⁵⁸Mikolsfavschmuck⁰⁹

Michael Jackson

[angelcrescent]

FADE INTO YOU ➳𓈒❤︎︎࣪˖ his first time …

intro ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ( 23k ) childhoodbsf!popstar!reader 𝑥 pre-otw!michael 𝓳ackson ╱ with your guidance, your shy and sexually reserved boyfriend makes love to you for the very first time. 𝟑/𝟑 ♡ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆 ✴︎ 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒘𝒐

notes ₊˚✧ﾟ. 𝟏𝟖+ { no need to read the series in order! } very soft n fluffy smut. established relationship of 4 months. religious guilt. mention of michael’s sex-related trauma. avoidant!reader. quite graphic description of a rape memory & instances of past sexual coercion. one slight mention of vomit within that ;; { trigger warning is clearly signposted , and is only prior to the smut }. sub!michael. slow n sensual foreplay in a romantic bubble bath. light dirty talk. oil massage. fingering. handjob. mutual masturbation. squirting. oral f&m!receiving. premature ejaculation. size kink. experienced!reader. virgin!michael. he’s so shy and nervous! reader talks him through it. but he’s very vocal , naturally talented with his words. . . and his hips of course! } protected penetrative sex. reader is on the pill. 3 m!orgasms. 2 f!orgasms. creampie. emotional sex (!!). like really fucking emotional. . . they both cry. gentle aftercare. nicknames for each other ; tinker bell, bambi, mickey n minnie. yes , u read that word count correctly. . . this is the longest thing ever oh my god. & only proofread once so i hope it’s ok :$ !! im self-conscious af >,<

After four months of constant hesitation and anxious overthinking, Michael Jackson had finally decided that the night of September 1st, 1978, would be his very first time making love. It would be the night he’d lose his virginity to the girl he’d loved since he was eleven years old.

Having grown in comfortability and confidence surrounding sex unlike the sheer disdain he’d felt toward it previously, he was still certifiably terrified—so excited to take this next step with the woman he adored more than anything, but so incredibly nervous that he would do something wrong, paired with the intense guilt that what you would be doing together was also much too sinful. He'd pondered over the question of religious purity relentlessly since you'd first told him in July that he need not take the overly strict rules so seriously, but even while he had calmed down his vehement religious adherence, it still nagged at him. He really hoped that once tonight was over and done with, he'd feel differently. He prayed that he wouldn't feel any worse—that the guilt wouldn't instead increase after the fact, because really, that was more likely—and then he remembered that the God he was praying to obviously condemned the act out of wedlock in the first place. So, again he was stuck, relying only on your insistence and his own self-assurance that the act wouldn't be the disgusting thing he'd always perceived it as. He was an adult now—freshly twenty years old—and he needed his girl so badly. There was no fighting it anymore.

He even began to wonder, if God permitted sex within marriage, surely it couldn't be that sinful outside of it? He knew from you, from his brothers and from his father how rough and aggressive it could be (that particular knowledge existing as part of the reason why he'd been so disturbed and deterred from it in the first place) but he also believed in just how beautiful and gentle it could be. He knew you'd been victim to sex that was on the more aggressive side as you'd grown into adulthood, and he was ever determined to show you that the opposite could also be true in this domineering, patriarchal world. He wanted to love you, not just fuck you; to display to your body his eternal devotion, each touch a promise that he would never, ever hurt you like you'd been hurt before. He'd always known that you were destined to be with him, that even when he was beginning to give up hope because you weren't seeming to show him any romantic interest despite knowing him for so long, something inside of that boy still screamed, "she'll be mine one day."

Michael had planned tonight extensively, down to every last detail of which he was in control of—but of course the specifics within the evening would be instructed by your expertise. He'd decided that it had to happen at your place (even though he would've preferred to take you in his childhood bedroom) because if he did attempt the latter option, precisely it would be a mere attempt and nothing more. His brothers would hear, they'd tease and ruin the moment just like they did with your first shower together; and aside that, there was also the terrifying possibility of Michael's mother finding out.

You lived in a mansion too, with a family half the size of his, and the rooms were all so far apart that you didn't really need to choose a night where the house would be completely empty. But Michael still requested that you did, because for his very first time with you he needed it to be absolutely perfect. The pressure for perfection carried him through his entire life in every sector, and while such pressure helped him to acquire greatness in his creativity and in his career, Michael was mistakenly applying it to something that in fact required zero pressure in order to survive successfully. The more he focused on being the best you'd ever had, and the more he desperately needed every little thing to fit the dream he'd been having for years, the higher the likelihood that he'd be too awkward and unable to relax.

As he walked over to your house, he began to understand that to some extent; but not fully, because even while he tried to calm down through deep, controlled breaths, the underlying yearning for perfection still didn't leave. And to make matters worse, nor did the religious guilt, and the childhood trauma. Every thought—tiny or huge—was piling on top of one another, making his chest constrict so much that he felt he might have a literal heart attack on Encino Avenue. When your family mansion came into view, his head was spinning.

Walking closer, he saw you out on the porch talking to a neighbour, clad in a tight hot pink tank top—the hem riding up to show a glimpse of your stomach—with Daisy Dukes to accentuate your ass, and Converse Chuck Taylors on your feet. Michael tried to stroll normally, but really he felt as though every step he took was mechanical, as though he was dreaming and the freshly-mowed grass would soon transform into quicksand.

You knew he was supposed to turn up around seven, and the time was indeed right on seven o'clock, but you hadn't been paying attention, because you figured he probably wouldn't turn up exactly at the strike of the hour. 

Seriously? Did you even know your boyfriend at all? When it came to you, Michael would be nothing short of punctual—especially when he'd been pacing around Hayvenhurst all day before finally allowing himself to leave at 6.30. In truth, he'd been pacing around Hayvenhurst all week.

You didn't notice him walking over at first, because you were busy engaged in a conversation with one of your girlfriends about your upcoming single. It was her that spotted Michael first as he came up behind you. She'd started grinning all of a sudden.

"What is it?" you chuckled. "Have I got somethin' on my face?"

"No—your man's here, girl."

"Hi," Michael said shyly, wrapping an arm around your waist. He was wearing a half-buttoned cream linen shirt that exposed part of his chest, with light blue high waisted bell bottoms, fixed tight on his hips by a thick brown belt.

"Oh, hey baby," you beamed, turning to the side to face him, then pulling him into a quick greeting kiss. Your face nestled into his shoulder, and the girl beside you cooed in adoration.

"I'll leave you two lovebirds," she laughed, giving you a short hug. "See you tomorrow, babe!"

Then she was heading back inside her house next door, and so you turned properly now to face your sweetheart.

"Mm, been waitin' for you all day," you murmured against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck as you pressed kiss after kiss onto his facial features.

"Yeah?" Michael's eyes lit up a little, as if some part of him was believing that only he was excited for tonight. You'd had sex several times before with other men, so surely this wouldn't be anything special on your end, he thought, and he imagined you'd probably forgotten all about the appointment he'd made before you'd found him standing right next to you.

And yet, he couldn't have been more wrong, where it seemed the memory of your sexual cravings regarding him had since slipped his mind. He was also yet to be aware of just how deeply your love for him ran—how despite your avoidance (of which you were slowly recovering from) you were treating tonight with just as much care and anticipation as the boy who'd never made love before.

"Mhm, let's go upstairs," you smiled, kissing his cheek and taking hold of his hand. 

"Nervous, huh?" you asked while the two of you walked up to the front door and into the foyer. 

Michael's breath caught in his throat. He'd hoped you wouldn't notice.

"Uh—a little. I guess."

You linked your arm with his and squeezed his hand tighter, leaning comfortably into his side. "You're shakin', honey. You have nothin' to be worried about—really—but would you wanna maybe watch a movie before we, uh—?" You started to giggle, feeling a little shy yourself. "Just to loosen you up a little."

"Um," Michael smiled bashfully, "yeah, that would be great."

"Okay, let's go to my room, Mickey!" you sung with his Disney nickname, reaching the staircase.

"After you, Minnie," Michael chuckled in response.

You both took off your sneakers, and then in an attempt to replace anxiety with playfulness, he sped up as you walked, now skipping up the stairs after you and chasing you into your room while you squealed. As soon as you rushed inside, he wrapped his long arms around your waist from behind and lifted you with surprising ease, then shifted you into a bridal carry as you still continued to whine happily. 

"Mike," you sighed, cheeks aching already from how much you'd been smiling. You wrapped your arms around his neck like a koala seeking refuge in its mother.

"Yes, honey?" he smiled back down at you, stroking your thigh as he walked your figure over to your huge champagne-pink king-size bed, enveloped in silk. You'd spent half of your relationship thus far here, and the other half at Michael's place. Really, your bedroom was much more appropriate—with the likelihood of outside intrusion much less—but as stated previously, Michael always thought it was more romantic and more gentlemanly to bring you to his home, rather than to rely on yours.

You were looking up into his eyes now, getting so effortlessly lost in the shining brown orbs, how the pupils dilated the more they locked onto your own, and you'd forgotten what it was you wanted to say.

"Tink," he whispered, urging you to continue your sentence with a kiss to your nose. He was doing something he did quite a lot—standing in the centre of somewhere, carrying your waiting body, entirely lost in the feeling of the holding, so much so that he didn't want to let you out of his grasp. Silly in this circumstance however, because you'd be in an even closer grasp once you got comfy under the sheets and entwined your bodies.

"I forgot what I was gonna say," you giggled. "Um... but somethin' else just came to mind, too. Y'know... the three words..."

You were always too shy to say them, still only four months into dissecting and overcoming your deep-rooted avoidance, but at the same time you often had a strong need to make clear to Michael that you felt the words, no matter how difficult they were to leave your lips.

Michael's smile grew ten times wider, and he leaned his face down to kiss your forehead, rocking you absentmindedly in his arms as though you were in your very own Disney movie, saved by the handsome prince. 

"Can I say 'em for y'?"

"What, about yourself?" you joked, reaching up to play with his afro. "Wow, Michael, I never knew you were so self-absorbed."

He chuckled, and upon staring deeper into your fluttering eyes, almost lost his train of thought again.

"Mikey, take me to bed—I don't know what we're still standin' here for," you laughed, suddenly a little shy. He was looking at you too closely, and sometimes you wished he wouldn't be so intimately attentive.

"’m admirin' y', Minnie," he whispered, but now without a smile at all—just an expression that would appear so plain if it wasn't for the heavenly intensity in his eyes, that which gave an eloquent display of his aching emotion. "My Minnie Mouse..." he whispered some more, pairing the words with soft kisses over the crevices of your face.

You had literal goosebumps now, breath hitching imperceptibly at the insane effect he had on you. Michael was just being sweet, like always, but you weren't used to such close attention from anybody, let alone from the gorgeous, soft-spoken man with the sexiest voice. He didn't seem to understand just how sexy he was, and in fact he'd never even thought of himself in that way before—which was yet another reason why he believed the events of tonight would be difficult.

"Michael..." you whispered back, almost gasping in your sheer surprise at just how passionately he was looking at you. His arms stayed holding you so protectively, tucked under your legs, and he still kept pressing his lips over your face and to your jaw, while you shut your eyes and relished in the gift of his affection, no matter how nervous it was making you. 

You'd never been this kind of nervous before. Even though Michael had treated you in this way many times over the last few months—where you became slightly more comfortable with it as the time passed—the tenderness had never before contained the subtext of sexual intercourse. Previously, sex and softness had been a separate subject in your mind, unfortunately having never dealt with a man who saw that the two could coexist, but tonight your first boyfriend would be finally combining the two. As opposed to all your other men, Michael Jackson couldn't conceive of performing sex in any other way. From foreplay to the act itself, he would be oh so gentle...

And though he hadn't said that aloud to you, it was clear nonetheless that he would be that kind of lover. The knowledge was what had made you so anxious when you stepped into that shower with him two weeks ago, and as he'd proven himself then to be so thoughtful and tender with your naked body, it had only confirmed further what you'd be experiencing on your first night together.

You were thinking about that now as he swayed you carefully in his arms, somehow his shyness dissipating whenever he could lose himself in your eyes just strongly enough for every other thought and emotion to momentarily pause. As he loved on you, your mind was thinking about later tonight; and not because you were desperate to cut to the sex, but because of that same anxiety surrounding how beautifully he'd treat you. Many girls would deem you crazy for actually worrying about a man treating your body with reverence, but you'd spent so long stuck in an intense fear of vulnerability, feeling so unworthy of a soft love, that now even while you'd made progress, the severity of tonight made you feel as though you would be losing your virginity all over again. Michael might have been the only virgin in the room, but you might as well have been, and therefore just like your boyfriend, you too would be experiencing something so very new. 

What you weren't yet aware of in that moment, as you shut your eyes tight, too scared to look into his adoring eyes as he kissed you with more innocence than anybody ever had, was that the night ahead would be the single most beautiful (though equally heart-aching) experience of your life. You could have awarded the birth of all your incredible children the top spot on that list of experiences, but really, those children would have never come to see the light of day had it not been for the man who taught you how to be loved.

"I love you, honey..." you heard him say, snapping you from your daze as your eyelids finally fluttered open. 

Your cheeks heated up in an instant. Why were those words still so difficult? It made you even more anxious to think that Michael might be feeling self-conscious at the fact that you'd only ever half-said the phrase (an instance where you'd almost said the 'you' in the middle of a makeout, but had instead craftily cut yourself off with a kiss). You hoped he never took it personally, and truly he didn't, because he could empathise with your situation. While it was so different from his own, as somebody who craved affection and reassuring words, he understood that you operated in the opposite way.

"Take me to bed, baby," you whispered, although feeling guilty for not reciprocating his declaration. 

"Mhm," Michael muttered quietly, nodding. "Got distracted." He huffed a laugh.

"I can see that," you giggled, as he began to set you down oh so carefully onto the silk sheets, treating you like a fragile object of porcelain. 

Sitting down beside you, he immediately outstretched his limbs for you to crawl in between them, settling comfortably at his chest with his arms wrapped tight around you, and with your smooth bare legs brushing against his pair. You entwined them together, sighing in content into his warm neck. 

Then the two of you were sitting in lovely silence for a few moments, before you remembered that you were supposed to be watching a movie together. 

"Y'know we need to actually pick the movie, honey,” you pointed out. “One of us needs to get up again to put it on."

Michael groaned theatrically, throwing his head back at the mere idea of separating from your warmth again. "I'll do it," he sighed.

"Okay, what about Bambi for my Bambi?" you grinned, taking his hand and kissing his wrist.

The film had always been one of your favourites, and partly because it did indeed remind you of Michael. Bambi's pretty doe eyes reflected him so much, a mirror image of your sweetheart's own pair, and that similarity had influenced one of your nicknames for him.

Michael blushed, lips pressing together in shyness, and you nudged his cheek with your knuckles.

"Baby, you know you can't be this shy when you're buried in me later," you teased, and Michael's fluster only grew even deeper.

"Minnie," he glared playfully, but there was really nothing playful about the intense tachycardia-like symptoms of his heart.

"I'm just playin', Mickey!" you laughed more, with a soft peck to his nose. "Now, do you wanna watch Bambi or not?"

"Mhm, Bambi's fine," he muttered, a smile growing on his pretty face as he reluctantly stood up from the bed that he'd only just gotten comfortable in, and walked over to set up the chosen film. 

"Darlin', where is it?" he called back. "Y' have so many here—which drawer is it in?"

"Oh, the second on the left!"

When he found the cassette, he slid it into the VCR beneath your television, and the screen flickered to life with the opening credits. Eagerly, with the spirit of a child, he rushed back to where you laid in the centre of your sheets, and as before, you were cuddled up so close; cheek-to-cheek, his arms around your waist. Michael always insisted that he be practically glued to you whenever you cuddled, so attached that you could feel his warm breath each time he murmured a soft word to you. As the film settled into the opening scene, he took hold of your hand and interlaced your fingers, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles—though unlike most, with zero absent mind. Every slight touch was deliberate, so deeply thought about, and for Michael, handholding had always been what he deemed 'magical'. He never really needed much more, for he believed that and kisses were celestial in themselves. 

With such in mind then, it would've been easy to predict just how insatiable the young man would become after simple physical touch had been elevated to the realm of bodily entwining. He'd never be the same.

𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐆𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒙𝒖𝒂𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒂𝒖𝒍𝒕, 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒆. 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒕 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆

But despite Michael's comfort, there was a lot on your mind that evening. Much of the sex you'd had since you'd turned sixteen three years ago had been coercive and at times literal rape—where you'd been so intoxicated and vulnerable that you believed it was all okay, because you'd kissed him back, hadn't you? You'd let him take you to his bedroom, so hadn't you consented to being treated that way? No one had taught a vulnerable girl growing up in both the music industry and the 1970s that real consent wasn't black and white. 

Your very first time had been aggressive, where the man four years older hadn't taken a care to the fact that it hurt so badly. He just kept forcing himself in harder. Afterward, you had immediately rushed over to Michael's house and cried yourself to sleep in his arms.

Indeed, Michael then went on to learn of those who came after that horrible first experience, none any gentler or more careful. But you hadn't been a virgin anymore, and you had wanted sex, so at the time you believed that you were an equal participant to the men you engaged in it with. Oh, how wrong you were—but as a young, naive girl with domineering men surrounding her career and personal life in every which way, how were you to be blamed? Objectively, you didn't hold a fraction of the blame of course, although it would sadly be years until you would finally let go of the self-deprecating shame you carried beneath your confident exterior.

And there had been something else, something Michael hadn't known about—a memory you hadn't even registered yourself until just less than two weeks ago, when the realisation had triggered you to projectile vomit in your en-suite. Because while Michael had spent the recent weeks in a both happy and nervous anticipation for your first night together, you had been spending those same days alternating between the studio, the stage, and your bedroom, uncovering the repressed event that your brain was now relaying back to you unsolicited.

It had been a memory from January of that year—almost eight months ago now—and the only reason you could remember the month was because you were beginning to recall the date of the Motown dinner you'd attended on the night. Michael had been there too, with all the Jacksons, alongside most of the record label and a few others. But from what was in the beginning such a peaceful, ordinary get-together, you failed to understand how it had produced such a horrific thing as what you'd come to remember. It was all coming back to you in fragments, and you could only surmise that you had been plied with drugged alcohol throughout the evening, to lead into a dark night of defencelessness. Your brain hadn't yet unpacked the build-up, those missing pieces of information terrifying you further, but indeed you had deliberately been made weak, then at some point taken into an obscured backroom and mercilessly raped. You hadn't the slightest idea who by, because there were so many people at that dinner who you didn't know beyond professional conversation—and you guessed that if you were ever to see the man again, the sight would trigger a horrible panic. He had likely been an executive from another company, perhaps living elsewhere. Hopefully. It terrified you that you might run into him again. In your flashback, he was a mere dark shadow.

After thinking it through some more, you'd realised it must have been the cause of that winter morning in which you'd woken up with zero memory of the night before, attributing the mindlessness to 'what must have been a really good night'. But you'd had bruises on your thighs and on your neck, and for those you fitted the reasoning that you must have had a makeout session with somebody, and that you might have banged your thighs into the edges of a chair or some object similar. Or maybe you'd had sex, but it wouldn't have been your first time indulging in drunken intercourse with no memory of it the morning after. So, with those possible conclusions in mind at the time, you hadn't given it any more thought, despite how deep down it did unnerve you whenever your memory would fail you in that way.

When the attack had first returned into your consciousness, you'd been falling asleep, and therefore had initially hoped that perhaps it was just your very vivid imagination playing tricks on you—that you'd had rough, supposedly consensual sex in the past, so while your mind slipped into slumber, wasn't it reasonable to assume it had been merely a disturbing amalgamation of images in the purgatory of the dream state, stemming from sex’s rougher elements? Perhaps the violence hadn't been real?

But in truth, the feeling had been too deeply visceral. Your body knew what had happened to it as soon as the image had entered your brain, and even after your stomach had emptied its contents, you then spent the rest of the night lying wide awake in nausea, completely drained of all melatonin, unable to process anything deeper than your sheer disgust and terror.

By the next morning, you had forced yourself to do what you did best, and that was to perform. Not on stage, not that day at least—instead enacting a performance of personality, of poise and class and grace despite the shame and repulsion that filled your tormented, shattering spirit. You forced yourself to push through, trying to put yourself in the mindset of the girl you'd been twenty-four hours before, the girl who hadn't yet remembered, and who could stay in blissful ignorance. But that girl had been hurt whether she could remember it or not, and she had been raped and coerced even prior to that night in January. The intoxicated, blacked-out night had been the most traumatising, violent form, but rape didn't look the same every time. Its brutality enfolded in various ways; and really, America's golden girl had experienced each of those even before she had turned nineteen.

Despite the memory only having come to the forefront of your mind a mere two weeks ago, so insistent in its vehemence, you were confident tonight in Michael's presence that you had successfully pushed past it, that it no longer affected you because you would move on and smile through life like you always did. That was what the industry had taught you: to keep on going no matter what might happen, because your very existence as a performer depended on the capital you made, not merely for yourself, but for the industry men who controlled you, and who could drop you without remorse if you put a foot out of line. These men were why you could do what you loved in the first place, but the financial and oftentimes sexual control was what came with it. In your youth, you hadn't realised how deeply it had repulsed your inner being, because in your immediate conscious you received each bit of attention gladly, and enjoyed your career as Michael did even in the forceful nature of it, with no idea you were being taken advantage of.

Deeper than that however, all you truly craved and desired was real love and comfort, from somebody whose intention wasn't to use you for your body and your talent. You just hadn't confronted that part of you before Michael had begun to demonstrate to you his love, and even afterward, you still struggled to believe you deserved it.

It was really no wonder you'd repressed so much of your past, because your very nervous system while growing up in the spotlight had encoded the philosophy that one should repress and quieten the things that weren't so pretty. No, tonight you hadn't simply 'gotten over it'—you were just in the phase of forced ignorance. If you could have been completely true to yourself at the time, you would've understood that your anxiety about the night ahead stemmed not only from the unfamiliarity of the sweet lovemaking Michael would give to you, but from the shame and guilt over how you had previously taken the direct antithesis: that you'd been fucked so aggressively in the past, and that you'd allowed such aggression to take place. That was your standpoint, but in truth it had never, ever been your fault.

Michael was littering kisses all over your face again—sweet, playful kisses that the beat of his innocent heart swam with. He was hardly watching the movie, ready to initiate a makeout session, but your eyes were fixed hard on the flickering scene, pupils following Bambi and his friends. Bambi was so innocent... Oh, how you craved to slip into a sweet Disney film and never come back. 

But there was one cherished element: that at least in this reality you had the closest thing to Bambi himself, and the sweetest lover one could ever wish for.

Michael knew you'd had a lot of sex, and he spent a lot of the early days trying to convince you to stop being taken advantage of, yet you never believed in what he said, so you stopped telling him the details. That way he couldn't comment. 

But what concerned you was that now, if he found out that such a disgusting thing had happened to your body, would he have still wanted to make love to you? Would he have thought you less an angel and more a whore, a site of nothing other than the most shameful, immoral act? Surely, in his religious ways, he would dismiss you in a heartbeat. He'd waited so long to lose his virginity to a girl he deemed worthy enough, and you almost felt guilty that he'd chosen you. Some days you experienced gratitude over the fact, and others you ruminated over how downright filthy you were, believing Michael deserved way better.

So, you had to make sure he never found out. If you were going to attempt to rebuild your life with this beautiful boy, to hopefully rid your avoidance entirely and live somewhat happily ever after, you were going to have to force your oppressive mind to start afresh. It could no longer keep dragging you into the past—it must belong to only the present, with no influence from who you had been, and what you'd been through. But of course, psychoanalysis had proven long ago that unfortunately one couldn't simply remove the influence of a memory on the present. You had been too young to know.

"Tink," Michael whispered against your cheek, with another kiss to it. "What y' thinkin' 'bout?"

"’m watchin' the movie, baby." You giggled to conceal how your mind had wandered into a dark place.

"Can we kiss instead?" he asked with a slight pout.

You smiled, heart melting at how Michael would always ask and never take based on mere presumption, even with something as small as a kiss. Suddenly, you felt tears well up in your eyes, before you blinked them back harshly, quicker than he could notice.

"Of course, honey," you grinned, moving to straddle his waist while the movie played on. The sweet, happy sounds of childhood sounded behind you both, and you realised right then just how painful it would feel if anyone other than you had taken Michael's virginity. It needed to be you, whether you felt 'worthy' or not.

Settled on his clothed crotch, he wrapped his arms around your waist while pulling you downward so that your lips could meet his. The makeout started off soft and slow, but it grew quickly into one of pure heat, and the denim of your Daisy Dukes slid up your ass each time you ground your hips over him with deeper fervency. 

You stayed wrapped up in each other like that for over half an hour, and as the time passed on, the pinks and oranges of sunset bleeding through the half-open Venetian blinds, you began to wonder if Michael was stalling. He somehow was barely hard beneath you, and you put that down to anxiety.

Breathlessly you pulled away, lips slightly bruised with his kiss, gloss smudged everywhere. He chuckled as he looked up at you, and you stroked his cheek.

"Mike..."

"Mhm?"

"How ‘bout that bath now, huh?"

Immediately, Michael's cheeks heated up, and his grip on your ass tightened instinctively. He looked away, then looked into your eyes again, with so much shyness you thought he might burst.

When Michael had asked you last week how you thought the first night should be structured (to which you'd laughed at his mechanistic wording), you'd suggested a bubble bath to begin, before then taking the lovemaking itself into the bedroom. This time you wouldn't be so nervous at something so intimate, because the purpose of the bath would be sexual, not purely romantic like the shower had been.

And Michael was a very big fan of that idea, immediately becoming flustered at the mere suggestion of it. He'd even happily offered to bring over the luxury oils he bought for you, but you assured him you had some of your own. You'd cracked up laughing at his offer, knowing that in his innocence he just wanted to make things as perfect as possible, but how typically boyish was he to offer to douse you in oil so excitedly, with so much eagerness? Your shy baby was planning to rub oil all over your bubble-covered curves, and your own heart started to speed up very quickly once you recalled just how perfect he had been at giving you that unexpected breast massage. God, he really had nothing to worry about if he'd gotten that right on first try. It had been the most perfect sensation a man had ever given you in the field of foreplay—or in the field of anything—and his attentiveness had contributed a great deal to achieving that title.

But then, he'd raised a question. "Honey, how am I gonna eat—uh," he cleared his throat, "y'know, how am I gonna… pleasure y'… down there, with my mouth... if the foreplay’s in the bath?"

You'd giggled and poked his cheek. "That can come after. But don't overthink it now, Mikey—on the night I'll show you everythin' that makes me feel good."

In the present day, you were very amused by his sudden fluster at the simple mention of said bath.

"Michael..." you laughed, feeling over his fro. "You chose tonight; and, may I remind you, were also very eager about this when I first suggested it."

"I know, and 'm ready, I just..." He sighed, pressing his thumb into his temple. "’m just nervous, darlin'. I didn't wanna be and y'know, I've had long enough to prepare, but..."

"Hey," you cut him off gently. "Seriously, baby, there's no pressure. I don't expect anythin' of you 'cause I know it's your first time. And you can be as anxious or as confident as you want, because no matter what, I know we're gonna have a good night."

He began to smile, eyes lighting up. There was something about the way you spoke to him that could always reassure him of anything, at least temporarily.

"You hear me? We're gonna have such a good night..." you whispered sultrily through giggles, leaning forward to say the words into his ear.

Michael shivered, smiling wider, and feeling a rush of blood to his nether region. Now he really needed to get on with things, because he had no intention of ejaculating before you'd even touched him. 

"Alright, 'm gonna go run the bath," he chuckled, kissing your shoulder. "I guess you should... y'know... undress... Uh, before we get in."

You scoffed playfully. "Yes, I think that might just be compulsory for a bath, honey."

To that he smiled awkwardly again, and you lightly smacked his cheek, so he clarified. 

"I meant... d'y' want me to undress y', or...?"

You bit your lip with a grin, trying not to laugh at how adorably innocent he was, but again it also caused a weird, sad ache inside your chest. 

"Of course I do, pretty." You took his hand and kissed it. "And I wanna undress you too. 'N then kiss you," you leaned forward into his ear again, "everywhere... real slow..."

Michael clamped his eyes shut momentarily and exhaled a shaky breath. With more teasing laughter you hopped off his lap, allowing him to stand up and make his way to your bathroom.

He spent the next ten minutes preparing the romantic bath he'd been anticipating for a week straight, and he was grateful that you had a countless array of candles available in the room, because candlelit decor was the final component needed in order to elevate the intimacy to its highest degree. The sun had set, therefore the deep fuchsia and apricot sky would soon be descending into the black of night.

Michael stood staring at the bubble bath for at least three minutes after it was ready, trying to control his breathing and getting fixated on the sight of the various bottles of body oil that decorated a shelf beside a corner of the tub. He couldn't wait to douse your entire body in the scent of your choice, to squeeze the product into your breasts while he sucked on that sensitive spot under your jaw…

"Honey!" The sound of your voice broke him out of his daze. "Y'okay in there?" You were confused as to why he hadn’t invited you in when the water was no longer running.

But then, standing at the doorway, leaning on the side of the wood, Michael appeared. He took one final deep breath and outstretched his arms, grinning. "C'mere, princess."

You laughed gleefully, skipping over to him with hearts in your eyes, and then before you could even process it, you were up in his arms again, in the same bridal carry as earlier, pressed flush within his embrace. He nudged the door open wider and stepped over the threshold with you, before setting you down.

"I don't think I needed to be carried from the door to the tub," you pointed out with a grin, wreathing your arm into his and leaning your head on his shoulder. 

"I just like carryin' my girl," Michael smiled. 

You got to work taking off each other's clothes, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses all over the revealed skin—before the final layers were in the process of removal, and at that point Michael was looking away again, as though he hadn't already seen you naked.

"Mikey," you laughed, gripping his jaw so that he'd face you. "Stop lookin' away—and you need to get in first."

"Oh," he huffed a laugh, his entire body burning with nerves and anticipation. "Oh, right, yeah, I'll—mhm."

You couldn't stop smiling as you watched him get in and get comfortable, resting up against the back of the stone resin. His soft dick immersed itself beneath the bubbles, and your heart beat faster at how you knew it would soon poke up hard over the surface of the water, pressing against your back...

But first, before you were to sit between his legs, you needed to demonstrate what he must do. The next few minutes would be a masterclass in female pleasure, taught by a woman who had never even experienced an orgasm outside of her own doing, and who had an inkling that the man before her just might be the first to give her one.

So, you straddled his hips as you'd done before, except now completely naked, bare thighs hitting bare thighs, hands steadying themselves on a gorgeous bare chest. But you weren't in the water for longer than five seconds before Michael had hooked his arms under your legs and pulled you into him sideways, while you giggled in surprise at his confidence.

"Michael! I need to show—"

"Yeah, ma, I know, but I wanna..." His voice trailed off as he began to press the most gentle kisses from your earlobe to your collarbone, holding your body tight to him. "So pretty..." Another kiss. "’m still nervous, honey," he muttered under his breath, as if he didn't want you to hear despite choosing to say the words aloud.

You leaned back and cupped his cheek, moving to straddle him again. "I know, baby," you whispered, smooching his lips, "but you can't keep stallin'."

"Mm." Michael nodded shyly and slowly, pupils dilating further than they already were as he took in your plump breasts before him.

You laughed, cheeks heating up at how reverent his gaze, void of the typical hunger that most men consumed you with.

Gradually and sensually, you brought both hands up to what had Michael so entranced. Shutting your eyes, kneading your palms over the flesh, you began to rock ever-so-subtly back and forth on his thighs, arching your back a little, performing the image of a real-life goddess before him. Michael's jaw was slack, in disbelief at the sight, and he chewed the inside of his cheek as he tried desperately to calm the ache between his thighs. This part was supposed to be slow—he simply couldn't embarrass himself by disrupting the pace with something so boyish.

"Oh, mama... Y'like an angel..."

Without comprehending what he was even doing, he began to grip your hips, hands guiding your movements further, although your speed stayed painfully slow. You wanted to perform for him a little, before getting into the sexual lesson. After all, this was what you knew. Men loved to see you play with yourself, the object of their desires, their living and breathing sex toy—you had essentially existed as the oxymoronic liberated prostitute. Seemingly so free, but in reality deemed to have only one bodily purpose. In the water with your boyfriend, you kept forgetting that he didn't request or expect what those men always had done.

After some moments of solitary foreplay, you opened your eyes again, and started to giggle. Michael had been your best friend long before he'd become your boyfriend and best friend in one, so the fact that you were about to do it with him still made you so nervously shy like a teenager.

"What?" Michael furrowed his brows.

You smacked his cheek lightly, heart racing faster but trying not to let it show. "You look so cute."

He only squinted, looking irritated by your choice of wording. "Cute?"

You rolled your eyes. "Michael Jackson, it's just semantics. I could go on."

"Could y'?" Michael asked anxiously, still squinting. "I don't wanna feel all childish here with y'... if y' sayin' 'm just cute."

"What?" For the second time you gave an eye roll, with a confused laugh. "C'mere."

Cupping his jaw now, you leaned a little downward so that your forehead met his, before giving him the most passionate French kiss you could muster. And then you began to whisper phrases all over his soft skin while he shut his eyes, immediately regretting what he'd asked of you, because he could never behave like a normal person whenever you started praising him.

"So, you're very cute," you began, smirking as your lips brushed his and then endeavoured to brush his every feature, "equal parts sexy... equal parts handsome... and oh so gorgeous..."

Michael was blushing profusely, biting his lip hard. "Minnie, tha's okay, I get the point..."

You chuckled, pulling away and taking his hands in yours. "Michael, you really can't expect to love on me so vocally without letting me do the same to you. And you did just ask me to expand on the list of adjectives."

"Whatever," he sighed, though a small smile betrayed him. "Um, so what do y—?"

You took a deep breath, beaming as you did, and slid your hand below the bubbles, a sight at which Michael almost cursed at. Your sex was invisible to him where the height of the water lay, so you shuffled forward, now hoisted in a straddle over his abdomen, and the moment your glistening pussy came into view—decorated with two manicured nails spreading open the labia—your boyfriend felt like he was going to faint.

"Oh my G—" He shut his eyes tight again, for the millionth time already, and you laughed again softly.

"Aht—can’t say the Lord's name in vain, honey, don't be a hypocrite," you joked, but immediately switched the subject when the boy with the crucifying religious guilt looked up at you with immense anxiety.

"Okay, so—" you moved on, but cut yourself off again because he still looked ridiculously flustered. "Wait, Mikey, seriously—chill."

"I can't, honey, I feel lightheaded."

"Well, maybe you made the bath too hot. I think it's fine, personally, but—"

"No," he exhaled. "It's you, I can't... I can't look at y' without my whole body burnin' up. It's bad enough when y' fully dressed, but now..."

Your own cheeks began to heat, and the air seemed to be full with only the sounds of deep breath after deep breath from each of you.

"You were fine in the shower with me, though?"

"I was forcin' myself to seem fine," he blushed, "but anyway, this is a whole other thing, 'cause y' naked on top of me now. And I can see everythin'..."

"Well, yes, that's kinda the whole point," you chuckled, and that brought a little smile to the cheeks that you then squeezed on impulse.

"Alright, take a deep breath," you advised, performing a slow inhale and an even slower exhale with him, in the comedic tone of a yoga teacher.

But once you'd breathed out together, you both burst into a fit of giggles, with you falling forward onto his chest, splashing the surrounding bubbles into his face.

"Hey!" Michael exclaimed through laughter, already feeling a degree calmer as he splashed you back. This fight went on for about three minutes, hits of jasmine-scented foam flying back and forth, until alas you were both still and catching your breath again, skin decorated in the effervescence.

Now, you finally initiated the evening properly. "Okay, you ready?"

"Mhm," he nodded, but he was mostly still going insane inside.

"Alright, Mr Jackson," you said playfully, "this is your lesson in female pleasure 101."

"’m lookin' forward to it," he smirked boyishly, but his face then assumed the appearance of somebody who just remembered the inner state of their emotions. "As long as I don't... faint first."

You rolled your eyes lightheartedly, then held his chin. "Okay, eyes—down here." You gestured to your soft, already-weeping pussy again, fingers smoothing over the small strip of hair over your pubic mound. "Not at the ceiling, not at the faucets—down here. Yes?"

Michael nodded eagerly, lip between his teeth again as he fixed his gaze where you'd asked him to. Your fingers now slowly ran up and down your folds, stopping momentarily at your entrance to drag slick from there and up your slit.

"So beautiful..." he whispered without even realising, and somehow looking at the thing that made him most nervous actually helped rid the nerves entirely. That was because all he could think about when he stared at your leaking sex was just how desperately he wanted to touch and devour it.

You giggled at his admission of your beauty, now running your fingers up and over your pussy a little more insistently now, but intentionally ignoring your clit—because that was the most important part.

"Alright, so," you started, "I'm not gonna lie, no man has ever brought me to an orgasm before."

Michael flinched at how easily you said such allegedly 'vulgar' words, but then remembered he had to be neutral and normal about all this. More than anything, he was stunned that you'd had so much sex and never achieved release. What had been the point?

"Wait, you've never—?"

"No, I have, but only alone. Um, just when I touch myself."

"Like... like you're doin' now?" His mind was running wild with the image of you nestled privately in your sheets, back arched, fingers dipping in and out of your sex as you writhed...

"Just like 'm doin' now, baby," you grinned, still smearing your slick all over your outer lips. "But 'm not doin' it exactly how I do it alone. And this is the first thing I wanna say. Most men—well, every man I've ever been with—"

Again, he flinched at the mention of the 'other men,' even though he already knew of their existence.

"—has stupidly believed that just mindlessly running his fingers up and down here, is what brings a woman to the euphoric sensation of climax. No, it's more complex than that, because there's one component that changes everything."

"When you… put y' fingers inside?" Michael asked shyly. "And there's somethin' called the... j-spot, or? I can't remember—Jackie was tellin' us all about it..."

You chuckled, the misuse of the term tickling you greatly. "First of all, that's the g-spot, baby," you corrected, free hand playing with his slightly wet afro.

"Oh."

"And that's not what I'm referring to yet. I'm talkin' about just outer fingerin' for now, honey. So, look closely..."

That particular instruction wasn't necessary, for Michael hadn't taken his eyes off the pretty flesh in two whole minutes.

You spread your labia even wider now, and his breath quickened, fingers inching closer along your inner thigh.

"So, you see this right here?" Your thumb brushed lightly over your clit, the focus of the current tutorial, and your breath hitched with his. Michael hadn't even been properly touched yet, beside your legs over his, but every nerve in his body felt alight. He could really feel his member begin to grow now, and he knew that in its size it would soon be pressing up against your lower back. The thought alone made him equal parts anxious and excitable. He hoped you'd be pleased with the sight of his erection.

"This little nub..." you continued. "Feel it..."

His head shot up. "Y' want me to...?"

"I do, honey. Go on. Just take two fingers—your index and your middle... And place 'em just over here... over my clit..."

"Oh, y'know, Jackie mentioned that too—"

"Michael," you laughed, finding it incredulous that he was bringing up the expertise of his brother during such intimacy.

You took his wrist, and slowly brought it down to where you needed him most. Even slower were the moments he took to finally settle the two fingers over your pearl, and he almost choked on nothing when, with hardly more than a slight rub, you let out a soft moan, steadying yourself on his weight. God, this was going to be a real good night...

"Right there?" he whispered, to which you nodded. "And what do I—? How do I make y' feel amazin', mama, tell me..."

"Okay," you breathed out shakily in anticipation, "you're gonna wanna keep pressin' down, but not too hard—ah, Mike, slower—" He had been quietly experimenting, and had provided a beautiful mode of pleasure that was just a little too harsh and overstimulating to begin with. "Just with a light pressure... so pressin' firm but not hard..."

"Like this?" He decreased the strength of the two fingers, moving them up and down, still unsure of what to do.

"Mhm... Alright, so, what I was also gonna say is—mm—"

"Tink, I thought y' said this part didn't really make y' feel nothin'? When the fingers just go up 'n down..."

"Nngh—no, that's what I'm 'bout to say... I think it matters whose fingers—oh—they are, 'cause when I do it it feels real good, but with men it never—"

Now Michael had confidently swept up some of the sticky substance that sat lower, and was rubbing it up and down your folds, while he waited to be told the specifics of your clit.

"Oh, Mike—how are you doin’ th—?"

"Is this right?" he asked, those pretty doe eyes meeting yours for a moment while he continued to smear your slick everywhere. "Y' really makin' a mess down here, mama..."

You smirked, but now you were rocking over his thighs, the water swimming around you and making light splashing noises. "That's what's gonna help me to take you later."

Michael's brows furrowed, and then he understood. "Oh, like a lubricant? Shit!" He shook his head in frustration, rubbing his eyes. "Sorry, um, shouldn't have cursed—Uh, no, I forgot to bring the lube..."

He was continuing to play with you as he spoke, and you marvelled at how quickly he was getting the hang of things despite having never touched a woman's genitalia before a few minutes ago.

"’s okay, honey," you said through another shaky breath. "I'll be o—okay."

In all honesty, you weren't sure if you would be after the glimpses of his soft dick you'd seen in the shower two weeks ago, and it was at the exact moment the thought appeared into your mind that you suddenly felt the hard weight of something up against your ass.

You gasped—louder than just as a result of his fingers—but you still hadn't shown him what magic he needed to direct to your clit. So, you tried to ignore the very insistent thing behind you. It was evident on Michael's face that he was struggling to contain himself already, but all you could think about was how, if he was this good with no idea what he was doing (and touching mostly your inner labia) imagine how incredible he'd be in just a few moments, once he'd been instructed of the workings of a woman's clitoris?

It was a known fact that Michael Jackson could learn dance moves in an instant when the move was presented before him—no additional practice necessary—so it logically followed that the same might apply with bedroom activity.

"So, um, with the—mm—with the clit... Go back up to it, baby, and stay still—just pause a minute while I tell you how I like it..."

Michael paused, ever so attentive, and even just the feeling of his unmoving fingers on your nub made you want to start rocking on him again.

"So over here, I need you to rub slow circles. You could go up 'n down—it wouldn't be wrong—but it feels best when you take the pads of your fingers 'n rub round 'n round in small circles... Watch me first."

You gently removed his hand and replaced it with your own, dragging up more gooey slick and playing with yourself the way you'd described. Your head was thrown back slightly, back arching subtly and hips moving over his abdomen that you were leaking translucence all over—all while you rubbed and rubbed at your aching clit, wrist flicking with each movement.

Michael watched on in awe, taking in each of your whines and moans, so excited now to be the reason they elicited from your eager throat.

"So sexy, mama..." His voice went a little deeper now, and at the praise your clit throbbed further. Reluctantly you paused, reminding yourself that you had to in order for your man to continue the pleasure and show you his yet to be uncovered talent.

"Okay, your turn, handsome," you smiled, whole body entirely alight now, and you really had never felt so embarrassingly horny.

You kissed his nose to initiate movement, and the two of you truly unlocked heaven right there.

Michael had his lip bitten tight between his teeth as he stared down at your pretty pearl, so determined to get this right. No man had ever made you cum this way. How dare they be so careless?

With the slowest, most direct precision, he began to rub the tight bundle of nerves just as you'd demonstrated, brows always furrowed in his ensuring that he was doing it correctly. The way your body responded told him everything—your hips stuttered, lower body grinding over his abs, hands immediately steadying themselves on his chest as whines spilled from your mouth.

"Oh, Mikey—"

"Yeah, is this okay, beautiful?" he whispered in that gorgeous voice of his, and your brain almost short-circuited.

"Yes, yes—oh, so good... Keep talkin' to me, baby, talk me through it, c'mon..."

"Y'—y'want me to say stuff?" he stammered, fingers still rubbing so effortlessly perfect, and as you rocked harder you nodded eagerly.

"Like, talk dirty?" he said almost under his breath, in disbelief of the situation he'd found himself in, even though it should have happened a long time ago.

"Mhm, try it, honey..."

"Uh, okay..." He squinted, trying to think, but you shook your head.

"No, let it come naturally. 'm sure there's some stuff you wanna say to me, baby... Tell me what you think about when you play with yourself."

"How do y' know I—?"

"Michael," you giggled through another moan. "Was I supposed to believe you were sat politely with your legs crossed while you looked at those Playboy bunnies?"

"Um, well I did sit like that sometimes..."

"Sometimes." You sighed in amusement, but again he had your eyes rolling back with more firm, circling pressure.

"Uh, most of the time, when... when 'm playin' with my—y'know—uh, it's not when 'm lookin' at the magazines... It's usually when 'm thinkin' of you."

You almost drew blood from your bottom lip at that comment. Grinding down harder instinctively, you squeezed his bicep to tell him to keep going. The entire time, he managed to both talk and keep up his movements perfectly.

"I look at pictures of y'... ones I keep in the box underneath my bed... and there's this, um, this particular one... Y' wearin' a bikini... sittin' on my lap by the pool at—at home..."

"Mhm, and how does the picture make you feel, baby?"

