appeared around the corner.
"Michael!"
He looked up.
"Hi, Janet."
She smiled brightly.
"You got mail."
Michael paused halfway down the stairs.
"Mail?"
"Yeah."
She came a little closer, holding a small handful of envelopes.
"I got it from the box this morning."
Michael glanced at the envelopes.
"Okay."
He continued down the stairs. Janet followed him.
"There was one for you that looked different."
Michael stopped.
"Different how?"
She shrugged.
"I don't know. It just did."
He looked at her. Janet held the envelopes out toward him.
"And it says your name."
Michael took them. His eyes moved over the little collection. Bills. A couple of envelopes from work. Something from the record company.
Then— He stopped. His fingers tightened slightly.
No.
There was no way.
He looked at the envelope again. The handwriting. His heart gave a strange little jump.
"Janet..."
She looked up at him.
"What?"
Michael turned the envelope over in his hands.
"Where'd you get this?"
"In the mailbox."
He stared at it. Janet watched his face.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You look funny."
Michael shook his head quickly.
"I don't."
"You do."
He gave her a small smile.
"It's just..."
He looked back down. Could it be?
He almost laughed at himself.
No way.
There were thousands of people who wrote to him. It could be anyone. There was no reason for him to assume it was her. In fact, it was ridiculous to assume it was you. And yet he was still standing there staring at the handwriting. Janet leaned closer.
"Is it important?"
"I don't know."
"You know who it's from?"
Michael hesitated.
"No."
It wasn't exactly a lie. Not yet. Janet studied him for another second before smiling mischievously.
"Maybe it's a secret admirer."
Michael's head snapped up.
"Janet."
She laughed.
"What?"
"Don't."
"I'm just saying."
Michael shook his head, trying not to smile.
"You're silly."
"So are you."
She reached for one of the other envelopes.
"Well, I'm hungry. You coming?"
Michael looked down at the letter again.
"In a minute."
Janet gave him a suspicious look.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"You don't wanna eat?"
"I'll come down."
She shrugged.
"Okay." She started toward the kitchen, then glanced back, "don't read all your mail without me."
Michael laughed softly.
"I won't."
Janet disappeared around the corner. Michael waited until he could no longer hear her footsteps. Then he looked at the envelope again. His thumb moved slowly over the edge. His heart was beating a little faster now. Because suddenly, he wasn't nearly as tired anymore.
He carries the envelope back to his room before opening it, almost without thinking about it. It's an old habit, one he has never really had to question. Some things are better opened somewhere private, away from curious eyes and the possibility of Janet wandering past or Mama calling his name from down the hallway. He doesn't want anybody asking what he's reading, or seeing his face before he's even had a chance to decide what he thinks about it himself. So he keeps the envelope tucked carefully in his hand as he makes his way upstairs, closing his bedroom door behind him with a quiet click.
For a moment, he simply stands there, looking down at it.
Then he crosses the room and sits on the edge of his bed, almost in exactly the same place he'd been sitting the night before. The familiarity of it makes something in his chest flutter, and he tries not to think too much about why. He turns the envelope over once in his hands, looking at the handwriting again, before finally slipping his thumb beneath the flap and carefully easing it open.
There is a letter inside, folded neatly once.
And behind it, something stiffer catches against the paper.
Michael pauses.
His fingers move a little more carefully as he reaches inside, feeling the edge of something thicker beneath the letter. Cardboard, perhaps. Or—
Photographs.
He reads the letter first.
It's shorter than the other one. No page of wanting, no question about the breathy part of his voice. Just a few lines in that same careful hand, and they hit him in the chest before they land lower.
You don't know what I look like.
Now you do.
So you'll know who's thinking about you when you read the next one.
He stops breathing for a second.
The words sit there in front of him, simple and almost innocent compared to the first letter, but somehow they leave him just as unsettled. Michael reads them once more, slower this time, his eyes lingering over the handwriting as though there might be something hidden between the lines that he missed the first time. A quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out of him, and he shakes his head, glancing down at the page with a smile he can't quite seem to get rid of.
Then his attention shifts to the photographs.
He hesitates before reaching for them.
His fingers catch the edge of the first one and carefully slide it free from behind the letter. He turns it over in his hand for a moment, seeing only the blank white back, and suddenly he feels strangely nervous. It is almost easier when she is only words on paper. Words can be folded away. Words can be reread without having to imagine the person who wrote them.
A photograph is different.
Michael turns it over. And the first thing he sees takes his voice clean out of his throat. For a long moment, he doesn't move at all. He simply stares at it, his fingers tightening slightly around the edge as his eyes slowly take in the image.
It's her. You.
A lace set— dark, cheap-looking, the kind of thing that photographs slightly wrong, and that wrongness is the best part of it. The picture is grainy, soft at the edges, overexposed where the flash caught. Somebody took this alone, fumbling with a camera in a bedroom, and that's what makes it obscene in a way no magazine spread could touch.
His eyes move over you slowly.
Your tits sit full and heavy in the lace, spilling a little at the cups, and the lace doesn't hide the shape of your pretty nipples through it. You're curvy. Big in the hips, thick in the thighs— the kind of woman he's pictured in half his fantasies and never admitted out loud. Soft all over. Made to be held.
And your tongue. You've got the tip of it stuck out, playful, like you know exactly what you're doing. Like you knew he'd be sitting alone in a dark room with this in his hands.
He swallows. His mouth has gone dry.
The next one is worse. Or better? He doesn't know which.
You're on your stomach on the bed. The same lace, but from behind— and the angle is lower, the camera propped somewhere, so it's all ass and the long curve of your back. Your hips are wide. Your ass is round and full, the lace cutting across it, and the pose is casual in a way that isn't casual at all. Like you just happened to be lying there. Like you didn't arch your back just a little for the lens. And you're looking back at the lens.
He stares. His cock is already half-hard, again. pressing against his jeans, and he hasn't touched himself. Hasn't done anything but look.
"Jesus," he whispers.
His thumb drifts over the edge of the photograph, near the curve of your hip. The paper is glossy. Slick under his finger.
He looks from the photos to the letter. Back again. The same handwriting. The same girl. The one who wrote about her thighs pressed together, about climbing into his lap, about his hands in her hair.
Now he has a face. A body. Soft hips and full tits and a little pink tongue caught between your teeth.
He sets the photographs down on the bed beside him, careful, like they might tear. Then he drags a hand over his mouth.
This is real. You're real. And you want him to know it.
His hand drops to his lap. He cups himself through the denim, just pressure, just to feel how hard he's gotten, and a breath shudders out of him.
The lamp burns warm against the photographs. He picks up the one of you on your stomach and looks at it again, longer this time.
He can almost feel the weight of you. The give of your hips under his hands. The heat where your thighs meet.
"Now I know what you look like," he murmurs, low, to no one but himself.
He lies back against the mattress, the photos fanned beside him, and lets his hand find its way back to the button of his jeans.
He doesn't take his jeans off. Not yet. He lies there with the photo of you on your stomach in one hand and lets the other press flat over his fly.
Just pressure. His palm rides the hard line of his cock through the denim, and he grinds up into it once, slow, the friction dulled by two layers. Not enough. That's the point.
The lamp throws light across the glossy paper. He holds the picture above him, arm bent, and looks at your ass, the lace, the arch of your back. Your thighs, thick and soft where they press together.
"God," he breathes.
He rubs himself through the jeans. Slow circles with the heel of his hand. His hips roll up on their own. The denim drags, and the dull ache of being restrained makes it better somehow— him, Michael Jackson, lying fully dressed in a dark room, getting himself off to a grainy photograph like some teenager. The picture shakes a little in his grip. He doesn't stop.
He shifts, shoves the jeans down just past his hips with his free hand. The button's already open. The zipper gives. He pushes the denim off and now he's in his boxers, the thin cotton doing nothing to hide the shape of him, a damp spot already darkening the front.
He presses his palm down and hisses through his teeth.
The fabric between them is maddening. He strokes himself through it, up and down, eyes still on the photograph. Your hips. The weight of you. How you'd feel under him.
He can't take it anymore. He lifts the waistband, ready to get his hand inside—
The door bangs open.
Michael's whole body locks. Marlon is already halfway through the doorway before he sees him.
"Mike, Mama said—"
He stops. For one long, horrible second, neither of them says anything. Marlon's eyes drop. First to the photograph in Michael's hand. Then, almost involuntarily, lower.
Then back to the photograph. Michael follows his gaze and seems to realize all at once what Marlon has just seen. His face goes hot.
He moves so quickly that the photograph nearly slips from his fingers, crushing it instinctively against his stomach as his other hand grabs for the nearest pillow and yanks it across his lap. The movement is rushed and awkward, far too late to disguise anything, and somehow that only makes the entire situation worse.
"Get out," he chokes.
Marlon doesn't move. His mouth opens. Closes. His eyebrows lift slowly as the realization settles in. Michael's grip tightens around the pillow.
"Get out, Marlon!"
"Whoa. Okay." Marlon finally takes a step backward, both hands coming up in surrender. "I didn't—"
He stops. His mouth twitches. Michael sees it.
"No."
Marlon's grin breaks through.
"I didn't see nothin'."
"You saw everything."
"I saw some things."
Michael stares at him in horror.
"Marlon!"
Michael throws the nearest object at him— a sock. It misses. Marlon's already in the hall, cackling.
"Whose picture was that, Mike?"
"Nobody!"
"That wasn't no nobody."
Michael lunges and slams the door in his face, breathing hard, the pillow still clutched over his lap. Through the wood he can hear Marlon's laughter fading down the stairs. He stays against the door. Heart hammering. His forehead drops against the door.
The pillow is still crushed over his lap. Under it, he's still hard — stubbornly, idiotically hard, like his body hasn't gotten the message that the moment's over.
The photograph is crumpled against his stomach, warm from his skin. He peels it off carefully, like it might burn him, and looks at it. A crease cuts across the corner of the bed now. Right across your hip.
"Shit," he whispers.
He smooths it flat against his thigh, thumb pressing the crease out, over and over. It won't go away. Neither will the look on Marlon's face.
He pushes off the door and sits heavy on the edge of the bed. His hands are shaking a little. Not fear. Something tighter, more exposed — being seen like that, caught with his jeans around his hips and a stranger's body in his hand. He doesn't finish. Can't. The heat's gone sour, and what's left is just him in a dim room with a ruined picture and his brother's voice in his head.
He pulls his boxers up, kicks the jeans the rest of the way off, and sits there. After a long while he stands, crosses to the dresser, opens a little box. He lays the photo inside, on top of the letter. Closes it. Locks it with the small brass key he keeps on a chain, and slips the chain around his neck. He'll deal with Marlon later.
The next evening, he tries to write you back.
He sits at the desk by the window with the good pen between his fingers and a clean sheet of paper placed carefully in front of him. The first letter is open beside his elbow, its creases softened now from being folded and unfolded more times than he would ever admit. He has already read it again. twice today. Once when he first sat down, and then again after he'd spent several minutes staring at the blank page without writing a single word.
Write me back. I want to hear the breathy part.
His eyes catch on the sentence again.
Michael looks away.
He rubs his thumb slowly over the side of the pen, staring through the window at the fading light outside. He'd thought this would be easy.
He writes,
'Dear friend—'
He stares at the word.
Friend.
It sits there on the page, perfectly harmless, perfectly appropriate, and somehow completely wrong. Michael's mouth pulls into a small, embarrassed frown. He taps the pen once against the desk before dragging it through the word, one thick black line becoming two, then three, until friend is almost completely buried beneath the ink.
He looks at it.
"No."
The next attempt is worse.
'Dear [❤︎︎ ]—'
He gets as far as the little heart before his ears begin to burn.
Michael stares at what he's written, then immediately folds forward, covering his face with one hand.
"Oh, no."
The paper is crumpled before he can change his mind. He tosses it toward the wastebasket. It lands beside it. He doesn't bother picking it up. The next draft begins with simply—
Dear—
He stops there That somehow feels even more intimate. He scratches it out. Another sheet.
Hello,
Too formal! Another.
Hi,
Too casual!
He sighs and leans back in his chair, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. There are already three crumpled sheets on the floor around his shoes, and he's beginning to feel ridiculous. He has performed in front of thousands of people. He's stood on stages with cameras pointed directly at him, walked into rooms full of strangers, answered questions about his music for hours without running out of things to say.
And somehow one woman with a sheet of paper has managed to make him forget how to write his own name. Then he begins once again.
'I got your letter. And the pictures. You shouldn't have—'
No. You should have. That's the whole problem. He tries again. 'I can't stop looking.'
He writes it and his face goes hot. It's true. It's also not enough. you'd sent him a full page of wanting, fearless and specific, and he can't string together a single sentence that matches it.
The pile of crumpled pages grows beside the desk. Every attempt too careful, too stiff, too him. He can hear the cameras in his own handwriting. Thank you for your letter. I appreciate your kindness. He wants to tell you what he did the first night, what he has been doing since that night, but it won't come out of the pen.
He pushes back from the desk. The chair scrapes loud in the quiet room. He looks at the mess and thinks, not for the first time, that paper might not be the way.
—
Two days.
You hadn't meant to count them. The first morning, you'd told yourself there was no reason to expect anything so soon. Mail took time. Letters had to be sorted, opened, read, passed through however many hands they passed through before they ever reached the person they were meant for. And Michael was busy. He had an album to promote, interviews to give, rehearsals and meetings and probably a hundred other things you couldn't even imagine. A man who received thousands of letters couldn't possibly sit down and answer every single one, especially not some girl he'd never met who had been bold enough to send him something that had probably made him blush on national television.
You'd believed all of that.
At least, you had when you first woke up. By the time you found yourself standing in front of the mailbox that morning, you weren't quite as convincing anymore.
You'd tried not to make it obvious, even to yourself. You'd gone outside for something else, you told yourself. You happened to be walking past it. There was no reason not to check while you were there. It wasn't as though you'd been thinking about it since you'd opened your eyes.
You lifted the little metal door.
Nothing.
Well—almost nothing.
A bill.
A flyer folded in half.
And a postcard from your aunt that you nearly tossed aside before you recognized her handwriting.
You stood there for another moment anyway, staring down into the empty mailbox as though something might magically appear if you waited long enough.
Nothing.
You closed it.
You checked again that evening.
There was no particular reason to. Mail had already come that morning, and you knew perfectly well there wasn't supposed to be another delivery. Still, sometime after dinner, you found yourself wandering down the driveway anyway, slippers scuffing lightly against the pavement as you told yourself you were only going outside for some air.
The mailbox was empty. You stared inside it for a second longer than necessary before closing the little metal door with a quiet click. Then you stood there. Just stood there, looking back toward the house.
You felt ridiculous. So you laughed softly to yourself, shook your head, and walked back inside.
The next morning, you checked again. This time you didn't even bother making up an excuse.
You went straight to the mailbox after breakfast, still in whatever you'd thrown on without thinking, a mug of coffee warming your hand. You opened it with far more hope than you wanted to admit.
Nothing from him. Another bill. Another piece of junk mail.
You sighed, gathered everything into your arms, and shut the mailbox. You'd stopped pretending it was about anything else.
You knew exactly what you were doing now. You were waiting for him. And somehow, admitting that to yourself made the empty mailbox feel a little more disappointing.
It was foolish. You knew it was foolish. Some part of you had known from the start that this was a letter sent into the dark— that he might never open it, might never see the photographs, might have dropped them in the studio trash before he ever made it home. The first letter had been written expecting nothing. That was the whole point. The thrill was in the sending.
Except now you wanted a reply.
You wanted it in a way that embarrassed you. You caught yourself imagining his handwriting— whether it would be careful or hurried, whether he pressed hard enough to leave grooves in the paper. You imagined the envelope with your name on it, the sound it would make landing in the box. Every time the mail came up empty, something in your chest dropped a little.
It wasn't disappointment exactly. It was the slow, sinking confirmation that you were sitting around, waiting for a stranger to want you back.
By the second afternoon, the waiting had curdled into something restless. You did the dishes, folded laundry, ran an errand you didn't need just to have somewhere to be. Your mind kept circling the same place anyway. The photographs. The silence. What he might have thought of you.
Worst case, he'd laughed. Passed the pictures around to his brothers, let them have their fun, tossed the whole thing in the garbage. You could almost hear it— the easy, dismissive laughter of men who'd seen prettier girls send bolder things.
The thought sat cold in your stomach.
But there was another possibility, and it was worse in its own way: that he'd looked and said nothing at all. That he'd folded your letter away and forgotten it, and you'd never know one way or the other.
If he wasn't going to answer, you'd give him more to answer to.
The idea arrived quietly, almost as a joke, and then it settled in and refused to leave. You could let it fizzle. Chalk the whole thing up to a silly impulse and never think about Michael Jackson's mouth again.
Or you could be bolder.
You sat down at the desk. The same desk, the same lamp, the stationery still stacked where you'd left it, the good pen resting on top. You looked at the blank page for a long moment. Then you pushed it aside and reached for the camera again instead.
It was old— your father's, bought years ago and barely used, with a timer dial that clicked and a flash that washed everything too bright. You knew its quirks by now. Your hands moved through the ritual without thinking: load it, wind it, prop it on the stack of books at the foot of the bed, angled up.
The first photograph was the easiest, because you were still half-dressed for it.
You kept the panties on. Lace, black, the same cheap pair from before, the ones that bit into your hips just slightly when you moved. You lay back, knees bent, and hooked two fingers into the fabric at the side. The flash caught the shine of your inner thigh, the dark of the lace against your skin, and there—slick and already dripping—here your fingers pulled the fabric aside just enough to show him what was waiting.
That was the first one.
The second took longer.
Nude meant everything. No lace to hide behind, no angle that let you keep some part of yourself out of frame. You stood in front of the mirror first, not out of vanity but because you needed to see what the camera would see. The softness of your stomach. The weight of your breasts. And the little trail of dark hair between your legs, softly curling against the inside of your thighs.
You'd never thought much about it before. Now you wanted him to see it. You wanted him to know you hadn't waxed yourself smooth like the women in the magazines, that you'd kept this part of yourself, and you wanted him to like it.
The wanting left you wet. You could feel it, a warm slick press against the lace as you moved. Somewhere behind your ribs your heart beat too hard. You lay back on the bed and let the timer run. The flash went white for a second, and you just lay there, breathing, the camera ticking beside you.
The photographs developed in the dark of the bathroom, and you spread them out on the bed to look. One of you pulling the lace aside, one of you bare and soft, legs parted, the dark hair at the center of it. The flash had been kind to you. Or maybe you'd stopped caring about it.
You sat down with the pen, and the first line came before you'd even decided to write it.
❝—You're quiet.
That's okay. I can be loud enough for both of us.
I've been thinking about you every night since I sent that first letter. Not politely. I've thought about your mouth, your hands, that half-second before you sing. And I've thought about what I'd let you do to me if I ever had you alone in the dark.
I want to be under you. I want your weight on me, your hands pinning mine down. I want you to take what you want from me— and I want you to know I'm giving it to you gladly. Nothing about me is a surrender you'd have to win. It's a gift, offered on purpose.
I'd kneel for you. I'd do it without being asked, and I'd stay there, looking up, until you decided what to do with me. Put your hands in my hair. Pull. I'll take it. I want to take it. I want to be good for you.
I think about your mouth between my legs. I've decided you take your time there. I've decided you'd hold my hips down and make me wait, make me beg— and I would, Michael. I'd beg so pretty for you. Not because you'd force it out of me. Because I'd want to give you that.
And when you finally push inside me, I want it slow. Your weight on me. Your mouth at my ear, that low voice gone rough, telling me I'm yours. Telling me how good I take you. I want to come with my legs around you and your name in my mouth, and I want you to feel exactly how much I wanted it.
I've done it alone, thinking about you. My fingers, your voice in the room, the picture of you above me. It's good. It's never going to be enough— and I'm not sorry about that. I like wanting you this way.
So write me back, Michael. Or don't. I'm not asking your permission to want you— I'm telling you I do. And I'm telling you what I want is to be yours.
Yours, whether you answer or not,
The girl who thinks about your mouth — [❤︎︎ ]❞
You read it over twice. Once for mistakes. Once because you couldn't quite believe you'd written it.
It was bolder than the first. Wilder. The kind of letter you'd never say out loud, the kind you'd fold in half and press into a stranger's hands and then run. And maybe that was the point. You'd already sent him your body. Now you were sending him the truth of what he did to it.
The photographs went in behind the letter. You slid them carefully into the envelope, spine against spine, and sealed it.
Your name went on the back. His on the front, in that same careful hand you'd practiced twice before.
You didn't let yourself think. You pulled on your shoes, walked to the corner in the fading light, and dropped it into the box before the part of you that was still sane could catch up.
The metal mouth swallowed it. Gone.
For a long moment you stood there with your hand still resting on the cold side of the box, listening to the street settle into evening around you. The wind picked up. Somewhere a car turned over. Then you walked home, and you didn't look back once.
You didn't know— couldn't know— that Michael Jackson was lying in his dark room with your last photograph in his hand and his own name halfway down his throat.
You'd find out soon enough.
—
Three days later, your second mail arrives.
He sees it on the entry table with the rest of the mail.
At first, it's only the handwriting that catches his eye. The familiar slant of the letters, the way his name has been written across the front with that same careful attention he'd noticed before. Michael slows as he walks past, then stops altogether. He looks at the envelope for a moment without touching it, his eyes moving over the handwriting as though he needs to make absolutely certain before he lets himself believe it.
It is.
His pulse kicks up into his throat.
For a second, he simply stands there, staring.
Then he reaches down and picks it up, careful not to bend the envelope as he tucks it against his side. He doesn't open it there. He doesn't even turn it over. The possibility of somebody seeing it, of somebody asking who it's from or why he's suddenly so interested in one particular piece of mail, is enough to make him start toward the stairs almost immediately.
He carries it to his room.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Michael turns the lock.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, he checks it again.
Once.
Twice.
He glances toward the hallway before dragging the chair over and wedging it carefully beneath the door handle. He learned his lesson the other day. He is not going to be caught off guard again, not when he has no idea what might be waiting inside this envelope.
Only then does he finally turn back toward the room. The envelope is still in his hand. Michael looks down at it. A small smile pulls at his mouth. He sits on the edge of his bed, turning it over once between his fingers, feeling that familiar mixture of anticipation and nerves settle over him. Then his thumb slips beneath the flap.
Inside there's a letter. One sheet, folded around two photographs, and a note. He catches a glimpse of the first two lines.
'You're quiet.
That's okay. I can be loud enough for both of us.'
Then he unfolds the photos before reading the rest of the latter
The first one takes the air out of the room.
Your fingers. Black lace pulled aside, and there— slick, already shining for him. The flash caught the shine of your inner thigh. It's the most obscene thing he's ever held, and the obscenity of it is that it's real. A woman alone in her bedroom, fumbling with a camera, showing him exactly where she wants him.
His mouth drops open. He makes a sound he doesn't recognize.
The second one. He forgets to breathe. You're holding the with one hand camera. And bare. Not posed like a magazine— just bare, soft, legs parted, and the camera caught all of you. The weight of your breasts. The round of your hips. Thighs, thick and open. And between them, a thatch of hair, curling against your skin. He stares at it like he's never seen anything in his life.
Completely stripped of any clothing. One hand covering a breast, the other bare, your nipple dark against the white flash. Your lips parted. Something glossy smeared high on your thigh.
His thumb drifts over the glossy paper, over the dark of it.
He really likes it. God, he love it. This is just filthily raw.
"Jesus," he breathes.
Then the letter. He reads it slow, the way he's learned to read you— because your words are like your photographs. Everything on purpose.
'I've been thinking about you every night since I sent that first letter. Not politely...'
His palm presses flat over his fly instantly. Just pressure. Denim and cotton between his hand and the heat of himself. He doesn't undo the button. Not yet.
'I want to be under you. I want your weight on me, your hands pinning mine down. I want you to take what you want from me— and I want you to know I'm giving it to you gladly. Nothing about me is a surrender you'd have to win. It's a gift, offered on purpose.'
His hand stops. He reads that part again.
Nobody's ever handed him the wanting like that. Wrapped. Offered. Take it, it's yours, I chose this.
I'd kneel for you. I'd do it without being asked, and I'd stay there, looking up, until you decided what to do with me.
He pictures it. You on the floor in front of him, face tilted up, patient. Waiting. His hands gently in your hair. Pulling. And you taking it — wanting to take it.
His hips roll up into his palm once, slow, through the denim. He bites his lip.
I want to be good for you.
That's the line that breaks something in him. Not the dirty part. The soft part. The part where you hand him more than her body. Good for you. Like it's something you want to be. Like he's worth being good for.
I think about your mouth between my legs. I've decided you take your time there.
He breathes out through his teeth, forehead dropping.
I've decided you'd hold my hips down and make me wait, make me be— and I would, Michael. I'd beg so pretty for you. Not because you'd force it out of me. Because I'd want to give you that.
His palm rides the hard line of him through the jeans, slow circles, the friction dulled by two layers. Not enough. He keeps it that way. He's not done reading.
And when you finally push inside me, I want it slow. Your weight on me. Your mouth at my ear, that low voice gone rough, telling me I'm yours.
"Tellin' me I'm yours," he whispered to himself.
He reads the rest with his teeth in his lip and his hand pressed flat against himself, hard and aching and held back. He finishes the letter. Then he starts it again, from the top, slower.
The lamp burns warm on the photographs. He looks at you and keeps his hand where it is— pressing, grinding, biting his lip hard enough to hurt.
I can be loud enough for both of us.
For a moment, he thinks about the crumpled drafts still sitting in the wastebasket beside his desk. All those attempts at finding the right words, each one abandoned because it sounded too formal, too distant, too much like the kind of answer he would give to any other fan. He remembers the first one most clearly—the word friend sitting there at the top of the page, perfectly polite and completely wrong. He'd stared at it until he couldn't stand the sight of it anymore, then crossed it out so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper.
Paper wasn't going to do it. Not this time.
He looks down at your letter again, at the careful handwriting running across the page, and the thought comes to him so naturally that he doesn't even argue with it.
He needs his voice.
Michael sits there for another moment, letting that idea settle.
Then he gets up.
He finds the recorder in the music room, a small portable thing with a blank cassette already sitting inside it. He picks it up and checks the buttons before carrying it back toward his room, turning it over once in his hands as though he might somehow change his mind along the way.
He doesn't ask.
Nobody stops him.
It's also his house, his equipment, and he's been quiet and strange for several days now. His family has gotten used to him disappearing into his room with a notebook or a tape recorder, especially when he's working on music. As far as anyone downstairs knows, that's probably all this is.
He waited past midnight. Television off. His brothers' doors shut. Mama asleep. The hallway still. He locks his door and wedges the chair under the handle again, because he is not getting walked in on. Not for this.
He sets the recorder on the nightstand. Lays the photos out on the bed in front of him, arranged like a hand of cards. The letter. The lace. The one of you spread open.
The lamp burns low. He takes a breath. His hands are already unsteady.
Then he presses record.
The little red light blinks.
For a long second he says nothing. The tape hisses. He's too aware of his own breathing, too close to the mic. Then he leans in, and his voice drops into that soft, low place you had asked for.
"I got your letter."
A pause. The hiss.
"And the pictures."
He swallows. The mic picks it up— the click of his throat.
"I been tryin' to write you back. I wrote y' hundred letters 'nd I threw every one of 'em away." A shaky little laugh. "Y' said you wanted the breathy part. So I thought maybe I'd just... let y' hear it."
He shifts on the bed. The denim drags. He's been hard since he laid the photos out.
"'m lookin' at you right now. The one where you're on your back."
He picks up the photograph, holds it to the light. His voice roughens.
"Y' spread yourself open for me. I can see everythin'." He exhales, slow. "Y' got... a real pretty pussy."
The word drops out of him like a stone into still water. It lands somewhere in his own chest first.
"I didn't know you'd be so wet." His thumb traces the edge of the photo. "Is that for me? Did y' think about me when you took it?"
He sets the photo down and works at his belt. Leather through the loops. The button. The zipper. It's all on the tape, unmistakable.
"You don't know what y' did t' me." His voice dips. "I read your letter 'nd I couldn't sleep. I couldn't think. I got so hard in the middle of an interview I thought I was gonna die."
He shoves the jeans down. Boxers too. His cock springs free, thick and leaking, and he wraps a hand around it with a low, broken sound that goes straight onto the tape.
"There it is." His breath stutters. "That's what you do to me."
He strokes slow. The slick sound fills the quiet room, wet and obscene, and the mic catches all of it.
"I keep your pictures and letters in a box. In my dresser." A breathless laugh. "I can't stop lookin'. Every night. Your pretty hips. Your pretty thighs." He pauses, voice gone soft and ragged. "'nd that pretty lil pussy. I keep thinkin' about puttin' my mouth there."
He strokes faster. His head falls back against the headboard.
"I wanna taste you," he whispers. "Wanna spread you open 'nd lick you 'til you're beggin' me to stop. 'Til you're cryin' on my tongue."
His hand moves in a steady rhythm now. The wet sound is loud, unashamed.
"I think about your clit." The word comes out strangled. "How it'd feel under my tongue. Swollen. Slick. I'd suck on it 'til y' can't talk."
A whimper escapes him. High and unguarded. He doesn't cut it off. It goes on the tape, and he doesn't care anymore.
"I think about bein' inside you." His voice is wrecked. "Your pussy around my cock. So tight and warm. I'd fill you up so slow you'd feel every inch of me."
He pictures it — you under him, thick thighs spread wide, the dark hair pressing against his skin. His hips jerk up into his fist.
"You'd take all of me, wouldn't you?" He's panting now. "You'd be so good for me. So fuckin' wet. I'd slide right into that little hole and you'd squeeze me so tight."
He squeezes the base of his cock, staving it off, a strained sound caught in his chest.
"I wanna hear you." His voice drops again, intimate, ruined. "Wanna hear the sounds you'd make. Wanna make you come on my fingers first. Get you all messy and soaked before I put my dick in you."
He's close. It's in his voice— the strain, the way the words come apart at the edges.
"Then I'd make love to you." He breathes it out, low and shaking. "Slow at first. Then hard. 'Til the bed's hittin' the wall 'nd you're screamin' my name."
His hand speeds. The wet sound fills the room, loud and relentless.
"'m gonna come thinkin' about you," he gasps. "Thinkin' about your pussy. Your pretty face. The way you stuck your tongue out at me."
A broken whimper. Then another.
"God— I'm gonna—"
He comes with a strangled moan, the mic catching the whole ragged shape of it. Hot over his fist, spilling onto his stomach. He strokes himself through it, shivering, making small helpless sounds until it's too much and he has to let go.
For a long moment there's only his breathing on the tape. Harsh. Then slowing.
He lifts his head. The red light still blinks.
"Now you know." His voice is soft, barely there. "You know what I sound like."
A pause.
"Please keep writing."
He reaches over and presses stop.
The room goes silent. The hiss cuts to nothing. He sits there, spent and sticky, the photos fanned around him like evidence.
(i'm sorry i don't know how to tell if you're reqs are open or not so if they arent then you can ignore this)
if you can could you make an elder!mj and elder!reader where the kids like prince paris and blanket are filming a home video or they are just filming something and mj and reader are seen in the back just being the sweetest couple ever but mj and reader didn't know they were even being filmed cus that's just they way the act usually
Mama & Papa
I love this ask sm!
You and Michael recorded every moment with your babies. Every step, every word, everything. You didn't want to miss a single moment of their lives and Michael agreed. You loved watching them back with a smile on your face. Michael loved watching his family have these moments.
"Daddy, can I have your…camera, please?" A tiny voice sounded as Prince stood in front of the camera.
The camera unbelievably close as Michael recorded the rain outside. You stood in the rain barefoot as the droplets fell on you. Your eyes closed as you took a sigh of relief. You felt serene. "You want to record?" He asked Prince as his chubby hands took the camera from him.
Prince put his eye up to the camera as it shot around the room. The camera landed on Michael who smiled at him. Prince walked closer to him before pointing it towards you. Paris stared out the window at you as you let the rain pelt you. Michael turned his head to look at Paris.
"Are you watching Mommy, Paris?" He called to her as she glanced at Michael briefly before looking back at you.
You never got to do this as a kid and it was so relaxing. "Is Mommy staying outside?" Prince asked as he held the camera that was unstable in his little hands.
"Mommy just wants to feel the rain right now." Michael explained as the camera turned to Paris who eyed it briefly.
"I want to go outside with Mommy." Prince mumbled to Michael as he recorded the ground.
"You'll get sick." Michael told him as he set the camera on a nearby table. "I'll go get Mommy for you, okay?"
Prince agreed as Michael stepped outside with an umbrella. The two siblings pressed against the glass watching their parents interact. Michael got closer but you didn't flinch. The freeing feeling to good to pass up. You felt the rain stop falling on your skin causing you to peek an eye open at him.
"They're asking for you." He mumbled as you heard the rain pelt the umbrella.
"Clingy little angels, aren't they?" You teased as you turned your head to see the kids staring at you both through the glass door.
You gave them a small wave that they returned enthusiastically. "I love them." You spoke softly into the air.
"So do I." He smiled as he pulled you into him.
"Michael, I'm soaked." You grimaced as you put your hands on his chest to create distance.
He furrowed his eyebrows. "I've seen you with a fever of a hundred and three, I can handle a little rain."
Clinking could be heard through the video as the camera catches Paris' eyes staring into it. A few shuffles later and the camera is pressed into Prince's face. He stared before smiling and the camera whipped to you and Michael outside. You burst into laughter as he kissed your cheek multiple times. The camera was shaky as it caught you two sharing a few kisses in the rain.
"Mommy's gonna get sick." Prince said with a tremble to his voice. Paris cut the camera to him as he pouted as the camera cut off.
The camera whirred back to life to an older Paris and Prince. Prince held the camera as he was filming the house for Christmas. The tree was up and gifts wrapped. The camera flipped rapidly as Prince showed different parts of the house at a weird angle. "Where's Daddy?" He asked himself as the camera wobbled around the corner.
"Prince, why do you have the camera?" Michael laughed from the couch where he and Paris rested.
"It's Christmas." He announced as he walked closer to Michael.
"It is and it's very important." Michael informed him. The sound of your slippers caused everyone to look towards the hallway.
Prince turned abruptly causing the camera to shake. "Mommy and Bigi!"
The sounds of small cooing and babbling from the hallway caught everyone's attention. You came down the hallway holding Bigi in your arms. You wave his tiny hand towards everyone. Prince walked up as the camera smushed into your shirt as he tried to hug his baby brother. You kissed his head before making your way towards Michael and Paris.
Michael took Bigi out of your arms as you kissed Paris on the cheek. Michael smiled widely at Bigi as he gave him a few kisses. Bigi giggled loudly as he was plastered with Michael's kisses. "Merry Christmas, my babies." You smiled radiantly.
"Merry Christmas, Mommy." Prince said as he clung to your leg. You couldn't help but to pick him up.
The tape showed how wild Christmas was. Between Paris and Prince opening presents and Bigi having a ball ripping up wrapping paper, you and Michael were beat. Michael pulled you to the side to give you a special gift. You opened the box to find a ring which you giggled about. The camera rolled as Paris held it, trying to get a good secret angle of her parents.
"What's are you doing, Paris?" Prince asked as he squished in next to his sister.
"Recording Mama and Papa." She whispered as she hushed Prince.
"What's this for?" You laughed as you looked up at him.
"Just something I thought would look good on you." He complimented as he kissed the corner of your mouth.
You rolled your eyes playfully. "You're sweet talking me."
"I definitely am." He laughed as you laced your fingers together.
By the time the kids were a bit older, there were many tapes piled up. If you watched one, you and Michael were always in the back staring into each other like love sick puppies. Your children grew up knowing what love looked like. Between how you raised them and how you treat each other, you both raised some fine and dignified humans.
I’ve been having maternal thoughts and I’m scared—
𐙚summary - sneaking in michael was easy, staying quiet was the hard part. based on this req!!
