Summary: you are a record store owner in 1980s new york and michael jackson, your childhood friend who disappeared into unimaginable fame suddenly walks back into your shop looking for vinyl. unfortunately the mutual pining, emotional repression, and sexual tension are all still very much alive. The night you share might even be the story behind 'Just Good Friends' Michael released on his record 'Bad' in '87.
Tags: 18+, smut, thriller era michael, reunion fic, childhood crushes, mutual pining, soft shy michael, sub!michael (sort of), filthy little whisper voice, whimpering, oral sex, praise kink vibes, music nerd michael, vinyl collector michael, emotional yearning, awkward tenderness, michael discovering he’s actually kinda needy, record store romance, bill bray hearing WAY too much from the other room
Word Count: 5286
Author’s Note: ty for all the love on my other fics, i rlly appreciate y’all. P.S its established michael has quick wit and can beatbox really well... I'd say he's a certified FRESH eater too ;)
also ngl these keep getting longer and longer lmao im so in the zone
playlist for this fic here
If you'd like more, send me an ask ;)
18+ content below, minors DNI
In the heart of New York City, nestled between a bustling deli and an antique shop, lay ‘Groove Central’, a quaint record store that had probably seen better days. The once vibrant orange paint now peeled, and the neon sign flickered intermittently in the mid-summer night, casting an eerie glow on the wet sidewalk. Yet, the place held an undeniable charm, a remnant of the disco era that refused to fade away.
The call came in at half past two on a Wednesday.
You were behind the counter logging a new arrival, a near-mint copy of Grover Washington Jr.'s Mister Magic that had come in with an estate collection that morning — when the phone rang. You picked up without looking away from the sleeve.
"Groove Central."
"Hi, yes." Clipped, professional, clearly someone's assistant. "I'm calling on behalf of a client who's looking for a specific record. An original pressing of Marvin Gaye's What's Going On, 1971.. I've been calling around independent stores in the city. Your name came up."
You set the Grover Washington LP down. "Yeah I am sure we have it. First pressing, I think."
A beat of genuine relief on the other end. "Perfect. My client would like to come in personally to collect it this evening, if that's possible. Around seven? He'd also like to browse your wider collection."
"We close at eight."
"That's plenty of time for him. He will need to entirety of the shop to himself. We can provide a payment after for an uninterrupted shopping experience. We will call back tomorrow to start the invoice process. Thank you so much."
You were a bit stunned by the payment element. Brain now racing thinking, who could it possibly be?
"Can I get a name for the reservation?"
"He'll be there at seven." A pause. "Thank you again."
The line went dead.
You looked at the phone for a moment, mildly curious, then went back to your stock.
⋆⁺₊⋆
You were entirely unprepared for seven o'clock.
You'd sent your assistant home at six, turned the overheads off, put There's a Riot Goin' On on the turntable. The amber lamps made the store look the way it always looked in the evenings — warm and unhurried, a room that was decidedly not as busy as the streets outside its windows.
You were behind the counter with a lukewarm cup of tea and a stack of records still to log when the bell above the door went.
A large man stepped in first. He scanned the room once, efficiently, then moved to one side. Your eyes widened, you’d have recognised his little bucket hat anywhere, it was Bill Bray, and that could only mean who you were thinking about absentmindedly earlier… was here in the flesh.
And then he walked off the street. Hat tipped down over his face, with a leather jacket on.
⋆⁺₊⋆
Your father had opened Groove Central in 1976, the year he'd put down his bass for the last time.
He'd played with everybody — session work mostly, the kind that didn't put your name on the sleeve but kept the family going and meant you as a kid, got to stand in rooms where extraordinary things happened.
By the mid seventies he was a first-call bassist in New York, the kind of musician other musicians asked for by name. Then his back went, and the touring stopped, and he took everything he knew about music and put it into four hundred square feet on West 10th Street.
You'd grown up between New York and Los Angeles. Your mother's side of the family was in California, and for three years in your early teens your father had relocated you both to LA while he did session work out there, which was how you'd ended up at the MontClair Prep school.
The school for kids whose lives were already, in one way or another, a part of the industry.
You'd been 14. Quiet, bookish, more comfortable with your father's record collection than with most people your age. You'd sat next to a boy in music theory who was a year older than you and so genuinely, unpretentiously fascinated by everything the teacher said that you'd started paying more attention to him just to keep up with his questions.
Michael Joseph Jackson had been 15 and already, technically, the most famous teenager on the planet. He was part of the infamous Jackson 5 band. You had the privilege of knowing the entire Jackson clan personally.
He hadn’t acted like the most famous teenager in America. That was what had undone you, slowly, over years rather than moments. He listened carefully. Asked many thoughtful questions. He seemed more interested in hearing your opinions on the chord structure of a Stevie Wonder song than in impressing you. He remembered the books you mentioned in passing, asked after your family, wanted to know stories about your father’s session work and whether he’d ever played with Quincy Jones — years before Michael himself would work with Quincy on The Wiz. Being looked at that closely by someone so extraordinary had felt electric.
He'd been all limbs, gangly and bright, with careful enthusiasm and a shyness so genuine it had felt like something you’d never quite seen before in a boy his age.
You'd had feelings for him that you'd been sensible enough never to act on and had mostly, over the years, successfully buried.