"Uh," he gulped, never taking his eyes off your gleaming sex. "Real good..."

"Tell me how you play with yourself..."

"Minnie."

"Hm?" You didn't bat an eyelid, losing yourself in the pleasure.

"It's too dirty."

"No, it's not, Mikey," you chuckled, fingernails digging into his arms now to make crescent moon shapes. "I showed you how I touch myself, 'n now I wanna know what you do when you're all alone..."

"Okay..." Michael breathed, eyes flicking now between your pussy and the beautifully erotic expressions on your face. He wondered if this was all a dream—but the reality was that you'd been his for months now.

"Um. So, I squeeze, um, my..."

"Your dick," you happily finished the sentence for him, eager at the mention of what you could still feel pressing harshly against you.

He flinched, but continued. "Yeah..."

Then you leaned over to whisper in his ear, still grinding your hips. "Your big dick, yeah, baby?"

Michael was nearly rendered speechless. "Oh—uh, I guess it's..."

"Well, I haven't seen it hard yet, but d'you know I've been feelin' it against me for the last five minutes?"

"Wh—? Oh, yeah, 'm sorry, darlin'... Y' jus' too beautiful..."

"Hey, don't apologise, pretty baby," you whispered against his cheek, moving slower and sensual now. His fingers had paused their movements, and you frowned, so he continued.

"Mikey, keep talkin', sweetheart, we're gettin' somewhere..."

"Mm," he hummed, gripping your ass with one hand to guide you, trying desperately to be more confident. "So, 'm pumpin' myself up an' down, lookin' at the pictures... Pictures of my beautiful girl—I don't need no Playboy models..."

Suddenly your heart ached a little. This was the way Michael would talk dirty—and really, 'dirty' wasn't the correct word to describe it. Each word turned you on just as much as it made you want to cry with profound emotion.

"And what do you wanna do to me when you're tuggin' on your dick, honey?"

"Well..." he began, unsure how much of his imagination to reveal. "First I think about—oh, this is so bad, Minnie—"

"No, go on, tell me..."

"Um, I think about y' mouth..." he murmured. You were feeling giddy now, for he was finally getting more comfortable, and there was nothing sexier and more adrenaline-inducing than your shy, sexually inexperienced boyfriend telling you about the filthy images he'd conducted in his mind.

"Ugh, it's real dirty, darlin', but when my hand goes... up 'n down... 'specially when I put my thumb right over the top of my, um, my dick... I pretend it's your tongue... Lickin' and suckin' me..."

"Yeah?" you beamed, moaning deliberately louder in his ear.

"Mhm," he uttered quickly, "but—that's nasty, mama. A lady shouldn't... her mouth shouldn't be, um," his voice lowered to a tiny whisper, "down there."

"No? Shouldn't she?" you teased sultrily, cupping his jaw again and rubbing over his smooth complexion.

"Definitely not, darlin'," he insisted, eyes still darting from your face to your pussy while his fingers continued to work their magic.

"I think many women wouldn't agree, baby... Sure, we like receivin', but that doesn't mean we don't like givin' too..."

He audibly groaned. "Oh, Tink—don't say stuff like that..."

You chuckled with a tone of sheer tease. Michael's voice was shaky now, and you felt he could be close to orgasm, so you removed his hand and repositioned yourself. At first he was a little confused, but when you gestured him to widen his legs a little more (to the width of the tub), he understood.

But your mouth shot open in surprise, eyes widening with it, when you saw the sheer size of what laid between your man’s legs. He was quite literally enormous. Now fully hard, standing up proudly above the surface of the water, you saw the beginnings of the thick veins running up and down the girthy, dark brown skin, and couldn't help but instantly notice white precum leaking from the mauve tip. Most of his length was obscured by the bubbly sea of water, but the fact that it poked up so high had you stunned.

"Oh my... Baby, are you for real?"

"What?" he asked anxiously, shuffling in his seat as you sat kneeled before him, staring at his major asset.

"This has gotta be like nine fuckin' inches, what?"

"Tink, don't curse," he said firmly, rolling his eyes.

"And it's so..." You gulped in your shock. "So thick..."

Michael suddenly looked panicked, and tried to cover himself with an amalgamation of bubbles, but he wasn't so successful, because they kept swimming away. He felt as though he was an animal in a zoo, on display for all to see and comment on—but you hadn't intended to make him feel like that.

"Honey, I've been real scared that this was gonna be a problem... I don't know how big most guys are, 'n... well, there was no way I could ask my brothers..." He grimaced at the mention of them.

You chuckled. "Yeah, let's not talk about them right now. And don't worry..." You placed a hand on his warm thigh, craving desperately to hold what rested right beside it, but pacing yourself for now. "’m gonna be fine, Michael. You're not gonna hurt me. I just... well, I was taken aback, that's all."

Michael still didn't look too pleased. "I want tonight to be perfect."

"I know you do, baby." Now you positioned yourself between his legs, back against his bubble-clad chest. Comfortably settled, much of your torso submerged itself into the water, and you sighed in content, shutting your eyes happily. "It is going to be perfect."

Michael wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed the side of your neck, before talking lowly into your ear. "But what if I really hurt y', baby? You've obviously never taken anyone as big as me before..."

You started to giggle, despite Michael's genuine anxiety, because the way he worded that line was very amusing. "Oh, look who has an ego 'n we've not even started!"

"Angel, 'm serious," he pressed on, holding your waist tighter, and you clenched your thighs together at the feeling of his hands.

You turned your head a little to press kisses into his neck. "And I'm serious when I say that everything's gonna be fine. The only thing that might ruin it is your anxiety, honey." You picked up his hand and smooched his palm several times, but you smelled your cum on his fingers and blushed to yourself.

"Okay, I'll shut up now," Michael chuckled shyly. "I hope you're right."

You smacked his bicep playfully, cuddling deeper into his chest and stretching your legs out. "Positive attitude, please. You seem to have one with everything else."

"True," he whispered, shaking his head of the worry.

You shuddered even in the scalding heat as you felt his thick member pressing up and twitching against your skin, and to that your voice dropped an octave, resuming the moment.

"Make me feel good, baby... I want you to make me cum..."

"I'll do whatever y' body needs, mama..."

Michael's whole body ached with desire, and as before, his anxiety didn't take too long to dissipate. Fondling your waist, your hips, and then your thighs, one hand crept to where it had previously been, and below the bubbles he resumed the earlier pace, rubbing in sweet circles.

"Mmph—oh, baby..." Instinctively, your hand reached back to his jaw, then up further to his afro, playing with the wet coils at the ends. "Keep rubbin' just like that..."

It was at this moment that Michael decided he would set aside all hesitation and display his entire devotion, unrestricted.

"Yeah, y'like that, pretty mama?" he whispered into your ear, warm breath and his beautiful tone coursing through your veins.

You were stunned that such confident words could be born of your Michael, and he only kept on going.

"Yeah, tell me, baby, I wanna know..." His fingers slid down your folds again, before dragging back upward, and then—to your pleasant surprise—he used his palm to direct three sudden smacks to your clit. Gentle of course, but he'd wanted to experiment with the movement because he expected that it would arouse you to jerk and shake in his arms. And that you did.

"Oh! Mikey—you're doin' perfect, baby, you're so—mmphhh—"

"Thank you, honey," he whispered, tilting your chin up so that your head could turn slightly and your lips could meet his. Immediately, he engaged you both in a hot makeout, as steamy as the bath itself. Your tongues wrestled, lips smacking into each other's over and over, throats swallowing moan after moan; and just as the kiss began, Michael slipped the first of his slender digits into your entrance.

"Mm, honey—" you whined against his lips, but he silenced you with more lewd kisses, the pleasure of which met with the thrust of his middle finger against your inner walls. He kept slightly hitting your g-spot (where it wasn't difficult given how long those gorgeous fingers were) but then on the next thrust he'd inch a little distant from it, and repeat; so after a minute or two you gently broke from the kiss.

"Baby," you gasped for breath. "Lemme show you somethin'."

"Hm?" His doe eyes widened in intrigue, but also in the worry that he was doing something wrong.

He removed his finger from your sopping entrance, and you smiled, before taking hold of his wrist and bringing the digit up to your lips. You sucked down the length of it, drinking it clean, and Michael's mouth dropped open.

"Minnie, tha's nasty..." were the words that came from his lips, but his cock—leaking still against your back—twitched at the sight.

You giggled in your mischief, and then, bringing his hand back down under the water, went on to teach him another lesson in female pleasure. "Okay, so you reached my spot perfectly," you began.

Michael grinned, very pleased that he'd gotten something right on first try, without even needing your instruction.

"But—"

He started to frown.

"—There's a specific way of doin' it. People often describe the movement of the fingers as a sort of 'come hither' motion. See?" You demonstrated what you meant with your fingers, and instantly he nodded.

"You have to do it that way so that when you thrust in, it's hittin' my spot each time, not just half the time," you explained. "Yeah?"

"Mhm, I get it."

"Okay, try again, honey. But I can't keep kissin' ya 'cause my neck is gonna break in this position," you laughed, sadly having to refuse any continuation of the makeout session.

Michael frowned again, but understood, and he was much too pleased already with your soft body in his hold, feeling your tight walls clench around him as you sighed; and he could still kiss your neck even if he didn't have access to your lips...

To your surprise, he now slipped in two fingers at once, stretching you out perfectly. You were incredibly wet, so it was no trouble, and as soon as you felt the sweet intrusion, sure enough the digits were up at your g-spot, curling exactly as you'd taught.

"Like this, ma?" Michael whispered, pressing wet kisses along your neck and up to your jaw.

"Yes, Mikey—just like that, oh baby, hittin' my spot so good..."

Michael was beyond ecstatic. "Yeah?!"

"Yes, honey, it's perfect, oh—"

"You're so pretty, angel girl..." he murmured against your skin. "Love hearin' y' moan for me. Don't hold nothin' back, oh baby, I wanna hear ya..."

Your moans naturally did increase in volume, loud whines hitting the air while you writhed in the tub, lower back rubbing against Michael's hard cock each time you moved, only adding to the white-hot pleasure coursing up your spine.

Now you began to tug at your breasts, kneading them the way you liked—the way Michael had so miraculously been able to knead on first try. You rolled your nipple between your fingers, eyes rolling into the back of your head as your boyfriend never let up the pace and careful direction of his fingers. He was speeding up now, knuckle deep, and the squelching noises were mixed with the continuous ripple of water sounding with each movement. You were feeling a sensation that before tonight only you had been able to give yourself.

"Pretty baby, let me," Michael urged, removing one of your hands off of one of your breasts and replacing it with his own. You sounded like a pornstar now, unable to speak coherently as Michael somehow managed to talk, thrust his digits, and massage your breast at once. It seemed he really was perfect at absolutely everything.

"Mm, they're so full, mama... Love feelin' em... Is this good too, huh?" He kissed your temple so gently, so contradictory to the supposed 'dirtiness' of the scene by Michael's estimation, and your heart felt that strange ache again.

"So good, baby... so, so good... oh, I'm close, Michael—"

"Yeah, y'are?" His voice lit up with hope and happiness, eyes widening as he anticipated an event he never comprehended would be his reality.

"Mhm—rub my—oh, mmphh—now rub my clit with your thumb while you keep thrustin', honey..."

Michael internally cursed himself for not thinking of that without your advice, and then, insanely he was doing four things at once. The previous list, now including clitoral stimulation too.

"Oh, baby!" you whined.

Michael strangely felt just as emotional as he felt aroused. He'd waited so long to hear these sounds spill from your lips, and he had been every bit satisfied. The fact that so many disgusting men before him had experienced the very same made his blood boil with both jealousy and a bitter sadness.

But in truth, they hadn't experienced the 'very same.' As you'd told Michael, no man had ever made you cum, therefore no man had ever heard your real, unfiltered, natural moans, nor felt the way your body now shook and trembled in Michael's grasp as you approached climax.

And another necessary thing to mention, was that you were also secretly experiencing that same fusion of arousal and emotion, close to literal tears even—and not just from the sexual pleasure.

No, you were close to tears because of the man providing you that pleasure. Michael loved you so much—you could tell, and of course you hadn't needed tonight to understand the extent of his love, but what struck you forcefully was how entirely different each touch and each whisper was to all the other men. You didn't even like that the comparison was appearing in your mind, because you wished that in this timeline it had only ever been Michael—only ever your sweet angel boy, who loved you more than anything, and would do anything to keep you safe...

"Baby girl, hold my hand," he murmured so softly.

Still squirming and moaning, you took his free hand, and even though the force of his fingers was relentless now, speeding faster and faster, he interlaced your digits with the most gentle nature.

"That's it, honey, cum for me..."

He was testing the waters with each phrase that left his lips, and because it was all coming so naturally in his adoration and aching arousal, he was doing perfectly.

"Oh, Mikey, I'm gonna—"

"Yeah, I gotchu..." he whispered, pressing feather-light kisses over your neck.

"Ugh, baby! Ohhh—"

Finally, you squeezed your boyfriend's hand tight as the coil in your lower abdomen broke, the pleasure building to its peak, before crashing down while you trembled against his chest. You shuddered and shook with the force of it, and certainly it was the very best release you’d ever had.

Except, something strange had happened instead. Rather than experiencing a normal orgasm as you usually did, you saw before you spurts of thin, translucent liquid—similar to... pee?—shoot up from beneath the water. Too fucked out to speak, your head lolled back onto Michael's shoulder in exhaustion, trying to catch your breath against the strength of your orgasm, but you were beyond confused at what had just happened.

Michael, not understanding a thing about the female body before tonight, had no idea that anything was unusual. He thought he'd just made a woman cum as many men did; but much more than that, he'd actually produced something of a woman that only a very small percentage of those men ever could.

"Wow, mama, that was amazin'..." he gasped in shock, taking his fingers out of you and discreetly wiping them on the bottom of the tub. Never before had he seen such a beautiful sight as his sweet girl getting an even sweeter release.

"You were amazin', Mikey," you said through erratic breaths, playing with his fingers. "But I don't know what just happened..."

"What do y' mean, Tink?" he asked in confusion, kissing each one of your fingers absentmindedly. He blinked hard at how painful his cock was now, shuffling again to relieve the ache, but only orgasm would do it. And it didn't help that you kept unintentionally moving around against him—he really thought he might cum in a moment.

"The... the liquid—that's not... normal..." you tried to explain.

"Huh?"

"No, that's..."

And then suddenly you understood. "Oh my God. This is what Whitney was tellin' me about a couple months ago... I just squirted?!"

Michael was even more confused, but in all honesty he couldn't think about much outside of his twitching, leaking dick that was really about to embarrass itself if he wasn't careful. "Uh, Minnie... I—"

"No, Michael, listen." You turned your head to look up at him. "I just squirted. Most men don't even know how to make a woman cum, let alone squirt."

Now, he was intrigued. Still shuffling and biting his lip out of frustration, his eyes had widened. "For real?!"

"For real," you beamed, kissing his cheek. You were still consciously aware of the weight of his member behind you, and you did wonder how he was holding on so long. You'd have preferred to linger on the incredible moment for longer with him, but it took one close look at his expression to see that he was struggling.

"Michael, y' holdin' on really well for a first timer..." you giggled, writhing your hips back on him deliberately now.

"Yeah, well, it's not easy, girl... Please—um..."

"Please, what, baby?" You batted your lashes.

"Uh... I can't—No, I shouldn't ask..."

"Oh, but your girl thinks you should."

"No, Tink, I don't think it's worth it anyw—I'm gon—ohhhh—"

Your eyes shot wide open in complete and utter astonishment as Michael's face contorted into the most gorgeous expression of sheer pleasure. His eyes were clamped shut, face scrunched together, harsh while soft moans eliciting from his throat... And in equal timing, you felt several hot spurts of liquid hit your lower back.

Michael had climaxed unwarranted; prematurely but in truth he should've been proud for getting through the evening so far without succumbing to orgasm earlier—although of course he was incredibly embarrassed about it. His cheeks were burning now, eyes so anxious. How could he have been so dirty? He was only supposed to cum in a condom, or in his hand or on his own stomach to wipe it off immediately after. Never on a beautiful lady's skin. He felt he had tainted you.

"Oh, mama, oh no, 'm so sorry—lemme, uh—lemme get the soap," he stuttered, reaching forward to pick up the bar. "Oh no..."

But you only giggled—mouth still open in shock of course, but you were only both amused and aroused. You shifted slightly to cuddle into his chest, then looked up at him.

"Mikey. Calm down."

"Huh? Um, honey, y'need to move so I can wash, um... wash it off." He was feeling lightheaded again, so overcome with embarrassment and shame that he almost didn't want to continue.

"Shut up, silly," you scolded playfully, with a light smack to one pectoral muscle. "Are you gonna actually ask me how I feel about what just happened? Rather than make assumptions and give yourself a panic attack?"

"No, darlin', that was so dirty," he squinted, scrunching up his eyes in disgust, as if willing the memory to exit existence. "Just lean forward so I can wash y'. 'm so sorry..."

"Michael."

"What?!"

"Let me speak," you said firmly.

His voice quietened, but his whole body was still tense. "Okay."

Now you grinned wide, peppering light kisses all over his neck and collarbone. "I liked it," you murmured against the skin.

"Huh?" Michael's brows furrowed instantly, in complete confusion.

"It was sexy, honey," you murmured again, licking over an erogenous zone before biting down with suction to create a hickey.

Michael got a little lost in the feeling, leading him to moan softly, and you smiled over the soon-to-be-bruise. You were so good with your mouth that it had distracted him from your words, even though that wasn't your intention.

But then he came back to earth, and his head shot back in surprise. All of a sudden you actually grew a little self-conscious yourself, concerned that Michael, in his reserved nature and religious guilt, might have a problem with what you’d found sexy.

Truthfully, that was to an extent how your boyfriend was feeling. You couldn't blame him or yourself, for he was incredibly new to all this, and the fantasies he'd naturally been dreaming of always carried immense shame if they crossed into the territory of anything he deemed 'too dirty'. So, while you were by no means kinky, to Michael most sexual things appeared that way. If the specific act didn't involve a reverent display of love to your body, he wasn't interested. You decided that at this early stage in your relationship it was pretty futile to convince him that not everything needed to be delicate, because you felt that he'd understand in time, the more comfortable he became with sex.

"Michael," you whispered, looking up into his eyes and playing with his wet frizz. "It's okay if... you're not into stuff like that. Y'know, doing that on my—"

Michael cleared his throat awkwardly. "Can we jus' move on, baby? I don't know how it can be sexy that I came on y', um... uncontrollably."

Oh, he had no idea.

You bit your lip. "But don't you wanna know why I found it sexy? I think it would make sense to you if I explained."

He raised a brow, but allowed you to continue.

"I feel that way..." a kiss to his lips, "because you coming apart so unrestrained for me, shows me exactly how I make you feel. And I love that a lot. You might think it's embarrassing, but honey, I'm just surprised you lasted this long, seriously."

A small smile etched itself across Michael's lips.

"You get it a little more now?"

"Mhm," he muttered, and there was a pretty twinkle in his eye. "A little."

You giggled and brought him into a deep kiss; then when it ended, you had to remind him of something.

"Mikey..." you pouted. "Aren't ya gonna use any of my oils on me?"

Michael's mouth widened, surprised that he'd somehow forgotten. It had slipped his mind during your enticing tutorial of female pleasure.

"Oh—uh, the oil..."

"Mhm," you nodded. "I like my body to be nice 'n moisturised, baby," you sighed, bringing your hands up to your breasts again, where your nipples were still erect. You rubbed your palm over one of them, moaning as you began to rock yourself back on your sweetheart again.

As intended, you quickly began to feel his milked cock re-stiffen against you, and the feeling made you grind down harder, kneading your breasts with an ever-increasing ferocity. Michael wrapped his arms around your waist slowly, so enthralled by you that he almost forgot your request, and what he so badly wanted to do too.

"Pick up the vanilla and almond oil for me, handsome..." you whined, still kneading your soapy breasts, head thrown back against him.

Michael nodded eagerly, reaching forward to select the correct bottle. He screwed off the lid faster than he'd done anything all evening, and you chuckled through another whine at his enthusiasm.

Before you could register it all he was squeezing the liquid out into his palm, and then both of his hands were slick with the oil. You took a deep, excited breath as you rested further back into his chest, and a moment later you felt both hands steadily, leisurely make their way down from a short massage of your shoulders, to the plump shape of your breasts.

As soon as he made contact with them, you both shuddered with a shaky exhale. Night had fallen now, and the candles lit you both up in a golden shine, highlighting the erotic look on your face and the attentive, mesmerised look on Michael's. His mouth was half-open, studying your every response to each touch, and he realised he was actually fairly confident at this part, because he'd received such a positive response last time.

"Oh, that feels so good, baby..." you gasped softly, reaching down to rub your clit, because Michael could no longer do it for you with two hands full.

"Yeah, mama?" he whispered directly into your ear, and that warm cadence shot a hit of pleasure right to your throbbing bud.

Taking his eyes off your breasts for a moment finally—while still massaging with perfection—he noticed your hand moving beneath an expanse of bubbles, and audibly moaned at the realisation that you were rubbing yourself.

"Oh, Minnie—does it turn you on when I touch y' like this?"

"Mhm," you murmured, eyes clamping shut in disbelief at how magical his hands were. "Love how you touch me, oh Michael..."

This moment was the perfect example of something that simply couldn't be done at the Hayvenhurst household. Had you been moaning your boyfriend's name like that in his own ensuite, there would have been close-by mock-echoes of the sounds by at least two other Jacksons. You were both so grateful now that you were completely alone together, cut off from the outside world in what rare chance you got; and really it was as though nothing else existed but your passion in that bathtub, under the twinkling moonlight.

Every minute or so he gathered more oil, relishing in the scent and the sight; spreading it up and down your arms, your neck, your stomach down to your navel, back up to your breasts, and then...

"I wanna rub y' clit too, ma," he whispered. "Let me..."

Already growing again in confidence, he swiftly removed your hand by a hold on your wrist, and replaced it with his own that had run down from your breast and your torso to your swollen pussy.

"Oh, Mike—"

With the precision of an expert, Michael began to massage circles over your bundle of nerves, while kissing your neck and murmuring sweet nothings that vibrated against your skin, and still he somehow managed to keep running his oiled hand over your upper body.

"Honey, y' so pretty for me... Wanna make you feel so, so good inside..."

"You're already makin' me feel perfect, Mikey, mmphh, keep rubbin' it just like that..."

"Yeah, jus' like that? Want y' to cum for me again, baby, y' looked so beautiful the first time... So wonderful, I wanna get y' there over 'n over..."

Now, you shuffled a little so that you could reach behind and return the favour. You'd been in this bath together for so long already and somehow your hand hadn't even brushed his cock yet. You'd been saving that for the bedroom, but your brain had just reminded you of how fucking gorgeous and well-endowed he was down there...

Squeezing his shaft and running your thumb over the head, your hand had dipped beneath the water so discreetly that it rendered the action a complete shock to Michael.

"Ah—Tink!" he whined, stopping his movements and almost taking his hands off of you in surprise. His thighs and his dick twitched in tandem, and you giggled, tapping the hand of his that had paused over your aching clit to get him to continue.

"What, baby?" you asked with faux-innocence, stroking up and down his fully hard member, gladly feeling over every thick vein and ridge. "Couldn't wait til the bedroom to play with your pretty dick, 'm sorry..."

"Nngh—tha's so good, baby... Just how I—oh—no, better than I ever imagined... Mm..."

"Yeah, baby boy?" you teased, pumping slowly, and your own body twitched in pleasure when Michael slipped his middle finger inside you again, curling it up to meet your sweet spot instantly.

"Oh, honey—" you moaned loudly, free hand holding his thin wrist tight.

"Girl, I love how warm y' are in here..." he whispered, sliding in his ring finger now too. Every single time the digits thrust in they'd hit your spot with ease, and you were writhing and gasping like a whore against his body, hand faltering over his slick cock.

"Honey, I just wanna... mm—wanna feel this sweet pussy all night... Forever, baby, I need to feel y' like this forever..." Michael was already committing eternal loyalty to your sex and he hadn't even felt what it was like to be inside of you yet.

"Oh, Mike, we need to get out of this tub, baby..."

"Why?" Michael frowned against your shoulder, squeezing more oil onto your chest, before going in again with an eager hand; gripping, grabbing, squeezing, kneading your sensitive tissue, all while his two astonishingly long fingers curled up inside your tight walls, over and over again.

"’Cause—oh, mmphhh, Michael..."

Every time you moaned his name like that he felt he had ascended to heaven. How was he this lucky? So much else in his life was troubling, but to be able to have the most beautiful lady on planet Earth wrapped up in his hold, squirming and whining for his touch... He had been awarded such a blessing.

"Wait, honey, I wanna..." He cleared his throat, slowing the pace of his fingers before pulling them out. "I wanna taste y'," he whispered against your cheek, where he pressed a kiss.

"Yes, that's what I was gettin' at," you laughed, ceasing your movements over his dick. "I was tryna say we need to get out of the tub 'cause I won't let us have sex before I've had your head between my thighs."

Michael's cheeks heated up for the millionth time that night, and his entire body was consumed with a giddy excitement. "Okay," he grinned.

You turned your head, giggling into his neck, and then in an instant you were up in his arms for the third time, swept up off the stone resin, arms instinctively wrapping around his neck while he held you protectively.

"Mikey!" you squealed, the water splashing around at your sudden exit. His dick poked up hard against your ass, and God, you needed him so badly…

"C'mon, mama," he laughed warmly, leaning down ridiculously to blow out the candles, then kissing your nose as he stepped out over the edge of the tub, taking you with him. He quickly brushed his feet against the plush rug, then began to skip in the direction of the door, without a thought other than how much he desperately wanted to taste his girl for the first time, and then make sweet, sweet love to her and let the night chase all his fears away...

But he was made to stop before he could reach the doorknob.

"Boy, are you crazy?! We need to dry off first! 'm not gonna let you drip water all over my bedroom!"

Michael sighed, chuckling to himself. "Oh, right, yeah, I got a lil carried away. Let's..."

And so he carried you back over to beside the tub, where fresh cotton towels were lined up. He set you down gently, before taking a body-length towel and running it over you, drying each droplet of bathwater and every glisten of oil.

Your heart raced as you watched him. Of course you were already so horny, but this was a different feeling—a stronger version of what had been underlying everything else all evening. He was so tender with the way he rubbed the towel over your skin, so slow and careful even though he had no reason to be, and even despite how his nine-inch dick was pressing up proud against his navel.

You stroked his afro when he leaned down to dry your legs, and then after he'd dried himself, you kissed him so softly.

"Baby, 'm so excited," you whispered, holding his jaw. Michael tentatively held your ass, and then decided to hold it firmer in the remembrance that you were his girl and you wanted his firm touch.

A huge smile spread on his face at your expression of excitement; and really, the two of you were as enthusiastic as two children exploring a candy store.

"Let's go, Minnie Mouse," he whispered, outstretching his arms so that you'd jump up into them. You grinned, letting him hoist you up so that your arms and legs were wrapped tight around him—that insistent weight between his thighs still so prominent against you—and then he was off, skipping again to the door and out of it into the dark room ahead, while you squealed and you each giggled.

He let you fall gently onto the silk sheets, and immediately you found yourself wrestled in a tickle fight, Michael's hands lightheartedly exploring your torso, so effortlessly able to switch from sensual to playful from one moment to the next.

"Baby, stop it!" You laughed until your chest and your cheeks hurt, after having rolled over each other's bodies to win the silly fight. Neither of you won in the end, because you both stopped in the interest of desire.

"Tink, wait," he said breathlessly through more laughter, lying beside you now, trying to return his breathing to normal.

You both laid in silence for a couple of minutes, content smiles on both your faces in the excitement. Momentarily, it hit you again how intimate this was about to be, after the oral sex (which in fact would likely be just as intimate given the way Michael had been with everything else so far), and so of course that same underlying worry and strange discomfort regarding the unfamiliarity hit you again.

But you brushed it off. You physically shook yourself of the thought, then turned to your beau and slowly interlaced your fingers with his.

Michael smiled softly, heart beating faster when he felt your fingers initiate handholding with his much larger ones. It confused you how he could take things so slowly despite his erection, how he could be so erect but willingly spend time tickling you and then choosing to lay side-by-side in an embrace of only hands. Every other man had always jumped on you as soon as they got the chance, with no room for romantic pause.

"Tonight's been so beautiful already, honey," he whispered into the dark.

"It has," you nodded with a smile, playing with his pinkie.

Some more silence, and you watched as Michael looked to the ceiling, with the most adorable smile plastered on his face. Your heart melted, even though you were still left confused about why everything had suddenly paused, past the necessary point of catching your breath.

From Michael's perspective, yes, his dick was currently throbbing like crazy, but his love for you was so passionately deep that he really had no urgency to speed past the quiet romance of it all.

"I can't believe you want me like this, Minnie," he spoke again, but despite the sad statement, he continued to smile in both gratitude and happy disbelief.

You frowned however, and squeezed his hand. "Why wouldn't I, baby?"

"Well, 'cause there's so many others y' could have chosen to be with. I'm so inexperienced 'n shy, 'n... uh, 'm not the best lookin', either."

"Oh, shh. Don’t talk that way around me, I’ve told you so many times," you scowled playfully, leaning on your elbow to face him. You pinched his cheek, before speaking sultrily again.

"Don't you want your dick sucked, honey baby?"

Michael's breath caught in his throat, and his head snapped in your direction. "What does that have to do with what I just said?"

"It has to do with the fact that you've been hard for like ten minutes, 'n you obviously need a release." You began to stroke his thigh, inching closer and closer to his throbbing member.

His eyes widened, and he stuttered in his response. "Um. Honey, I don't... I don't think y' should do that."

"Why not, Michael?" you pouted, climbing on top of his body to plant kisses onto his torso and grind your leaking pussy over his leaking dick.

"Oh—" Michael whined. "Um, well, 'cause like I told y' before, baby, it's way too dirty. A lady's mouth shouldn't be down there. It would be real bad... I mean, 'm already committin' sin by makin' love to y' in the first place, but that—"

You cut him off with a finger to his lips. "Shh. What if the lady would like to have her boyfriend's dick in her mouth?"

Immediately, Michael squinted at the filthy wording. "Oh, mama, y' can't be sayin' stuff like that, really..."

"Well, honey..." you began, as you leaned down and started to lick and kiss down the expanse of his body, from his chest to his happy trail, to the mound of dark pubic hair. He lay pliant beneath you, lip between his teeth, eyes shut tight.

"...It's either I give you a blowjob..." Another shy squint from the boy below. "Or you deal with accidentally climaxing too early again, on my expensive silk sheets while you eat me out."

You sat back up on his thighs again, smirking happily. "So, what's it gonna be?"

There was a pause, some hesitation, and then you got your answer.

"Um... You can..." Michael gestured down to his cock, taking it in his hand for a moment, and you didn't have to be told twice.

"I thought so," you grinned. Instantly you were on your knees before him, hand squeezing his shaft, rubbing the leaking tip against your cheek.

Michael was in utter shock. "Oh my—"

Even in the darkness, there was a very clear stain of his precum on your face, and he barely had time to register that before your mouth was on him, applying perfect suction over his tip.

"Oh, mama, nngh—!" His hand flew to your hair, gripping your head tighter than he meant to, hips bucking upward.

"Yeah, baby, that feels good, huh?" you murmured as you licked along the veins from base to head. "Such a pretty dick, Mikey... Been hidin' it from me for so long..."

The prettiest noises were spilling from his throat endlessly, filling the quiet air beside the filthy schlick-schlick sound with each pump of your hand, or suck of your tongue. And you knew that moaning around his length would increase the pleasure, so you did that too, exaggerating each to create the perfect vibration. Michael had never felt such ethereal pleasure. He wondered if he was still existing here on earth.

Licking one long stripe upward before kitten-licking the mauve tip and sucking his sweet 'n salty cum, you counted an estimate of his measurements.

"’m thinkin' it really is nine inches, honey. Eight at least... but 'm really thinkin' nine..."

Michael could hardly speak in the immense euphoria—not that he would know what to say to a comment like that even if he was able to. All he knew was that you seemed to be very pleased with what you were passionately fondling.

"Oh, Mikey, my pretty, pretty boy..." You enveloped as much of his dripping length in your mouth as you could, until you felt the thick head at your throat and gagged far from quietly. Your eyes brimmed with tears.

Michael's hips bucked up harder in both shock and arousal. "Baby girl, be careful down there." He reached a hand down to stroke your cheek, wanting to influence you to pull off of him, but you wouldn't, still attempting to draw him in further, therefore still producing those choking noises so insane to Michael's ears.

And so he pressed on. "Mama, stop chokin'—y' can just lick 'n suck the tip, 'm okay. I don't need y' to go all the way down it."

You finally came back up for breath, saliva dripping in a lewd mixture with his gleaming precum, scattered all over every inch.

"’s okay, baby, 'm fine," you murmured, tongue tracing the upper half of him while you twisted your wrist to pump what you couldn't reach. "I love doin' this, it's okay..."

A pang of horrible jealousy hit Michael's chest as he remembered all the other men you'd done it with. They were probably the ones who'd taught you how to deepthroat, who'd encouraged you to go further and further until you could barely breathe. Sure, the sensation felt great, but Michael would never want you to go that far just for his pleasure.

And what he surmised about your past experiences hadn't been too far from the truth. You had been pushed too far before, been made to feel like you should do anything and everything to pleasure a man, so over time your body had accepted the act as something normal, even though nothing was normal about being involved in aggressive sex with men who treated you like shit. You felt completely safe with Michael, so a breath-restricting blowjob didn't feel the slightest bit dangerous like you had to admit it had felt with other men, but even if you were enjoying it, the point persisted that the reason you'd even become used to such ferocity in the first place had been due to coercion. Michael wanted you to unlearn the harsh parts—to perform passion with him but in a romantic interpretation, rather than the roughness you always equated it with.

So, when you pushed your head down again to take as much as possible, Michael tapped your cheek and gently pulled you off. You swallowed quickly, and furrowed your brows in frustration. "Michael?!"

The boy was chewing the inside of his cheek. He sat up against the headboard now, cock still painfully hard and twitching, but he was thinking mostly about something else.

"Angel, I don't want you to do that."

You sighed.

"Um, I don't... I don't know what those other guys had you doin' but, you're my girl now 'n I just want y' to do it gently, okay? I don't get off on seein' y' strugglin'."

Biting your lip, you leaned down to rest your head on his thigh, and started stroking slow circles. "I didn't... I don't think they meant it that way. Uh, I never considered that, actually."

"You didn't?" Michael whispered.

"No, I... um," you shook your head, "y'know, it doesn't matter anyway, because I'm here with you now and I just wanted to make you feel good. It wasn't any sort of power imbalance thing. Um, not with you, at least."

He took a deep breath, cradling your cheek in his hand. "Pretty girl, it's real sexy to watch y' take me, but I'd feel much better if y' didn't push y'self. Please? 'm gonna feel y' warmth when we make love—I don't need y' to suck every inch too, just to make me feel good."

Suddenly, you were beginning to understand something very crucial, and it influenced a question that you'd never before asked yourself. How much of sexual activity did you truly want to do? You'd been so accustomed to the rougher, more meaningless kind of sex since the age of sixteen, that you hadn't considered if perhaps you'd actually been conditioned to only enjoy it that way. Tonight's sensual bath had been a big indicator of that, because you never expected to enjoy something so romantic and slow, but indeed you had enjoyed it very much, and very easily—instinctively even, as if it was all you ever truly needed.

But that was too much to unpack right now, so you simply nodded, and kissed his inner thigh. "Okay. No, I understand."

"Y' do?" He furrowed his brows hopefully. "I don't wanna spoil y' fun or nothin', but I really just like to be gentle with y'."

That pressing anxiety of the unfamiliar had returned again, but you masked it with a smile, jumping up on your knees to kiss his soft lips. "I know. Thank you, baby."

The next couple of minutes were spent with Michael in total ecstasy, laid down against the silk again with his head thrown back against the pillows, squirming, groaning, gasping... And as you loved on his pretty cock, relishing in how effortlessly you could draw out those beautiful sounds, for the first time in your life you weirdly saw the romance in oral sex. Strangely enough—but it made sense, because you'd never before given a blowjob to a man who you loved. It had always been in return for something else, or because you felt like you had to, and since you didn't mind the act you'd performed it without thought. But with Michael, nothing could be thoughtless. Care and reverence was woven into his veins.

"Oh, honey, 'm gonna—mmmhhh, 'm close—" he suddenly groaned, thrusting a little, but without intention.

"Yeah, handsome?" you moaned over his slit, before continuing your expert suction. His hand had never ceased to thumb your cheek, in awe at how beautiful you looked doing something so inconceivably dirty. He'd heard his brothers talk about blowjobs before, and he'd vowed to himself that he'd never allow his girl to be on her knees that way. Of course, there had been many purity vows broken tonight.

"Aw, baby girl, pull—mmph—pull off of me, honey, I don't wanna dirty y' pretty face..."

You only giggled as you continued to suck and pump him, ignoring his protests.

"Mama, 'm serious," he gasped quickly, hips bucking ferociously, hand moving to the back of your head to try to pull you off—but Michael could never be anything other than gentle, so his attempt failed.

"Nuh-uh, honey, 'm good right here," you muttered into his flesh, and then, as one final trick you'd been saving for his climax, you dragged your eager tongue down to his heavy balls, still playing with his shaft as you did.

As soon as that warm lick registered in his system, Michael let out the most unrestrained, ecstatic half-moan half-groan, somehow both high and low in tone at once. "Oh, mama, 'm really 'bout to—oh, baby, mm, keep doin' that, but I need y' to get y' mouth off of m—"

You only smiled, sucking his balls into your mouth one by one, never letting up the pace of your hand over his slick length. "Cum for me, Mikey... All down my throat, c'mon..."

"No, baby, I can't—oh, y' can't let me..." he whined, writhing senselessly, one hand tightening in your hair and the other gripping the sheets.

"Your body wants it, my love," you whispered, and then, with two more pumps, your mouth back over his ever-twitching member, he was there, gasping louder and stuttering further, body shaking with the effects of orgasm. Several hot jets of salty-sweet cum shot down your throat, and you swallowed greedily, still stroking the flesh but slower now as you brought him through it.

"Oh, that's it, honey... So beautiful..." you cooed to him, speaking the way he loved to speak to you. After kissing over his thighs, you licked your lips and wiped your cheek to rid the excess of his release.

Michael was motionless against the sheets following his very intense climax, and you shuffled up the bed to meet his body with yours. Lying on your side, propped up by your elbow, you turned his face to yours with a finger on his chin. His expression was dazed, hairline decorated with a sheen of sweat, mouth half-open in amazement.

You giggled, kissing his nose. "How was that?"

He shook his head slowly, in disbelief. "Incredible, baby... More wonderful than I could've ever imagined. I can't believe y' let me do somethin' so nasty with y'..."

"Mm, well..." you chuckled, bringing his hand up to your mouth, resting the knuckles against your lips as you played with his fingers. "Are you excited for the next part?"

Michael bit his lip again, soft doe eyes brightening. "Mhm."

You beamed, probably looking forward to this part more than anything, and so you rested up against the headboard, getting comfortable. Now, as Michael stood up from the bed and repositioned himself between your thighs, your entire body was on display right in front of him, stretched across the silk like a modern take on a Renaissance painting. He couldn't believe his eyes, almost cursing at the sight.

"Wow, honey. Y' really such a goddess, I swear..." he praised in awe, settling himself on his forearms and then wrapping them around your thighs. "These thighs... ugh, baby..."

He was unashamedly yearning for you, leaning his head on the soft vanilla-scented skin of one inner thigh, gazing at the glistening organ that lay between it. Your heart was fluttering in your chest, and the more he stared into your intimacy the more flustered you became. You shook your head, trying to appear normal, because you were supposed to be doing the teaching; but then it suddenly occurred to you that perhaps Michael wouldn't need any more teaching. He knew where the clit was, he knew how to reach the g-spot... He had a perfect tongue that was extremely skilled where makeouts were concerned, and a perfect nose that would feel amazing if he...

"This is the part I've been real nervous about," he murmured, still taking in the sight of your swollen folds, running his fingers up and down them for the second time that night.

You chuckled, with a light smack to his head. "Michael, you've been nervous about every part."

"True," he admitted, smiling as he pulled your thighs further apart, looking up into your eyes now to ask for permission. "Sweetheart, can I?"

"Yes, you can, baby," you laughed, reaching down to play with his fro. "Please do, actually. I'm achin'..."

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

"Tell me if 'm doin' everythin' right, please..."

You were noticing that Michael's voice, while always soft, became quite a bit deeper during intimacy, and that made you feel even more insane over him.

Having been given the green light, he dove right in, with first a gentle kiss to your clit—at which you shuddered—and then he licked one long stripe from there to your entrance, before dragging his tongue back up and enclosing your pearl in his lips. He figured that it was best to follow the structure of using his lips and tongue in the same way he did during makeouts, with the added component of paying particular attention to your clitoris, since that part of your anatomy was what you'd emphasised earlier.

"Taste so good, baby…" he groaned into you. "Heaven on earth…"

Even though he'd asked you to let him know if he was doing everything correctly, you'd completely forgotten about that request, so lost in the pleasure from that very first kiss to your clit. He was perfect, and you'd been right; there had been no need for specific instruction. If the foreplay hadn't been going on for so long already, your only extra advice would've been that he should kiss over your thighs before beginning, but you figured he’d do that himself the next time you were intimate, given how much he loved your curves.

As soon as he began he had you moaning and squirming exactly how he'd craved, and he took that as a positive sign, thinking himself silly for how nervous he'd been about it before.

But of course, Michael still requested verbal praise, confirmation that he was up to standard.

"Am I doin' it right, mama?" he asked, licking another stripe up to your clit, before sucking again. You arched your back instinctively, gripping his fro, grinding your sex over his face. The pleasure was everywhere, and his big hands always kept their place on your thighs, as though he were a seasoned expert.

"Don't doubt yourself, baby," you whined, hand tightening in his hair. "You're doin'—oh—amazin'... I can't believe—mmphhh—this is your first time—God, I told you..."

Michael tapped your leg in a scolding manner. "Y'shouldn't use the Lord’s name in vain, honey."

"Shut up, hypocrite," you giggled, smacking the back of his head.

Michael didn't appreciate that, but it made him laugh into your pussy, and the vibration had you whining louder.

"Baby, I like it when you talk to me while you do it..." you whispered.

"Mm?" he hummed, spreading your labia wide with his fingers before diving back in.

"Yes, please talk to me, Mikey..."

It didn't take long for him to decide what to say. So overcome by the incredible cosmos of your beautiful body, so in love with every tiny element, he didn't think he'd experienced a better indulgence in his entire life. He lapped at you like a man starved, slurping up the incessant juices that swam from your entrance to your inner thighs.

"Thank you—thank you so much, baby, for treatin' me w' this..." he whispered between sucking your clit, lips carrying a string of saliva and slick each time he pulled back. "’m gonna cherish y' body this way forever... mmph..." He licked another stripe up the expanse of your sensitivity. "My baby girl, y' so, so unbelievably beautiful... 'm sorry we waited so long. I need to pray when 'm home 'cause this is all so bad but I can't get enough... I can't wait for us to make love..."

Your tense nervous system was in complete disbelief at how a man could say such words, and about you of all people. Michael had made it so clear over the months just how much he treasured you, and why he did, but it still seemed so unreal, especially now that he was between your thighs, speaking each word thoughtfully into your weeping cunt. For some reason, you wanted to cry, and it wouldn't be the last time you'd feel that way tonight.

"Um, can we now, honey?" Michael asked, but you'd forgotten what he was referring to.

"Can we what, baby? Ohh, right there! Mmmm..."

Now he had plunged his middle and ring finger inside your entrance, gently but with a desperate pressure, and he was thrusting them in and out as he lavished attention on your clit. Using what you'd loved earlier, he was experimenting through educated guesses.

"Um, I mean can we make love now?" he asked shyly, still curling his fingers while you writhed. His pretty doe eyes looked up into yours, but you could barely look at him without wanting to cry and orgasm at once.

"Minnie, it's 'cause 'm really 'bout to cum again, 'm sorry. I wanna keep eatin' y'—I wanna get y' to cum again like this—I mean, I could do it for hours 'n hours, I promise, but um... 'm just really achin' down here 'n I don't wanna dirty y' sheets by accident."

"Yeah, you need to be inside me now?" you smiled through the insane pleasure, taking his hand and trying to take deep breaths.

"Mhm," he hummed, a little absentmindedly, pulling out his soaked fingers. "Should I get the—? Uh, well, are y'... um, wet enough first?"

"Michael." You raised your brows in amusement, speaking flatly. "My cum is dripping down your face, and you’re asking me if I’m wet enough?"

He brought a hand to his cheek quickly, and felt his whole body heat up in a flush as he realised how your wetness had very much completely adorned the lower half of his face. "Oh—um. Oh yeah." He started to chuckle in his awkwardness, wiping the glistening liquid with the back of his hand. "Yeah, but I was just... makin' sure, y'know. 'm real nervous about," he visibly cringed, "ugh, y'know what I mean. I don't want y' to tear down there, 'cause I've heard that can happen when girls aren't prepared enough."