𐙚 content -p-in-v, (mostly)slient sex, oral (f! receiving), multiple orgasms(f!) the reader (an adult)still living with her parents, they say baby ALOT
the plan was clear. michael was too come at 12:30am on the dot. knowing your parents would well be asleep by then.
and there he was slipping through your already open window. his feet making no noise when he landed on your plush carpet. turning around briefly to close the window, leaving it cracked slightly.
your small bedside lamp illuminating your small bedroom. you watched michael slowly slip of his shoes and creep toward you. michael bit back smile watching you, so soft and sleepy. you wore a little pink baby doll nightgown with lace and a bow on the front.
as he began to get on your bed, a large creak startling you both. your heart dropping down to your stomach, looking at him worried. giving you another grin, he put his finger over his mouth. your heart pounding, something in the back of your mind telling you the whole house could hear you two. your old childhood home was truly made from cardboard.
you grabbed him by his collar with both hands, pulling him in for a kiss. starting slowly, his hands settling at your waist. the kiss quickly turning deep, filthy, all tongue no words needed to be said, it spoke for itself. your hands began toying at the bottom of his hoodie, he quickly picks up on your silent request.
he breaks the kiss. ripping off his hoodie and opening your legs to place himself right inbetween them. on instinct you lie down, hair messy on the soft pillow. he hovers over you kissing you again, his hands sneaking up the bottom of your nightgown to play with your pretty brown nipples.
thumb brushing over your already stiff nipples, he pinched and rolled them between his fingers. bunching the dress up to the top so michael could suck on your pretty titties, showing them both love. you bit back your moans so hard you almost drew blood.
he kissed his way down to your bare cunt. your back arching off the bed as you let out tiny, breathy sounds.
“baby..” you quietly gasped.
he spreads you legs open wider, hooking them over his shoulder. he buried his face inbetween your legs no hesitation.
the first long lick of your soaked pussy made your eyes roll to the back of your head. his tongue circled and sucked your clit, before sticking in his thick middle finger and shortly after his ring finger. he slowly fucked his fingers into you in a rolling motion, wanting to feel all your gummy walls. you rocked your hips against his mouth and fingers, your hands holding his jaw. the wet sounds filling the quiet room.
you hands tightly clasped over your mouth to muffle that broken cry and your legs gently shook around his head as your orgasm came ripping through your body. michael continued sucking and kissing your cunt until aftershock of your orgasm eased. now he hovered back over you.
“you did so good, honey.” he pecked kisses on your cheeks. mouth stil slick with your essence. you quietly cringing and giggled at the feeling. knelling back to sit on his heels, he shoved his sweats off revealing thick, hard, leaking cock. he leaned over you, lining his cock with your dripping entrance.
“gotta stay real quiet, okay?” your tone hushed.
michael eagerly nodded. “i’ll be extra quiet, i promise.”
finally entering slowly, that delicious stretch making your back arch. feeling each ridge and vein making your mind go blank.
“..honey, your so…tight. so..warm.” michael desperately gasps out. not yet thrusting but gently rolling his hips. you could quite literally feel him in the deepest part of your body.
his eyes fluttered shut, his mouth open in a slient moan. “oh… baby” cock aching to finally make sweet love to you. as he begins thrusting, your old childhood bed creaking at each thrust. he wasn’t even moving that fast, the bed made it seem like he was tearing your guts up. you placed you hands on his hips stopping his movements.
“..baby..baby…too loud. we can’t do it on here..” you furrowed in a worried expression. looking his eyes, you can practically see the gears in his brain shifting. eyes flickering to your fluffy carpet then back to you.
thats how michael ended up lying on the floor with his head resting on the pillow snatched from your bed and you straddling his narrow hips. he helped you guide his slick cock inside you, rubbing his swollen head along your soaked folds until you were trembling.
then you sank down, he slowly filled you inch by inch. letting out a gasp feeling the way his head so deep inside you, kissing that senstive spot.
michael head tipping back against the pillow, his lips parting.
“oh…oh..my gosh… baby.” his pretty voice cracking slightly. his grip bruising on your hip guiding you rising and sinking on him.
you leaned forward, hands on his chest. this new angle allowing you to ride him faster. he was letting a the prettiest, softest moans. increasing harder for the two of you to stay quiet. everytime you sank down, a quiet, filthy squelch came from the joining of you two. your cunt soaking wet, dripping down his cock and pooling at his pubic area making each glide smoother.
michael chest rising and falling rapidly, his curls stuck to his sweaty forehead. you lean down and whisper in his ear.
“don’ we sound s’pretty, mikey.” you whimpered. looking at him in his flushed face.
“yes.. the prettiest i’ve ever heard mama.” his head thrown back in an effort to repress his moans as you bounced faster than before. your thighs started shaking. the pressure deep in your belly , warm and aching.
michael wraps his arm around you lower back. sitting himself up, helping you deeply roll his hips, chasing both releases.
“whenever your ready, ill be ready.” he says, kissing that sweet spot on your neck. one hand staying on your back and the other slowly creeping to finding your swollen clit, rubbing it in slow, intentional cricles.
picking up speed once more. so,so close.
“mama…yes..like that.” he groaned, buried in your neck holding you closer.
“..yeah?..like that?” you almost sound like you where taunting him.
“mhmm…baby..exactly like that.”
when your orgasm finally hit, it crashing though you in warm rolling waves. your cunt rhythmically pulsing around his cock, as the pleasure hit every nerve.
michael moments later following you. hips stuttering, hands cupping your ass to quickly pull you off him, releasing on both stomachs. his whole body trembles, stroking your upper thighs and you petting his nape coaxing him.
the two you of staying in that position, on the floor,matching breaths. michael peppering kiss along your face,temple, cheek, corners of your mouth. basking in the afterglow together. maybe you slightly salty he couldn’t do you properly, in bed. but you were complaining.
now in bed, your pink comforter covering you both. that bedside lamp finally cut off.
“shouldn’t you be leavin’ soon?” you yawned.
“yeah, will. i just wan’ make sure your sleeping good. ill be gone by the time you wake up.” you giggled softly, you leg and arm splayed across his body.
michael in fact, was not gone when you woke up… and your daddy wasnt too happy, oh well.
𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : michael is over at your house and gets inspired for his song get on the floor.
𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : established relationship. childhood sweethearts. smut. mutual masturbation. no p in v. michael & reader are talkers. praise. dirty talk. teasing. fingering. handjob. intense making out. squirting for the first time. reader thinks she's gonna pee. michael is in awe. nicknames 𓏽 ♫ 𝟗.𝟑𝓀
𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི : new series? 🎧ྀི
𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist
﹕ ||☰ recovered 𝒹iar𝓎 entr𝓎 no. 𝟐𝟗
꒰𝓈tatus : 𝑢𝑛𝑝𝑢𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘩𝑒𝑑 ⤦
⋮ ⌗ ┆ 𝒻𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒖𝒂𝒓𝒚 𝟐𝟒, 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟗
❝ I had an amazing day today.
I was working on the album, but I was getting frustrated with myself again. I kept rewriting things and listening back to the same parts over and over because I wanted it to be right. I know I put too much pressure on myself sometimes, but I really want this album to be something special. My baby noticed, of course. She always does.
She was sorting through her records while I was sitting on her bed with my notebook, and she kept trying to talk to me even though I was barely paying attention. She laughed because I kept answering with “mhm” without actually listening. She knows me too well.
Tink asked me to play the demo for her, and I was a little nervous because it wasn’t finished yet. I don’t mind people hearing my music when it’s done, but letting someone hear it while it’s still being created feels different. It’s not perfect yet. But she listened, and she smiled.
She told me she liked it and that it made her want to dance. Then she grabbed my hand and pulled me up from the bed. I laughed because she always knows how to get me out of my head. We just danced around her room, teased each other, and had fun. For a while, I forgot about worrying if the song was good enough.
I’m lucky to have someone like her. She doesn’t just support the music. She supports me when I’m stressed, when I’m overthinking, and when I don’t believe in myself enough.
Sometimes I think she knows me better than I know myself.
And then I just couldn't resist her. I never can. I love my beautiful girl so much. I kissed her until we both couldn't breath anymore. I always get like this when it's just the two of us. I think it was also a wonderful day for her too.
Things got intense quickly. When I pleasured her, she was starting to panic. She got so scared because she felt like she was losing control she thought she was going to have an accident. But I just held her close and told her she didn't have to be afraid, that I didn't care about any mess as long as she let herself feel good. I just my angel to feel safe with me.
When she finally let go, it was more beautiful than anything I've ever seen. She completely surrendered, and she just... she released everything. She sprayed everywhere, soaking the sheets and even getting on me, but I couldn't take my eyes off her. I was just in awe of her. I've never seen anyone so vulnerable and so powerful at the same time. ❞
Michael had somehow managed to occupy nearly every inch of your bed despite lying there alone.
Sheets that had been neatly tucked that morning were now creased beneath him, pillows haphazardly stacked behind his back to prop him upright while one long leg hung lazily over the side of the mattress. Beside him sat an ever-growing collection of loose papers, each one crowded with hurried lyrics, crossed-out verses, scattered arrows and little musical notes that only he himself seemed capable of deciphering. Some pages had already been discarded entirely, crumpled into imperfect balls that littered your bedroom floor like casualties of an invisible war.
The only page he seemed intent on protecting rested neatly inside the leather notebook balanced upon his knee.
Your birthday gift.
Months ago, after growing tired of watching him scribble melodies onto napkins, envelopes, receipts and the backs of grocery lists—only to spend the next week frantically searching for whichever scrap of paper held that one lyric—you'd surprised him with the journal. Rich brown leather, soft beneath his fingertips, his initials embossed discreetly into the corner.
He'd smiled so brightly that afternoon you thought he might cry.
It hadn't been an expensive gift by any means. Just a sturdy leather-bound notebook, warm brown beneath his fingertips, with creamy pages thick enough to withstand the relentless scratching of his pencil. You'd spent far longer choosing it than anyone reasonably should have, standing in little stationery shops with your thumb brushing over countless covers until you'd finally found one that reminded you of him. Simple. Timeless. Something that looked as though it belonged in the hands of someone destined to fill it with songs.
At first he'd simply stared at it. Then at you. Then back at the notebook again.
"You... got this for me?"
You'd laughed softly. "I did, baby. Well, unless somebody else has been hiding in my house, waitin' to give you birthday presents."
He hadn't even smiled immediately. Instead, he'd run his palm slowly across the leather as though afraid pressing too firmly might somehow damage it, before carefully opening the first page. His fingertips lingered over the untouched paper for a long moment.
"It's so nice," he'd murmured, almost to himself. You'd watched him with an amused smile.
"It's just a notebook, you goof."
"I know," he'd replied quietly, still turning the pages one by one. "I've just... nobody ever though of buying me somethin' thoughtful as this. Thank you, baby"
Not because the notebook was extraordinary—it wasn't—but because it had never once crossed your mind that something so ordinary could be unfamiliar to him. Michael, who filled page after page with melodies and fragments of poetry, who carried music around in his head from sunrise until long after midnight, had somehow never owned a place that belonged solely to those thoughts. You remembered reaching over then, gently nudging his shoulder.
"Well..." you'd smiled. "Now you've got somewhere to keep all those genius ideas instead of writing them on the backs of shopping lists."
That finally coaxed a laugh from him.
"I don't write on shopping lists."
You'd simply raised an eyebrow at that.
"Well...not often."
"You wrote a chorus on my electric bill last week."
"It was the only paper I could find," He argued back.
"And then you nearly threw it away."
"'Cause I forgot it was the electric bill!"
You'd shaken your head with a laugh while he grinned sheepishly, already clutching the notebook against his chest like something precious.
"Guess I won't lose 'em anymore."
Of course, the notebook hadn't managed to cure him entirely.
Inspiration, you'd quickly learned, was an impatient thing. It cared very little whether Michael happened to have the journal within arm's reach, and even less whether the nearest writing surface was appropriate. If a melody arrived while the two of you were eating breakfast, he'd seize the closest napkin before the thought had time to disappear. If an idea struck during a drive across Los Angeles, the nearest petrol receipt would become home to hastily scribbled lyrics, slanted diagonally across the paper because he'd forgotten there wasn't enough room. More than once you'd discovered little scraps tucked absentmindedly into the pockets of his jackets, or folded so many times over that you wondered how he'd ever expected to read them again.
"You are impossible, bambi" you'd sighed one evening after rescuing a verse from the back of yesterday's newspaper before it disappeared into the rubbish.
Michael had looked up from where he'd been searching beneath your sofa cushions for another missing page.
"I know where everything is."
"You've been looking for that lyric for twenty minutes."
"...I know where most everything is."
But whenever the songs mattered—whenever he wasn't merely chasing inspiration but inviting it to stay—he always reached for the notebook first.
It rested across his lap now, its once-pristine pages softened by months of use, little corners bent from being carried between studios and your house, the leather worn smooth wherever his thumb habitually rested while he thought. It had become less a birthday present and more an extension of him, holding pieces of songs long before anyone else would ever hear them.
Today, however, the notebook seemed to be testing him. What had once become a place of comfort, now lay open across his lap with pages that refused to cooperate, its cream-coloured paper gradually disappearing beneath relentless scratches of graphite and heavy lines drawn through verses that had only existed for mere moments before being condemned. Every now and then Michael would pause, his pencil hovering uncertainly over the page as he quietly mouthed a lyric to himself, hearing it exactly as it sounded inside his mind. Then came the inevitable disappointment. His brows would pinch together almost imperceptibly, the pencil would move once more, and another thought would disappear beneath a thick, impatient strike before he flipped to a fresh page with a sigh that grew progressively heavier as the afternoon wore on.
You knew better than to assume the words themselves were bad. In truth, if somebody else had happened upon those discarded pages, they likely would've found perfectly respectable lyrics scattered across them. The problem had never been whether Michael could write a good song. The problem was that good had never once satisfied him. Somewhere inside his head existed a version of every melody that was brighter, fuller, more alive than anything he seemed capable of translating onto paper, and until those two versions matched, he simply refused to settle. It was a habit that had followed him for as long as you'd known him, though lately it had begun to consume him with a fervour you hadn't witnessed before.
That was hardly surprising. Off the Wall wasn't simply another album to Michael. If anything, calling it merely an album felt like diminishing everything it represented. This wasn't another Jacksons record where responsibility was shared amongst his brothers, nor another Motown project carefully shaped beneath the opinions of executives who had spent years deciding what Michael Jackson ought to sound like. This was the first time he had been handed genuine creative freedom, the first time people were asking him what he wanted his music to be. Quincy Jones had seen something inside him that so few people had ever truly acknowledged—not simply a gifted singer, but an artist with instincts worth trusting—and Michael carried that belief with equal measures of gratitude and pressure. He wanted to prove that Quincy's faith hadn't been misplaced. More importantly, he wanted to prove it to himself.
Over the past several weeks, you'd watched that determination quietly bleed into every aspect of his life. Music had become something he carried with him rather than something he left behind at the studio. He'd arrive at your house with melodies already tumbling around inside his head, absentmindedly drumming complicated rhythms against your kitchen counter while waiting for the kettle to boil, stopping halfway through conversations because a line had suddenly appeared in his mind and simply couldn't wait to be written down. There had been mornings where you'd woken before him only to discover he wasn't beside you anymore, finding him instead sitting cross-legged at your dining table in yesterday's clothes, curls sticking out in every direction, completely oblivious to the cold cup of coffee he'd made for himself hours earlier. Inspiration seemed incapable of respecting ordinary routines, and Michael, in return, refused to ignore it whenever it arrived.
It was one of the things you admired most about him. There was something endlessly beautiful about the way music seemed to exist as naturally within him as breathing itself. Yet admiration didn't stop your heart from aching whenever that same devotion began turning against him. For every evening he'd rushed through your front door with a grin so infectious that he could hardly get his words out quickly enough before humming a new melody into your ear, there was another like today, where every crossed-out lyric seemed to convince him he was somehow drifting further away from the masterpiece he knew he was capable of creating. It was in those moments that you were reminded just how much of himself Michael poured into his art. He wasn't merely writing songs. Piece by piece, he was trying to introduce the world to the man he was becoming.
While Michael attempted to wrestle inspiration onto paper, you had resigned yourself to an entirely different task.
Your record collection had become an absolute disaster over the last several months, sleeves shoved wherever there'd happened to be room after late evenings spent searching for a particular album, promising yourself each time that you'd organise them properly another day. That day, it seemed, had finally arrived. The floor beside your shelves had disappeared beneath little piles of vinyl, separated only by whichever system made the most sense inside your own head. Soul together, disco together, funk together. Every so often you'd pause, smiling fondly as your fingers traced over an album cover you'd not pulled out in months before carefully returning it to its rightful place.
Music had always found a home in your house, long before Michael had begun spending half his life there. Now, though, the rooms seemed incapable of existing without him filling them with melodies of his own. You smiled to yourself as you pulled another record from the shelf.
"Oh, I forgot I had this one."
Michael hummed absentmindedly from somewhere behind you.
"Mhm."
You glanced over your shoulder. He hadn't even looked up. His notebook remained balanced upon his knee, his pencil tapping softly against his bottom lip while his brows knitted together in concentration.
"You didn't even ask what it was."
"...What is it?"
You laughed.
"Too late."
Another quiet mhm.
That one almost made you giggle. He wasn't listening to a word you were saying at all. You turned your attention back towards the shelves, humming softly as you slid the record into its place before pulling another from the pile. Marvin Gaye. Stevie Wonder. Earth, Wind & Fire. Bee Gees... Little by little, the shelf began looking far less chaotic than it had an hour ago. Behind you, however...
Scratch. Scratch, scratch.
A sigh.
The cassette player clicked as Michael rewound the tape.
Again.
The same few seconds drifted through your bedroom before abruptly stopping.
Scratch.
Another sigh.
You paused, another record halfway back into its sleeve. For a few moments you simply listened. The music. The scratching of graphite.
The occasional impatient exhale that Michael himself probably didn't even realise he was making. He'd been at it for nearly two hours now.
"Angelface?"
"Hm?"
"Y'know..." You smiled faintly, turning another record over in your hands. "If you keep frownin' like that, your face is gonna get stuck."
This time, he did look up. The smallest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before disappearing almost as quickly as it'd arrived.
"'m alright."
"You sure?"
"Mhm."
His eyes had already returned to the page. You watched him for another quiet moment. The way he unconsciously bit at the inside of his cheek. The way his pencil hovered uncertainly before another line was scratched out. The way he leaned back against your headboard with a frustrated sigh that sounded heavier than the last.
Who was he kidding.
You gently slid the final record into place before dusting your hands together, remaining seated on the floor as you looked over at him.
"Peter Pan."
"Mhm?"
"You've said 'mhm' about seventeen times in the last five minutes."
That earned you a proper laugh.
"...Sorry."
"You don't gotta apologise." You tilted your head, studying him with the quiet fondness that always softened your expression whenever he became lost inside his own head.
"I just..." You shrugged lightly. "You're usually excited when you're writin'. Makes me sad to see you all distressed."
Michael's smile faded again. His fingers absentmindedly closed the notebook before opening it once more. For a little while he said nothing. You'd long since learnt that Michael wasn't someone who spoke simply because silence had become uncomfortable. If there were words, he'd find them eventually. If there weren't, you'd happily sit beside him until there were.
Finally, he let out a slow breath.
"'m scared."
The confession was so quiet you almost wondered whether he'd meant to say it aloud. He looked down at the notebook resting in his lap, running his thumb along its worn leather cover.
"I want this album t' be..." He paused, searching for words that felt big enough. "...Everythin'."
"It will be."
"But what if it isn't?"
His voice cracked ever so slightly.
"What if people hear it and just..." He shrugged helplessly. "...Don't care."
You frowned.
"Oh, Mikey..."
He shook his head before you could answer, "I know, I know... Quincy keeps tellin' me not t' think like that." A humourless chuckle escaped him. "Says I'm my own worst critic."
"He'd be right."
"I just..." He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. "This one's different, baby. This one's mine."
You understood exactly what he meant.
This wasn't another Jacksons record, where the weight of success rested upon six pairs of shoulders instead of one. Nor was it another chapter in the life of the little boy who had spent years standing in front of microphones, singing words somebody else had written, beneath the watchful eyes of producers, executives and, above all, his father. For the first time in his life, Michael was being asked what he wanted to say. What he wanted to sound like. Every decision, every lyric, every melody would ultimately lead back to him.
When people held this record in their hands, there would be no brothers standing beside him, no familiar family name to soften either praise or criticism. Across the front cover would be just two words—Michael Jackson—and with those two words came every hope he'd carried since he was a little boy dreaming far beyond the walls of his childhood bedroom.
He wanted to prove that he was more than a child star. More than Joe Jackson's son. More than the lead singer of a family band. He wanted the world to finally see him as the artist he knew, somewhere deep inside himself, he was capable of becoming. And that was precisely why nothing he wrote ever seemed good enough—not because it lacked quality, but because he refused to let this moment become anything less than extraordinary.
It pained you to watch him carry that weight so quietly.
You understood why this album mattered to him. In truth, nobody understood it better than you. You had watched him speak about it for months with stars in his eyes, watched him excitedly ramble about working with Quincy until words tripped over one another in his haste to get them all out. There had been evenings where he'd burst through your front door before you'd even had a chance to greet him, immediately launching into animated explanations of new arrangements they'd experimented with, or a bassline he simply couldn't stop thinking about. His enthusiasm was infectious; whenever Michael spoke about music, it was impossible not to fall in love with it yourself.
Which was exactly why seeing him like this hurt.
His excitement hadn't disappeared. If anything, it had grown so large that it had begun collapsing in on itself, every ounce of passion slowly transforming into pressure. The closer Off the Wall came to becoming reality, the more determined he became to ensure it deserved to exist. Every lyric had to mean something. Every melody had to feel alive. Every song had to earn its place. He wasn't chasing perfection because somebody else demanded it of him anymore. The voice urging him onwards now belonged entirely to himself.
You looked around your bedroom for a moment, smiling softly despite yourself.
The room had become such a reflection of the two of you. Your records lay scattered neatly across the floor in organised little piles, waiting patiently to be returned to their shelves, while Michael's side of the room looked as though a small hurricane had swept through it. Crumpled pages surrounded the bed, his jacket had somehow found its way over the back of your desk chair, and three sharpened pencils lay abandoned atop your duvet despite the one tucked securely between his fingers.
He always did leave little pieces of himself wherever he went.
You reached for another record, smiling fondly as your thumb brushed over its worn cardboard sleeve.
"I haven't listened to this one in forever." Michael hummed distractedly.
"Mhm."
You raised an amused eyebrow.
"'Mhm' again?"
That earned you the faintest smile.
"...Sorry."
"No, you're not."
"...No."
His answer came so quickly that you couldn't help laughing.
"There he is."
"What?"
"My Bambi."
Michael finally looked up properly, confusion giving way to a sheepish little smile as he watched you holding the record against your chest.
"You disappear when you get like this," you said gently. "I keep tryin' t' talk to you and all I get is..." You lowered your voice into a teasing imitation. "'Mhm.'" He rubbed the back of his neck, looking adorably guilty.
"I don't even realise I'm doin' it."
"I know."
"You aren't mad?"
You stared at him for a second before breaking into a smile.
"Baby..." You shook your head. "How could I be mad at you for thinkin' too much?"
His shoulders loosened just enough for you to notice. Still, the notebook remained open in his lap, his eyes drifting back towards the half-finished page as though it were pulling him away from the conversation. Even now, while he was looking directly at you, you could almost see the gears turning behind those dark eyes, another lyric trying desperately to piece itself together.
You'd seen that look before.
It usually meant he needed someone to gently pull him back into the room.
You'd learnt early on that there was very little use in trying to compete with the music whenever it wrapped itself around Michael's mind like this. If a melody refused to leave him alone, no amount of coaxing would persuade him to forget about it. Equally, telling him to simply stop worrying was perhaps the least effective advice one could give. Michael had never known how to switch his mind off. He loved too deeply, thought too deeply, dreamt too deeply. felt too deeply. It was one of the many reasons you adored him so much, but it also meant that every disappointment—no matter how small—seemed to linger inside him far longer than it ought to.
What he needed wasn't a solution. He needed permission to breathe.
Your gaze drifted towards the little cassette player perched beside him on the bed, the tape inside no doubt having been rewound so many times that afternoon it was beginning to protest. You'd lost count of how many snippets of unfinished melodies had floated through your bedroom over the last few hours, each one cut short before it had truly begun as Michael searched for whatever elusive feeling refused to reveal itself.
A small smile tugged at your lips.
"Hunny?"
He looked up almost immediately this time.
"Mhm?"
You reached over, gently plucking the pencil from between his fingers before he could absentmindedly return it to the page. His brows lifted ever so slightly, though he made no attempt to take it back.
"I think your notebook deserves a lil' vacation."
A soft huff of laughter escaped him.
"...A vacation?"
"Mhm."
"'Cause I've been workin' it too hard?"
"'Cause you've been workin' it too hard."
His eyes softened, and for the first time all afternoon, the corners of his mouth stayed lifted for longer than a second. You set the pencil atop the notebook before nodding towards the cassette player.
"Play it for me, baby."
His expression immediately turned bashful.
"Huh? The demo?"
"The one you've been drivin' yourself crazy over."
"It isn't finished."
"I know."
"It still needs a lot."
"It probably does."
He blinked.
"...That's not very encouragin'."
You laughed.
"It wasn't supposed t' be."
He couldn't help smiling properly now, his dimples finally making an appearance.
"I just mean..." You shifted closer, resting your chin against the edge of the mattress as you looked up at him. "You've been sittin' here listenin' to the same few seconds over and over again that I don't think you're hearin' it anymore. Lemme hear it."
Michael looked down at the cassette player, chewing thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. There was something strangely vulnerable about playing unfinished music for somebody else.
The world would one day hear polished arrangements, perfected vocals and lyrics that had survived countless revisions, but this... this was different. This was raw. Bare. A song still finding its feet, uncertain of what it wanted to become. Letting somebody into that process felt oddly intimate, as though he were asking you to look inside his mind before he'd had the chance to tidy it. Not that he'd ever minded you seeing those parts of him.
Quite the opposite. If there was one opinion Michael trusted above all others, it was yours.
Not because you always praised him—you didn't. In fact, there had been more than one occasion where you'd wrinkled your nose, told him a lyric sounded clumsy, or admitted that a melody hadn't quite caught your ear. You'd never been cruel, but you'd always been honest, and that honesty had become something he relied upon. There wasn't a trace of ego between the two of you when it came to his music. He wanted your genuine reaction, not your reassurance.
After a moment, he finally reached for the cassette player.
"...Okay." His thumb hovered over the play button.
"But y' gotta promise not t' laugh."
You looked at him in mock offence.
"I have never laughed at your music."
"You laughed at that one love song."
"'Cause you rhymed fire with desire."
"It worked."
"It was painfully obvious."
Michael pointed at you with narrowed eyes.
"I still think it worked."
You grinned, "And I still think Quincy would've thrown that page straight in the trash." He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against your headboard.
"Baby..."
"What?"
"Whose side are you on?"
"Yours, of course."
You reached over, smoothing one of his little curls away from his forehead.
"Always yours."
With a quiet exhale, he pressed play.
he familiar hiss of the cassette filled the room for a brief moment before it gave way to the music, rough around the edges in all the ways unfinished songs often were. There were no polished vocals, no perfected arrangement, no final flourishes Quincy would inevitably insist upon before the record was complete. It was little more than an idea caught on tape—a groove searching for its identity, instruments feeling one another out, melodies still deciding where they belonged. Yet to you, it already possessed something unmistakably Michael. Even stripped bare, there existed a buoyancy to the rhythm that seemed incapable of sitting still, a brightness that filled your little bedroom as effortlessly as the afternoon sun pouring through the curtains. It made the room feel alive.
Neither of you spoke.
Michael watched your face expression intensely
His dark eyes scarcely left your face, searching for the tiniest shift in your expression with an attentiveness that would've made anybody else nervous. You, however, had long since grown accustomed to it. This was how he'd always shown you his music. He never listened to your words first; he listened to your face. Whether your eyebrows lifted at an unexpected chord, whether your lips pursed thoughtfully at a lyric, whether your fingers unconsciously began keeping time against your leg. Long before you ever voiced an opinion, Michael had usually gathered one of his own simply by watching you exist within his songs.
You hardly realised you were moving.
It began with nothing more than your foot, tapping lazily against the floorboards in quiet companionship with the beat. Then your shoulders followed, rocking ever so slightly, your head beginning to nod without permission as a smile slowly, almost absentmindedly, found its way across your face.
There was something infectious about the groove. It wasn't loud, nor particularly complicated in its current state, but it had attitude. It had swagger. It felt playful in a way that made you want to grin for reasons you couldn't quite explain. Michael noticed immediately.
"...You like it?"
His voice was almost hesitant. You turned to him, surprised he'd interrupted the music.
"Hm?"
"The song." He scratched lightly at the back of his neck.
"Do y'..." He shrugged one shoulder, unable to hide the uncertainty colouring his expression. "Do y' like it?"
You stared at him for a second before softly laughing through your nose.
"Baby."
"What?"
"You've been watchin' me this whole time."
"...Maybe."
"And?"
His lips twitched.
"I wanna hear y' say it."
Your smile only widened.
"I think it's wonderful."
Relief flickered across his face so quickly that it almost escaped notice.
"It sounds..." You looked back towards the little cassette player, listening more carefully now as another section rolled by. "...Happy." Michael tilted his head.
"Happy?"
"Mhm." You nodded thoughtfully. "Not childish. Just..." You searched for the right word, your fingertips still absentmindedly marking the rhythm against your knee. "...Free. Like it doesn't care who's watchin'."
His eyes softened. That was exactly the feeling he'd been chasing. You hadn't known that, of course. You simply heard it.
"You really think so?"
"I do." You smiled, your eyes drifting back towards the cassette player as the groove filled the room once more. There was something undeniably infectious about it. Even unfinished, it possessed a rhythm that seemed to slip beneath your skin before you even realised it, coaxing movement from places entirely beyond your control. Your foot had been keeping time almost since the music began, and now your shoulders followed, swaying ever so gently as you sat beside him.
Michael noticed. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
"You're dancin'."
You blinked.
"What?"
"You are."
You looked down at yourself, only then realising your knee had been bouncing with the beat.
"...Oh."
"Told y'."
"I didn't even notice." His grin widened, the first truly carefree smile you'd seen on him all afternoon.
"I did."
You laughed softly, unable to help yourself as the rhythm continued carrying you along. "Well..." You shrugged, still absentmindedly bobbing your head. "Can you blame me?"
He watched you for another moment.
"...No."
"It just..." You searched for the words, looking towards the cassette player again. "I dunno, Mickey. It makes me wanna move."
Michael's smile softened.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"It's not finished."
"I don't care."
Your answer came without hesitation. The simplicity of it made something inside him loosen. You looked back at him then, only to find him still sitting exactly where he'd been for the last two hours—criss cross applesauce atop your bed, notebook forgotten beside him now, though the crease between his brows had finally disappeared.
You smiled to yourself before climbing to your feet, smoothing imaginary creases from your jeans as the music continued to play. Michael watched curiously.
"What're y' doin'?"
You held a hand out towards him.
"C'mere."
He looked from your hand to your face.
"...Why?"
"'Cause."
"That's not an answer."
"It is today."
A quiet laugh escaped him, though he made no move to stand.
"'m serious."
"So am I."
He raised an amused eyebrow.
"What if I don't wanna?"
You gasped dramatically.
"Oh, don't be such a grouch."
"'m not a grouch."
"You've been sittin' in one spot pouting at that notebook for two hours."
"I was not poutin'."
"Michael."
"...Maybe a little."
You wiggled your fingers at him impatiently.
"C'mon."
Michael looked at your outstretched hand for another second before slipping his own into it. His long, slender fingers curled naturally around yours, warm as always, and with only the gentlest tug you pulled him up from the bed. He laughed under his breath.
"You are so bossy."
"And you're stallin'."
"I just don't know what we're doin'."
You stepped backwards, still holding onto his hands, a mischievous smile spreading across your face as the rhythm continued spilling from the cassette player.
"c'mon..." you said, giving his hands another playful tug.
"Just get on the floor 'nd dance with me."
Michael laughed.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm."
"You really just want t' dance?"
You beamed at him.
"That's what music's for, isn't it?"
Before Michael had the chance to answer, you gave his hand another gentle tug, encouraging him away from the bed and onto the open space of your bedroom floor. He came willingly this time, though not without an amused shake of his head, his notebook forgotten amongst the rumpled blankets where it'd occupied him all afternoon.
"You are unbelievable," he laughed, still allowing you to lead him.
"I've been told."
"Mostly by me."
"And yet you keep comin' back."
"I do."
"You must like me."
Michael looked at you with mock contemplation.
"...A little."
You gasped dramatically.
"A little?"
"Mhm."
"That's all?"
He couldn't suppress the grin spreading across his face.
"I'll let your ego wonder."
"Oh, you're awful."
"So I've been told."
"Mostly by me."
The music continued to drift through the speakers, its steady groove wrapping itself around the two of you as naturally as conversation always seemed to. There wasn't any choreography, nor any concern over whether either of you looked particularly graceful. You simply moved however the rhythm asked you to, swaying opposite one another with easy smiles, your joined hands occasionally pulling one another into little spins before finding each other again.
You'd always loved dancing with Michael.
Not because he was extraordinary at it—though he certainly was—but because he never danced at you. There was no performance when the two of you were alone, no audience to impress, no expectation to be perfect. The polished precision that captivated crowds gave way to something softer within the walls of your home. He laughed when he missed a step. He exaggerated little movements simply to make you laugh. Sometimes he'd deliberately copy your sillier dance moves with complete seriousness until you were giggling too hard to remain standing. Today proved no different.
"You call that dancin', girl?" he teased, raising an eyebrow as you bounced your shoulders with exaggerated enthusiasm. You narrowed your eyes.
"It absolutely is."
"It looks more like..." He demonstrated your movement with shameless exaggeration, earning an immediate laugh from you. "...Whatever that is."
You pointed accusingly at him.
"Oh, don't start."
"'m not starting anythin'."
"You are."
"I merely made an observation."
"You're a mean."
"So you keep tellin' me."
You rolled your eyes affectionately before slipping your hand from his and turning away from him with an intentionally dramatic flourish, letting the music carry you as you spun across the floorboards. The movement was playful more than anything, your laughter filling the room as you swayed your hips a little more dramatically than before simply because you knew he was watching. Behind you, Michael let out a soft whistle.
"Mmm..."
You glanced back over your shoulder.
"What?"
A mischievous smile slowly tugged at his lips, his eyes sparkling now in a way they hadn't all afternoon.
"I like the way you shake your thing, baby."
You burst into laughter.
"My thing?"
He immediately covered his face with one hand, already laughing at himself.
"'m sorry. it jus' slipped out."
"You mean my ass?"
He peeked at you through his fingers, utterly unashamed despite the ridiculousness of the phrase.
"...It sounded better in my head."
"Oh, Mikey," you giggled, walking back over to him. "You're hopeless."
"I know."
"No, really."
"I know."
Still smiling, you reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt where it'd twisted from dancing, your fingertips brushing lightly over the fabric. Michael watched you quietly, his grin softening into something infinitely more affectionate as your eyes met again.
"You know," you murmured, now closer to his face, "I think I like this version of you a whole lot better."
He tilted his head.
"What version?"
"The one that laughs."
His expression gentled.
"So do I."
Without breaking eye contact, Michael reached out, his hands finding your waist with a familiarity that felt like coming home. He didn't pull you close with any force or demand; instead, his touch was tentative, almost reverent, as if he were still awed by the simple fact that you were standing there, swaying with him in the quiet of the room. His thumbs traced idle, lazy circles against the fabric of your shirt, seeking out the heat of your skin beneath.
"You're so beautiful, hunny," he murmured, now suddenly feeling completely overwhelmed by you. "Sometimes I gotta remind myself 'm not dreamin'"
A soft laugh bubbled up in your throat as you leaned into him, closing the scant distance between your bodies. "You're not dreaming, baby. 'm right here."
When your lips finally met, it wasn't the desperate, bruising kiss of someone starved, but something far sweeter a slow, exploratory press that tasted of comfort and promise. It started soft, but as your arms wound around his neck and your fingers tangled in those familiar curls at the nape of his neck, the kiss deepened. Michael let out a shaky exhale against your mouth, a sound that was half sigh and half whimper as he surrendered to the sensation.
The dance continued, though the rhythm had shifted from something structured to something primal and instinctive. You both swayed softly from side to side, your hips rolling in lazy synchronization with the music that seemed to fade into the background of your own shared breath. Michael pulled you closer to remove every possible millimeter of air between you, seeking the friction of your bodies as you moved.
His mouth wandered from yours to the corner of your lips, then down to the sensitive sensitive line of your jaw, leaving trails of wet, heated kisses in his wake. "I love you so much it hurts sometimes, angel," he whispered against your skin, his breath hot and uneven. "I really do."