You’d occasionally get a pang of jealous longing when you saw his videos roll on MTV. That distinct shyness gone, replaced by an absolute music machine. He was still very slim, and by god, the best dancer you had seen in a long while. To make matters worse - he was devastatingly attractive. The kind of beauty you’d see in old hollywood films, doe eyes, beautiful white teeth and a dashing smile. He never quite understood how disarming he was.
You were twenty three now. The store was yours. Your father was gone, four years past, and Groove Central was the best thing he'd left you.
You had not seen Michael Jackson since the summer you were seventeen and you'd both gone your separate ways after separately celebrating graduations — him into the stratosphere, you to NYU and then here, back to your father's store and your family record collection and the slower, more considered side of music that had always been your real home.
He was not who you once knew. He was older and more private and considerably more destabilising. You remembered his handwriting in the margins of shared sheet music and the sound of his laugh when his brothers did something funny, laying with him at his parents' pool in the summer in Encino.
⋆⁺₊⋆
He was looking at the record displays. He hadn't seen you yet.
You had approximately four seconds to act natural and not like a fangirl. He’d hate that.
You used those mere seconds to set your cup down very quietly, straighten up, and arrange your face into something that gave absolutely nothing away.
He turned.
The recognition moved across his face slowly; not the performed kind, not the public kind. The real kind. It was a private, knowing smile.
"Y/N."
His voice was lower than you remembered. Considerably different but still had that really airy quality. You thought his manner and voice was what totally set him apart from others. The rest of him was… well… you were not going to think about the rest of him right now, you were going to be a professional.
"Michael." You came out from behind the counter at a pace you were proud of. Measured. Easy. "I didn't know it was you. Your assistant didn't leave a name."
"I know." He was looking at you with an attention that felt very familiar and not at all the same as it used to. "I wasn't sure you'd still be in the city. You took over the store?"
"My father passed four years ago." You watched the softness move through his expression, unperformed and immediate. "He left it to me. I'd just graduated from NYU."
"I'm sorry about your father." Simply said, and meant. "He was one of the best."
He stuck out his hand, which struck you as overly formal but, perhaps he was used to this greeting now, constantly meeting new people. You shook it firmly and let your hand swing back to your side. He looked over you briefly, top to bottom. You in your bell bottoms, your denim waistcoat, the pale green bandana tied around your neck.
"He really was." You let yourself look at him for just a moment; actually look, cataloguing the distance between eighteen and now, the way the shyness was still there but underneath it something had settled within him. His hair was tied back in a hair tie, all curls and no Afro. He was slender but seemed firm. You swallowed spit nervously.
"You're looking for something specific. Your assistant mentioned Marvin Gaye?"
"What's Going On." He said it with a breathy laugh following it... "Y’’know… an Original pressing. It's for my mother's birthday next week."
"Sure, I have it. Follow me.."
You led him to the soul section. Pulled the record from its slot — third from the left, you always knew exactly where everything was, and held it out.
He took it with both hands, looking at it fondly.
You watched him turn it over. Read the label. Run his thumb along the sleeve's edge. He was awfully sentimental about records, and you supposed you were the same.
His hands were just as you remembered — long-fingered, deliberate — and you looked away from them and back at his face, which was not significantly safer. You cleared your throat and willed the blush to diminish from your cheeks.
"Tamla original," you said. "First pressing. Some edge wear on the sleeve, vinyl is clean. VG plus, I’d say."
"It's perfect." He looked up. "She used to play this record on Sunday mornings. Every Sunday, without fail. The whole album, start to finish, while she made breakfast." A pause. "I've been trying to find the original for a while to gift to her. She lost it in the move to LA way back when."
"Your mother has good taste."
"She has the best taste." He said it simply. "Everything good about my taste in music came from her."
You marvelled at him again.
The most famous person you had ever personally known, standing in your father's store, talking about something so intimate. The gap between who the world thought he was and who was actually standing in front of you was, as it had always been, vertiginous.
"well," you said, turning back toward the counter. “I can get this packaged up safely,” He grabbed onto your arm gently and swung you back around to face him.
"If it’s alright I’d love to have a look around, I rarely ever get time to browse the stands, see what is going on outside the pop sphere."
He was already drifting toward the funk section, hands loosely behind his back, reading spines with that focused private attention. Bill his bodyguard, whom you’d known from childhood, settled near the door, watching the street, and passersby. Bill gave you a small smile, and you returned it gladly. The store went quiet around the three of you, the crackle of the record playing evident.
You trailed back to the counter and watched him. He intermittently looked up at you, a far off look on his face. You wondered what he was thinking about. Did he remember the graceful and intimate touches you had whilst hanging out at Hayvenhurst, playing in the backyard, or at the pool with his brothers?
You were just friends, you knew that - but you often wondered if Michael had the emotional intelligence to know you were completely batshit in love with him. Well in love the way a teenager could love.
You didn’t know him anymore. Didn’t know if he was with someone. There was always a new story in the tabloids about the type of girls he liked to date.
He moved through the store the way your father used to move through record fairs; slowly, deliberately, occasionally pulling something out and holding it at a slight angle to peek at the inner sleeve. He occasionally shouted over to Bill with comments about artists he hadn’t heard in a while, and he picked up the albums and held them under his arm.
You'd spent some years trying to forget quite a lot of things about him that were charming, with uneven success. He was so kind and gentle with everyone in his life; he didn’t act famous. He seemed to have a sweet relationship with Bill. You bit your lip to keep yourself from smiling broadly at the thought of that. You remembered his father being mean, and you were secretly glad that he wasn’t around that for the most part anymore.