You smiled, heart aching evermore. "No, trust me, baby. This..." You ran your fingers down your slit and dipped them into your sopping cunt, before drawing them out to display how they dripped with endless slick. "...is as wet as a girl can be. You have me soaked; 'n I'm not gonna lie, the only thing that could make me dry up is if you continue to take forever to touch me. My body couldn't be more prepared, I promise."

Physically, you were correct. But mentally, emotionally, you couldn't have been any less prepared, and deep down you knew that.

Michael laughed softly. "Um, okay, so I'll... 'm gonna go get a condom, it's in my jeans..."

"Oh, that's not necessary, Mike. I'm on the pill."

"You are?" His brows furrowed at this new information.

"Mhm—I've been on it for a while, so, we don't need any other protection," you smiled.

"O—okay," Michael stuttered, even more excited now, that revelation being the last thing he expected tonight. He took two deep breaths before standing up from the bed, but then proceeded to walk off into the bathroom, much to your confusion.

"Michael—?"

Thirty seconds later, he returned. In his hands were the candles from the romantic bath, and you felt a strange pang in your heart again.

"I wanted to make it special," he smiled awkwardly. "I know it's not your first time, and it's not even about it being mine... It's just that I like to make things special for you."

"For my beautiful girl..." he hummed to himself under his breath as he began organising the candles around your furniture.

Now, a tear did slip from your eye while you watched him prepare everything, his soft face portraying how important this all was to him. You brushed the salty liquid away before it had a chance to be recognised, and soon enough your honey was back between your legs.

Except, he did notice one thing, and that was the visible change in your eyes.

"Why d'y' look so sad, Tink?" he asked anxiously, guiding you to lay back while he positioned himself over you.

"’m not sad, silly," you played it off. "My eyes are a little watery 'n I probably look a little dazed 'cause of what you've just done to me... You’ve been amazing."

You squeezed his arm comfortingly, bringing him into a soft kiss. The room was candlelit now, illuminating the two nervous bodies on the king-size bed, playing their part in a scene that would be the most intimate either of them had ever experienced.

"Okay," Michael giggled, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. "Um, what position do y' want? I was thinkin' just... missionary, like this. But I wanna make sure you're as comfortable as possible."

"Um, yeah, either this or cowgirl is best," you answered, playing with his fingers. His other hand came up to hold your jaw, and your eyes flickered down to it nervously, before you forced your expression to retain neutrality. "You're real big—you know that," a small laugh, "but I think we'll be okay like this."

"You think?" Michael asked anxiously. "You don't know? You sounded certain earlier."

"Mikey," you sighed with a lighthearted eyeroll. "How can I know for certain when you've never been inside me before? We'll just have to try it 'n see."

But somehow, he only looked even more anxious. "Minnie, don't mess w' me—I thought you were wet enough."

"I am, Michael!" you giggled, flicking his forehead. "I'm just bein' realistic, 'cause you asked me, so..."

Michael bit his lip and, following a silence, spoke quietly, in a tone more gentle than ever.

"Baby, 'm gonna be so careful, I promise."

More emotional silence, and you felt your heart split into two, despite the moment being nothing but beautiful. All you could do was think back to the other men, how they always treated you the exact opposite. Suddenly it occurred to you that it wasn’t only Michael who was learning the inherent beauty and innocence of sex, outside of its commonly rougher and vulgar connotations. You too had never understood until now that sex didn’t have to be a filthy dopamine hit to feel ashamed of immediately after. It was likely that you wouldn’t have discovered that understanding with anybody else.

Your voice almost cracked audibly with the intensity of your emotion, and he hadn't even started making love to you yet.

"I know you will," you whispered, looking into his sweet, sweet eyes.

He began to smile, and you did too, trying so hard not to let any more tears fall. It was a seriously difficult endeavour.

“Okay, ’m gonna… uh, I want us to be skin-to-skin, is that alright?” He kissed your collarbone, running his thumb over the side of your neck.

“I’d love that, Bambi,” you smiled softly, bringing your arms up around his neck. 

Michael grinned wide, then returned his concentrated demeanour as he carefully dropped his body downward so that he was pressed flush against you; chests held against each other, foreheads touching. His hand immediately took its place at the back of your head, where it would remain for the duration of the session.

“Like this?” he whispered, kissing your nose and your lips. “I want us to be as close as possible.”

“Mhm, me too,” you whispered back.

“Uh, okay, so I guess I should…” he uttered bashfully.

You nodded, taking two more shaky breaths. Michael didn’t notice your nervousness, because he was way too nervous himself. He couldn’t believe he’d finally reached this point, and with you, his dream girl.

He leaned back just a little, enough to stroke himself a few times, before sliding the weight of himself up and down your soaked folds. You gasped, holding his bicep, and slowly, eyes on you the entire time, he finally inserted the tip.

“Oh my—nnghh—” you moaned at both pain and pleasure, his thick girth beginning to stretch you out. 

Michael’s brows were knitted in pure anxiety, unable to relish in the pleasure just yet, but already knowing that your tight heat would be the best thing he’d ever feel. 

“Does it hurt, baby?” he asked, rubbing your lower abdomen with his thumb to soothe you.

No man had ever asked that thoughtful question before, and you gulped at hearing it now.

“Um, just a little. Keep goin’. It’s just—she’s takin’ a little longer to get used to a size so foreign,” you chuckled softly, to break the ice.

But Michael was still concerned. As he pushed himself further and further inside, he watched your face intently, and your fingernails were digging into his bicep now. You gasped and groaned, wrapping your legs around his hips. 

“Mm, Mikey, you’re so big—mm, ugh—“

“Is it feelin’ any better?”

“Yes, oh God yes it is, push in a little deeper…”

Michael gave you a quick look of disapproval at the blasphemy, and then finally, he bottomed out in one go. You nearly screeched at how good he felt, and he let out the most animalistic groan you’d heard from him thus far. Your eyes rolled back and so did his, and then before you knew it his chest was flush against yours again, forehead to forehead as before, so close you could feel his breath with every exhale…

“Hi,” he whispered shyly, taking your hand in his, while his other stayed holding your head protectively. This was how he’d always envisioned it. 

“Hi, pretty face,” you giggled, hooking your legs tighter around him, your free hand moving to play with the coils of his afro.

“Feel like ‘m in heaven, mama,” he whispered, and in response you initiated a passionate kiss, tongues exploring each other’s mouths while you both hummed into the warm and wet expanse softly.

“Me too, baby… You feel amazin’ inside me…”

“You feel the best,” he argued.

“Nooo, you.”

“Shh…” he sighed with a teasing smile, resuming your kiss. He remained resting still inside you for the next two minutes, despite how much he ached to move, because he wanted to ensure you were definitely comfortable enough.

So, in those two minutes you kissed and gazed at each other in silence, a silence so vulnerable you felt slightly lightheaded, heart pounding. And then your faces were brightening at each other, beaming; Michael began to kiss all over your face while you sighed in content, his lips sucking marks from your jaw to your neck.

“Oh, Mike…”

“You want me to start movin’ now, baby?”

“Mhm,” you nodded quickly. “Mm, please.” You pushed your heels down where your ankles met at his back, urging him to begin his thrusts, but first, he interlocked your fingers carefully. After pressing a sweet kiss to your knuckles and then your lips, he nudged his hips forward, and hit your sweet spot in one clean stroke.

“Mmm,” you whined high and soft, squeezing his hand hard. 

“You feelin’ good, honey?” Michael whispered against your lips, before capturing them in his and thrusting deep again.

“Uh-huh, yes baby, feels so good…”

At your confirmation, and upon seeing how your eyes rolled into the back of your head with each movement, he set a slow and steady pace, rocking his hips into you in the most passionate dance. Admittedly, since you knew how talented Michael was with his hips onstage, you’d expected him to be just as naturally skilled in the bedroom too, and my God were you pleasantly satisfied.

“Oh, this is amazin’, mama, y’ so tight around me…” 

Everything was so, so beautiful. You were both cuddled up, snuggled into each other’s warmth, as close as two people can be, and despite the coziness, each thrust nearly knocked the wind out of you. The sounds you produced were celestial to Michael’s ears, and the way you tugged at him and kept trying to pull him closer (whether by his hand or his hair) had his heart aching with happiness.

Meanwhile, your own heart was aching with both happiness and sadness, still for those same reasons previously discussed. He kept asking how you felt, if you were comfortable, overall portraying to you exactly how much he wholly adored you with every fibre of his being…

“Pretty baby, I love you so much,” he moaned against your lips, aside another deep, tender stroke, and as your eyes rolled back again, you kissed him hard, trying desperately to push away the tears that still threatened to emerge. You absolutely couldn’t let him see you cry during sex. He’d either think you were in pain, or think you were plain crazy.

But as you kissed deeply, tongues swirling over each other’s, hums vibrating into each other’s mouths, you were so immersed in each other that you didn’t realise what was happening on Michael’s end. You didn’t want to pull away from his lips because you wanted him to stop triggering your tears with his sweet nothings—way too difficult to deal with when paired with the most sensual thrusts—but all of a sudden, you felt something wet on your cheek, where your face was just below his.

Immediately, your eyes shot open in confusion, and sure enough, the wet droplet was a tear—not from one of your eyes, but from Michael’s. He was crying as he moaned, as he displayed his bone-deep infatuation and devotion to you with each heavy stroke, cradling your head in his hand, decorating your lips with his hot kiss. This moment all seemed so surreal for him—that he was truly, in this present moment, sinfully losing his virginity to the girl he’d wanted for so, so long, but in the most innocent, most serene way. Religion might have previously permitted him against the decision, but the universe itself was surely compelling you both, encouraging this cathartic meeting of your bodies. Somehow Michael had overcome fears that he never expected to, and as a reward he got to love and dote on every inch of the girl that had always needed a soft love so badly. She hadn’t known before, but it was all so very clear now.

“Mama, ‘m sorry, I’m—‘m an idiot…” he chuckled self-consciously, wiping at his eyes while his pace never faltered.

You gasped and whined, biting your lip very hard to keep your own emotions in check. Then you reached up to cradle his jaw, and whispered softly.

“Honey… Don’t—oh—don’t apologise… I know. I understand.”

“I just love you so much, my angel girl…” 

“I know, baby, I know…” you moaned, eyes brimming with more of the annoying liquid that you continued to force back, hoping that your watery eyes would appear nothing more than a product of pleasure.

And still, you couldn’t say those three words back to him. It was all too much intimacy at once. You loved it, while equally you feared it. How could that be?

“My beautiful lady, I just wanna protect you forever…” Michael continued, rocking into you with the softest fervour as he did, chest so warm and comforting against your bouncing breasts. “Wanna keep you so safe… Always wanna hold you… just like this, forever… Or not even in a sexual way, I just… mmph—Oh, baby girl, you deserve everythin’ wonderful…”

“Michael—” you gasped, unable to take such attentive words.

“Yeah, honey?” he exhaled into your ear, kissing your cheek.

“No, I—I’m just—ohhh—I can’t believe you see me that way…”

“Oh Minnie, I think you’re the single most precious thing on this earth…” he groaned, eyes clamping shut in pleasure and emotion as he began to speed up, while still prioritising careful sensuality.

“Baby,” you cried out, “I’m really nothin’ specia—“

“Shhh…” He kissed away your speech, hitting your spot faster now, and nearly reaching your cervix. The sound of the headboard banging against the wall with the other lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, and you were very grateful Michael had demanded you choose a night where not a soul would be around. 

“You mean so much to me,” he continued. “Nobody gets me like you do… and I don’t think anyone ever will… ‘m so lucky…”

You were lost for words, and all you could do was emanate pornographic noises that Michael only interpreted as angelic.

A few moments passed, but finally you decided you must say something. You needed to. If not now, then you’d feel so guilty for allowing the exhibition of love to be so one-sided, Michael as the only giver.

And what was more, you had surprisingly started to actually want to say something. Despite your avoidant nature, in this very moment you absolutely had to let your baby know how much he meant to you. He was reconstructing the arrangement of your nervous system in real time, with every push of his sex and every word from his lips.

“No, you don’t understand, Michael,” you moaned out, voice breaking. His hips were snapping ferociously now. “I’m the lucky one… Me falling in love with you isn’t—mmph—isn’t as insane as you think it is… Because—oh—“ He was gazing deeply into your eyes now, smoothing his thumb over your lip. “Because I—nngh—I swear to you, you’re the most beautiful boy I could ever dream of. You’ve shown me the softness I’ve never known…”

“Oh honey…”

“You brought light into my life. I need you way more than you need me, and I—mmhh—resent that it’s almost always only you tellin’ me of your love. Oh, Michael—” you cried out, digging your nails into his palm, your other hand scratching at his shoulder. 

“Sweetheart…” His face was contorted in pleasure, another tear falling, and he let it drip onto your cheek again.

“I love you, baby,” you gasped. “I love you, I love you… There, I said it—‘m sayin’ it…”

Michael almost choked on his own saliva, pupils so dilated as he took in the sight before him. You were completely undone, almost crying over him, hair and makeup a mess, lips and neck bitten, and finally, you had said the words.

“Tink, I—oh, I love you, my baby girl…”

“Mikey,” you giggled, a tear finally slipping but you knew he’d think it was only induced by arousal. “You’re puttin’ me through the mattress ‘n still callin’ me Tinker Bell.”

Michael smiled wide, pressing a soft peck to your nose, strokes slowing momentarily while you both laughed. 

“You don’t stop bein’ my Tinker Bell just ‘cause we’re makin love… In fact, y’ more magical than ever right now, honey…” A heated kiss. “’s never been more appropriate, really…”

You couldn’t help but smile at him, but your face instantly began to contort as before when the thrusts sped up again. The bed was creaking like crazy beneath you, and you were both so close to climax now.

“Baby, ‘m close,” Michael groaned, followed by sounds resembling whimpers. 

“Yeah, me too, I’m—mhm—baby, I’ve never felt this good in my life…”

With every word you uttered, Michael was even more utterly astonished, and overall so wholly glad that this night had gone the way he wanted it to. It truly had been perfect—even in its little imperfections, too.

“Honey, can I, uh—inside?” he asked hesitantly, soft grunts hitting your ear as his thick cock pounded your gummy walls over and over.

“Yes, mhm, please baby…” You let out a pornographic moan as his strokes began to take on an erratic force, but still hardly faltering in rhythm.

“Oh, I gotchu baby girl, ‘m gonna get y’ there… I love you…”

“Mm, Michael, I love you,” you whined again, licking your tongue into his mouth. You engaged in a passionate embrace of locked lips, interrupted only a few times momentarily to murmur a sweet nothing.

Your orgasm came crashing over you suddenly, having built to a perfect peak, and the unfamiliar sensation of experiencing one at the hands of penetration was otherworldly. Your body went taut, muscles tensing, and before you could try to stop yourself, there were tears streaming down your face. Michael had talked you through it all, cooing at you through the comedown, although he looked entirely perplexed at the realisation that you were crying all of a sudden.

“Minnie, wha’s wrong?” he asked gently, stroking your cheek and slowing down a little despite how he was so close to his own orgasm.

“No, nothin’, Michael—it’s just…” you sniffled, wiping your face rapidly, “um, this happens to us women sometimes… An orgasm is like an emotional release as well as a sexual one, y’know, um…” That wasn’t an incorrect statement to make, so you hadn’t exactly lied, but you felt silly nevertheless.

“Okay, yeah, I thought you were hurt or upset, but I get that. It was beautiful anyway,” he smiled, kissing you and rocking into you fervently, a little harder again to approach his release, but he also didn’t want to overstimulate you so he tried to keep it not too distant from slow and sensual. 

Your eyes rolled back with erratic inhales and exhales as he thrust a few more times, before you suddenly felt the gorgeous heat of his cum gushing through you, painting your walls with his seed. Thank God you were on the pill… And oh, Michael looked so beautiful when he came…

His groans continued as his head fell forward on your chest, cock gradually going limp while still nestled inside your core. 

“Oh, you’re so wonderful, baby… I’m so happy,” he whispered into your neck. 

“I’m happy too, pretty boy,” you smiled back, playing with his hair again.

But Michael wouldn’t let himself linger too long, already pressing up on his elbows. “Need to clean y’ up, honey.”

You both groaned in frustration as he slowly pulled out of you, and you stayed lying flat while you watched him blow out the candles and head off into the bathroom. He returned with a cloth, and with the most gentle touch and the most gentle expression of concentration, patted over your sex and your inner thighs. You lifted your hips to let the liquid ooze out into the cotton so that it wouldn’t sink into the sheets later, and Michael felt incredibly ashamed at how the sight made him feel. That alone was the first glimpse of a kink that would follow the two of you through the rest of your lives.

When he was done, you cuddled up on your sides facing each other. Michael wrapped the comforter around your body protectively, burying your bodies beneath it, tightly bundled; and then he wouldn’t stop staring at you, so you covered your face shyly.

“No, don’t do that, baby,” he giggled, trying to get you to move your hand.

“You’re makin’ me shy!” you exclaimed, but when he tried to get you to drop the hand again, you obliged, and rushed a little further forward into his embrace, nestling your head in the crook of his neck.

Some comfortable silence, and then Michael was whispering to you again, playing with your hair and drawing circles over your skin.

“You told me y’ loved me. Multiple times, y’ said it.”

“I did,” you whispered back, with certainty. Saying the words so ardently had really highlighted to you how much you never needed to hesitate ever again.

“Minnie?” Michael said into the quiet, intertwining his legs with yours, and resuming the handholding that had carried you through most of the night.

“Yes, Mickey?” you hummed into his skin.

“Tonight was the best night of my life.”

“Mine too,” you smiled. “I’m fallin’ asleep, honey, I’m sorry, but I promise we can talk all about it tomorrow. Orgasms always knock me out.” You yawned with a quiet laugh, tugging him impossibly closer, and he repositioned the comforter around you again, so delicately. 

“Yeah, ‘m tired too.” He kissed your forehead several times. “Sleep tight, I love you.”

“I love you, baby. So, so much…”

You fell asleep only minutes later just like that—warm bodies merged, hands interlocked, your ear pressed directly over Michael’s steadily beating heart. For once tonight, it had calmed. Finally you had both crossed that monumental line, the feeling different for each of you—emotional in unique ways—but born of the same bone-deep, eternal love.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡₊˚⊹ omg this has taken me approx 3 weeks to write n i had no intention to make it so long but !!! in order to really emphasise the passion and to have michael experience all his firsts , i wrote it as descriptively as possible. i've exhausted myself writing so much smut lol n i was even anxious posting this because i don’t know if it flows as ideally as i wanted it to?!! i put too much pressure on myself but anyway i hope u guys enjoyed :D !

──── tag list: @slickdickwitchbitchh @xyahx @nuhveah @savagenctzen @2sugari @imeatingheehee @definitelynotdomanique @nightmaredressedlikeadaydream57 @alientee @yamyam-tuna @michaelswife-jackson @osugahunnyicedtea @loveposiie @deletedkisses @xoxogossipgirl02 @neverstreett @brxght-world @0-n-1-x @wildpandorasky @thrilleronvinyl @chaoticyouthphilosopher @michaelsbabymother @ermwhatthesigma156 @xogianna @pretty4u @j3nnyluvscupc4k3s @thrilleronvinyl @milqyravena @coldeforprez @livingblythedoli @fawnnoverme @onthewallz @cunty000 @ghostbabi @infinitethrills @freakinme @iwasntreddieforthis @bluegangstaaaa @michaeljacksonspyt @ang9lic @giosorr @pervertedreams @pompurinlover1234 @bunnykay @eternal-life94 @oidloid @thedoggonegirl @botdfaholic @cinnamoncunt @dolleciita

my masterlist ( ˘͈ ᵕ ˘͈♡)

[mikolsfavschmuck]

I don't have the words to explain how beautiful this was

[lil6uapa]

practice makes perfect michael jackson

michael jackson x f!reader ────୨ৎ──── ♡ wc: 6.4k

synopsis: it turns out practice really does make perfect :p

cw: smut, fluff, inexperienced childhood bsf!michael, inexperienced!reader, sneaking around, nipple play, oral (f!recieving), virginity loss, size kink kinda, getting caught, otw/thriller!michael

part 1 , part 2

unedited

it was almost crazy how quickly things between you and michael had changed.

it had only been a couple of weeks since 'the twister incident'.

since then, your friendship dynamic you'd spent your whole lives building, had taken a whole new meaning. you went from just two best friends... to two best friends who couldn't keep their hands off each other.

yet, even with this shift in your relationship, you didn't lose the easy friendship you'd always shared. you still hung out just like you used to, but now there was a sweet buzz humming underneath everything. michael was always flirting with you, finding ways to make your face burn, and though you'd never admit it to him, you absolutely loved it.

in turn, you never passed up an opportunity to tease him back, watching with satisfaction as he blushed and shied away from your touch. those playful days turned into quiet nights, with michael dragging you out on late-night walks around the neighbourhood. you'd walk hand-in-hand, your shoulders brushing, talking about everything and nothing until your eyes grew heavy.

it made you feel closer to him than you'd ever been before.

the change happened so easily it almost surprised you, but if you were being honest, neither of you wanted to slow it down.

and it wasn't that you guys wanted to keep secrets or didn't want anyone to find out about you two. you just really wanted to keep this to yourselves for a while. you wanted the space to figure things out and enjoy the bubble of being together without any outside noise.

these days, the two of you had gotten pretty good at sneaking around. hayvenhurst was always buzzing with his family, which only made it more exciting.

michael would catch your eye from across the room, giving you a knowing look before slipping away. a few minutes later, you’d follow, only to be gently yanked into a dark linen closet or the narrow space beneath the back stairs.

his hands would immediately find your waist, dragging you flush against him before his mouth hungrily found yours. he’d hold you there, smiling against your lips as someone's footsteps passed just outside the door.

but it wasn't just the stolen kisses.

the two of you had recently started exploring whatever this was becoming. you still hadn't gone all the way yet — there was an unspoken understanding that neither of you wanted to rush it — but michael was eager, and somewhere along the way, he’d discovered just how much he loved making you feel good.

turns out, michael was a giver.

more than that, he was devoted to figuring out every single inch of you. he loved to kiss you — it was his favourite thing in the world, the way he'd lose himself in your mouth for hours — but he was just as obsessed with taking his time between your legs.

you couldn't even count how many times he’d ended up on his knees at the edge of his bed, his large hands pinning your thighs wide open while he buried his face in you.

he was an eater, plain and simple.

he’d spend hours down there, his tongue tracing your folds and sucking on your clit until your hips were bucking against the mattress and your throat was raw from trying to muffle your screams. he loved the taste of you, loved the drag of his tongue over your pussy. he’d stay down there until you were nothing but a trembling mess beneath him.

it had changed the way you looked at him. whenever you saw him working, all you could think about was the way he looked with his chin wet and his hair messy, looking up at you from between your thighs with those wide doe eyes, asking if he could do it again.

today was a day like no other. the heat at the hayvenhurst pool was buzzing with noise, music drifted across the patio, while his siblings were splashing and shouting over a game of... you actually weren't even sure what they were playing because your focus was on michael, and his was on you.

you’d been sitting on the edge, kicking your legs in the water. every time you looked up, you caught him watching you from his chair. he wasn't even trying to hide it.

his eyes would trail down the line of your swimsuit. whenever your eyes locked, he'd offer you a sly smile that made your stomach flip.

when you finally stood up and complained about the sun getting too hot, wanting to go inside to cool down. michael immediately stood up, saying he’ll accompany you.

you walked back toward the house together, your feet padding on the warm concrete patio before stepping onto the cool tile at the back entrance. the sudden blast of the air conditioning hit your damp skin, making you goosebump instantly. michael guided you up the stairs, the muffled shouts of his brothers fading more and more with every step you took toward his bedroom.

once you reached his door, he pushed it open and let you slip inside first, letting it click shut behind him.

you tossed your damp towel onto the chair by his desk, looking around with a grin. "thought you said you cleaned in here, mike. what's this?" you pointed to a messy pile of vinyl records and a couple of stray button-down shirts draped over his dresser.

michael scoffed, walking over with his hands stuffed in his pockets. "i did clean. that's... an organized system. i know exactly where everything is."

"sure you do," you teased, picking up a stray pillow from his armchair and tossing it lightly at his chest. "your socks are trying to escape from that bottom drawer, by the way."

he caught the pillow easily, a wide, boyish grin spreading across his face. "hey, don't start. you're a guest in my room, you’re supposed t'be on your best behaviour."

"and if i'm not?" you challenged, crossing your arms.

michael tossed the pillow onto the bed and took a slow step toward you, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "then i might have t’kick you out. send y'right back outside. throw y'in the pool, maybe?"

"you wouldn't," you laughed, keeping your eyes on his as you made a move to dodge around him toward the door.

but michael was too quick. with a quiet laugh, he stepped right into your path, his large hands catching your waist and steering you backward until your spine met the solid wood of his bedroom door.

he caged you in, his palms flat against the door on either side of your head. for a moment, you just stared at each other, both of you smiling, your breaths mingling in the quiet space. his eyes were bright and crinkling at the corners, before his gaze drifted down to your mouth.

the smile faded from his lips as he leaned in, pressing his mouth to yours. it was slow and sensual, his lips soft. it made your knees go weak. he tasted faintly of the soda he’d been drinking by the pool.

when he broke the kiss, he didn't pull back far. his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your cheek.

"that swimsuit you're wearin'... 's unfair," he murmured, his voice low and raspy.

you bit your cheek with a tilt to your head, your hands finding his chest. "you don't like it?"

he shook his head.

"the opposite," he whispered, a small smile tugging at his lips before his eyes trailed down your body. "you... y'look so beautiful. the colour looks so good against your skin, an' the way it fits you..."

“yeah?” you said so softly, with such a need in your voice that it almost came off as a moan to the boy in front of you. his cock throbbed — hard already, leaking and needy.

the slightest traces of a moan in your throat is what told him that this teasing was no longer innocent.

he nodded. his fingers gently hooked into the side strap at your hip, tracing the soft curve. his skin was still warm from the sun, making you shiver against the cool air of the bedroom.

his fingers tugged the elastic of your suit just a little bit, exposing a paler line of skin that hadn't been touched by the sun. he stared down at it, his lower lip disappearing between his teeth.

you swallowed, your fingers tightening in the skin of his bare shoulders to keep your balance. "michael..."

"mhm?" he murmured, his gaze slowly climbing back up your body, lingering on your chest before finally meeting your eyes. his other hand reached up, his thumb slowly tracing your lower lip, parting it just enough to feel the warmth of your breath. "what is it, baby?"

god. you could never get used to him calling you that.

"should we head back?" you whispered, mentally kicking yourself the second the words left your mouth.

michael let out a quiet chuckle, his thigh parting your legs and resting between them. "what are we in a rush for? we got time."

he leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. his lips were soft against your skin, pressing a line of kisses from your jaw down to your collarbone. you let your head fall back against the door, a soft sigh escaping your lips. your hands slid down his smooth back, feeling the muscles of his shoulders tense under your touch as he let out a low groan against your neck.

"y’taste like the sun," he mumbled, his teeth gently grazing the soft skin right where your neck met your shoulder, making a shiver run down your spine. "so sweet.”

he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his eyes heavy as his hand slid up from your hip, his palm flat against your ribs, feeling the quick beating of your heart.

“so pretty," he whispered, his voice raspy with that tone you'd grown so addicted to over the last few weeks.

he closed the tiny distance between you.

the kiss was so soft and so tender. his lips pressed against yours with a sweetness that felt like a confession, filled with all the heavy words he hadn't actually said out loud yet. there was no rush, no urgency — just the gentle drag of his mouth on yours, tasting you so slowly it made your chest ache. it was the kind of kiss that made you feel cherished, like you were the only thing in his entire world.

your heart swelled, a soft sigh slipping into his mouth as your fingers curled into his shoulders, completely melting into him.

his gaze flickered downward again, and you felt the burning heat of his stare focus on your chest. with the cool air conditioning blowing directly on you, your nipples were hard, poking visibly through the fabric.

michael swallowed, his breathing going shallow. you could see the desire in his eyes — he looked spellbound, like he was looking at something precious.

you felt a rush of confidence, a quiet thrill at seeing him so affected. you looked down at your chest, then back up to meet his gaze.

"you wanna see them?" you whispered.

the question seemed to catch in his throat. michael's breath hitched before a low sound escaped him. he nodded, his hand on your waist tightening.

"please," he breathed. "yes, please."

your hands left his shoulders, reaching behind your neck to undo the thin strings of your top. with a slow tug, the knot slipped free, and you let the fabric fall away to the floor, baring your breasts to him for the very first time.

michael bit his lip, his head tilting back slightly as if he couldn't even believe what he was looking at.

he didn't immediately touch you. he just stared, his eyes dark and blown out. the adoration on his face made your heart do backflips.

"gosh," he whispered, his voice trembling. "you're... you're a dream."

his hand, still wrapped around your waist, slid higher. his touch was tentative as his thumb lightly grazed the very bottom curve of your breast.

you reached down to cover his hand with your own. you guided his palm higher, lifting it until his hand was fully cupping your breast.

michael let out a shaky breath, his fingers curling to map the shape of you. his thumb brushed over your nipple, and a gasp left your lips at the direct contact. the heat of his skin against yours was electric.

your hands gripped his shoulders as his thumbs gently rolled and pinched your nipples, sending sharp jolts straight down to your core. you arched your back, pressing yourself deeper into his hands, unable to hold back the soft whimpers slipping past your lips.

michael groaned at the sound.

"can i...?" he whispered, and you nodded immediately, not even letting him finish his sentence.

his head dipped down, pressing kisses along your collarbone before his mouth finally found one of your aching breasts. he swiped his wet tongue over the nipple first, making you shiver, before he fully took you into his mouth.

he dragged his tongue over the peak, swirling it lazily before pulling your nipple between his teeth, grazing it just enough to make your hips twitch against his thigh. his hand stayed busy on your other breast, squeezing and teasing the nipple between his fingers in sync with his mouth.

your hands push his damp hair out of his face, looking at where your flesh was sucked into his mouth. your jaw slacked.

his pretty face was flushed, and his eyes had fluttered closed as he got lost in the feeling of your tits in his face and in his hands. his tongue worked eagerly, flicking over your nipple while his free hand tweaked at the other.

your skin was slicked and wet with saliva, raised into goosebumps from the cold air he would blow onto it after a lick. it was an intoxicating sight, one that you would keep in your conscious forever to use whenever you needed him most.

your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer as your head rested back against the door. "michael... oh fuck, michael... please"

he pulled his mouth away, the suction releasing from your wet nipple with a soft pop. "what do y'need?"

you choked on your words, having to swallow as you tried to find what to say, “just… more.”

his lips tilted into a smile as he stood back up, looming over you. he looked down at you with his eyes full of desire, lips glossed with saliva, and his hair messed from your hands.

it was bound to drag a reaction out of you.

and a reaction it did.

your hips were now in line with his and you were met with the hard of his cock pressing right into where you need it the most.

through his swim trunks, and your bikini bottoms, you felt the twitch of him against your cunt. you gasped in response.

“tell me,” he said, looking into your eyes.

but he seemed to already know what you want. he ground himself into the soft of your cunt, pressing the length of his cock right against your clit.

“oh shit, michael,” your eyes rolled back and you felt yourself melt against the door, hips coming back down shakily as the pleasure overwhelmed your body, unable to hold yourself up any longer.

he was so hard. he was so fucking hard that you could feel every throb of him against you.

you tried to tell him, tried to make yourself clear, but it came out sounding pathetic; broken apart with gasps and moans, “want— oh fuck— i want you… want you inside me.”

michael brought his head low, leaning down until his lips were teasing yours, "that what you want?"

truthfully, michael didn't even know where this confidence of his was coming from. his chest was tight and his heart was hammering so hard he was sure you could hear it.

you whined, your hips twitching underneath him. "god, yeah— yes, please," you squirmed, your hands grabbing aimlessly at his back.

your body was tingling, wired from his touch. michael’s hands slid down to grab the undersides of your thighs, lifting you up against the door.

you didn't even have to think; you instantly wrapped your legs around his waist. his swim trunks were rough against your bare thighs. michael held you tight, his fingers gripping your ass to support your weight as he carried you a few paces over to his bed.

he let you down onto the mattress, his touch gentle as your back met the cool sheets. he was already crawling over you as soon as he placed you down, his bare chest hovering inches from yours as he settled himself between your thighs.

his chest hovered inches over yours, and as he looked down at you, the intensity in his eyes softened.

michael bit his lower lip nervously, his thumb brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead. his hand was slightly trembling against your skin.

"are you sure?" he whispered, his voice soft. "i want this to be perfect f'you."

"yeah," you breathed, your voice steady despite the frantic pounding of your heart. you reached up, placing your hand over his cheek. "never been more sure. do... do you want to?"

michael let out a shaky breath, a small smile breaking through his anxious expression. he nodded, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. "more than anything. 'm just… a little nervous 'm gonna do somethin' wrong."

his tone made your chest ache with affection. you tried to bite back your smile, a bubbly laugh building up in your chest.

"'s okay," you teased, your voice shaking a little as you tried to hold in your giggle. "we're just practicing."

it really was just a lame joke, a reference to your stupid excuse, but michael laughed anyway, rolling his eyes. "oh, shush," he murmured, leaning down to press a quick peck to your lips.

he stayed there for a beat, staring into your eyes, both of you biting back giddy smiles as the weight of the nerves started to melt into something comfortable.

"one second," he murmured suddenly.

before you could even ask, he scrambled off the bed, his feet padding quickly across the floor as he slipped out the bedroom door, leaving it open just a crack.

the sudden absence of his heat left you feeling incredibly exposed. you sat up slightly, looking down at your bare breasts and your bikini bottoms, your heart felt like it was beating out of your chest. the anticipation made your stomach do nervous flips until you finally heard the frantic thud of his feet running back across the floor, getting louder as he got closer.

michael burst back into the room, slightly out of breath, a small square foil packet clutched in his palm.

a hot flush instantly crept up your neck and into your cheeks at the sight. "where'd you get that?" you laughed.

michael climbed back onto the mattress, a sheepish, boyish grin spreading across his face as he ducked his head. "jackie's room," he confessed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "i knew he kept a stash in there somewhere."

"ew, michael!" you let out a groan, hiding your face in your hands.

he laughed at your reaction as he crawled right back over you. your hands came down from your face as you lay back against the pillows, matching his smile.

he gave you another small peck to the lips before kissing down your neck, nipping occasionally to feel your body twitch against his, licking through the valley of your breasts, biting at the soft skin of your stomach, teasing the line of your bikini bottoms with his tongue, and eventually pulling the waistband down your thighs and sliding them off your legs.

his hand wrapped around your ankles and dragged you slightly along the soft sheets until your legs dangled off the side. you gasped softly when you felt his breath wisp along the inside of it, watching him carefully as he brought his lips to the flat bone of the interior and kissed the skin softly.

your stomach turned.

the sensation felt foreign but kinda good. each press of his lips and bite of his teeth as he made his way up to your leg had your heart racing.

"you're so pretty," he said quietly, his eyes still locked on the pretty mound between your legs.

"keep your legs spread f'me, okay?"

and despite your embarrassment, you nodded.

with his hand resting against the back of your thigh, pushing your legs up, his thumb found its way to your clit and pressed softly. your body twitched, jerking against his hand while your legs trembled.

your hand clasped over your mouth. he teased softly, rubbing gentle circles against you, watching the way your pussy gave under the pressure of his thumb.

your hand was still over your mouth as you looked down to look at him. and fuck. he knelt before you so prettily, with his hair framing his face as his arms toyed with your body, and his hips slightly grinding against the side of the bed.

his other hand released your leg, and you obediently kept yourself open for him.

he adjusted his hand, his palm splaying over your navel to give his fingers room to drag across your slit.

and then he brought his face down and dragged his tongue through you.

you inhaled sharply at the sensation. his tongue was so hot and so wet as it dragged over your body and dipped inside you and licked over your cunt.

you let out the shakiest and most pathetic moan you believe has ever come out of your mouth as you felt him fuck his tongue inside you, and he groaned against your body as he felt your pussy squeeze around his tongue and leak onto his taste buds.

he’ll never get over the taste of you.

his hair tickled at your skin as he drank you down. his hand gripped your thigh with such frenzy that it gave under the pressure of his fingers.

his mouth closed over you and worked to devour you, sucking and licking at the fat of your pussy and the nub of your clit.

it was all tongue and lips, all sloppy and wet as he enthusiastically made out with the most intimate parts of you. 

he had you crying out his name, choking out choppy moans, gripping the sheets until your knuckles ached. your hips fucked upwards, trying to take his tongue deeper. your thighs pushed down into the muscle of his shoulders as your legs twitched with every lick.

"so wet," he murmured against your skin before taking another taste of you.

he pushed against the back of your knees, lifting your backside off the mattress and folding you under yourself to give him room to shove his tongue inside you as deep as he could.

"o-oh, god, michael—fuck—how are you so good at that?" you whined shakily.

you felt him groan, rather than hearing him, the vibrations humming through to your clit, tearing another moan from your throat.

michael almost came at the sound of your voice cutting off as you felt one of his long, nimble fingers sliding inside you.

he clenched his jaw to stifle a groan for every time your tight little cunt squeezed around the length of his finger. every ridge and divot inside you had his head swimming with the fantasy of how they’ll feel around the thick of his dick, and he almost blacked out when he realized that he was no longer fingering you solely for your pleasure, but also doing so to stretch you out and make room for him as well.

you sat back on your elbows, and a whimper slipped out of you when you were met with the sight of him between your legs, hypnotized by the sight of of your pussy being stretched open by his fingers, his fingers covered in a sheen of your arousal every time he pulled them out and shoved them back in.

the desperate whines and whimpers that were leaving your lips slowly turned into sobs that were broken off with gasps.

"fuck, michael— i-'m gonna— oh fuck." your eyes squeezed shut, nails digging into the sheets while the other flew to his hair. your body tensed, the coil in your stomach growing tighter, begging to be released.

"c'mon, sweet girl. lemme feel it," he begged, lifting his head from your pussy to watch your face twist as you fell apart inside out.

your fingers pushed against his head, pushing his head back down to your cunt. and michael took it, letting out a deep groan.

"o-oh, god, don't stop, please don't stop," you pleaded.

micheal felt your pussy flutter around his fingers "are y'cummi— oh god, you're cumming," and then he brought his mouth back down, drinking in what you were giving him.

sobs were forced out of your throat as your fingers curled back into the sheets, sending powerful waves of pleasure up through your veins until it exploded in your head and fireworks burst behind your squeezed eyes.

michael watched you carefully, tongue still tasting you, admiring your face as you broke for him. your beautiful face, contorted with the pleasure that he gave you, and your beautiful body, visible proof of just how ruined you are.

you sat up weakly as you came down from your orgasm. he had a sheepish smile on his face as he looked at you, his mouth and chin glossed with your arousal.

you reached for his swim trunks, fingers hooking onto the waistband as you pulled him closer to you. you slid back on his bed to his pillows as he hovered back over you.

"this okay?" you asked softly.

"y-yeah," he whispered. your hands tugged at the drawstring of his trunks, loosening them.

his thick cock sprang free, throbbing and fully upright, the head already glistening with a bead of pre-cum. you swallowed hard at the sight of him, your stomach doing a nervous little flip.

he reached over to the nightstand, his trembling fingers tearing open the foil packet he’d snatched from jackie’s room. he struggled with it for a second, his nerves making him clumsy, which made you let out a soft giggle.

"don't laugh," he mumbled, "'m already nervous enough." he finally rolled it over his length. but he was smiling too, his eyes soft as he looked back down at you.

with slightly shaky hands, he wrapped his fingers around his length, sighing as he pumped his dick a few times, getting used to the snug fit of the rubber.

he settled his weight between your legs, his knees forcing your thighs wide as he leaned down. "tell me to stop if it hurts, okay? please," he whispered, his eyes so serious as he waited, refusing to make another move until you gave him a small, reassuring nod.

"okay," you breathed.

he let out a shaky exhale.

slowly, he nudged his tip against your wetness, slowly gliding his dick up and down your slit. he stroked his length against your opening, coating the condom in your slick over and over until you were gasping from the stimulation of it.

he bit his lip in concentration as he lined the head of his cock directly up with your entrance and finally gave a push.

the moment he began to enter, your eyes squeezed shut and a sharp gasp caught in your throat. a deep, burning ache bloomed inside you from the intense stretch.

"you okay?" he murmured, his voice strained as he watched your expression closely, searching every twitch of your face.

you opened your eyes to look at him as you nodded, your chest heaving. he had his jaw clenched tight. your pussy was hugging him so tight that he had to concentrate literally anywhere else, trying desperately not to cum right then and there.

"you're... you're so tight," he choked out, his voice cracking as he felt your cunt clench around him at his words.

even though it was only the head of his dick pushing past your opening, it felt like you were being split in half.

trying to ease the ache for you, his thumb reached down to find your swollen clit, rubbing circles against the sensitive nub to distract you from the fullness. you let out a broken whine, your hips twitching under his hand as the pressure started to melt the sharp burn into pleasure.

sensing your body yield, he slid another inch deeper. your walls stretched to accommodate him, squeezing him so tightly it made him let out a low groan. he pulled back just a fraction, drawing out before pushing in another inch, slowly paving his way inside you and fuck, it felt so good.

you only come to realize that his hips were flush with yours when you were pulled out of your haze by a whimper that reached your ears as michael's head dropped into the crook of your neck.

“you’re… you’re inside me…” you breathe, your voice saturated with awe.

"y-yeah— i am— oh god. i'm inside you." he sat back on his calves just enough to see where you two connected.

he acted involuntarily, slowly tilting his hips back and forth, watching his cock slip in and out of you.

"michael," you whined, face burning from him staring so shamelessly. "it feels... feel so full. oh—" you gasped, your eyes squeezing shut as your hand reached shakily to feel where his dick split you open.

"s-shit, feel like you're in my lungs," you said, and he let out a huff of a laugh.

"does it still feel okay?" he asked gently.

"yeah, feels different... but feels good." you ground your hips against him, trying to get used to the feeling.

"s-should i move?" he tried so hard to come off casual, like he wasn't dying to just fuck up into you, but he wanted you to be comfortable.

michael let out a shaky breath when you nodded, and slowly, he began to move.

he started with shallow, tentative thrusts, his hips rolling as he worked himself against your gummy walls.

it felt incredibly sweet, almost like he was trying to memorize the feel of you as he took his time, sinking all the way in before slowly drawing back out to the very tip. he leaned down to press soft, lingering kisses to your jaw and the corner of your mouth, his hands tangling in yours on the mattress.

"wanna kiss you," you spoke quietly, reaching up to take hold of his face.

michael’s chest swelled as he gave in easily, leaning over your body, dropping to his forearms to softly take your lips in his in a tender kiss.

with every slow slide out and push back in, a messy, squelching sound echoed between your thighs. you let out a broken whimper, your hands clutching at his damp shoulders as your hips rose to meet him.

"m-michael," you gasped, your head rolling back against the pillows.

he really did try to go slow, but his breath went ragged at your voice, jerking once into you, his pace quickening. he began to push deeper, and with one particularly deep drive, his cock slammed right against that sensitive spongy spot inside of you.

your entire body stiffened. a sharp jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core, and a loud cry was ripped from your throat. you arched off the mattress, your thighs clamping tight around his hips.

"oh god—right there—michael, please," you sobbed, your fingers digging bruisingly into his back.

michael let out a pathetic whimper at the sound of your voice. he didn't try to hold back anymore. he began to slam into you with a frantic rhythm, his hips grinding against yours messily.

he felt everything as the walls of your cunt throbbed around him, sucking him in and squeezing him base to tip like you were trying to milk him.

"god, you're— you're squeezin’ me so hard," he choked out, his voice cracking. his face was flushed a deep red, his hair sticking to his face where it framed it. "'m gonna— oh— 'm gonna cum, baby, i can't—"

"cum for me, please, baby," you breathed, your own climax coil tightening so fast you could barely breathe.

he hit that spongy spot again and again, his deep thrusts sending you over the edge. your walls clamped down on him in squeezing ripples.

"i-i love you," he gasped out, voice broken. "god, i love y'so much. 'm gonna marry you."

you fell apart at the desperate promise of his words, sobbing his name into the quiet room as the white-hot waves of your orgasm washed over you.

the crushing grip of your climax was the final straw for michael. he let out a loud, shattered groan, his eyes rolling back as his hips locked hard against yours. he buried his head in your neck, his body shaking as he spent himself inside the condom, his cock twitching and throbbing deeply inside you as he poured everything into you.

he remained buried deep inside you, his chest rising and falling against your breasts as his breathing slowly began to level out. the quiet of the bedroom returned, save for the hum of the air conditioner.

suddenly, the weight of what he'd said in the heat of the moment seemed to crash down on him.

michael buried his face even deeper into the crook of your neck, his shoulders tensing up.

he hid his face from you, hiding his flushed cheeks and panicked eyes against your skin. he was quiet, so quiet that you could feel the anxious, rapid thudding of his heart right against your ribs. he was terrified that he'd said too much, too fast, and desperately hoping that the loud haze of your orgasm had somehow drowned out him pouring his soul to you.