The make out session grew more passionate, tongues tangling and teeth clashing in a wet, rhythmic dance that mirrored the swaying of your bodies. Every time you pressed closer, Michael would respond with a needy little hum, his hands sliding down from your waist to splay across the small of your back, holding you.
Michael's mouth left yours only to trail along the sensitive column of your throat, and you hummed at the sensation. His teeth grazing your skin with just enough pressure to make your knees weaken. Hands sliding lower to cup the swell of your ass through your clothes, guiding your hips to roll against his in a way that made the friction feel almost sinful.
"You got that look in your eyes again, baby," he murmured against your pulse point, his breath hot and unsteady. "That look like you're plannin' something. Makes my head spin just thinkin' 'bout what you're gonna do to me once we get past this music."
You let out a breathless laugh, tilting your head back to give him better access, your fingers tightening their grip on his shoulders. "Maybe I am. Can you blame me? Look at how you're holding me. You're acting like you're scared 'm gonna float away if you let go for even a second."
You leaned down to nip at his earlobe, feeling the way his entire frame shuddered beneath your touch.
He pressed his forehead against yours, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare. "Now you keep swaying like that, and I might just forget we're supposed to be bein' civilized."
"Oh, I think we passed 'civilized' about twenty minutes ago, Mikey," you teased, sliding your hands down to rest against his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart beneath your palms. "Besides, if you're gonna act this needy, you might as well commit to it."
Michael let out a breathless, giddy laugh, the sound vibrating against your skin as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck. "Needy? Me? baby, you know damn well you're the one who started this fire. Now I'm just the poor fool tryin' to keep from burnin' up."
He pulled back just enough to capture your lips again, but this time the kiss was hungrier, tasting of desperate wanting even as his touch remained impossibly gentle.
"C'mon, girl, get your thing on this bed. Before I end up beggin' you right here on the floor."
You and Michael were a giddy mess of laughter and messy kisses as you both stumbled backwards. He kept his arms wrapped around you, his kisses never ceasing tracing your jaw, your throat, the sensitive shell of your ear as he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling you into his lap.
"Y' so sweet, baby," he murmured against your shoulder as you stumbled through the doorway. "Every time I think I can't love you more, you go and do somethin' like this."
"You say that all the time, Mikey," you teased, though your voice was thick with affection. He grinned up at you with that boyish smile, before rolling you over, maneuvering you under him.
He pressed his forhead against yours as your fingers trailed down his chest amd to the bulge of his jeans. His hands cradled your face with such careful delicacy, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones as if you were made of spun glass. "Just wanna look at you, hunny. wanna see every single little expression you make while I'm takin' care of you. You're so precious to me, angel."
"Then keep lookin', baby," you whispered, your own voice thick with arousal as you wrapped your fingers struggled to pull his cock out of his jeans. He let out a giggle as he watched you struggle, to which you gave him an unimpressed look. "Don't laugh at me now, Michael. Help me get you out of those damn jeans before I rip 'em."
He kissed your forehead and let out an amused huff. "'m sorry baby. 'm not laughing at you." He backed off the bad to discard his boxers along his jeans before crawling on top of you again.
"You totally were laughing at me, mister." You mumbled, pulling him in by his shirt as he leaned in to kiss you again.
Your fingers delicately wrapped around the tip of his thick lengh, to which he let out a soft noise against your mouth. You began to stroke him with a slow, deliberate rhythm, watching how his pupils dilated. "Y' so handsome when you look at me like that."
"'s 'cause y' so pretty. so, so pretty baby. Your body's magic," he whimpered, his voice cracking slightly. He let out a shaky breath as your grip tightened just a fraction, his hips rolling upward to meet your hand.
Michael's breathing was loud now, a ragged series of exhales that fanned across your skin as he watched you work on him. "God, you're killin' me, angel baby... just killin' me with how good y' make me feel." He let out a low, guttural sound when your grip tightened around his cock, his hips rolling upward instinctively to chase the friction of your palm.
"Y' love it though," you teased breathlessly, your eyes locked on his as you maintained that steady, maddening rhythm on his dick.
"love everythin' 'bout you," he whimpered, as he leaned down to capture your lips in another messy kiss. When he pulled away, he didn't go far, nuzzling his face against your neck and inhaling sharply. "Y' smell so good angel."
His hands wandered down from your face, sliding past your ribs to the waistband of your panties. He didn't hesitate, his fingers hooking into the fabric with a slow, deliberate tug that made your hips arch off the mattress. "I been thinkin' 'bout gettin' these off the second I saw you," he murmured against your pulse point. "Been thinkin' about what's hidin' under here."
He peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, his eyes never leaving yours. The cool air hit your skin for only a second before he moved back between your thighs, his gaze dropping to where you were already dripping wet for him. "Look at her," he breathed, a genuine sound of awe escaping him as he saw how slick you were. " Y' got the prettiest pussy ever, hunny. Seriously. She's so gorgeous."
"Michael " you whined, the bluntness of him just praising and talking to your pussy sending electricity straight to your core. "Don't just stare at it. 'm workin' real hard on you over here."
"I know you are, babygirl, 'nd y' doin' amazing," he muttered, voice thick with arousal. He reached down, his large hand cupping your thigh to spread you wider, exposing your cunt completely to his intense gaze. "'m gonna make you feel real good, girl."
His middle finger found your clit first, circling the sensitive bud with just enough pressure to make your toes curl. "There we go... yeah, just like that," he whispered as you let out a broken moan. "Yeah, feels good baby, doesn't it?"
"Just like that, baby... oh my God, Michael, fuuuuck," you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer while your other hand continued to stroke his cock.
"Baby, don't curse... Yeah? Do I make y' feel good?" he whispered, his own hips jerking as your hand moved faster on his dick. He slid one finger inside your wet cunt, then two, his eyes fixed on your face to catch every moment of your pleasure. "Oh wow. Y' so slick, sweet girl... so perfect. Jus' lemme take care of you."
Michael's breathing was ragged now, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched your face contort with pleasure. He pushed two fingers deeper into your wet cunt, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate thrust that made your hips buck involuntarily, curling them just the right way to hit that spongey spot.
"Oh my God— Michael yes, right there—" you gasped, your head rolling back against the pillows. Your free hand was clawing at the sheets, desperate for something to hold onto as the friction of his fingers against your walls sent waves of heat crashing through you. "Fuck— don't stop, please, don't you dare stop."
"'m not goin' nowhere, angel. I've got you," he promised, his voice a soothing balm even as his actions became more intense. While his fingers worked deep inside you, finding that perfect spot that made you whimper, his thumb continued to circle your clit in firm, maddening motions. Then, slowly, he began to withdraw, leaving you aching and wanting. "I wanna see all of you, sweetheart. wanna worship every inch."
He started to trail kisses upward, his lips warm and soft as they moved from your inner thighs to your stomach. "Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. "Just so beautiful." He moved higher, pressing tender kisses against your ribs before finding the sensitive column of your throat. He lingered there, sucking gently at your neck.
With one hand still holding yours tight, he used his other to hook beneath the hem of your shirt. He slowly slid the fabric upward, exposing the lace of your bra before deftly working it free to reveal your breasts. "There they are," he breathed, his eyes full of wonder. "My pretty girls." He leaned down, capturing one nipple between his lips. He sucked on it with a gentle, reverent hunger, swirling his tongue around the sensitive peak until you couldn't help but cry out. His free hand reached up to find yours. He intertwined his fingers with yours, squeezing gently, anchoring you to him as he moved his other fingers in and out of your pussy
"Shit baby— " you whined, your hips rolling involuntarily forward.
"Shh, jus' feel it. Jus' feel how much I love you," he whispered against your breast. Then he pulled away to continue his descent. Still holding your hand lovingly, he pressed his face against your stomach, showering your soft skin with sweet, lingering kisses.
The pleasure was building to something monumental, a tidal wave of heat that started at your clit and rolled through your entire body.
But just as you reached the precipice, something shifted. The sensation changed from a sharp, focused climax to a heavy, terrifying pressure deep inside your pelvis.
"Michael—oh no. wait—" you gasped, your hips freezing mid roll. Your breathing turned shallow and panicked. "Michael, stop, something's wrong."
He pulled back immediately, his face contorting with instant concern. "What? What is it, baby? Did I hurt you? Did I go too hard?" His hands moved to your hips to steady you, his thumbs brushing your skin with anxious tenderness. "Tell me what's wrong, sweetheart. We can stop. We're stoppin' right now if you need to."
"No, it's not " you stammered, your hands clutching at his forearms. Your heart was hammering against your ribs as that strange, full sensation intensified. "I just—don't know. It just... Michael, I feel like I'm gonna pee. Like, I'm gonna pee myself right now. It feels weird. It feels too much."
A flash of genuine panic crossed your features as you tried to process the conflicting signals: the pleasure was still there, humming beneath the surface, but the fear of losing control was overwhelming.
Michael watched you closely, searching your eyes. He didn't laugh or dismiss you; he just listened, his expression softening as he processed what you were saying. "You feel like y' gonna pee?" he repeated gently, his voice low and steady. "Like that pressure right there?" His hand slid down to press lightly against your lower abdomen, offering a grounding touch.
"Yes! And it's it's good, but it's scary, Michael. I feel like I'm gonna lose it," you whimpered, your thighs quivering against his chest.
He didn't hesitate. A small, reassuring smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Well, sugar, if it feels good, then it's right. That's all that matters to me." He leaned up to press a tender kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple. "If that's what your body's tellin' you it needs to get to that good place, then y' let it happen."
"But what if I—"
"Hey, hey, look at me," he interrupted softly, cupping your face in both hands so you had no choice but to meet his adoring gaze. "Look at me, baby. Nothing to be scared of. A little pee not gonna hurt nobody. Not you, and certainly not me. 'm right here. I got you, and 'm not goin' nowhere."
His voice soothed your worries. "'s okay, lovely. Jus' let it happen. 'm right here with you." His thumb resumed its maddening, gentle circle against your clit, while his other hand reached up to find yours again, intertwining your fingers in a tight grip.
"I'm tryin', Mikey, but 's a bit scary" you gasped, your voice breaking as another wave of that heavy, full pressure rolled through your pelvis. Even as you panicked, your other hand couldn't help but tighten around his cock, your palm slick with his pre cum as you instinctively sought friction to counter the overwhelming sensation.
The dual stimulation his mouth on you and your own desperate grip on his dick was pushing you toward a breaking point you couldn't control.
"I know, baby. I know," he murmured against your inner thigh, his breath hot and steady. "Don't fight it. Just give in to it. Let whatever happens happen. I love every single part of you, even the messy parts." His fingers slid deeper into your cunt, stretching you open to accommodate the building pressure, while his tongue worked with increasing urgency.
The sensations overwhelmed you. That feeling became an unbearable, throbbing fullness that seemed to occupy your entire lower body. "Baby, oh fuck, 'm gonna—"
"Do it, angel. Let it go for me," he urged, his voice a low, commanding caress. "Jus let it all out."
With a choked cry that was half sob and half moan, the dam finally broke. The terrifying pressure exploded into an intense, convulsing climax that felt like lightning striking your core, but it wasn't just a feeling it was a physical eruption. Your muscles spasmed around his fingers with such violence that you couldn't have stopped it if you tried.
"Oh fuuuuck," you whined, your body arching so violently off the bed that your spine nearly snapped. In that instant of total surrender, you felt yourself spray. The release was powerful and uncontrolled, hot jets of fluid shooting forth from your cunt with enough force to send droplets flying in every direction.
It splattered across Michael's jaw as he leaned in close, the warm, clear liquid catching the light before streaming down his chin. His hand, still buried between your thighs, became instantly slick and drenched as the torrent soaked through his fingers and up his wrist. A few stray arcs even landed against his bare chest. Below you both, the sheets were instantly completely and utterly soaked.
"Oh... oh my God..." you whimpered between gasps, your body still twitching uncontrollably from the aftershocks. You felt exposed, raw, and completely spent, staring up at him through teary blurred eyes in shock.
Michael didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. Instead, he looked down at the mess you'd made, then back up at your face with an expression of pure, unadulterated wonder. His eyes were wide. "Baby..." he breathed, his voice reverent, almost awestruck. "That was... you were incredible."
He looked at his wet hand and the soaked sheets as if they were sacred relics, his chest heaving. "Look at what y' did, baby," he whispered, a grin of pure adoration breaking across his face. "Y' just... y' pure magic, angel."
The sight of his awe, the way he looked at you not with judgment but with absolute worship despite the chaos between your legs, made your heart swell even as your body continued to tremble. "Michael, I'm sorry, I—"
"Don't you dare apologize," he interrupted immediately, leaning down to press a warm, lingering kiss to your sweat slicked forehead. "Don't you ever apologize for being this beautiful. I love every single drop of you."
The adrenaline began to ebb, leaving you feeling boneless and hypersensitive. Your breathing was still shaky, each inhale coming in uneven stutters as you stared up at the ceiling, feeling the dampness of the sheets clinging to your thighs. "Michael, I—" you started, "I'm so embarrassed, I— I didn't know I could do that... I made such a mess of everything, I—"
But Michael was already moving. He didn't care about the soaked fabric or the droplets clinging to his skin. He crawled up your body with careful, reverent movements, settling beside your head so he could cradle your face in his hands. "Shh, shh, none of that, angel. None of that," he murmured.
He began to pepper your face with kisses soft, feather light presses of his lips against your temples, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. "You're okay, sweetheart. Y' so okay. Y' were perfect. Amazing baby."
"But Michael," you whispered. "What about you? You're... you're still..." You gestured vaguely toward his still semi-hard cock. "You need to—"
"Shh," he interrupted softly, pressing his lips against your forehead before moving down to kiss each of your cheeks. His thumbs stroked over your cheekbones, wiping away stray tears with tenderness. "Just let me love y', baby. That's all I wanna do right now. Just you."
He lowered his head to nuzzle against your neck, breathing in your scent as if it were oxygen. "I don't need nothin' else but you right here. Just let me take care of you, angel baby. Lemme hold you." His touch was so gentle, so utterly focused on your comfort, that the embarrassment began to melt away, replaced by a warm, overwhelming sense of being cherished beyond measure.
Against his chest, his arms remained wrapped around you like a shield against the world. The dampness of the sheets still lingered beneath you, but it no longer carried even the slightest trace of embarrassment. It simply existed as quiet evidence of what the two of you had shared. You felt safe. Boneless. Entirely adored.
For a little while, neither of you spoke.
Michael absentmindedly traced lazy circles along your back while his breathing gradually evened beside your ear. You'd almost drifted off when you felt his chest vibrate with a quiet murmur, the words too indistinct for you to catch.
"What'd you say, baby?" you asked sleepily, lifting your head just enough to look at him. His eyes weren't on you anymore. They'd drifted somewhere else entirely.
"...Get on the floor," he repeated under his breath, almost to himself this time. You blinked.
"What?"
He didn't answer. Instead, his brows knitted together ever so slightly as though he were trying to catch hold of a thought before it escaped him again.
"What do you mean, get on the floor?" you laughed softly, your voice still hoarse. "Angelface, I love you, but I'm exhausted. I can barely move." That finally brought him back.
"Oh—" He laughed breathily, shaking his head. "No, no, baby. That's not what I meant."
A slow smile began creeping across his face. The kind you recognised immediately. You'd seen it countless times before. It was the smile that appeared whenever inspiration found him.
He reached up, gently brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, his fingertips lingering against your cheek as though he hardly realised he was touching you.
"I remember what you said," he murmured, his eyes beginning to brighten. "Back when I played you the demo..." You looked at him curiously.
"When you started dancin'..."
He smiled a little wider.
"You took my hand..." He chuckled quietly, almost hearing the memory play back inside his head. "...An' you said..." His gaze flickered upward for only a second before returning to yours.
"'So c'mon...'"
His smile grew.
"'Get on the floor and dance with me.'"
For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke. Then his eyes widened ever so slightly.
"...Baby."
"What?"
He sat up just enough to look at you properly now, excitement slowly replacing the sleepy contentment that had settled over him only moments before.
"I think..." A little disbelieving laugh escaped him. "I think that's it."
You frowned in confusion. "What's it?"
He looked at you as though he could hardly believe the answer himself.
"The song."
A grin spread across his face, brighter with every passing second.
"'So get on the floor...'"
He tested the words quietly, almost singing them beneath his breath.
"'...And dance with me.'"
His eyes met yours again.
"I love the way you shake your thing… especially."
summary 𑣲 you and Michael were cozied up in the tour bus while the rest of his brothers were fast asleep. Let’s find out just how much you can pleasure him without waking anyone up♡
𝒻. reader x sub!michael. 𝓳┊otw!era ˚. ᵎᵎ smut ༉‧₊˚. hand job ⋆˙⟡ sub noises ⋆.˚ slight edging ༉‧₊˚. perhaps getting caught??? ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ 2,105k wc ˊˎ-
˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ a/n: no notes!!!! ENJOY (,,>﹏<,,). 𑣲⋆˙— masterlist
it was one of those nights where you and the jacksons had to spend the night on the road. So far the triumph tour had seriously tuckered the boys out, including your beloved boyfriend Michael. As three brothers Tito, Marlon and Randy shared the two bedrooms in the very back, Jackie participated sleeping on the small couch close to the kitchen. While the two love birds you and Michael slept on the biggest couch where a window just right beside you was on full display.
One could argue since being the only girl in the trip — you’d be given the kind gesture sleeping on the bed where the warm heaters were, but — you and Michael admittedly already slept on the comfortable bed three nights in a row, making the brothers collectively agree things needed a change.
Unlike Michael who dared to argue with them saying a lady like you sleeping on the couch out in the cold shouldn’t be considered an option, you absolutely had no trouble doing so. Being a burden is the last thing you’d wanna be, considering you were hesitant when Michael wanted you to go on tour with him at the last minute.
You simply convinced him there shouldn’t be a problem sleeping out in the cold since Michael had forgotten about one thing in this so-called disadvantaged. That they would need intense body heat to keep each other warm, you both were already so damn close with each other whenever you’d get the chance, this was the perfect situation for you two to be in.
Later that night, it was way past everyone’s bedtime. The four brothers were passed out, leaving you two and the driver being the only ones left awake.
Michael laid his back against the leather couch, with you resting your head just right at his collarbone — having the palm of your hand rested on his chest, with his wrapped around your shoulder. On top of that a green plaited blanket draped over your bodies, leaving only a quarter of your upper body exposed.
You two were admiring the lights from the cars and buildings that ran past you quickly, resulting in a cool mesmerizing scenery. You two lay there just like that for god knows how long.
“Cold…?” Michael gently whispered to your ear “mm-mm” you answered, shaking your head — eyes not letting go from the pitch black window filled with colorful light. “That’s good” Michael whispered back, his hand caressing your shoulder up and down.
You then felt a bit more conscious after zoning out through the window, wanting to check up on Michael “are you cold…?” you subtly turned and looked up — asking the same question.
A short pause linger with Michael briefly spaced out before snapping back to answer “to be honest — a little, should've worn my jacket, but I can manage” he smiled sweetly, wanting to let you know that everything was fine.
You hummed softly by his answer “…then i guess we’re not getting enough body heat. Here, lemme just—“ you trailed off your last line before you started letting your hands roam around Michael’s body. Rubbing your hand against his exposed arm, treating it as if you were warming your hands up in the winter.
“Is that better?” you smiled playfully, Michael chuckled quietly, feeling your hands “yeah a bit” he grinned, looking down at the direction of his body getting warmed up by your precious hands. “Don’t forget your legs…” you stretched out the last word, before you’d let your legs flop on top of Michael’s without warning.
Michael reacted dramatically, his face making an expression you’d make when given a heavy bag. “oh don’t be dramatic” you hissed, your legs carefully caressing him. As you do so your thigh manages to graze right on top of Michael’s clothed crotch, you don’t notice it but Michael certainly did.
Michael jolted just a bit before tightening his grip on your shoulder “t-that’s enough…” he immediately spat out. You turn to him confused “…are you not warming up?” you whispered “no-no I am, i-it’s just…” “…just what?” you picked up.
Another pause linger “maybe careful with — down there…” Michael darted his eyes awkwardly. You looked down, managing to pick the blanket off to see what Michael meant, your eyes grew slightly wider.
“Is that so?” you faced him once again “soo… I can't wander around… here?” your hand started to caress Michael’s crotch — this time, with pure genuine intent. Michael let out a shaky breath “please i’m serious — you know what that does to me baby…” Michael trailed off, his head lazily tilted.
“Oh I'm fully aware. How long has it been since I've touched you? Was it three — or two nights—“ “four…” Michael answered without a second thought, shutting his eyes. You smiled at his answer “that’s right, so you’ve been keeping count huh” you smirked, Michael’s eyes still closed shut “of course i have… now please, baby — put your hand away… Jackie’s right there — and the rest aren’t far off either” Michael begged.
Instead of doing what he said, you crept your face closer to his ear “we’ll keep it really quiet” you whispered “oh god baby…” Michael whined, his eyes looking up to the ceiling asking for a prayer. “You did say you were cold Mikey, what better way to keep you nice and warm then this?” you giggled.
Your hand started fidgeting to find the zipper of Michael’s pants, once you did, you unzipped it in an unintentional quick manner. The sound of the zipper was the only loud thing in this tour bus “keep it down—keep it down baby” Michael blurted in a panic, his hand on your shoulder slightly patting down to signal you.
As the zipper was all the way undone, you pulled down Michael’s boxers, freeing his hard erect cock. You carefully raised your hand up — exiting the blanket, just right by Michael’s chin, he turned to you, and you gave him a knowing look on what he’s supposed to do now. Turning back to face your hand, Michael quietly spat out his spit on your palm, enough to lubricate his member. You smiled pleasingly, cupping his spit as your hand went back down.
You then wrap your delicate fingers around his length and start pumping, Michael could barely control his breathing, he simply bit his lips to try and cancel out his desperate noises coming out.
You turn your face towards him — finding that your dear boyfriend is fighting hard, to keep quiet “does that feel good…?” you whispered, then proceeded to kiss sloppily onto the shell of his ear. Michael slowly nods while slipping out a hum.
Your hand moved at an agonizingly slow pace — teasing him by occasionally twisting and slightly squeezing his cock. You felt his precum oozing out of his tip bit by bit, eventually your thumb ran circles over it — spreading his pre release all over.
Michael’s breaths were straggled, whimpers started slipping out of his lips involuntarily. His brows furrowed — concentrating on keeping a low composure.
“…c-could you — go faster” Michael murmured in a low tone, but louder than before “shh… lower you voice sweetie — you don’t want your brothers to wake up don’t you?” you teased in his ear, ending your sentence with a needy moan, it drove Michael crazy.
Michael steadily moved his lips to your ear, you briefly glance at his expression — absolutely defenseless. “…faster… please…” he pleads, you cracked a smile — enjoying every bit of your dear boyfriend at your complete mercy. Such a contrast whenever he goes out and performs with his brothers, how many of his fans do you think that the big shot king of pop would willingly crawl into your arms as soon as he went off stage and would absolutely melt away just by your touch.
You pumped faster just exactly how we wanted, stroking up and down, twisting, squeezing, all the things that easily made Michael tremble. As he felt his climax building up, Jackie suddenly shifted his body, making it look like he could wake up in any second.
You stopped your hand, resulting in Michael slipping out a whine “…nnghm” you both had your eyes on Jackie, praying to god he won’t wake up. Turns out he only turned his body to the direction of the van, rolling to the side. You both sighed in relief — with you shutting your eyes and Michael slamming his head harder to the couch staring at the window, thanking god he didn’t open his eyes.
“Mikey you still awake?” The unexpected deep whisper caught both of you off guard, you didn’t open your eyes, but instead as a reflex your hand deliberately squeezed Michael’s cock way harder than before, Michael’s eye opened wide, his mouth forming a wide o shape as a delayed moan escaped his mouth.
Michael looked up seeing that it was Tito who spoke as he slowly walked up from the back and entering the kitchen. Immediately Michael played it off as a yawn — not wanting to expose himself or you “…y-yeah, about to though — you?” his words tumbled. “Just grabbing a drink…” Tito whispered, as he opened the cabinet, he glanced at you — seeing your eyes shut, resting your head against Michael’s chest.
“She looks tuckered out” Tito points at you with a cup in his hand, Michael quickly looks at you seeing how you were ‘fast sleeping’ he chuckles nervously, trying to play along “y-yeah, she’s not use to the touring schedule you know” he made the excuse.
Michael could still very much feel, your precious hands wrapped around him — not moving but still keeping the same pressure. “Man, I need to bring my girl on tour, what i would give to be with her right now” Tito shook his head, taking a sip.
As Tito reminisces, you just couldn’t help but start moving your hands once again — teasing Michael with every movement, reminding him that he’s currently living his brother's very wish.
Michael started feeling your hands moving, his face automatically jolting at the rush of pleasure you were giving him at the worst possible time, all while still laying on his chest — innocently looking peaceful in your pretend slumber.
“Well, g’night Mike, don’t stay up too late” Tito gently said, putting back the cup and slowly walking back to bed, Michael immediately used his one hand that was under the blanket to firmly stop yours from moving, “y-yeah, night…”
As Michael peeked over seeing Tito already back to bed, he exhaled a long deep sigh, fluttering his eyes close. You smiled widely, dragging your lips back to his ear “I’m sorry for doing that baby” you cooed. Michael swallowed his breath exhaling another sigh “…it’s fine… just keep going — and don’t stop” he commanded.
You raised your brows, surprised by his sudden authority over you “hmm, eager aren’t we” you teased. Michael let out a whimper, slowly looking at the corner of his eyes, seeing your beauty in the poorly lifted bus “please… i’m so close…” that authority soon ended when he begged you, using the proper magic words that made your smile grow wider. “Okay baby…”
Stroking faster, not a minute to lose — you try to balance out the fast pace while keeping any sort of lewd noises at bay, as the mixture of Michael’s spit and his precum causes a squelching sound that you both knew could be loud enough to wake the entire bus.
Michael’s whining and whimpering became more frequent, you repeated your shushing to remind him to please keep his voice down. “so close… baby’m so close…” he sighed. You pressed your lips near his ear “let go baby… just be quiet — your doing so so good” you gently moaned, sloppily kissing his cheek and dragging your tongue.
After a couple more pumps, Michael felt a gushing relief as his cum spurted out coating your hand and even a bit of the blanket. You were so thankful the fabric was a dark enough color for it not to show an obvious stain. You continued to stroke, finishing him off with your hand covered in his spent. At the very end you kissed his cheek gently “good job baby” you praised at a whisper.
Michael collected his breath, resting his head onto yours as the ecstasy washes over. His body heat was at its peak — cold was the last thing he felt at that moment.
The next morning you arrived at the hotel you and the Jacksons will be staying at. Three of the boys already went off and walked to the lobby, bringing their bags and other equipment.
You held your bag in one hand while the other held last night's blanket, already planning to wash and dry clean as soon as possible. “I’m gonna — head inside and take care of this” you gestured to the blanket.
“Right,” Michael quickly responded. You walked off to the hotel, leaving Michael near the bus checking on some last minute things. Jackie finally exited the bus with a yawn, stretching his arms up. “We have about a few hours in this place before we start rehearsals” Michael chimed.
“Good, need me another few hours of sleep” Jackie groaned. Michael cluelessly chuckles — placing a hand on Jackie’s shoulder “don’t get too comfortable while we’re at a new place now” he joked. Jackie chuckles, in fact a little louder than Michael, he placed his hand on top of his, gently pulling it down.
“Hm, maybe I won't if someone could’ve kept their voice down last night — and i don’t wanna hear any excuses saying your girl did too good of a damn job, it ain’t that hard Mikey” Jackie annoyingly smirked before walking away. Michael’s face instantly turns crimson red, speechless on that drop.
Michael stumbled following Jackie from behind “w-wait—you heard that??” he asked in a panic. “Not even surprised if those three heard it too” Jackie answered with a smile. “oh god…” Michael palmed his face, never feeling more embarrassed.
𑣲 pairing: dangerous era!michael x secret girlfriend!reader
𑣲 synopsis: after agreeing to join michael on his dangerous world tour, you’re forced to face the quiet unraveling of the bubble you built together… and the mutual toxicity that rises to take its place.
dangerous was released in november, and you kept your word.
you resigned about a month before the album hit the shelves, once the final masters were safely handed over.
there was no scene. no dramatic exit. just a quiet conversation in teddy’s office on a gloomy monday morning. rain streaked the windows, turning the hollywood hills into a soft gray.
the irony wasn’t lost on you. rain. in los angeles. today of all days.
“i’m going to continue working with michael,” you said, sitting in the plush chair across from his desk, fingers fidgeting with the new diamond bracelet michael had given you the week before. the stones caught the dim light every time your hand moved, a constant reminder of the choice you had already made.
teddy looked at you for a long moment. there was no surprise on his face; only a quiet sadness that settled around his eyes.
“michael already told me,” he said, leaning back.
of course he did.
“you sure?”
“i’m sure.” you offered a small smile. “i just… wanted to thank you again. for everything. for taking a chance on me. for everything you taught me. this just feels… right.”
teddy studied you, then stood and came around to the front of the desk, leaning against it with his arms loosely crossed. his voice dropped, gentler than usual.
“can i give you some advice?” he asked, running his hand over his jaw.
you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, nodding.
“michael is…” he searched for the words. “he’s one of the most generous people i’ve ever known.”
you smiled immediately, “i know.”
his eyes immediately shifted to your fingers playing with the bracelet.
“i know you do.”
another pause.
the rain tapped harder against the glass.
“but it’s hard to step out of somebody else’s shadow.” his eyes held yours. “especially one that large.”
his words lingered between you. it didn’t sound much like advice. it sounded like a quiet warning. for half a second, the old version of yourself, the soft-spoken assistant who stayed in the back of the control room, stirred. but then you thought of michael’s hands in your hair, the way he said your name like a prayer… and that future already felt more real than anything you’d leave behind.
“i’ll be fine,” you answered.
teddy didn’t look convinced, but he offered you a soft smile and pulled you into a brief, awkward hug that smelled like coffee and rain. he told you to call if you ever needed anything, but you both knew you wouldn’t.
you quietly packed up your things and walked out into the gray afternoon. the drizzle kissed your face as you crossed the lot. you didn’t look back.
neverland felt like the only real place left in the world.
your days quietly rearranged themselves around michael. the silence felt so luxurious. after months of fourteen-hour studio sessions and endless deadlines, there was nowhere you needed to be that wasn’t wherever he was.
everything felt… pure. a little love bubble the two of you created together. no schedules, no sessions, no voices that weren’t his. the private wing became a sealed universe of soft light and slower time.
mornings started late. you’d wake tangled in his sheets, the air still warm from the night before, his arm heavy across your waist and his face buried in the curve of your neck. the sheets always smelled like him: clean skin, a trace of sandalwood oil, the faint sweetness of the lotion he rubbed into your shoulders. he’d press slow, open-mouthed kisses there until you stirred, then roll you under him with a quiet sound of contentment. he’d take you soft and deep while the light was still gold, forehead pressed to yours, eyes open, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face while repeatedly murmuring ‘i love you.’
afternoons stretched in the same unhurried way. you’d sit on the balcony with coffee that tasted like cinnamon and cream while he read half-finished lyrics to you, your legs draped over his lap, his fingers moving gently through your hair. the california air was warm and dry, carrying the scent of flowers from the lower gardens. later he’d cut fruit and feed you pieces between kisses, juice running down your chin that he’d lean in to lick away with a soft laugh. the simple domesticity of it made your chest ache in the best way.
at night he’d run a bath so hot the mirrors fogged completely, pull you in with him, and wash your hair with slow, thorough fingers. afterward he’d wrap you in an oversized towel that always smelled like the lavender detergent the staff used. then he’d carry you to bed even though you could walk just fine. the weight of him settling over you felt like coming home every single time.
there were no fights. no silent treatments. no jealousy. just the soft, constant gravity of him and the quiet knowledge that the rest of the world had temporarily ceased to exist.
when he asked you to go on tour with him, it was a no-brainer. you had already been expecting him to ask you. you knew how badly he needed you, and you couldn’t imagine being away from him for that long anyway.
the night before the two of you left for munich, germany, he came into the bedroom carrying a small robin’s-egg blue box. you were scribbling song lyrics in your journal, legs tucked under you, wearing one of his old t-shirts that still smelled faintly of his cologne. he sat on the edge of the bed and waited until you looked up.
“i got you something,” he said. his voice was quieter than usual, almost shy. when you looked up, your breath hitched at the sight of the familiar blue box. as he opened it, he said, “it’s a promise. a promise that no matter how crazy things get… we belong to each other.”
the ring was simple and perfect; a thin platinum band with a single round diamond that caught the low light and threw tiny rainbows across the sheets. he took your left hand carefully and slid it on. it fit like it had been waiting for you.
“michael, it’s beautiful,” you whispered, voice barely steady.
he stared into your eyes so intensely it was like he was looking into your soul. it was overwhelming in the softest way. you leaned forward and kissed him gently, lovingly. he kissed you back with the same tenderness, brushing his fingers over the ring on your finger. when he pulled back, he tucked your hair behind your ear and took a deep breath.
“i’m terrified of the tour,” he admitted, eyes fixed on the ring instead of your face. his thumb still stroking the band. “the crowds. the noise. the way everything gets so big it feels like i disappear inside it. but you’re coming with me. and that… that makes it bearable. i need you with me, baby. i don’t know how to do any of this without knowing you’re mine when the lights go down.”
you felt the words settle deep in your chest. you leaned forward and kissed him, slow and sure, tasting the faint mint of the tea he’d been drinking.
“i’m not going anywhere.”
he exhaled against your mouth like he’d been holding his breath for days. his hands came up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes, and for a long moment neither of you spoke, the weight of the promise settling between you like something sacred.
the first four weeks of the dangerous tour were electric.
it started with a quiet conversation in the hotel suite the morning before the opening show in munich.
michael had been restless the entire night before, and all morning long. he couldn’t stop pacing, checking the set list again, rolling his shoulders like the weight of the tour was already sitting on them. you watched him from the edge of the bed for a long time before you spoke.
“breathe, my love,” you said softly.
he let out a short breath and kept pacing.
“i already feel like every choice is being taken from me. where i stand, what time i eat, when i sleep, what i wear on stage. someone else’s schedule shoved down my throat. i hate it.”
you stayed seated on the edge of the bed and watched him pace for another few seconds before you spoke again, voice softer than before.
“michael… come here.”
he stopped and looked at you. after a moment, he walked over, still restless, and stood in front of you. you reached for his hand, playing with his fingers for a second while you gathered the words.
“you said everything feels like it’s being taken from you,” you said quietly, eyes on his hand instead of his face. “so… maybe take something back.” you hesitated, cheeks warming. “you could pick for me. my clothes. my hair. whatever you want. if you want to.”
he was quiet for a long moment. when you finally glanced up, something shifted in his expression. his shoulders loosened a fraction. he studied your face for a long moment, as if checking whether you meant it.
“you don’t have to do that,” he said, voice lower.
“i want to.”
he looked at you for a second longer, like he was still making sure, then gently tugged your hand.
“come here,” he said quietly.
he led you over to the full-length mirror and positioned you in front of it, standing close behind you. for a moment, he just rested his hands on your waist, eyes meeting yours in the glass. the restless energy that had been rolling off him all morning had already started to settle.
“you’re so good to me,” he murmured against the side of your head, voice low and genuine. “i love you.”
then he turned his attention to the open closet. his hands were careful when he finally reached for the first dress, holding it up against your body, tilting his head, setting it aside. another. then another. when he found the one he wanted, he helped you into it himself; guiding the fabric over your shoulders, zipping it slowly up your spine, smoothing the material over your hips with both palms.
he chose the lipstick next, uncapping it and handing it to you. he watched as you applied the lipstick of his choice, his free hand steadying your chin. he left your hair down so he could run his fingers through it later. the entire time, his eyes stayed on your reflection, soft and intent. his shoulders dropped. a small, private smile appeared when everything was exactly the way he wanted.
“there,” he said, voice low and satisfied. “perfect.”
you watched him in the mirror and felt something warm and heavy unfurl low in your stomach. you liked the way it made him look at you, like you were something he’d made.
you liked the quiet power of giving him this small piece of control in a world that was constantly trying to take larger ones from him. every time he finished and said those two words, you felt a flush of pleasure that had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with him.
he brought you to the very first show that night.
you wore dark sunglasses, a hat, and one of his oversized jackets that still smelled like his cologne. every time you stepped out of a building or from the car into the venue, he pulled the jacket up over your head himself, shielding your face from any lingering cameras. the only thing that stayed visible was the tiffany ring on your finger.
the tabloids went crazy. speculative headlines started appearing in the entertainment magazines and papers within days:
jackson’s mystery companion
who is the mystery woman michael won’t show?
only the ring stays visible: jackson’s private obsession
when the coverage stayed vague and hungry, something in michael loosened. one night in the hotel, looking at a folded tabloid left on the table, he glanced over at you with a quiet, almost secretive smile. his thumb brushed the band on your finger.