He appeared at the counter twenty minutes later with a stack of seven — Sly Stone, Bobby Womack, a rare Syreeta that had been new in that week; you’d found it at a famous person’s apartment clean out, and an original Chic twelve inch alongside three others.
You went through them without comment, noting each one.
"The Syreeta," he said, watching you. "How long have you had that?"
"Since last week." You turned it over. "Most people don't know who she is, but I found it at some old broadway actor’s apartment uptown. It was an estate sale. I saved it from the trash."
"She sang backup on Where I'm Coming From," he said immediately. "Stevie produced her first two albums. She's extraordinary and nobody talks about her enough."
You looked up at him.
He was watching you with that same expression, simply, genuinely wanting to know what you thought. It was so unchanged from school that it made something in your chest tighten.
"My father felt exactly the same way about her, hence why I felt compelled to pick it up" you said.
"He taught you well." He chuckled, fiddling in his pocket to get out his wallet.
"He tried." You began writing up the total. "He would have kept you here for two hours talking about this stack alone and been completely unbothered about whether that was an imposition."
"It wouldn't have been." He leaned slightly on the counter. "I would have stayed."
"I know," you said. "You always would. The debrief after movies on a friday night at mine always went on for way too long."
He laughed again at that, a breathy one. He remembered fondly, clearly.
The silence that followed was comfortable, you had history — it was a full silence rather than empty. Familiar in a way that made the years between meetings feel slightly less like distance.
"Come with me, I can play you the Marvin Gaye record to let you hear that it's in good condition" you walked around the counter, heading toward the back door.
“You can also have a look through some of my personal collection, see if there is anything you want”
Michael flashed a pretty smile at you, one that reached his eyes and followed you through the back.
The back room was the part of the store that was entirely yours.
Your father had used it as an office. You'd ripped the desk out within the first month and made it into what it actually wanted to be; a listening space. Lower ceilinged than the shop floor, warmer, every wall lined with overflow stock and records you kept for yourself and had no intention of selling. The sofa your father had bought with the building was the colour of burnt amber, a worn down leather couch, but you loved it because it was softer than any modern stiff thing.
There was a fancy red-shaded lamp in the corner, giving the room a soft light. And in total ‘you’ fashion, a disco ball hanging from the ceiling on a chain, small and slightly lopsided, turning in the draft from the vent with a lazy indifference to whether anyone was watching.
One of your other staff had burned patchouli incense in the room earlier in the week. It still lived in the air, low and sweet.
You put the record on the turntable. The one he chose sweetly for his mother’s birthday was one that existed in a small overlap between his lives, the old and the new, because you’d believed Michael had lived so much in his limited years. It felt like the right gift.
You let him walk around for a while, picking up and looking at the extensive collection you had. He’d occasionally make a noise of approval, or turn around and look at you with sheer shock on his face, as if to say ‘how the hell did you get this?’
Eventually, after shuffling around and going back and forth in casual conversation, he flopped onto the sofa.
The amber light in the back of the record shop seemed to pool around you and Michael, leaving the rest of the world—the bins of albums, the dusty counter, the street outside—in a soft, forgotten blur.
The old leather couch sighed as Michael shifted, the record sleeve of Martha and the Vandellas’ “Heat Wave” resting on his knee. He’d been quiet for a long time, just breathing in the quiet.
“You remember,” he said, not a question. His voice was that familiar, breathy whisper, but it had a new weight to it. “My house. After school. We’d always hang?”
You nodded, your own voice feeling rusted from disuse. “Your room. That ugly shag carpet you had spilled SO much ketchup on.” You laughed, as Michael covered his face with his big hands.
“I tolerated that filthy carpet so we could listen to the new J5 Demos” you said, after letting him squirm for a moment. “I loved hearing the rough arrangements, and… your vocal”
“Yeah.” He looked down at his hands, turning them over as if inspecting them.
“And gods - my brothers… they’d be outside the door. Jermaine, mostly. They knew how much I liked having you as a friend. I barely had any.” He said.
“He’d grab me in the hallway after I’d let you leave out of the front door,” Michael’s throat worked as he swallowed. “He’d say things. Put his arm around my neck, real tight, and he’d lean in and say, ‘Mikey, that little friend of yours is gonna be trouble. She’s got a walk that says she knows things.’ Or Tito would whistle under his breath when you’d bend over to pick up your books and he’d go, ‘Damn, Mike. Educate me.’”
He finally looked at you, his eyes huge and dark in the dim light. “They were teasing me. I knew that. But I… I didn’t get the point of the tease. I didn’t understand the… the heat behind the words. I’d just get flustered. My ears would get hot. I’d change the subject to the new bassline on a track.” He gave a small, self-deprecating shake of his head.
“I always would stick up for you, as I thought they were being mean. Little did I know, they were just being filthy.” He remarked, rubbing his hands up and down his jeans - they seemed sweaty. Was he nervous?
You found your voice, soft. “You were a good friend, Michael.”
“I was so lost in my childhood,” he whispered back, his gaze intense. “A ghost in my own life. I didn’t understand anything around me, I was so stunted.”
“Its all coming back” He said, as he picked up the renowned ‘Heat wave’ song. “Now looking back, I had the biggest crush on you. I totally get what a ‘heat wave’ is now in retrospect.”