"michael?" you whispered, your voice still incredibly soft and raspy as you came down from the high.

he didn't look up, just let out a small, muffled sound against your shoulder.

you reached up, your hands gentle as your fingers slid into his damp curls, cradling his head. you slowly guided his face up, forcing him to look at you. when his eyes finally met yours, his pretty face was burning a deep red, and his lower lip was tucked between his teeth.

"'m... god, 'm so sorry," he stammered. "i shouldn't have... i didn't mean to just blurt out things like that, i know 's fast, i just—"

"michael," you interrupted softly, a tender smile pulling at your lips. you stroked your thumbs over his high cheekbones. "i love you too."

his entire body went slack, the panic in his shoulders melting away in an instant. he stared down at you, his eyes wide and shiny, searchingly looking over every inch of your face to see if you really meant it.

"you do?" he breathed, his voice barely a whisper, as if he couldn't quite believe the words had actually come out of your mouth.

you nodded, your smile widening as you watched the relief wash over his face. a massive, giddy smile broke across his lips — one he tried so hard to bite back but failed miserably, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of pink.

he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours in a soft, sweet kiss that tasted like pure happiness. when he pulled back just an inch, his eyes were beaming.

"i know we basically did this all backwards," he murmured, his thumb gently tracing your jaw, his voice incredibly tender. "but... will y'let me be your boyfriend? please?"

you couldn't help but laugh softly at how sweet he was, your heart melting. "of course, michael. you can be my boyfriend."

"so we're boyfriend an' girlfriend now?" he asked, his voice full of wonder, like he'd just won the lottery.

you nodded enthusiastically, making him let out another of those beautiful, breathless giggles. he buried his face in your shoulder for a second, just shaking with pure joy, completely on cloud nine as he held you tight against him.

he let out a long, contented sigh. he carefully rolled off you, tying up and discarding the condom, then immediately coming back and pulling you right against his side so your head rested on his chest.

his fingers began to mindlessly stroke up and down your bare arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. he'd occasionally lean down to press soft pecks to the top of your head, your forehead, and your nose, completely doting on you like he couldn't get enough of you.

after a few minutes of just holding each other, the quiet hum of the bedroom was suddenly broken by a repeating clacking sound.

michael blinked, looking toward the window. it sounded like something was hitting the side of the house. he frowned, carefully rolling off the mattress and walking toward the glass to see what it was.

the bedroom window was slightly open, just enough to let the summer air drift inside.

michael pushed the window open a bit more, leaning out slightly as he looked down. standing right by the edge of the grass was jermaine, holding a handful of tiny rocks. he leaned back, raising an eyebrow with a knowing smirk the second he saw michael's head pop out.

"you two lovebirds done?" jermaine called up, his voice loud and clear.

michael froze, the color instantly draining from his face. "w-what?" he stammered.

marlon walked into view next to jermaine, snickering loudly as he pointed a thumb right up at the window. "mike, next time, maybe close your window."

a deep flush instantly painted itself across your and michael's face, his eyes going wide as saucers as he turned to you, exchanging a panicked look.

you two had some explaining to do.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

ngl any time i type bikini bottoms im just thinking of spongebob

anyways i think im wrapping the series here, however, im kinda (heavy on kinda) open to having lil drabbles in the future abt these two bc i have attachment issues and prob will not be able to let them go</3

thanks for reading ily

𝒕𝒂𝒈 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ✩࿐ : @choc0ch1ps @nuhveah @sxlver-sxul @appleheadannie @mjsfinestfish @vxrmillion @ggformike @soberrydelicious @hiiisisteerrrr @4lulai @marley-n-me @m0th-g0th @emsownworld @moonwalkingvamp @heyitsm4di @chaekieu @munaapplehead @camillemonroe @mattbymills @islavioleta @xoviennaxo @palememoryseagull @yumbumlum @qfretza @chheeseybeans @ashmariet @pretty4u @jisungsblackhairissuperior @mjlover0829 @bitchota67 @katseyedreaming @mayketz @nuhogom @cofystain @j3nnyluvscupc4k3s @neverstreett @tvehyyung @artflooo @6ngelbaby @pinktechnomancerveil @pinkpotss @jinx-gf @cinephile444 @evetheegoonette @bluegangstaaaa @marceadoresu @sxphr2 @coornballz @chrislyssas @angelcorezombie

[mjssluttyfish]

This may sound weird but what about a vampire michael x best friend fic where he can sense her period and loses his mind? too weird?

Bite Me

Content: 1981! Michael Jackson x Fem Reader

Warnings: 18+ minors dni, mentions of blood, period head, cunnilingus, bond links, this some freaky shyit, in fic warning is given.

Wc: 1.1k

(a/n: idk if you wanted it to be this freaked out but merry christmas🏃🏽‍♀️☠️)

The scent hit Michael the moment you stepped into the living room. It wasn't just the metallic tang of blood; it was the specific, heavy, hormonal richness of your period. For a vampire, it was like a siren song amplified a thousand times, a thick, intoxicating aroma that filled every inch of his lungs and clouded his mind.

You noticed the change instantly. Michael, who was usually the embodiment of a gentle soul, had frozen mid-sentence. His pupils had blown wide, swallowing the iris until his eyes were two bottomless black voids. His nostrils flared, and a low, guttural growl vibrated in his chest a sound he usually fought to suppress.

"Michael?" you whispered, stepping closer.

He snapped his head toward you, his movements jagged and predatory. He looked starved, his skin paler than usual, his fangs fully extended and glistening. He was shaking, his fingers clawing into the upholstery of the sofa as he fought the primal urge to pounce on you and drain you dry.

"You... you're..." he gasped, his voice sounding like grinding gravel. "You're bleeding. God, it's so strong. I can smell it everywhere."

You felt a flicker of fear, not because you didn't trust him, but because the sheer intensity of his hunger was overwhelming. You knew how much he struggled. Michael was a sweetheart, the kind of vampire who would rather starve for weeks and grow weak than risk causing you a moment of genuine distress. He had told you a hundred times, 'I can't bear the thought of hurting you,' and 'I'd rather go hungry than see you in pain.'

But you didn't want him to suffer. You had insisted, firmly and repeatedly, that he only feed from you. You couldn't stand the thought of him hunting strangers or wasting away in a desperate attempt to be "good."

"I'm fine, Michael," you said, your voice trembling slightly as you walked toward him. "I'm not hurt. It's just my cycle. You know this."

"It's different," he groaned, his eyes tracking the pulse in your neck with terrifying focus. "It's... it's driving me insane. I can't think. I just want... I need..."

You reached out, cupping his cheek. His skin was ice cold, but he leaned into your touch with a desperate, needy whimper. You could feel the tension radiating off him, the battle between his love for you and the biological demand for blood.

"Feed from me," you commanded softly. "Now. Before you lose it."

Michael recoiled, shaking his head violently. "No. Not like this. I'm too far gone, I might... I might hurt you. I can't. Please, just go into the other room, lock the door—"

"I'm not leaving you like this," you countered, grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him toward you. "I want this. I want you to take it."

The last thread of his restraint snapped. With a sudden, blurred movement, Michael lunged, pinning you against the wall. The impact wasn't violent, but it was firm, his heavy body pressing you flat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, a shuddering moan escaping his lips.

"I'm sorry," he whimpered against your skin. "I'm so sorry."

Then, he bit.

The puncture was sharp and sudden, but as soon as his fangs sank deep into your vein, the pain link snapped into place. It was a psychic bridge you both shared a strange, erotic connection where your physical sensations bled into his, and his hunger became your own.

As he began to suck, pulling the rich, iron-heavy blood from your body, a wave of intense, searing pleasure crashed over you. The pain of the bite didn't vanish; instead, it transformed. Every tug of his throat, every swallow of your blood, sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core. You gasped, your back arching against the wall, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

Michael let out a muffled sound of pure ecstasy. Through the link, you could feel his desperation turning into satisfaction, his mind clearing as the blood hit his system. But you also felt his guilt the lingering fear that he was taking too much.

"More," you whimpered, pulling him closer. "Don't stop."

The sensation was overwhelming. The more he drank, the more the pleasure intensified, pooling between your legs. You could feel his arousal growing against your thigh—the hard, insistent length of his dick pressing through his trousers. The contrast between his gentle nature and this raw, animalistic hunger was an aphrodisiac.

He pulled back for a second, his lips stained crimson, his eyes slightly more focused but still hazy with lust. "I'm taking too much," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I don't want to make you faint."

"I don't care," you breathed, your head lolling back. "I love it when you take it. I love knowing I'm the only one who can satisfy you."

That was the breaking point. Michael groaned, his grip tightening on your hips as he dove back in, drinking with a renewed, frantic passion. The pain link flared, sending waves of heat through your body that made your toes curl. You were floating, suspended in a haze of blood-loss and euphoria, anchored only by the weight of him and the rhythmic pulsing of his throat against your skin.

As he finally pulled away, licking the wounds shut with a tender, lingering touch, he looked at you with an expression of pure devotion. He was satiated, his strength returned, but he was still breathing hard, his dick straining against his pants.

"You're too good to me," he whispered, kissing your forehead. "I don't deserve you."

You smiled, pulling him down for a kiss that tasted of copper and longing.

"Shut up and taste me, Michael."

(last warning: mentions of blood, cunnilingus)

Michael's eyes darkened as the metallic scent hit him, his vampire senses sharpening. He dropped to his knees between your thighs without hesitation, hands gripping your hips to hold you open.

"I need this," he growled, voice rough with hunger. His tongue dragged over your swollen pussy, lapping at the warm blood and slick that coated your folds. He moaned low, sucking your clit between his lips while his tongue flicked fast and firm.

You gasped, fingers twisting in his hair as he buried his face deeper. Michael licked broad stripes through your pussy, drinking every drop that leaked out, then sealed his mouth over your entrance to suck harder. His tongue pushed inside, curling to taste you from within before returning to your clit with relentless strokes.

He stayed there, devouring you through the cramps and the mess, growling against your cunt every time fresh blood coated his tongue. His hands pinned your thighs wider, thumbs spreading your lips so he could lick every inch clean. No fingers, no dick just his mouth working you over and over until your legs shook and your moans filled the room.

Michael didn't stop until you came hard against his tongue, your blood and cum mixing on his lips as he kept licking through every pulse.

[mjssluttyfish]

lay back in my tenderness

pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors dni, cunnilingus, pussy drunk, yearning, coochie warming(lmao), sub!michael, whining, begging, hints of oral fixation, your own personal rose, thriller era!michael, somnophilia, overstimulation if you squint, absolutely no plot.

wc: 1k+

how could you resist him when he says things like this, while looking up at you like that?

“lay back in my tenderness, lemme taste you girl.”

“ i want to touch you all over, all over baby please I’ll be good for you”

“ i just wanna make you feel good, I’ll be good f’ you”

“lemme just feel it girl, need you on my tongue”

“It’s so cold in here baby, lemme keep her warm for you”

It starts the way it always does with him on his knees.

He's already hard before he even touches you, his cock straining against his jeans as he presses his face into the inside of your thigh. He breathes you in, deep and slow, like a man taking his first lungful of air. His doe eyes are half lidded, dark and glassy, his lips parted. He's not begging yet. Not out loud. But the way his fingers tremble against your skin says everything.

"Please," he finally breathes, voice hoarse. "Please, baby. Let me taste you. Just a little. Just—" He kisses the crease where your thigh meets your hip, tongue darting out to taste salt and warmth. "I need it. I need it."

You barely nod before he's burying his face between your legs.

Michael doesn't start slow. There's no teasing, no gentle buildup. He goes straight for your clit with the flat of his tongue, laving it in long, broad strokes that make your hips jerk. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open for him like you're a meal he's been starved for. And he has been. Every hour away from you is an hour of withdrawal, of craving, of counting down until he can have this again.

He moans against you, the vibration sending a jolt straight to your core. His tongue flicks faster, circles, presses flat, then flicks again. He's sloppy. Desperate. There's no technique to it just pure, unadulterated hunger. Saliva and your wetness mix together, dripping down his chin, and he doesn't wipe it away. He wears it like a badge of honor.

"Fuck," he mutters against your cunt, the word muffled by your flesh. "Fuck, you taste so fucking good. Sweet. So sweet. I could—" He stops talking because his mouth is too busy, too full of you.

He loses track of time down there. Minutes blur into hours. His jaw aches, his tongue cramps, but he doesn't stop. Can't stop. Every time you try to shift away, oversensitive and trembling, he tightens his grip on your hips and pulls you back. His nose presses into your pubic bone, his lips sealed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, then letting go only to dive back in.

When you're in bed, he crawls under the covers without a word. You feel his hot breath against your inner thigh before his mouth finds you, half-asleep and warm. He nuzzles into your cunt like a man seeking comfort, lapping lazily at your folds until you're wet and sighing in your sleep. He falls asleep that way sometimes his cheek pressed against your thigh, lips brushing your clit, breathing you in. He wakes up hard, aching, and immediately starts all over again, licking you awake.

During the day, it's worse.

He'll pull you into the studio under the pretense of needing your opinion on a new track. The door clicks shut, the blinds close, and suddenly he's on his knees again. He shoves a pillow under him not for his comfort, but to get the angle right. His chin tilts up, his tongue out, waiting. Begging with his eyes.

"Just a taste," he whispers. "I'm stuck. I can't write. I can't think. I need—" He presses his forehead to your thigh, breathing hard. "I need your pussy, baby. She's my muse. She's the only thing that makes the words come."

And you let him. Because it's true. The moment his mouth finds you, the tension in his shoulders melts. His hands roam your ass, squeeze, spread, pull you closer. His tongue works you until you're gasping, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips grinding against his face. He moans with every flick, every suck, every time your cunt clenches around nothing because his tongue is right there, pressing into your entrance, tasting your cream.

He comes in his pants without realizing it.

The first time it happens, he's so focused on your pleasure that he doesn't notice his own cock throbbing, pulsing, spilling into his jeans. The wet patch spreads warm against his thigh, and he only becomes aware of it when you're done, panting and limp, and he pulls back with a glistening chin. He looks down at himself, blinks, and then grins, sheepish, embarrassed, but also proud.

"Sorry," he mutters, but he's not sorry at all.

It becomes a pattern. Two pairs of jeans a week. Sometimes three. He starts buying cheap brands because he knows they'll be ruined. The laundry basket fills with stiff, stained denim, and he never complains. He just shuffles to the drawer, pulls out another pair, and gets back on his knees.

You have to push him away.

It's the only way it stops. When your clit is raw and swollen and every flick of his tongue makes you flinch, you press your palm against his forehead and shove. He resists at first, whining against your skin, trying to chase your taste as you pull back. "No," you say, breathless. "Michael. Stop."

And he does. But only because you said so. Only because your voice has that edge of finality that he can't ignore.

He sits back on his heels, chin wet, lips red and puffy, eyes glazed. His breathing is ragged, and there's a smear of your arousal across his cheek. He licks his lips slowly, savoring the last traces.

"Sorry," he says again, but his voice is thick. He's not sorry. He's already thinking about the next time, counting the hours until he can taste you again.

He crawls up the bed and curls against you, pressing his face into your neck. His hand is still wet, still slick with your juices, and he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean one by one. His eyes close. He's content. Sated. But only for now.

Because tomorrow morning, before the sun rises, he'll be between your thighs again. His tongue will find your clit before you're fully awake. His mouth will seal over you, and he'll hum in satisfaction, drinking you down like a man dying of thirst.

And he'll whisper, half to himself, half to you: "Not my fault you taste so sweet."

He says it like a prayer. Like a confession. Like the truest thing he's ever known.

(a/n: andddddd yet another old note turned into a mini fic posted, been thinking about how michael has the most insane case of ‘coochie pls🥺’ eyes I’ve ever seen for a long while)

[mjssluttyfish]

his muse II

Read his muse I here

Content: Michael Jackson x Reader, Established Relationship, Wife Reader, don’t lift not another finger unless it’s to give a order

Warnings: Pussy Drunk Michael, Sound Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Businesswoman Reader, Gentle Dom, Creampie, Oral Sex, Dirty Talk, oral fixation if you squint

Wc: 1k+

Michael’s hands rested on your hips as he pulled you closer in the quiet of your shared bedroom, his eyes soft and full of that gentle warmth he always saved just for you. “Baby, listen to me,” he said, voice low and sincere, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “I made all this money from Off the Wall. It’s ours now. You don’t have to keep working yourself to the bone. No more lifting, no more running around. I want you to focus on your business—the one you’ve always dreamed about. I’ll invest in it, put my name behind it, help it grow. You’ll be the businesswoman you’re meant to be, and I’ll take care of everything else.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a tender kiss, his lips moving slow and sweet against yours. “Let me take care of you, Mrs. Jackson. Let me spoil my wife.” His fingers slipped under your dress, tracing the curve of your thigh until they reached the heat between your legs. He groaned softly at the first touch of your wetness, already so ready for him. “Damn, listen to that,” he whispered, sliding two fingers through your folds, spreading the slick sound that filled the room. “That wet lil pussy… it’s singing f’me.”

Michael dropped to his knees right there on the carpet, pushing your dress up and hooking your panties aside. He buried his face between your thighs without hesitation, tongue dragging a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance up to your clit. The sound of him licking—wet, hungry, obscene—made your knees buckle. He moaned into your pussy like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, the vibrations traveling straight through you. “She taste so good,” he breathed, voice already thick and dazed. “Sweetest inna worl’. M’ wife perfect lil cunt.”

He licked again, slower this time, savoring every drop, the slick noises growing louder as he pressed his tongue inside you. Your juices coated his chin, and he didn’t wipe them away; he let them drip while he sucked your clit between his lips, humming with pleasure. Every slurp, every filthy wet sound seemed to drive him deeper into that pussy-drunk haze. His free hand stroked over his own pants, palming the growing bulge. “Hear how she talks to me?” he asked, pulling back just enough to watch your pussy clench and drip. “Those little squelches… that’s my muse. Gonna make you gush all over my face, baby.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair as he dove back in, tongue fucking you with steady thrusts while his nose rubbed your clit. The room filled with the obscene symphony of his mouth working your soaked pussy. Slurping, sucking, the occasional soft pop when he pulled off your swollen nub. Michael’s eyes fluttered, lashes brushing his cheeks; he looked blissed out, completely lost in the taste and sound of you. “Mmm, keep making those noises,” he murmured against your folds. “ Ev’ time you moan, ev’ time this pretty cunt drips… it’s like music. Better than any song I written.”

He stood up slowly, lips shiny with your arousal, and guided you to the bed. You lay back as he stripped off his shirt and pants, his dick springing free—thick, dark, already leaking at the tip. He climbed over you, kissing your stomach, your breasts, your throat, whispering sweet words between each press of his lips. “My beautiful wife… gonna take such good care of you. No more stress, no more long hours. Just you running your empire while I worship this pussy every night.”

Michael lined himself up, rubbing the of length of his dick through your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness. The sound was loud in the quiet room. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning at the tight heat gripping him. “Oh fuck, listen to that,” he panted, bottoming out and holding still so you both could hear the squelch of your pussy stretching around his dick. “She so wet f’me… swallowin every inch like she was made f’ it.”

He started thrusting, deep and steady, the wet sounds growing louder with every stroke. Michael’s head dropped to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. “ ’s it, baby… let me hear her. Lemme hear how good I feels innat tight lil pussy.” His pace picked up, hips snapping forward, the slap of skin and the constant squelching filling the air. Every time he pulled back, your juices coated his shaft, strings of slick connecting you until he drove back in. He was completely pussy-drunk now, eyes glassy, mouth open as he chased the sounds your body made for him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he groaned, one hand sliding between you to rub your clit in tight circles. “Wan’ you dripping my cum while you plan business meetins. Wan’ you sittin pretty in boardrooms with my load leakin out of this perfect cunt.” His thrusts grew harder, the bed creaking, your pussy making the loudest, wettest noises with every plunge of his dick. Michael moaned shamelessly, praising every sound. “Fuck, that squelch… that’s my favorite song. Keep clenching like that—yeah, just like that.”

You felt the tension building fast, your walls fluttering around him. Michael sensed it too, his rhythm faltering as he chased your pleasure. “Come on, baby… cum on my dick. Let me hear that pretty pussy gush.” Your orgasm hit hard, pussy pulsing and creaming around him, the wet sounds turning even more obscene. Michael followed right after, burying himself deep and flooding you with hot cum, his dick twitching as he groaned your name like a prayer.

He stayed inside you, rocking gently through the aftershocks, still listening to the soft, wet sounds of your mixed releases. “I love you,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “You gonna be the biggest businesswoman this city ever seen. And every night, I’m gonna come home and eat this cunt til’ you can’t think straight. No more working yourself ragged. Just you, me, and that beautiful sound you make when I’m buried in you.”

Michael finally pulled out, watching his cum drip from your swollen pussy with a satisfied, lovesick smile. He leaned down and licked you clean, tongue gentle but thorough, moaning at the taste of both of you. “Mmm, still the sweetest thing I’ve ever had,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Rest now, baby. Tomorrow we start building your empire. Tonight… let me keep listening to my favorite song.”

[lullora]

<𝟑 .ᐟ DATE NIGHT — PART 2

۶ৎ pairing — michael x fem!reader

۶ৎ synopsis — two of the biggest names in music, one used to be yours, the other one is now. the night michael said just one more time baby, you realised there never really was a choice.

۶ৎ themes — alcohol use, p in v sex, oral f!receiving, jealousy, angst, cheating, yearning, mentions of masturbation (disclaimer: i do not condone cheating whatsoever, this is just for the plot)

۶ৎ wc — 9.3k

۶ৎ note — oh. my. god. this took me forever to write, i kept switching between plots because i couldn’t figure out where to take this!! hopefully it hits as good as part one 😭

to read part one, click here

۶ৎ tags — @platanita @taaaaurumeshal @heavencanwaitsblog @keshakim @backupschmuck @waywardgirl83 @botdfaholic @wonin1nie @kryka83 @theunsweetenedtruth @i-heart-carlisle @hwa-atz @ripesinner @milfslut @iwannarockwu @sunshineyrosie @buttismine @jenniversity @redwine-and-ambien21 @sebbysbaby @lovelyreadersposts @baka2trappy @17wishesx @naturallykae @jasppppeeee @khiarsa @cass12367 @jubs08 @xoxogossipgirl02 @peacemakersbeloved @galacticpurpl3 @cherubae111 @theplaid-wearingmoose @king-mila @michaels-left-elbow @appleheadsbiggestfan @st6rmbrn @blackbarbie20 @oidloid @rlm-11 @woolenh @andrabear23 @roromanok @berni333sworld @appleheadddluver @navy-37 @swanhoneymoon @scccm0182 (sorry it wouldn’t let me tag some people)

You and Michael split the night after the Grammys, standing in the kitchen of the house he'd never publicly acknowledged you lived in, wearing the dress you'd picked out for an afterparty you were never going to be seen at. The fight wasn't loud, that was the worst part. He didn't yell, he just stood there with that soft voice, that impenetrable gentleness, and explained again why the world couldn't know. You explained why you couldn't live like that. Neither of you were wrong, but you packed a bag anyway. It was inevitable, you couldn’t live in secret any longer whilst watching the man you loved parading around with other women because he was too proud to have you on his arm. 

The breakup didn’t ruin you the way it should’ve, the way you’d expected it to. After time passed, you realised that you’d already grieved the relationship before it had ended, like a woman attending a funeral that had finished before she arrived. But knowing that never dulled the ache.

Six weeks later, Rolling Stone called.

The interview was supposed to be about your songwriting, your work on Thriller, the sessions that had made you one of the most sought-after names behind the scenes in the industry, especially now that Prince had put your name out there. 

The interviewer asked about Michael. You looked straight into the camera with your hair blown out and your shoulders back in a black blazer you'd bought yourself. You claimed you'd never been with him, said you were colleagues with a smile that didn't reach your eyes. The magazine ran the quote as the headline.

Michael watched it from the couch at Hayvenhurst, barefoot in grey sweatpants, a bowl of cereal going warm in his lap. He was angry and he couldn’t depict whether it was at you for leaving or himself for screwing things up. 

Three months after that, the tabloids caught you with Prince outside a recording studio in Minneapolis. He had his hand on the small of your back, you were laughing, angled towards him in a way that insinuated intimacy.

The headline read:

Prince Steals Michael Jackson's Mystery Songwriter. 

The photo ran in every checkout line in America.

Prince thought it was hilarious. He showed you the clipping over breakfast in his kitchen, shirtless, grinning that sharp little grin of his and said he'd never been called a thief before but he liked the way it sounded. He started introducing you at parties as his girlfriend before you'd even had the conversation about what you were to each other and you let him, because being with someone who wanted the world to know you existed turned out to be its own kind of drug.

Michael didn't know. He saw the photos, sure. He read the headlines, sure. But nobody told him it was real and he didn’t ask. 

The call came on a Tuesday. Quincy's voice on the other end of the line, measured and warm the way it always was, asking if you'd come out for the Victory Tour. They needed another arranger, someone who knew Michael's ear, someone who could tighten the live sets without him having to explain what he meant every five seconds. You said yes before he finished the sentence, because the money was obscene for the type of work and because some stupid, unexamined part of you wanted to be in the same room as him again even if you'd never admit that out loud.

You told Prince over dinner that night. He shrugged, twirled his fork, said something about how those Jackson boys needed all the help they could get. He kissed you on the forehead before pouring another glass of wine. He didn't ask if you still had feelings for Michael, perhaps he didn’t care or maybe he already knew the answer to that.

The rehearsal space was a warehouse in Los Angeles, cavernous and echoing, filled with equipment cases, cable runs and the distant thud of a bass drum being tuned somewhere in the back. You arrived early, clipboard in hand, hair pulled up, wearing high-waisted jeans and a white blouse knotted at the waist, gold hoops catching the overhead fluorescents. You looked good. You knew you looked good and you’d made sure of it, because a twisted part of you wanted Michael to squirm over his loss. 

Tito spotted you first. He was leaning against a road case with a guitar pick between his teeth and when he saw you walk through the loading bay doors, his whole face split open into a grin so wide it looked like it hurt.

"Guys!" He called over his shoulder, not even trying to hide it. "Look who the hell just walked in."

Marlon appeared from behind a stack of monitors. Jackie materialised from the hallway. Jermaine came last, slower, arms crossed, that knowing look on his face like he'd been expecting this moment for months and was already savouring it. They gathered around you like a fence going up, all of them taller than you remembered, all of them grinning, Marlon pulling you into a hug so tight he lifted you off the ground.

"Put me down!" You laughed, swatting at his shoulder.

"Honey, you look good." Marlon said, setting you back on your feet and holding you at arm's length to get a proper look. "Too good. What's Prince feeding you?"

"Don't start."

"We're not starting." Jackie said, leaning in to kiss your cheek. "We're just observing, noting things… Professionally of course."

"Professionally." Tito echoed, nodding solemnly.

Jermaine said nothing for a moment. He just looked at you with that slow expression, the one that meant he was about to say something designed to make you uncomfortable.

"So you really did that interview, huh?"

The air shifted and you felt it. All four of them were watching you now, not with judgment exactly, but with the particular delight of men who had front-row seats to a drama they hadn't been part of but fully intended to enjoy.

"I did that interview." You confirmed, setting your clipboard down on a nearby case.

"You broke that man." Jermaine said, his voice low and serious even though his eyes were laughing. "I mean this with all due respect, you ruined him. You know he threw a chair?"

"A chair."

"A whole chair." Jackie said, holding his hands apart to indicate the size. "Like, a real one. Wood, legs, the whole thing just-" He made a throwing motion. "Across the rehearsal room."

"Marlon almost died." Tito added.

"I didn't almost die." Marlon protested. "I just... had a reaction."

"He shit his pants." Jermaine said flatly.

You blinked. "He did not."

"I did." Marlon admitted, holding up both hands. "I'm not gonna lie to you. That man picked up that chair and I felt my soul leave my body.”

You pressed your hand over your mouth because the laughter was already building and you didn't want to give them the satisfaction, but it broke through anyway, a real one, the kind that comes from your stomach and shakes your shoulders. Marlon looked wounded, the others looked delighted.

"It's not funny." Marlon said. "That chair hit the wall two inches from my head."

"It's a little funny." You managed.

"It's a little funny." Marlon conceded. "But I need you to understand the terror. My brother, launching furniture because a woman said she’d never been with him."

"He was crying too." Tito said quietly and that one landed differently. The laughter didn't stop exactly, but it settled, became something smaller and more contained. Tito wasn't teasing, he was telling you because he thought you should know.

The room became a degree quieter. You looked at Tito and he held your gaze.

"After the chair, he sat on the floor and cried." Tito continued. "For like twenty minutes, we didn't know what to do. Quincy came in and just sat next to him, didn’t say anything, just sat there."

You swallowed and your throat felt tight in a way that had nothing to do with laughing.

"Anyway." Jermaine said, breaking the moment with the efficiency of a man who understood that feelings had a time limit. "That's not even the best part."

"There's a best part?" You asked.

"Oh baby, there's a phenomenal part." Jermaine reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, flipped it open and produced a photograph that had clearly been torn from a magazine. You could see the ragged edges where another figure had been cut away. It was you. The tabloid shot. The one of you and Prince outside the studio in Minneapolis, except Prince had been carefully, methodically removed, leaving just you mid-laugh, your hand on empty air, your hair catching the light.

"He cut Prince out." Jermaine said, holding it up between two fingers like evidence. "Very carefully like surgery and kept your half."

"That's..." You started, but didn't know how to finish.

"So we're rehearsing in the small room one day." Jackie said, picking up the story with barely contained glee. "And Marlon walks in early to grab his bass and he finds this photo.” He continued, pointing at the clipping Jermaine was still holding. "Propped up against the mirror, like, set up."

"And around it." Marlon said, holding up a finger because he wanted to deliver this part himself. "There’s a pile of tissues and a bottle of moisturiser."

The silence lasted exactly one second before the warehouse erupted. Tito bent over double. Jackie turned away, shoulders shaking. Jermaine was laughing so hard no sound was coming out. You stood there with your hand clamped over your mouth again, eyes wide, something between shock and hysterics.

"Now, we didn't see anything." Jermaine said, raising both palms in a gesture of practiced innocence. "We don't know what happened, but the next morning, right, Jackie asks Michael how he slept."

"I asked very casually." Jackie said. "Very nonchalant, just making conversation."

"And Michael." Jermaine continued. "Looks Jackie dead in the eye, completely calm and says.” He paused for effect, dropping his voice into a soft, earnest impression. "'I slept fine. I was very relaxed.'"

You lost it. You bent forward with both hands on your knees, laughing so hard no sound came out at first, just your shoulders shaking and your eyes watering. The brothers were gone too, Marlon wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Tito leaning against a road case for support, Jackie bent at the waist with his palms on his thighs.

"I was very relaxed." Jermaine repeated and that set everyone off again.

It took a full minute for the room to settle. You straightened up and dabbed at your eyes with your fingers, still catching your breath.

"He's a mess." Jackie said as the teasing drained out of his voice and was replaced by something more honest. "Genuinely, since you left. The chair, the photo, the crying. He doesn't eat, he barely sleeps, he’s been writing songs that sound like someone dying. Quincy's worried. We're all worried."

"We're basically his therapists at this point." Marlon said, gesturing vaguely between the four of them. "Four unlicensed emotional therapists on call twenty four seven. Nobody's paying us. We just sit there while he stares out the window like he's in a music video."

"He's not staring out windows." Tito said.

"He's absolutely staring out the windows." Marlon shot back. "I walked in on him last week listening to Purple Rain in the dark, not even his own album. I said 'Mike, what are you doing?' and he looked at me with those big sad eyes and said 'thinking.' Thinking? Bro, go to therapy."

"Anyway." Jermaine said, because he could feel the tangent pulling them off course. "There’s something else."

"What?"

"You're with Prince. For real."

It wasn't a question. You held his gaze and didn't flinch. "Yeah, I am."

Jermaine exhaled through his nose and looked at Tito, then at Jackie, then at Marlon. Some silent conversation passed between the four of them, the kind that only brothers can have with their eyes.

"He doesn't know." Jermaine said. "Michael. He doesn't know it's real, he thinks it's just the tabloids being tabloids."

"Oh shit." Marlon murmured. "Oh shit."

"He's gonna find out." Jackie said, running a hand over his mouth. "And he is going to lose his fucking mind."

"The man has been a mess for months." Tito added, shaking his head slowly. "Throwing chairs, crying on the floor, jerking off to a magazine cutout like a goddamn teenager and you're telling us he doesn't even know about Prince?"

"He doesn't." Jermaine confirmed.

"We should tell him." Marlon said.

"You're not telling him anything." Jermaine said firmly. "She can tell him herself if she wants to, or he can figure it out on his own. Either way, that's not our business."

"Since when is anything not our business?" Marlon asked.

"Since right now." Jermaine said as he looked at you again. "He's coming in today for rehearsal. He doesn't know you're here. Quincy set the whole thing up and told us not to say a word."

Your pulse kicked, but your face kept still. "How's that gonna go?"

Jermaine smiled, slow and dangerous, and for just a moment you saw the family resemblance to Michael so clearly it made your stomach flip.

"Badly." He said. "It's gonna go so badly and we're gonna be right here watching."

Michael was late. Forty five minutes late, which was unusual for him, because he had always been the kind of person who arrived early and ran choreography in his head before walking through the door. You knew this about him. You'd always known this about him and so when the loading bay doors stayed closed and the minutes kept climbing you felt your composure begin to thin at the edges, because anticipation is its own kind of cruelty and the longer you waited, the more your body remembered things your brain was trying very hard to forget.

The brothers had gone quiet, but only in the way that men go quiet when they're waiting for a punchline. Marlon kept glancing at the side door with barely contained glee, bouncing on his heels like a kid waiting for a birthday cake. Tito was tuning his guitar with practiced disinterest, except every thirty seconds he'd look up at you and then at the door, his mouth twitching in a way that suggested he was suppressing something enormous. Jackie leaned against a monitor with his arms folded, watching the whole production unfold with the detached pleasure of a man in the front row. Jermaine was the worst of them, leaning against the far wall with his hands in his pockets, his expression so deliberately neutral it bordered on theatrical.

Quincy had given you a sheet of notes. You'd been staring at the same page for twenty minutes without reading a single word.

You heard him before you saw him, but you didn't look up. You kept your eyes on the page in front of you because some animal part of your brain understood that the moment you looked at him, everything would become real in a way that couldn't be undone and you wanted just a few more seconds inside the fiction that this was a normal rehearsal.

The silence stretched. You could feel every brother in the room holding their breath, could feel the weight of their attention not on Michael but on you, waiting for you to lift your head.

"Michael." Quincy said, his voice easy and warm, like nothing at all was happening. "Good, we’re all here. Come on in."

You looked up.

He was standing just inside the doorway in a red v-neck sweater over a white t-shirt, black slacks and a single rhinestone glove tucked into his belt like he'd forgotten it was there. His hair was the same as you remembered, soft and loose around his face, glossy with product, framing those cheekbones that photographers never quite captured in their full geometry.

There was a thin gold chain at his throat that caught the light when he moved. He looked beautiful. He looked exactly the way your chest ached when you heard his name spoken aloud in a room. For a single, unguarded second his face did something that had nothing to do with performance or the careful architecture of public composure. His lips parted and his eyes went wide. The clipboard in his hand slipped two inches before his fingers tightened around it again.

He saw you.

"Surprise, motherfucker." Marlon sang from across the room, spreading both arms wide like he was presenting a gift.

Michael didn't hear him, he didn't hear anything, because the room had contracted to the width of the space between you and him, the air becoming something dense. You held his gaze because you couldn't do anything else and your body had made that decision without consulting you. His brown eyes moved across your face like he was reading something he'd memorised but forgotten, absorbing every detail, the gold hoops, the pulled-up hair, the white blouse knotted at your waist. His throat worked once, a swallow you could see from ten feet away.

"Hey, Michael." You said, your voice coming out steadier than you had any right to expect.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. His gaze dropped to the clipboard in his hands, then came back to you and you watched him try to assemble his face into something neutral while every expression underneath screamed something louder. 

"Hi."

One word, barely even that. More like a sound he made because his body needed to do something with the air in his lungs.

"Oh, don't look so scared, Mike." Tito called out, grinning wide enough to show every tooth. "She doesn't bite."

Marlon tilted his head, scrunching his nose.

"I don't know about that, Tito." He said slowly, his eyes sliding to you with a grin that was pure mischief. "I seem to remember Mike coming to rehearsal once with some marks on his neck he could not explain. Said it was a rash."

"It was a rash." Michael whispered, his voice thin, his ears flooding with colour so fast it looked painful.

"A rash." Jermaine repeated from the wall, nodding solemnly. "On his neck, in the shape of teeth."

"It wasn't teeth."

"Nobody said it was teeth, Mikey." Jackie offered, his face a masterwork of innocence. "You're the one bringing up teeth… interesting."

"Shut up." Michael breathed, but there was no force behind it, just the sound of a man whose composure had been ambushed from every direction. The tips of his ears had gone from pink to crimson and were still climbing.

"I didn't know you'd be here." He murmured, but he wasn't talking to you. He was talking to Quincy, or maybe to God. It was hard to tell.

"I know." Quincy said gently. "Sit down, Michael. We've got work to do."

"Good to see you, Mike." Jermaine added from the wall, his tone so casually affectionate it made Michael flinch. He couldn't look at anyone in the room except you and each time his eyes found yours, they held for a moment longer than the last, longer than was polite, before he'd wrench them away and fix them on his clipboard, the far wall, anywhere that wasn't your face.

Michael sat down as far from you as the space allowed. He set his clipboard on his knee and stared at the page in front of him with the fixed intensity of a man who was not reading a single word. You could feel him from that distance, could feel the frequency of his attention like heat off pavement, radiating toward you in waves he couldn't have concealed if his life depended on it.

The rehearsal began. Quincy ran through the setlist in his calm, methodical way, calling out arrangements that needed tightening and you did your job because doing your job was the only thing keeping you upright. You called out a bridge in Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' that needed altered.

Every few minutes you'd catch the weight of his gaze settling on you, lingering on the curve of your neck, the way your hair fell when you tucked it behind your ear. Each time you looked up, he'd look away with a speed that was almost violent, his jaw clenching, his fingers tightening around his pen until the knuckles went pale. 

Once you caught him mid-glance and he didn't look away fast enough. For a fraction of a second, you saw everything in his face that he was trying to hide, the ache, the want, the particular agony of looking at something you'd lost and still feeling the phantom weight of it in your hands. 

Marlon watched all of this from behind his guitar with an expression of undisguised delight. At one point, during a break, he leaned over to Tito and whispered something that made him cover his mouth with his hand. When Michael glanced over at them suspiciously, they both became very interested in their equipment.

"He's obsessed." Marlon muttered to Jackie when Michael left to get water, loud enough for you to hear but quiet enough to maintain plausible deniability. "Look at him, he can't even hold a pen straight."

"His hands are shaking." Jackie confirmed, not even trying to hide it. "The man is out here having an emotional crisis in real time."

"Leave him be." Jermaine said, but he was smiling.

Michael came back with a bottle of water and sat down in the same spot. He didn't look at you for a full three minutes, which was somehow worse than the staring, because the absence of his attention felt like a held breath. When he finally looked up again, his eyes found yours immediately, like there was a wire between you pulling taut, but this time he didn't look away. He held your gaze across the room with an expression so open and unguarded that you felt it in your stomach, like a physical force.

Marlon caught your eye from across the room. He mouthed two words, slow and deliberate so you couldn't miss them.

Oh shit.

You pressed your lips together to keep from laughing or doing something else that would have made this worse and turned back to your notes.

—

The dressing room smelled like sweat and cologne. You hadn't meant to be there. You’d told yourself you were just dropping off the revised arrangements for the next show, the voicing changes on Human Nature that Quincy had asked for. You’d set the pages on the counter next to a half-empty bottle of water.

You should have left. The pages were delivered, the job was done and every second you spent standing in this room surrounded by the evidence of his life was a second closer to something you'd been running from since the moment you walked back through those doors.

The door opened behind you.

He was still in his stage clothes, the jacket unbuttoned and hanging off his shoulders, the v-neck beneath it dark with sweat at the collar, his hair loosened and curling against his temples. There was a glass in his hand, something amber, half-drunk and when he saw you standing there, his steps faltered and his body stuttered through a half-second of stillness before he caught himself. He kept moving, setting the glass down on the counter with a careful motion that suggested he was concentrating very hard on not dropping it.

"Quincy said you were dropping off charts." He offered, his voice low and slightly rough from the show, or perhaps the liquor.

"That's right." You gestured at the pages. "He wanted them before tomorrow."

Michael picked up the pages and looked at them without reading them, his eyes moving across the notation with a blank, mechanical focus, his fingers tightening around the paper's edge until the tips went pale.

"You were good tonight." You said, because someone had to say something before the silence consumed the room. "The Billie Jean choreography, that was new."

He made a soft sound through his nose that wasn't quite a laugh and set the pages back down. "I've been working on it. Had a lot of time lately, not sleeping much."

The words hung there, stripped of any attempt at charm or deflection. You knew what that meant. You knew because you weren't sleeping either, because three in the morning found you in the same position every night, staring at the ceiling, your body a map of missing someone who was technically still alive and reachable but felt too far to touch.

"Michael." You began and the way you said his name must have told him something, because his eyes came up to yours with a sharpness that hadn't been there a moment ago. 

"What is it?"

The words sat in your throat, heavy and jagged, because saying them out loud would make them true in a way that couldn't be taken back, and some treacherous part of you wanted to stand here in this dressing room and pretend you were still someone who belonged in his life without conditions.

"I'm seeing someone." You spoke.

The room went very quiet. Not the comfortable kind, not the silence of two people who know each other well enough to let the space breathe, but the quiet of a moment balanced on the edge of something irreversible. You watched his face cycle through expressions rapidly. His lips parted, his brow creased, something moved behind his eyes, a flicker of dread, of the specific terror that comes from hearing a thing you already suspected spoken aloud in a voice that makes it permanent.

"Okay." He said carefully. "Okay... that’s, um. That's fine… who?"

“Prince.”

You said the name. Every muscle in his face locked into place with a stillness that was worse than any breakdown because it was clearly taking everything he had, every ounce of discipline and self-control he'd spent his entire life cultivating, to keep his features from betraying what was happening underneath.

His eyes went glassy and his nostrils flared once. His jaw set so hard you could see the muscle jump beneath the skin, a tiny, rhythmic pulse that was the only visible sign of the enormous internal effort it was taking him not to break something.

"Prince." He repeated, his voice flat, a word delivered without inflection or feeling, which was how you knew it contained more feeling than anything he'd ever said to you.

"Michael, I..."

"How long?"

The question came out clipped, and when his eyes found yours again, the glassiness was gone. What had replaced it was something furious, a rage so intense it was almost radiant, burning behind his brown eyes.

"A few months." You managed. "After the tabloids, we started talking and it just..."

"Don't." His voice cracked on the word, not from sadness but from the effort of containment. He turned away from you, one hand coming up to press against his mouth, his fingers digging into his jaw. He walked three steps toward the far wall and stopped there, his back to you, his shoulders rising and falling with the controlled rhythm of someone trying not to hyperventilate.

"Don't tell me it just happened." He said, his voice muffled behind his hand. "Don't stand in here and tell me it just happened with him, of all the goddamn people on this planet..."

His hand dropped and clenched at his side, his knuckles white and he stared at the wall. When he turned back to you, his eyes were wet and his mouth was pulled into a shape that wasn't a smile yet wasn't a snarl, but lived somewhere in the territory between them.

"You know what it's been like?" His voice was low, trembling, the words coming out in uneven bursts. 

"Every magazine, every newspaper, every time I turn on a goddamn TV, there you are, with him. His arm around you, you smiling next to him like... like you're happy. Do you know what that does to a man? To see that every single day?"

"Michael, please..." Your vision blurred. You blinked and felt the tears slip down your cheek. He watched them fall with an expression that warred between tenderness and fury, his chest heaving beneath the sweat-damp shirt, his hands shaking at his sides.

"He gets to keep you." Michael whispered and the anger had cracked open now, revealing the devastation underneath. "He gets to wake up next to you, he gets to hold your hand whenever he wants, he gets to have you in all the ways I couldn't and I get to see photographs of it, that’s what I get. Photographs. And I'm supposed to act like I'm fine."

"I'm sorry." You said, and you meant it.

"Stop saying that." He took a step toward you, then stopped himself, his body jerking back like he'd touched a hot surface, like proximity to you was a thing he both craved and couldn't trust himself with. "Just... just tell me you don't love me. Tell me that and I'll stop. I'll walk out of this room right now and I'll never bring it up again. Just tell me you don't love me."

You couldn't say it. The words were right there, the simple denial, the clean escape, the sentence that would free you both yet you couldn't form it because your body had already answered for you, your hands rising to grip his wrists, not to push him away but to hold him there. The gap between what you should say and what your hands were telling him was so enormous it swallowed every ounce of resolve you had left.