“they know you’re mine,” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “they just don’t get to see you. i decide how much of you the world gets. and right now they get nothing but the proof that you belong to me.”
the secrecy thrilled him. it made the bubble feel tighter, more sacred. you felt it too. the strange pleasure of being hidden, claimed, unseen by anyone but him. you didn’t mind living in the shadows. it kept your love private. secure. it let the two of you hold onto the same domesticated bliss you had built at neverland, even while the rest of the world screamed his name every night.
the first stretch of dates moved quickly. munich. then rotterdam. then rome. the cities blurred together in blacked-out cars and under-stage tunnels, but the rhythm of the tour settled over both of you like a second skin.
michael came alive under the lights in a way that still left you breathless. the adrenaline carried him through the long days and longer nights. he would find you the second he stepped off stage, eyes bright, skin damp, still vibrating with the leftover electricity of the performance.
in rotterdam he backed you into an empty dressing room and kissed you until you were dizzy, laughing against your mouth like he couldn’t believe you were real.
in rome he had his staff decorate the hotel suite while the two of you were at the stadium. when you got back to the room, the lights were low, and the entire space smelled like your favorite flowers. soft music was playing. the bed was covered in rose petals. he closed the door behind you, took your face in both hands, and just looked at you for a long moment like the surprise itself had been for him as much as for you.
“i wanted to give you something that felt like home,” he said quietly. “even if it’s only for one night.”
the ritual the two of you built stayed consistent. every night before a show, he still chose what you wore, stood behind you at the mirror, and made sure everything was exactly the way he wanted. the smile when he finished never faded. “perfect,” he would say, voice low and pleased, and you would feel the same warm, heavy satisfaction in your stomach every single time.
you loved the tour. you loved the private language of it: the way he always found your hand in the dark of the car, the way he still pulled his jacket over your head to shield you from cameras even when there were none, the way he looked at you across a crowded backstage hallway like you were the only solid thing in the building. the bubble had simply learned how to travel.
the days took on their own rhythm. soundcheck, the long stretch of waiting, the sudden roar of the crowd, then the sharp drop afterward when the lights went down, and there was only the two of you left in the noise. you learned the shape of his adrenaline. the way it still lived in his hands and his mouth long after the final bow, the way it needed somewhere to go.
half the time he didn’t even make it back to the hotel after a show. the adrenaline was too high, the need too sharp. he’d push you into the nearest empty dressing room or the back of the blacked-out suv and fuck you hard and fast, still in stage clothes that smelled like sweat and lights and fog machines.
it reminded you of the way he’d take you when he was jealous, only this time it was pure adrenaline. nothing like the slow mornings you had shared at neverland. and you became obsessed with the intensity of it.
after dublin, he was especially eager. the show had only been over for twelve minutes when the door of the blacked-out suv slammed shut behind you.
the second the privacy partition was rolled up, michael was on you.
he didn’t speak at first. he just took your face in both hands and kissed you like he’d been starving for it the entire performance. the kiss was deep, open-mouthed, almost rough. his tongue sliding against yours like he was desperate for you. you could taste the salt on his upper lip and feel the sweat from his curls brushing against your face as he devoured you.
“come here,” he ordered against your mouth, already pulling you into his lap so you straddled him.
the leather seat creaked under the shift of weight. his hands were impatient, shoving the dress he chose for you up around your waist, dragging your underwear to the side with his fingers. the second he felt how soaked you already were, he made a low, dark sound in his throat. he freed himself from his pants and boxers quickly, and wasted no time pulling you down onto his cock in one hard, unbroken thrust.
the stretch punched the air out of your lungs. he was so thick, so deep, so fast that your thighs trembled around his hips. he immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide.
“be quiet,” he rasped, voice low and firm, breath hot against your cheek. “not a sound. you take me, and you stay quiet. understand?”
you nodded against his palm, already clenching around him. he kept his hand there and started fucking up into you with deep, relentless strokes that made the whole back of the suv rock slightly. the wet, filthy sound of it filled the small space.
every time he bottomed out, you felt it in your stomach, moaning and whimpering against his hand. outside, dublin moved past the windows. you could hear the sounds of other cars nearby, but none of it mattered. the world had narrowed to the heat of his cock splitting you open and the way he watched your face like he was addicted to every expression you made.
“that’s it,” he murmured, voice rough with need, still watching you. “take it. such a good girl for me. you feel how deep i am? how you’re already dripping down me? that’s mine. you’re mine.”
he thrusted harder, the leather squeaking under you, the wet slap of skin against skin making you wetter. every time a broken noise tried to escape your throat, he pressed his palm firmer against your mouth, eyes dark with satisfaction.
you could tell how much he needed this. you could feel how hard he was inside of you, how he was twitching and pulsating while buried deep. he was consumed with lust… the same desperate hunger that lived under your own skin. the more he took, the more you wanted to give it to him. the addiction ran both ways, and neither of you could stop feeding it.
“good. stay quiet for me. let me use what’s mine. fuck. you get so tight when i talk to you like this.”
he sounded absolutely filthy underneath you. he was running off pure adrenaline, and desperate to claim something that couldn’t be scheduled or controlled by anyone else.
only when he felt your thighs shaking around his hips did he finally pull his hand away from your mouth. he moved it to fist your hair and pulled you down until your lips were pressed against the sweat-damp skin of his ear.
“now let me hear you,” he demanded, voice wrecked and low. “moan for me in my ear. whimper for me. i want every fucking sound right here. i earned this. after everything i give, i deserve to know how good i fuck you. be a good girl and let me hear exactly what i do to you.”
the second the permission came, the sounds spilled out of you; broken, desperate, wet little whimpers and moans right against his ear the way he wanted.
he groaned like the noise itself was pushing him closer to the edge and kept driving up into you. he moved his hand from your hair to your throat, not squeezing, just holding. claiming. the other locked on your hip hard enough to bruise as he pulled you down onto every thrust.
“that’s it, fuck, just like that. let me hear how bad you need this. you’re addicted to the way i fuck you, aren’t you? say it while you’re moaning in my ear. tell me.”
“fuck, i need you. i’m so addicted to you—” you gasped against his skin, the words broken and shameless.
“i know you are.” his voice was almost vicious with satisfaction. “cum for me. make a mess on my cock like the needy little thing you are.”
the orgasm hit so hard your whole body locked around him, pulsing so tightly he cursed under his breath. he fucked you through it without slowing down, chasing his own release with short, brutal thrusts until he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken groan, pulsing deep inside you in thick, hot waves while he kept your face pressed to the side of his neck. you could feel every spurt of him, the way he held you there like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.
he stayed inside you until he softened, forehead pressed to yours, both of you still breathing hard. when he finally lifted you off him, it was careful, gentle. he tugged your dress back down, wiped you clean with a folded napkin from the back seat, then pulled you sideways into his lap and wrapped the oversized jacket around both of you. his hand settled on your lower back, thumb stroking slow and steady.
“i love you so much it scares me,” he whispered against your hair, voice soft and completely stripped of the roughness from minutes before. “sometimes i look at you, and i can’t believe how lucky i am. you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
you nuzzled yourself deeper into him, placing a gentle kiss to his neck before looking up at him.
“you’re my entire world,” you said honestly, moving your hand to play with the loose curls hanging in front of his face. “i love you more.”
you were happy. obsessively, almost stupidly happy. it still felt like the two of you against the world.
────୨ৎ────
part VI: the quiet.
the exhaustion settled in slowly, like fog.
at first you barely noticed it. the shows were still electric, the crowds still deafening, but the man who walked off stage started to look smaller somehow.
the bright, almost feverish focus that used to live in his eyes dimmed a little more each week. he still chose your clothes every night… the dress, the lingerie underneath, the lipstick, the way your hair should fall, but the ritual changed.
his hands moved through the motions without the same quiet intensity. he no longer stood behind you at the mirror and murmured “perfect” like the word itself settled something in him. now he would simply nod once, sometimes without even looking at your reflection for more than a second, and turn away.
the ritual had lost its softness. it felt like a chore.
some nights he asked you to stay at the hotel.
“the venue’s too chaotic tonight,” he’d say, rubbing the back of his neck. “security’s stretched thin. i’d feel better if you stayed here.”
or
“my throat’s rough. i’m going to need the quiet after. just… wait for me?”
the reasons were always believable. always gentle. you never argued. you would kiss him at the door, watch the blacked-out cars pull away, and spend the next six to seven hours in the suite trying not to count the minutes.
time stretched differently when he was gone.
you tried to fill the hours. you reorganized the already-neat closet twice. you sat on the edge of the bathtub and watched the water run until it turned cold. you opened your journal and wrote the same three lines over and over before tearing the page out and starting again. everything came back to him; how he had looked at you when the intensity was still there, how quiet the room felt without the sound of him moving through it, how the silence had stopped feeling luxurious and started feeling like proof that you were becoming easy to leave behind.
once you picked up the hotel phone and started dialing your mother’s number before hanging up halfway through. you didn’t know what you would even say. that you were fine? that you were happy? that the man you had given up everything for was slipping into a politeness that made your stomach turn? the words felt impossible. so you set the receiver down and went back to waiting.
you started watching the clock more than the television. you learned the exact sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall, the particular rhythm of his footsteps when he was truly spent. every time the door finally opened, you felt a small, humiliating rush of hope; and every time it died the same way.
he would walk in already half-gone, stage makeup only partially removed, the scent of the stadium still clinging to his skin. the kiss he gave you was soft and almost absent, barely there, before he dropped onto the bed or the couch like his bones had given out. sometimes he didn’t even make it out of his stage clothes. you would sit beside him, fingers gently working the heavy jacket off his shoulders, and he would murmur a tired “thank you, baby” without ever fully looking at you.
the attention that used to feel like a living thing between you had thinned into something polite and distant.
it triggered the same old panic.
you knew he was exhausted. you knew the tour was eating him alive, but knowledge didn’t stop the familiar, sick twist in your stomach. it was the same one you’d felt the week after mr. harlan gave you that ride. the quiet voice that whispered you did something wrong. he’s pulling away because of you. even when the rational part of your mind insisted it wasn’t true, the fear still settled under your ribs and stayed there.
so you tried harder.
you became almost frantic in your perfection. every morning you made sure the suite was exactly the way he liked it; temperature, lighting, the right tea steeping when he woke. you pressed cool cloths to the back of his neck when the headaches hit. you sat on the edge of the bathtub and carefully removed the rest of his stage makeup with shaking hands when he was too tired to do it himself.
he always thanked you.
sometimes he even pulled you against his chest and let you listen to his heartbeat until he fell asleep. but the electricity was gone. the hungry way he used to look at you, like you were the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to dissolve him, had been replaced by exhausted gratitude. it should have been enough. it wasn’t.
the loneliness wasn’t loud. it was quiet and constant, like a low hum under everything. you had built your entire world around being needed by him, and now you were discovering what it felt like when that need went dim. the worst part was how small you felt inside it, and how willing you still were to rearrange yourself into whatever shape might bring even a fraction of his focus back.
you’d lay awake most nights staring at the ceiling, his arm heavy across your waist, and felt the same hollow ache you’d felt during that long week of silence months ago. the difference was that this time there was no clear mistake to fix. no neighbor to explain. only the slow, terrifying realization that the version of him who needed you with every nerve ending was slipping further away with every show, and no amount of perfect care seemed able to call him back.
by the time the glasgow show arrived, the ache had settled so deep it felt structural.
that show had drained him more than most.
when the suite door finally opened, he barely made it to the edge of the bed before his legs gave out. he sat heavily, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands.
you watched him from the bathroom doorway for a long moment.
the new black leather lingerie felt different against your skin; tighter, cooler, more deliberate. you always wore lace for him, never leather. the way the material hugged your body made something restless and determined settle in your chest. you needed him to see you. you needed the electricity back, even if you had to drag it out of him.
you crossed the room quietly and stepped behind him. your hands slid over his shoulders, thumbs pressing into the tight knots of muscle there. he didn’t lift his head. you leaned down, lips brushing the damp skin of his neck, and opened your mouth against him. your tongue traced a slow path through the salt of his sweat, tasting the night still clinging to him.
he sighed, the sound heavy and apologetic. “i’m sorry, baby… i’m too tired. too tired to fuck you tonight.”
you stayed close, mouth near his ear, voice soft but steady.
“then let me fuck you.”
for a second he didn’t move. then he slowly lifted his head.
you stepped around in front of him and sank to your knees between his spread thighs. surprise flickered across his exhausted face as he looked down at you; the leather, the deliberate way you were already reaching for his belt, the expression in your eyes. you kept your gaze on him as you undid the buckle, pulled the zipper down, and freed him. he was only half-hard, heavy and warm in your hand.
“you don’t need to do anything,” you murmured, voice low and coaxing. “you don’t need to touch me. you don’t need to think. you don’t even need to look at me. just let me take the stress away.”
you leaned in and took him into your mouth.
the first slow slide of your lips around him pulled a quiet, involuntary sound from his throat. you worked him carefully at first; tongue pressing along the underside, cheeks hollowing as you took him deeper, the wet heat of your mouth surrounding every inch until your nose brushed his stomach.
you could feel him hardening against your tongue, growing thicker, longer, until he filled your mouth. spit gathered at the corners of your lips and slipped down his length as you moved with steady, focused need. you wanted him fully hard. you wanted him to feel how desperate and willing you were for him.
when he was rigid and pulsing against your tongue, you finally pulled off with a wet sound and rose. you pushed gently at his chest until he fell back onto the mattress. his eyes closed the moment his head hit the bed… and he didn’t open them again.
you climbed over him, knees bracketing his hips, and reached down to guide him to your entrance. the head of his cock nudged against you, slick from your mouth, and you sank slowly, taking every inch until he was buried to the hilt. a shaky breath left you at the stretch. he felt thick and hot inside you, filling you completely, the leather of your lingerie cool against your thighs in contrast. he only exhaled, eyes still shut.
you began to move.
“let me be useful,” you whispered, voice tight as you rolled your hips. “just feel me. i’m yours. i’m right here for you to get off in.”
his only response was a quiet, low moan. one of his hands drifted up and settled lightly on your waist; not guiding, not gripping, just resting there as you rode him. the wet sound of your body taking him filled the quiet room. you kept talking, the words spilling out soft and desperate between the wet sounds of your body taking his.
“i exist for this… for you”
“let me do all the work baby, you just relax”
“you make me so fucking desperate”
you hoped the vulgar words would spark something in him again, the way it normally does... making him pin you down and take control. but he never opened his eyes. he never spoke. the hand on your waist stayed loose and passive.
you watched his face the entire time, the furrow of exhaustion between his brows, the way his lips parted on heavier breaths as you moved faster. when his breath started to stutter, you clenched around him deliberately, milking him with every upward stroke.
“cum whenever you want,” you told him, voice soft and wrecked. “fill me up. i’ll take all of you. i don’t need anything back.”
when he finished, it was with a low, almost pained sound, hips twitching once beneath you as he spilled inside you in thick, hot pulses. you felt every spurt, the heat spreading deep, and kept moving through it, hoping the aftershocks might pull something more from him. they didn’t.
he stayed inside you, and you could feel the tension leaving his body completely. his hand slipped from your waist. his eyes remained closed, like he was already falling asleep.
you stayed straddling him for several long seconds, still full of him, still aching and unfinished. the leather suddenly felt cold against your skin. the quiet ‘thank you’ sat in the air like a door being gently shut in your face.
you had offered him everything. your body, your pride, the chance to take without giving anything back, and even that hadn’t been enough to make him look at you.
you carefully lifted yourself off him, the loss of him making your throat tight. you plopped down next to him, and his hands immediately found their way around you, pulling you slightly closer to him. he nuzzled his face in the nape of your neck, and you could feel his heart rate slow down as he dozed completely.
you laid there for a long time, feeling his breath against your neck as the realization settled in: he never even kissed you that night. it was stupid. unreasonable. he was right there with you, his cum still warm between your thighs, but he never felt further away.
the next two nights followed the same pattern. he came back later and later, the stage still clinging to his skin, the exhaustion heavier each time. the first night you tried again; softer this time, fewer words, just your hands and your mouth and the quiet offer of your body. he accepted it the same way he had in glasgow: eyes closed, passive, murmuring a tired thank-you when it was over.
the second night you didn’t even try. you simply laid beside him in the dark while he slept, listening to his breathing and feeling the hollow space where the intensity used to live.
by the third morning, the nausea had settled into something sharper.
you stood in the bathroom staring at your own reflection and finally admitted what you had been circling for days. the politeness sat in your stomach like something spoiled. the more perfectly you behaved, the more invisible you became.
he wasn’t reacting because you weren’t giving him anything to react to.
there was no threat. no reason for jealousy. no reason for that dark, focused intensity that used to take over his entire body when he thought he might lose even a fraction of you. you had made yourself so easy, so careful, so useful that there was nothing left for him to fight for.
and the most sickening part was that you missed it.
you missed the version of him that got sharp and possessive. you missed the way he used to look at you like he needed to remind both of you who you belonged to.
the thought that you were starting to crave the toxic heat of his jealousy, so much so that you were considering doing something just to pull it out of him, made your hands shake against the porcelain sink. but the craving didn’t go away.
that was when the small tests began.
you started going to bed before he arrived back at the suite. instead of waiting up to give him a massage or run him a shower, you’d keep your eyes closed as he returned to the room.
he’d be quiet, moving slowly around the bed, undressing in the dark so he wouldn’t wake you. you’d lie there, heart pounding, facing away from his side of the bed, waiting to see if he’d wake you up. instead he climbed into the sheets, leaned over, and placed a quick kiss to the top of your head, then settled in without a word.
the next morning you waited… and waited… and waited for him to make a comment about you not waiting up. it never came.
the lack of reaction made something restless and ugly twist in your chest. if quiet withdrawal didn’t reach him, you would have to push harder.
he had asked you to come to the show with him that night. while he was in the shower, you opened the closet and slipped into the dress he had specifically told you he didn’t like; the one that was too short when you sat down and too bright under cameras. you stood in front of the mirror and waited.
when he came out of the bathroom, he stopped short. his eyes moved over you slowly.
“that’s what you’re wearing?” his voice was flat. “i don’t like it.”
you met his gaze in the mirror and didn’t reach for anything else.
“i know.”
a longer silence stretched between you this time. something flickered behind the exhaustion, not full anger yet, but a sharper tightening of his jaw. a brief flash of the intensity you had been starving for.
for a second, you thought he might actually demand you change. instead, he only looked at you for another beat, then turned away and finished getting ready in silence. the quiet withdrawal that followed felt heavier than the night before, and the fact that even this didn’t pull a real reaction out of him only made the ache in your chest worse.
before he stepped on stage at wembley, he cupped the side of your face briefly, eyes already half in performance mode, and said, “wait in my dressing room, baby. i’ll come get you when it’s over.”
you nodded.
you didn’t stay there.
the restlessness under your skin had become too loud to ignore. halfway through the show, you left the dressing room and wandered the backstage corridors, listening to the muffled roar of the crowd through the walls. when the show ended, you drifted toward the dancers’ area.
two of the male dancers were there. one was packing. the other- the one michael had disliked since the first week of tour, the one he had quietly warned you about- looked up and smiled as he invited you to join them.
the conversation stayed light. cities, sore legs, bad catering. at some point, you both laughed at something small and your knees brushed on the couch. neither of you moved away. every minute that passed without you returning to his dressing room felt like another deliberate step further from the version of yourself who used to wait exactly where he told you to.
about thirty minutes later, the door opened. michael stood there with a towel around his neck, stage makeup still smeared, curls damp with sweat. for the first time in weeks, the exhaustion wasn’t the strongest thing on his face. irritation was. sharp and immediate. his eyes moved from your face to the dancer sitting too close to you, then to the place where your knees still touched.
you didn’t get up. you didn’t cross the room the way you always did, the way he had come to expect you to. he was used to you moving straight to his side like gravity, but this time you stayed seated, looked over at him, and said simply,
“hey.”
the word landed wrong. it was too casual. too light. the kind of greeting you might give an acquaintance, not the man whose dressing room you were supposed to be waiting in, not the man who was used to you appearing at his side the second he entered a room.
the irritation on his face sharpened into something colder. the two dancers read the air instantly. they grabbed their bags, offered quiet excuses, and filed out.
once the door was shut, michael’s voice was low.
“get up. we’re leaving.”
the car was silent the entire ride back. london slid past the windows in a blur as you tried to figure out exactly what you had just set in motion… and whether the reaction you had been chasing would be worth whatever came with it.
when the hotel came into view, a small cluster of paparazzi were already waiting near the entrance. michael reached over without looking at you, pulled the oversized jacket up over your head, and muttered under his breath,
“this fucking dress.”
he guided you through the flashing cameras with one hand firm on your back, body angled to block as much of you as possible, until the lobby doors closed behind you and the noise cut off.
the second the suite door locked, he spoke.
“you didn’t wait in my room as i told you to.”
your pulse was already climbing. you knew the risk. you had known it the moment you left his dressing room, the moment you sat down next to the dancer he disliked, the moment you stayed seated and didn’t run towards him. you knew what usually happened when you pushed him past a certain point. and still the restless, hollow ache had been louder than the fear. you needed him to react. you needed to feel the sharp edge of him again, even if it cut.
you set your bag down and met his eyes.
“i was bored.”
something shifted in his expression. the irritation sharpened into something flatter and more dangerous.
“so you decided to go sit with him.”
“we were just talking.”
he stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight. then he crossed the space between you. your heart lurched hard. hope flared that he might grab your face, kiss you hard, press you against the wall, give you the consuming intensity you had been starving for.
instead, he stopped directly in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your head back to hold his gaze. when he spoke, his voice was low and cold, but the control in it was paper-thin.
“take the ring off.”
the words knocked the air out of your lungs.
you looked down at the diamond on your finger, then back up at him, completely disoriented.
“what?”
“take it off.” his eyes didn’t leave yours. “if you’re going to act like you’re not mine, then don’t stand there with my ring on your hand.”
you didn’t move. you couldn’t. the demand sat between you like something far too sharp. for a second, the only thing you could hear was your own pulse. the ring suddenly felt heavier on your finger, like it had become the only solid thing left in the room.
when you still didn’t reach for it, something in his expression tightened further. his voice dropped even lower.
“i mean it. take it off. if it doesn’t mean the same thing to you anymore, then i don’t want it on you.”
the second push landed harder than the first. this wasn’t the reclaiming you had been chasing. this was him trying to take back the only solid thing left between you. the ring had been a promise; we belong to each other. now he was using it like a threat. the unfairness of it, the deep wrongness of it, made your eyes burn.
michael waited another second, watching your face. when you still didn’t move, he let out a quiet, humorless breath, turned, and walked toward the bedroom. the door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
you stood alone in the living room. the dress he hated still clung to your skin, the ring heavy on your hand, and tears streaming down your cheeks. the hurt settled so deep it made it hard to breathe.
────୨ৎ────
part V: the freeze.
the next few days were torture.
it wasn’t the full silent treatment. he still spoke when necessary. he still sat in the same car. he still slept in the same bed. but he removed every trace of softness. the absentminded touches vanished. he stopped choosing your clothes. he answered questions with short, flat replies and looked at you like you were someone he used to know.
for the first time, you matched his energy.
every second of it hurt. the instinct to fix it clawed at you constantly; to soften your voice, to reach for him, to close the distance the way you always had. you pushed it down harder each time it rose. if he was going to withdraw the warmth, then you would too. you stopped making his tea. in the car, you sat further away, eyes on the window. at night you kept your back turned even though the cold space between your bodies felt like an open wound.
the longer the silence stretched, the more the suite itself started to feel like a third presence in the room.
at first his coldness was steady. controlled. the same flat withdrawal he had always used when he was angry. he seemed to be waiting, the way he always waited, for you to be the one to close the gap. for the soft apology. for the quiet “i’m sorry” that used to come easily from you. you could feel the expectation sitting between you like an open hand he kept holding out.
you didn’t take it.
instead, you moved through the days with careful, deliberate distance. when he entered a room, you no longer looked up right away. when he asked a quiet question, you answered in the fewest words possible. every small refusal cost you something. each time you swallowed the urge to break, you felt the ugly, complicated satisfaction of watching him feel even a fraction of what you had felt for weeks.
and that was when something in him began to change.
by the second day, the controlled coldness started to fray. you saw it in the way his eyes followed you when he thought you weren’t looking, restless and searching. you saw it in the tight line of his mouth whenever you answered him with the same flat politeness he had once given you.
once, in the middle of the afternoon, he stood in the doorway of the living room and just watched you for a long time without speaking. the weight of his attention was almost physical. you kept your eyes on the book you weren’t really reading and refused to give him the softness he was silently asking for.
the guilt sat heavy under your ribs.
so did the darker relief.
for the first time, the helplessness was shared. he was the one left reaching. he was the one left wondering if the distance would become permanent. every time he tested the edge with a lingering glance, a quiet “did you eat?”, or hovering his hand near your back without quite touching, you didn’t meet him halfway. and you felt a sick, sharp satisfaction.
the symmetry was toxic, and you knew it.
you also weren’t ready to give it up.
by the evening of the second day, the fear in him had become impossible to miss.
he barely ate. he paced more. when he finally came to bed, he laid rigid on his side of the mattress for a long time before sleep took him, and even then his body stayed restless. turning toward the space between you as if searching in his dreams.
the next day, the two of you sat in silence on the private flight from london to vienna.
the cabin was quiet and plush, but the distance felt heavier in the smaller space. michael sat across the aisle with headphones on, eyes fixed on the clouds.
vienna was colder. the suite was larger, the windows overlooking a grey city you barely registered. the freeze simply continued, heavy and unbroken, through the third day and into the fourth.
before leaving for his show, he tried one last quiet reach, coming to sit on the opposite end of the couch. he sat close enough that you could have shifted toward him if you wanted. he asked in a low voice if you wanted anything from room service.
the question was ordinary. the look in his eyes was not. it was open and tired and almost pleading. the same man who had told you to take the ring off was now looking at you like the possibility that you might actually stay distant was starting to frighten him.
you kept your gaze on the window and answered without turning.
“no. thank you.”
the silence that followed was heavier than any of the ones before it. you felt him stay there for another full minute, waiting, before he finally stood and left the room. you sat very still after he was gone, hands cold in your lap, and let the truth settle.
you were both hurting.
you were both spiraling.
you were both choosing the wound over the risk of being the first to reach.
michael got in later than usual that night from the show. you were already in bed, back turned, all of the lights off. you kept your breathing steady, and your eyes closed. every muscle in your body was braced for the familiar weight of him settling onto the mattress without reaching for you.
instead, the footsteps crossed the room and stopped at the foot of the bed.
a second later, the lamp clicked on.
soft light spilled across the sheets, forcing you to open your eyes. michael stood at the end of the bed, still in his stage clothes, towel draped around his neck, looking more undone than you had seen him in weeks. the exhaustion was still there, but underneath it was something raw and open that made your chest tighten.
he didn’t speak right away. he just looked at you for a long moment, then walked around to your side of the bed and slowly sank to his knees on the floor beside you.
the movement was so unexpected that for a second you could only stare.
the last time someone had been on their knees in this relationship, it had been you. the first time you ever apologized to him, he had you drop to the floor and take him into your mouth until he decided you were forgiven.
that memory surfaced sharp and clear as you watched him lower himself now, the king of pop, the man who controlled every detail of your days, kneeling beside the bed like the power had finally shifted.
he reached out and took your left hand, holding it between both of his like he was afraid it might disappear.
“you’re still wearing it.” his voice was rough, stripped of the cool distance he had been maintaining. his thumb brushed over the diamond, unsteady. “you didn’t take it off.”
the words came out quieter this time, like he still couldn’t quite believe them. he kept his eyes on the ring, then finally lifted them to your face.
“i kept waiting for you to do it,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “every time i walked into a room, i thought that would be the moment you’d finally take it off and hand it back.”
you stayed still, heart slamming against your ribs, the cold façade you had been holding onto for the past few days starting to fracture under the sound of him breaking.
he looked up at you from where he knelt, the exhaustion still etched into his face, but underneath it was something frightened and completely unguarded.
“thank god,” he whispered. “i don’t know what i would’ve done if you had. i can’t lose you. i don’t know how to do any of this without you.”
the last of your resistance crumbled.
you turned toward him. the second you moved, he rose just enough to pull you into his chest, face pressing into your neck, arms locking around you so tightly it almost hurt. you felt him shake once, a quiet, uncontrolled breath against your skin.
“i’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, over and over.
it wasn’t lost on you that in all the time you’d been with him, this was the first time he had ever apologized.
and he was doing it from his knees.
the rest of the night passed in near silence. he didn’t try to take things further. he just held you, face buried in your neck, one hand spread wide across your back like he was still convincing himself you hadn’t disappeared.
every few minutes, his fingers would find the ring and rest there, tracing the band as if the metal itself was proof. you stayed awake longer than he did, listening to the gradual slowing of his breath, feeling the wetness of his quiet tears against your skin long after he had stopped shaking.
morning came gray and slow.
you woke to find him already watching you, eyes red-rimmed, expression stripped of every defense. for a long time, neither of you spoke. he reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face with the gentlest motion.
when he finally kissed you, it was soft and searching. nothing like the claiming intensity you had been starving for, and nothing like the cold distance of the previous days. something in between. raw and unsteady.
“stay close today,” he said against your mouth, voice still rough. “please.”
the fevered softness began from there.
he cancelled everything that wasn’t essential. no interviews. no meetings. the first day he filled the suite with your favorite flowers until the air smelled thick and sweet. he barely let you out of reach. if you stood, he stood. if you moved to the window, his body followed.
that morning he brought you breakfast in bed and sat on the edge of the mattress watching you eat before he touched anything himself. later, when you shivered, he got up without a word, turned the heat higher, and pulled an extra blanket over both of you. at night, he drew you into his lap and simply held you, face pressed to your hair, breathing you in like the contact itself was keeping him steady.
the second day passed the same way. quiet. careful. devoted.
when he took you, it was different from the hungry, punishing sex you had been chasing. he laid you down and kissed every inch of skin he could reach, lingering, respectful. he moved inside you slow and deep, eyes open, watching your face the entire time. whispering over and over how much he loved you, how sorry he was, how he couldn’t lose you. every time he came, he held you through it, arms locked around you, trembling slightly like the release still scared him.
his attention never left you. not once.
it was the softest, most careful version of him you had ever been given.
it should have been enough.
on the second night, you laid tangled together in the dark. his chest against your back, one of his hands resting loosely over your stomach. the suite was quiet except for the low hum of the city beyond the windows. his breathing had already slowed, heavy and even against the back of your neck. every so often, his fingers would flex slightly, like even in sleep he was checking that you were still there.
it was the safest you had felt in weeks.
and still, staring at the faint outline of the curtains, you felt the old twist in your stomach. the quiet, shameful wish that he would wake up, pin you down, and take you like he was afraid of losing you all over again.
the softness was real. it was everything he knew how to give right now. but the part of you that had been shaped by the cycle still ached for the freefall, for the kind of claim that left marks and stole the air from the room.
you closed your eyes and tried to let the safety be enough.
────୨ৎ────
part V: the cage.
on the third morning, the banging started at the door just after dawn.
michael answered it shirtless, still half-asleep. a member of his security team stood there with a stack of tabloids and a grim expression. “you need to see these. and turn on the television.”
the photographs were clear and intimate.
you and michael in a backstage hallway, his hand low on your back, faces close. another of you leaning up to kiss him, your hand on his chest, your expression soft and open. for the first time, your face was fully visible. your name was already printed underneath in bold letters. the commentary was vicious.
michael jackson’s secret girlfriend exposed
the ordinary girl who quit everything for him
ultimate yes-girl: how a nobody became the king of pop’s shadow
friends say they haven’t heard from her in over a year
is this really the best he could do?
gold digger or just desperate to be chosen?
anchors spoke over the images and dissected every single thing about them; the way you looked at him, the way you leaned in, the fact that no one had ever seen you before. the bubble that had protected the two of you for months was gone. strangers were looking at the most private parts of your dynamic and deciding what it meant.
michael stood in the middle of the room, staring at the screen, the papers clenched in one hand. the anger that settled over him was hot and immediate. it was the fury of control slipping through his fingers. he turned the television off abruptly, threw the entire stack of newspapers onto the floor, and started pacing. one hand dragging through his hair, while his jaw locked so tight the muscle jumped.
you watched him from the bed, sheet still pulled up around your waist, heart already climbing into your throat. the photographs were still burned into your mind. your own face, soft and open and completely exposed. the words they were using about you sat under your skin like glass.
ordinary.
nobody.
shadow.
for the first time, you felt the full weight of what it meant to be seen next to him. he was the most famous man in the world. and you were the girl who had disappeared into him so completely that even your own friends no longer recognized your life. the scrutiny didn’t just hurt; it confirmed every quiet fear you had tried not to name.
he paced for another full minute before he finally stopped and crossed the room to you. his hands framed your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes, but the touch was almost frantic.
“they’re going to tear you apart,” he said, voice low and shaking. “they’re already doing it. i won’t let them. i’m going to protect you. you’re safe with me, okay? i won’t let them ruin what we have.”
you nodded.
what else was there to do?
the fear in his voice was the same fear living in your own mind. but as the hours and days that followed unfolded, you began to feel the difference in how that fear moved through him. the control tightened quickly, and more intensely than anything that had come before.
he no longer simply chose your clothes; he decided what you were allowed to wear even inside the suite when staff might enter. certain necklines disappeared entirely. he determined which rooms of any venue you could wait in, and which ones were now off-limits without him present.
in public, his hand stayed on the small of your back constantly, not affectionate, directional. a clear signal that you moved only when he moved. once, when a member of the crew asked you a direct question, michael answered for you without even glancing your way.
the message was unmistakable: she does not speak unless i allow it.
you felt the shift.
this wasn’t the control that used to come from wanting you. this was containment. it was driven by the terror of what the outside world could still take from him, and every new restriction carried the same silent plea: i can’t lose you to them.
the grip was tighter than ever, but it didn’t feel like the claim you had been starving for. it didn’t feel like desire. it felt like fear wearing the shape of possession. and the difference sat heavily in your chest.
sometimes, when michael wasn’t in the room, the headlines got louder in your head. ordinary. nobody. the girl who gave up everything. the more you turned them over, the more they started to feel true. you had given up everything. the version of yourself that existed before him felt further away every day.
looking in the mirror had started to hurt. the face staring back at you looked smaller somehow, like it belonged to someone who had already been erased and was only still visible because he hadn’t let go yet.
and underneath all of it lived the quiet, sick fear that kept you awake: that he would eventually see what the papers saw. that one day the intensity would fade for good, and he would look at you and realize you were ordinary. that you had never belonged in his world. that the only reason he was holding on so tightly now was because he was afraid of the headlines, not because he still wanted you.
one afternoon he walked in and found you on the floor with your journal open, a small pile of torn pages beside you. you had ripped out every entry that tried to name what you were becoming. when he asked what you were doing, you only said “nothing” and closed the cover. he didn’t push, but the fear in his eyes sharpened, and the control tightened another degree.
another night he came out of the bathroom and caught you crying in front of the mirror, quiet tears while you stared at your own reflection in the dress he had chosen. you wiped your face the second you saw him, but not fast enough. he crossed the room, cupped your face, and kissed you with a sudden, almost desperate softness. when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours and stayed there for a long moment.
“don’t listen to them, baby,” he said, voice low and tight. “they don’t know you. you’re perfect.”
but some of their words had already moved in and made themselves at home.
he tried to offset the coldness of the new rules with gifts. a new birkin, new dresses, earrings that matched your ring. each present appeared when your silence had stretched too long. he would watch your face when you opened them, searching for proof that the gesture had reached you. when you softened under the attention, he softened too. when you leaned into his touch, he held on tighter.
the mixed signals left you unsteady. the underlying truth was simple and devastating: both of you were terrified of the same loss, and both of you were willing to disappear a little more if it meant the other stayed.
the day before the paris show, he came into the living room holding a small cream-colored card.