You chuckled under your breath, feeling a blush creep up onto your face.
“Michael, you must know I felt the same. I tried hard to keep it under wraps as the whole world thought you were cute and I never thought it would go anywhere. We were so young” You said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Well..at night… in my bed…” He leaned closer, the scent of his cologne—something subtle and expensive—mingling with the smell of old vinyl.
“I clearly wasn’t so naive, because I’d think about you. In my room. The way the sun caught the gold in your hair. The sound of your laugh. And I’d…” He moved from your touch slightly, clearly nervous about his next statement.
“ I’d- I’d touch myself. Under the covers. Quiet as a mouse. So no one could hear me. And I’d dream about… about making you feel what I was feeling. This… this ache. This good ache. I dreamed about making you sigh. Making you… you know.”
He said it with such innocent, painful directness that it stole your breath. “Cum,” you said quietly, the word feeling both crude and sacred in the hushed space.
He flinched, just a tiny, reflexive jerk, then a slow, dawning smile spread across his face. It was shy, but beneath the shyness was a banked fire. “Yeah,” he breathed. “That. I dreamed about that.”
He then did the inevitable, pulled you in by your neck and kissed you. It felt clumsy and a little hard, but the passion was there. He was warm and he smelt sweet and a little like musk. He pulled back to search in your eyes. You stared back, completely stunned, mouth swollen from his kiss.
In a movement that was both hesitant and irrevocable, he slid from the couch to his knees on the worn Persian rug. The sight was breathtakingly intimate. Michael Jackson, in his perfect white socks and tailored trousers, kneeling before you in the shadows of your own shop. He looked up, his expression a vulnerable plea.
“I’m still… that,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “Lost boy..” He bit his lip, a nervous habit you remembered. “But my mouth… my hands… they ain’t so clueless anymore. I may want to keep other things sacred for marriage, but I don’t know when I will see you again and I want to make you feel good. Let me? Please?” He plead.
“If you feel the same of course.” He paused, his grip tightening on the couch on either sides of your legs. He was nervous. The boy of your childhood dreams, begging to make you feel good, on the floor in front of you.
“Let me do what I dreamed about when I was too scared to even say your name out loud in the dark.”
You reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek and moving his curls from his eyes. “Michael… Bill’s out front. He might hear.”
He turned his face into your touch, nuzzling your palm. His eyes closed for a second, then opened, meeting yours with a startling, animalistic focus that belied his trembling hands. “Let him hear,” he murmured, and the shyness was still there, but it was wrapped around a core of pure, defiant will. “I don’t care. I've been quiet and placid my whole life.”
His fingers, those famous, graceful fingers, went to the button of your jeans. His touch was clumsy with urgency, fumbling until the button popped open. The zipper came down with a slow, deliberate zip that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet room.
“Michael, this is crazy. Bill will hear us and wonder what the hell is going on. Does he even know that you know me?” You asked, incredulous, but excitement most definitely growing between your legs.
Michael looked up at you from the floor, a smirk on his face. “He knows all about you, Y/N”
He made himself comfortable on the soft carpet.
“I’m gonna be quiet now,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Gonna let my mouth do the talking.”
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and your underwear and tugged them down to your thighs. The cool air was a shock. He stared, his breath catching in a soft, reverent huuhh.
“Pretty,” he breathed, the word full of awe. “Just like I thought. So pretty.” He didn’t use cruder words. He didn’t need to. The worship in his tone was more explicit than any vulgarity.
Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to the inside of your thigh, just a soft, closed-mouth kiss. Then another, higher up. His lips were soft, warm. He was mapping you with kisses, shyly, until his nose brushed against your core and he let out a shaky, overwhelmed moan.
“Oh, wow,” he whispered against your skin, his hot breath making you tremble.
His tongue touched you then. Hardly a frantic lunge, but a tentative, questioning stroke. A slow, flat pass from bottom to top. He did it again. And again. Learning the shape of you, the texture. He made a soft, humming sound of discovery deep in his throat—"Mmm-hmm"—that vibrated exquisitely.
“Is that…” he pulled back slightly, his lips glistening, his eyes searching yours in the gloom. “Is that good? Am I doing it… right?”
“Yes,” you gasped, your head falling back against the couch. “God, Michael, yes.”
The affirmation seemed to unlock him. The shy friend you once knew vanished, replaced by a man possessed by a single, driving purpose. He dove back in with a soft, desperate cry, his mouth latching onto you with a hungry suction. His tongue became relentless, licking and circling with a frantic, focused energy that was shockingly adept. It was as if the decades of imagined rehearsals in his mind were finally being performed.
The sounds were wet, intimate, obscenely loud in the small space. The slick shhlip of his tongue, his ragged, open-mouthed pants—ahh… ahhh—the low, continuous groans of pleasure he was making. His hips began to rock against the hard floor where he was laying on his front, in a frantic, grinding rhythm, the rough wool of his trousers scraping the rug. You felt guilt you were letting him lay there untouched.
“You taste so good,” he moaned, the words slurred and hot against your flesh. “So sweet. Like… like honey and lightning.” He sucked gently on your clit, then soothed it with a flat lap. “I used to wonder… what it would be like. Now I know. It’s better. It’s so much better.”