"That's what I thought." He whispered and something in his expression shifted, the desperation giving way to the look of a man who has just realised he's going to get the thing he wanted and is already mourning the cost of it.

"You know what your brothers told me…" You said, your voice barely above a whisper. "About that photo, the one you cut Prince out of."

Michael's hands stilled and his eyes widened. A flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. You watched him cycle through shock, humiliation and the dawning realisation that his brothers had betrayed him with the casual ease of men who had been waiting their entire lives for this kind of ammunition.

"They told you about that?" He breathed.

"They told me everything." Your voice was steadier now, fuelled by the tiny, desperate power of watching Michael blush so hard his ears looked painful. "The tissues, the moisturiser and what you were doing with the photo..."

"Baby, I was not..."

"Michael. They literally caught you."

His hands came up to cover his face, pressing his palms against his eyes with a groan that came from somewhere below his chest. He stood there like that for a long second, his shoulders hunched, his ears burning, the most famous man on the planet reduced to a mortified twenty five year old whose brothers had told his ex girlfriend about the most embarrassing moment of his adult life.

"I'm gonna kill them." He muttered into his hands. "I'm gonna kill every single one of those motherfuckers. Marlon first, Marlon dies first."

"They said you told them you slept fine, that you were relaxed."

"I was relaxed." He said from behind his hands, his voice defensive and completely unconvincing. You laughed so hard your shoulders shook, a wet, half-sobbing laugh that was more relief than humour, and when you opened your eyes Michael was staring at you through his fingers with an expression of such naked, bewildered hope that it made the laughter die in your throat and be replaced by something hotter and more urgent.

"Don't say his name in here." He murmured and his hands came down from his face, finding your waist as he settled there with a possessiveness that was almost unconscious, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your blouse like he was trying to anchor himself. "Not in this room, not tonight."

"What am I supposed to say instead?"

His face was close now, close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the way his curl fell across his forehead in a loose spiral. His breath was warm against your mouth, tinged with the amber of whatever he'd been drinking. His hands tightened on your waist with a pressure that was a question and a demand all at once.

"Say mine." He whispered.

His lips found yours before you could answer and the kiss was not gentle, not the exploratory press of two people testing the waters. It was a collision and his mouth moved against yours with a hunger that bordered on desperation, his hands dragging you against him, pulling your body into the sweat-damp heat of his chest with an urgency that left no room for deliberation or doubt. 

You kissed him back because your body had been waiting for this since the moment you walked into that rehearsal room, since before that, since the first night without him when you'd laid in an empty bed and tried to convince yourself that the ache would fade. His hands were in your hair and on your back, tugging at your blouse with the fumbling desperation of a man who had imagined this moment so many times that the reality of it felt like a hallucination he was afraid to wake up from.

"One night." He breathed against your mouth, between kisses, each word a gasp. "That's all I'm asking, baby. Just tonight, he’ll never know. C'mon.. please."

"Michael, I shouldn't..."

"You were mine before you were his." The words came out broken and he pulled back just far enough to look at you, his forehead pressed against yours, his brown eyes blazing and wet. "You were mine first. All of it. Every part of you. He doesn't know you the way I know you, baby. He's never woken you up at four in the morning with his face between your thighs-"

"Michael, stop."

"I still love you." His voice broke on it, the words emerging from the wreckage like something pulled from a fire.

"Every day, every single day. I never stopped. Not for one second. I tried, I tried so fucking hard but none of it mattered, because nothing could replace you."

"Michael, I can’t…" You said again, the words crumbling even as you spoke them, your hands already fisting in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away, your body in open mutiny against every scrap of sense your brain was trying to preserve. "I'm with someone, I can't just..."

"I'm not asking you to leave him." His mouth found your jaw, then the spot below your ear that always made your knees unreliable, his lips pressing against your pulse with a tenderness that contradicted the desperation in his voice. "I'm not asking for forever, I'm asking for tonight. One night, baby, that’s it. I just need to feel you again. I need to know I'm not crazy, that what we had was real, that’s all I need."

Your vision blurred again and he kissed the tears off your cheek with a reverence that made your chest ache, his hands cradling your face, his thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbone. The fight was leaving your body in irreversible waves, each second pulling you further from the woman who had walked into this room with the intention of leaving and deeper into the woman who had loved this man since before she knew what loving him would cost.

"One night." You whispered and it was surrender, it was capitulation. He heard it for what it was because his whole body changed, the tension in his shoulders releasing, his breath leaving him in a long, shuddering exhale that sounded like a man being pulled back from the edge of something fatal.

"Thank you." He murmured against your mouth, a gratitude in his voice that was so genuine and completely stripped of the charm that the world knew him for. "Thank you, baby. I swear, just tonight. Just tonight."

His fingers found the buttons of your blouse, working them open one by one with hands that trembled so badly he fumbled the second button twice before it gave and when the fabric parted he pulled back just far enough to look at you. His eyes dragged down from your face, to the lace of your bra, to the exposed skin of your stomach with a look that bordered on anguish, like seeing you undressed was a reminder of every night he'd spent alone imagining exactly this.

"You're so beautiful." He murmured and his voice cracked on the last syllable, fractured by the weight of months of not being allowed to say it. His hands slid the blouse off your shoulders and down your arms with a gentleness that contradicted the urgency of the kiss, letting it fall to the dressing room floor. His fingertips traced the line of your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, the curve of your breast above the lace. Every place he touched lit up, your skin remembering his hands with a relief so intense it was almost painful.

"Michael." You breathed and he answered by dropping his mouth to the hollow of your throat, kissing the pulse point there, his lips pressing against the frantic beat of your heart with a tenderness that made your fingers curl into his shoulders. His tongue traced a slow line up the side of your neck and the sound he made against your throat was obscene, a groan that vibrated through your collarbone.

He unclasped your bra with a practiced ease that should have annoyed you but instead made your breath hitch, the lace falling away and leaving you bare from the waist up. He pulled back to look at you. His hands came up to cup your breasts, his thumbs grazing your nipples with a touch so light it was almost not there, a whisper of contact that sent a shockwave straight down through your belly and into the space between your legs. You arched into his palms with a gasp you couldn't suppress, your body responding to him with a readiness that was embarrassing, that betrayed every oath of loyalty you'd made to someone else.

"Tell me you missed me." He murmured, his mouth moving down from your throat to your chest, his lips tracing the upper curve of your breast, his tongue flicking against your nipple with a teasing, deliberate slowness that made your hips jerk against the counter's edge. "Tell me you thought about me, baby. I need to hear it. I need to know it wasn't just me."

"It wasn't just you." You breathed and it was true, it was the truest thing you'd said since you walked into this room. His mouth closed around your nipple and sucked, gently at first, then harder, his tongue swirling in slow, wet circles that sent heat flooding through your entire body, pooling low in your belly. Your back arched as your hands fisted in his curls, pulling him closer without meaning to, your body making decisions your mind had already voted against.

"I dreamed about this." He breathed against your skin, switching to the other breast, his hand replacing his mouth on the first, his fingers rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger with a pressure that was just on the edge of too much. "Every goddamn night, baby. I'd lay there and close my eyes. I’d try to feel you, try to remember the way you sounded, the way you tasted and it was never enough. It was never close to enough."

His hands moved to your waist, his fingers finding the button of your jeans, working them open, pulling the zipper down with a sound that was obscenely loud in the quiet room. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and eased them down your hips, his knuckles dragging against the bare skin of your thighs with a slow, reverent pressure that left goosebumps in its wake.

The jeans joined the blouse on the floor and you were sitting on the counter in nothing but your underwear, your legs parted where he'd positioned himself between them, his body pressing into the space between your thighs with a heat that you could feel through every layer of remaining fabric.

He pulled back and looked at you, really looked, his eyes moving over every inch of exposed skin with the same focused, consuming attention he gave to a stage, except this was private, this was his. The hunger in his expression was so naked, that you felt it in your pussy, your hips shifting against the counter of their own accord, seeking friction, seeking him.

"Michael, please." You whispered. You didn't know what you were asking for, or maybe you knew exactly what you were asking for and the word please was just a container big enough to hold all of it, the want, the guilt and the desperation. 

He dropped to his knees.

The sight of him on the floor of his dressing room, looking up at you from between your parted thighs with those dark, wrecked eyes, his curl falling across his forehead, his lips swollen and wet from kissing you, his hands gripping your thighs with a possessive pressure that would leave marks tomorrow, sent a jolt through your body so violent your legs tried to close on instinct. He pressed them apart with his palms, firm but gentle, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the inner softness of your thighs.

"Don't close up on me, baby." He murmured, looking up at you. "Let me.. I need to taste you. I've been thinking about this for months, I need..."

He didn't finish the sentence. He pressed his mouth to the thin cotton of your underwear, his lips parting against the fabric, his breath hot and damp, seeping through to the skin beneath. The  sensation was so specific, exactly the thing your body had been screaming for, that your hips bucked off the counter and his hands tightened on your thighs to hold you in place. 

He pinned you with a strength that was easy to forget when he was standing upright in a sweater looking gentle and unassuming but became very apparent when he was on his knees with his mouth between your legs.

He pulled the underwear to the side, his fingers trembling against your inner thigh. The first touch of his tongue was exploratory, a long, flat stroke from the bottom of your slit to the top, curling at the end against your clit with a precision that made your entire body seize. Your hands slapped down on the counter behind you for balance, your head falling back, a sound leaving your mouth that you didn't recognise.

"Oh God." You gasped and he groaned against you in response, the vibration of it buzzing through your clit, sending a cascade of sparks down through your legs. His hands slid beneath your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the counter, tilting your hips up toward his mouth, opening you wider. The second lick was firmer, more deliberate, his tongue finding the exact spot that made your thighs shake and working it in slow, excruciating circles.

"Michael, I can't, that's..."

His tongue moved with a focused, relentless rhythm, alternating between long, flat licks and tight, concentrated circles around your clit, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your wet skin. The pleasure built in waves, each one higher and more consuming than the last, radiating outward from the point of contact between his mouth and your clit, spreading through your belly. His fingers joined his mouth, one sliding inside you, then two, curling upward in a beckoning motion that hit a spot so deep that your hips jerked violently and you had to bite your lip to keep from screaming.

"Don't hold back." He murmured against your thigh, his lips dragging across the sensitive skin, his fingers still moving inside you in slow, deliberate strokes. "I want to hear you, baby. Nobody can hear you. Just me, let me hear you."

He dipped his head back down and sucked your clit between his lips, his tongue flicking against it in quick, targeted strokes. His fingers pumped deeper, curling harder and the pleasure that had been building suddenly crested, every nerve in your body firing simultaneously. You came with his name on your mouth, your thighs clamping around his head, your hands fisting in his hair. Your hips pushed against his face as the orgasm tore through you in long, shuddering pulses that left you gasping and completely dismantled.

He kissed his way up your stomach into the space between your breasts, his mouth wet with you and glistening. When he reached your face he kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, the intimacy of it so raw it made your spent clit throb with renewed want.

"I need to be inside you." He whispered against your mouth, the words wrecked. "Please, baby. I need..."

"Yes."

He stood quickly, fumbling with his belt. His hands were so uncoordinated with want that it took him three tries to get his slacks open so you reached down and helped him, your fingers brushing the hard length of him through his boxers. The sound he made was not a moan but a shudder, his entire body going rigid, his eyes squeezing shut and his jaw clenching with a control that visibly cost him.

"Don't." He breathed. "Don't touch me yet, I'll lose it. It's been... shit, baby, I haven't..."

He didn't finish. You understood. He pushed his boxers down and his cock sprang free, hard and flushed, leaking at the tip, curving up toward his stomach. The sight of it made your thighs fall open of their own accord, your body inviting him in with a shamelessness that your mind couldn't argue with. 

He stepped between your legs, one hand gripping the base of his cock, the other braced on the counter beside your hip. He paused with the head pressing against your entrance, not pushing in, just resting there, the slick heat of you kissing the tip of him. His eyes found yours with a look that was so vulnerable and desperate that for a moment the whole world contracted to the two of you and the space between your bodies.

"I love you." He whispered and it was not seduction, just the raw truth torn from somewhere within him.

He thrusted inside of you.

The stretch was almost too much, a burning fullness that bordered on pain, your body remembering him in the way that muscle memory remembers a song. Your walls fluttered around him, adjusting, gripping, pulling him deeper with a greed that had nothing to do with your conscious mind.

He sank into you slowly, inch by inch, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your collarbone. When he was fully seated inside of you, his cock buried to the hilt. He went still, trembling, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck." He breathed into your neck and the word sounded like something he'd been holding in for months. "Fuck, baby, you feel... shit, I forgot how... no, I didn't forget, I could never forget, but..."

"Fuck me." You whispered, your arms wrapping around his neck, your ankles locking behind his back, pulling him impossibly closer. "Michael, please."

He pulled back and thrust in, slow at first, a deliberate withdrawal followed by a deep, rolling push that bottomed out inside you and made your back arch clean off the counter. A cry tore from your throat that you couldn't have contained if you'd wanted to. He set a rhythm that was agonisingly controlled, each thrust slow and deep, aimed at the spot inside you that made your vision blur. 

"Look at me." He panted and when you opened your eyes, his face was inches from yours. "I want to see your face. I want to watch you, baby, don’t close your eyes."

"Harder." You gasped and something in him snapped, the controlled rhythm giving way to something faster, rougher, his hips slamming into you with a force that rattled the counter, that drove the breath from your lungs in sharp, rhythmic punches. His hand slid between your bodies and found your clit, rubbing in tight, frantic circles that matched the pace of his thrusts. The dual sensation, the fullness inside and the pressure outside, sent you spiraling toward the edge with a speed that terrified you, your orgasm building.

"I'm close." You whimpered, the words coming out broken, demolished by the force of his thrusts, each one jolting the syllables apart. His fingers moved faster on your clit, his cock slamming into you with a rhythm that was punishing and perfect and exactly, precisely, what your body needed.

"Come for me baby." He groaned, his voice stripped to its foundations. "Let me feel you, c’mon, let go. I've got you."

The orgasm hit you like a collision. Every muscle in your body locked as your back bowed and your mouth opened in a silent scream. You clenched around him in rhythmic pulses, dragging him over the edge with you. He buried himself deep and came with a groan that sounded like it had been excavated from somewhere below his chest. His hips stuttered as his cock pulsed inside of you, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your mouth.

"I love you." He gasped, still coming, his body jerking with the aftershocks. His hands gripped your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises, purple and tender, where you would press them in the morning and feel the echo of this moment. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

He said it like a mantra, as though saying it enough times could stitch the broken thing between you back together. You held him while he trembled, your arms around his neck, your face buried in the damp curve of his shoulder. His cock softened inside of you, his heartbeat hammering against your chest.

For a long, suspended moment neither of you spoke, because speaking would mean confronting what you'd just done and neither of you were ready for that. Not yet, not with his body still warm inside of yours and the dressing room door closed against a world that would not understand this, that would not forgive this.

Eventually he pulled out of you and the emptiness that followed was its own kind of ache. He rested his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face, thumbs tracing the tracks of tears you hadn't realised you'd shed. Michael looked at you with an expression so saturated with love, with guilt and the bittersweet agony of getting exactly what you want and knowing it's going to cost you everything.

"I'm not gonna be able to let you go again." He whispered and the words should have been a warning, a red flag, a reason to stop, but instead they settled into your chest. You pressed your lips to his temple and let the salt of your tears mix with the sweat on his skin. You said nothing because there was nothing to say that wouldn't make this worse or better and you couldn't distinguish between the two anymore.

Outside the dressing room door, you could hear the muffled sounds of the venue winding down. The whole world carried on without any regard for the fact that inside this room, you had just detonated your life and rebuilt it around the shape of a man who loved you in a way that was selfish and consuming.

Morning would come and so would the guilt. The weight of Prince's trust, of Michael's impossible promises, of the secrecy that was already wrapping itself around this moment like a second skin, all of it would come.

But morning wasn't here yet. Michael's arms were around you and his lips were pressed to your hair. He was rocking you gently, the way you rock something precious that you're afraid to set down.

You knew Marlon was going to lose his shit.

But it didn't stop there. You both knew it wouldn't. One night had been a lie, a word you'd both spoken because admitting the truth, that this was not a relapse but a reopening, was too enormous to say out loud in a dressing room that still smelled like sex and the particular brand of cologne he'd been wearing since you first met him.

The second night was after the Detroit show, a supply closet, his hand over your mouth, his lips against your ear whispering you feel that, baby, you feel what you do to me? And when it was over, he straightened your skirt and kissed your forehead, walking back to the afterparty like a man who had not just had his cock buried inside someone else's girlfriend.

The third night was his hotel room. The fourth was a bathroom at the venue, the counter digging into your back, his hand fisted in your hair, your skirt hiked up around your waist and his whispered shh, baby, someone's coming doing nothing to stop either of you, only making you wetter, making him groan against your throat when he felt the effect those words had on your body.

By the second week, you had stopped pretending this was temporary. Your hand would find his beneath tables, in the backs of cars and in the gaps between other people's attention. He couldn't get enough. Once Michael had decided he wanted something, he would find you, his eyes locking onto yours across rooms full of backup dancers and his own brothers with a focus so intense it felt like a hand around your throat. Sometimes he would say nothing, or he would say come here in a voice so low only you could hear it and you would follow him because your body had stopped asking your brain for permission somewhere around the third night.

And it wasn't always private. That was the part that surprised you, the part that turned your blood hot and reckless. Michael, who had spent months hiding you, was now making a point of doing the opposite. 

A dark corner of a loading dock after the Phoenix show, his hands on your hips, your back against a concrete wall, the sound of crew members moving equipment thirty feet away. Michael would pull back just far enough to look at you with those dark eyes, his cock pressed against you through the thin barrier of your underwear.

I'll never hide you again he’d murmur with his forehead against yours, his breath hot hovering over your mouth. You hear me, baby? Never again. I don't care who sees.

Michael, someone's right there you’d whisper with your hands on his chest, never pushing him away, your body arching into him even as your voice protested, the contradiction so constant it had become its own language between you.

Let them see he would say as he pulled your underwear to the side, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Let the whole goddamn world know you're mine, baby. I'm done hiding. If we get caught, we get caught. I don't care anymore.

He’d pushed inside you and fucked you there against that wall with the crew on the other side, his mouth on your throat, each thrust a declaration, each whispered you're mine, you've always been mine a manifesto written on your body. He’d come inside of you with a groan he didn't bother to suppress, his whispered shit, baby, I love you, I love you so goddamn much loud enough that you pressed your hand over his mouth and he laughed against your palm.

The brothers knew. Of course the brothers knew. Marlon had figured it out first, catching a look between you and Michael during a meal, but he'd said nothing, only raised his eyebrows at you from across the table with an expression that conveyed both congratulations and genuine concern for the inevitable fallout.

Tito found out when he walked into a dressing room unannounced and trailed back out so fast he nearly took the door off its hinges. Later that night, Michael appeared at your hotel room door looking sheepish. Tito saw us, baby, don't worry, he's not gonna say shit he’d say with the casual confidence of a man whose brothers had been covering for him since before either of you were born. 

Quincy knew without being told, reading it in the air between you the way he read music. One afternoon, he'd pulled Michael aside and spoke to him in a serious voice that you couldn't hear but could interpret from the way Michael's shoulders tightened. After, he kissed you in the hallway, his hands framing your face, murmuring. Quincy can talk all he wants, baby, I'm not stopping, I can't stop, you understand me? and you'd understood, because stopping felt like asking your lungs to stop breathing.

You never talked about Prince. He called the hotel twice, both times while you were in Michael's room and both times you stood at the payphone in the lobby the next day, telling him you'd been in rehearsal, your hand gripping the receiver so hard your knuckles ached. The ease with which the lie came, was its own kind of horror.

The secrecy that had destroyed your relationship the first time had become the architecture of your affair. The hiding that had driven you away was now the structure that held you together and whether being complicit in your own concealment was freedom or just a more sophisticated form of the same cage, was a question you pushed to the back of your mind every night when Michael's arms found you and his voice, when he’d whisper, I love you, baby, I love you so much against your skin with a tenderness so devastating that it made every other version of your life that existed outside of this room, feel out of reach.

Marlon never did lose his mind, but he did start locking dressing room doors behind him and when Michael looked at him across dinner tables he would raise his glass with a knowing, infuriating smirk that made Michael's ears turn red. Marlon would say nothing, because the silence was so much more effective than words and because the best therapists, know exactly when to let the patient sit in the discomfort of the thing they refuse to name.

[luvingkiku]

hi!!! i absolutely adore ur writing! i was wondering if i could request an mj fic (any era) where the reader gets hurt in some way while michael is away on tour and he finds out about whatever happened to the reader (maybe car accident or something that the tabloids are reporting) and cannot reach the reader and is all worried and that. kinda just like an angsty worried and protective michael with a happy ending. thanks so much for taking the time to read this request, even if you don’t end up writing it :). i really love ur writing and can’t wait to read more. thanks again! :))

still here

synopsis — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : when michael learns you’ve been hospitalized after a serious car accident while he’s overseas on tour, he races home desperate to see you. with fear, uncertainty, and miles between you, all he can do is hope he isn’t too late.

themes — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : hurt/comfort, hospital reunion, fear of loss, happy ending

wc — 𓍼ོ.☘︎ ݁˖༘⋆ : 4,165

wanna see more? here’s my masterlist! ݁ ˖Ი𐑼ֶָ֢

request = open 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

the encore had barely ended when michael was already scanning the backstage corridor for the nearest phone. the roar of the crowd still there, but he barely noticed it. michael was thinking only of home, of you, of the call he always made after a show.one of the dancers caught up beside him and slapped a hand lightly against his shoulder.

“good show.”

michael gave a tired smile. “you say that every night.”

“’cause every night you outdo yourself.” he shook his head, but his attention was already drifting away. “wish she could’ve seen it.”

“you’ll be home before you know it.”

he hoped so.

michael slipped into his dressing room and closed the door behind him. flowers lined one wall, gifts from fans sat stacked on a table, and costume jackets hung from a rack. michael dropped onto the couch with a tired sigh and reached for the phone. his fingers had just started dialing your number when someone knocked.

three quick taps that sounded impatient.

he frowned toward the door. “come in.”

the door opened slowly.

it was bill.

normally, michael would have expected him to step inside already talking about tomorrow’s schedule or security. instead, bill just stood there in the doorway, holding a folded newspaper in one hand. his face had gone pale. something in the room shifted the moment michael saw him.

“mike…”

michael lowered the phone at once. “what is it?”

bill didn’t answer right away. he crossed the room and placed the newspaper on the coffee table between them.

“i don’t know how accurate it is.”

michael’s eyes dropped to the front page. then the room seemed to fall away around him.

michael jackson’s longtime girlfriend hospitalized after devastating car crash!

for a second, the words refused to make sense. his mind tried and failed to arrange them into something less terrible. his throat locked, and a cold rush swept through his chest and down his arms. his fingers went numb around the phone.

he read the headline again and again.

his eyes raced down the article.

late this afternoon, multiple injuries, transported by ambulance, sources say condition unknown, hospital officials declined to comment, witnesses described the scene as catastrophic, friends reportedly gathered at the hospital. the words on the page seemed to jump and his mouth went dry so fast it hurt to swallow.

“no…”

he grabbed the paper with both hands, the pages crinkling under his grip. there had to be another line, another page, a correction. something. anything that would stop the panic from climbing higher, faster, choking him from the inside. instead, every paragraph seemed to undo the one before it.

one claimed you were stable, another said you were fighting for your life, one insisted you’d spoken to paramedics, another quoted an unnamed witness who believed you’d been unconscious the entire time.

none of it fit together, and none of it answered the only question that mattered.

were you alive?

“where did this come from?”

his voice sounded strange to him, thin and scraped raw, like it had been dragged over gravel.

“a british tabloid,” bill said carefully. “security brought it up a few minutes ago.”

“it’s wrong.” michael shook his head at once, the motion sharp and desperate. “it has to be.”

bill didn’t say anything. that silence landed heavier than the article itself. his hands were already moving before he had finished thinking. he snatched the phone back up and dialed your apartment.

no answer.

he tried again, faster this time, then your office, then hayvenhurst, his fingers slipping on the buttons as if they no longer belonged to him. each ring stretched longer than the last. each voicemail, each dead line, each unanswered call made the room feel smaller.

“try the hospital.” bill said quietly.

michael nodded, though his breathing had already gone shallow. he called the number listed in the article, then another, then the operator when he couldn’t get through. his voice broke on the first question.

“please. i just need to know if she’s there.”

“i’m sorry, sir.”

click and then the line went dead.

he stared at the receiver for a long moment before lowering it slowly. the room had gone so quiet. he looked back at the newspaper lying open across the coffee table.

the picture wasn’t even of you, it was your car. or what was left of it.

glass scattered across wet pavement. the front end crushed inward. one headlight hanging at an angle. flashing ambulance lights frozen in the photograph like a warning that had arrived too late. his chest tightened so violently it felt as if the air had been punched out of him.

all he could picture was you inside it.

alone, hurt, calling for him.

while he stood on a stage six thousand miles away beneath bright lights and applause that suddenly seemed to belong to another life.

for the first time in years, michael jackson sat frozen with the receiver still in his hand, listening to the dead hum of the line while the newspaper lay open on the table. the photograph of the wreck kept flashing behind his eyes. the crushed metal, the shattered glass, and all he could think was that somewhere inside that ruin was the only person he wanted to reach, and he could not even tell if you were alive to hear him. he had never felt so helpless.

he didn’t remember standing. one moment he was staring at the newspaper, the next, he was pacing the dressing room in sharp, restless cuts, one hand knotted in his curls, the other crushing the receiver until the plastic creaked in his grip.

“call again.”

bill looked up.

“michael—”

“call again.”

the words came out ragged.

“call every hospital in los angeles if you have to.”

bill nodded at once, already reaching for another phone. within minutes the room was alive with motion and noise. security was calling hospitals, management was trying your friends, someone was reaching for the police department. everyone was moving, talking, promising.

everyone except michael.

he couldn’t get enough air, couldn’t make his mouth form anything useful, and every awful possibility was already shouting in his head.

he stopped long enough to look at the newspaper again, but he wished he hadn’t. the photograph turned his stomach. he remembered handing you those car keys months earlier, laughing when you’d laughed about finally replacing your old one. now there was only wreckage and broken light and the sickening shape of something that had once been yours.

his grip tightened until his fingers ached.

“we found the hospital.” michael’s head snapped up. bill had one hand over the receiver.

“they won’t tell us anything.”

“give me the phone.” bill hesitated.

“michael…”

“bill.”

he crossed the room in three quick strides and took the receiver before anyone could stop him.

“please.” the word came out thin, stripped bare by fear.

“my name is michael jackson.”

the woman on the other end stayed polite, which somehow made it worse.

“i’m sorry, sir. i can’t confirm or deny whether a patient is here.”

“please.” he shut his eyes. his throat burned.

“i’m in europe.”

his breath caught.

“i… i just finished a show.” the sentence broke apart in his mouth, useless and trembling.

“i just need to know if she’s alive.”

there was silence on the line. for one impossible second, he thought she might tell him, but instead “i’m very sorry.” escaped her lips.

click.

the dial tone returned, flat and merciless.

michael slowly lowered the receiver. the room seemed to tilt around him, the floor sliding beneath his feet. bill caught his arm before his knees could fold.

“sit down.”

he didn’t argue. he sank onto the couch, elbows on his knees, both hands covering his face. his thoughts would not slow down. what if you’d been asking for him? what if you’d woken up scared and alone and kept calling his name? what if you’d been in pain and he hadn’t been there to hear it? what if you hadn’t woken up at all?

he pressed harder against his eyes until stars burst behind the lids. michael tried not to think of negatively, but the images kept coming anyway.

the dressing room door opened again. this time it was frank. he looked from bill to michael, and whatever he saw changed his face at once.

“what happened?”

bill quietly handed him the newspaper.

frank read the headline and his mouth tightened.

“…jesus.” michael looked up.

“i’m leaving.”

bill exchanged a glance with frank.

“the plane isn’t ready until tomorrow.”

“then i’ll take another one.”

“there isn’t another one.”

“charter one.”

“the weather’s grounded everything.”

the word hit harder than he expected.

grounded. he couldn’t even get on a plane. he was trapped, thousands of miles away while you were somewhere in a hospital bed and he had no way to reach you. the helplessness of it turned his stomach.

he let out a breath that shook all the way through him.

“i can’t stay here.”

his voice was barely there.

“she needs me.”

bill crouched in front of him.

“and you’ll get to her.”

“when?”

bill didn’t answer because he didn’t know. no one did.

hours passed without meaning.

the dressing room emptied. every few minutes he dialed your apartment again. your answering machine, your office, your friends. nothing. each unanswered ring scraped away another layer of patience, another layer of hope, until all that was left was raw, trembling dread.

as dawn began creeping through the hotel windows, exhaustion settled into his bones, but sleep never came. he sat with the newspaper folded beside him, unable to look at it and unable to throw it away, as if letting it go would make the whole thing real in a way he couldn’t survive.

then the phone rang.

every head in the room turned, and bill answered first.

“…hello?”

michael was already on his feet rushing over.

bill listened for several long seconds. his expression shifted. not panic, not relief, something caught between the two, as if he was afraid to hope too quickly and afraid not to hope at all.

he covered the receiver.

“it’s one of the nurses.” michael crossed the room immediately that he nearly knocked the chair over.

“is she okay?”

bill handed him the phone without another word. his pulse hammered so hard he could barely hear the line. his hand was shaking so badly the receiver felt slick and warm against his palm.

“hello?”

“mr. jackson?”

“yes.”

another pause. then the words he’d been waiting to hear all night.

“she’s alive.”

his knees nearly gave out. he grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, fingers whitening against the wood.

alive.

the word kept striking through him, over and over, until it hurt. the nurse continued gently.

“she’s stable.”

he closed his eyes, tears spilling before he could stop them.

stable. alive. breathing. somewhere, impossibly, you were still here.

the air rushed back into his lungs all at once, sharp and almost painful after the suffocating hours before.

“can i talk to her?”

his voice came out barely above a whisper.

another pause.

“…i’m sorry.”

his chest tightened again, but this time it was different—not the blind terror from before, something softer, aching, but bearable in the way a wound is bearable only because it has not yet been touched.

“she’s still asleep.”

the nurse explained that you’d suffered a concussion, a broken wrist, several cracked ribs, and countless cuts and bruises. you’d undergone surgery overnight, and the medication was keeping you asleep. they expected a full recovery, but you wouldn’t be going home for several days. michael listened to every word without interrupting.

every injury made something in him pull tighter. every bruise felt like a blow he should have taken instead. but every sentence ended the same way.

you were going to be okay.

when the call ended, he stayed where he was, the receiver still pressed to his ear as if he could keep your voice there by refusing to let go.the room around him came back in pieces.

bill stepped closer.

“mike?”

michael looked at him through tear-filled eyes. the smallest, unsteady smile touched his mouth, fragile as glass.

“she’s alive.”

the words broke something open in him and let the air back in. for the first time in nearly twelve hours, the fear loosened its grip enough for him to stand, and beneath the tears and exhaustion there was only one thought left, fierce and certain: he was going home to her.

the flight home felt endless. michael had never hated time the way he did now. every minute the plane stayed in the air felt like punishment, like the universe had decided to stretch the distance between you and him. his knee bounced hard, and he kept staring at the seatback in front of him, then out the window, then at the tiny screen showing the flight path crawling across the map. none of it helped. he tried to read the same paragraph over and over until the words blurred. he tried to close his eyes, but all he saw was flashing lights, twisted metal, the headline he’d read with shaking hands in the airport lounge. even music couldn’t drown out the thought pounding in his skull.

you were in a hospital bed.

you were hurt.

you were alone.

the nurse’s voice from the phone call kept replaying in his head, soft and careful and far too calm for the words she was saying.

she’s stable.

stable.

he repeated it until it stopped sounding real. every so often he pulled the small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, the one with the hospital’s address written on it. he checked it like it might vanish if he didn’t. the numbers were still there, the hospital was still there, and you were still there. it was the only thing keeping him together before the plane even landed.

the second the wheels hit the runway in los angeles, he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.

security tried to keep photographers back as he hurried through the airport, head down, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. his throat felt raw, as if he’d been swallowing panic for hours.

questions followed him everywhere.

“michael, is it true?”

“how is she doing?”

“have you spoken to her?”

“is she awake?”

he didn’t answer.

if he opened his mouth, he was afraid something broken would come out instead. the drive to the hospital passed in a blur of traffic lights and familiar streets that suddenly looked wrong. los angeles had never felt so large.

he kept looking out the window, but he wasn’t really seeing anything. billboards, palm trees, storefronts—all of it smeared together into one long stretch of distance. the car’s air conditioning blew cold against his face, but his skin still felt hot.

when the car finally pulled beneath the emergency entrance, he was out before it had fully stopped.

the smell of antiseptic hit him the moment the sliding doors opened, bright white lights, quiet voices.

everything felt painfully ordinary, as though the worst night of his life had happened inside a place that hadn’t stopped moving for a second.

he gave your name at the front desk and the receptionist recognized him immediately, but to her credit, she didn’t say anything about it. no startled gasp. no pitying look. just a gentle smile that made his chest ache even more.

“third floor.”

he thanked her so quickly the words nearly ran together.

his reflection stared back at him in the mirrored doors. he looked wrecked. his eyes were bloodshot and hollow. there was a shadow of stubble along his jaw. his shirt was wrinkled from hours of sitting still and failing to do it gracefully. he barely recognized himself.

for a second, he looked like someone who had been dragged through grief and left standing anyway.

the doors slid open.

room 318.

he stopped outside the door.

for the first time since reading the newspaper, he was afraid to go inside. before this, he had only had fragments—a headline, a phone call, a voice telling him you were alive. now there would be proof. now there would be the sight of you, and he didn’t know if that would save him or destroy him. he rested one hand against the doorframe and took a slow breath.

then he pushed the door open.

you were asleep. the room was quiet except for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor beside your bed. a cast covered your wrist. small white bandages crossed your forehead. bruises colored the side of your face and disappeared beneath the collar of the hospital gown. one of your hands rested limp against the blanket, fingers slightly curled.

you looked smaller somehow, fragile.

like the world had taken something from you and left behind only the outline. his breath caught so sharply it hurt.

the newspaper had prepared him for the worst. seeing you alive somehow hurt even more, because now he could see everything you’d been through. every bruise. every bandage. every inch of pain he hadn’t been there to stop.

he crossed the room carefully and lowered himself into the chair beside you. his fingers hovered over yours for a second before gently slipping around your uninjured hand.

his shoulders finally loosened, just enough for the tears to come. they slipped down his face without warning, silent and steady. he bowed his head over your hand, pressing it gently against his forehead like he was trying to apologize to your skin for every mile that had separated him from you.

“i’m so sorry…”

the words were barely audible.

“i should’ve been here.”

his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.

“they told me you were alive…”

his voice broke on the last word.

“…but i don’t think i believed it until now.”

hours seemed to pass. the light in the room shifted slowly from pale morning to a softer afternoon glow. nurses came and went quietly, checking monitors and changing medications, speaking in low voices that made the room feel even more fragile. one offered him coffee. he thanked her, but never touched it. the cup sat untouched on the side table while he stayed exactly where he was, still holding your hand like letting go would make you vanish again.

late that afternoon, you stirred.

it was small at first—a shift beneath the blanket, a faint tightening around your mouth. then your eyebrows pulled together slightly before your eyes blinked open.

“…michael?”

your voice came out rough and thin, like it had to fight its way past pain to reach him. he looked up so quickly the chair nearly tipped backward. a smile broke across his face before another wave of tears replaced it.

“hey…”

he laughed shakily, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hand like he was embarrassed to be caught crying and unable to stop.

“hi.”

you frowned a little, still trying to focus.

“you’re crying.”

he let out another breathless laugh that sounded more like a sob trying to disguise itself.

“yeah.”

his voice cracked immediately.

“yeah, i am.”

you tried to squeeze his hand, but the movement made you wince. he noticed at once, every muscle in him going rigid.

“don’t.”

he leaned forward, panic flashing across his face.

“don’t move too much.”

his eyes searched every bruise, every bandage, every inch of your face as though making sure you were still there. you watched him quietly, your expression softening even through the pain.

“how long have you been here?”

“a few hours.”

“you should’ve slept.”

he smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“i’ll sleep later.”

there was a long silence, full of everything neither of you knew how to say yet. then you noticed the clothes he was wearing.

“you came straight from the airport.”

“straight here.”

his thumb moved in slow circles over your skin, the motion more for him than for you.

“they said…”

he swallowed hard.

“…they said the crash was bad.”

you nodded once.

“it was.”

his jaw tightened so suddenly it looked painful.

“the papers said you were…”

he couldn’t finish. the fear of it still sat too close to the surface, sharp and ugly and impossible to touch directly.

you reached over with your free hand as far as your ribs would allow. your fingertips brushed his wrist.

“i’m okay.”

that was all it took.

every bit of composure he’d managed to hold onto since leaving europe disappeared at once. he bent forward carefully until his forehead rested against the edge of the mattress beside your hand. his shoulders shook with quiet sobs.

you’d never seen him cry like this, not after award shows, not after difficult rehearsals, not after losing sleep for weeks and pretending he was fine anyway.

this was different.

this was fear finally finding somewhere to go.

you gently ran your fingers through his curls, slowly, carefully, like he might shatter if you moved too fast.

“hey.”

you whispered.

he shook his head, still pressed against the bed.

“i thought…”

another shaky breath.

“i thought i lost you.”

your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt to breathe.

“michael…”

he looked up.

his eyes were red and swollen, his lashes damp. there was something raw in his face you had never seen before, stripped bare by terror and exhaustion.

“i kept calling.”

he laughed softly through his tears, but the sound was wrecked.

“your apartment. your office. every hospital. i couldn’t get anybody to tell me anything.”

he swallowed hard.

“i have never been so scared in my life.”

you squeezed his hand again. this time he squeezed back immediately. a nurse stepped into the room, smiling when she saw you awake.

“looks like someone’s feeling better.”

you managed a small smile.

“a little.”

she checked your chart before looking at michael, then at the way he was still holding your hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the floor.

“she’s going to be just fine.”

he nodded, unable to speak.

the nurse quietly excused herself, and after she left, michael looked back at you, his expression still tight with emotion.

“the tour can wait.”

you blinked.

“what?”

“i’m staying.”

“michael…”

“i don’t care what anybody says.”

his voice was gentle, but there was steel underneath it now, something steadier than panic and just as strong.

“i’m not leaving again until you’re home.”

you knew how much those words cost.

concerts had been scheduled for months. thousands of people were waiting. contracts. promoters. television appearances. people who would call this irresponsible, dramatic, impossible. for years, the tour had been his whole world. now he looked at you like nothing else existed. like the rest of the world could burn down and he’d still choose this room if it meant you were breathing in it.

a few days later, he helped you through the front door of your house.

one arm stayed carefully around your waist while the other carried the overnight bag the nurses had insisted you take. he moved at your pace, slow and patient, checking your face every few steps.

“you okay?”

you laughed softly, though it came out tired.

“you’ve asked me that five times.”

he smiled sheepishly, but there was still worry in his eyes.

“i know.”

“i’m okay.”

“you sure?”

you laughed again, a little more this time.

“yes.”

he unlocked the door and followed you inside. everything looked exactly the way you’d left it. your favorite blanket still draped across the couch. a half-finished book on the coffee table. a mug still sitting beside the sink.

life had paused.

but it hadn’t forgotten you.

michael stood in the doorway for a moment, taking it in like he was afraid to breathe too hard and break the spell. then he pulled the folded newspaper from his jacket pocket.

the same one that had made the world stop. he looked at it once, jaw tight, then carried it into the kitchen and dropped it into the trash.

the sound was small and final.

when he came back, you were watching him.

“i’m done letting them tell me what happened to you.” he said softly.

“from now on, i only want the truth from the person who lived it.”

you smiled, tired but real.

“deal.”

he leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there like he was learning the shape of home all over again.

outside, the city kept moving. reporters would keep waiting. phones would keep ringing. the tour would start again, eventually. the world would ask for pieces of him. but in the quiet of your house, none of that could reach you. tonight, the only thing that mattered was the warmth of your hand in his. for the first time in days, home was no longer something he had to find. home was the sound of you breathing beside him.

i hope i did you justice anon😔 i’m so sorry it took me a bit to write. I’ve been enjoying the hot summer weather!!

tag list — @eggywritezstuff @arood98 @antisspiderguy @osugahunnyicedtea @cunty000 @mjlover0829 @animegamerfox @living-ghostgrl @dollyvuu @cherubae111 @pupperonilover-blog @babygguk98 @mile3na @callmelyriic @queenofklonnie22 @sebbysbaby @helalokithor @unknwnbrii @ssexsellls @spiirituall @luvs4harrington @yennabow @saysaysaymjenthusiast @equityjinx @anothergoldenratio @ooooglymoooogly @artflooo @petitedollnina @pinkieghouls @michaelsgirlie @khxna @anglfac @erynnnn @ange1fce @smoothcriminalgf @watermielonnn @chocotragedy @saiyajvn @lauren7050 @tenderlyboundlessparagon @kiwimeow0-o @applehead-angelface @michaelsbabymother @raefoxiegirl @softformj @offthebrina @appleheadannie @lustfairyy @strawberryswirlsworld @marley1773 + add yourself here

[angelfcee]

ur writing is the reason I wake up in the morning (xoxo 💋) dangerous era!michael getting jealous when martin bashir comes to interview them at neverland ranch and he kept staring at youngerwife!reader. the smut, tension, everythinggg!!! tysmmmm :))))💗💗

۫ ׅ ℘ Purely Yours michael jackson◞

⊱ dangerous!michael • fem!reader ◞ 18+. ⋮ requested 𓍼y

tgs ◞ dom!michael, sub!reader, black fem reader, neverland ranch, married, established relationship, smut, martin bashir mentioned, use of ‘y/n’, possessiveness, jealousy, hint of ‘daddy’ kink, age gap (reader is 24), young wife reader

The grandfather clock in the grand foyer of Neverland Ranch ticked with a heavy, rhythmic cadence, echoing off the high, vaulted ceilings and the rich mahogany woodwork. Outside, the California sun was blazing, casting a golden hue over the rolling hills of the estate, but inside the main house, the air conditioning was crisp.

The vast space smelled faintly of expensive lavender cologne, vanilla wax candles, and the subtle, sweet scent of your cocoa butter lotion.

You smoothed down the front of your dress, taking a deep breath to steady the fluttering in your chest. It was a simple, elegant A-line piece in a light sage green, that complemented your rich, brown skin beautifully. Michael had picked it out for you himself, as he often did. He loved dressing you up, treating you like the rare, precious jewel you were to him.

To the rest of the world, he was an untouchable, larger-than-life icon, but to you, he was the man who brushed your curls out of your face with trembling devotion, who held you like you were made of glass, and who anchored you when the world became too loud.

At twenty-four, you were significantly younger than your husband, a fact the media loved to chew on and spit out in sensationalized headlines. But inside the gates of Neverland, the age gap didn't exist. There was only the deep, unyielding bond the two of you shared.

Right now, however, the weight of the outside world was knocking on your front door.

Michael stood by the tall French windows, looking out over the sprawling amusement park rides and manicured gardens. He looked magnificent—a striking vision of sharp angles, sleek lines, and undeniable power. His black hair fell in perfectly sculpted, glossy curls around his chiseled face, a few damp strands framing his sharp jawline. He wore a crisp, crimson button-down shirt with black armbands, tucked into tight black trousers that accentuated his lean, dancer's frame. His hat rested on the side table, and his dark eyes were temporarily shielded behind his signature aviator sunglasses.

He was nervous. You could tell by the way his slender fingers rhythmically tapped against his thigh—one, two, three, four.

"Michael, honey," you murmured, stepping toward him. The soft click of your heels drew his attention instantly.

He turned, the rigid tension in his shoulders melting the second his eyes landed on you. He reached out, his large, warm hand instantly wrapping around your waist to pull you flush against his chest.

"You look beautiful, ‘y/n’," he whispered, his voice a soft, breathless rasp near your ear. He used your full name only when he was feeling intensely affectionate or incredibly anxious. He leaned down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Are you sure you want to do this with me? You don't have to be on camera if you don't want to. I can tell them to leave."

"I'm sure," you said gently, resting your hands against his chest, feeling the rapid, steady beat of his heart beneath the silk of his shirt. "We agreed on this. A documentary to show the world who you really are. Martin Bashir promised he wanted to show the truth, right? I'm right here by your side. We’re a team."

Michael smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your lips. He tasted like the peppermint he'd been chewing to calm his nerves, his mouth tender and warm against yours. "My brave girl," he murmured against your skin, his thumb caressing the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped.

"Just stay close to me. Don't leave my side."

A chime echoed through the house, signaling the arrival of the production crew. Michael’s grip on your waist tightened for a fraction of a second—a quiet, protective squeeze—before he reluctantly let you go, slipping his sunglasses off and placing them next to his hat.