“there’s a dinner tonight,” he said. “private room. only a few people. now that they know your face, staying completely hidden will only make the speculation worse. we go together. we stay controlled. we leave when i say.”
it wasn’t a request.
you looked at him; you really looked at him. you noticed the tension in his shoulders, you noticed the way his thumb kept brushing over the ring on your hand as he spoke, and you felt the familiar need to soothe it, to make yourself smaller and easier so the fear in him would quiet.
“okay,” you said.
he exhaled, leaned in, and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek.
“i’ll be right with you the whole time, baby.”
the words should have settled you. instead, they sat wrong in your chest. you were going to be displayed. not hidden, not protected like before, but walked into a room full of people who had already read the headlines and decided what you were.
the ordinary girl. the nobody who got chosen. the thought made your hands go cold. you nodded anyway, because the alternative was telling him you weren’t ready, and you weren’t sure if you could do that.
the private room was all low light and dark wood, the kind of place designed to make conversations feel exclusive. there were maybe twelve people total. lots of producers, a couple of executives, one or two familiar industry faces.
michael kept you close from the moment you entered, his hand steady at the small of your back as he guided you between short conversations. you smiled when required. you answered when spoken to.
you felt yourself starting to dissociate under the weight of being both displayed and tightly held to his side. it was during one of the introductions that the comment came. an older man looked between the two of you with a thin smile, eyes flicking to the ring on your hand.
“gotta say,” he said, “it’s something else seeing you settled. didn’t think anyone would ever get michael jackson on a leash.”
the words landed in the middle of the small group, causing everyone to chuckle. michael gave a small laugh and pressed into your back slightly. you felt the expectation that you should stay quiet and smile.
instead, something restless and sharp moved through you. the same control that currently felt like both protection and erasure pressed against your ribs, and the word leash sat too close to the truth.
you met the man’s gaze and said, voice even, “oh no. trust me, i’m the one on the leash.”
a short, uncomfortable silence followed. michael’s hand went rigid against your back. he politely excused the two of you and steered you away a moment later without finishing the conversation, the line of his shoulders tight.
“what’s wrong with you?” he whispered lowly against your ear.
you just looked up at him and shrugged.
his jaw tightened, but before he could say anything else, someone called his name from across the room. a producer he needed to speak with. michael hesitated, hand still firm on your back, then leaned in close enough that only you could hear him.
“stay where i can see you,” he said, voice low and tight. “don’t wander.”
he waited until you gave a small nod before releasing you and moving across the room.
for a few minutes, you remained near the edge of the group, glass in hand, watching the easy way he slipped back into conversation. the tension from the leash comment still lingered under your skin. you took a slow sip of your drink and let your gaze drift across the private room.
that’s when you saw her.
she moved through the space as if she belonged in it. tall, self-assured, the kind of beauty that didn’t have to announce itself. you recognized her from one of his videos earlier that year. she had drifted into the small circle around michael and was already laughing at something he said, the sound light and practiced.
her fingers brushed his forearm, lingering just long enough to be intentional. he didn’t step away. instead, his hand came up and rested briefly against her elbow, casual and familiar.
and then you saw it: his eyes moved over her once, quick and almost automatic, taking in the long line of her figure before returning to her face with that soft look on his face.
the glance lasted less than a second.
it was enough.
jealousy and something colder roared up so fast it made your ears ring. the tabloid words that had been living under your skin for days rose with it; ordinary, nobody, the girl who didn’t belong. you felt the intense fear that she was the opposite of everything the papers said you were; that she was the kind of woman who belonged in rooms like this without needing to be managed or hidden or carefully dressed.
the thought of being replaced, of him one day looking at someone else the way he used to look at you, made you feel like you were going to die. it was overwhelming. toxic. but underneath the pain was the sharp recognition that this was the exact voltage you had been starving for.
for the first time, you saw the opening clearly. you saw the opportunity to force the version of him that didn’t freeze: the one that claimed, the one that hurt, the one that still wanted you badly enough to lose control.
you set your glass down and crossed the short distance to a man you vaguely recognized from earlier in the tour. the conversation you started was warmer than it needed to be. you smiled, laughed once without guarding it, and when he said something mildly funny, you let your hand rest on his arm. your body stayed angled open, fully visible from where michael stood.
the entire time, your eyes stayed locked on michael’s across the room.
you watched the exact moment his composure cracked. the way his expression darkened, the way his body went still, the way every bit of careful control drained out of his face and left only raw, focused intensity behind.
a moment later, you stepped closer, both hands lightly on the man’s shoulders, and rose onto your toes to speak near his ear. long enough for michael to see it. long enough for the point to land. his hand settled on your back as you leaned in, just for a second, casual and easy.
that was the moment michael moved.
he was at your side in seconds. he didn’t even bother to look at the man. his hand closed around your upper arm, firm, and his voice was low enough that only you could hear it.
“we’re leaving.”
his grip on your arm was tight as he steered you through the private room. conversations dulled. eyes followed. he pushed the back exit open, and the night air hit your flushed skin, cool against the heat still rising in your face.
the blacked-out car was already waiting. he put you inside, slid in after you, and the privacy partition rose the second the door shut. the car pulled away from the curb.
michael sat rigid beside you, one hand braced on his knee, the other locked around the edge of the seat. city lights moved across his face in broken gold and white. the silence between you was thick.
you could feel the rawness on him. the focus. the anger that had finally broken through. this was the version you had been starving for. your pulse was still racing from the risk, from the way he had come for you across the room. the air between you felt alive again.
and underneath the high was the fear.
the fear that you had pushed him towards the coldness again. that he wouldn’t fight for you in the way you were pushing him to. that he didn’t desire you enough to show you who you belonged to.
then, without looking at you, he spoke.
“you did that on purpose.”
it wasn’t a question.
you kept your eyes forward for a second, pulse loud in your throat, then glanced over at him. your voice came out low and almost light.
“did it work?” you glanced over at him through your lashes, eyes dark and daring, cheeks already flushed, holding his gaze just long enough to make the challenge clear.
he turned his head. the look he gave you was darker than anything he had worn in weeks; stripped of exhausted politeness. it was pure, focused intensity. when he finally answered, his voice was quiet and rough.
“don’t look at me like that.”
“like what?” you asked, purposely acting dumb, twirling a piece of your hair around your finger.
his jaw flexed. for a second, his eyes dropped to your mouth, then back up, and the air between you tightened. he didn’t answer right away. he just looked at you like he was deciding how much restraint he still had left.
“like you already know what you’re getting when we get upstairs.”
the words landed low in your stomach. you felt your pulse quicken. your stomach twisted in excitement. he was finally looking at you like he had to have you.
by the time the car stopped in front of the hotel, the air between you felt ready to break.
the second the suite door locked behind you, he turned and backed you against the wall.
the kiss was nothing like the soft ones from the past days. it was hungry, almost angry, his hands already dragging the dress up your thighs. you kissed him back just as hard, then you pulled away enough to speak against his mouth, voice low and deliberately provocative.
“she looked good on your arm.”
his eyes flashed. “don’t.”
you smiled, small and sharp. “what? i’m just saying. you seemed comfortable. maybe i should get more comfortable too.”
that was all it took.
he growled, spun you around, and shoved you face-first against the wall, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. his other hand yanked the dress higher and ripped your underwear aside. you felt him hard and heavy against you, but instead of pushing in, he only rubbed the head of his cock through your wetness, slow and deliberate, never giving you more than the tip.
“this is how you repay me?” he rasped against your ear. “i get on my knees for you, and you let another man put his hands on you in front of me?”
you pushed your hips back, trying to take more of him. he pulled away just enough to deny you, one strong hand locking on your hip to keep you from sinking onto him.
“ah-ah. you don’t get it until you ask nicely.”
“no.”
the refusal came out breathless and defiant. you tried again to push back onto his cock.
his hand left your hip. the first spank landed sharp and open-palmed across your ass. the sound cracked through the quiet suite. heat bloomed instantly under your skin, bright and stinging. the force of it pushed you forward against the wall. a broken moan slipped out of you before you could stop it.
“beg,” he ordered.
“no,” you said, smiling back at him, teasing him by wiggling your hips gently, moving your soaked pussy over the tip of his cock.
“brat.”
the second spank came harder, right over the same spot. the sting sank deeper this time, making your thighs clench. you felt yourself drip down your own skin, the ache between your legs sharpening with every passing second.
he kept the thick head of his cock slipping through your folds, pressing just barely inside before sliding away again, his hand firm on your hip so you couldn’t take more than he allowed.
“you’re already shaking,” he muttered, voice dark with satisfaction. “you want it so bad, yet you’re still talking back. be a good girl and say please.”
you gritted your teeth, hips trying to chase him. “make me.”
he laughed once, low and almost mean, and spanked you a third time. the impact forced another sound out of you, half moan, half sob. your skin was hot and throbbing, every nerve lit up, and for the first time in weeks the intensity you had been starving for was finally here, sharp and undeniable.
then he finally pushed in halfway with one hard thrust and stopped, stretching you open around him while you cried out. he held you there, filled but not fucked, and leaned over your back so his mouth could reach your neck.
he sucked hard enough that you knew it would bruise, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, then sucking again until the blood rose under your skin. he did the same to the other side of your throat, leaving a matching mark, while his hips stayed perfectly still.
the feeling of being physically marked by him made you clench around his cock. it was exactly the feeling you’d been chasing, the feeling of him consuming you.
“this is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he muttered against your wet skin. “you wanted me jealous. you wanted me like this. say it.”
“i wanted you like this,” you gasped. “i missed it so much. i missed you like this—”
only then did he give you the rest of his cock in one deep, punishing stroke. the stretch forced a broken cry from your throat. he fucked you hard from behind, one hand still in your hair, the other pulling you further down onto his cock before suddenly pulling out.
you barely had time to make a sound of protest before he spun you around to face him, shoved you back against the wall, and lifted one of your legs around his hip. he pushed back inside you in one smooth, deep thrust and immediately dropped his mouth to your chest.
he yanked the top of your dress down and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard and wet while his tongue flicked over the sensitive peak. his free hand cupped your other breast, thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles around the nipple before pinching just enough to make you gasp. he switched sides, mouth latching onto the other breast with the same focused hunger, tongue circling and sucking while his fingers kept teasing the wet, sensitive one he’d just left.
“look at you,” he growled against your skin, voice rough and filthy. “soaking my cock after disobeying me. you love this. you love it when i put you in your place.”
he kept his mouth on you, alternating between deep, wet sucks and the light scrape of his teeth. his hips never stopped driving into you, the wet sound of it filthy in the quiet suite.
“you’re mine,” he said, the words punched out of him with every thrust. “say it again while i’m inside you.”
“i’m yours—”
“again.”
“i’m yours. only yours—”
“that’s right.” he reached down and rubbed tight circles over your clit, still driving into you without slowing. “cum on the cock that you belong to.”
the orgasm hit so hard your vision whitened out. your leg tightened around his hip as your knees buckled, the sudden weakness making you drop hard against him. he caught you immediately, one arm locking tight around your lower back to hold you up while the other stayed braced against the wall. he fucked you through it without slowing, short, brutal strokes that kept the pleasure crashing over you in waves.
“good girl,” he rasped against your mouth, voice rough and breaking. “that’s it. i’ve got you. look so pretty falling apart around my cock. so fucking tight when you cum for me.”
he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, broken groan, pulsing deep inside you in thick, hot waves. his mouth latched onto yours, tongue shoving in aggressively as he moaned into the kiss and kept grinding his release deeper into you, holding your trembling body upright the entire time.
for a long moment, the only sound in the suite was the two of you trying to catch your breath. he stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to yours, one arm still locked around your waist to keep you from sliding down the wall. your leg was still hooked around his hip, weak and shaking.
when he finally pulled out, it was slow, almost reluctant. you made a soft sound at the loss of him. he steadied you with both hands, careful and quiet, then bent and lifted you into his arms. one arm under your knees, the other around your back, he carried you the short distance to the bed like you might break and laid you down gently against the sheets.
he followed right after, stretching out beside you and pulling you into his chest with a tenderness that felt almost fragile after everything that had just happened. his hand moved slowly up and down your back, soothing, grounding.
“are you okay?” he asked softly.
“yes. more than okay,” you whispered, tipping your face up to look at him.
the absolute adoration in your expression made his breath catch. he stared at you for a second; his expression was unreadable.
he leaned down and pressed his mouth to the marks on your neck. he kissed them slowly, one after another, whispering how much he loved you against your skin.
the next morning, you woke to soft gray light and the quiet sound of paper.
michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, shoulders curved forward. in his hands were the crumpled, torn pages from your journal. he was staring at them intently, thumb moving slowly over a ripped edge, eyes fixed on the ink like it might change if he looked long enough.
the pages were full of the entries that tried to name what you were becoming, the ones that admitted how much of yourself you had already given away. you had thrown them away. seeing them in his hands made your stomach drop.
“michael-“
you sat up. the sheet slipped to your waist. the cool air touched the fresh marks he had left on your neck, and you watched his eyes lift and take them in. he looked at the bruises for a long moment, then at your face. something in his expression fractured.
he set the pages down carefully on the nightstand.
“you should leave.”
the words didn’t make any sense. you stared at him, heart already starting to climb into your throat.
“what?”
“you should leave,” he repeated, voice low and rough from sleep and something heavier. “even if it’s just for the rest of the tour. go home. go back to your apartment or to your parents. we can find each other again when it’s over… if you still want to.”
the sentence hit like a physical blow. panic slammed into you so hard it stole the air from your lungs. your vision tunneled. for a second you couldn’t hear anything except the blood rushing in your ears. the room felt too small. the sheets felt too cold. you scrambled up onto your knees on the mattress, the sheet falling away completely, and reached for him with shaking hands.
“no. michael, don’t. you can’t say that.”
“look at yourself.” his eyes moved over the marks on your neck, then your face, then the torn pages on the nightstand. “look at what we’re doing. you tore pages out of your own journal because the truth in them scared you. you’re disappearing. you’re not happy.”
“i don’t care—”
“you should care.” his voice cracked on the words. “i’m trying to do the right thing for once. everyone leaves eventually. they always do. you should go before i make it impossible for you to.”
a broken sound escaped your throat. you shook your head hard, already crawling closer, both hands gripping his wrists like he might vanish if you let go. your pulse was so loud you could feel it in your teeth. the idea of a life without him- empty rooms, ordinary mornings, the absence of his gravity- opened under you like a drop with no bottom.
“i can’t.” your voice came out thin and frantic. “michael, please. don’t do this. don’t say that again.”
“you need to hear it.”
“no, i don’t.” tears were already burning at the corners of your eyes. “you don’t get to decide that for me. i’m not leaving. i won’t.” you grabbed his hand and pressed it hard against the ring on your finger, holding it there so he had to feel the metal.
“you promised. you put this on me, and you said we belonged to each other no matter how crazy things got. you don’t get to take that back.” your voice broke on the last word. you kept his hand locked over the ring, shaking. “you promised me. you can’t take it away.”
he looked down at where your fingers were clenched around his, at the diamond catching the gray morning light, and something in his face twisted. you could see the tears that were threatening to fall from his eyes. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost pleading.
“you’re allowed to want something that isn’t just me. you’re allowed to have a life that doesn’t disappear around me.”
“i don’t want a life that isn’t you.” the words tumbled out raw. “i tried. i had one before. it didn’t feel like this. nothing has ever felt like this. if you send me away, i won’t know how to be a person anymore. i won’t know how to breathe without checking where you are. you don’t understand what you’re asking me to do.”
your hands were shaking so hard you could barely keep hold of him. the panic had nowhere to go. it just kept climbing.
“please,” you whispered. “please don’t make me leave. i’ll be better. i’ll stop pushing. i’ll stop needing so much. just don’t send me away. i can’t survive it. i won’t survive it.”
he closed his eyes. for a second, he looked like the words had physically hurt him. the resolve in his face wavered, then cracked. he reached up, cupped the back of your neck, and pulled you in until your forehead rested against his.
“i know,” he whispered, voice raw and tired. “i know you can’t. i can’t either.”
a broken sob slipped out of you. he held you tighter.
“i keep telling myself to let you go,” he said against your skin, “and then i look at you, and i can’t do it. i’m not strong enough. i need you. i need you so much it scares me.”
you felt the truth of it settle between you. heavy. irreversible. mutual. neither of you was under any illusion that this was good. both of you were choosing the cycle anyway, because the alternative felt worse than the damage.
you pulled him in for a frantic, needy kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him closer. his hands slid up your bare back, fingers pressing hard into your skin like he was still afraid you might change your mind and disappear.
the kiss tasted like relief and surrender simultaneously. you could taste the salt from the tears you hadn’t realized were falling, the lingering heat of the night before, the quiet, devastating acceptance that neither of you was going to be the one to walk away.
in that moment, you closed the door on the version of yourselves that might have left.
summary: michael came home frustrated after an unsuccessful studio session. he had the sole intention of taking that frustration out on you.
pairings: thrad!michael x black girlfriend!reader
cw: 18+ (mdni), just when i thought my writing was already nasty, we get even nastier, rough dom!Michael, sub!reader, doggy style!, eating out from the back, he fucks you with his tie around your neck, restraint (?), overstimulation kink (if you squint), ends with a facial (ouu shii), cum eating again! who's shocked!, porn with the smallest plot known to mankind.
wc: 1,936k
a/n: i listened to kissland by the weeknd writing this. i lowkey got a lil carried away, whoops! also, I'm kinda bad at writing angry sex. this the best i could do. pls dont throw tomatoes at me, im sensitive.
(you know i ain't proofread this lol. work is all mine, human written, and fictional!)
1985
the air was particularly chilly tonight, considering the california weather was making its smooth transition from the sweltering, daytime summer heat to its cozy, windy autumn nights.
you stayed inside pretty much all day, not really wanting to be bothered by choosing an appropriate outfit for the sudden changes. you laid on the bed, stretched out across the king size bed. you felt so small and out of place on a mattress this abnormally large for one person.
you flipped through a magazine, not really focused on the articles, but more on the pictures. you examined the faces between the pages, studying their makeup and the way they'd pin their hair up. you hummed and continued to flip, passively taking mental notes on the beauty tips.
you were terribly bored. you tried to ignore the thought of it or else the boredom would consume you whole. you've been waiting on your boyfriend to get back home from the studio. he had been spending late nights working on his new project. part of you felt neglected, not seeing him consistently taking a toll on how much time you got to spend together. another part of you understood it was his craft, and you couldn't be too mad at him for it.
you made it to the last page of the magazine, flipping the final page, and as if on cue, you hear footsteps traveling closer and closer to the door.
your ears perk up and an excited smile threatens to fall on your face as if you were a puppy waiting on its owner.
the door swings open and a slender silhouette stands in the threshold. you close the magazine, not taking your eyes off of him.
he walks through and you catch a better look at him: his face shimmering in the light from assumably sweat, curls sticking to his temple, eyeliner slightly smudged, his tie loosely around his neck, and his eyes lidded in a familiar manner that peaked your curiosity.
he watches your expression melt at the sight of him. he took you all in before speaking; you wore his big mickey mouse t-shirt and long white socks. if only you knew the kind of day he was having. his mind started to wander to what was underneath the baggy shirt. that's when a lightbulb went off in his head.
"michael. i missed you so much. how was--"
"strip." he commanded.
your face contorts, confusion knitted between your brows. your mouth slightly hung open, your brain scrambling to muster up a sentence, but failing. your expression remained perplexed, but you felt your body pulse at the simple, yet demanding word.
"i--"
"uhn uhn," he shook his head slowly, his lips puckered as he exhaled. "i said strip."
you pause for a moment before sliding the magazine to the edge of the bed. you watched as his eyes flicked from your face, down to your thighs, and back up to your eyes. you maintained eye contact while bringing your fingers to the hem of the shirt. you lifted it over your head, revealing yourself in nothing but black panties.
his tongue grazed over his lips, bringing himself back to earth. the sight of your perky breasts immediately sent blood to his growing bulge. the adrenaline pumping in his veins caused his vision to blur.
he walked over to you, sitting beside you, and cupped his hand onto your right tit. he quickly latched onto your nipple, his tongue swirling and licking in tight circles. your breath shuddered, mouth falling agape. you instinctively tangled your hands into his curls, slightly tugging on him. he hummed right against you before sucking hard and then pulling back with a pop, leaving a dark red mark around your brown nipple.
he moved his face from your cleavage and pushed his lips against yours. he brought his hand to your other nipple, rolling it between his thumb and pointer finger, lightly pinching. your back arched intuitively, pushing you closer to his body. you stuck your tongue against his lips, wanting to explore his mouth. he wrapped his lips around your tongue, sucking the same way he just did on your breast.
you moaned at his desperation. his hunger sent waves of pleasure to your clit. your thighs squeezed, wanting to relieve the consistent pulse in your panties. you could feel the wetness sticking onto your core.
his hand traveled from your chest to your neck, lightly squeezing on your pulse points, making your head light with euphoria. he pulled his lips from yours, and trailed kisses down to your neck, sucking hard and giving small kitten licks on the areas to soothe you.
"mikey..." you moaned.
he abruptly lifted his hand from your neck and wrapped his hand right around your mouth.
"who told you to speak?" he hummed.
you involuntarily whimper against his hand, the wetness pooled in your panties becoming unbearable. he glanced down between your legs and caught your eyes again.
"y'being needy? and all i did was kiss you, baby." he whispered into your ear, bringing two of his fingers straight to your clothed clit, rubbing in quick circles.
your eyes roll, your body melting right under his touch.
"you gonna let me use you, tonight? can i relieve my stress on your pussy?" he watched you nod as much as you could under his restraint.
"good girl, baby." he kissed your cheek sweetly, despite how he was manhandling you.
he quickly removed his fingers from your core, causing a groan to vibrate from your lips into his hand.
he took his hands off of your lips and brought them to your jaw, forcefully moving your head to the side. he brought his lips to your ear.
"lay down."
he let go and you flipped onto your stomach, ass perched into the air, the cool ac hitting the wet spot in your underwear. the contrast of cool air and your hot, aching body made you whine into the mattress.
michael hooked his fingers in the waistband of your panties, pulling them down in a swift motion. you could hear him shuffle around before the sounds finally stopped. you opened your lips to speak, before you felt a long lick travel from your clit up to your entrance. a high pitched moan parted from your mouth.
he brought his hands to the fat of your ass, spreading them to get a better look at all of you. he stuck his tongue out, nodding up and down, collecting every ounce of juice from the behind.
"m-mich-- oh, shit." you whimpered, a mix of surprise in your tone by the vulgar acts he was committing.
"you taste so fucking good, angel." he mumbled against your clit before sucking down on it.
your eyes shut tightly, your legs already starting to shake as an orgasm quickly crept up.
"wait-- fuck. i'm gonna cum, mik-- oh god." you cried into the sheets, your knuckles turning white from gripping onto them.
he swiftly removed his lips from your clit, watching a string of his saliva keep you connected.
you huffed at the sudden loss of contact again, your hips instinctively bucking, your entrance clenching onto nothing.
you heard him shuffle around again, his belt eventually unbuckling and his pants falling to the ground with a thud. his dick popped, hitting him against his torso, precum rolling down his tip and down his shaft. he stroked his length a couple times before another idea popped off in his head.
he slid the knot in his tie that sat around his neck and took it off of him. he leaned forward, grabbing onto your hair to lift your neck up.
you moaned under his touch before feeling the fabric travel around your neck. he pushed the knot down, the necktie lingering around you. he brought the tail of the tie to your back, before pumping a couple more strokes to his dick.
suddenly, he brought his tip to your core, collecting all of the natural lubricant that sat in every fold and crease of your cunt. he lined up at your entrance and shoved right into you.
you both moaned, your face immediately falling back onto the mattress. he huffed, grabbing the tie and pulling you up. he slammed his hips into you, your ass rippling with each stroke, the sound of skin slapping filling the room.
"you're such a dirty, dirty girl. look at you, baby. what a mess." he huffed between sentences, bringing a hand to one of your cheeks and slapping it.
"y'fuck me so good, o-oh my.. god." your whimpers and moans started to become sobs, your body overwhelmed with pleasure, lustful tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
"y'wanna cum now? cum all over my dick. fuck--" he pulled the tie tighter, his dick brushing against your walls at a quick pace.
you bounce yourself into him, pushing his length deeper into your opening. michael brought his other hand to your clit, quickly swiping side to side.
your whimpers fill the air before you release right onto him. the coil in your stomach snapped, your body convulsing, your eyes tightly shut, saliva dropping from the corners of your lips.
michael thrusted into you at a steady pace as you rode out your orgasm, a white ring forming at the base of his dick.
"you're so pretty when you cum for me." he groaned, his hips rolling into your overstimulated core.
at this point, your whole body felt like jelly, feeling completely fucked out. but, he continued to pick up his pace, still chasing an orgasm of his own.
"mikey, oh god. 's too much-" you stumble over your words, tears daring to fall from your eyes.
"shh, baby. take me. i know you can." he set the tie down, leaning forward to kiss your spine.
he continued thrusting into you before pulling out and pushing your waist, signaling you to flip over.
he toppled over you, aligning his crotch onto your chest, his tip hanging right in front of your face.
he pumped aimlessly, his breath unsteady. he cocked his head back, tugging at his bottom lip between his teeth.
he brought his attention back down to you, his groans quickly turning into whines. he angled his tip towards your lips.
"open."
you opened your mouth, tongue hanging out. a kitten-like whimper escaped his lips, his semen staining your face. some caught your lips, while most of it sprayed across your cheeks and chin. you brought a finger up to your face, wiping the vacant seed off, and bringing the digit to your mouth, sucking the remnants off.
he let out a breathy sigh, collapsing right next to you.
you both laid there, catching your breaths, trying to recover from the lewd acts that just unfolded.
"um," you cleared your throat. "how was your day?"
michael huffed, a smirk plastered on his face. "the worst. it seemed as if nothing went right at the studio today."
you rolled over, laying on your side, your eyes gazing across his side profile. he looked so beautiful, especially after sex.
"what happened?"
"it's nothing. i don't wanna get into it. it'll work me up again." he answered, slight frustration coating his tone.
you couldn't help but chuckle. "what if i wanna work you up again? i like when you get mad."
he lifted his head, looking at you. you bit your lips innocently, a smile forming at the corners of your lips.
he smirked, bringing his hand back to the tie, pulling you in for a deep kiss.
⠀⠀⏝ ۪ ゛ sleepy & slow lovemakin' w/ your boyfriend
summary. ❪ 2.6𝒌 ❫ otw.era!𝒎ichael 𝑥 𝒻.childhood bsf!reader ╱ an ordinary morning at Hayvenhurst becomes anything but when your unusually affectionate boyfriend wakes you with kisses, only for the rest of the Jackson household to hear far more than either of you intended.
contains 𑣲﹕ 𝟏𝟖+ established relationship. sleepy morning intimacy. affectionate and needy michael. softdom!michael. gentle praise, pet names and consent check-ins. slow, passionate unprotected sex—pls wrap it up sillies. clingy afterglow and cuddles. interrupted by Marlon & brothers. sweet domestic fluff.
❛ august, ‘𝟖𝟎 — ℰncino, 𝒸alifornia ❜
It appeared to be an ordinary morning at Hayvenhurst, the bedroom still wrapped in that peculiar silence that existed before the rest of the house had begun to wake. Pale sunlight slipped through the curtains and settled across the rumpled duvet in uneven streaks of gold, while the ceiling fan hummed lazily overhead. Somewhere beyond the windows, birds had already begun their morning chorus, though neither of you seemed particularly interested in joining the rest of the world just yet.
Michael had fallen asleep exactly as he usually did. Sometime during the night, he had migrated until he was nestled comfortably between your thighs, his cheek resting against your chest as though your heartbeat had become his favorite lullaby. One of your hands remained loosely tangled in his curls from the night before, the position so familiar that neither of you questioned it anymore. It was simply how the two of you slept.
Usually, you were the one burdened with waking him, coaxing him from beneath the covers while he complained that another five minutes would surely make no difference. This morning, however, Michael had awakened first—and, for reasons you had yet to understand, had decided your beauty rest was no longer nearly as important as having your attention.
At first, you thought you were still dreaming. Something featherlight brushed your temple before disappearing, followed by another kiss against your cheek and one beneath your eye. Sleep blurred the line between imagination and reality until familiar lips lingered against your forehead, accompanied by the faintest breath of laughter warming your skin.
Your brows pinched together before your eyes finally fluttered open, your vision adjusting gradually to the muted morning light and the figure hovering affectionately above you.
Michael was already looking at you. His curls stood in every direction imaginable, his face still creased from the pillow, yet he wore the unmistakable expression of someone who had been awake long enough to admire the person sleeping beneath him. There was tenderness in his gaze, certainly, but something more restless lingered beneath it—a quiet, boyish mischief that became increasingly difficult to overlook when his mouth wandered toward your jaw again.
“Baby…” Your voice emerged soft and heavy with sleep as you shifted beneath the duvet. “That tickles.”
“‘M sorry…” he whispered with a sheepish grin. “You just looked so pretty sleepin’. Then I started kissin’ you… and I couldn’t stop.”
The apology lost some of its credibility when he immediately pressed another kiss beneath your jaw. His body remained warm and pleasantly heavy over yours, one arm curled around your waist while his face disappeared against the curve of your neck. Every movement was softened by sleep, yet his affection possessed a persistence that was beginning to feel suspicious.
“Oh, yeah?” you murmured, dragging your fingernails gently along the back of his shirt. “What’s gotten into you this morning?”
“I dunno…” Michael mumbled, answering far too quickly.
He lifted his head at last, resting his chin against your chest as he met your eyes. The innocence carefully arranged across his face might have convinced you had he not shifted between your thighs at that exact moment, revealing the unmistakable reason behind his sudden devotion through the layers of blankets separating you, his hardened member undeniably poking against your lower stomach.
Understanding arrived slowly, followed by a knowing smile that made the tips of his ears begin to redden. “Michael…”
“What?” His eyes widened as though he had been falsely accused of something, though the grin fighting its way across his lips ruined the performance almost immediately.
“So that’s why you’ve been so affectionate this morning.”
“I’m always affectionate,” he protested, dipping his face toward your neck again as though hiding there might rescue what remained of his dignity. “Can’t a man kiss his girlfriend good morning?”
“He can,” you conceded, your fingers returning to his curls as his lips grazed the sensitive place beneath your ear. “But he usually isn’t this determined about it.”
A quiet laugh escaped him, muffled against your skin. His hand slipped beneath the hem of your sleep shirt and settled against the warmth of your waist, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles there. It was an unhurried touch, affectionate enough to preserve the softness of the morning even as the atmosphere between you gradually began to change.
Michael finally looked up again, his expression caught somewhere between bashfulness and want. “Good morning, my Sleeping Beauty.”
“Good morning, angel face.”
You smoothed your palms over his small, disheveled fro before gathering his face between your hands. His smile softened the moment your palms found his rosy cheeks. Instinctively, he leaned into them, his eyes fluttering closed for a heartbeat as though being held so gently first thing in the morning was every bit as comforting as falling asleep beside you the night before.
When his eyes opened, the playfulness in them had deepened into something warmer. His gaze lowered to your mouth, and this time, when he leaned forward to kiss you, there was nothing quite innocent about the slowness with which his lips met yours.
The kiss deepened without either of you seeming to make a conscious decision to take it there, your mouths moving together in the sleepy rhythm reserved for mornings when neither person had fully awakened and there was no reason to hurry. It was tender but imperfect, softened by lazy smiles and the occasional uncoordinated meeting of your lips, each little mistake drawing a quiet laugh that disappeared into the next kiss.
Michael’s hand remained warm against your waist as yours slipped back into his curls, holding him close while satisfied hums passed between you whenever one of you lingered a little longer or pressed a little deeper. He kissed you as though he had nowhere else to be, pausing only long enough to breathe against your mouth before seeking it again, just sloppy enough to make the whole thing feel deliciously real.
“Mike…” you murmured against his lips when he pulled away just enough to leave you chasing after him, the sleepy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth making it painfully obvious that he knew precisely what he was doing. “Stop teasin’ me.”
His hand continued caressing your waist, entirely contradicting the innocence he attempted to arrange across his face. “What do you want, baby?”
“You know what,” you mumbled, burying your fingers deeper into his curls as you tried to pull him back toward you.
Michael resisted only slightly, keeping his forehead pressed against yours while his gaze searched your face. “I wanna hear you say it.”
Your embarrassment lasted no longer than the next slow brush of his lips against yours, the tenderness of it loosening the words before you could reconsider them. “I want you…”
“Yeah?” he breathed, his teasing expression softening into something warmer and considerably more affected.
“Mhm.” You drew him closer until there was hardly any space left between your mouths. “I need you’ closer...”
His nose brushed gently against yours, though he still paused long enough to ask, “You sure, darlin’?”
You answered with a small, eager nod, your fingers tightening gently in his curls. “I’m sure.”
That was all the reassurance Michael needed before his mouth found yours again, the satisfied little hum escaping him disappearing into the kiss. His free hand drifted beneath the blankets as he adjusted his boxers to reveal his needy and throbbing penis. His fingers maneuvered to your panties, hooking them around the fabric to move them to the side, allowing him entry. every movement careful and unhurried, his attention never leaving your face long enough for you to doubt how completely he was watching you as he carefully pushed through your walls.
The tenderness remained even as the nature of the morning shifted. Michael buried his face against the curve of your neck, a soft, groggy groan escaping him as your arms tightened around his shoulders. Your fingers slipped from the messiness of his curls to the backs of his arms, holding him there while the two of you settled into a slow rhythm together.
His movements remained patient, each one drawing another quiet whimper from you. There was no urgency in him yet, only the sleepy devotion that had awakened you in the first place, his lips wandering over your neck and jaw whenever he leaned close enough to reach them. Occasionally, he paused merely to kiss you, allowing the moment to soften again before continuing.
“You’re so gorgeous like this,” he murmured beside your ear, pressing a kiss just beneath it. “All sleepy underneath me.” His hand that stayed rested beneath your shirt now shifting to your breasts, massaging each and giving them a gentle squeeze.
Your breath caught as you pulled his body closer, unwilling to leave even the smallest distance between you. “Feels so good…”
“Yeah?” The single word emerged lower this time, the earlier playfulness giving way to something darker, though his touch remained careful.
“Mhm…” Your response dissolved into another breathless whine as the pace gradually deepened, each of his movements reaching far enough to steal the air from your lungs. “Need more, baby… please.”
Michael lifted his head to look at you, searching your expression once more before giving you what you had asked for. The change was slight at first, a subtle quickening that made your arms tighten around his upper back and your hips moving instinctively along with his. Each time he drew you closer, another helpless moan threatened to escape your swollen lips.
“Shh, darlin’,” Michael whispered against your neck, amusement softening the strain in his voice. “Don’t wanna wake the whole house.”
“I’m tryin’, honey…” And you were. You buried your face against his shoulder in several desperate attempts to contain yourself, but the creaking mattress and the quiet knocking of the headboard against the wall were proving considerably less cooperative. A small laugh escaped Michael before breaking into a low, lazy groan when you clung to him more tightly.
He pressed another kiss to your temple, maintaining the steady pace that had already begun to undo you.
“Oh Mikey..” Your nails curled into his shoulders as your pussy tightened around him instinctively, the involuntary reaction telling him you were nearing the edge long before you managed to find the words.
Michael noticed immediately. His mouth returned to yours, swallowing the next trembling sound that escaped you as he held you closer, preserving the tenderness of the morning even while everything between you steadily grew less restrained.
Your legs began to tremble before tightening helplessly around his torso, drawing him impossibly closer as the tension that had been steadily gathering inside you finally broke, coating his dick in your arousal. Michael’s movements faltered for the first time that morning, losing their careful rhythm as he followed only moments behind, his body shuddering against yours while a string of soft, breathless moans and tiny “I love you’s” disappeared into your mouth. Neither of you pulled away, clinging to one another through every lingering aftershock, your lips meeting in clumsy, interrupted kisses between uneven breaths until the intensity gradually softened into something warm, heavy, and deeply satisfied.
For several quiet minutes afterward, neither of you made any effort to move. Michael remained draped over you beneath the tangled covers, his cock still buried deep in your warmth and his face hidden against the warmth of your neck while your fingers wandered lazily through the curls at his nape. The urgency that had possessed him earlier had dissolved into something soft and pleasantly heavy, leaving behind uneven breaths, occasional kisses, and the faint smile you could feel against your skin whenever you held him a little tighter.
He had only just begun mumbling something about never leaving the bed when three abrupt knocks struck the bedroom door causing his entire body to tense.