From the front of the shop, a faint, distant sound: the creak of a floorboard and the hum of an incoherent melody playing at the front of the shop. Michael froze for a second, his mouth still pressed to you. You tensed.
“Michael…”
“Shhh,” he murmured, not moving. His voice was a dark, possessive rumble you’d never heard from him before. “Let him listen.” He began to move his tongue again, slower now, more deliberate, as if putting on a show for the unseen audience. “Quite frankly, I’m not leaving you again until I’ve done this.”
He sealed his lips over you and sucked, hard and deep, and a broken cry was torn from your throat, echoing slightly in the cavernous shop.
“Let me help you, Michael” You reached down to try to get the belt on his pants.
“No,” he growled, the vibration traveling straight to your bones. “This is just for you. All for you. That’s it. Let me hear you. Let me hear what I’m doing to you.” His rhythm became punishing, his tongue a firm, insistent point of heat, his suction relentless. His own dry-humping against the floor grew more frantic, a counter-rhythm to the work of his mouth. “This is for us back then,” he chanted between laps, his voice guttural, almost sobbing. “This was what I should have done… my little secret crush, and now you’re all mine… cum for me… please… I need to feel it… I need to know I made you feel good…”
The coil inside you, wound tight by his desperate passion, by the terrifying risk of being heard, by the sheer surreal poetry of it all, snapped. Pleasure detonated, white and silent before the roar filled your ears. You arched off the couch, a strangled gasp the only sound you could manage as the waves crashed through you.
He drank it all in, his eyes on you, despite his mouth on your centre. His mouth soft and accepting now, lapping gently, humming softly— as he savored every pulse and shudder. When the last tremor subsided, he rested his forehead against your thigh, his entire body limp, his own frantic grinding finally stilled. His breathing was ragged, loud in the sudden quiet.
A long moment passed. Then, another soft creak from the front. Bill, moving around - likely wondering what was taking Michael so long.
Slowly, trembling, Michael pushed himself up. He used his sleeve to wipe his mouth, a boyish, awkward gesture. He couldn’t quite meet your eyes as he gently, tenderly, pulled your clothes back into place, his fingers fumbling with the button. His shyness had returned, flooding back in the aftermath, but it was a different shyness. It was satiated. Peaceful.
He climbed back onto the couch and sat close, his shoulder pressed against yours. He took your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. They were warm, slightly damp.
“I knew it,” he said softly, staring straight ahead at the wall of silent records. A small, private, utterly beautiful smile touched his lips. “I knew it would feel better than what i imagined. Making you feel good.”
You bashfully looked down, a little embarrassed from coming undone for someone who was merely a stranger to you now.
When you looked down at your lap, in the corner of your eye you saw how strained he was against his jeans.
“I feel bad… that you won’t let me relieve you” you nodded to his crotch.
“Oh” he looked down at himself and shifted himself slightly.
"I'll have to find another excuse to come find a limited edition record from you," he said, his voice very quiet, a smirk playing at the edge of it.
You laughed under your breath. There was a sadness in it, the kind that comes from knowing someone has to go back to something enormous and consuming that has very little room for ordinary afternoons.
"Michael." You kept your voice even. "Do you mean it? Can we keep in touch? I was a bit lost when you left for tour back then — and then that was that, you were just… gone. Please don't only come here when you need something."
"No, no." He turned to face you properly, his eyes steady. "I want you back in my life. Genuinely. It would mean a lot — to have someone around who isn't on the payroll, who knew me before all of this." A pause. "I'm trying to find my way back to where I came from. This business has a way of making you forget."
You nodded. Your father had said something very similar once, about the industry and what it cost people.
"Well," you said. "Don't be a stranger."
He stood, fixed his jacket, and his pants, that were… still straining against his crotch, and looked around the back room one last time as if cataloguing it.
"Poor Bill," he said, mostly to himself. "He must be completely bewildered out there."
You walked him to the door. On the way through the shop he paused, ran his hand along a row of spines the way you'd watched him do all evening, and then he was at the threshold, the city loud and bright beyond him, and he was Michael Jackson again in a way he hadn't quite been for the last hour.
He turned. That private smile, one more time.
"Goodbye," he said. "For now."
"For now," you agreed.
The bell above the door rang. He shoved his hat on, brim close to his forehead, and then he was gone.
You stood in the middle of your father's store for a long moment. There's a Riot Goin' On had finished long ago. The record skipping and jumping as it lingered on its smooth centre. The amber lamps hummed. The disco ball turned its slow, lopsided way in the draft from the vent.
You went back behind the counter, picked up your cup — stone cold now — and went back to logging the records.
Third from the left.
New stock needed. You noted down on the notepad.
And then a rather large giggle spilled out of your mouth into the empty space at the absurdity of the situation.
michael had gone into the coffee shop since it was raining heavly. his hair was wet, bill was already complaining about standing outside, and it happened to be the closest place nearby to the studio. he wasn’t paying much attention when he stepped inside, shaking the rain from his jacket, until he looked up and saw you behind the counter.
you were decorating one of the pastries in the display case and was completely focused on what you were doing. your brows were slightly furrowed, qnd you looked cute. it wasn’t anything extraordinary, if anything, it was ordinary. but for some reason, michael couldn’t stop looking.
“michael.”
bill’s voice made him blink.
“what?”
“the line.”
sure enough, there was a line forming behind him. by the time michael reached the register, you’d moved on from the pastries and were taking orders. when you looked up, you offered him a small smile.