The heavy oak doors opened, and in walked Martin Bashir, followed by a small crew hauling cameras, tripods, and lighting equipment.

Bashir looked exactly as he did on television—shrewd, calculated, wearing a sharp, dark suit and a smile that felt a little too perfectly practiced, a little too eager. But as his eyes scanned the room, they bypassed the gold records on the walls, bypassed the sprawling art installations, and locked straight onto you.

Michael stepped forward, his posture instantly shifting into that of a global megastar—polite, poised, yet intensely guarded. "Martin. Welcome to Neverland," Michael said, extending a hand.

"Michael, an absolute honor," Bashir said, shaking his hand firmly. But even as he spoke to Michael, his eyes flicked right back to you, taking in the curve of your collarbone, the warmth of your skin, and the youth radiating from your face. "And this must be the lovely lady of the house. The elusive Mrs. Jackson."

Bashir stepped closer, stepping right into your personal space, and extended his hand to you. "Martin Bashir. It is an absolute privilege to finally meet the woman who captured the Michaels heart."

Before you could even raise your hand, Michael shifted. It was a subtle movement, but incredibly deliberate. He didn't just stand next to you; he partially stepped in front of you, his broad shoulder cutting off half of Bashir’s view.

"My wife," Michael said. His voice was still soft, but there was a distinct, icy drop in his pitch that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. "Her name is Y/N."

"Y/N," Bashir repeated, his voice dropping into a smooth, performative cadence as he bypassed Michael's defensive stance to take your hand anyway. Instead of a standard handshake, he brought your knuckles close to his lips, his eyes locked onto yours, lingering far longer than courtesy required. "An absolute vision. Michael, you are a very lucky man. She possesses a quiet... captivating youthfulness."

You felt a sudden, sharp spike of discomfort. The way Bashir said youthfulness felt dirty, like he was trying to probe a bruise, analyzing the dynamic between you and your husband with a clinical, judgmental gaze. You gently but firmly pulled your hand back, offering a tight, polite smile. "Thank you, Mr. Bashir. Welcome to our home."

Behind you, you heard the sharp, distinct sound of Michael clearing his throat. When you looked back at him, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle jumped beneath his smooth skin. His dark eyes, usually so warm and full of gentle light, had narrowed into slits of pure, unadulterated ice. Michael was a man fully aware of his power, his sensuality, and his territory. And right now, someone was stepping on it.

The interview began in the grand living room, seated on a pair of opulent, gold-trimmed velvet couches. Michael sat closely beside you, closer than he normally would on camera. One of his long arms was stretched across the back of the sofa behind your head, his fingers lightly playing with a stray curl at the nape of your neck, effectively branding you as his in front of the lenses.

Initially, the questions were standard. Bashir asked about the music, the inspiration behind his latest projects, and the creation of Neverland. Michael answered eloquently, his soft voice filling the room, but his body language remained rigid. Every time Bashir asked a question, his eyes would wander from Michael's face down to you.

"Now, Michael," Bashir said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He adjusted his glasses, his eyes sliding down to your legs, which were crossed elegantly beneath your green dress, before flicking up to Michael. "The public is endlessly fascinated by your private life. And, of course, your marriage. Your wife is quite young. Quite beautiful. A stark contrast to the chaotic world you inhabit. Tell me, how does such a young woman adjust to the... unique lifestyle of Michael Jackson?"

Michael’s fingers, resting on the velvet behind your head, twitched. "She handles everything with grace," Michael said, his voice clipped and precise. "She is my rock. She doesn't just adjust to my world, Martin. She is my world."

Bashir smiled, a slow, greasy smirk that made your stomach turn. He turned his gaze entirely to you, ignoring Michael completely. "And for you, dear? It must be overwhelming. Being married to a global icon. A man so much older, with so much history. Do you ever feel... isolated here? Do you ever feel like you're living in a gilded cage, trapped by a man who demands your total isolation?"

The bluntness of the question made you gasp softly. "No, not at all—" you began, but Bashir cut you off, leaning even closer, his eyes scanning your face with an intense, invasive scrutiny that felt borderline predatory.

"Because looking at you now," Bashir murmured, his tone dripping with a faux-sympathetic warmth, "one can't help but see a beautiful, vulnerable young woman. A woman who perhaps needs a different kind of... protection. A different kind of attention. Are your needs truly being met here, Y/N?"

The room went dead silent. The camera crew held their breath, the heavy silence stretching thin.

You felt a cold dread wash over you, not because of the question, but because of the sudden, terrifying change in the atmosphere next to you. The air in the room felt like it dropped twenty degrees in a single second.

Michael slowly stood up.

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He never raised his voice at you, and even now, his fury was entirely directed outward, away from his precious girl. But the sheer aura of dominance he radiated as he stood was suffocating. He stood at his full height, looking down at Bashir with a look of such lethal contempt that even the seasoned journalist visibly blinked, sliding back into his seat.

"We're taking a break," Michael announced. His voice wasn't soft anymore. It was deep, commanding, and absolutely final. It was the voice of a man who commanded stadiums of a hundred thousand people with a single flick of his wrist. "Turn the cameras off. Now."

The director scrambled, instantly barking orders to cut the feed.

Michael didn't wait for them to pack up. He turned to you, his expression softening instantly into one of pure tenderness. He reached down, his large hand gripping your wrist firmly—not enough to hurt, never to hurt—but with a bruising, unyielding possessiveness that left no room for argument. He pulled you gently but quickly up from the couch.

As he led you past Bashir, Michael stopped. He didn't look at the journalist, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, but his voice cut through the room like a blade. "If I catch you looking at my wife like that again, Martin, this interview is over. And you will be escorted off my property by armed security. Do you understand me?"

Bashir swallowed hard, his face turning a pale shade of grey. "Michael, I merely meant—"

"We are done for the day," Michael snapped, cutting him off entirely.

Without another word, Michael guided you along, his grip tight and protective around your hand as his long legs ate up the distance across the marble floor, leading you out of the living room and straight toward the private wing of the house.

The heavy mahogany doors of Michael’s private master bedroom shut with a loud, definitive thud, and the lock clicked into place with a sharp, final sound.

The moment the world was locked out, the tension in the room exploded.

Michael let go of your hand, turning around to pace the length of the massive bedroom. His hands flew to his hair, pulling at his curls, his chest heaving as if he had just run a marathon. The calm, collected global superstar was gone; in his place was a man consumed by a raw, primal protective instinct.

"The nerve," Michael muttered, his voice shaking with a dangerous mix of anger and adrenaline. "The absolute, disgusting nerve of him. To come into my home. To sit on my furniture. And to look at you... to look at my wife like you were something he could analyze, something he could covet."

"Michael, baby, breathe," you said softly, stepping toward him. You weren't afraid of him; you knew his heart, knew that his anger was born out of a fierce need to protect you. "It's okay. He was just trying to get a reaction—"

"I am not angry with you, Angel," Michael interrupted quickly, his voice instantly softening as he turned to face you. He stepped toward you, his eyes wide, dark, and filled with a desperate devotion. He reached out, his large hands framing your face, his thumbs gently caressing your cheeks. "Never with you, my beautiful girl. Please know that. But the way he looked at you... it made my blood boil. He looked at your lips. He looked at your body. Thinking about what's mine. Thinking he had any right to even breathe the same air as you."

He leaned down, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged. "Do you know what that did to me? Sitting there, having to watch another man look at you like that?"

"Michael..." your voice was a breathy whimper. The sheer intensity radiating from him was making your heart race, a sudden, intoxicating heat pooling in your lower abdomen. You had never seen him quite this consumed by possessiveness, and it was deeply, thrillingly arousing.

"You are my wife," Michael growled softly, his voice dropping into a register so deep, so gravelly, it sent a shiver straight down your spine. His hands moved from your face, sliding down to grip your hips, his long, taped fingers digging into the fabric of your green dress, anchoring you to him. "You are mine. Every single inch of this beautiful, soft skin belongs to me. He has no right to look. Nobody does."

"I am yours," you gasped out, your hands instinctively reaching up to grip his broad shoulders. "Only yours, Michael."

"Prove it to me then," he demanded, his voice a dark, sensual command. "Because right now, I feel like ripping the world apart, and the only thing that's going to stop me is making sure you remember exactly who you belong to."

Before you could answer, Michael’s mouth slammed down onto yours.

It wasn't his usual gentle, worshipful kiss. This was a bruising, dominant claim. He groaned into your mouth, his tongue forcing its way past your lips, tangling with yours in a desperate, hungry rhythm. His hands moved from your hips, sliding down to grip the underside of your thighs, effortlessly lifting you up.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, letting out a breathless sob into the kiss as he carried you the two steps to the bed, coming down over you like a dark wave.

The mattress swallowed you up, but Michael’s weight pressed you down, pinning you completely. He broke the kiss, panting heavily, his dark eyes burning into yours. His hands flew to the buttons of his crimson shirt, tearing them open with an impatient tug, sending a couple of buttons flying across the room. He threw the shirt off, exposing his lean, muscular chest, glistening with a light sheen of sweat.

He looked magnificent. Wild. Driven entirely by his love and desire for you.

"Michael, please," you begged, arching your hips up against his, feeling the heavy, thick ridge of his arousal pressing through his trousers straight against your center.

"Tell me what you want," Michael rasped, his hands grabbing the hem of your green dress and shoving it up past your hips, exposing your lace panties. His dark eyes roamed over your exposed thighs, his breath catching at the sight of you. "Tell me who takes care of you, princess."

"You do," you whimpered, your hands running over the smooth skin of his chest, your nails digging into his shoulders. "You take care of me."

"Say it," he whispered, his hand sliding up your thigh, his long fingers brushing against the damp fabric of your underwear, making you gasp and arch your back. "Let me hear it, baby."

You looked up into his intense, burning eyes, seeing the man who shielded you from the world, the man who provided everything, who demanded your total safety in his arms. The raw power dynamic shifted, settling into a deeply erotic rhythm.

"Daddy," you breathed, the word slipping out like a quiet prayer. "Please, Daddy. I need you."

A dark, triumphant smile tugged at the corner of Michael’s lips, a low, guttural growl escaping his throat. The word acted like gasoline on a fire. "That's my good girl," he purred, his voice dripping with a heavy, possessive praise that made your heart swell. "That's my girl. You don't ever look at another man, you hear me? You only look at me. I'm the only one who gets to touch you like this."

He slid his hand inside your panties, his long fingers instantly finding your slick, soaking heat. You cried out, your head tossing back against the pillows as he began to stroke you, his thumb rubbing circles over your center with an expert, heavy pressure.

"Look at me, baby," Michael commanded gently, his voice sharp but full of deep affection.

You forced your eyes open, blinking through the haze of pleasure, locking your gaze onto his.

"You're so wet for me, aren't you?" Michael murmured, watching your face twist with ecstasy as his fingers slid deeper inside you, stretching you, testing your readiness. "So tight. All made for me. Bashir can look all he wants, but he'll never know how sweet you taste. He’ll never know how you scream my name."

"Michael—Daddy, please, I'm going to—" You rocked your hips against his hand, the friction driving you over the edge.

"Hold it," Michael ordered, his fingers suddenly stopping, holding you right at the precipice. You let out a whimper of protest, your eyes pleading with him. "Not yet. I want to be inside you when you break. I want to feel every single squeeze."

With a speed that left you breathless, Michael reached down, unbuckling his belt and shoving his trousers and briefs down his legs. When he freed himself, he was thick, fully erect, and throbbing with a desperate need.

He positioned himself between your thighs, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling them back, opening you up completely to him. He looked down at the contrast of his pale hands against your rich, dark skin, a look of profound reverence passing over his face before the possessive hunger took over again.

"You belong to me," he whispered, leaning down to press his forehead against yours. "Say it one more time."

"I belong to Daddy," you cried out, your hands gripping his hips, guiding him to your entrance. "Please, Michael, now!"

With a heavy, powerful thrust, Michael buried himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke.

The breath was completely knocked from your lungs. He was so big, so full, stretching you to your absolute limit. You let out a high-pitched cry, your fingers digging deep into the muscles of his back as your walls clamped tightly around him.

Michael let out a loud, ragged groan, his eyes snapping shut as he threw his head back, his neck straining. "God, baby... you're so tight... so perfect," he gasped out, his hips already beginning to move.

Driven by the lingering adrenaline and jealousy, his paces were hard, deep, and utterly possessive. Every thrust was a declaration, his heavy frame slamming against yours with a rhythmic, mesmerizing force. The headboard rattled against the wall, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room.

"Ah! Michael!" you screamed, your vision blurring as the pleasure washed over you in intense, electric waves. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, biting his skin to keep from screaming too loudly.

He loved it. He let out a dark laugh, his hands gripping your waist tightly, anchor lines holding you in place as he dominated your senses.

"That's it, take it all," Michael rasped, his pace quickening, becoming frantic, completely losing himself in the feel of your body. "Tell me who owns this body. Tell me!"

"You do! You do! Ah!"

Your words triggered your release. Your internal muscles clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic spasms. The pleasure was too intense, shattering your mind completely as a loud, sobbing cry escaped your lips.

Feeling the crushing, tight warmth of your orgasm, Michael lost all control. He let out a deep, primal roar, burying himself as deep as he could go, his hips stuttering as he came inside you. He poured himself into you, his length pulsing inside your warmth as he flooded you, his chest heaving heavily against yours.

He collapsed on top of you, taking care not to crush you, his face buried in your curls, both of you panting as the aftershocks of the climax rippled through your bodies.

The room was quiet now, save for the sound of your synchronized, heavy breathing. The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon outside, casting long, golden shadows across the bedroom.

Michael slowly shifted his weight, rolling onto his side but keeping you securely tucked against him. His long arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your back against his chest in a tight, protective spooning position. He pulled the silk sheets up over both of your naked bodies, shielding you from the world once more.

He began to plant soft, apologetic kisses along your bare shoulder, his fingers gently tracing patterns on your stomach.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into your hair, his voice returning to that soft, gentle melody you knew so well. "I didn't mean to be so rough with you, my beautiful girl. I never want to hurt you. I just... when I saw him looking at you like that... I lost my mind. The thought of anyone else thinking they can have a piece of what is ours..."

You turned your head slightly, kissing his jawline, feeling the smooth texture of his skin. "Don't apologize, Michael. I loved it. I needed to feel you, too. I'm yours. No one else matters. Let him look all he wants; he can never have this."

Michael smiled, a genuine, warm smile that finally filled his dark eyes with light. He squeezed you tighter, burying his face in the nape of your neck, inhaling your scent deeply, completely content.

"Tomorrow, Bashir will finish his interview," Michael murmured, a quiet, confident edge returning to his voice. "But he will look only at me. Because everyone in that room will know exactly who you belong to."

You smiled, closing your eyes, completely safe, completely worshiped, and entirely claimed by the man who held your heart.

[angelcrescent]

approaching intimacy ➳♡₊⊹ °˖ our romantic evening …

intro ✴︎⸝꙳.˖𖥔݁˖⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ( 9.5k ) childhoodbsf!popstar!reader x pre-otw!michael 𝓳ackson ╱ upon taking your first shower together, you and your boyfriend see each other naked for the very first time. . .

𝟐/𝟑 • 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒆: 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 ; no need to read in order!

notes ♡⋆°୭ established relationship of 3½ months. tooth-rotting fluff. } romantic shower. perfect excuse to use the wet fro pic ;). religious guilt. shyness: both reader and michael! avoidant!reader. 𝟏𝟖+ brief explicit description of michael’s erection. no smut. sensual breast massage. mikey is so so gentle. experienced!reader n very inexperienced virgin!michael. caught by his brothers, oopsie! so much brotherly teasing. cute nicknames for each other: tinker bell, bambi, mickey n minnie. reader’s name signalled by heart symbol

AUGUST 17, 1978. Hayvenhurst, Encino…

Four weeks had passed since that night in Studio 54, where Michael had finally offered to hear you out on your valid criticisms of his mother's religion, its strict morals ingrained into his psyche after all these years.

Your criticisms were mostly influenced by the strict stance of the Jehovah’s Witnesses on condemning sexual intercourse outside of wedlock. You'd felt a little awkward and over-imposing at the time, but thankfully he eventually grew to understand, and promised you that he would think deeply about what he'd been forcing from himself for so long. Before the two of you had started dating in the spring, he had never before struggled all that much with his refusal to have sex, because even if one was to remove the orthodox religious aspect out of the equation, Michael was inherently somebody who would only make love to a lady he had a true emotional connection with. And so, since he had spent forever yearning for only you—while making a futile effort to distract himself with dates and sweet kisses with other girls because you 'clearly' never felt the same way—it was only now that he actually had a real, viable opportunity to lose his virginity.

He'd been struggling so much with his restrained arousal since you'd began your romantic relationship together, because he was in a constant battle between the needs born of his heart and his lower body, and the rules he was supposed to abide by. It had been that hot summer night in July, under disco lights and smothered in your lipstick kisses, that he had finally declared with true honesty that he would at least try to look at this whole sex thing a little differently. For Michael, it wasn't even only about religion and his treatment of lovemaking as a sacred act—it was also that he faced quite a degree of childhood trauma that he didn't at all understand. Throughout his formative years and into his adolescence, he had seen only the worst of the act—loveless groupie hook-ups, promiscuous women receiving hurls of abuse in the strip clubs he was forced to perform at; and worst of all, the unmistakable, incredibly uncomfortable sounds of his older brothers, and even his own father, giving it rough to a different woman every night.

As a young child, Michael had been deeply disturbed; by not only the sounds and the reality of it happening right beside him, but also by the sheer disgust that he felt at experiencing how his own flesh and blood treated women so thoughtlessly. They would discard one, only to seek out another the following night, and each time, Michael knew very well that the girls weren't as happy as his brothers were after their one night stand. The girls would act cool and pretend that mindless sex with somebody famous was all they wanted, but Michael would notice the sad, passive look in their eyes as they left, having achieved nothing but the sad reality of being used. Most boys could look up to the older male figures in their lives, but young Michael Jackson would found his own morals as he grew.

The aggressive sex that surrounded him from such an early age had a profoundly deep effect on his psyche. It was all happening too often for a boy so empathetic and sensitive to just brush it off and move on, let alone to be able to easily slip into that sexual world once he became of age.

And then, to make matters worse, as he grew older he watched his best friend become one of those girls he'd seen his brothers discard. While the opposite of a groupie in your stardom, it was in your naivety as a young singer turning to adulthood that you found yourself falling into the trap of men who couldn't care less about you. Michael despised viewing such a thing from the sidelines, comforting you as you would cry over their behaviour, or even worse—watching helplessly as you walked off with yet another. But you had been chasing dopamine hit after dopamine hit, unaware of that reasoning at the time, but altogether knowing one thing: that you were deeply afraid of a real, gentle relationship.

Sex with those sort of men was easy. It was a quick rush of oxytocin, adrenaline, all those hormones that could easily become warped into tools of self-harm.

And the most ironic thing was that not a single one of those men had ever made you cum. So what was the point, one might ask?

In your older adulthood, you finally understood the answer. Buried in your core, beneath all the avoidance and tension that kept you away from real love, was a genuine, bone-deep craving for such a love. You messed around with men because there was still physical touch involved, even if it was meaningless. There existed the act of lovemaking—although in reality how they treated you always stripped away that romantic term, and was more appropriately described as 'fucking with no strings attached.' Essentially, with those men you could experience small hits of affection from the opposite sex; you could convince yourself that you were 'dating' normally, like everyone else your age did successfully. And with that, you had led yourself under the illusion that you were right to avoid anything more. Gentleness didn't feel right to you, and as you mingled with all these different men, it became increasingly apparent that most likely, a sweet man didn't even exist to begin with.

You believed you were okay with the no strings circumstances you switched between—but often, when you were all alone at night in your bedroom, you would cry yourself to sleep. Even then, without the maturity to make you understand what you truly needed, the reality was that your body had always known. It would break down, sending you warning signs that you were continually heading in the wrong direction, although you never listened.

And you were so far gone, so beyond distanced from logic, that you weren't paying enough relevant attention to what—or whom—had been beside you the entire time. The gentle lover your unconscious mind dreamed of had laid in wait for so long, in the form of your very best friend, the boy who was always prepared to show you nothing less than the adoration you deserved.

Since your dual love confessions, it had been a whirlwind of a few months. Incredibly difficult though it was in the beginning—where you struggled to adapt to such unfamiliar, attentive affection—over time you'd gradually felt more and more comfortable. Three weeks had gone by since you and Michael had spoken seriously about your future first time together, and the more Michael waited, the more wild the concept seemed—that while you obviously wanted your first night to come quickly, you couldn't fathom the very real fact that sometime soon, you would be making love with your childhood best friend. You’d be taking his virginity.

Every single element of the prospect was incredibly intimate, and you found yourself actually getting quite anxious at the thought of it. They always say that anxiety and excitement are produced as the same feeling, and truly you struggled to discern one from the other in those weeks leading up to the first night.

It also didn't help that Michael wouldn't give any hints as to when this night would be, but you understood how difficult this was for him, and you would by no means wish to rush him. You were to be unlike how you carelessly behaved previously, where while drunk, you had more than once ended up practically begging him to give up everything he believed in and take you right then and there.

Indeed there had been no hints from Michael—not until the week before the intimacy would finally occur, when he suddenly approached you with something that was secretly way more anxiety-inducing than it should've been for a suggestion so romantic. Such a suggestion, then, was Michael's request that you might both take a shower together for the first time.

Your mouth had opened slightly in surprise, and Michael had then started speaking quite quickly, evidently shy of his own idea.

"Uh, I just think it would be... y'know, a good way for us to, um," he looked down at his feet, shuffling his weight, "break the ice a lil bit? 'Cause we've never seen each other—uh—well, naked."

He kind of whispered that last word, so crude in Michael's innocent manner, and you giggled. You deliberately maintained an outward feigning of normalcy as you responded, but inside your heart was beating incredibly fast, and suddenly you had slight heartburn. Taking a shower together? In your opinion, that was even more intimate than the lovemaking Michael was building up to. At least he was finally building up to it, but now the closer you got to going all the way with your boyfriend, the more your emotions attacked you. For you, sex had always been erotic escapism, something that was done quickly and, despite its inherent intimacy, actually didn't hold within it anything intimate at all.

But you knew what Michael was like. Even before you'd started dating you could've guessed, and these last few months had shown you just how deeply serious he was when it came to taking care of his girl. He was a hopeless romantic, and in the beginning that was awful for you—it all felt so strange and not something you deserved to experience, until finally you began to fully let him in. He was initially so shy with every new step he took to show you his love, yet shyness never stopped him from performing such displays of deep affection.

But now you had been requested to do the most romantic, the most private and intimate thing of all—and even in your sudden timidity, there was no way you could say no. This was how Michael liked to do things, and the butterflies in your stomach were an explicit sign of just how much you did in fact want to experience an adorable, romantic shower with him—nothing sexual intended, just two young adults approaching what was foreign.

So, a few days later, Michael’s en-suite was where you found yourself, preparing to undress on a sweet summer’s evening, after a long day of bathing in the sun.

"Um, I'm just gonna..." Michael began, as he awkwardly gestured how he was about to face the wall and slip out of his boxers.

"Mhm, I'll, um—yeah," you mumbled back, cringing at yourself as you turned the opposite way and rid yourself of your bra and panties.

And then you were under the running water as quickly as possible, so nervous that you desperately wanted this beginning part to be over and done with. You faced the showerhead as Michael stepped in behind you, and at the mere sound of his feet hitting the tile, your breath hitched.

Now you were both standing there, fully nude, in the most intimate situation you believed there was. You didn't like that you had your back turned—it felt rude and dismissive, because you knew Michael wanted to look at you—but you thought you might faint if you turned around.

"Hi," Michael whispered, slowly coming up right behind you, though with enough distance to ensure that a specific something of his didn't touch a sensitive something of yours.

You felt his long, cosy arms slide around your waist, followed by a soft kiss to your shoulder. You arched your head back, exposing your neck properly to the scalding heat of the water, and you placed a shaky hand over your boyfriend's, where his rested at your hip.

"Hi," you whispered back, smiling with so much fluster that Michael couldn't believe had adorned your face. He could see your side profile from his height and his proximity, and he grinned.

"Why you all shy, huh?" He began to pepper your cheek in kisses, and effortlessly tilted your head by your jaw to bring your lips to his.

All you could do was giggle into his kiss. "’m not shy," you pouted, finally turning your whole body to directly face him, as Michael carefully detached his arms from you. You didn’t want him to know of your anxiety.

As he took you in, Michael's mouth dropped open instantly—and just as quickly did he shut it, in his embarrassment at how visibly he'd folded. "Oh, mama..."

"Mikey," you laughed, running your hand up and down his arm—outwardly as a way to soothe him, but truthfully as a way of using his touch to soothe yourself. You really did feel a little lightheaded now, and you were perfectly hydrated and nourished, perfectly used to a blazing hot shower; so the only perpetrator was your hormones.

You had to be the luckiest girl in the world. This man—this beautiful, smiling, handsome man, in his barest form before you—was the man who would soon make love to you. You would guide him through it, bring him into this world he'd been so scared to enter, and upon crossing that threshold, you would feel the utmost content—not just for the finally having had sex, but for the very truth that you had been the one to make him feel comfortable enough to change his mind. The boy who'd been so traumatised, so careful and so specific about who he gave his heart and his body to... That boy had chosen you.

And the most beautiful, the most emotionally poetic thing of all, lay in the romanticism of how this year would see you both guide each other into unfamiliar, uncomfortable worlds. You had already helped to dissect and unravel Michael's religious guilt and past sex-adjacent experiences, and you would continue to do so—you would continue to reassure him that passion between man and woman was just human nature, that there was no sense in a manmade religion determining the act of out-of-wedlock lovemaking as a sin.

And then, parallel to your patience with him, was Michael's own unwavering patience in his endeavours to break down your hard-built walls. Where his unfamiliarity was with sex, yours was with the non-sexual arena of a relationship—the intimacy of soft words, gentle touch, protective embraces and hand-holding. Everything that Michael did with ease, everything that he insisted you deserved, he didn't force onto you, but he gradually guided you into, attentive to the cognitive dissonance between your mind and your soul.

Your mind had for so long shut out the craving for romantic love that belonged to your traumatised heart. In his tenderness, Michael was slowly stitching up the organ's tears, and bringing you into the territory of soft love.

So lost in your thoughts as you looked up into his gleaming dark doe eyes, his pretty lashes already wet to compliment the shine of the orbs, you almost missed what he was saying to you.

"Y' so beautiful," Michael whispered, overcome with emotion, in disbelief at the sight of you and at how this day had somehow been made true. His everlong dream, second to the one where he would surrender himself to you completely. "So magical, baby..."

You bit your lip, holding the back of your neck anxiously with a flustered smile. "Um... you look really good too."

Months ago you'd been made aware of how long he'd been in love with you, but you could've never imagined the extent of his feelings. As he looked at you now, in your purest form, an embodiment of ethereality, he couldn't believe his eyes. His life was complete.

That evening, Michael's en-suite had consisted of two flustered young adults with hearts that were in competition for beats per minute, and two pairs of eyes that erratically darted around at everything but the most intimate parts that lay before them.

It was very clear to you that Michael was making a seriously difficult effort not to stare at your breasts, and you found it very amusing, so you acknowledged the elephant in the room.

"Mikey. The more you try hard not to look at my boobs, the more you're just gonna wanna stare at 'em. 's fine, seriously." You held his hand, standing closer now, beautiful and entirely bare.

"Oh—yeah, but I feel like 'm objectifyin' y', Minnie."

Since you were kids and had sat down to watch Mickey Mouse together for the first time, you had declared the two of you as Mickey and Minnie—especially because Mikey sounded so much like the name of the cartoon mouse—so from then on the names had stuck, used on and off as playful pet names, now even cuter in your romance.

"You're objectifyin’ me by just lookin' at me?" You smiled in amusement. "You're my boyfriend, Michael—I sure would hope you enjoy lookin' at my naked body."

Michael squinted anxiously, looking to the ceiling and then down again. "I know, it's just... this is all so new to me."

"I know that," you whispered, taking hold of his other hand now too and stepping again closer, looking into the eyes that still continued to dart around. "Don't get me wrong—my heart is beating out of my chest right now. I'm so nervous, baby. I didn't say anythin' before but... I really am."

"Why?" Michael furrowed his brows, a flash of worry crossing his mind that perhaps he'd overstepped the mark and made you uncomfortable. "You're... way more experienced than me. I've never even been naked in front of a girl before. Or… seen a girl naked.”

You raised a brow, knowing he most definitely had seen a girl naked, although not in real life of course.

“Um, except in Playboy,” he corrected quickly. “I have… seen naked girls in Playboy.”

“Oh, I know you have,” you said humorously.

“But only before we started dating,” Michael added. “I would never look at those while with you.”

“Shh, baby,” you chuckled, holding his arm. “I know you wouldn’t.”

He started to loosen up again, taking a long exhale as he looked at you with a small smile. You could see the excitement and content in his reticent expression.

You, on the other hand, had become entirely reticent. Shyness had overcome you, and while you kept trying to keep it together and conceal the ridiculous way you felt through playfully giving the shy title to Michael, that didn't help steady the beat of your heart. He looked so beautiful under the stream, the coils of his afro slick with water, rivulets falling from the tips. And this was your very first time seeing him fully naked, therefore it wasn't just the scary intimacy of the shower that was on your mind, but it was the mere sight of your boyfriend, too. You took in his long limbs, the physique that always made him look so tall despite standing at only 5'9; the wet droplets scattered over his broad shoulders and chest, the way his collarbone peeked just below a hickey you'd given him yesterday. To ensure nobody found out, he'd had to wear a sweater with a high neckline all day—in the ninety degree heat of an LA summer.

You didn't dare look down at his lower half. For a woman who had been so desperate to have sex with her man, and for a woman who had literally just been critiquing said man for being hesitant to look at her own genitals, you couldn't bring yourself to face Michael in that way. While he was shy in regard to sexual encounters and sexual thoughts, you were shy of the opposite—of romantic, soft encounters that asked for nothing more than love and care. Here you were, stood right in front of the man who just wanted to wash the body of the woman he admired, and wouldn't be desperate to hoist you up the shower wall and fuck you like any other man would. Every man besides Michael would take you into his shower for only one thing—and unfortunately, it was only that genre you were prepared for.

As crazy as it sounded, Michael having an erection would've actually made this easier. It would turn the moment into something you could tease him over, something that might steer you away from the very pressing truth that there was a man in your life who truly just wanted to admire you and take good care of you. Because Michael wasn’t looking at your naked body right now to fulfil a sexual desire—he was consuming the image to appreciate you at your most vulnerable, where you had laid your entire soul out bare to him.

In your peripheral, you could see that Michael was indeed soft down there, and while you doubted that it would last, the glimpse made your head spin. He was so big. Surely he couldn't be a grower...

You shook your head quickly, snapping yourself out of the thought as you stared absentmindedly at that dark bite on his neck.

He clicked his fingers in front of you, and cradled your cheek with his warm hand to bring your gaze to his. "Earth to my Tinker Bell."

Long before you'd become a couple, cute pet names had been the norm, but ever since your dynamic had entered the realm of romance, you found your heart fluttering with every usage of those names. Michael honestly hardly ever referred to you by your real name.

"Oh, 'm sorry," you chuckled, clearly looking bashful now. This wasn't like you, and Michael was confused.

"You're not uncomfortable, right?" he asked gently, while turning to take his soap from a shelf. He began to lather his upper half in it while you talked.

God, there was something about such a mundane action that just looked so insanely sexy on him.

Again, you blinked yourself out of the aroused thoughts, remembering that if you really wanted to succeed in a non-avoidant relationship, you would have to accept the circumstances that were merely innocent. Of course, Michael had primal, sexual urges—lots of them, to be clear—but he was also capable of being with you in an exclusively delicate, tender way too, even while you were both completely naked. The inexperienced individual was usually so uncontrollably horny, unable to do much about the appearance of an erection at the slightest touch, but Michael had worked out that thankfully, he could prevent the rigid enlargement between his thighs outside of makeouts. He assumed that the reasoning was probably because of the religious and sexual trauma that had messed around with his arousal and understanding of his own body for so long.

"What?" Your voice was a little high and anxious in response to Michael's question, as he now scrubbed over his shoulders. "No, you never make me uncomfortable. Why would I be uncomfortable?"

"Guess 'm just confused ‘cause you're all shy, y' won't look at me properly, even though it's not your first time like it is mine. You've already been naked in front of someone else before."

Now there was a slightly sad expression on your boyfriend's pretty face, because he could tell that there were lies in your words. You took a deep breath.

"Michael."

"Mhm?" He still looked melancholy as his eyes met yours, silently regretting putting you in this situation. He felt as though he'd forced you—and that was his worst nightmare.

"Yes. I do feel a little uncomfortable. Or... I think anxious is a better word. This isn't about you—I would never feel discomfort in your presence." You began to explain.

Michael nodded slowly, still confused. He turned to face the other way while he continued to wash himself, and your eyes widened at the sudden sight of his back profile, before again you collected yourself.

"So, basically... um, yeah, I'm experienced in sex... but not, y'know... real intimacy like this. With this sort of thing, I'm just as much of an amateur as you are."

He turned back, his sad eyes softening into those of compassion and understanding.

"You know I get anxious with the more romantic stuff—just because I'm not used to it. It's not that I don't want to do these things with you—of course I do... It's just that in order to do them, I have to push myself out of my comfort zone, and something like this is a hard thing to push through."

"Honey, 'm sorry," Michael whispered, setting the soap down and stepping forward. "When you put it like that, I understand. I guess I was just gettin' caught up in makin' myself feel more comfortable before we make love, that I didn't view this as one of those things that would give you anxiety. 'm so sorry."

"Baby, it's okay," you smiled, interlocking both hands with his, and swinging them softly. "I'm not having a panic attack or anythin'—I want to be in here with you, and I love how romantic you are. It's just a lil bit of anxiety, and honestly I'm already feelin' it kinda slippin' away the more we stand here."

"Yeah?" His eyes lit up marginally, and he squeezed your hands to soothe you.

"It's just..." you started to giggle, covering your face. "Oh my god, this is so silly but every time you look at me I feel dizzy. I thought I'd got over this, but right here I feel the same as I did when I kept gettin' all shy after we first started dating."

Michael laughed, cupping your cheek. "I never stopped feelin' that way myself. I just manage it a little better now."

"Ugh, this is so... Wow, I'm here telling you that you should be looking at my boobs without restraint, but I can hardly look at you."

You continued to giggle shyly, while Michael was very amused, and emotionally moved by how wildly flustered he'd made you.

"Exactly, don't be a hypocrite now, baby," he grinned, using one finger to your chin to direct your eyesight up at him. "Look at me."

"Noooo," you laughed, playfully shutting your eyes, but in an instant Michael had you held tightly against his chest, your face mushed against his pectoral muscles. You squealed happily, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Well, now you can't see me," you murmured airily, against his sandalwood-scented skin.

So Michael readjusted your head, cradling your face in a position that now allowed you to both snuggle into him and be seen by his higher view. "There. That's better," he smiled.

You hummed—the vibration hitting Michael's grateful nervous system—and you felt a strange glimpse of real calm now, as if finally experiencing what normal women felt like when their man would cuddle them in the shower. You tightened your arms around his neck, kissed his chest twice, and in turn Michael tightened his hold around your waist, stroking your hair. He rocked you in a slow sway for a period longer than you ever expected to be comfortable with in such silent intimacy, but it grew to be the most beautiful feeling ever, and you found yourself never wanting to leave it. He kept kissing atop your head, and then giving small pecks to your nose because he knew you'd instinctively smile.

After a few minutes, he finally spoke. "Are you just restin' on me because y' don't want me to look at y'?"

"No," you hummed into his neck, before pulling back slowly, and taking your hands in his again. Now that you were more relaxed, your clingy side was becoming further apparent. "I feel better now. A lot better."

"Mm?"

"I think I needed that," you admitted, referring to the standing cuddle. "You always know what I need, even when I don't know myself."

Michael's chest ached. Without sounding too egotistical, that was true—he did have some magical superpower that allowed him to help you in the situations in which you felt the most vulnerable. Even while he'd made the mistake of misunderstanding your hesitation tonight, it was upon recognising your feelings that he immediately knew what to do to make you relax.

"I'm glad, baby," he smiled, picking up your interlocked hands to kiss your knuckles. "Always want y' to be comfortable."

You suddenly felt like you were about to cry, but you turned quickly, blinked back the tears hard, and turned back. "Got somethin' in my eye," you laughed.

"An eyelash? Y'want me to get it out for y'?" Michael was already disconnecting one of your hands to reach out to help, but you stopped him.

"No, I don't know what it was but it's gone now. Wait, what are those?"

You quickly changed the subject, because the shelves behind Michael had been brought to your attention a moment ago. On the top were two extra bars of soap, decorated in a wrapper that told how they were most definitely not intended for a man's use, beside two bottles of what appeared to be body oil? Also clearly not for a man, even if your boyfriend did tend to enjoy more feminine notes when it came to cologne.

"Oh," Michael blushed, turning to look at the shelf. "Um, I bought these for you. So y' have 'em whenever you’re at mine and y' wanna shower. I didn't know which scent to get you of both the soap and the oil, so I got two different ones for each."

"Michael... Thank you, baby." You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him softly, before going over to the products and examining them.

There sat two pale French-milled bars of soap by Hermès, unopened in their decorative paper wrappers, in a porcelain dish beside two cut-glass bottles of body oil. One bar was delicately scented with lavender, the other with verbena and rose. Then, the first bottle of body oil was titled as a luxurious blend of gardenia and jasmine by Estée Lauder, while the second carried the fragrance of orange blossom softened with bergamot, by Guerlain.

"Wow, honey, you didn't have to..."

"Y' needed some soap, Minnie. 'm not makin' y' use mine," he answered, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind again, and leaning his chin on the crown of your head as you held the products.

"And the oil?" you questioned in amusement. "You wanna pamper me? Is that what you had planned, baby boy?"

"Maybe..."

"Michael Jackson," you began playfully, while turning around out of his hold with the lavender bar in your hand. "You lured me in here so that you could rub oil all over my naked body?"

"Don't put it like that..." he grinned bashfully, covering his face with one hand.

You instantly moved the hand away, giggling. "Don't worry, 'm not judgin' you, Mickey."

"Okay, then yeah, I wanna... um... do that. But not today, I don't think I'll, uh—be able to handle it without accidentally, y'know..." He gestured his gaze downward to his crotch.

You nodded slowly, a happy grin on your face. But then you squinted, having caught another glimpse of his soft dick in your peripheral, and you decided not to second guess your next question. After all, Michael was your long-time best friend and your boyfriend, no matter how shy you sometimes felt with each other.

"Baby… I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Are you a grower?"

"Am I a what? What's a grower?"

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, then started laughing awkwardly. "Mikey, don't make me explain. I really can't do this while we're both stood here naked."

"Well, I don't know what y' mean, so I'm askin'. How do I answer the question otherwise?"

You continued to laugh through your words. "Ugh, I'm talkin' about your dick, silly!" You flicked his forehead. "I'm just gonna say it how it is—you're big as hell down there considerin' you're soft, so I'm askin' if it grows much more when you're hard."

"Oh, um..." Michael's eyes widened upon understanding, but he didn't laugh with you. He actually looked quite anxious, because he'd just identified a potential problem. "Yeah, quite a lot more, actually. Is that gonna be an issue? When we..."

You gasped, followed by another giggle. "Just a slight issue. But you're not taking my virginity, so you're not gonna tear me apart, don't worry."

Michael furrowed his brows, looking seriously worried that you were being too naive and that he just might tear you apart with his size.

"Michael, you can't be that big."

"Baby, let's just end this conversation. I don't know how big I am compared to other guys."

"Okay, I guess I'll find out soon," you laughed, squeezing his cheek. You were entirely relaxed now. "Unless you back out because you're scared you're gonna break me?"

Michael rolled his eyes, fighting an adorable smile. "It's just... The last thing I wanna do is hurt y'."

"I know, Mikey, and we're gonna go so slow—I'll teach you all the very important parts of foreplay... We'll be fine."

His eyes lit up at the mention of foreplay—he'd heard his brothers talk a lot about it, notably how satisfying it felt to make a woman cum with just tongue or fingers or both, and he'd been too nervous to ask about the details.

You paused to laugh at his expression, then suggested an additional component. "You can even get some lube for us, if you want?"

"Uh, yeah, okay."

"You're so cute," you giggled, reaching up to pet the wet frizz of his afro and squeezing his cheek again. "It's gonna be fine, baby."

"Stop it," he rolled his eyes with a smile; and then, with a hand on the back of his neck, you pulled your sweetheart down into a sweet, slow kiss.

When Michael pulled away to talk, he had his hands settled at your hips, and he looked a little nervous again.

"Honey, uh... would it be okay if I washed you?"

At his request, your eyes widened, but of course Michael would want a romantic evening shower to involve him doing everything for you, even if it was true that you hadn't even so much as grazed each other's nudity sensually before.

"Um, yeah, of course you can," you whispered, becoming a little shy again but without possession of the anxiety you'd carried in there earlier.

Michael nodded, then hesitated for a moment before taking the bar of soap from your hands, and picking up a fresh cotton washcloth.

Wordlessly, he began rubbing the product up and down your arms, the least anxiety-inducing part of your body to begin with, but all he could think about was how he would very soon be initiating touching the body part that sat just outside of his peripheral. Your breasts, what he'd yearned to touch for so long... And impossibly, he now had his very first opportunity.

You started to laugh again, because he had this adorable concentrated expression on his face, and because his wet fro was adorable enough in itself. The scrubbing also tickled slightly.

"Hm?" Michael looked at you, brows raised.

"I know I said this already, but you're so cute."

"Oh," he smiled bashfully, looking down at your arm again.

"Baby," you whispered, taking hold of his wrist. "Don't y' think you've washed my arms enough already? They're not that long, y'know."

Michael bit his lip, finally pausing, but still looking elsewhere from your face. "Uh, yeah, probably."

Truth be told, he was insanely nervous to touch your breasts for the first time. So much so, that he even began to share your concern from earlier. This was too intimate.

Michael never drank alcohol, but a sudden thought occurred in his mind that perhaps he should've taken a few shots before this shower.

"Mikey."

"Yes."

"Look at me," you laughed, reaching up to drag his jaw.

"I'm lookin'," he muttered, with a pout like a child.

"What's goin' on? Why have you stopped completely?"

No way could he say aloud that he, at the grown age of nineteen (to be twenty in two weeks) was scared to touch his own girlfriend's breasts. 'Scared' was perhaps a silly word to use, because one couldn't be scared of something they desperately craved. Rather, his inexperience was crushing him, overwhelming his free will and thereby rendering him unable to proceed with the next action in a normal, casual way.

And so, indeed unable to admit what was plaguing him, he shook his head and grinned. "Was nothin'. I just thought I heard somebody, 's all."

"Alright," you chuckled, although you felt a hint of a lie on his part.

You brushed it off. It was understandable if he was nervous.

Now he moved your hair out of the way and scrubbed gently over your neck, up to your jaw, making you gasp as he held your nape in place. His heart pounded as he did so, both with the thrill of hearing you gasp that way, and with the anxiety about what he would be doing next.

Finally, he lowered his hands, dragging the cloth over your upper chest, just below your collarbone, before setting it aside. He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes tight for a moment, before relieving his hesitation and opening them.

You looked up at him, wet lashes fluttering, heart racing too. He wouldn't touch you like all the rest—you knew that for certain. He was going to touch you so tenderly; with so much care, so much reverence, and—

"Oh..." you involuntarily moaned, head rolling back slowly. Both of Michael's big hands had met your aching breasts, kneading carefully over the tissue. He eagerly lathered your chest in soap, lip between his teeth as his dilated pupils relished in the sight before him. You were breathtaking, and he couldn't believe he somehow had you like this. If he hadn't been so nervous and hesitant, he could've had you this way all the way back in spring. Or even earlier, if he hadn't taken so long to confess his love.

"This okay, mama?" he whispered, kissing your cheek, and then your lips.

Your eyes rolled back as you took another deep breath, reaching a hand up to his shoulder to steady yourself. How was he real? Michael took so much care, paid so much attention, and then had the nerve to kiss you twice, and ask if he was doing well enough. How quintessentially him. He never had any idea how innately talented he was at absolutely everything.

Because in that moment, as your supposedly 'shy' boyfriend squeezed and kneaded, you had quite literally ascended to cloud nine. Incredibly, Michael knew exactly what to do with what he had zero experience in. He was working the tissue in a way no man had before. All men loved breasts—that was a given—so Michael's infatuation with yours had been expected, but the men of your past did something very different. They would grab roughly, hold onto them tight for their own pleasure, without an ounce of tenderness. While here was Michael, doing something so particular, you wondered how on earth he was a virgin. If you hadn't known him on such a deep level, you would've chastised him for lying.

"Mikey..."

You didn't have to explicitly state a confirmation of how this was very much way more than okay. Your soft whines said enough, and they ran through Michael's body like the first hit of a hard drug.