“Miiike~?” Marlon’s voice traveled through the wood with suspicious brightness. “Ma said breakfast is ready.”
Michael lifted his head from your shoulder, his eyes widening as the two of you stared toward the door. For one terrible second, neither of you spoke, silently attempting to determine exactly how much sound might have escaped the room before the rest of the house had fully awakened.
“Okay,” Michael finally called, clearing the lingering strain from his voice. “We’ll be down.”
There was a short pause followed with faint sounds of snickering.
“Take your time,” Marlon answered, his tone far too innocent to be trusted.
Someone beside him released a poorly muffled laugh before several pairs of footsteps retreated down the hallway. Michael continued staring at the door long after they had disappeared, though when no further comment came, some of the tension slowly left his shoulders.
“Y' think they heard us?” you whispered.
“No,” he answered almost immediately. “They would’ve said something.”
“Your brothers?”
Michael considered that, then grimaced. “They definitely would’ve said something."
By the time the two of you made it downstairs, you had nearly managed to believe him. Michael had changed into a clean shirt and attempted to tame his curls, though several remained stubbornly disheveled around his temples. You had repaired your own appearance as carefully as possible, and apart from the warmth creeping into your cheeks whenever your eyes met, there was nothing especially incriminating about either of you.
The kitchen was already filled with the familiar noise of breakfast. Katherine moved between the stove and the counter while Jackie, Tito, and Marlon sat around the table, speaking among themselves until Michael entered with you beside him. Their conversation stopped almost immediately.
“Morning,” Michael said cautiously as you greeted with a small wave, pulling out your chair before settling into the seat beside you.
“Morning,” his brothers answered, each of them wearing an expression that made your confidence begin to falter.
Marlon waited until Michael had reached for his fork before leaning slightly across the table. “Sleep good?”
Michael’s hand stopped. “Yeah,” he answered slowly.
Marlon nodded as though genuinely pleased to hear it. “Sure sounded like it.”
Your head ducked toward your plate before you could stop yourself, the heat in your face worsening as Jackie covered his mouth to conceal a laugh. Michael’s ears turned a brilliant shade of red, though he continued arranging food on his plate with the determined concentration of someone pretending not to understand.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” he muttered.
“Neither do I,” Tito agreed innocently. He reached for the syrup before sighing in an exaggerated, breathless voice, “‘Oh, Mikey—'" causing Jackie to choke on his drink.
Michael’s head immediately snapped toward him. “Stop.”
Marlon’s shoulders began to shake as he lowered his voice into an equally dramatic imitation. “‘Baby, please—’”
“Shut up,” Michael hissed, glancing toward Katherine to make certain she had not heard.
You pressed your lips together before nibling at your bottom one, staring firmly at your breakfast while the mortification and laughter fought for control of your expression. You could never face his brothers again after this. Beneath the table, Michael’s hand found yours and squeezed it tightly, as though reminding you that the two of you were enduring the humiliation together.
“Everything all right over there?” Katherine asked without turning from the stove.
“Fine, Ma,” the brothers answered almost perfectly in unison.
She glanced over her shoulder with quiet suspicion, though the boys had already returned to their plates with expressions of practiced innocence. The moment she faced the stove again, Marlon leaned toward Michael one final time.
“Next time,” he whispered, barely moving his lips, “turn on some Marvin Gaye.”
Michael stared straight ahead with the wounded dignity of someone reconsidering whether blood truly made a family. He kicked Marlon beneath the table, earning a muffled yelp, before tightening his fingers around yours once more.
You finally dared to look at him. The moment your eyes met, the corner of Michael’s mouth twitched despite his embarrassment, and the laugh you had been suppressing threatened to escape all over again.
His brothers might never let him forget that morning, but judging by the way they immediately changed the subject when Katherine approached the table, they had no intention of letting anyone else hear about it.
synopsis: after a long night of you and michael ding dong ditching and trick or treating around hayvenhurst he seems kinda needy for a different treat
warnings: eater!michael, porn with small plot, missionary, sub!reader, michael fucking you with his and your outfit still on, dom!mike, fucking in risky areas of hayvenhurst (?), mdni.
The crisp October air brushed against your cheeks, carrying the faint scent of fallen leaves and autumn chill, but you could barely feel it over the sound of your own laughter.
Beside you, Michael was practically doubled over, his hand clamped over his mouth to stifle the giggles bursting out of him. Even through the full werewolf mask complete with fangs, fur, and those famous piercing eyes he couldn’t hide that unmistakable, soft-hearted laugh of his.
"I can't believe you actually knocked and ran!" you whispered-shouted, adjusting the delicate fairy wings strapped to your back as the two of you ducked behind a neatly trimmed hedge on the quiet Hayvenhurst street.
"You said I wouldn't do it!" He protested quietly, his varsity jacket swishing as he peeked over the top of the bushes. A mischievous grin tugged at his whiskered lips. "Look, they just opened the door!" You both watched in silence as a neighbor stepped out onto their porch, looking left and right with a baffled expression before shaking their head and closing the door. As soon as the porch light clicked off, Michael turned to you, his dark eyes sparkling under the streetlight, and burst into another fit of quiet giggles.
He reached out, his clawed glove gently catching your hand and pulling you along down the sidewalk. Your pillowcase full of candy clinked softly against his with every step. "Okay, okay," he hummed, looping his arm around your waist to pull you close against his side, his thumb tracing a slow circle against your hip through your fairy dress. "That's three houses ding-dong ditched and half a pillowcase of candy collected. What's our next move?"
“really wanna start heading home now,” you said with a light giggle. Leaning into his touch as his warm slid across your waist holding you. You loved spending quality time with your boyfriend and this was really nice and fun due to the fact he was always either away on tour, rehearsals or another recording session. “take me back to your place.”
He squeezed your hand, his laughter tapering off into a contented sigh as the cool night wind whistled through the trees. "Come on," he murmured softly, nudging your shoulder with his. "Let's start heading back before the monsters start lurking in the dark.” He said jokingly.
You turned down the tree-lined street toward the heart of Encino, the quiet neighborhood wrapped in late-night shadows. The contrast between your glowing fairy costume and his full Thriller beast makeup was ridiculous, but with his arm draped warmth over your shoulders, you couldn't care less. Every few steps, Michael would glance down at you, his dark eyes softening under the artificial fur and whiskers. "You cold?" he asked, rubbing his hand up and down your arm to ward off the breeze. "We can take a shortcut through the estate gates if you want to get inside faster."
As you both strolled up the driveway toward the familiar iron gates of Hayvenhurst, Michael suddenly slowed his pace. The playful energy from earlier shifted, replaced by a quiet, lingering tension. He pulled you a little closer, his gaze drifting down to your lips before sliding back up to meet your eyes. "You know..." he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, smooth and surprisingly heavy, "all this running around gave me an appetite... and I'm not really feeling the candy anymore."
You looked up at him, a knowing smile playing on your lips as you reached up to trace the trim of his varsity jacket collar. "Is that so?" you murmured, leaning in just close enough for your breath to brush against his cheek. "well Michael it’s late I’m sure your parents and siblings are home we shouldn’t disturb t-“
He tilted his head down, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the autumn air, his lips just barely brushing the sensitive skin of your neck, making a shiver run down your spine. “their not worried about us baby, I promise…it’ll be quick, swear.” He muttered giving your neck soft feather like kisses, he knew what he was doing and he knew exactly where your weakness was. And that was on your neck, soft kisses and licks on your neck had your legs shivering already.
The second the both of you walked inside the quiet house of hayvenhurst the heavy oak door slammed shut behind you both, the echo swallowed by the mansion's cavernous halls. Michael pressed you against the wall in the foyer, his werewolf mask already discarded somewhere on the marble floor. The jacket with the embroidered "M" still clung to his shoulders, half-unzipped, revealing the sculpted chest beneath. His mouth crashed into yours, tasting like candy and mint, his tongue slipped passed your lips.
You let out a soft groan, your arms wrapping around his neck pulling him closer to you as if he wasn’t already close enough. “m-mike baby,” you breathed out between the kiss trying to get your words out but he seemed to not wanna hear you talking right now with the way he was devouring your mouth. “mmh babe…maybe we should go upstairs?” You finally managed to get his lips off of you which did nothing but cause a whine to escape his lips.
“It’s fine mama, everyone’s sleeping I promise,” he muttered tugging your hand leading you towards a room with couches that was big enough to look like a big bed. He was thrilled to have you tonight, “just be quiet for me, yeah?” He asked looking at you tilting his head down to give your lips a quick peck before finally pushing you slightly on the couch, he looks at you smiling.
You bit down your bottom lip looking at him, he looked so handsome. He sunk down to his knees immediately causing your eyes to grow wide. “michael we can’t do it here, we could get caught.” You said with a dry laugh expecting him to agree with you since you both weren’t in his room you were in an open family room filled with couches and a large tv. Your eyes stayed on his watching him bunch your green tulle skirt around your waist completely ignoring what you just said.
“just stay quiet and we won’t get caught.” He muttered lowly but loud enough for you and him to hear. His fingers hooked into your panties and pulled them down your thighs slowly. “Look at that…so wet f’me already?” He cooed, his big wide eyes looking up at you as he started pressing soft kisses on your thighs before spreading them open kissing inside of your thighs and around your pussy avoiding the place you wanted so bad.
He didn't ease into it. His tongue flattened against your clit and dragged upward in a long, filthy lick that made your knees buckle. Then he was devouring you sucking the swollen nub between his lips, flicking it rapidly with the tip of his tongue while two thick fingers pushed inside your pussy without preamble. The wet sounds of his mouth working you over filled the room, punctuated by your broken gasps.
"Fuck, you taste so good," he murmured against your folds, the vibration shooting straight through you. "Such a pretty thing…you taste so amazing tink." His fingers curled, finding that spongy spot inside you and rubbing it mercilessly while his tongue circled your clit in tight, relentless patterns. "taste so amazing…could stay here all day.” He continued pumping his fingers in and out of you while his tongue stayed circling your clit then pressing kisses on it.
Your hands fisted in his hair as he ate you out, “oh my gosh mike, so good, babyy” you dragged your words out whining. Your praises made his dick throb in his pants. “fuck– baby wait, we could get caught.” You whined, your hands trying to push his head away which he didn’t budge at all. His head staying in the exact same spot.
you tossed your head back, your fingers practically gripping the light out of Michael’s hair which caused him to groan, the vibrations sending shockwaves to your clit which caused you to yelp out. “mmnghm–“ You moaned out.
“be quiet.” He said. The dual sensation of his tongue and fingers working your pussy in tandem. Your thighs shaking around his head, you tossed your head to the side your breathing quickening rapidly. “wait– mike shiittt,” you moaned your fingers pushing at his head trying to create distance as his tongue was literally flicking rapidly on your clit. his free hand pulling your waist back down refusing to let you run from his mouth and fingers.
“mmh stay still you’re making too much noise baby,” he muttered softly pulling back just enough to talk. His long pretty fingers still pumping in and out of you curling them finding your g-spot. He sat up straightly his lips finding yours as he continued pumping his fingers in and out of you.
you were babbling about complete nonsense your hips jerking up slightly. “Oh my gosh– michaell” you said between the kiss. He was trying to get you to stay quiet due to the fact that you were overly loud somewhat, or maybe you were just too loud for his liking but still!. “s-shit mike hnghm” you cried out, loud and shameless your voice echoing through the quiet living room.
He pulled back just enough from your lips. “shh baby, you gotta be quiet or we’ll get caught.” You really didn’t have a damn at this point if the two of you got caught, the way his fingers were finger fucking you relentlessly made you turn into a babbling moaning mess which he loved. his two thick fingers sliding deep in and out your soaked pussy with wet squelches. He pumped them hard and fast curling them against that spot that made your back arch off the couch.
“mi-michael– oh fuck, right there don’t stop.” Your lips found his mouth again, the kiss was messy you tasted yourself on his tongue as you felt the feeling of yourself about to cum in your stomach. “m’gonna cum– ohmygosh I’m cumming!” You yelped out.
“there you go, mama” he panted against your lips, not letting up for a second. his fingers still dragged slowly in and out of your pussy. your orgasm hit hard, your whole body shaking as you cried out his name. your pussy clenched and pulsed around his fingers, gushing wet and hot over his knuckles while he kept pumping through it, drawing every drop out of you. “good girl baby, look at this mess you made.” He whispered, still kissing you slowly as your thighs trembled around his wrist.
You kissed him back for awhile, after a few seconds of relaxing from your absurd orgasm you felt his fingers leave your sopping pussy. He stood abruptly, he looked so good from your view that you had to tell him. “you look so handsome mikey.” you said while his fingers were tugging at your tulle skirt higher. “thank you baby.” His cheeks warmed from the compliment you gave him.
he started to unzip his pants and pulling his boxers and pants halfway down leaving his varsity jacket on with the “M” plastered on the front. He spread your legs out to a V shape holding his hands underneath your knees keeping them nice and open for him. He didn’t really need to use his hands to guide his dick to your pussy, he let his hips do all the work for him. “you gotta be quiet for real now, okay?” He warned as he notched the head against your entrance. You nodded your head biting down on your lower lip. “uh-huh”
He pushed in with one long thrust, bottoming out in a single stroke that punched the air from your lungs. The stretch burned deliciously, your walls fluttering around his thick girth as he started to move. “God, you’re so tight,” he groaned, hips snapping forward in a perfect steady rhythm. “you feel s’good,” he moaned, it felt like your pussy was sucking him in tight like a glove, thrust after thrust dragged wet squelching noises from your pussy.
You kissed him once again, pulling him down wrapping your arms around his neck. You whimpered into his mouth, your thighs twitching as he drilled inside you. The wet, sloppy sounds echoed through the quiet living room. “you feel soooo good baby, don’t stop pleasepleasepleasee.” You didn’t know what you were begging for at this point, him to make you cum again, to stop, or to keep fucking you like this. “why you fucking me like this– ohmygosh!” you moaned against his lips biting down softly on his lip.
He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, the new angle letting him grind against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. “because I-i love you, fuck you’re so beautiful in this outfit baby.” He pulled back from the kiss sitting up while still thrusting inside you going faster. His eyes looking over the outfit that you still wore, you had the wings on and the sandals on still and you looked absolutely stunning in his view. “that’s it baby,” he praised, voice strained. “takin’ this dick so well such a good girl f’me, hm? you like when i fuck you like this?” He asked half expecting you to answer him but the look on your face proved you were too fucked out to fathom any correct answers.
“ye yes yesss!” You said loudly truly not caring about being quiet anymore nor did he. His hand found your throat, applying just enough pressure to make your head swim. “look at you, you look s-so beautiful.” He breathed out. He shifted again, both hands gripping your hips as he pounded into you with renewed vigor. The tulle of your skirt bunched between your bodies, the rough fabric of his jacket scraping against your nipples through the thin top. Every thrust punched a lewd moan from your throat that you tried to desperately hold back at times.
“be quiet baby, please” he begged, his hips moving faster though. The wet squelching sounds getting louder. “but god I love hearing you moan, sounds so beautiful, right baby?” He looked at your face making eye contact with you.
“y-yes!” You nodded your head looking up at him before your head tossed to the side which he didn’t approve of. “uh huh, look at me baby.” He cupped your cheek with his hand cupping your cheeks together forcing you to look at him. His other hand worked your clit as his hips moved. Gosh he was amazing at multitasking. His fingers finding your clit in time with his thrust, the dual sensation pushing you over the edge, “m’cumminggg oh fuckk!” You moaned out. Your orgasm crashed through you in waves, your pussy clenching rhythmically around his dick as he fucked you through it. He followed moments later burying himself to the hilt and flooding your walls with his cum.
He stayed inside you as you both just came, his forehead pressed to yours as you both were catching yall breathing. After a few seconds he pulled out of you watching his and your cum run out your pussy, he plopped down next to you on the couch. You turned your head towards him with a big cheesy smile. “Well happy Halloween.”
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: policeman!michael jackson x f!reader (au)
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: speeding along the freeway, a policeman pulls you over with a punishment in mind.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 5k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: smut, 18+, p-in-v, creampie, fingering, car sex, semi-public sex, mean!mike, groping (consented), corrupt police officer? but readers into it, use of pet names ‘sweetheart’ ‘baby’ …is this too freaked out?
𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: that pic of him brought this idea straight into my sick mind …enjoy! btw i do not condone speeding, it’s a very dangerous and reckless thing to do which can injure/end the lives of many, including yourself—so drive safe! i lowk got lost in the sauce whoopsies …this ain’t for everyone but i had fun tehehe
82MPH in a 70 probably wasn’t the wisest idea you’d ever had.
It was late—2am to be exact—and you’d just finished a gruelling, tiring shift at the diner, and were ready for the sweet haven that was your bed. There wasn’t a car in sight—full beams illuminating the road ahead of you, the only thing visible was dust, straw that had escaped from the back of a truck, lingering on the ground, and the occasional litter that shot up into the air from the wind that your beat-up Toyota blasted past it.
You were naive, though, to believe that late into this Saturday evening, on July 4th weekend, prompting your later-than-usual finish, that a certain black Chevrolet Caprice wouldn’t be hiding in the shadows to find a reckless law-breaker such as yourself. The thankful thought to slow down never hit you as you cruised along, completely forgetful to the fact that Police often roamed around later than usual on a busier, popular weekend such as this one.
But, not to worry—you were soon reminded!
Red and blue blasting lights consumed your vision in your rear-view mirror, as well as a patronisingly infamous siren screaming at you into the quiet night, as you whizzed past a hidden vehicle behind a cluster of trees.
“Fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ You panicked instantly, pressing on the brake to slow down to a comfortable 68MPH, before the familiar Police car caught up to your speed, tailing behind you closely.
The sirens never let up, neither did the lights, and that only meant one thing—Pull over.
“Oh, fuck, shit, shit, shhhhiiit!”
Panicked adrenaline pumped through you instantly—hands shaking as you indicated right, pulling over messily to an old dirt lay-by area, the gravel crunching under your tires as you slowed to a stop. The sleek ‘81 Chevrolet joined you—parking a few metres behind you, for safety precautions, the sirens finally halting.
“Don’t panic, don’t panic—breathe, breathe, breathe.” You affirmed to yourself, closing your eyes briefly to focus on your breathing, hands trembling in your lap as you prayed for a humble, generous Officer that would show you mercy.
In your right wing-mirror, you gazed anxiously, awaiting the Officer to exit their car, and ruin your night with a $75 ticket. But, as the luckiest lady you were, a tall, slim, young male emerged from the car—adjusting his belt, adorned with a .38 Special service revolver hanging along his upper-thigh, and a flash-light, that was being pulled from its sleeve, and flicked on as he approached your car.
Bingo!
You knew exactly how to get out of this one.
With swift, nimble fingers, you popped open the top three buttons of your pink blouse, ‘Ricky’s Diner’ embroidered on your left breast now folded over to slightly conceal your place of work—before grabbing a handful of your breasts, and pushing then further together in your bra.
A Policeman is a man at the end of the day—and what man can resist a poor lady with her tits out in the middle of the night!
You jumped slightly as the hard plastic of his flashlight banged against your window. Your head flew in the direction of the noise, and swallowed thickly as you reached for the lever, winding down the mucky glass slowly.
“Licence and registration, please.”
Your heart stopped as you met the dark eyes of the Policeman in front of you—this was about to get real good. He was ethereal—quite possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on, staring broodily down at you. For a second, his gaze flickered as it met your own, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smug smirk, as his eyes shamelessly dropped to your exposed cleavage, before trailing back up to your eyes.
Flirting was going to be real easy when he looked like that.
He was dressed in a dark, fitted navy long-sleeve shirt that hugged the curve of his biceps deliciously, paired with deep black trousers, and black boots on his large feet. Alongside the matching navy blue peaked cap upon his trained set of dark curls on his head, a twinkling silver badge, with ‘LAPD’ etched into its shape, rest upon his clothed left breast, and on the other side a nameplate above the right pocket that read ‘M.JACKSON’—He looked edible.
“Evening, Officer Jackson.” You started, eyes never leaving his own as you dug through your glovebox, “What’s the reasoning for this?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, lil’ lady.” The man breathed out a short laugh, “Licence, now, please.”
“Yes, Sir.” You answered, drawled and sensual, lip coming between your teeth as you handed both documents to him.
“Ma’am, are you aware of how fast you were goin’ back there?” He spoke smoothly, voice laced with a thick accent that you had clenching your thighs together involuntarily.
“No, Officer, I’m sorry …was I going a little too fast?” You feigned innocence, eyelashes fluttering as you cocked your head to the side.
“Just a lil’ bit, ma’am.” Officer Jackson spoke, fighting a smirk at your faux-innocence, “82 in a 70.”
You gasped fakely, “No! Was I really? Oh, well, Officer, I am deeply sorry. Just tryna get home after a long shift, y’know how it is, Sir, hm?”
“I sure do, ma’am, but I stay under the limit.” He shot back smartly, “Just headin’ home after work, were ya?”
“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, gaze still locked on his, “Can’t wait to get home, take off all my tight, sweaty clothes and get in a warm shower.”
You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched at your words—tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes trailing to your conveniently pressed up breasts again, before finally landing on the documents in his grasp. He shon the light of his beaming flashlight directly at the plastic card of your personal information in his hands—vision raking over the numbers and letters.
“Ma’am, are you aware your licence is expired?”
Fuck.
“I—um—“
“Hm? What’s the excuse now, ma’am?” He taunted, the smug smirk finally reaching his lips as he peered down at you.
“I …uh, I wasn’t aware, Officer, I’m sorry. Work’s been hectic, I haven’t had chance to check it.” You spoke, honestly this time.
He hummed suspiciously, eyes once again flickering over your face, chest, and dropping to your short skirt that danced along your upper thighs, exposing the skin to his wondering eyes under the spotlight of his light.
“Where’d you say you worked again?” Officer Jackson pressed, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at your provocative outfit.
“I didn’t, Sir.”
“Is that a refusal to answer Police questioning?”
Shit—what?
“No—no! I work at Ricky’s, down on 4th.” You answered honestly, “Worked there for 5 years now.”
“Ah, I know it. Opposite the KFC, right?”
You giggled genuinely, “Yes, that’s the one. Been real hard gettin’ customers with such a big chain across the street.”
He hummed again, more of a satisfied noise this time, allowing a small smile to grow on his face, “Well, you’re outta luck, girl, ‘cause I love KFC.”
“Well, if you stopped by some time I could show you some real cooking.” And the charm was back on—game time!
With an elbow on the window, your hand pressed under your chin, and a sweet, toothy smile—you put the magnitude of your flirting to its maximum.
“I see what you’re doin’, ma’am.” He started, the smirk, however, never leaving his face, “Y’know it’s a felony offence to attempt to seduce your way out of a citation?”
“ …Uh—“
“Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle for me, please?”
Well, shit. The idea that just because he was hot, that he’d succumb to your devious flirting was a stupid one. That citation, and even an arrest with a court date scheduled, had your name written all over it now.
You complied—switching off the engine, and popping the door open to swing your legs out. Hitting the gravel road, your legs shook in panic as your undecided fate lay in the hands of the painfully attractive man before you, who was now eyeing you up and down slowly—taking in your slightly trembling frame, clad in your matching pink blouse and skirt, and black kitten heels over your pedicured toes.
“Little slutty for a diner, hm?”
You gasped softly—the nonchalance and causality of his crude words hit you suddenly, your mouth falling ajar.
“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to like tha—“
“Ma’am, there’s no need to get aggressive.” He interrupted, the smile permanent on his face, as a hand came out in front of him, “If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to detain you.”
“What the fuck? Detain me? For what?”
“Two felonies—speeding and expired license.” Officer Jackson recalled, “And possibly aggravation towards a Police Officer.”
“You just called me a slut, Sir, I—“
“Ma’am, I told you to calm down already.” Oh, this guy was playing a real sick game right now, “This is your last warning.”
You scoffed, words failing you as you eyed the man in-front of you. You weren’t sure whether he was a seriously corrupt Police Officer who strived off making money and arrests to innocent, vulnerable women, or an aroused, perverted fiend just like yourself. And with the way he was licking his lips, wetting the skin, as he gazed dreamily at your exposed chest—you were sure it was the latter.
And you were more than into it.
“I’m so sorry, Sir,” You pouted, welling up faux-tears in your eyes as the flirtatious charm sprang back into life, “I’m just so nervous—feel my heart, it’s beatin’ right outta my chest.”
Without giving him any time to process your next move, your hand clasped around his extended hand, and pressed it directly against your bare chest—deliberately smushing his dark brown palm into the plush of your breasts.
“See? You just make me so nervous, Officer.”
“Turn around.”
The gruffness of his usual soft tone made you widen your eyes suddenly—lip coming back between your lips, as you willingly turned around. Your heart hammered loudly in your chest—whether it was genuine nerves or the thrill of being so close to such an attractive man, you weren’t sure—probably both.
“Just a mandatory pat-down.” He spoke lowly, his chest mere inches from your back as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low grumble behind your head, “Do I have your consent, ma’am?”
“Yes, Officer.” You breathed, voice shaken as you braced yourself for his hands against your body, trembling in ecstatic anticipation.
“Good girl.”
He didn’t miss the way you gasped—breath catching in your throat as he chuckled darkly. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands met your tensed shoulders, rubbing the skin quickly—his hands were warm and large, covering substantial surface area of your arms as he made his way down. His hands smoothed down your back slower this time, sliding to follow the curve of your waist, and around your middle—fingers curling over the plush of your stomach. By the time he crouched down, hands patting over your exposed legs, prickling with goosebumps, you had been biting your lip so hard you tasted blood—it had been a long time since you’d been touched, by anyone, let alone being pat down by a divine man such as the one behind you.
“Oh!”
The word left you before you could stop yourself as his two large palms cascaded over the round of your behind—each cupping a cheek of your ass, kneading gently. He could easily play it off as attempting to feel for any weaponry, but the way he was toying with the plushness of the skin was hard not to interpret as sexual.
“Need me to stop, lil’ lady?” He whispered, breath hot against the back of your ear as he rose to his feet once more, hands now sliding across your lower back, and back to your waist.
“N—No, it’s okay. Keep going.”
God, you sounded pathetic—your voice broken and wobbling, chest heaving as his thumb trailed across the side of your breasts, your jaw instantly clenching at the sensation.
Soon enough, his hands cupped the swell of your clothed breasts—palms gliding over your now pebbled nipples, fully erect from the sensual touching. Involuntarily, your back arched into the touch, a quiet, almost inaudible mewl left your gnawed lips—You froze. As did he.
In the silence of the dark freeway, it was hard to miss the way you just moaned at a Police Officer groping your breasts for a mandatory search. Even the quietest of whimpers hit his perked up ears, his hands stilling around the mounds.
“Well, well.” He murmured, voice husky, “What are we gonna do with you, girl?”
Another noise left you as his thumb, deliberately, trailed against your left nipple—the pebbled nub rolling over the pad tantalisingly slow.
“Officer, I—“
“Shhh, it’s okay.” He whispered, chest pressing against your back, hands still tracing over your clothed breasts, “I think a strip-search is in order, I’m not satisfied you’re not concealing any weapons.”
You swallowed thickly, turning around slowly, his hands leaving your chest, your blown-out pupils meeting his own. Your hands, now shaking from anticipatory excitement, reached for your shirt—painfully slowly popping open each button, the blouse coming increasingly more loose as you finally reached the last button. Even as you slid the shirt from your body, your lacy, black bra on full display, your gazed never slipped from his face—even when his vision locked on your exposed breasts. His lip, just like yours had been, was caught tightly between his teeth, as if he was fighting every urge to not break any code or agreement he’d signed once he started the job—but, he was already too far gone. Especially when you unzipped your skirt at the back, and let it fall to the floor in a swift drop—now, half-naked in your matching undergarments and high-heels.
“Well,” He croaked, throat going extremely dry as his eyes raked over your bare frame, “I didn’t say leave those on.”
“You want me to go all the way, Officer?” You breathed, licking your lips.
“Hmm.” Officer Jackson hummed, nodding briskly.
Your hands crawled behind you, fiddling with the clasp, before popping it open—letting it fall off your arms. You fought a grin as Officer Jackson’s breath hitched in his throat—teeth grinding together as he eyed your swell breasts, nipples hardened from equal parts the cold, crisp air, and the arousal that flowed through your veins like electricity—pooling in the panties you were now sliding down your legs.
You didn’t even care that you were stark naked in front of the stranger before you—pussy and tits in his complete vision as he eye-fucked you, hunger dazzling in his eyes even in the dark.
“This better, Sir?”
“Much.” He mumbled, nodding slowly, “But, a physical exam is still required.”
“And how does that work, Officer?” You questioned, feigning stupidity—you knew exactly what that meant, and every fibre of your being was praying to God that he’d take those large hands of his and fuck you senseless with them.
He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, deep and musky, danced around in your nostrils—the smell dizzying and sending you breathless as he towered over you. Up close, you really got to look at him—he had dangerously gorgeous brown eyes, almost black from how blown-out how pupils were in desire, stunning brown skin, baby-hairs smoothed to his forehead, just before his neatly-kept dark curls, as well as a small, blooming moustache atop his upper, plump lip.
His hand dipped, smoothing under the back of your left knee, and raised your leg—resting your levitated leg on the sliver of your exposed tire. This position was vulnerable and open—your legs now deliciously spread, your arousal painting your thighs as you awaited his next move.
“This is mandatory, y’see?” He drawled, a hand crawling up your inner thigh slowly, “Can’t miss a single spot.”
“I understand, Sir.” You breathed, “You can search anywhere you want.”
He hummed once again, the noise rumbling in the back of his throat, as his finger came in direct contact with the wetness soaking your thighs. He swallowed thickly, pressing himself closer to your body that radiated a scorching heat—rolling a familiar bulge into your other thigh. You gasped at the feeling of his stiffened dick beneath his slacks, a bodily reaction purely from your nakedness—your own body reacting similarly, more slick drooling from your bare sex.
“Consented, right, sweetheart?”
You blushed harshly, your cheeks glowing a deep red as his middle finger grazed along your folds, “Yes, Sir.” You forced out through gritted teeth, fighting every urge not to beg for his fingers.
That calculated logic went straight out the window the second his finger pushed past your soaked lips, and slipped inside your wet heat—the impressive length of his slender digits reaching so deep that submissive whines fell past your plump lips.
“Jesus.” He groaned lowly, his facade faltering as you clenched around his finger, your slick arousal coating his digits, dripping down his knuckles.
A second finger joined the first, and instantly began a gruelling pace—curling against your front wall to abuse the sweet spot inside you that your hand flying to his wrist, acting as an anchor, as he worked you open with his fingers.
“Officer!”
“Shh, just take it.” Officer Jackson whispered, rolling his hips forward, his erection rubbing against the bare of your thigh as he repeatedly nudged your G-spot, “‘M just doin’ my job, right?”
You nodded, eyes rolling to the back of your head as pleasure consumed you, your brain going numb, “You’re such a good Police Officer, Sir.”
“Yeah?” He breathed, hips stuttering at the praise, fighting a groan that threatened to slip from his lips, “Y’doin’ so good, sweetheart.”
You moaned, louder and shamelessly, head lolling back, eyes fluttered shut as his thumb grazed upwards—now rolling your throbbing clit along the pad, doubling the pleasure. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, the other scratching the paint from your bonnet as the lewd sound of your squelching cunt filled the silent air—alongside your carefree whines and whimpers.
“Oh—Oh, God, I—Oh, fuck, Officer, I’m gonna—“
“Yeah? You gonna give it to me? Gonna make me proud?” Officer Jackson growled, leaning forward to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath warm against the skin, goosebumps blooming once again over your skin at the sensation.
You cried out, louder than you expected, turning your head to capture his lips in a fierce, frantic kiss as you released—moaning loudly into his mouth as your hand flew to his face, cupping his warm cheek, as your tongue danced into his mouth. He groaned into your mouth—teeth grazing your bottom lip as he french-kissed you swiftly, not wanting to waste a single second apart from you as your pussy spasmed around his fingers—creamy release drooling down his hand, his pace slowing as you came down from your high.
“Not deep enough.” He panted against your lips, hands, still coated in your slick, fiddled with his belt, unbuckling it quickly, “Don’t know if you’re still a threat.”
You whined, lapping into his mouth desperately as he forced his blacks slacks and impossibly tight boxers down to his mid-thighs, his hard, thick dick springing free from its restraints. He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your hot cheek, to the crook of your neck—nipping and sucking at the skin, marking it in deep, dark purple lovebites. Meanwhile, his right hand fisted his stiff cock—pumping himself, allowing pretty, flustered noises to escape into your flesh, as he prepped himself.
“Turn back around, baby.” Officer Jackson commanded, a large hand splaying across your lower back, signaling you to move.
You did so quickly and frantically—your heeled foot meeting the gravel once more as your bare chest hit the cool of your metal bonnet, hissing as the crisp, coldness rolled against your sensitive nipples. The iciness didn’t last long as Officer Jackson pressed himself against you—warm chest flush against your chest, as his twitching dick, drooling with pre-cum, slid between your glistening folds.
“Needa’ see if you’re gonna hurt me, baby. You wouldn’t do that, right? I’m such a good cop after all, hm?”
“Never, never—mmh!—please, please!” You heaved, nails dragging along the bonnet, scratch marks indented into paint as the head of his dick caught at your entrance.
A string of profanities left your lips as he slid inside—the size of him knocking the air out of your lungs as he pushed himself as deep as he could go in one fell swoop. Your name, one he’d memorised from your licence, fell from his mouth, a sensual, lewd, low growl as your tight pussy constricted around him, accommodating the stretch.
“God, y’so fuckin’ tight.” Officer Jackson breathed, heart hammering against your shoulder blade, as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the side of your head, “You gonna be a good girl and comply, hm?”
“Yes! Yes, Sir—do what you want with me.”
Needy and desperate—that exactly how you sounded, and exactly what you were. Dying for him to move, to feel the drag of his throbbing dick against your spongy walls, abusing the sensitive spot inside you that had you seeing stars without even needing to look up at the night sky.
And that’s exactly what it did.
With every thrust, his hips snapping against yours ruthlessly, you screamed—the dark blue paint of your Toyota physically coming up under your nails as he pounded into you relentlessly. His name, ‘Sir’ and ‘Officer’ repeatedly spilled from your mouth—begging him for more, deeper, harder, faster, as he took you on the hood of your car. He was unforgiving—just as a Police Officer should be, despite his irresponsible, corrupt ways, by ploughing into you with such fever you couldn’t help but cry out into the night.
“Fuck, girl, y’pussy’s squeezin’ me so hard. What’cha tryna hide from me?” He teased, his tongue darting out to trace your earlobe, “You got a concealed weapon I don’t know about? You tryna get arrested, sweetheart?”
“No! No! Swear—mmmhh!—“ You exclaimed, breath ragged and uneven, as he drove in harder, angling his hips to repeatedly slam against your anterior vaginal wall, an area that had your second, more powerful orgasm, creeping up your spine.
“Mm, I don’t trust you.” Officer Jackson taunted, his pace never letting up as his hands climbed up your front, one hand cupping your breast, rolling your right nipple between his nimble fingers, and the other slipping between your conjoined legs to rub your sensitive clit.
The triple sensation, sending the pleasure to another level, had you blabbering nonsensical sentences—his surname, not knowing his first, along with cries of ecstasy, mingling with the shlap! shlap! shalp! of his hips against your recoiling ass.
“Oh! Fuck, fuck, Officer, ‘m gonna cum!”
Your voice broke loudly, your hips bouncing back to meet his thrusts, forcing him to the hilt, as your second orgasm hit you like a freight train—the overwhelming euphoria washing over you violently.
“Fuck!” Officer Jackson spat, hand tightening around your breast, as his hips stuttered at your pussy clamping down on him harshly, “So fuckin’ tight—should be fuckin’ illegal the way you’re squeezin’ me, baby, fuck!—“
With a low, loud grumble of a moan, the ferocious pounding sped up, if even at all possible with the speed he was fucking you, ending with a crescendoing, harsh thrust—burying himself to the brim, the tip of his flushed cock nudging your cervix, as he spilled inside you—warm, thick, spurting cum flooding your convulsing pussy, whining softly as you shook from the aftershock of your orgasm, as well as the sensation of him flooding your womb.
For a moment, no one moved—the ragged, broken heave of your breaths being caught surrounded the quietening atmosphere, his hips still pressed firmly against your ass as he softened inside you. His hand dropped from your breast, and to your hip as he finally eased himself out of your pussy, ignoring the way you whined at the loss of fullness. A whispered curse fell from his mouth as a dollop of his release dripped from your sex, and onto the gravel beneath your feet.