“hi. what can i get for you?” you said, slightly blushing since you recognized who michael was.
the problem was that michael had spent the last five minutes looking at you instead of the menu. he glanced up at the board behind you, pretending to read it while his mind went completely blank.
you must’ve noticed because you smiled again.
“take your time.”
eventually he managed to order, and you scribbled something onto the side of the cup before passing it. while he waited, he found himself watching you work. you moved quickly but carefully, thanking customers and quietly helping a little kid decide which muffin he wanted.
when his drink was ready, you handed it over with another polite smile, a small blush on your face.
“have a good day.”
it was probably the same thing you’d said to every customer that morning, but michael spent the entire drive home thinking about it anyway.
halfway there, bill glanced over and noticed him staring at the coffee cup.
“what?”
michael turned it slightly, and next to his name you had drawn a tiny heart.
bill looked at it and glanced up at michael and simply said “you’re gonna come back tomorrow, aren’t you?”
oh we need some more pervy bsf mike..like what he used to do before deflowering y/n
perv!bsf!mikey who, before reaching third base with you, would lift your shirt a little too high, to 'tickle' you (grope your cute waist) chuckling softly at your whiney protest when your pretty lacy bra would be exposed >⩊<.ᐟ
perv!bsf!mikey who hugs you a little to tight to feel the swell of your tits on him
perv!bsf!mikey who asked you to rate his cock, but you cant leave him all hard and leaky! so he has you wrap your hands around him "where'd you learn to be this good? hm?"
perv!bsf!mikey who doesnt want to make a mess when he cums, so he has you stick your wet tongue out. resting his pretty brown tip on it, shooting cum down your throat.
perv!bsf!mikey who grinds his morning wood on your perky ass in the morning, whilst you sleep, after a sleepover.
perv!bsf!mikey who grips your waist a little to tightly when you're talking to jackie for far to long
perv!bsf!mikey who has told you that its completely normal for best friends to change infront of each other!!
perv!bsf!mikey who rubs your puffy pussy to 'practice' for his future girlfriend.
perv!bsf!mikey who knows you said 'no fingers' when getting you off, but how is he supposed to make you feel good!! muffling your protests with deep kisses, as he slides two fingers in your poor little pussy.
perv!bsf!mikey whos gonna get touched by me
a/n: sorry for the inactivity!! im on vacation yayayay, but michaels still HEAVY on my mind, enough that im deadass on my way to see it for a 3rd time rn, glad to see it's the same for you all still!! please make more reqs!! im here to service you all!! ok love you byebyebye
summary: you and bubbles just want to spend time with michael, but with him being a workaholic, things get a bit tricky.
warnings: none.
amaya’s note: the michael biopic has me spiraling back into my old mj era. It was such an amazing movie; you guys should all watch it! I based the descriptions of the studio and house on the michael movie. I have no clue how to write how a chimpanzee acts, so there will probably be some inaccuracies in that regard. If you want more mj fics, don't hesitate to send a request! :D
You stare blankly at the television screen, scenes and words blurring together. It’s Peter Pan, one of Michael’s favorites, yet it doesn't feel the same without him.
Michael has been recording his new album Thriller since last week, and, ever since then, you have been seeing less and less of him. He spends half of the day and night cooped up in his recording studio. The only time you get to see him is before bed, and even then, he can only respond with hums and nods because he exhausts his voice from singing all day.
Your heart tightens in your chest as Michael’s favorite scene comes on. A fond smile involuntarily tugs at your lips.
Beside you, you hear the soft tapping of feet grow louder and louder until Bubbles appears beside you. He uses his arms to push himself up on the couch next to you.
“Hi, Bubbles,” you say, pulling him into your lap with ease.
His arms come up to wrap around your neck. You frown as you take in his appearance. His fur looks like it hasn’t been brushed in days, and he is completely bare except for a diaper that clings loosely to his waist.
Michael insisted he be the one who groomed Bubbles, but by the looks of it, he hasn't done that in a while.
Seems like you aren’t the only one who is missing Michael's company.
"You miss him, don't you?" you ask Bubbles, gently stroking his fur. His lips form a soft pout as he trails one of his hands down to your necklace. It was a necklace Michael had given you shortly after you started dating. Diamond, with a silver chain.
“You look beautiful,” Michael said, clasping the diamond necklace around your neck. You both were standing in front of the full-length mirror in his bedroom.
Your hands came up to touch the opulent stone. “It’s beautiful. I’ve never received a gift this extravagant. I-I don’t know what to say, Michael.”
Through the mirror, you could see his lips turn up. “You don’t have to say anything, baby. I just wanted to give you something to show you how much I love you.” Then he bent his upper body forward and kissed your shoulder. You grinned as his curls tickled your cheek.
Shaking away the memory, you bring your fingers over Bubbles’. "I know. I miss him too."
You turn your head to the left to look at the clock. 6:34 p.m. Almost another day without seeing Michael.
You purse your lips and glance back at Bubbles, who is now lying against your arm.
In that moment, you decide you aren’t going to wait around anymore.
“Bubbles, should we go see what Michael is doing?” He perks up at the mention of Michael, eyes widening and lips pointing upwards. You can feel the rise and fall of his chest quickening.
You laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes. Come on.”
Bubbles quickly wraps his arms around your neck, his weight comforting you as you stand up and walk to the front door.