Repetitively, he would run the palm of his hand along one breast, dragging the smooth skin over your erect nipple, and to the other breast he would provide a very slow massage, squeezing passionately as his thumb rubbed side-to-side and in circles over that nipple too.

You hardly looked down, too lost in one of the most pleasurable sensations you'd ever experienced—and you hadn't even reached the sex yet!—but whenever you did, your head would instinctively roll back again. His hands you knew were huge, except now they looked like the sexiest assets to inhabit the earth, you the lucky lady who had the digits sprawled all over your chest. And how tender he was...

All your life you'd done everything erratically, switching from one boy to the next in the hope that his pleasure might give you what you needed. But you had been so wrong—so naive and disconnected from what your safety hormone was really begging for. Beneath everything you sought that only harmed you, was a craving for this very touch.

Michael had a tendency to switch between shy and dominant. While you'd had only heated makeouts and dry-humping sessions so far, it excited you that there was a high likelihood he would behave the same way during sex itself. He would be shy during the build-up, but once he was settled, it was like all his inhibitions were hazy, and the only thing he could focus on was you—consuming you, and pleasuring you. That was the reason why you often found yourselves making out in public, because you were equally addicted to each other, and Michael's shyness appeared to dissipate entirely once he became lost in your body.

Under the fierce shower stream, he sure was taking his sweet time. While just previously he had been too nervous to even touch the area, now he was reluctant to pull away from it.

But there was a problem. So lost in his provision of pleasure, so immersed in your sexuality and your angelic hums with each slight alteration of his movements, indeed Michael Jackson was getting a boner. The love he had for you, the arousal coursing through his veins, had rushed to his nether region, the blood flowing rapidly, much more insistent than he would've liked.

Michael knew he could've kept this shower at mere innocent romance, and when he initiated washing you, he hadn't intended to give you a full on massage. Except, that was what had ended up happening—against his will, he believed, because he felt that his body was moving via his arousal and not his logical mind. He was supposed to save everything until the first night—partly because that was just how he had wanted it to be, and also because the last thing he wanted was to get hard in the shower right in front of you, unable to conceal an inch of it in his nudity.

He was surprised you hadn't noticed, but then again you had your eyes closed during ninety percent of the massage. If this had occurred a few minutes ago, however, you would've seen instantly. Where once his cock had hung limp, it was now risen—the tip flushed mauve, thick veins running up and down the erect length. He wasn't fully hard yet, but he really was getting there, and the longer he touched you and stared at your beautiful chest, the worse this situation would become.

Quickly, he came up with an idea. He would guide you to turn around, so that he could wash your back. Perfect.

"Turn, honey. Lemme do your back," he whispered, cupping your cheek to kiss you again, and then he gently spun you 180 degrees, at which you giggled.

You were stunned by what he'd just given you. "Michael, what on earth was that?"

He gathered more soap and began spreading it from the nape of your neck and downward, scrubbing as he spoke. "Um," he chuckled, "I don't know, but it looked like you were enjoyin' it?"

"Quit this gimmick—you know exactly what you're doin', sir. Have you been stealing porn from your brothers?"

Michael laughed louder. "Nothin’ but Playboy, I promise. 's all me—I haven't learned nothin' from nowhere."

"Ugh, you're incredible, baby. No one's ever touched me in that way before. Like, I've never had anythin' close to that, I swear." You sighed in disbelief and leaned back into his chest, wanting him to cradle you in a hold.

Michael was astonished by your reaction. Sure, it was clear you'd been enjoying yourself, but you'd been with several men before. How had he, in all his inexperience, managed to win such an achievement on first try?

When you leaned back into him, he took hold of you as you wished, now done with washing the plane of your back. He kissed your shoulder, but then froze in his place as he remembered his erection, and so gently pushed you forward again.

"What are you doin'? I wanna cuddle," you protested, about to turn around, but he stopped you with a hand on your hip.

"Not done yet, mama."

You sighed in irritation, but then felt the thrill of realising he was about to wash the lower half of your back profile. With a now content sigh, you let him continue.

Past your waist, Michael washed over the curve of your ass, lip bitten tight between his teeth as he stared at the image before him. He squinted in his sexual frustration, and you never would've guessed—to you he felt so entirely in control, those gorgeous hands running over where you so desperately wished he would just stop being such a gentleman and squeeze, but he didn't want you to think that he was like all the others, that he really had lured you in here just to touch you that way.

That was the last thing you would've ever believed of him, but Michael second-guessed a lot of things.

All of a sudden, he found himself speaking with sincerity. "Uh, y'know, baby, I'm sorry that we're waitin' so long to... um, have sex. 'Cause it's been nearly a whole month since I told y' I'd think about it. I guess this is kind of like me warmin' up to doin' it? I promise I won't make y' wait much longer."

"No, honey, don't apologise," you reassured, reaching back to hold his arm. "There's no pressure at all. We do it when you're ready."

Michael smiled to himself, and leaned down to kiss your shoulder again several times.

"And," you added happily, "I'm very impressed with the glimpse you've given me today. Well, in all fairness, it was really a lot more than a glimpse."

He chuckled, crouching down further now to wash over the backs of your legs. He pressed a kiss to your left hip, and to the skin just above your ass, again producing a pleasant gasp from your throat.

But just as he was about to consider what he might do next, about the problem concerning his own lower half, there was a loud, insistent knock at the door.

"Michael!" one of his brothers called. You didn't know which one it was, because the loud downpour of water above your head was quietening outdoor sound.

"Oh God..." Michael groaned under his breath from behind you, standing up from where he'd been crouched.

"Mike, y' in there? I can hear the water runnin'!"

"Is that Marlon?" you whispered in amusement, still facing away, but you were a little anxious that he might walk in and find out you were in there. The glass was fogged, but it was more than clear that two people stood behind it. Michael would lose his mind if anyone saw, because he knew that Katherine would lose her mind.

"Yeah," Michael muttered back, worrying now. Then he called to his brother, because he couldn't ignore him when it was very obvious he was in the shower. "Hey, yeah, 'm in here!"

"Alright man, y' still got my Afro Sheen?"

Oh no. Michael had borrowed the product off of Marlon earlier on—having run out of his own bottle—and now Marlon had a date, and needed it back immediately.

"Yeah, I can give it back to y' when 'm done!" Michael shouted, trying to disguise the unease in his chest. "See if anyone else has any, maybe?"

"Nah, 's cool, man, I can just come in right now and get it myself!"

You both heard the twist of the door handle, still facing away from each other but with expressions that were parallel, a mirror image in their horror.

"No, don't come in!" Michael yelled, much too defensively, but Marlon obliged, because living with so many brothers meant that you really could witness something you would regret if you weren't careful. That was never the case with Michael though, because he was always so innocent, therefore his anxious yell left Marlon now incredibly suspicious.

"Alright man, Jesus! But what the hell are y' doin' in there? Y' jerkin' off or somethin'?"

You tried not to laugh at that, but Michael didn't find it funny, scared that his mother might hear if she happened to be upstairs. She wasn't, but he couldn't be sure.

"Uh, no—no. I would never do that."

"Whatever, bro," Marlon chuckled. "What is it then? You got a girl in there? Oh shit, that's what it is, huh? Lil Mikey's got a lady in his shower..."

It hadn't taken very long for Marlon to work that one out, given the fact that Michael had literally no other excuse for why his brother couldn't quickly come in and out of the bathroom.

"Michael, this is so embarrassing..." you whispered. "What if he walks in?"

"He won't."

"Michael!" Marlon called again, with more frustration in his tone this time.

"What, Marlon?!"

"Tell me—am I right—do y' have a girl in there?"

What followed was more extremely telling silence, with the sound of the shower's persistent cascade. The quiet spoke for itself.

So Marlon continued. He was loving this, because he never thought he'd see the day that his younger brother would begin to break the rules. "If you don't have a girl wit y', then you'll let me in, but y' not lettin' me in, so that proves it!"

Again, more silence, while Michael groaned under the noise of the hot water.

"No way..." Marlon began to laugh again. "It's [♥︎] in there wit y', ain't it?" Then he raised his voice louder. "Jackie! Tito! Get over here!"

"I'm so sorry," Michael whispered from behind you, although you just found it all very amusing. As long as nobody actually saw you naked in the shower, this was some light entertainment to add to the romantic evening.

But Michael was stressed out, and for more reasons than just that he'd been caught. He had wanted to make this evening as romantic as possible, already nervous enough without the intrusion of his stupid brothers. In retrospect, he really should've done this with you at your place instead of the chaos that was Hayvenhurst, but he didn't want to impose, considering he was the man, and therefore the one who was supposed to initiate all these milestones in your relationship.

"What's gon' on, man? We're 'bout to go out." Jackie was now outside the door too, responding to Marlon's call. Michael's blood was boiling.

"Nah, listen to this." Marlon paused, then couldn't help but laugh again in his shock, so excited to deliver the live news. "Mikey's got a girl in his shower."

"Not [♥︎]?!” Tito asked, in disbelief. Surely his brother had to be kidding.

But for once, he wasn't. "Mhm. 'm sure of it. He won't let me in, 'n he keeps goin' all quiet whenever I ask."

Dumbfounded by the revelation, Jackie called into the bathroom. "Michael, y' can't be for real, man? When mother finds out?"

Each one of his brothers were hypocrites, because they all did whatever they liked, no matter what their mother believed in. It was just that Katherine was most protective over Michael, and Michael was the most compliant with her requests. He had vowed with sincerity never to do anything sexual with a woman until he married.

"God, shut up, Jackie!" Michael snapped. "All of y' need to mind y' own business. And don't y' even dare tell mother. She'll kill me. We're not even doin' nothin' in here—we're just takin' a shower. Washin' ourselves, 'n..."

"And each other?" Tito interrupted through laughter, which the others joined in with.

You'd found it funny until you heard how stressed Michael was, because he really was such a sensitive soul who'd wanted an entirely private night with his girl.

Although, unbeknownst to you, the one thing he had to thank his brothers for was a distraction from his erection. His cock was softening now, and as you turned back to face him, it was like nothing had happened down there at all.

Now, Jermaine had walked up to the door. "What's goin' on?"

"Michael's havin' sex in the shower," Marlon announced.

"Not even kiddin' neither," Jackie added.

"What? With [♥︎]?!" Jermaine asked, in the same shock the others had expressed.

"No, 'm not!" Michael yelled again. "Jesus, just—"

"Michael, why else would you be in the shower with your girl?!" Jackie asked.

"None of y' business!"

From down the hall, a twelve-year-old Janet Jackson had peeked her head out of her bedroom door. "Why are y'all shoutin'?"

"Oh, 's nothin', Jan! You go'n!" Tito called back to her.

"Is Michael doin' somethin' bad?"

"No, I just want my Sheen back!" Marlon shouted.

"Shut up, mother's gonna hear!" Michael reminded. "Is she downstairs?"

"Yeah, she's outside, we're fine!"

"Alright, I'll get out of the shower quick, 'n give it to y'. Only if y' promise to leave me alone."

"Leave 'us' alone, y' mean!" Jermaine corrected. "You're not exactly alone in there!"

Out of respect, the boys didn't speak to you directly, and you were very appreciative of that. The Jacksons were like your brothers, and this was definitely not the most comfortable situation for you to be in with them.

"’m sorry, we'll be alone again in a minute," Michael whispered to you, kissing your forehead.

Then he grabbed a towel, and at the side dried his body with it quickly, before wrapping the cotton around his waist and stepping out. He picked up the jar that had been requested, handing it to Marlon through the now scarcely opened door.

Jackie, Tito and Jermaine were already walking off, done with their teasing because they too had girls waiting on them.

"Marlon, 'm so serious, don't tell mother about any of this. Or Joseph, 'cause he'll tell her himself and then he'll—"

"Hey, bro, stop worryin'. Y' know 'm only messin' with y'. Have you guys been sleepin' together, though?"

Michael squinted in confusion. "Yeah, obviously. We have sleepovers all the time."

Marlon laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, man. No—sleepin' together as in... y'know, makin' love."

The younger brother's face dropped. "Oh."

"You ain't done it yet, huh? How long y' been together?"

"Uh, 3 months. We're, um—"

"Mikey!" you called, getting bored in there alone. "Is everyone gone?"

Marlon tapped his shoulder, before dapping him up with a supportive smile. "You go back in there 'n enjoy yourself, Mikey."

Michael smiled, but rolled his eyes at how his brother mocked your nickname for him.

After shutting the door again and taking off his towel, he stepped back into the shower, immediately pulling you flush to his chest. "So, where were we?"

You grinned, pulling your head out of his neck to lock your lips onto his. "Um," you started to giggle, "you were giving me a very sensual massage."

"Very sensual, huh?" He pecked your nose and squeezed your hips.

"Mhm. Latherin' me in all this luxury soap." You sighed happily. "Baby, I love how much thought you put into this. 'm sorry they ruined it for you."

"No, 'm sorry for you, not me," Michael stressed.

"Oh, shut up, Bambi. Honestly, it was funny. They didn't actually see us, so I can laugh it off. I mean, I would definitely be feeling much different had your mother found out, but if you know for sure that they're not gonna tell, then... Let's just resume our paradise." You beamed, wrapping your arms around his neck and feeling over his fro. "Y'know, if you really wanted something totally private, you would've been better off with a hotel suite, baby."

Michael's brows furrowed in concern. "Is that what you would've preferred? I should've—"

"Noooo, shut up—no. Honey, this is more than enough. Let's move on now. I've really enjoyed tonight."

"Yeah?"

The beautiful boy smiled so wide, it physically hurt you.

"It's been perfect," you whispered against his lips, between more kisses. "Even in its imperfections."

You both chuckled, and Michael now cradled your head, guiding you to rest against his chest again, nestled in the crook of his neck.

"I love you," he murmured. "I really think 'm ready to give you all of me."

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡🧁₊˚⊹♡ ╱ writing this immediately after my last one shot was a fun twist lol ! what a dichotomy. also… initially i intended to include some light smut at the end but i decided against it bc i felt that it would taint the fluff !! there will be soooo much smut in the third part when they do everything together >u<

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[michaelmuse-deactivated20260814]

—𝐑𝐄𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄

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

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

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

Alcohol often does incredulous things to people.

And right now, you finally understood why.

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

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

In the shape of fingers..?

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

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

Your wedding ring.

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

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

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

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

Eight years together makes things like that easy to spot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In August 2002, you’d had enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It had to stop.

And it forced you to reach that extent

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

But, today, enough was enough.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No avail.

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

You had reached your wits end.

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

It was incessant.

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

And that’s exactly what you did.

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

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

“Baby.” You spoke, voice trembling.

No answer.

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

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael!”

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

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

“I can’t—I can’t take this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Honey, wait—calm dow—“

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

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

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

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

It all finally rained down on him.

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

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

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

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

And Michael’s flabbergasted silence only made things worse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The words hit him directly in the chest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Think? Think about what?”

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

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

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

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

Beep!

Riiiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

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

Beep!

Riiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

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

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

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

Not after everything that had happened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, the one that took the cake was disgust.

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

Lisa Marie Presley.

Your husband’s ex-wife.

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

But, you knew the truth.

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

And you knew Michael knew it too.

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

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

“Baby?”

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

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

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

The classic one-liner.

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

“What the fuck is going on here?”

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart sank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did she fucking sleep here?”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, my God, I’m gonna be sick.”

And that you did.

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

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

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

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

Let alone his loving, devoted wife.

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

Anger became the fore-front emotion rapidly.

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

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

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

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

“Wait, what?”

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

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

“Prince! Paris!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Anger had been replaced by unadulterated, hopeless anguish.

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

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

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

“I thought you loved me, Michael?”

I thought you loved me.

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

He was served the divorce papers the next morning.

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

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

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

As Michael had paid for it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smiled, “No, come in.”

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

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

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

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

“What do you think about Mickey?”

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

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

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

“Baby..”

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

“Do you like it?”

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

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

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

You chuckled, “Bad or good?”

“Good. Real good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Michael.”

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

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

No words were spoken about that kiss ever again.

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

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

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

Until Wednesday.

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

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

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

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

Especially when you were seeing him in an hour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Applehead!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckled again, harder this time, “No, I know. I know he would never intentionally hurt me, but I just get more irritated when it’s her, y’know? Especially after everything that happened between us three.” You let a breathless laugh escape you, “I mean I’d rather it be Diana.”

Janet cackled, “Girl, I reckon that’s ten times worse.”

The two of you shared more laughs and glasses of wine as you changed the subjects quickly — discussing vacations, work, your children, fashion, family, everything. Janet had always been your favourite, after Michael of course (not that you’d ever admit that to him now), and then Marlon, who was now approaching you from across the room.

“There she is! My favourite girl!” He called, arms out wide as he entered your orbit.

You snorted in laughter as you stood up to hug him, “What the hell, Marlon? What about your own wife?”

“Shhh.” He winked, nudging your shoulder with a playful grin, “Hey, later on, all of us are gonna have some drinks once the old fogey’s leave and the kids are asleep — just like old times. You in?”

What Marlon referring to was when you and Michael first started dating, you would often go with him to Hayvenhurst when he visited his parents, alongside his siblings. And once Katherine and Joseph went up to sleep, all the siblings and their partners, including you, would all huddle in the living room and drink to your heart’s content — the house getting increasingly more loud as the group of you got more and more intoxicated. Michael never got that drunk at that age, and especially so when he felt a responsibility to take care of you — which he did. More often than not after one of those evenings, carrying you to bed once you returned home, undressing you and taking your makeup off while you babbled and kissed him all over, before passing out, which often amused him.

“Uh, duh.”

Marlon laughed, clapping his hands together in anticipatory excitement to his future drinking, before Katherine’s voice sounded out into the room.

“Cake time!”

Prince practically exploded with excitement as he raced over to you, squealing like a little piglet as he clabbered onto your lab. He sat with his small back facing your chest, legs kicking wildly against your shins as he radiated with joy — little hands grabbing at the material of your dress in anticipation.

Soon, the room fell into silence just as Blanket and Paris climbed next to you, nestling into your sides, as the lights flicked off before Michael arose from the darkness, a large buttercream frosting covered cake with seven ignited candles standing atop — as his melodic, sweet-symphony of a voice sounded out into the room.

Everyone soon joined in, even your two little ones next to you, for the famous Happy Birthday song, even Katherine. You knew birthdays and Christmas weren’t celebrated amongst their family due to Katherine’s religion — so, you felt an extra splash of gratitude for the Jackson’s when it came to celebrating the day of your son’s birth without their faith in mind. But, you knew Kate would do whatever her grandbabies.

Just as Michael reached you, crouching down to Prince’s level as he giggled, the song came to an end, and the birthday boy blew out his candles, with a slight struggle from his little lungs. And as the room enclosed into darkness and cheers of ‘Hip-Hip Hooray!’ echoed in your head, your eyes landed on Michael’s, whose were already locked on you.

The look in his eye was a familiar one — a glint that he wore four times previously, and on this day seven years ago when his first baby was born, was one of pride and intense adoration. The same look he also sported before the intimate lock of lips you shared in the hospital last year when Mickey was born — the look of love.

It was undeniable — the way his lip wobbled as his eyes glassed over in proud tears, cheeks flushing a sheer shade of burgundy, and the raw shine of adoration in his vision.

You soon adorned the same look, a simple, unspoken expression that said a thousand words, as well as one more plain sentence of ‘That’s our baby boy’.

But, the lights flicked on and you both snapped out of it — clearing your throats and swallowing thickly as you looked away from one another, forcing your attention onto Prince who demanded a slice of cake that had to be bigger than Paris’s. And soon, the night continued as it had done, now with bellies full of cake and, for the adults, wine.

However, as ever, Michael’s intense and noticeable gaze was hard to ignore — every conversation you slotted yourself into was always dragged away by a subtle eye movement behind said person, and catching the locked stare of Michael, who watched you like a hawk, often letting his bottom slip between his teeth before looking away. Every time your stomach would jump — a flare of burning electricity coursing through your veins like wildfire.

And, as it always does, the party began filtering out — offering hugs and kisses to cheeks before heading out the door. Even including Joseph, who grumbled a good-bye, and Kate, who engulfed you in a tight embrace, kissed your cheek and thanked you for bringing her beautiful grandchildren into this world, before leaving with Michael’s eldest sister, Rebbie, who had to send her children off to bed.

You did the same — sending your four babies up the stairs of Neverland, and into their respecting bedrooms, cooing each little one to sleep with a sweet, hushed bedtime story or a recount of their day, before they all succumbed to a much needed slumber. And as Mickey, who fell asleep in your arms, was laid carefully in his crib-like bed in Michael’s room, you shut the door and head back down the stairs to where the party awaited you.

And then, there were nine — You, Janet, La Toya, Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and, of course, Michael.

The dozen of you situated yourselves in the living room adorning three large couches — all spreading across the furniture in equal numbers. Michael, tactically, sat across from you. You knew exactly why — he wanted to keep staring. But, you’d let him — what else was the dress for?

Marlon took a firm seat before letting three bottles of wine clatter onto the small table that sat in the middle of the room — before grabbing one himself and pouring a large glass.

“Let’s get the real party started.” Jermaine laughed as he took the bottle from Marlon, and topped his one glass of.

“Hey, that’s my baby’s birthday party you’re dissing.” You quipped, chuckling as you thanked La Toya for passing you the bottle after she’d finished with it.

“I am not!” Jermaine defended with a smile, taking a sip of his wine, “I’m just saying, isn’t this way more fun?”

“Love Prince, but absolutely.” Marlon joked, sending the room into laughter.

The room settled into a comfortable buzzed environment — everyone quietly conversed with those nearest to them, occasionally engaging in a large group discussion, as the multiple glasses of consumed wine took over everyone’s blood-streams.

“Oooh, you know what we should play,” La Toya squealed, “‘Never have I ever?’!”

Jackie laughed, “Seriously? Are we fifteen?”

“What? It’s fun!” Toya defended, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I mean,” Marlon started, grinning playfully, a joke clearly pending, “We are in Neverland.”

“You are so corny.” Randy shot with a chuckle, “I’m down.”

“Yeah, me too.” Janet said with a grin, “Why not?”

As everyone, including yourself, agreed, all eyes landed on Michael — who had remained deliberately quiet.

“You in, Mike?” Tito question, placing his nearly empty wine glass on the side table, peering over at his brother next to him.

Michael let out a breathy laugh, eyes flicking up to you before he nodded, “Sure.”

Everyone cheered before putting one hand in the air as La Toya cleared her throat, before stating the first prompt.

“Never have I ever spent more than $50,000 in one day?”

The room chuckled as Jermaine, Michael and Janet put a finger down — but, Michael was a given. He was Michael Jackson after all.

“That’s so tame, Toya.” Marlon laughed, “Never have I ever had sex in a pool?”

“Ew, Mar, what the hell?” Janet scrunched her face up, as Marlon cackled with laughter.

La Toya, Tito, Jackie and Jermaine put a finger down, succumbing to the teasing that soon followed from their siblings as the room erupted into laughter once more.

“Alright, alright, if that’s the route we’re going down, Never have I ever had sex more than ten times in one day?”

Well, shit.

Your eyes locked on Michael’s as the room fell into silence as everyone’s visions darted towards everyone’s hands — but, soon chaos ensued as you and Michael’s fingers slotted down.

“Oh, my God, Mike.” Jermaine cried, clutching his stomach, “You dog.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you recounted the memory clearly in your head. It was the night, and more so day, after your wedding — and you spent the whole twenty-four hours after tying the knot making love. So much so, you both slept for at least fourteen hours that night, both covered head to toe in sweat, spit and cum — and completely spent.

“We’d just got married, what did you expect?” You giggled, the deep smile on your face on deepening as Michael dropped his head as he laughed breathlessly, clearly embarrassed from such intimate talk.

A few more intimate, hilarious and interesting rounds followed — memories from the siblings childhood, as well their respecting relationships and embarrassing moments all being revealed with each breath. As well as more wine.

“I can’t believe you peed on Randy, you two.” Janet gasped for breath as she laughed.

Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head, as he recounted the memory of sharing a bed with his brothers, “He’s such a liar.” He spoke, his words slightly slurred as the alcohol took over.

“I am not!” Randy fired back.

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Michael giggled, raising his eyebrows in Marlon’s direction who screamed with laughter.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go, little brother.” He winked, ignoring the way Randy cursed at him, “Alright, if you wanna come for me, Never have I ever got caught having sex by Mom?”

Randy groaned as he put a finger down, just as you gasped, “Oh, fuck’s sake, that includes us!”

“No way! When?” La Toya gasped as the room bustled with questions at your drunken revelation.

“Oh, come on, girl, why’d you tell them?” Michael whined, his voice drawled as his cheeks flushed, as he slotted a third finger down.

The alcohol had clearly hit everyone, including you, as your cheeks flushed pink and your body buzzed with a heavy, noticeable daze of intoxication, as you began retelling the story. It had been a night just like this, five years ago, when Paris was still young, and your Mother had been looking after her and Prince while you had a party-night at Hayvenhurst with all the siblings. But, this time, Michael got equally as drunk as you, and was too under the influence to attempt to get home, so opted for spending the night at his parents. And, as most couple’s do when drunk, you began having sex, albeit much louder than you intended to. But, you hadn’t let Kate know you were staying over — so, when she marched into the room, wondering if there was a burglar, she witnessed you, naked, atop of her son, riding him.

Michael’s hands enclosed around his face as Tito shook his shoulders with a laugh, teasing him, as you added Kate had a stern talk with you the next day, like you were irresponsible teenagers, about safe sex, especially after having a baby.

“That was your fault.” Michael pointed at you, a lazy grin spread across his face, as his eyes drooped slightly.

You giggled, “Me? You came on to me.”

“More like into, but sure.”

“Oh, good, God, Michael!” La Toya squealed, covering her ears as everyone laughed.

“I always forget how he gets when he drinks.” You slurred with a chuckle, “As the story reveals.”

“Oh? You wanna go there?” Michael fired, “Never have I ever broke a mirror during... it?”

You gasped, folding a finger down as the memory of your legs giving way, and falling forward when Michael was fucking you from behind in front of the mirror, and it smashing from the weight of your tumble, hit your brain.

“Alright, Never have I ever fell asleep during sex?”

Marlon cackled as Michael pursed his lips together, “It was after the tour, girl, I was tired!”

“Put that finger down, Michael.”

“Fine, speaking of fingers, Never have I ever broke a finger during sex?”

As you slot a finger down, recounting the way you jumped on Michael from the edge of the bed, in between switching positions, and broke his pinky finger, you shot back, “Never have I ever slipped in the shower during sex?”

Michael cursed with a laugh as he put a finger down — the tension of his previous actions melting into nothingness as your teasing continued.

“Never have I ever been pregnant?”

“Oh, that’s playing dirty.” You gasped, putting a finger down until one was left, “Never have I ever woke the kids up from how loud you were being?”

“Fine, Never have I ever argued with me during sex?”

“Never have I ever been an asshole that it required an argument?”

Michael’s jaw clenched as the room fell into uncomfortable silence, “Never have I ever divorced the one man who actually put up with you?”

Oh, now he was pissed — and so were you.

“Oh, fuck you.” You spat, the tension rising back up as you dropped your hand, now not caring about the game, “Never have I ever ruined my marriage by letting my ex-wife sleep over at my house and take care of my loving wife’s kids while she was crying at her Mom’s house because of what I’d done?”

“You know it wasn’t like that.” Michael spat through gritted teeth, his hand also abandoned.

“Oh, really? So maybe, Never have I ever took my other ex-wife out for dinner who ruined my marriage, two days before my son’s birthday, is more fitting?”

Before Michael could even get another word out, you slammed your wine glass onto the table and stormed out of the room — heels clicking wildly against the floor, covering the sound of your quiet sobs as tears slipped from your eyes.

You soon found one of the many downstairs bathrooms, slotting yourself inside with a stumble due to your intoxication, and locking it shut. You hunched over the sink, letting tears drip onto the cold tiles that surrounded the basin as you choked out a sob.

‘Divorced the one man who put up with you’ rang in your head like a blasting speaker in your mind — circling around in your drunken thoughts. Michael had never been cruel, even when drunk, but his words had been harsh, which allowed your slurred brain to run away with itself, believing that it was true.

After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded onto the wood of the door, “Honey? It’s me.”

Janet’s quietened voice hit your ears from behind the door, as you stood up with a huff and unlocked the wooden barrier, pulling it open. She sighed sadly at the sight of your crying frame, before pulling you into a tight hug, rubbing your back as a few stray tears fell from your waterline.

“I’m sorry, honey, I—I have no idea what happened back there, but, I think you two have a lot to discuss.” She spoke gently as she pulled away, offering a small smile, “We’re all heading home now, do you need a ride?”

You let out another long sigh, “No, I’m okay. And you’re right, we should probably talk. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t stress it, sweetie. Call me if you need, okay?”

And with quiet goodbyes with his brothers at the front door, who teased you carefully about your dispute with Michael, letting the tears dry and soft laughter erupt from your chest, the house fell into loud silence — the kind where you could move one step and it would echo.

You breathed out again, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, before heading back to where the group had once been. Your chest ached at the sight of Michael — head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, body unmoving, now in dim lighting, the main light dialled down to a softer array of light across the room.

Michael’s head lifted at the sound of your heels clicking as they had done all day, your footing still unstable from the lingering alcohol, as you approached him. You took the high road, sitting firmly next to you with a huffed breath, hands settling on your thighs as you got comfortable.

The room, if it was even at all possible, fell into deeper silence, the only sound radiating between you was the sound of your slurred, slow breaths.

“I’m sorry.” Michael finally spoke, voice croaked and quiet as he sighed, “I—I don’t know why I said that.”

“Why did you?” Your voice a near whisper as tears threatened to brew at the reminder of the sentence that was haunting you, “Was I really that bad?”

“Not at all.” He spoke quickly, turning towards you briskly, his eyes meeting your own, “I was just angry and I blurted it out.” He ran a hand across his face, “I don’t know why I did.”

“That really hurt, Michael.” You breathed, “And, when you—sigh—when you, y’know, with Lisa the other day.” You swallowed down the lump in your throat, “Why?”

Michael grew quiet, pursing his lips together as he breathed out once more, “I don’t even know. I was bored, and in Manhattan for a gala, and she called me asking if I was free. I just—I just wanted to catch up.”

“Catch up with your ex-wife? After all that happened?” You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, I hear it, I do. I don’t even know why I agreed really, but, we didn’t go home together, or kiss, or nothing if that’s what you’re thinking, ‘cause I bet you are.” You let a soft chuckle at his words, which were undeniably true, “It was harmless, to me at least. I definitely see how it looks.”

“Looked real bad, Mike.” You laughed breathlessly, “Jan said you were probably just being polite, and I guess she was right. But, it still hurt, Michael, seeing you with her, it was like opening an old wound that I worked so hard to heal.”

Michael didn’t reply right away, just stayed locked in your gaze, eyes a sunken display of his upset — hurt in the way he’d caused you pain. The look in his eyes was a watered down version of the way he looked at you when you caught him with Lisa the day you split up — the vision sending shockwaves of irrevocable pain coursing through your traumatised veins.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled again, a hand coming down to rest over yours that crumbled together in your lap, “The last thing I want is for us to fall out when we have kids. It’s not fair to you, as well as them. That’s the last thing I want for us.”

The latter word hung heavy in your head the second it left his lips — a spike of a familiar adoring feeling spreading through you.

“Us.” A smile drifted onto your face, as you glanced down at your connected hands, “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Michael watched as you toyed with his fingers, rolling the digits between your own, rubbing the soft skin with the pad of your thumb so delicately his heart skipped a beat at the touch.

“We were pretty good together.” He admitted softly, “You made it perfect.”

Your smile deepened, “So I wasn’t hard to put up with?”

Michael chuckled softly as you reciprocated, “No, not at all.” He confirmed, “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, and that’s a positive thing. I mean I’m a dad of a four now, and I love being a father, and I love our kids, and I love yo—“

He cut himself off, visibly tensing, before he could finish the sentence — but, it was too late. The way you gasped softly revealed you’d heard it — his casual revelation for his love for you, even after all this time.

“Michael.” You whispered, peering up from your entwined hands to meet his gaze, “What did you say?”

You had heard, loud and clear, but you needed confirmation before you let your heart burst, while it hammered violently in your chest.

“I said I love you.” Michael sighed, accepting defeat and owning it, “I do now, as I always have done, even after everything. The break-up, the divorce, the kids, Lisa — everything.”

His voice was lazy and slurred, and strong smelling of alcohol as it drifted over your nose from his breath.

“Michael, I—“

“You don’t need to say anything. I know you left for a reason, and a valid one at that. I know I fucked everything up, before and after we split up, I just—I don’t think I can go another day without you.” He let out a broken, shaken breath as a single tear slipped down his face, “I still love you so much, so much it physically hurts whenever I see you leave when you pick up the kids. I can literally feel my heart breaking in my chest whenever we talk like we didn’t spent eight years together. Eight years learning routines, and favourite dinners, and—and little quirks. Eight years of sleeping next to one another, washing together in the shower, and rubbing each other’s feet after a long day, or taking off your make-up when you’re too drunk to do it.” You laughed softly at his words, “Eight years of marriage, seven of being parents to the most wonderful children on the planet, I just—I can’t bear that they think their Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore, when that’s not the truth.” He finally took a breath after he rambled, “At least it isn’t for me.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until salt lingered on your tongue from where your tears trickled onto your lips — eyebrows tucked deep into the crease of your forehead, lip wobbling as you let him pour his heart out, a raw, vulnerable display of his adoration.

“I never stopped loving you, Michael.”

The sound that left Michael was a broken choke, half a sob as his hands enclosed tighter around your own.

“I was mad at you—fuck, so mad at you. So mad and distraught and lonely, and you saw none of it. You were just so busy and cooped in your own insanely demanding career that you took me for granted. Assumed I’d always be there, that I’d never leave, that I’d always put up with it.” You sniffled, wiping the tears that dripped from the tip of your nose, “But, I just couldn’t. I let you push me closer and closer to the edge, until I willing jumped off, y’know? I just couldn’t take anymore.” You continued, “But, that never meant I stopped loving you.”

As you finished, you let out a deep, trembling breath that released all of the past two years of stress from your body — your shoulders slumping ever so slightly as more tears slipped from your eyes.

“I could never, ever stop loving you, Michael.”

Michael didn’t waste a beat — hands flying from your enclosure to cup your cheeks, and connect your lips.

You gasped into the kiss, your own instantly taking a hold of his shoulders as he moved quickly against you. He was making up for lost time — his hands moving from your face, to your neck, to your waist, pulling you closer to his body radiating pulsing heat, as he hummed into your mouth. A low, deep grumble left him as you crawled onto his lap, lips still connected, instantly finding a familiar comfortability as your legs settled either side of his. Your tongue swiped his bottom lip, requesting entry, as your hands splayed across his panting chest, as he let you in. The kiss only got frequently more frenzied, hands running across one another’s bodies, as if attempting to remember the shape, as your tongues glided together — the kiss growing warm, wet and messy.

If alcohol wasn’t in the equation, you most likely would’ve left it there — pulling away from the kiss and continuing the conversation about your relationship, maybe even attempting to reconcile or rekindle, but not now. Not when your hips slowly began grounding down on the obvious tent in his slacks, moaning into one another’s mouths as his hands cupped the curve of your behind through your dress. The same one that had ridden up your thighs, now revealing your delicate, lace panties that sported a wet patch from where you drooled from anticipatory arousal — now rolling against Michael’s crotch.

“Oh, God, I missed this.” Michael panted, lips leaving your own, revelling in the way you whined into the air, as his mouth trailed down your jaw, to your exposed neck, as your head lolled back, “Missed you, shit, I missed you so much, baby.”

His mouth licked and sucked the skin of your neck, erupting in red-hot heat from the alcohol, and the ecstasy his mouth was providing — littering your skin in dark, blooming love-bites, ones he soothed with his tongue afterwards.

“Michael, please.”

Michael groaned at the sound of your needy plea — a hand guiding your rocking hips against him as he leaked into his boxers at the sensation, “Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

“Need—fuck, need you, baby, Oh—“

Your breath caught in your throat as Michael lips reached your breasts — pressing open-mouthed, spit-stricken kisses against your cleavage as a hand crawled up to cup your left breast, kneading one in his palm.

“Yeah?” He breathed, voice panted and wrecked, mouth now covered in your lipstick, “What do you need, baby?”

You whined, loud and desperate, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he grazed your erect nipple with his teeth, your back arching at the feeling, “Make love to me, please.”

How you ended up in Michael’s bedroom was a blur — a rushed, hushed and stumbled run up the stairs, shedding clothes before you even made it to the room, stealing kisses and subtle touches in the dark, in quietened voices to not wake your sleeping children.

But, once you made it, Michael pounced like a lion on its prey — guiding you backward as he kissed you until your legs hit the bed, before laying you down gently. Michael had always been a tentative, doting lover in the bedroom, making sure you always finished first, and had the most pleasureful, comfortable experience possible — and even after all this time, he was the same.

He had already rid his shirt outside the room, and managed to pull your dress halfway up your legs, so when he fell to his knees in between your bare thighs, he only had to push your dress the other half of the way off, before you were bare before him, aside from your panties.

He shimmied your soaked underwear down your legs and shuffled back on his calves — eyes trailing over your stark naked, trembling frame.

“Wow.” He breathed, “My beautiful lady. God, the things you do to me.”

“I think I have somewhat of an idea.” Your voice was teasing and tantalising as a bare foot, your heels left to rot on the stairs, pressed firmly onto the bulge in his trousers.

Michael cursed under his breath, head falling forward to rest against your knee as his hand gripped your ankle at the sensation — he hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with a woman, besides hugging, since you split up a year ago, and by God, was he desperate now.

As your foot retracted and he gained composure, he pressed swift kisses up from your knee and along your thighs — before two large slowly parted your legs as he slot his face between them.

Before he delved in to where you needed him most, he peered up at your panting frame, eyes blow at the anticipation of his mouth, “Can I taste you, baby?”

“Oh, God, please, ye—Oh, fuck, Michael!”

The cry left you before you stop yourself as his tongue flattened against your sex — a low rumble of a groan leaving his lips, vibrating against your core as he let the taste of you settle on his tongue. You writhed at the vibration, soft gasps and whines leaving your throat as he began slow, practiced figure-eights along your throbbing clit — your hands flying to capture his hands that rest against your thighs in a tight grasp to steady yourself.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I remembered, mama.” Michael mumbled against your sex, licking a long stripe from your weeping hole, to where your clit twitched violently.

He dove back in, but this time, slipping a slender finger inside you — revelling in the way your back arched and you cried his name, the pleasure you yourself too hadn’t felt in a year consumed you entirely. His fingers found that spot instantly — rubbing the part of your drooling cunt that made you cry out in overwhelming pleasure repeatedly as you saw stars.

With the dual sensation of his fingers and relentless mouth now suckling your clit into his mouth, releasing it with a pop! and then swirling his tongue around it — your orgasm approached quicker than you expected. And hit you like a freight train.

“Oh, my, God, I’m gonna—fuck, Michael, I’—“ You sounded awfully desperate and whiny as you panted, legs shaking as your first non-self-inflicted orgasm washed over you.

His name fell from your swollen lips like a chant — hitting his ears as he contained to stimulate you, his tongue and fingers never letting up as you rode the wave of your release.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” Michael coaxed, his fingers slowing as you slumped against the sheets, “Did so good for me, baby.”

Michael gasped as you sat up and grabbed him by the belt — dragging him to his feet as his crotch became level with your face from where you sat on the bed. Your nimble fingers worked open his belt with practiced ease, an action you’d performed thousands of times over your relationship, as you pushed his slacks and boxers to his ankles.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of him — you’d seen his cock, hard and soft, a million times before, but this time was different. He looked the hardest he’d ever been — twitching cock flushed a deep shade of pink against the mauve-coloured tip, pulsing veins painting the underside of his shaft, and sporting a drool of perfectly white pre-cum from the head that stained his abdomen as it slapped against it.

You pulled him down by his hips as you lay flat against the sheets — back hitting the bed as Michael crawled atop of you. He connected your lips instantly, but, this kiss was gentler than the previous — his mouth moved slowly and delicately against yours, as if savouring the taste of sweet red-wine and buttercream frosting on your tongue, mixing with the familiar taste of your saliva.

His hands moved quicker than his mouth — pulling your legs up into the air by the back of your knees, and slotting them onto his shoulders, as he nestled closer to your chest. With a spare hand that wasn’t cupping the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, Michael took a firm hold of the base of his cock and slot it between your folds with ease only a former husband of eight years would know to do, even in an intoxicated state.

“Please, baby.”

“Patience.” He whispered against your mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before sitting up on his knees, “I wanna do something first.”

He leant over to the nightstand next to the bed, ignoring how you whined from the lack of touch, and retrieved a small black box. He lodged himself back between your raised legs, and chuckled, opening the black box, as you gasped.

“Wanna be my wife again for the night, baby?”

There, in the black, velvet box, the same one he opened nine years prior on golden sands in Italy at sunset, held your engagement ring, and nestled neatly above it, your wedding ring, the same one you wore for eight years, and mailed back to him the day after you broke-up. One that he kept all this time in the drawer of his nightstand — a subtle way of holding onto you all this time.

Michael pulled the wedding ring out of the box, saving the engagement ring for safe keeping, and threw the box across the large bed. He slotted your legs over his shoulders once more, slithering his cock between your glistening folds, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth at the sound of your breathy whine — before guiding himself to your clenching hole.

With one swift, beautifully erotic jerk of his hips — Michael sheethed himself inside you, at the same time as he slipped your wedding ring back onto your ring-finger.

The sensation of not only being stuffed to the hilt of the cock you’d missed for two years, the one you touched yourself to the thought of every night since you left, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around the size of him, but also your finger now snug with your wedding ring around it once more had your pussy gushing and pulsating around the length of him.

Michael didn’t miss it — leaning forward, slotting himself only deeper with a huff, and pressing his mouth against yours, “Oh? You like that, huh?” He teased, lips ghosting against your own, “You like the idea of being my wife again, baby?”

“Mmh—fuck, yeah, baby—” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the tip of his cock nudged your cervix — a sensation that had you gasping for breath at the fullness.

“That’s right, darling,” Michael breathed, pulling back slowly so only the tip of him remained, “‘Wanna make you mine again so bad.”

And his relentless thrusts began — hips moving at such a pace that you lost your breath, eyes rolled so far into the back of your head you became dizzy, and noises of undeniable pleasure so loud you were certain at least one of your children were to wake. Michael always had insane stamina, especially so after your wedding, but right now it was unstoppable — so pent up for your body for over a year that you didn’t think he’d ever stop.

His hands rest harshly on your hips, grip so hard you were certain it’d leave a mark, and that it did, as he fucked you back down onto his cock — the sound of your squelching cunt filling his ears.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Michael breathed, breath warm against your skin, “Listen to that—your pussy’s so wet for me, honey. Missed your husband that much, huh?”

“So—fuck—so much, Mikey—God.”

Your noises were whiny and needier than you’d ever heard them, not that your drunken brain was registering in the moment, as you buried yourself into the crook of his neck — lips instantly finding solace in his warm skin, covered in a sheen of sweat, that danced on your tongue as you sucked marks into the flesh. Michael groaned near the shell of your ear, hands tightening around your hip as you clamped down on him — now rutting impossibly faster at the sensation of your spasming cunt and your lips against his skin.

“Michael!—Holy fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—“

You only got louder, and therefore whinier, when he pressed your legs against your chest in a brutal mating press — now despicably deeper inside you, and relentlessly abusing the sweet spot, the one he previously curled his fingers against, as your second orgasm crept up your abdomen.

“God, baby, you feel—Jesus, just like how I remember.” Michael panted, moving his head to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss once more, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cried out indefinitely into his mouth, hands threading through his soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck, “I love—Mmh!—love you so much, Michael.”

He cursed under his breath, jaw hanging swiftly slack as his eyes squeezed shut — cock now twitching violently inside you as he quickened his thrusts swiftly. Your orgasm was dangerously close — now only a few ruts against your G-spot away as Michael continued to pepper kisses over your lips and face, groaning against your skin.

“Fuck, baby, I—“ He cut himself off with a whine, deep from his chest, “Wanna give you another baby so bad.”

His words sent you over the edge — cunt clenching him so hard his thrusts faltered ever so slightly as he cried out at the sensation. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks — your back arching and mouth falling open for frenzied pants and whines to escape your throat as the sweet, delicious familiarity of an orgasm coaxed out by Michael consumed your body. Irrevocable ecstasy coursed through you like buzzing electricity — setting you alight as you mumbled incoherently into the air.

“Jesus, is that what you want, baby? You wan’ a fifth? Oh, Jesus—“

Speaking the filthy words aloud, Michael threw himself into his own release — hips sputtering as he pushed himself impossibly deeper, spilling inside you with a loud groan, muffled by the safe haven of your collarbone, his teeth sinking into the skin to soften the noises. His pushed his incredibly, obviously, fertile seed further inside you — retracting his teeth and licking the marks in your skin in a soothing manner as his hands tightened around your hips, the jerks of his own slowing with each lazy thrust.