“Here.”
You craned your head at the sound of his gruff voice, still pressed against the bonnet, legs weak and shaking, watching as he handed your clothes to you—now coated in thick, dusty dirt. You took your blouse and skirt from him, holding it close to your exposed chest, feeling suddenly too vulnerable for your liking, as he crouched down to grab your panties.
“Leg.”
His voice was short and simple as he peered up at you from his bent knees—holding your panties open for you step into you. You tried to ignore the way your heart clenched at the sweetness of his actions, as you slipped your feet into each hole of the lacy panties, smiling softly as he slid them up your body, and around your bottom half once again. He did the same routine with your skirt, letting you slowly stand into it, and sliding it up your body, zipping it back up gently. You opted for no bra—just sliding the blouse over your chest, and doing up a few buttons—too fatigued from the feverish sex to do anymore.
Officer Jackson cleared his throat once he’d risen to his feet once again, after retrieving the flashlight he’d thrown the floor previously, tucking his softened dick back into his trousers, buckling them up again, smoothing out the material, before looking back at you.
“Now, I’m gonna let you off just this once, but get that licence renewed ASAP, miss.” He ordered, the stern, authoritative tone returning, pointing a finger at you, the same one that had been deep inside you a few minutes prior, “And slow down.”
“Yes, Sir, will do.” You smiled, the post-orgasm buzz consuming your body as you succumbed to the hazy feeling, “Thank you.”
He hummed, checking his watch, cursing, and wetting his lips, “Gotta head off, got another criminal like yourself to catch.”
You giggled, “I understand.“
You waited for him to turn on his heel and speed off in his Caprice—but, he kept his feet planted where he stood, before he lunged forward, his hands cupping your cheeks as he smashed his lips against yours once again. You gasped in surprise into his mouth, your hands darting to his forearms as you kissed him back frantically.
He pulled away with a sharp breath, “I’m Michael.” His voice a gentle whisper, “Here.” He let his hands fall from your face to dig into his back pocket, retrieving a small, rectangle piece of cardboard, before handing it to you, “I gotta go, but drive safe, girl.”
Without waiting for your response, he rushed away, turning on his heel and jogging towards his car—climbing in quickly, putting it immediately into drive, and speeding off into the dark. As the red and blue lights, one’s that originally had you panicking and sweating, now had you smiling deeply at the crude memories, sped off—you climbed back into your own car, flicking on the dim, amber roof lighting, and glancing down at the card. You laughed softly, running a hand over your warm face, clenching your thighs together as another dollop of his release slipped from your pussy, into your panties—what a night.
𓊆❤︎︎𓊇 : after your car breaks down, the nice farmerboy nearby gives you a roof over your head for the night. However, you aren't aware of the cowboy hat rule.
𓊈❤︎︎𓊉 : farmer/cowboy michael. chubby/curvy reader. and michael likes that veeeeery muchhhh. reader gets lost. reader doesn't know about the cowboy hat rule. michael is a gentleman. he is also very smitten. embarrassed michael & embarrassed reader. cowgirl. reverse cowgirl. doggy. ass slapping. michael calls you 'sugar'. unprotected sex. creampie. michael is a sweetheart. p in v. pussy eating. lots of praise. pussy drunk. filthy dirty talk. michael loves your ass. lots of nicknames. 𓏽 ♫ 𝟏𝟓.𝟗𝓀
𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི : oh my god this is so long... and i fear i got a little too carried away at the smut part.
𝓂asterlist || 𝒾ntro || 𝓃avigation || 𝑡aglist
You'd been driving for what felt like hours.
The sun had disappeared not too long ago, leaving the country roads illuminated by little more than your headlights and the occasional glow of the moon overhead. The journey had started pleasantly enough. There was something oddly calming about being alone with your thoughts, watching the scenery change from busy highways to endless fields and quiet back roads. You hadn't minded the drive at all. In fact, for most of it, you'd been singing along to the radio without a care in the world, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel whenever a favourite song came on and laughing to yourself whenever you forgot half the lyrics. There was nobody around to hear you, after all, and that somehow made it even more enjoyable.
Eventually, though, the music faded into bursts of static as you drove further into the countryside. You twisted the dial a few times in search of another station, but every attempt was met with the same crackling interference. With a small sigh, you admitted defeat and switched the radio off altogether.
"Well... that's just rude," you muttered to yourself with a small smile.
The silence settled around you almost immediately.
It wasn't unpleasant, but it did give your mind far too much room to wander. You found yourself thinking about how much longer you had left to drive, whether the little town marked on your map was actually as close as it claimed to be, and if it would still have somewhere open by the time you arrived. You were beginning to regret not stopping at the last gas station you'd passed nearly an hour ago—not because you needed fuel, but because at least there had been people there. Out here, there was nothing but open land stretching endlessly in either direction.
You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was later than you'd realized. 'If I'd known this road was gonna take forever...' you sighed, shaking your head. Almost as though the car had taken your complaint personally, it gave a small shudder beneath you. Your eyebrows drew together.
"...Huh."
You loosened your grip on the steering wheel for a second before tightening it again, listening carefully. The engine continued to hum as it always had, and after another few seconds you convinced yourself it had probably just been a bump in the road.
Then it happened again. This time there was no mistaking it.
A strange sputter echoed from somewhere beneath the bonnet, followed by a brief hesitation that caused the car to jerk ever so slightly before carrying on.
"Oh, no..."
You instinctively looked down at the dashboard, your eyes darting between the gauges as though one of them might explain what was happening. Everything seemed... normal enough. Nothing immediately jumped out at you.
"C'mon," you murmured a little desperately, giving the steering wheel an encouraging little pat. "Don't start acting up now..."
You pressed your foot a little more firmly against the accelerator. The car responded. For all of thirty seconds. Then the engine coughed again, louder this time.
Your stomach sank.
"No, no, no..."
Your gaze immediately searched the road ahead. Nothing. You checked your rear-view mirror. Still nothing.
Not a single pair of headlights. Not another car. Not even a farmhouse with a porch light glowing in the distance. The realization settled over you far quicker than you'd have liked.
If something happened to the car out here, you were completely on your own.
"...Okay," you whispered to yourself, taking a slow breath. "Think."
You reached across to the passenger seat and rummaged through your bag, eventually pulling out the folded road map you'd been relying on all afternoon. You unfolded it across the steering wheel, smoothing out the stubborn creases with your palm as your eyes searched for where you thought you might be. You thought.
There was one problem.
Every winding road on the page suddenly looked identical beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights. With a quiet huff, you folded it back up again, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Maybe you could flag somebody down.
The thought barely had time to settle before you looked through the windshield again. There wasn't anybody to flag down. Not a single passing car.
You chewed thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek before reaching for the door handle.
The night air greeted you immediately, warm but noticeably cooler than it had been during the day. It carried the scent of grass and fresh earth, accompanied by the constant chorus of crickets hidden somewhere amongst the fields. Closing the car door behind you, you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself and looked up and down the road once more, almost hoping that standing outside would somehow make another driver magically appear.
No such luck.
With a defeated sigh, you walked around to the front of the car and released the bonnet latch from inside. A moment later, you lifted it open, propping it up as you stared into the engine. You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at.
There were... engine things. Hoses. Metal. More hoses.
You blinked.
"...Yep."
You couldn't help but laugh quietly to yourself. It was either laugh or cry, and crying wasn't likely to get the engine running again.
Resting your hands on the edge of the bonnet, you let out a long breath and looked across the dark fields surrounding you. They seemed endless beneath the moonlight, interrupted only by the occasional line of fencing disappearing over the hills.
Beautiful.
Just not somewhere you'd particularly wanted to spend your evening. You wondered briefly how long it'd be before somebody happened to drive this way.
Ten minutes? An hour? Morning?
The last possibility made you straighten slightly.
Morning.
You looked back towards the car, then down the empty road stretching out in front of you. No. Surely not.
You weren't going to spend the entire night sitting on the side of some unfamiliar country road waiting for daylight. There had to be another option. There was always another option. At least, that was what you told yourself.
You lowered the bonnet again and walked back around to the driver's side, opening the door and reaching inside for your bag. Your first thought was your phone, even though you already knew what you were going to find. You picked it up anyway, pressing the button and waiting for the screen to light up.
No signal.
You stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, as though the little bars in the corner might suddenly appear out of pity. They didn't.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat and lowered the phone into your lap.
It was strange how quickly a situation could change. Less than an hour ago, you had been enjoying the drive, singing along to the radio and thinking about how peaceful the countryside was. Now you were sitting in a car that refused to start, in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out what your next move was.
You weren't someone who scared easily. Usually, when something went wrong, you were the person who tried to stay calm and find a solution. Panicking never helped anything, and you knew that. But there was something unsettling about not knowing what came next.
You didn't know how far away the nearest person was. You didn't know if anyone would even pass by. You didn't know if your car was dealing with a small problem that could be fixed in the morning or something much worse. The uncertainty was what bothered you the most.
You rested your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment.
"Okay," you whispered again, mostly to yourself. "Don't panic."
Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes and looked around the car. There was a small blanket folded in the backseat, a half-empty bottle of water, and a few snacks you'd bought earlier without thinking much about them. Not exactly enough supplies to spend a night stranded, but enough to make you feel slightly less helpless.
You reached for the blanket, placing it beside you, before looking back out through the windshield. You glanced at the road once more, wondering if you should try walking.
Maybe there was a house nearby that you hadn't noticed. Maybe someone would answer the door and let you use their phone.
But the thought of leaving your car behind made you hesitate.
What if someone came by and moved it? What if you walked in the wrong direction? What if the nearest house was much further away than it looked?
You hated admitting it, but you didn't actually know what to do.
For a few minutes, you simply stood there beside the open car door, listening to the sounds around you. The quiet hum of the night. The wind moving through the grass. The distant sound of something you couldn't identify somewhere far out in the fields.
Then, just as you were beginning to accept that you might have to wait it out...
You heard something. At first, you thought it was your imagination. A faint sound in the distance. You held still, listening carefully.
There it was again.
An engine.
Your eyes immediately lifted towards the road.
For a second, you weren't sure if you should feel relieved or cautious.
A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, slowly making their way towards you. The sight of them made your shoulders relax before you even realised how tense you had been.
Someone was coming.
You stepped away from the car slightly, watching as the vehicle approached. The headlights grew brighter, illuminating the empty road in front of it as the sound of the engine became louder.
It was an old pickup truck.
And although you were grateful that someone had finally come along, you couldn't ignore the small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that whoever was driving was still a stranger.
So you stayed where you were, waiting.
The truck slowed as it reached you, eventually pulling over a short distance ahead of your car.
The engine remained running for a moment.
Then the driver's door opened slowly, and for a moment all you could see was the silhouette of the person stepping out against the glow of the headlights behind him.
He wasn't what you had expected.
You weren't entirely sure what you had expected, truthfully. Maybe some tired-looking mechanic who had happened to come across you on his way home, or perhaps someone who would immediately ask what was wrong with the car before anything else.
A cowboy hat rested on his head, casting a shadow over his features, and he wore a simple button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up slightly, paired with worn jeans and boots that looked like they had seen plenty of long days outside. There was nothing particularly intimidating about him. If anything, the way he approached you was careful and considerate.
A flashlight hung loosely in one hand, though he kept it pointed towards the ground rather than directly at you. He stopped a few feet away from you, leaving enough distance between you that you didn't feel cornered.
"Evenin'," he greeted. His voice was softer than you expected.
You gave him a small nod.
"Hello."
His eyes briefly moved towards your car, taking in the open bonnet before looking back at you.
"Everythin' alright?"
There was genuine curiosity in the question. You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed by the situation. "Uh, no, not really—my car. It decided to just stop working..."
He glanced back at it again.
"Out here?"
You nodded.
"Apparently."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well..." he murmured, adjusting the brim of his hat. "'s probably about the worst place she could've picked." Despite yourself, you smiled slightly.
"Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."
The man seemed to relax a little when he saw you smile. He looked back towards the truck, then towards the road behind you.
"Been waitin' long?"
"Nah, not too long," you answered. He gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite believe you. A quiet chuckle left him.
"Right."
He took a step closer to the car, but stopped before reaching you.
"Name's Michael, by the way."
He removed his hat as he spoke, holding it against his side. It was such a simple gesture, but it immediately stood out to you. Like he had been raised to treat every introduction with a certain amount of respect. "'m sorry. I should've said that first."
You shook your head, "'s okay."
He smiled softly.
"Well, I'm Michael."
He paused, waiting for you to introduce yourself. When you did, he repeated your name quietly, committing it to memory.
"'s a pretty name for a pretty girl."
The words came out naturally. Almost as if he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until after he had. You just blinked at him, taken aback by the bluntness. A faint blush appeared on his face, and he cleared his throat before looking back towards the car.
"Mind 'f I take a look at it, suga'?"
The nickname caught you slightly off guard as well. But this time not because it felt inappropriate. Quite the opposite. The way he said it was so gentle, so naturally warm, that it felt less like flirting and more like a habit. Something he'd probably been saying his whole life.
You nodded. "uh, yeah sure. Go ahead."
"Alright."
He moved towards the front of the car, rolling his sleeves up a little further as he looked beneath the bonnet. You watched him for a moment.
There was a sense of relief that came with seeing someone who actually seemed to know what they were doing. You had tried your best, but staring at an engine and hoping it would explain itself had only gotten you so far. At least now there was someone who could take a proper look.
Michael leaned over the front of the car, his flashlight moving carefully over the different parts beneath the bonnet. Every now and then he hummed quietly to himself, not in frustration, but more like he was thinking through what he was seeing. You rested against the side of the car, watching him.
"Do you know much about cars?" you asked after a moment. He glanced up briefly.
"A little," he admitted. "Spent 'nough time fixin' up old trucks 'nd farm equipment that y' kinda pick things up whether y' want to or not."
There was a small smile on his face as he looked back down. "Can't say I ever planned on spendin' my evenings under a bonnet, though."
You smiled slightly too. "Sounds like you've had a lot of practice."
"More than I'd like," he chuckled softly. "Somethin' always needs fixin' when y' live out here." He moved something beneath the bonnet, checking a few different parts before stepping back slightly.
"How long has she been actin' up?"
You thought back. "Honestly? Not long. My car was fine most of the drive. The radio started cutting out first, and then itstarted making that weird sound." Michael nodded slowly.
"Mm."
That little sound made you look at him. "Is that a good 'mm' or a bad 'mm'?"
A quiet laugh escaped him.
"I'd say it's somewhere 'n the middle."
"That's not exactly reassuring."
"Nah, I know," he said, smiling. "Sorry, suga'."
There it was again. The nickname. You still hadn't quite gotten used to it. And if you were honest, it does make you blush a little.
Michael leaned back down, examining something near the engine.
"She ain't overheatin', is she?"
"No. The temperature looked normal."
"Strange smells?"
"No."
"Any noises before this?"
You thought for a second. "Just the sputtering."
He nodded again.
"Alright."
There was a brief silence as he continued checking over the car. You noticed that he wasn't rushing. He wasn't randomly pulling things apart or pretending to know exactly what was wrong. He was actually taking his time, trying to figure it out.
"Y' from 'round here?" he asked after a moment.
You shook your head.
"No. Just passing through."
"Thought so." You raised an eyebrow.
"What gave it away?"
He looked up, a small smile appearing.
"Well, folks 'round here know better than to take this road after dark unless they gotta."
You laughed quietly. "Good to know."
"Didn't mean it like that," he quickly added, almost as if he worried he had offended you. "Just... this road's pretty empty. Easy to get stranded."
"I figured that out."
That earned a small laugh from him.
"Yeah, I reckon you did."
He returned his attention to the engine, and for a while the only sounds were the night around you and the quiet movements of him working. It was odd.
A few minutes ago, you had been completely alone, wondering how long you would have to wait before anyone came by. Now you were standing beside a stranger's truck on the side of the road, and somehow the situation felt much less overwhelming.
After another few minutes of looking over everything, Michael finally straightened up, wiping his hands together as he stepped back from the engine.
You watched his expression carefully, trying to figure out whether he had good news or bad news before he even spoke. Unfortunately, his face didn't give much away.
"Well..." he started.
You waited hopefully. He looked back at the car, then at you.
"Don't think she's gonna be drivin' anywhere tonight."
You let out a quiet breath, though you weren't entirely surprised. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd already accepted that possibility.
"That bad?"
"No, I wouldn't say bad," he assured you quickly. "Just... ain't somethin' I can fix out here with what I got."
He reached down, closing the bonnet carefully.
"Looks like it's probably somethin' with the engine. Could be a few things, but I don't wanna start guessin' 'nd make it worse."
You nodded, appreciating that he didn't pretend to know more than he did. "So what does that mean?"
Michael glanced down the road, then back at you.
"Means y' probably need a mechanic."
You gave him a small, humorless laugh, "that would be easier 'f I only knew where one was."
"Closest one?"
You nodded.
"Yeah."
He was quiet for a moment.
"About thirty-five, forty miles."
Your eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding..."
"Wish I was."
You looked back at your car, then at the empty road ahead. That was definitely not the answer you were hoping for. Michael noticed the expression on your face and immediately softened.
"Hey."
You looked back at him.
"Don't worry. We'll figure somethin' out."
The way he said it was simple. Not like a promise that he could fix everything, but like a reminder that you weren't stuck dealing with it by yourself anymore. You nodded slowly.
"Thank you for stopping, by the way." He looked almost surprised by the gratitude.
"'Course."
"No, I mean it. You didn't have to..."
Michael shook his head slightly, putting his hat back on.
"Yeah, I did."
The answer came so naturally that you almost didn't know how to respond. He seemed to realize how certain he sounded and gave a small shrug.
"I mean... anybody would've stopped."
You both knew that probably wasn't entirely true. But you didn't point it out. Instead, you smiled a little.
"So what now?"
Michael looked back towards his truck.
"Well..."
He hesitated. And for the first time since he'd arrived, you noticed a little uncertainty in him.
"I got a place not too far from here," he explained. "Jus' a few minutes down the road."
You listened quietly.
"My mama raised me better than to leave somebody stranded out here overnight." A small smile appeared on his face.
"Especially not a lady."
The words made you smile slightly.
"Your mom sounds like a good woman."
"She is."
There was a warmth in his voice when he said it that made it clear there was no hesitation behind the statement.Michael looked back towards the road.
"You got somewhere y' supposed t' be tonight?"
You shook your head.
"Not really. I was just trying to get to the next town."
He nodded.
"Alright."
Another pause. Then he looked at you.
"Now, I know we're strangers, and I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, but..." He adjusted the brim of his hat, almost nervously.
"My place is right nearby. Got a spare room. You could use the phone, get yourself somethin' warm to eat, 'nd figure out what you wanna do in the mornin'."
He quickly continued before you could answer.
"Only if you're comfortable with that, of course. Don't want you thinkin' I'm just some fella offerin' up his house to a woman he just met."
A small laugh escaped you. "I wasn't thinking that."
"Good," he said, smiling faintly. "Just wanted t' make sure."
You looked down the empty road again.
Normally, you wouldn't consider accepting an invitation from a stranger. You knew better than that. But there was something about the way Michael carried himself, the way he had gone out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable, that made the idea seem less frightening. And besides...
You weren't exactly overflowing with better options. You looked back at him.
"How far is it?"
Michael smiled slightly.
"Not far. Five minutes."
You considered it for another moment before nodding.
"Okay."
His expression softened with relief.
"Alright."
He stepped back towards his truck.
"Go ahead 'nd grab whatever you need from your car. I'll give you a hand."
You opened the driver's door, reaching inside for your bag and the few things you'd need for the night. As you did, you couldn't help but glance back at him. Michael was standing beside his pickup, waiting patiently.
The drive to Michael's place was quiet at first. Not uncomfortable, just quiet.
You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, your bag resting beside your feet as you looked out the window at the fields passing by. It was strangely peaceful.
Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his attention mostly focused on the road ahead. Every now and then, though, he would glance over briefly, just to make sure you were alright. He tried not to make it obvious. He really did.
But now that you were sitting closer to him, it was a little harder to ignore.
When he had first stepped out of his truck, the darkness and distance had made it difficult to see much about him. Now, under the soft glow of the dashboard lights, he could see you properly. And he thought you were beautiful. Such a pretty girl.
Not just in the way people usually meant when they said something like that. It wasn't only your appearance, though he couldn't deny that you were very pretty. There was something about the way you carried yourself. The way you had tried to stay calm despite being stranded. The way you had thanked him more than once, even though he hadn't done anything extraordinary in his mind. You seemed kind.
And Michael liked kind.
He quickly looked back at the road when he realized he had been staring for a second too long.
"Everything alright?" you asked. His eyes flickered back towards you.
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Yeah, 'm alright."
You smiled slightly, though you weren't entirely convinced.
"You sure?"
He gave a small nod.
"Just thinkin'."
You looked back out the window.
"About my car?"
"That too."
There was a brief pause. Then, with a small smile, he added, "Mostly thinkin' about what I'm gonna do with it tomorrow."
You laughed softly, "I appreciate you taking this seriously."
"'Course."
The answer came easily. You looked at him for a moment. The same thing happened to you then. Up until now, you had mostly been focused on the fact that he was helping you. You had noticed his kindness, his manners, the way he spoke so gently. But sitting beside him like this, you had the chance to actually look at him. And you had to admit...
Michael was very handsome.
Not in an obvious, overly confident way. There was something softer about him. His features were gentle, his eyes kind, and there was an almost boyish quality to his smile that made him seem younger than you initially expected. You found yourself looking away when he glanced in your direction, suddenly aware that you had been staring.
"You always help strangers on the side of the road?" you asked, mostly to distract yourself. Michael just smiled.
"Not always."
You raised an eyebrow.
"No?"
"Nah."
You looked at him.
"Then why me?"
He thought about it for a moment before answering.
"'cause y' looked like y' needed help."
It was such a simple answer. You smiled softly.
"That's a pretty good reason."
Michael shrugged lightly.
"Seems like the right thing to do."
The truck continued down the road, the silence returning for a moment. Michael glanced over again when he thought you weren't looking. And this time, you noticed. You didn't say anything. You just smiled quietly to yourself and turned your attention back towards the window.
Usually, sitting in a stranger's car would have felt strange. You probably would've found yourself searching for something to say, filling every quiet moment just to avoid the unfamiliarity of it all. But with Michael, the silence seemed easy. Every now and then, he would ask you something small. Where you were headed. How far you'd been driving. Nothing too personal. And every time you answered, he listened.
"So," he said after a moment, one hand resting comfortably on the steering wheel, "what made you take this road anyway?"
You looked over at him.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, like I said before, most folks 'round here know better than t' take this way at night unless they live nearby."
You smiled slightly.
"That your way of saying I made a bad decision?"
He let out a quiet laugh.
"No, no. Ain't sayin' that." His eyes briefly flickered towards you before returning to the road.
"Just curious."
You looked back out the window. "I was trying to get somewhere faster."
Michael nodded.
"That usually ends up bein' how it goes."
"What does?"
"People tryin' to save time and endin' up takin' the longer way."
You laughed softly, "are you speaking from experience?"
He smiled.
"Maybe."
"You've done that before?"
"Maybe."
You smiled at that.
"Do you live alone?" you asked. The question came out naturally, though you immediately wondered if it was too personal. Michael didn't seem to mind it though.
"Nah," he answered. "My family lives close by."
"Oh."
He nodded.
"I've got my own place, but we're all still pretty close." There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke about them. You smiled.
"That sounds nice."
"It is."
The warmth inside the truck slowly became more noticeable as the drive continued.
At first, you hadn't minded it. After standing outside in the cool night air for so long, the heat had actually been comforting. But sitting beneath the soft glow of the dashboard lights with the windows rolled up, you started to feel a little too warm. You shifted in your seat, pulling lightly at the sleeves of your thin jacket.
Michael noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.
"You alright?"
You looked over.
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just getting a little warm." He nodded, immediately turning his attention back to the road.
"Can turn the air up if ya need."
You smiled slightly.
"I think I'll survive."
"Alright. Just makin' sure suga''."
You shook your head amused. After another moment, you slipped the jacket off your shoulders, relieved to finally get rid of the extra layer of warmth. You folded it loosely and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside your bag, revealing the simple black tank top you had been wearing underneath.
The fabric is soft and clings to your curves, hugging your chest and stomach in a way that feels liberating despite the unfamiliar company.
The sudden movement draws Michael's attention. As you settle back into the seat, adjusting your position to find some relief from the heat, the low neckline of the tank top dips lower. Your breasts, full and soft, press against the dark fabric, creating a deep, inviting cleavage that catches the dim glow of the dashboard lights.
Michael's grip tightens fractionally on the steering wheel. His eyes betray him for a split second, flickering downward toward the swell of your chest before he forces them back to the road ahead. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the shadows. "Yeah..." he manages to rasp out, his voice sounding slightly rougher than it did moments before. "Could be gettin' warmer."
You notice the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his breathing seems to catch for a heartbeat, but you attribute it to the heat as well. "Mhm, it sure is."
You stretch your arms above your head, feeling the fabric of the tank top pull across your torso, emphasizing the soft swell of your hips and the generous curve of your waist.
Michael keeps his gaze fixed forward, but his jaw is set tight. He's hyper aware of your presence beside him now. He was fighting every inch of himself to not look over again. He did not want to come across as a creep and scare you off.
He just wasn't used to this.
Not the feeling itself, exactly. Michael had always appreciated beauty. He noticed it in people, in nature, in music. But there was something different about having someone sitting right beside him, someone whose presence he was becoming increasingly aware of.
And he didn't want to make you uncomfortable.
"So..." you said after a moment, breaking the quiet. Michael glanced over.
"Hm?"
"You said you live on a farm?"
He smiled.
"Yeah."
"Do you actually do all the farm stuff yourself?"
He chuckled, "Some of it. Ain't exactly easy work, but I like it."
"You don't get tired of it?"
He thought about it.
"Sometimes."
You laughed. "At least you're honest."
"Well, 'm not gonna lie 'nd say I wake up every mornin' excited to fix fences."
That made you laugh.
"But most days?"
"Most days, yeah."
You looked out at the passing fields again.
"I think I'd like that."
"Farm life?"
"Maybe. It seems peaceful."
Michaels face softened.
"It can be."
He paused.
"But it can also be a lot of work."
"I believe that."
Another quiet moment passed. Then Michael spoke again, his voice a little softer.
"You'll get to see it soon."
You looked back at him.
"The farm?"
He nodded.
"Yeah."
A small smile appeared on his face.
few minutes later, the glow of the headlights caught the outline of a house in the distance. You looked out the window as Michael turned the truck onto a gravel driveway, the tires crunching softly beneath you. The house wasn't anything extravagant, and honestly, you hadn't expected it to be. It was a simple farmhouse with a porch light glowing warmly near the front door, surrounded by open land that stretched out into the darkness. It looked comfortable. Lived in. Like a place where someone had spent years building a quiet life.
"This is it," Michael said, slowing the truck as he pulled closer to the house. You looked around, taking it in for a moment.
"It's nice."
Michael glanced over briefly, a boyish smile appearing on his face.
"Yeah. 's my home."
He parked the truck and turned off the engine, leaving the two of you sitting in the sudden quiet for a moment. Without the sound of the road beneath you, the night seemed even calmer. You could hear the faint sounds of the countryside around you—the wind moving through the fields, the occasional noise of an animal somewhere in the distance.
Michael reached for his keys before stepping out of the truck. You followed a moment later, grabbing your bag from the seat, though before you could properly lift it, Michael was already reaching for it.
"I got it." You looked at him.
"You really don't have to carry my things."
He looked almost confused by the statement.
"I know."
The simple answer made you smile a little. He wasn't doing it because he thought you couldn't handle it. He wasn't trying to make a point. It was just something he did without thinking. As you walked towards the house, Michael glanced over at you.
"Hope y' don't mind stayin' here tonight."
You shook your head. "Are you kidding? I'm just happy I don't have to figure out how to sleep in my car."
That earned a quiet laugh from him.
"Yeah, figured that probably wasn't the best option."
"No," you agreed. "Definitely not ideal."
Michael smiled slightly as he unlocked the front door.
"I got a spare room y' can use," he explained as he opened it. "'s nothin' fancy, but it's clean. There's fresh towels in there, 'nd y' can use whatever y' need. Bathroom's just down the hall."
You stepped inside, looking around as he switched on the lights.
The house felt exactly like you imagined it would. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a comfortable one. There were little signs of everyday life everywhere. A few things placed where they were actually used, furniture that looked like it had been there for years.
"Michael, this is already more than enough," you said. He looked back at you.
"Don't worry about it."
The way he said it was gentle, like he didn't want you feeling like an inconvenience. You followed him down the hallway as he showed you the room.
"I know this is probably a little strange," he admitted. "Comin' all the way out here 'nd endin' up at a stranger's place."
You tilted your head slightly.
"A little."
He nodded, almost expecting that answer.
"But I promise I ain't gonna make you regret it."
The words came out before he seemed to realize how serious they sounded. His cheeks warmed slightly, and he quickly looked away, adjusting the brim of his hat.
"I mean..." he added, a little awkwardly, "you know what I mean."
You couldn't help but giggle. "I do."
He seemed relieved. When he reached the spare room, he opened the door and stepped aside so you could see inside. It was simple, but comfortable. A neatly made bed, a small dresser, and enough space for your things. Nothing luxurious, but after spending the last hour wondering if you'd be sleeping in your car, it felt more than enough.
"Y' can put your bag there," Michael said, pointing towards the dresser. "'nd if you need anything, just call out."
You nodded.
"Thank you, Michael. Really."
He flashed you a smile.
"You're welcome."
There was a brief pause before he added, softer, "Make yourself at home, suga'."
After making sure you had everything you needed, Michael lingered for only a moment longer.
"Alright," he said softly. "I'll let you get some rest."
You nodded, suddenly realizing just how tired you actually were. The adrenaline from your car breaking down had kept you awake, but now that you were somewhere safe, the exhaustion was finally catching up with you. "Thank you again, Michael."
He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "You've thanked me enough times already."
"Still."
"Well... you're welcome." He stepped back towards the doorway, pulling his hat down slightly as he prepared to leave.
"'f y' need anythin', 'm right down the hall." You nodded. "I will."
"Alright, suga'. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Michael." He gave you one last small smile before quietly closing the door behind him. The moment you were alone, you let out a long breath and looked around the room.
A few hours ago, you had been driving alone, singing along to the radio and thinking about nothing more than getting to your destination. Then your car broke down, a stranger found you, and now you were standing in a spare bedroom on a farm you hadn't even known existed.
You weren't sure how you felt about it all yet. But you were tired. Very tired. You pulled your phone from your bag and checked it again, though you already knew there still wasn't any signal. At least you had downloaded a few songs before the trip, so you wouldn't have to spend the night in complete silence.
You grabbed your earbuds, putting on a familiar playlist. The soft music filled the quiet room, giving you something familiar in a place that was still completely new.
The music through your earbuds helps block out the silence of the house as you move around the small room. You feel a little sticky from the drive and the humidity, so you decide to get out of your clothes before getting into bed.
You reached for the hem of your black tank top, pulling it over your head and setting it aside. You kick your by now uncomfortable pants off, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
You figured you were just going to sleep in your undergarments today, as the jeans and the tank top where a little too uncomfortable right now. For a moment you just stood there in the room, only wearing your matching black lace bra and panties, feeling the cool air from the room finally hit your skin.
Down the hall, Michael walked past the spare room with your thin jacket folded neatly over one arm.
He had noticed it sitting on the passenger seat of his truck when he went back outside to grab the rest of your things. At first, he had thought about simply leaving it on the chair in the hallway or outside your door, but then he figured it might get forgotten there. Besides, it was your jacket, and he knew the nights out here could get colder than people expected.
So, after a moment of hesitation, he decided he would just give it back to you.
He stopped outside the door, adjusting his grip on the jacket before raising his hand and knocking softly against the wood.
"Hey, suga'?"
No answer.
Michael waited a few seconds, glancing down the hallway. Maybe you hadn't heard him. He knocked again, a little louder this time.
"Sorry, 's just your jacket. Y' left it in the truck."
Still nothing.
He frowned slightly out of uncertainty. He didn't want to interrupt you if you were already asleep, but he also didn't want to leave without making sure you had it.
The faint sound of music coming from inside explained it. You must have your earbuds in. Michael hesitated for another moment before carefully opening the door just a little.
"Hey, I just wanted to—"
The words died in his throat immediatly.
You were standing in the middle of the room, facing away from him, and you weren't wearing your clothes. Well, you were barely wearing any clothes.
His brain took a full second to catch up. The black tank top was gone. The jeans were gone. In their place was a thin strip of black lace across your hips and a matching bra that pushed your tits up so high and so full he thought his heart might stop. The lamp on the bedside table threw warm light across your skin, catching the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your ass barely covered by the lace, the long line of your back.
Michael's hand went white-knuckled around the jacket.
He should move. He should turn around, close the door, walk away, pretend he never saw a thing. Every voice in his head was screaming at him to do exactly that. His feet wouldn't listen. His feet were bolted to the floor, and his eyes were locked on you, and his breath had gone somewhere he couldn't find it.
Then it hit him. Not the shame, not the guilt — that came later. First came the heat, low and sudden and brutal, surging up from his gut and slamming straight into his cock. It went hard so fast it almost hurt, a thick, heavy ache pressing against the inside of his jeans, and he felt himself twitch against the denim like his body had a mind of its own.
God. God, he shouldn't be looking. He shouldn't be standing here at all.
You shifted, reaching for something on the dresser, and the movement made your ass sway under the lace. Michael's mouth went dry. His cock throbbed, straining so hard against his jeans that he could feel every heartbeat in it, and the shame hit him then — hot and ugly and tangled up with the want until he couldn't tell them apart.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here watching you like some animal.
Michael pulled the door shut as quietly as he could manage, the latch clicking soft behind him, and he was moving before he even knew he'd decided to. Down the hall, past the bathroom, into his own room. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, chest heaving, and his hand went to the front of his jeans before he could think better of it.
He was already so hard it hurt. The denim was tight and unforgiving around him, and when he pressed his palm flat against himself he let out a shaky breath through his teeth. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, shoved his jeans and his boxers down his hips, and his cock sprang free — heavy, thick, aching, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.
He wrapped his hand around it and his eyes fell shut.
He shouldn't be doing this. You were a guest in his house, a stranger he'd brought in off the road, a woman who'd trusted him enough to sleep under his roof. And here he was, jerking off to the memory of you in that black lace. Shame burned low in his belly, but it did nothing to cool the heat. If anything, it made it worse.
He worked his hand slow, up and down, and his mind went where it wanted to go.
He pictured you on your back in his bed, that black lace pushed up around your waist, your tits spilling out of the bra as he settled between your thighs. Pictured your legs wrapped around him, your heels digging into his back, the way you'd sound as you gasped his name when he pushed into you. He imagined the weight of you, the soft give of your hips under his hands, the way you'd feel clenching around him —
Michael's jaw clenched. A low sound rumbled up out of his chest and he stroked himself faster, thumb dragging over the head, smearing the slick that kept beading there.
Then he pictured you on top of him. Cowgirl. You straddling his hips, that black lace gone, your tits bouncing as you rode him, your head tipped back, your mouth open, taking him deep and slow and then fast, riding him until he couldn't think straight. He could almost feel your weight on his thighs, the heat of you, the way your cunt would grip him —
He was ashamed of himself. He was. But his hand kept moving, and his cock kept throbbing, and the image of you wouldn't leave him alone.
He pictured you bent over the edge of the bed, your ass in the air, that lace pulled to the side. Pictured himself behind you, hands on your hips, pushing into you from behind, watching the way you'd take him. He'd grab a fistful of your hair, gentle but firm, and pull your head back, and you'd moan his name —
Michael's breathing went ragged. He leaned his head back against the door and stroked himself harder, faster, chasing it, and the shame and the want tangled up until he couldn't separate them anymore. All he knew was the heat building low in his gut, the image of you burned behind his eyes, the sound of his own rough breathing filling the dark room.
He was so close. He could feel it building, coiling hot and tight, and he stroked himself with a desperate rhythm, his mind full of you — every position, every angle, every way he wanted to take you. The shame was still there, gnawing at the edges, but it only made the heat burn brighter.
His whole body tensed. He came with a shuddering gasp, his hips jerking into his fist, spilling hot and thick over his knuckles and his stomach, and for a long moment he just stood there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the door.