After turning the front door’s knob and pushing it open, it does not take long to get from Michael's house to his studio, considering that it is in his backyard.
You tut your teeth at the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging from the door.
Screw that.
You twist the knob and open the door.
The studio is lit by soft lamplight and a dim overhead light. The room looks like the inside of a mad scientist's head, with notebooks and Post-it notes everywhere, books stacked on the floor, and records lining every wall.
Right in the middle of it is Michael. He didn’t notice you yet as he listened to one of his tracks through his headphones, moving his body to the rhythm. After listening, he jots down something in his notebook. You notice that his movements are slower than usual and his eyes lack their usual spark, appearing more dull and glazed.
You feel something drop in your stomach at the sight.
You start to make your way over to him, but you don’t make it far before Bubbles starts squirming in your arms. He was desperately reaching for Michael, clawing at your face and arms to be free.
"Okay, okay," you quickly place Bubbles down. He wastes no time and sprints towards Michael's lap.
At the feeling of a hand wrapping around his calf, Michael pauses the track he’s listening to and takes off his headphones. He looks down to see Bubbles. He beams and picks up the chimpanzee, wrapping his arms around him.
Your heart warms at the sight of them.
He looks behind Bubbles and spots you. “Hey, baby. What are you guys doing here?" He giggles as Bubbles brings his finger up to Michael’s cheek.
"We wanted to see you. You've been here almost all day, you know." Michael pats the seat next to him, signaling for you to join him.
You walk over to the seat and sit down. You glance at the knobs and buttons on the mixing console. They were all in different positions. It looks so foreign to you, but they’re what Michael has been spending most of his days with. You frown at the thought that these buttons have felt Michael’s touch more than you have lately.
"I know, it's just, I have all these ideas in my head, y'know? I gotta get them out while they're fresh."
Bubbles snuggles into Michael's chest, letting out soft groans. Michael smiles and scratches the spot behind Bubbles’ ear that always makes him tingle. Bubbles lets out a soft, happy moan at the sensation.
You stare at them in disbelief.
“Uhm, excuse me? Where is my warm embrace?”
Michael looks over at you and lets out a giggle.
“Is someone jealous?” he jokes, ripping away a pen from Bubbles that he took from the mixing console.
“Yes,” you admit in a soft tone. “I’ve missed you.”
Michael’s face drops as he takes in your serious tone. He rubs the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry, baby. This track I’m working on has really taken all my attention. I just.. I want it to be perfect,” he says as his eyes gaze down at the notebook he had been writing lyrics in.
You scoot your chair closer to his and place your hand on his cheek. “It will be. I know it. Nothing you make is anything less than perfect.”
His eyes flicker back to you, and something in his face softens at that, like what you said spoke to a part of himself that he’d been doubting.
Michael bites his lip and looks at Bubbles on his lap. He runs his fingers through his thick fur, then he gently pries the chimpanzee away from his body.
“I’m going to set you down now, okay?” Bubbles scrunches his nose and tightens his lip as Michael carefully places him on the studio floor.
Michael turns his attention back to you. “Say, how about I make it up to you?”
You quirk a brow. “Make it up to me? How exactly do you plan to do that?”
Michael smirks as the gaze in his eyes shifts to something darker.
“Like this.”
You barely have time to register what he said before his lips land on yours. The scent of vanilla floods your nostrils as Michael’s palm caresses your jaw. You lean into his touch.
You deepen the kiss. The room is so silent that you can hear Michael’s sharp intake of breath. Your fingers find solace in his hair, tugging gently at the curly brown strands.
Your heart feels like it is trying to stage an escape from the clutches of your ribcage. The soft feel of his lips, the warmth of his body, and the wetness of his tongue embracing yours is electrifying.
Michael’s hands come around your waist, and, without a word, he lifts you into his lap. You gasp at the sudden movement.
He breaks the kiss and sheepishly looks at you. “I-is this okay?” he asks, a pink hue tinting his cheeks. His usual nervous demeanor takes over his previous confident one. You and Michael’s relationship is still fairly new, so he doesn’t want to accidentally push your boundaries.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” you confirm, hoping he doesn’t notice the nervousness in your voice at the warmth of his thighs.
He smiles and tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear. “God, you’re so gorgeous. Can’t believe I get to have you all to myself. How’d I get so lucky?”
The intensity of his gaze makes you blush. “I would consider myself to be the lucky one. Have you seen yourself?”
Michael shakes his head and glances down to where your hand is on his stomach. “I’m really not all that…”
You scoff and lift up his chin with your index finger. “I think I, as well as a million other women, disagree with that statement.”
Michael lets out a chuckle.
You lean your forehead on his, and it’s silent for a while—just you and him and the rhythm of your steady heartbeats. Michael brushes his nose up against yours as you feel the heat of his breath touch your face.
The intimate atmosphere is interrupted by a succession of loud bangs.
You and Michael jump as you turn your heads towards the source of the noises.
Glass shards from the standing lamp are scattered across the ground. A stool that holds Michael’s index cards with potential lyrics is knocked over. Next to it all is Bubbles, who is reaching for one of the index cards in curiosity.
“Bubbles!” You and Michael yell in unison.
Michael helps you lift your legs from his lap as you both go to the right corner of the room to stop Bubbles from stepping on a glass shard, or even worse, chewing up one of Michael’s lyrics.