Soon came the silence — now this time not angered, or tense, or awkward, or saddened, but familiar. The ragged pants of breaths as you attempted to catch them, and gentle, loving, soft kisses stolen on necks, jaws, cheeks and lips — whispering heartfelt desires and thoughts into one another’s skin, promising love and devotion.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and crumbled next to you — instantly pulling you to his chest, and situating you under the blankets. His head hit the pillow with a sigh as you nestled onto his skin — both your brains swirling with alcohol and adrenaline-induced intoxication.

Just as your eyes fluttered shut, sleep threatening to take over, Michael pressed an adorably gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes squinted open, fighting sleep in a loosing battle, as you met his too sleepy gaze.

“Whatever happens in the morning,” He whispered, “Just know I love you.”

He didn’t expect a reply, especially so when your eyes fell back shut and you drifted off to sleep, as moments later he did the same.

And that’s the reality of the night that had hit you in this very moment — sat upright in Michael’s bed, more hungover than you anticipated, and swarming with dread as you stared down at the wedding ring on your finger.

The night wasn’t unpleasant — it was far from it. If anything, it actually fixed the main problem in your life — being a single mother of four, and having to pretend like you didn’t still have feelings for your ex-husband. But, fucking him drunk wasn’t exactly the route you thought you’d take to reconcile your relationship.

“Baby?”

Michael’s hoarse, croaky, morning voice hit your ears, making you jump as you gasped softly, breaking out of your train of through as you met his sleepy gaze. He mumbled softly as consciousness erupted in his system, rubbing his tired eyes as they settled on you — covered in love-bites, bruises and completely stark naked.

“Oh, Jesus, did we—?”

“I think that’s fairly obvious, Michael.” You forced out a scarce laugh, pursing your lips against one another as Michael slotted the puzzle pieces together, “Do you—Do you remember anything, or..?”

“I—I think so, I don’t—Is that your wedding ring?”

You peered down at the shining jewellery, as a soft chuckle escaped you, “Uh, yeah. I think we kinda got re-engaged last night.”

“Oh, my God.” Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands bashfully, “I’m so sorry, I just know it was me who instigated that.”

Another genuine laugh slipped from your mouth, mingling with Michael’s in the air of the bedroom, “Yeah, seems like it.”

Silence followed shortly — but, as it had been ever since you revealed your unspoken love for one another after everything, it wasn’t tense. Nor unsettling. If anything, the silence was calm and peaceful — like you both had so much to say, yet felt no pressured obligation to do so frantically.

“Well, you, um, you put it on.” Michael spoke shyly, “So, do you want to—do we, uh, shall I—“

You slipped the ring from your finger, and presented it to him, “I think we should have this discussion when we’re of more sound mind.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Michael replied quietly, taking the ring from your grasp.

You could tell from the way he spoke that he was disappointed — like you had shattered his heart all over again.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to discuss us, and what was said last night. I’m not closing that off for good, so, don’t worry. I just think getting engaged before we even discuss getting back together is a bit far-fetched.”

Michael chuckled, a real laugh escaping him as a smile danced onto his lips, “Yeah, you’re right, good idea, baby.”

You couldn’t help but let your heart flutter with fondness at the easiness of the nickname — the familiarity of it sending waves of butterflies through your stomach.

The rest of the morning was jovial — you washed and dressed yourself, in a pair of Michael’s old joggers and an old Victory Tour t-shirt, with light banter and easy conversations with him, both of you waking the children up together and curating breakfast for the whole family. You managed to shut down any probing questions Prince and Paris hounded you with, like ‘Mama, why are you here if you don’t live with Daddy anymore?’ or ‘Mama, are you and Daddy back in love?’ and ‘Daddy, are you gonna marry Mommy again soon?’

You diminished them all with a stern warning to stop asking, before exchanging hushed giggles and side-eyed glances to one another at the comedic timing of your two eldest.

But, all good things must come to an end, as Michael helped you with yours and the children’s belongings to Bill’s car, which awaited you out front. As Michael conversed with Bill, you ushered the children into the back seat, clipping them in like you had done the day previously, before turning to Michael.

“Come here.” He smiled, opening up his arms.

You chuckled softly, walking into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around your waist, as yours situated against his chest, the sound of his rhythmical heart beating making your heart flutter. He pressed a swift kiss, while the kids weren’t looking, to your forehead before you pulled away.

“Call me, okay?” He spoke to you, blowing a kiss to Paris as she waved at him through the window, “We can talk about everything, whenever you want.”

“Okay, Michael.”

You returned the smile he offered to you as he pulled the car door open for you, and pushing it gently shut once you’d climbed in. Michael waved theatrically goodbye as the car sped off out the driveway — his frame becoming smaller and smaller in the wing-mirror as Bill drove further away.

“The dress trick worked then, huh?” Bill teased with a playful smile.

You laughed, “Don’t even start.”

From then on, you contacted Michael frequently — calling him, even if it was just to ask him about his day, often, just to hear his voice. You didn’t know when you wanted to discuss that night, as you were the one who ended the relationship, and as dearly as you loved him, you had to be sure that things were going to change. You didn’t want to mess yourself around, as well as your children, by getting back into a relationship out of infatuation and attachment, rather than knowing for sure.

So, Michael would take any opportunity he could to show you just how much he meant what he said. He took you out anywhere and everywhere, just the two of you, dates like the old days when you first got together — dinners, theme parks, movies, bowling, dancing, all child-like and utterly ridiculous, but yet so meaningful. And he never once talked about work, unless you asked, never answered a phone call, or started mentally drifting away from the conversation as his mind slipped back into work mode — he was there. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He started making a real, true, genuine effort — and one that you never asked him to.

The first time you called him after that night was a few days afterwards — just to check in. And he asked you out — said he would love to take you out to dinner to the restaurant you both used to religiously go to when you were married. Your favourite Mexican restaurant in all of California.

And from that point on, he never stopped — never let up on his effort. He took you everywhere, and treated you like you weren’t his ex-wife whom he was attempting to get back. He was behaving out of pure love and devotion to you — proving himself and making up for lost time. Meanwhile, not once did he ask nor expect sex — your drunken night had been intoxicated led, and as much fun as he had, he strictly told you that the time you were spending together wouldn’t be sexual, as he wanted it to be meaningful. When you teased him that you thought he was saying your sex wasn’t heartfelt, he quickly shut it down — reminding you that although sex between you two is sacred to him, earning your trust and respect back was more so.

At the six week mark of you and Michael beginning to rekindle your relationship — you had never felt so high. Your children were let on to a ‘little secret’ that Mommy and Daddy are close friends now, and can be around one another — so dinners and trips out were spent as family again. Their adolescent brains didn’t question it for very long — but you could tell your eldest were secretly pleased. Especially Paris, who whispered to you one night while you coaxed her to sleep, with Michael stood in the doorway, watching happily, that she was happy you and her Daddy were friends again, and that she loved you both so much, before falling asleep.

That was all the confirmation you were making the right decision that you needed.

Michael had woken at his own house alone, this morning, for once — you had spent the evening out with his sisters last night, and requested a solo night at your house. A choice he respected — which led him to awake in his bed all by himself. He had the kids round, which meant his peaceful morning would probably be disturbed in a matter of minutes, with Prince, Paris and Blanket leaping on bed, before he fetched Mickey from his.

But, the first disruption was the loud sound of the phone ringing.

Michael jumped — body seizing as the sound rattled through him. He cursed under his breath as he reached for the phone, picking it up and bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Michael?”

The sound of your voice would usually bring a smile straight to his face, and flutters throughout his body — but, you sounded panicked. And he instantly noticed.

“Baby? Are you alright?”

“You better get that wedding ring out again, Mike.” You laughed, but clearly sounded unamused as Michael furrowed his eyebrows.

“Huh? What do you mean, honey?” He replied, confusion swarming his senses.

“I’m pregnant.”

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[filthytabloidpress]

twelve forty-two

main page | masterlist

pairing: any era!michael x fem!reader

summary: your boyfriend is a very busy man, and so you often toss your sexual needs aside for him- especially when he’s able to fall asleep at night. you’ve gone every night unnoticed as you touch yourself for relief, however tonight is not like every other one.

warnings: water sports (you guys love this shit and me too), dom!michael, dry humping, petnames: “princess” “pretty” “baby”, established relationship, embarrassment kink, desperate michael, passionate sex, aftercare, nipple play, biting for 5 seconds, making out

a/n: for everyone thats been asking hehe

wordcount: 2k

reqs: open!

the moonlight hovered through the window of your and michaels shared bedroom. he enjoyed the room at a colder temperature, and so you slept with a thick knitted blanket beneath the beautiful white quilt michael had insisted you pick for the bedroom. you presumed your boyfriend was sound asleep by now, tired from a long day at the studio and creativity. his arm was wrapped around your waist as you lay on his chest, feeling each deep breath upon his shirtless body.

since michael was often very busy you didn’t want to bother him with your own needs, as he often put yours above his. every night you resorted to touching yourself beneath the covers after he fully drifted off to slumber. tonight would be no different.

carefully lifting his slender arm above you, you slipped out of his tender grasp. he nodded his head in the opposite direction, providing you with comfort, you scooted quietly away from him. the tall glass of water upon your nightstand was still cold and almost empty, dripping a bit on the coaster it rested on. you reached over and sat up a bit to take it’s last sip. the clock read 12:42 am- which meant he’d been asleep for maybe thirty minutes now. silently, you set the glass back down and sunk back into the bed.

you turned over, your back now facing michaels sleepy body. you wanted to try something a little different tonight. you reached beneath the covers and scrunched up the knit blanket between your legs. the cotton fabric of your pajamas pants rubbed up against your cunt, resulting in a repetitive motion of your hips slowly grinding into each fabric. you bit your lip, aching for michaels touch… wishing it where his wrist, his leg, his thigh. as you began to slip a hand under your shirt, michael moaned a bit in his sleep- causing your motions to still. you two, of course, have had sex before- but you didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable or awkward… you just needed some sort of relief to help you sleep.

after a few more deep breaths, he lulled his head over your direction, though michael was still sound asleep as far as you were concerned. you resumed your slow motions, noticing your shaky breath as heat grew between your legs. the stimulation wasn’t enough to make you cum, regardless you began to pick up your pace. michael was a deep sleeper once he got to rest, you never had to worry about movement waking him up.

“mm.. baby,” michael mumbled, he fully turned over now. still sound asleep.

his voice was enough to make a small gasp escape from you, you clutched the blanket and dug your head into it as you rode out this high.

“baby,” fingers grazed your side beneath the quilt, “you okay?”

your eyes widened, shit.

“mhm,” you tried to keep your voice low, to hide your attempts to catch your breath.

he dragged one finger down your side, causing you to involuntarily let out a soft moan.

he raised one eyebrow as he blinked his eyes open, “you like that, baby,” dragging the finger right back down your tender skin.

“huh,” your voice as low as a whisper.

michaels other hand made its way down to his groin, “‘m not stupid…”

his breathy voice filled your lungs like a drug, any bit of him got you horny. he was always so busy, it left you desperate.

you asked, naively, “what do you mean, mikey?”

he softly laughed, “i know what you’re doing.”

it was as if your face couldn’t get any redder. you cringed a bit, worried at how he’d take it. you covered your face with the quilt, childishly hoping that this was not real.

michael sat up, switching the lamp on his bedside on.

“princess,” he wiped his eyes, “c’mere,” michael removed the quilt atop his body and patted his thigh.

you sighed in defeat, and slowly lifted the covers off your blushed face. you sat up, shivering slightly at the sudden cold air. staring down at his pajamas, you climbed onto his thigh and folded your hands in your lap.

“what’re you doing touching yourself when i’m right here?”

you pursed your lips together… “well, you’re always working n… i didn’t want to bother and wake you while you’re off,” embarrassment shined through your glistening eyes.

michaels slender hands caressed your cheek before sliding to your neck and tilting your head up by your chin. his beautiful round eyes met yours.

“do you know how much i miss you at work?”

you shook your head. michael grabbed your hand and placed it on his growing length. you could almost feel his cocks pulse. you pouted, still feeling guilty but not sure what for.

“hey, hey, princess,” he raised your hand to his bare chest, “i want you.”

those words flipped a switch in your brain, the one that shut off immediately when he woke up. looking from his eyes to his lips, almost instantly you cupped his jaw with your hands and press your lips onto his. he grabbed your waist while moaning into the passionate embrace.

you began to rock your hips into his clothed thighs, focusing on the growing heat rather than the desperate kisses between you and your boyfriend. though, for a second you stopped.

“are you sure,” your breathing heavy.

his response was to slide his fingers up to your head and pull you deeper into the kiss. the sudden reaction caused a whimper to fall out of your lips. the room was filled with the sound of your soft whines and the near silent ruffling of fabric.

“mm.. gosh,” he sighed in between kisses. michael guided your hand once more to his fully erect cock, causing your breath to shake at his thickness.

“need you,” your hips moved with excessive need, “please…”

michael broke from the kiss, leaving you to remember the cold of the room. he lifted you off his thigh and gently flipped you onto your back. your deep breaths were synchronized like a beautiful song. he placed soft kisses down your neck that caused your body to shift upward into him. michael lifted up the pajama top off your head, revealing your hardened nipples. he sighed at the view of your breasts in absolute awe.

michael briefly kissed them, tenderly nibbling before he dragged your pants down your legs. your cotton panties were on display, you spread your legs in anticipation. michael rubbed your clit in circles with his thumb, enjoying the sight of your hips involuntarily bucking up into his large hands.

“ahh, mike,” you bit your lip back trying to hide your moans.

he shook his head , “mm mm, lemme here you pretty, let me hear every sound i missed you making.”

you reluctantly complied, reflecting on the several times you’ve called out his name in your empty house while touching yourself.

“mike,” you cried.

“yes, princess,” michael picked up his pace, he placed his free hand on your lower abdomen.

you squeezed your thighs together in response, trying to hold in the growing pressure you felt in your bladder.

“mikey, shit,” you weakly tried to swat his hand away, but the mixture of pleasure and adapting to this sudden tension left you entirely unsure of what would come out of you.

you desperately shook your head, and he complied, for not at least. michael squeezed his wrist out from between your thighs and as you sighed in relief. unfortunately, your body twitched upward. still aching for more. and so was michael.

michael removed his pajama pants, discarding them to the other side of the bed. your fingers tugged on the waistline of his boxers, causing him to laugh a bit- amused by your behavior. he freed his dick, it never failed to shock you how long and thick he was. you felt blood rushing all throughout your body each time you saw it.

michael slowly spread your thighs, tracing your skin with gentle fingers. your breath quivered at his touch.

“y’like that, pretty?”

“mhm, need you mikey…” you pouted at the lack of stimulation.

his eyes were dark and met yours, “do you?”

“missed you,” you sneaked your hand up to his erection, grazing it with a soft finger. he grinded his hips into nothing as he threw his head back.

“shit,” he moaned, “i love the way you touch me baby.”

michaels hands found you waist and he dragged his cock along your aching pussy. the cotton fabric wasn’t much of a barrier as the wet spot made it easier for him to glide along you. each false stroke was followed by a twitch or moan from each of you, your bodies practically becoming one. once you’re hips twitched up, he took the opportunity to slide a pillow beneath you. it meant you’d be doing more than just coming soon.

once his pace picked, one of michaels hands went to tend to your nipple and the other went to adding that familiar pressure to your lower stomach.

“ah,” your eyes widened, recalling the ache that your bladder felt just a few moments ago. the stimulation on your breasts caused you to grab michaels wrist, attempting to ground yourself. there were too many feelings arousing in your desperate body.

“mm, y’can hold on to me as long as you need baby,” he practically groaned out, soothing you as innocent as possible while the most lewd feelings took over him entirely.

“sorry,” you whined, squeezing your eyes shut as you felt a different sort of build up inside of you.

“mm mm, don’t be sorry baby,” he applied more pressure, “release whatever y’need to. you’re my pretty baby, can’t believe you’ve been touching yourself without me.”

your lips turned into a frown, trying to hold it in. you couldn’t. michaels never shamed you for wetting the bed, he encourages it. he loves to watch you just crumble beneath him.

your legs wrapped around his waist, the heel of your foot meeting some of the fabric of his boxers. you cried out once his tip grazed your clit so slightly, which made you absolutely confused as to what would come out of you first. you felt your cunt pulsating in and out, trying to keep it all in. he enjoyed watching you humiliate yourself, the way you wore shame was just irresistible.

“oh no,” you threw your head back and rolled your eyes, a tear streaming down your cheek.

michaels eyes glared, his voice was firm yet still deeply soothing, “look at me.”

you’d no choice but to listen. you locked eyes with michael as you began to feel something fall out of your clothed cunt.

“mike,” you wined as your legs unraveled from him and spread beside him, “needa go-“

you were interrupted by all of the liquid pouring out of you. your eyes remained lock onto his as he continued to rub his cock into your extremely wet panties. your fluid darkened the bed and his boxers a bit, but your panties we’re absolutely done for.

“m so sorry mikey!”

he cupped your face, “it’s okay baby, it’s okay.”

once you finished, michael pushed aside your panties and slowly entered you. your legs tried to squeeze shut, you didn’t know how to respond to the thickness. he deeply stroked your pulsating insides as he, once again, rubbed circles into your now sensitive clit.

“mike-,” you gasped, “fuck, mikey-“

“shh, shh,” he soothed.

michael lowered his body to be closer to yours, he placed tender kisses on your neck that conflicted the stimulation between your legs.

“you’re so beautiful,” he whispered in your ear.

you grabbed his shoulders to dig your nails into his flesh. he groaned, not at the pain but at the passion.

“gonna cum, baby,” he sighed out.

all you could do was whine in response, you couldn’t even process words. within a few more strokes, he pulled out and released entirely on you. you leaked even more between your legs, entirely embarrassed by the scenario yet feeling deeply loved.

michael placed a kiss on your forehead before lifting you up and placing you on a chair in the corner of the room. he covered your body with his own clothes, adoring the oversized look on you, and then grabbing your knitted blanket.

“‘m gonna clean up, okay baby,” he looked into your sleepy eyes.

you shook your head, “you’ve work tomorrow i can help…”

he smiled and brushed your hair out of your face, “you’ve done enough tonight baby.”

“‘m sorry…”

“why,” michael asked, tilting his head at you.

“‘so late n you have work, and you’re tired… n-“

you were cut off by a gentle kiss on the lips, before backing away he soothed, “i’ve missed you so much. can’t just leave my princess all alone to herself every night. you’re more important than work.”

you weakly smiled, your eyes failing to stay awake.

“goodnight, pretty.”

taglist: @skulette @mjsbabyyy @bluugangsta @kisscoqueen @the-emo-bitxch @the-whitequeen-13

[buckysgirlll]

☙✰ in which bf!michael gets shy after seeing your body for the first time

ఌ FEATURING: pre otw!michael x fem!reader

WARNINGS: 18+ MINORS DNI — suggestive content, established relationship, amused!reader, innocent!michael, small tiny mention of nipple play (literally just one line lol)

WORD COUNT: 1.0k

ఌ NOTES: omg this request was delicious. i would’ve made it longer but i got a bit lazy lol

michael jackson masterlist ༻ navi

he was not meant to be home, he wasn’t meant to be home for a couple hours actually.

so of course, after you finished taking a shower, you go into his room with just the towel wrapped around your body like you always do when he’s not home.

you start to get moisturised, oiling every inch of your skin.

it was only when you started pulling on your clothes that michael strolls in on the phone with absolutely no care in the world.

“…yeah i mean that would just be stupid wouldn’t it.” he says, taking off his jacket, still not realising that you’re sat on his bed wearing a thong and no bra. in fact your bra is in your hand and you were just about to put it on before he walked in.

“no marlon that’s not…” michael’s words trail off when he turns around and sees you wide eyed on the edge of his bed. his eyes trail down slowly to your bare breasts, his eyes widening just like yours.

your face warms up in embarrassment, your arms coming up instinctively to cover your boobs.

you shouldn’t be embarrassed since he is your boyfriend, but you two have only been together for about two months and you haven’t even been intimate yet.

he’s never seen you naked before. not even a bikini.

so this is the first ever time, he’s seen you half naked and it happened to be accidentally because you were too damn reckless to get ready in the bathroom.

“hey, mike. you still there?” michael hears marlon say in his ear, but the only thing he could focus on is the sight of your perfect, full boobs that were just in his face right now.

“mike?” marlon says again when michael still doesn’t reply.

he’s frozen. one hand with his phone to his ear, unmoving. and the other hand holding his discarded jacket. but the funny part is the way his mouth is agape, staring at your covered chest like he can still see the smooth plump skin, and your hardened nipples through your palms.

you’d probably be laughing right now if you wasn’t as caught off guard as he is.

“i—” you clear your throat, swallowing hard. “..i thought you was meant to be at the studio today.”

he doesn’t reply. not to you and definitely not to marlon who is so close to hanging up on him.

since he’s still somewhat frozen, you shrug because it’s not that serious. he is your boyfriend and he is going to see your body at some point, it just happened to be today.

it just seems more intense, because he still hasn’t stopped staring at you.

you stand up, his eyes trailing down from your chest, to your barely covered mound, his mouth opening even wider.

you tut, your embarrassment fizzling away to amusement. “honey, my eyes are up here.”

his eyes snap to yours. the first sign of movement he’s made since he caught you in here practically naked.

michael clears his throat, turning his back so you can’t see the uncomfortable tent in his pants. “marlon, imma have to call you back.”

“but we were just—” michael hangs up, not interested in anything else marlon has to say. he keeps his back turned, squeezing his eyes shut. but once he closes his eyes, he can’t stop thinking about your boobs. how they’d fit perfectly in his hands. how he wants to squeeze on them, kiss them, suck on them, play with them like they’re his own special toy.

while michael still has his back turned and it’s like he’s having his own personal battle with himself, you continue getting ready, until you’re fully dressed.

michael nearly jumps out of his skin when you tap his shoulder.

he turns around, a sigh of relief escaping his lips when he sees that you’re fully dressed. he doesn’t know what he would’ve done if you were still there, barely clothed.

he’s a gentleman. he shouldn’t be having all these nasty thoughts. even if they are about his girlfriend.

“you okay?” you ask, a smirk forming on your lips.

michael nods. “yeah um…” his eyes instinctively look down to your now covered chest, he closes his eyes, heat starting to rise to his cheeks. “…quincy wasn’t- he… i didn’t— i mean i wasn’t… i—”

you nod, biting your lip to stop yourself from laughing. he is so downright adorable that it just makes you want to squeeze his cheeks.

he’s nervous, all because he saw your boobs.

“mikey, it’s okay.” you giggle, lacing your arms around his neck.

“hm?” he hums, not exactly trusting his mouth to form coherent words.

“you saw my boobs, it’s no big deal.” you shrug, placing a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

hearing you say the words out of your own mouth, makes him duck his head shyly. his hand coming up to grasp onto your hip.

you laugh, your hand coming up to stroke the back of his hair. “you’re so damn shy it’s adorable.”

“no it’s not just that,” he says raising his head. his eyes, filled with nothing but love and admiration. “you’re just so pretty, can’t believe you’re all mine.” his other hand snakes down to where your ass is, giving it a small squeeze.

“…and also because i wasn’t prepared to see that when i walked in.” his eyes pointing down to your chest, making you laugh.

“it’s not my fault, i thought you wasn’t home!” you whine.

he bites his lip, his hands starting to rub up and down your waist, his hands slipping under your top. “i mean i wouldn’t mind that kind of view every time i come home from now on.”

you gasp, “what happened to the shy michael from a couple moments ago?”

he shrugs, his hands crawling up until they reach your bra covered chest. he boldly pulls down the cup, one of his hands engulfing your whole breast. “hmm they feel good too.” he mumbles, his eyes fixed onto his hand that’s under your shirt.

you let out a small moan, when he pinches your nipple using his fingers.

“take off your shirt.” michael says, biting his lip so hard that you won’t be surprised if he drew blood. “i think imma need a proper look.”

taglist:

@loveposiie @delictezz @crystal-love46 @bluegangstaaaa @alohaluz @raefoxiegirl @xoxogossipgirl02 @khxna @jxngwons-pinkyy @sofisidera @animegamerfox @its-jennarose @anglfac @michaeljacksonfan01 @a-motherfcking-fish @carmykisses @cal3xx @cinnaqm @mikeyspyt @sugacor3 @starstruckivory @michaelsgirlie @mililahchapter21 @galiixoxo @cannonindeez @griddypops @monoigirl @softchaosdiary505 @mjsfinestfish @catash @michaelslover @hello-its-lana16 @itztamar @imeatingheehee @milqyravena @smartyartchick47 @lily-lilith26 @nodisdino @niyahctrl @hornehlittleweeblet2 @kailovesmusicc @valentinaaaapple @cotercat @levelme @theladyinmikeyslife @xyahx @liberiangirl7 @pixieelixer-24 @thebabykashmere + add yourself here!

[lovelyways]

ANOTHER PART OF ME // LONDON, 1988

[cherrishkissed]

Behind the scenes. ᥬᩤ Michael Jackson

Synopsis; you swore you wasn't jealous, but when the music video came out, so did hidden feelings.

cw, childhood friends, swearing, suggestive talk, bitchy y/n, kinda mean michael

1991 of wherever.

Your nails lightly tapped against your grape soda can while your head nodded to an upbeat song. The music played smoothly through the speakers. You were currently in the studio with Janet, helping her with a new song she was gonna put out. While the music played in the back you actually were in deep thought.

Your eyes tense as if you were trying to see the air particles in the room, your teeth lightly sunk in your bottom lip.

Now what could possibly have you this worked up? Hm. You then lightly brush some of your layers away from your face.

"Y/n? Girl you listening?" Janet's soft voice brushes through your thoughts.

You blinked, your brown eyes shifting over to her. "…Yeah. I heard you."

"Did you?" she questioned, raising an eyebrow. She walked over, wearing her baggy jeans n top. She sat down in the chair beside you, her eyes immediately landing on the grape soda still sitting in your hand.

"You been sipping on that thang since this morning. What's going on?"

"...Nothing, just… thinking, that's all. Thinking about the song and whatnot," you lied, trying to play it off.

But the little pout on your face gave you away.

Janet tilted her head, looking at you for a moment. "Uh huh. Sure." She then lightly fumbled with some buttons on the music board, slowly down a beat.

"This don't got nothing to do with Michael, does it?"

The second his name left her mouth, your irritation showed before you could even hide it. You let out a quiet scoff, disguising it as a small chuckle.

"What about Michael, huh?"

A small, knowing smile played on Janet’s lips. She had known you long enough to recognize when you were pretending everything was fine. She then shrugs, "Don't know, but you've been acting a lil cold towards him now. What did he do?"

You chuckled lightly, "It's not about him."

"Is this about the music vid?" She then glanced over at you.

"No, it was nice. It was catchy. What about it?" you replied with a small shrug.

Janet raised an eyebrow, not buying the casual act for a second. "That's all you got to say?"

You looked over at her. "What you mean?"

"I mean, this is Michael we're talking about. You usually got a whole review ready whenever he puts something out." You rolled your eyes, taking another sip from your soda.

Yeah, you listened to the song. You saw the video.

And seeing Michael do his thang? You couldn't lie, you loved it. That was Michael. The creativity, the dancing, the way he brought every little detail to life, it was everything you expected from him and more.

But then there was Naomi.

Seeing the two of them moving together, the way they matched each other's energy, made something in your chest twist in a way you couldn't explain.

It wasn't like Michael hadn't had women in his videos before. He had. Plenty of them.

You never cared. So why was this different?

Why did seeing him with her bother you so much? You couldn't even blame Naomi. She was beautiful, if anything, she fit the vision perfectly. And that was the worst part. There was no reason for you to feel this way, and yet…you did.

Perhaps this wasn't even about Naomi. It was the way Michael was with her. The playful smiles. The little laughs. The way he moved so easily around her like they had their own little world. Because you knew that side of him. You knew the Michael who would tease you until you couldn't help but laugh. The Michael who would bump your shoulder just to annoy you. The Michael who would give you that little grin when he knew he was getting on your nerves.

"I ain't worried about what or who he's doing."

She noticed the way your eyes shifted, the slight irritation in your voice, the jealousy you were trying so hard to hide.

"Yeah, that's real cute," she teased, leaning back in her chair. "Why don't you just talk to him? I know it's bothering you."

"Talk to him about what?" You sat up from your seat, looking at her like she had just said the most ridiculous thing.

"Girl, please. Don't be going around the bush," Janet said, resting her arms over the back of the chair. "You're mad because he being friendly with that Naomi girl."

"It ain't got nothing to do with her, alright?" you quickly shot back. "Michael be friendly with everybody. He be just like Marlon, all smiling and joking and shit." You rolled your eyes, leaning back in your chair.

"N So what? He wanna be all charming for a music video, good for him. I'm not sitting here losing sleep over it." You shook your head, trying to keep your voice calm.

"If he wanna be out there doing his thing with some girl for a music video, so be it." You tried keeping it cool but clearly that wasn't working for you. You then took a nice swig from your can.

"Oh you definitely mad," she chuckles to herself.

"Janet, please don't start," you said, getting up from your seat and making your way toward the booth.

You adjusted the headphones, trying to focus on anything other than the conversation you were just having. "I'ma finish this last part and then I'm leaving. I need to clear my head." You looked down at the lyrics, reading over them.

Janet only hummed, turning back toward the equipment. "Well, talking to Michael might clear it…" she said quietly, clicking a couple of switches.

You immediately looked over at her. "Janet."

She couldn't help but smile to herself, "Just a thought." You weren't gonna say shit to Michael.

𝜗ৎ.

Janet had left for a little bit to go grab something to eat, probaly some chinese food, which left you alone in the studio.

You sat there, chewing on your bubble gum while pretending to focus on anything except your thoughts. You were singing a soft tune when the studio doors opened.

Your eyes lifted and there stood Michael.

The second he saw you, his whole face lit up. "Y/nnnn," he called out, his smile spreading across his face.

You slowly turned in your chair to face him. Normally, you would've smiled back, you would've gotten up and hugged him. But today you simply watched him walk closer. As he approached, you slowly stuck your foot out in front of him, preventing him from walking any further to you.

Michael stopped, looking down at it before looking back at you.

You tilted your head, still chewing your gum. "Hi," that was it. You didn't wanna seem too bitchy at the moment, so you kept your greeting brief.

He stared at you for a second, clearly confused. "Aren't you gonna greet me with a kiss?"

His voice was soft, almost playful. Because to him, this was normal. He had just gotten back from wherever he was, excited to see you. He wasn't expecting anything different.

"Yeah, of course," you said, finally moving your leg.

Michael smiled slightly and leaned in. But right before his lips could reach your cheek, you quickly turned your head.

"Hm on second thought…no, don't."

He froze, his head tilted slightly. "So now I don't get my hello?"

You shrugged, looking anywhere but at him. "Hi…Michael." And before he could say anything else, you got up and walked away.

You were already making your way toward the door, irritation still simmering underneath your skin. But before you could leave, Michael gently reached out and grabbed your hand, stopping you.

"No…" he said softly, turning you back toward him. "What's goin' on? Hm?"

"Ain't nobody mad at you, Michael," you scoffed. You pulled your hand back slightly, crossing your arms over your chest. "And what you want a kiss for? I'm not your girlfriend."

That made Michael pause, the playful look on his face slowly fading into confusion. "Y/n…"

His voice was quiet as he tried to get his words together, "What does that have to do with anything?" Michael tilted his head, trying to understand where this was coming from.

"I didn't ask because you're my girlfriend," he said gently. "I asked because you're you and…you've always done that," he continued. "Since we were little."

He gave a small shrug, his eyes still on you. "So I don't understand why all of a sudden it's different."

You shrugged, arms still folded. Michael wanted to know so badly as of why you were acting like this, he didn't have a clue in the world. But he was gonna pry it out you. "Nothing, don't worry about it Mikey," you said using his nickname, but the nickname was spoken bitterly.

"Fine then y/n," he said rolling his eyes. He then went to go sit in a chair a few steps away.

"I didn't want to kiss your funky lips anyway..."

You whipped your head around, "Funky!?" You marched over before he could say another word and shoved him down into the chair. He landed with a quiet grunt, looking up at you. For the smallest second, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"I'm not the one hiring perfect little models just to grind up against them all day! Smiling and kissing n shit!" you somewhat shout at him.

There it was, the reason why you were mad.

Michael looked at you, realization coming in. Him and Naomi. He nods slowly, "So that's why you're mad..."

You let out an annoyed scoff, rubbing over your eyes slightly. "I'm not mad about shit actually, because I don't care."

"The way you just yelled at me kinda said a lot."

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he reached out and gently pulled you closer. It was something he had done a hundred times before whenever you got worked up.

He guided you down onto his lap, his hands resting comfortably as he looked up at you. "Look at me."

You tried to avoid his eyes, but eventually glanced down at him.

Michael gave you a small smile. "You're ridiculous."

Your eyes narrowed. "Fuck you, Michael."

You started to get up, but he hummed and lightly pulled you back down. "Y/n." He said lowly, not playful in the slightest. You pushed him off you before getting up.

"Don't try that voice with me, Michael," you spat. "Matter of fact, just leave me alone."

You turned and started toward the door again. Michael stood there for half a second, jaw tightening. Before you could grab the handle, he crossed the room in a few quick strides and pushed the door shut with the palm of his hand.

"No, no we're gonna talk."

You turned around slowly, no? You stared at him as you stood against the door. His eyes stayed locked on yours. "No, I'm tired of this." His voice was lower now, firmer than you'd ever heard it with you.

"You've been givin' me attitude ever since I walked in here, and I don't even know why."

He took a step closer. "So either tell me what's really goin' on…or quit taking it out on me," he says quietly.

You let out a dry laugh. "I should take it out on you. Looked like you was havin' the time of your life with her."

Now the two of you were arguing. Well, mostly you.

Michael wasn't yelling. He wasn't throwing insults back or trying to win the argument. If anything, he was doing everything he could to calm the situation down. He apologized more than once, trying to explain that it was just work. That there wasn't anything more to it than a music film. But every apology that left his mouth only seemed to irritate you more.

Because that wasn't what you wanted.

You didn't want an explanation of why, you just wanted him to somehow make that uncomfortable feeling in your chest disappear.

And no matter what he said right now, he couldn't. Every time he tried to reason with you, you found another reason to snap back. Just another sarcastic remark, another accusation. The more patient he became, the more frustrated you grew. Until eventually his patience started wearing thin too.

"Y/n…"

"What?" you cut him off. "Y'all looked real comfortable, was all that smilin' and grindin' just part of the job too?" Your eyes searched his face. "…Or was that free?"

Now he was mad, you were making such a big deal out of this for no reason. As long as you guys have been friends, this is what you decided to argue about.

For the first time since walking into the studio…Michael was irritated. No matter what he said, it felt like you had already decided he was guilty. He let out a slow breath, shaking his head.

"Alright, Y/n."

His voice stayed calm, but there was an edge to it now. "Take it out on me."

You scoffed before fully looking at him. "Go 'head," he said while opening his hands at his sides. "Yell at me. Cuss me out. Slap me if that's what's gonna make you feel better." A bitter laugh escaped him.

"Because apparently apologizin' ain't enough. I've stood here lettin' you say whatever you wanted to say. But I'm gettin' real tired of you actin' like I did somethin' terrible."

His jaw tightened.

"It was just a music film, that's all. I came in here happy to see you…you. I wanted to come talk to you" His voice softened for just a second, "And the first thing you did was push me away."

Now you felt like an asshole, maybe you were too busy thinking about yourself in that moment. Michael's soft eyes had a slightly darken, yeah he was mad at you. You bit the inside of your cheek, guilt slowly settling in your chest.

You wanted to apologize. You really did. But every time the words reached the tip of your tongue, your pride swallowed them right back down.

"And you're right…" Michael said quietly. "You aren't my girlfriend."

The words made you pause. He looked away for a moment, running a hand over his face before looking back at you. A small, humorless smile tugged at his lips. "You're far from it, actually. You're a mess."

You narrowed your eyes at him, but he didn't look away.

"Always gettin' mad at me," he continued. "Always makin' me guess what's wrong instead of just tellin' me."

You wanted to say something, but you didn't know what. You just stood there, your heart pounding. Your nails dug into the fabric of your hoodie, trying to keep yourself from reaching over and smacking the smugness right off his face. You still had that little pout on your face, your brows slightly drawn together as you looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment.

This wasn't about Naomi.

You had watched him go on dates before. You had seen women flirt with him, hug him, even cling to his arm without batting an eye. It had never really bothered you. Sure, the thought might cross your mind every now and then, but it always passed.

Michael was your friend, your best friend, really.

You were the one who knew him better than most. The one who'd been there long before the fame, the screaming fans, and the magazine covers.

So this whole feud.....it felt ridiculous.

And deep down, you knew it.

"So you gonna do it?" he asked, a hint of sarcasm creeping into his voice. "Take it out on me? Or you just gonna stand there with that funky attitude?"

He was pushing you, so you pushed him back.

"You gonna let every girl get a taste of you?" you say close to him.

Michael stared, a little caught off by your words, but luckily he had a quick tongue, "You gonna let every girl let it happen?" he asked quietly. "Or you gonna be the one to make it stop?"

That was when you froze. For a second, you weren't even sure you heard him right. Your mind replayed his words, trying to figure out if he was being serious or if he was just messing with you. Because Michael could be playful. He could tease you until you wanted to roll your eyes. You stared at him, searching his face for some kind of joke, some little smile that would tell you he wasn't being serious.

But, you then leaned in, about to kiss him. But he turned his head, just like you did to him earlier.

You looked at him fully irritated.

"Oh that's funny. Real funny," you say glaring at him, about to cuss at him again.

You opened your mouth, ready to let another round of irritation fly, but the way his gaze dropped to your lips made the words catch in your throat.

Your pulse hammered in your ears. The argument still lingered in the back of your mind, but it felt distant now, drowned out by the way his thumb brushed over your bottom lip.

You leaned in again, this time with more intent, closing the space between you. Michael met you halfway, but instead of pulling away like before, he held still, letting the moment stretch.

His lips brushed yours first, soft, testing, the barest press that made your breath hitch. Then he deepened it, mouth moving against yours with a slow hunger. A whole bunch of thoughts ran through your mind, but they settled when you felt his hand on you. His hand slid right to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you closer. You kissed him back, lips smacking slightly quicker.

He pisses you off, and then kisses you like nothing. The irritation still simmered low in your gut, but it twisted into something hotter with every pull of his mouth. You tilted your head and pushed in, lips parting over his as your tongue slid forward first. His tongue slid back against yours, slick and insistent. Your hands found his shirt, bunching the fabric as you leaned in, nails pressing in.

Gosh, this was a mess. Michael pressed up against you, the words "Take it out on me," flashed again in your head.

So that's what you did, you kissed him harder and messier, he let out a slight groan feeling your teeth against his bottom lip. His grip tightened just enough to pull you flush against him, but he followed your lead, letting you explore his mouth with every lick and bite.

You barely pulled away, your forehead still brushing against his. Michael looked at you with that same soft look he'd always had, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

"You know…" he murmured.

"Hm?" you asked quietly.

"You spent all day mad at me over that video."

You rolled your eyes, already feeling yourself get defensive again. "Michael, don't start," your voice actually soft from the kiss.

"Did you even know I was thinkin' about you when I sang that song?"

Your brows knitted together. "What?"

"I wasn't thinkin' about Naomi." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I was thinkin' about you."

"Y/n why this door locked!?" The sound of Janet's voice cuts through. Shit.

You and Michael quickly separated. Michael looked away for a moment, trying to compose himself. He lightly ran his tongue over his lips, catching the sweetness left behind from your gloss. The small action made your face heat up, and you immediately looked away.

Your eyes glanced up to him, "Don't say nothin'." His grin only grew wider, clearly enjoying how quickly you went from arguing with him to trying to keep him quiet.

"Mhm."

author's note: I was bored sooooooo das it

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[theonlyonlinefish]

•!!•°*🩰Pervy!Michael who allowed you to get comfortable in his bed and fall asleep while he finished the movie by himself. Occasionally taking glances underneath your gown and seeing pink lace

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who couldn’t resist the urge. Cutting off the lights in his bedroom before unbuttoning his jeans and exposing himself, watching his precum roll down his shaft—just feeling the cool air brush past his tip made him shiver with sensitivity

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who moved your hair out of the way to get a better glimpse at you, tucking your hair behind your ear while his dominant hand did all the dirty work. Stroking himself from his base and back up to the tip, showing himself extra attention in the more sensitive spots before stopping to prevent getting too loud

•!!•°*🩰Pervy!Michael who has been secretly using you as inspiration to orgasm for the past three months. Always stealing you away from his sister just to have alone time with you. Watching you from the distance and playing the innocent role

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who fantasized about how good you taste in between your legs. Thinking about the night he overheard you talking about how you watched porn and got so turned on watching the woman receive oral from her partner

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who had his head pressed into his headboard still masturbating with you right next to him. Mouth slightly open and breathing harder than usual, eyes closed as he imagined you on top of him—riding him hard and kissing all over his lips and neck

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who had a bad habit of collecting a pair of your underwear whenever you came over. Almost getting caught the last time by you, creeping out the room .5 seconds before you walked in to change

•!!•°*🩰Pervy!Michael who had now achieved his first second orgasm and didn’t even attempt to stop. His cum shot out and he continued to keep going as he stared at your beautiful face. Fantasizing about your lips touching his and how you’d look with your lips wrapped around his dick

•!!•°*🩰Pervy!Michael who was whimpering and whispering whatever came to his mind when it came to you. Saying things to you that he’d never be able to do during the day. How badly he needed you and felt pathetic he had to do things like this just to feel relieved from his desires

•!!•°*🩰Pervy!Michael who had woken you up with his sweet whimpering and stuttering through his hot tears. The loud noises his hand made with each stroke , hand covered in his own fluids

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who was so embarrassed that you had caught him red handed. Little did he know you were into some of the same kinks as he was. Instead of being grossed out you were turned on by it, encouraging him to keep going for your own pleasures. Kissing his ear gently and rubbing his chest while you encouraged him to keep going

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who watched you undress and expose your chest, allowing him to use it as inspiration to chase his orgasm. Grabbing your breast and dragging your nipple across his mouth and pulling it away just before he could fully enjoy the experience, watching his face grow with desperation and on the verge of crying

•!!•°*🩰 Pervy!Michael who had finally came three times before you allowed him to even touch you. Lying against the headboard and allowing him to suck your nipples while still masturbating. Taking breaks to catch his breath just to refer to you as things like “baby girl” or “angel”. Begging for your forgiveness for doing something so wrong right in your face. Listening to your moans get louder as he brought you to your own peak just from his oral fixation

•!!•°*🩰Pervy!Michael who was surprised that you requested for him to cum on your face, making him masturbate harder than he ever had as he watched it shoot all over your tongue and various areas of your mouth. Each ejection feeling better than the first. Having to cover his mouth to mask the overstimulating orgasm he just had

•!!•°*🩰Pervy!Michael who immediately grabbed you by your waist and cried into your abdomen with his hands around your waist while you rubbed the back of his head and soothed his crying. Accepting his multiple apologies and kissing his lips as a sign of forgiveness

Inspired by the lovely @j-nae

@diorzaep @mikeysfavoritefish @mikeysfishfr @michaeljacksonspyt @botdfaholic @18lkpeters

[lovelyways]

HUMAN NATURE // TOKYO, 1988

[mikedotorg]

BLOOD FOR BLOOD ?

— michael cant help it! his girlfriends blood is so sweet, and maybe her yelps and moans are even sweeter ..

— vampire!michael obviously, blood play(?), biting, fingering, etc.

blood dripped from you neck as you gasp for air, a wet tongue lapping up the red liquid and humming with delight. “M-mikey-… i-ah!” you cry out as his fingers continue pushing in and out your hole.

“so sweet..” he nips at your neck again just to hear you yelp and squirm, a smirk curling on his lips. “how can one taste like candy?” he rhetorically asks as his lips trail down your nude body.

his face meets your pussy where his fingers are scissoring you open, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Hm.. not enough..” he tuts and takes out his fingers, earning a disappointed noise.

his fingers reaches up and swipes at the excess blood on your neck, moving back down to rub it on.. your clit!?

“mikey—“ “shhhh.. just adding some more flavor, sweets.” he burrows his face into your cunt and sucks on your blood soaked clit, a muffled groan leaving his throat sending vibrations up your body.

thats the straw that breaks you.

you let out a high pitched yelp as juices gush from your pussy, clit throbbing from the stimulation michael gave you.

you realize he went silent, you understand why when you glance down and see his face drenched in your release.

you had squirted for the first time.. just because he used blood to play with you?

“can you do that again?” he pleas.

“boy, bye.”

TAGS: @siighrns @yourleogf @michcarrillo02-blog @princesspluuto @whimsihoe @myah4livz @jermajestysbaby @0-n-1-x @pixieelixer-24 @4ppl3h34d @fairydustdiary @7alore

[mikolsfavschmuck]

Now redo it while reader is on her period