Michael looked down at his hand, at the mess he'd made, at the shame curling in his chest. He should feel worse. He knew he should. But all he could feel was the ghost of you — the curve of your waist, the swell of your pretty ass, the way the lamplight had caught your skin — and the knowledge that he was going to have a hell of a time looking you in the eye coming morning.
He cleaned himself up with a cloth from the bathroom and washed his hands. He didn't sleep much that night.
Morning came slow and pale through the curtains, the light thin and gray, and for a long moment you weren't sure where you were.
Then the smell of old wood and hay and something warm drifted in, and it all came back—
The broken-down car, the empty road, the cowboy who'd pulled over like he'd been sent for you.
You lay there a minute, letting the room come into focus. The bed was softer than you'd expected, the blanket heavy and warm. Outside, a rooster crowed somewhere distant, and you could hear the low sound of a truck engine idling, then cutting off. The farm was also waking up.
You stretched, the sheet slipping down your shoulders. The night air had cooled everything, and you reached for your clothes on the floor — your black tank top and the jeans and pulled them back on.
The hallway smelled like coffee. That was the first thing. Warm and dark and bitter, drifting up from somewhere downstairs, and your stomach turned over at the thought of it. You followed the smell down the stairs, past a coat rack and a stack of old boots, and the house opened into a kitchen at the back.
And there he was.
Michael stood at the counter with his back to you, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other holding a phone to his ear. He'd changed — fresh jeans, a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the same worn boots. But the hat was still there, sitting easy on his head like it was part of him, and the sight of it made you smile.
"Nah, I told you," he was saying into the phone. "She just died on me. Right there 'n the side of the road, 'bout half a mile past the old Whitfield place. Engine sputtered out 'nd wouldn't start again."
A pause. He took a sip of coffee.
"I don't know what's wrong with it, 's the thing. 'm no mechanic, but I looked her over best I could. Somethin' with the engine, I reckon. Y' think y' could take a look at her?"
Another pause, longer this time. He nodded to himself.
"Mm-hm. Yeah. I got her here at the house. She's stayin' with me 'til we figure it out."
He glanced toward the window, and the morning light caught his profile — the line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed a little as he listened. He was handsome in a way that snuck up on you, easy and unassuming, and you caught yourself staring.
"Alright," he said into the phone. "I'll bring her by tomorrow if that works. Appreciate it, Marlon. Yeah. You too."
He pulled the phone away from his ear, tapped the screen, and set it down on the counter with a small sigh. And then he turned, reaching for his coffee and stopped. His eyes landed on you standing in the doorway, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. He blinked, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, slow and easy.
"Mornin', suga'."
"Good morning," you said, and his smile widened a little.
"Sleep alright?"
"Better than I expected, honestly. That bed's real comfortable."
"Glad to hear it," he said, and he meant it. He gestured with his mug toward a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee's fresh. Made it 'bout twenty minutes ago. There's eggs 'nd bacon if y' want somethin' to eat."
"You didn't have to do all that."
"No trouble," he said, already moving to the stove. "Was gonna make breakfast anyway. Just makin' a little more."
You sat down at the table, and he worked at the stove with his back to you, cracking eggs into a pan, the bacon already sizzling. The kitchen was warm and smelled like home, and for a minute you just watched him move — easy, unhurried, like he'd been doing this his whole life.
"Soooo, that was your brother on the phone?" you asked.
"Yeah," he said over his shoulder. "Marlon. He's the one in the family who actually knows his way 'round an engine. Runs a little repair shop over in the next town."
"Think he can fix my car?"
"If anybody can, it's him," Michael said. "Said he'll take a look at her tomorrow. I'll drive y' over there myself, if y' want."
"You'd do that?"
He turned, and there was something soft in his expression.
"Course I would."
He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and your chest did something quiet at the sound of it. He turned back to the stove, and the sizzle of the bacon filled the silence.
"You're really kind, Michael."
He ducked his head a little, and you could've sworn his ears went pink.
"Just doin' what's right."
He slid the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon, and brought it over to set in front of you. He was close enough that you caught his scent again. Dust, hay and soap, fresh from a morning shower, and something underneath that was just him.
"Eat up," he said, settling into the chair across from you with his own coffee. "Gonna be a long day."
You picked up your fork, and he watched you take the first bite. Then he reached for his mug, and his eyes drifted, just for a second, just a glance. Down over your shoulders, along the line of your neck, where the tank top sat loose against your collarbones.
And then he remembered.
It hit him all at once, the way it did every time he closed his eyes last night. You in that black lace, the lamp catching the curve of your waist— The heat came back low and sudden, and his hand tightened on the mug.
He looked away fast, down at his coffee, and his jaw worked. His ears went red, creeping up his neck, and he cleared his throat.
"Good eggs," he managed, not quite meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head.
"You alright, Michael?"
"Yeah," he said, a little too quick. "Yeah, 'm fine. Just — hot coffee. Burns the mouth."
You smiled, not quite convinced, but you let it go.
"Alright."
He took a long sip, staring down at the table, doing everything he could not to think about the way you'd looked yesterday.
You set your fork down, chewing the last bite of bacon, and looked across the table at him. He was still staring at his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe, his ears a little pink at the tips.
"So your brother's gonna take a look tomorrow?" you asked.
Michael blinked, coming back to himself. "Yeah. He's real good with engines. If it's fixable, he'll find it."
"That's good." You paused, turning the thought over. "So I guess I should probably start looking into a hotel or something. I don't want to be a bother."
His head came up fast at that, his brow furrowing. "A hotel?"
"Well, yeah. I can't just stay here for free. You've already done more than enough."
"Suga'." He set his mug down, and there was something almost offended in his voice. "Y' not a bother. Not even close. You're welcome t' stay here as long as it takes. I got the room, I got the food, and I got nobody else fillin' either one. 's no trouble at all."
You looked at him, at the earnest set of his jaw, the way he'd gone from flustered to firm in the space of a breath. "You're sure?"
"Positive." He said it like it was the easiest answer he'd ever given. "You stay right here 'til your car's fixed. I won't hear any argument about it."
A warmth spread through your chest, quiet and unexpected. "Alright. Thank you, Michael."
He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and reached for his coffee again. The silence settled easy between you, comfortable, and you found yourself looking around the kitchen — the worn wooden table, the row of hooks by the door, the window over the sink looking out onto green fields.
"So," you said, "you got a farm. What kind of animals do you have?"
Michael's face lit up. It was subtle — just a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a loosening of his shoulders — but it was there. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug.
"Well, let's see. I got a couple'a horses — a mare named Daisy 'nd a gelding called Buck. Buck's got a mean streak, but he's all talk. Daisy's the sweet one. She'll follow you 'round the paddock like a dog."
You smiled. "That's cute."
"They're good company," he said, and there was a fondness in his voice that made you believe it. "Then there's the chickens. 'Bout a dozen of 'em, plus a rooster who thinks he runs the whole place. His name's Jasper. He's got an attitude problem, but he lays... well, the hens lay. He just struts around makin' noise."
You laughed. "He sounds like a character."
"He's a menace," Michael corrected, grinning. "But a lovable one. Then I got two goats — Bill 'nd Nanny. Billy's a little escape artist. Got out three times last month, 'nd I found him eatin' my neighbor's roses every single time."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. Neighbor ain't spoken to me since." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "And then there's the cows. I got a small herd — 'bout fifteen or so. They're mostly just... cows. They stand around, chew grass, look at you like you owe 'em money."
You laughed again, and the sound of it seemed to settle something in him. He watched you with a soft expression, like he was enjoying the sight of you smiling in his kitchen.
You looked out the window, at the green fields stretching toward the barn in the distance. The morning light was warm on the grass, and somewhere out there a horse nickered, soft and distant.
"Could we go see them?" you asked, turning back to him. "The horses, I mean. I've always liked horses."
Michael's face did something quiet and pleased, like you'd asked him something he'd been hoping to hear. "Yeah," he said, setting his mug down and pushing back from the table. "Yeah, I'd like that. Let me just grab my boots."
He was already moving, and you smiled at his back, at the easy way he'd said yes. You stood too, and followed him toward the door, the morning stretching out warm and unhurried ahead of you both.
The screen door creaked as Michael held it open for you.
A cool breeze met you the second you stepped outside, carrying the smell of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. The sun had climbed higher while you'd been eating, burning away the last of the morning haze. Everything looked washed clean in the light.
The farm stretched farther than you'd realized from the kitchen window.
Rolling pasture disappeared into the distance, fenced in with weathered wood. A faded red barn stood a little ways off, its doors thrown open, and beyond that sat a wide paddock where two horses grazed lazily with their heads low.
"C'mon," Michael said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "They're out this way."
You fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you walked. Every now and then he kicked a loose stone off the path without thinking, his stride long but unhurried, always slowing just enough so you didn't have to keep up.
"You've lived here your whole life?" you asked.
"Mhm."
He nodded toward the fields.
"Parents bought the place when I was just a little thing. Not much changed since then."
"You never wanted to leave?"
He thought about it.
"I did."
You looked over at him.
"When I was younger." He shrugged. "Thought there had t' be somethin' bigger out there."
"And?"
He smiled to himself.
"Turns out... bigger ain't always better."
There wasn't any sadness in the way he said it. Just certainty.
"I like knowin' everybody in town. Like wakin' up before the sun. Like hearin' the birds instead'a traffic." He glanced toward you. "Guess I'm a simple man."
"I don't think simple's the right word."
"No?"
"I think... content."
That earned a quiet laugh.
"I'll take that."
They walked another few yards before the horses noticed them. The chestnut mare lifted her head first. Her ears perked immediately.
"Daisy," Michael called.
The mare whinnied softly before breaking into an eager trot toward the fence. You laughed.
"Oh my God, she really does come when you call."
"Told ya."
He climbed onto the lowest fence rail with practiced ease, leaning over to scratch behind Daisy's ears. She practically melted into him, nudging insistently against his shoulder until he laughed again.
"Easy now."
Watching him with the horse was... different.
He became even gentler somehow.
His voice dropped into a soft murmur, fingers brushing through her mane with absent affection, and Daisy responded to every touch like she trusted him completely.
"You've got her wrapped around your finger."
"Nah." He rubbed her forehead. "I'm the one wrapped around hers."
You smiled. "I can tell."
He looked over his shoulder at you.
"You wanna pet her?"
"I don't know if she'll like me."
Michael looked almost offended by the suggestion.
"Daisy likes everybody."
He stepped aside, leaving space beside him.
"Come here."
You approached slowly, reaching out with a cautious hand.
The mare sniffed your fingers, her breath warm against your skin, before nudging your palm with her nose.
"Oh."
Your face lit up.
"Hi."
Michael watched the entire exchange with an expression so soft it almost hurt.
"See?"
You scratched gently between Daisy's eyes.
"She's beautiful."
"Ain't she?"
You turned to him with a grin that was brighter than the morning sun.
"I think she likes me."
"I think she's already decided you're stayin'."
The words slipped out before he realized he'd said them. His eyes widened.
"I—I mean—"
His ears immediately turned pink.
"I just meant..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Long enough t' get your car fixed."
You couldn't help smiling.
"I know what you meant."
"...Right."
He looked very interested in Daisy's mane all of a sudden.
You bit back a laugh.
The barn had a different kind of quiet than the rest of the farm.
Outside, there was always something moving — the rustle of grass in the wind, the distant call of birds, the occasional sound of an animal making itself known. But inside the barn, everything felt slower. The air was warmer, heavy with the scent of hay and old wood, with sunlight slipping through the cracks between the boards and painting golden lines across the floor.
You'd been following Michael around for most of the morning, watching him move from one task to another. He had shown you the horses, introduced you to the chickens like they were actual members of the family, and warned you very seriously not to trust Bill the goat, who apparently had a personal vendetta against anything that looked expensive.
You were beginning to understand why he liked it here. There was something peaceful about it.
And there was something about Michael himself that fit into it perfectly.
He stood near Daisy's stall, one hand resting on the wooden gate while he checked the latch. His sleeves were still rolled up, his flannel slightly worn at the elbows, and that hat sat on his head like it had been there forever.
Eventually, you couldn't help yourself.
"So…" you said, leaning against the half-door of Daisy's stall. "Do cowboys ever take those hats off?"
Michael looked up from fastening the latch.
"Hm?"
You pointed at him.
"The hat."
He blinked.
"I've been wondering all morning."
His hand instinctively touched the brim. A small smile tugged at his mouth.
"Yeah, I take it off."
"Hmm."
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
"What?"
"I don't know. I'm starting to think it's attached."
He laughed, shaking his head. "It ain't attached."
"You sure?"
"Pretty sure."
You looked at him, pretending to study the hat. "I've never actually seen you without it."
Michael opened his mouth to respond, then paused. You caught it. Your eyebrows lifted.
"What?"
"You hesitated."
"I did not."
"You did."
He gave a quiet laugh, looking down at the ground.
"You're somethin' else."
"That's not a denial."
Michael's jaw worked, but nothing came out. He just stood there in the barn door's shadow, arms folded, that worn straw hat low over his eyes, and you watched him try to find words. Before he could answer, you stepped closer. There was a little bit of hay caught near the brim, and you reached up without thinking.
Michael went still.
Not because you were doing anything strange, but because you were suddenly close. Close enough to smell him — hay and sweat and something warm underneath, like sun-baked leather. Your fingers brushed the edge of the hat, and before he could say anything, you lifted it from his head.
"There," you said, placing it on your own. The band was still warm from his skin. "See? Not attached." You tipped the brim slightly, grinning. "How do I look?"
Michael stared. Like his brain had forgotten what it was supposed to do. His eyes moved from the hat, to you, and then immediately away again — but not before they caught on your mouth.
And you saw it, the way his gaze snagged there for half a second too long. The tips of his ears turned pink first, then the color slowly crept down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. You lowered your smile.
"Michael?"
He cleared his throat, and his voice came out rough.
"Yeah. Uh..." His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Y' might wanna..." He gestured vaguely toward the hat. "...take that off."
You blinked.
"What?"
"The hat."
You laughed softly. "Why? You said it wasn't attached."
"I know, I know." He shook his head quickly. "'s just..."
He looked genuinely embarrassed now, which only made you more confused. His eyes kept flicking to the hat on your head and then away, like he couldn't stand to look at it and couldn't stand not to.
"What?"
Michael glanced toward the barn door, then back at you, like he was hoping someone else might magically appear and save him from the conversation.
Finally, he sighed.
"My brothers... They used t' give me a hard time 'bout it."
"About the hat?"
"About what it means when somebody takes it."
You frowned slightly.
"What it means?"
He nodded, then immediately looked like he regretted saying anything. He shifted his weight, and the movement made his shirt pull across his shoulders, and you noticed it in a way you hadn't before.
"There's... kinda an old cowboy thing." You waited. Michael swallowed, his throat working.
"People joke that if... if a woman takes a cowboy's hat, it means she— uh... that she wants to... ride the cowboy, 'f y' know what I mean..." He mumbled the last words, almost too embarrassed to say it out loud.
The silence they left behind felt different than before— heavier, warmer, like the air had gotten thick.
You stared at him.
A beat passed.
Then another.
"Oh..."
His face somehow got even redder.
"Yeah."
"Oh."
"I know."
"No, I mean—"
You reached up quickly, taking the hat off your head. "I didn't know that—"
"I know you didn't."
"I was literally just messing with you."
"I know."
He smiled a little, trying to reassure you, but he still looked mortified. The smile didn't reach his eyes — his eyes were doing something else entirely, tracking you, watching the way your fingers moved over the brim.
"I figured."
The silence that followed was awkward, but not uncomfortable. Because now you were both suddenly aware of something that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. The closeness.
The way his eyes kept flicking back to you before he caught himself. The way you were suddenly very aware that his hat had been sitting on your head, warm from his skin, smelling like him.
You looked at it, then held it out to him.
"Here."
Michael reached for it, and your fingers brushed. Both of you paused. It was barely a second. But it was enough.
His hand was calloused and rough against yours, and he didn't pull away right away — he let the contact sit there, skin to skin, and you felt the heat of his palm before he finally closed his fingers around the hat and took it back. He settled it onto his head, pulling the brim down slightly lower than before, like he was hiding behind it.
You watched his throat move when he swallowed.
"You know," he said quietly, "for what it's worth..."
You looked at him. A small smile appeared on his face, and this time it reached his eyes.
"Y' did look good 'n it."
Your cheeks warmed.
"Thanks."
He nodded, looking away — but not before you caught the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingered, and then dragged itself up to meet yours.
"Y' welcome."
Neither of you moved. The barn creaked around you, and somewhere a horse shifted in its stall, and you both stood there in the warm, hay-scented quiet, the hat between you like a line neither of you was quite ready to cross.
Michael looked away first.
And you could see the effort it took. The way his jaw tightened slightly, the way he adjusted the brim of his hat even though it didn't need adjusting. Like he was trying to put something back into place.
"Well," he murmured, clearing his throat. "I should probably finish up out here before lunch." You nodded, even though neither of you moved right away.
"Right." Another pause.
Then Michael gave you that small, shy smile of his.
"Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."
You followed him out of the barn, but the moment didn't disappear behind you. It followed you. It lingered in the space between you as you walked across the farm, in the quiet glances that lasted a second too long, in the way Michael seemed just a little more careful with himself than he had been before. Not distant. Just... aware.
Like he had become suddenly conscious of every little thing he did around you.
Michael showed you the rest of the property like he had promised. He took you past the old fence line that bordered the far pasture, pointed out the creek that ran along the back of the land, and told you about the time he had found Bill the goat halfway up a stack of hay bales with absolutely no explanation for how he'd gotten there.
You laughed so hard at the story that Michael had to stop walking just to look at you.
"What?" you asked, noticing. He shook his head. "Nothin'."
"You were staring."
"I was not."
"You were."
A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Just ain't heard someone laugh like that in a while."
Michael seemed to realize he'd said something too honest because he looked away, clearing his throat and turning his attention back toward the pasture.
"You wanna see the creek?" You smiled.
"Yeah."
And you followed him. By the time you made your way back toward the house, the afternoon sun had started to soften. The golden light stretched across the fields, catching on the tall grass and making everything look like it belonged in a painting. You found yourself slowing down. Not because you were tired. Because you didn't want the walk to end. That thought surprised you. You barely knew this man.
Before yesterday, you hadn't even known he existed. And yet somehow, walking beside him felt easy. Natural.
Michael noticed you had fallen behind and slowed his pace.
"Y' alright?"
You looked up. "Yeah, 'm good."
He studied you for a moment.
"Well..."
He looked toward the house, then back at you.
"I should probably start on dinner soon."
The thought of him cooking made you smile.
"You cook every day?"
"Most days."
"By yourself?"
"Mhm."
"That's actually kind of impressive."
He laughed softly.
"'s nothin'."
"You always say that."
"What?"
"That everything you do isn't a big deal."
Michael looked at you. Because you both knew what you really meant. Stopping on the road. Giving you a place to sleep. Making you breakfast.
His expression softened.
"Y' would've done the same."
The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You weren't sure you would have. Michael didn't seem to think kindness was something special. He just thought it was something people were supposed to give.
Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable or awkward. You both were just quieter than before.
There was a new kind of awareness sitting between you both, something neither of you had acknowledged out loud but both of you seemed to feel. The easy conversation from earlier was still there, the small smiles and little jokes, but now there was something underneath it.
You found yourself noticing things you hadn't before— the way Michael's slender fingers curled around his fork, or the way his eyes would drift toward you before quickly finding somewhere else to look. And he wasn't the only one. Every time he adjusted the brim of his hat, every time his fingers brushed over it, you remembered the way it had felt in your hands. Warm from him. Carrying the faint scent of soap, leather, and the outdoors.
It was ridiculous how something so small had changed the atmosphere between you. But it had. Michael seemed to feel it too.
After dinner, the two of you moved into the living room, the sound of rain beginning softly against the windows. It had started while you'd been clearing the dishes, a gentle tapping that slowly grew heavier until it filled the entire house. Michael stood by the window for a while, looking out at the fields.
"You like storms?"
You sat on the couch, watching him.
"Sometimes."
He glanced over.
"Sometimes?"
You smiled.
"Depends where I am."
He nodded like he understood.
"Yeah. I guess it does."
The lights flickered once. Then again. Michael looked up.
"Well."
A second later, the whole house went dark. You both laughed quietly.
"That figures," you said.
Michael disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a few candles. The soft glow filled the room, making the farmhouse feel even older somehow. Warmer. You watched him set one down on the table.
It was strange.
A man you'd met yesterday.
A house you'd never seen before. And yet sitting there in the candlelight, listening to the rain, it felt familiar. Michael sat across from you, resting his forearms on his knees. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that happened when two people were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to be the first to say it.
Your car would be fixed tomorrow. You would leave. And somehow, after only a day and a half, the thought felt heavier than it should have. You looked down at your hands.
"You know..."
Michael looked up.
"I thought I'd be counting down the hours until that car was fixed."
His expression shifted slightly. He glanced over.
"And now?"
The question was quiet and hung in the air You looked toward the rain-covered window. The fields beyond it were barely visible through the storm.
"Now I'm not so sure."
The silence that followed felt different. Just full.
Michael looked down at his hands, his thumb brushing slowly over one of the calluses along his palm. You noticed the small movement, the way he seemed to retreat into himself whenever something mattered too much. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then his voice came quieter than before.
"Don't say things like that 'f y' don't mean 'em, suga'."
Your eyes moved back to him.
"Why?"
Michael swallowed. His gaze stayed fixed on his hands. Because he had been trying. God, he had been trying.
Trying not to read too much into the way you smiled at him. Trying not to remember the feeling of your fingers brushing his when you'd handed his hat back. Trying to forget how incredibly beautiful you looked yesterday, in your pretty black lace set.
"'cause..."
He stopped. The rain filled the silence for him. Then he looked up.
"'cause I've been trying real hard not to hope you might."
Your breath caught slightly. Michael immediately looked away, almost like he regretted letting the words escape.
"I know 's probably ridiculous."
"It's not."
His eyes returned to yours.
"You don't even know me." A small, smile touched his mouth. "And I don't know you. Not really...But I think I know enough."
He looked down again.
"Know 'nough t' know I like havin' y here."
Your throat went dry.
"I don't expect anything from you." He said it quickly, like he needed you to understand. "I mean that."
You nodded.
"I know."
"Your car gets fixed tomorrow, 'nd you go wherever y' headed."
You stood slowly. Michael looked up as you moved closer. Neither of you spoke again. The storm raged outside, but inside the farmhouse everything felt impossibly still.
"You know," you said softly, "for someone who says he's not hoping..." A tiny smile touched your lips. "You don't hide it very well."
Michael let out a quiet laugh, but it was nervous.
"No?"
"No."
You were close now. And still, he didn't move. He just looked at you. Waiting.
The candlelight flickered across his face, catching the slight tremor in his jaw. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was physically holding himself back. Waiting. Always waiting for you to decide.
You reached up.
Slowly.
Giving him every chance to move away.
His breath caught when your fingers brushed the brim of his hat. You didn't take it off. You just let your hand rest there, feeling the warmth of him beneath the shadow of it.
"Can I?" you whispered.
Michael's eyes searched yours.
He didn't ask what you meant.
He already knew.
"Yeah," he breathed, barely audible over the rain. "Suga', you can do whatever you want with me."
The words hit you low in the chest. You pushed the hat back off his head. It fell to the floor between you, forgotten. And then his hands were on you. Not gentle. Not careful.
His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt at your waist and pulled, and you came against him with a soft gasp, your palms flat on his chest. He was warm. Solid. Real in a way the last two days hadn't quite felt.
"Michael—"
"I been wantin' to do this since you walked up my drive," he said, voice rough, eyes dark. "Since you stood in my kitchen smilin' at me like that. Y' such a pretty girl."
He ducked his head and kissed you. It was hungry.
His mouth slanted over yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. The other stayed at your waist, thumb pressing hard against your hip through the fabric. He kissed like a man who had spent too long holding back, like he'd been rationing this moment and had finally decided to spend it all at once.
You let out a soft sigh against his mouth. He swallowed it.
His tongue swept along your lower lip and you opened for him, and the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated straight through you. He tasted like coffee and rain and something warm. His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.
The storm pressed against the windows. Neither of you heard it.
You broke apart only when you needed air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, and when he spoke his voice was wrecked.
"Told myself I wasn't gonna do that."
You laughed, breathless.
"Glad you lied."
He let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something else. His hand came up to cup your face, and he looked at you like you were the only warm thing in the storm. You pulled him back down.
The second kiss was slower. Deeper. His hands found the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it over your head, the fabric whispering past your skin, dragging over the curve of your breasts before it slid away.
He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you— and the way his eyes went dark, the way they dropped to your chest and lingered, made your stomach tighten into a hot, wanting knot.
"Jesus," he breathed, and it came out wrecked, like he'd forgotten how to make a sound.
His thumb traced the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra, feather-light, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the weight of you in his hand. He cupped you, tested the give of you, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. Then he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, and the sound you made wasn't one you planned. A soft, broken whimper.
"Michael─"
"Shh," he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding around your back to unhook your bra, his fingers working the clasp like he'd been dreaming of it. "Lemme take care of y', baby."
The clasp gave with a soft click. The straps slid down your shoulders, and he pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you. Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp, his hand cupping your other breast, thumb working the nipple into a tight, aching peak.
"That's it," he said against your skin, his voice low and rough and thick with wanting. "'s my good girl. God, y' have so pretty tits, honey baby. So soft."
He worked his way down your body, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down your sternum, your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. His mouth lingered on the curve of your hip, his teeth grazing the skin there, and his hands gripped you, fingers sinking into the skin of your hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone. He held you like you were something to be savored, not rushed. And when he sank to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, between your spread thighs, you knew exactly what was coming.
He looked up at you from between your legs, the candlelight catching the hunger in his eyes, and he was already breathing hard.
"Wanna taste y', suga'."
You didn't have words. You just nodded.
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and pulled them down your legs, panties with them, slow and deliberate, dragging the denim over the curve of your ass and down your thighs. And the way he looked at you when you were bare, the way his gaze traveled the length of you, lingering on the soft roll of your hips, the plush of your thighs— made your breath catch.
He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then the other. Each one higher than the last, his mouth working closer and closer, until his breath ghosted hot and wet against your slick, so close you could feel the heat of him.
"Already this wet fo' me," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with desire. "Look at ya', baby. Soaked. 'nd I ain't even touched y' yet."
And then his tongue dragged up the length of you, flat and slow, from your entrance all the way to your clit, and your hips bucked off the couch. "C'mon, angel, lemme get a taste o' this sweet lil' pussy..."
"Oh fuck!—"
He repeated the action.
He licked your cunt like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this since the moment you walked up his drive, like he'd been starving for the taste of you for years. His tongue circled your clit, flicked, pressed flat and broad, and every time you gasped he'd groan against you like the sound drove him crazy. His hands gripped your thighs, almost with a bruising grip, spreading you wider, holding you open for him, and he buried his face in you like he wanted to drown in your juices.
"Taste like honey," he said against you, the words vibrating straight through your clit, making your whole body clench. "Sweetest thing I ever had, hunny. Could eat this pussy all goddamn night."
He sucked your clit into his mouth and you cried out, your hand flying down to tangle in his hair, gripping him there. He let you hold him, let you grind against his mouth, and he took it— took all of it— groaning like he wanted to live between your thighs. Two fingers pushed into your slickness then, curling, crooking against that spot that made your vision blur, and he pumped them slow while his tongue worked you in relentless circles.
"Please," you managed, your voice breaking. "Michael, please—"
"Please what, beautiful?"
"Want you. Want—" You couldn't finish. You couldn't think. How could someones mouth feel this fucking good?
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth slick and shining with you, chin wet, eyes nearly black in the candlelight. He was wrecked. You'd wrecked him.
"Want what, suga'? Tell me. Talk t' me"
"Want you inside me."
A slow, teasing smile spread across his face, and his fingers curled deeper inside you, making you moan.
"You'll get it. But I want y' t' come on my tongue first." He lowered his head again, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "Want t' feel it, sweet girl. Want y' t' soak my face. Drown me in it."
He went back to work, and this time he didn't let up. His fingers fucked you in a steady, curling rhythm while his mouth worked your clit, and the pressure built and built until you were shaking, your thighs trembling around his head, your whole body drawn tight as a wire. And he felt it. He felt every shudder, every clench; and he groaned against you like it was killing him.
"Thaaat's it," he said, his voice muffled against you, his fingers never stopping. "Come fo' me, pretty baby. Come on my tongue. Soak me."
And you did. It hit you like the storm outside, white-hot and blinding, your whole body bowing off the couch as you cried out his name. He lapped you through it, slow and greedy, drinking every drop, not stopping until you were twitching and oversensitive and gasping for air, until you had to push weakly at his head.
He kissed his way back up your body, slow and deliberate, dragging his slick mouth over your belly, your breasts, your throat. And when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet. He was hard against your hip, straining through his jeans, thick and insistent, and you reached for him.
"My turn."
He caught your wrist.
"Not yet, sweet baby." His voice was wrecked, barely holding together, shaking at the edges. "Want y' t' come on my dick. Want t' feel that pretty little pussy squeeze me while y' fall apart."
The words went straight through you, hot and liquid, pooling low in your belly.
He stood, shucked off his shirt, and worked open his belt, the leather sliding through the loops. His jeans came down, and when he stepped out of them you got your first look at him — thick and hard and leaking, the head flushed and slick, his hand wrapped around the base. He was beautiful. He was everything.
"See what y' do t' me, suga'?" He stroked himself slowly, his jaw tight, his knuckles dragging up the length of him. "Been hard since y' stood in my kitchen. Been thinkin' about this sweet ass of yours all goddamn day." His vulgar words and confident tone shocked you. Was this really the shy boy from the barn you thought you knew? But you didn't mind. Not at all.
He climbed onto the couch, settling back against the armrest, and reached for you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you toward him.
"Come here, honey baby."
You straddled him. His hands found your hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin and he looked up at you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, something that made your chest ache.
"You sure?"
"Michael." You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his breath hissed through his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. "I've never been more sure of anything."
He guided you up, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, wet heat, and then he looked at you, one last question in his eyes. You answered by sinking down.
The two of you groaned together as he filled you, inch by inch, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back. He was so thick, so warm, and you felt impossibly, perfectly full. His cock splitting you open, seating deep inside you until you were flush against him, his hips against yours, his balls pressed to your ass.
"God," he breathed, his head falling back against the couch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Feel that, sweet girl? Feel how good y' take me? Ohhh, look at ya. All that soft ass, all that curve, sittin' on my cock like y' were made for it."
His words made you whimper. You rolled your hips, experimental, grinding down on him, and his hands clenched on your waist, a low groan tearing out of him.
"'s it. Ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock."
You found your rhythm slowly, then faster, your hands braced on his chest, your tits bouncing in his face with every stroke. He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze dropping to your breasts, to the way they moved, and he reached up and cupped them, thumbing your nipples, groaning.
"Lord, y' so beautiful," he said, his voice rough and reverent. "Look at these perfect tits. Takin' all o' me. Squeezin' me so damn good."
You leaned forward and kissed him, sloppy and open-mouthed, and he groaned into it, his tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, Mikey... Y' feel soo good." You mumbled messily against his mouth. "Yeah? 'm fucki' you good, baby?" A little 'mhm!' sound left your lips.
His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard, kneading the soft flesh, guiding your pace as you rode him.
"My perfect, beautiful girl..."
You rode him harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, wet and obscene, and he let you take what you needed. But then his hands tightened on your hips, and he stilled you.
"Turn around, sweetheart."
You blinked, breathless.
"want to watch that ass bounce on my cock. Want to watch it swallow me up."
He helped you lift off him, the sudden loss of him making you whimper, and then he guided you to turn around, your back to his chest. He pulled you down onto him again, and you both groaned as he filled you from behind, his cock sliding back into you to the hilt.
"Jesus," he breathed against your ear, his hands already gripping your hips. "Feel even better this way, beautiful. Look at that pretty ass..."
You rode him reverse, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your shoulder, your neck, kissing down your spine while you moved. The angle made his cock drag against a spot that made your thighs shake, made you gasp and grind down harder. "Shit─ y' so deep in me, Mikey─"
And then his hands moved— one sliding up your back, the other reaching down to grip your ass, and then he spread you. He spread you open with his thumbs, pulling the cheeks apart, and you felt the cool air on your slick, wet flesh, felt him watching you — watching himself slide in and out of you. He groaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through your whole body.
"Ohh," he breathed, his voice wrecked with wonder. "Look at that. Look at my cock goin' in 'nd out o' ya. 'nd look—" His thumb traced the base of him where he was buried inside you, and you felt the creamy ring that had formed there, the mess of you and him slicking his skin. "Look at that, sweet girl. Look at all that cream. 's aaaall you, baby. That's how wet this pussy 's fo' me. How bad you want it."
You whimpered, grinding down on him, and he let you feel him watching, his eyes burning into the place where you were joined.
"Right there," you gasped. "Don't stop."
"Not stoppin', sweet girl. Not 'till y' come on my dick."
His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and you cried out. He worked you in tight circles while you rode him, his other arm banded across your chest, holding you against him, his cock buried deep inside you.
"'s it, sweetheart. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how good I fill ya up?"
"Yes—"
"Y' gonna come fo' me? Gonna soak my dick like a good girl? Gonna cream aaall over me?"
"Yes, Michael, yes!—"
"Come on, pretty baby. Let go. Come all over me. Make a mess."
You shattered.
Your body clenched around him, wave after wave, your pussy milking him, and he groaned through it, his hips bucking up into you, driving deeper.
"Thaaaat's it. Fuck, feel you squeezin' me."
He didn't let you stop. He shifted beneath you, and before you could catch your breath he was lifting you off him, pressing you down onto the couch on your hands and knees, your ass up, your spine arching.
"Flat, baby," he said, his voice soft but commanding. "Arch that pretty back fo' me. Push that pretty ass up."
You obeyed. His hands spread your thighs wider, and you felt the head of his cock press against you, slick with you and him, the mess of your cream coating his skin.
"Messy girl," he breathed, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your cheeks, squeezing, spreading. "So messy, sweet girl. So perfect. Love this perfect body o' yours."
He pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and then he stilled, both of you breathing hard, his balls pressed against your wet flesh.
"You feel that, hunny? Feel how deep I am?"
"Yes," you whimpered.
He pulled out almost all the way, so slowly you felt every inch of him dragging against your walls, and then he slammed back in, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the cushion.
"That's it," he growled. "Take it, baby. Take all of me."
He set a brutal pace, deep and hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sound of it filled the room— the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the slick sound of him driving into your soaked cunt, the heavy, obscene slap of his balls against your flesh with every thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the rain hammered the windows, and your moans mixed with his grunts, a filthy, perfect rhythm.
"You feel so good," he said, his voice wrecked, barely holding together. "So wet, baby. Squeezin' me like y' never wanna let go." Then he slapped your ass, a sharp, wet crack that made you gasp. "Love watchin' it bounce. Love the way it takes me."
He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.
"That feel good, beautiful?"
"Yes—"
"Say it, sweet girl. Tell me how good it feels."
"So good," you gasped. "Mikey, y' feel so good—"
"Mhm," he groaned. "Feels so good."
He drove into you harder, faster, his hand sliding around to grip your throat — not squeezing, just holding, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His other hand found your clit again, working you in tight, relentless circles, and you were already so close, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your belly.
"Y' mine tonight, angel. All mine. Gonna come again, sweet girl? Gonna come on my cock again?"
"Mhm!—"
"Come on, then. Come on me. Let me feel it. Soak me, baby."
You came with a cry, your body clenching around him so hard he groaned and drove into you through it, his hips stuttering, chasing his own release.
"Just like that," he said, his voice shaking, wrecked. "Ohh, that's my good girl. That's my beautiful—"
He buried himself deep and came with a shudder, his hips grinding against you, a groan torn from his throat as he filled you, hot and pulsing, spilling deep inside you. You felt every pulse of him, felt him empty into you, and you collapsed together onto the couch, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat and each other.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt the mess of him and you slide down your thigh, warm and wet. He kissed the back of your neck, soft and tender, his hand stroking the curve of your hip.
"Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin. "'m gonna take good care of you..."
Thinking of starting to write some shorter fics while I work on my magnum opus fic.
Thinking of doing a dangerous era fic where Michael is reunited with an ex-lover and....... things happen. Everyone is yearning and has years worth of pent up feelings.
I'm excited to start writing and becoming a contributor to this community!
stormborns
theartofmadeline
prguitarman
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