Michael lunges for Bubbles, but Bubbles lets out a hoot and runs in the opposite direction.
“I’m not going to stand here and chase you. Come here, Bubbles. Now,” Michael commands.
Bubbles stops next to you, and you decide to take the opportunity and reach for the card in his hand. Terrible mistake.
Bubbles swats away your hand and traps the card between his teeth. He then turns and charges on his knuckles to the remaining empty corner of the room.
Your jaw drops as the top of your hand starts to turn red. “Did he just hit me?!”
You look at Michael, who is holding back a laugh.
“Maybe you scared him. He is prone to attack if he’s scared,” Michael reasons.
You sigh and shake your head. “Okay, fine. Let’s just stop him before he can cause any more trouble, mkay?”
Michael nods. You both glance at Bubbles, who is sitting with the index card now in his hand. You faintly see something that says “mama se” on the back of it.
You look back at Michael, who is already looking at you. An unspoken plan passes between you two, and you both nod.
In a few seconds, you and Michael are on each side of Bubbles, effectively cornering him.
“Aha! We did it!” Michael rejoices.
Bubbles looks up at both of you and scratches his head. Michael lets out a soft chuckle. “Come here, Bubbles.”
Michael bends down and hooks his palms under Bubbles’ arms.
“I think you have something that belongs to me,” Michael says, pointing to the card in Bubbles’ grasp.
Bubbles looks between the card and Michael’s face and pieces together what he is referring to. Slowly, Bubbles lays the card in Michael’s palm.
“Good boy.”
You walk over and stroke Bubbles’ fur, the top of your hand still stinging. “And if you ever hit me again, no more sweet potatoes for a week.”
The chimp’s eyes widen. He looks at Michael for backup.
“Don’t look at me,” Michael laughs.
Bubbles frowns and curls into Michael’s shoulder. One of Michael’s hands comes up to rub his fur. You step closer to them as Michael’s other hand reaches out towards yours, interlacing them. You lean your body on his shoulder.
The lamp above the mixing console casts a shadow over the three of you as silence overcomes the room.
A minute passes before you break the silence. “It’s almost time for bed, Michael.”
Michael sighs. “I know, I know. I’ll be in soon. I promise.” He looks down at Bubbles as he speaks, avoiding looking you in the eye.
You bite your lip, not believing him.
“Okay, but if I don’t see you in five minutes, I’m bringing Bubbles back in here and letting him eat every card he sees.” As if on cue, Bubbles excitedly squirms in his arm at the word cards.
Michael smiles, tightening his hold on Bubbles. “Goodnight, Bubbles.” He plants a kiss atop the chimp’s furry head.
“Aren’t you missing someone?” You tap your feet. Michael locks eyes with you and giggles at your tactics.
His fingers come under your chin as he tilts your head back. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he says and kisses you on the lips.
Ten minutes later, and Michael still has not left the studio.
You look over at Bubbles and ask, “Are you hungry for some cards?”
His jaw opens, and he lets out excited hoots, moving uncontrollably.
summary: au where you surprise michael with a golden retriever puppy from the shelter to help him get over his fear of dogs.
warnings: mentions and descriptions of being scared of dogs.
genre: fluff.
amaya’s note: hi!! this is part one of my mj x reader puppy series! this is something new for me, as i’ve never written a series before. i know michael has had dogs before when he was a kid, so this is just for fictional purposes!
series masterlist
one thing that you love about michael is his love and admiration for animals. his love for them extends beyond the usual pet and pet owner relationship; he considers them his friends. you remember how in awe you were when michael first showed you the zoo in his backyard. he had almost every animal you could think of in there.
all except one.
dogs.
you noticed the way he’d slowly stand behind you whenever you guys were near one in public, using your body as a shield. you never questioned it, thinking he had his own reasons, but one day that changed.
one day, you decided you were going to help him get over his fear of dogs.
“michael..?” you call out catiously.
“yes, honey?” his soft voice rings throughout the living room. his long hair is tied back in a ponytail as the glow of the television screen illuminates his features.
“i have a surprise for you.. could you turn off the television, please?” you ask, eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint.
he looks at you, trying to gauge what you are planning before the television screen fades to black with a click. he shifts his body on the couch to face you. “a surprise? what kinda surprise?”
you bounce back and forth on the balls of your feet. “so, i was at the dog shelter the other day..”
michael nods. “okay.”
“..and i came across this puppy. she’s two months old, and she was separated from her family. the people at the shelter told me how thin and dirty she was when they found her. it broke my heart.”
michael frowns, but you can tell that a part of him is guarded, like he’s anticipating something.
“so.. i decided to take her home!” you exclaim. you make your way over to the dog carrier that you hid in the hallway and unzip it.
the carrier’s door hits the ground with a plop. the puppy stretches before her little body slowly exits the carrier. when she makes it out, she starts to sniff you and the surrounding area, her whiskers twitching.
“it’s okay, puppy. i’m not going to hurt you,” you comfort, and the fur ball seems to ease up a bit.
she continues sniffing the area until she is satisfied. the soft pitter-patter of her paws against the living room floor ricochets off the walls.
her pace quickens until eventually she is zooming across the living room floor. she seems to be going in no particular direction at first, until you see her make a beeline straight for michael.
at the sight of a puppy sprinting to him at full speed, michael quickly lifts his feet from the floor, clutching his knees to his chest. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him move that fast.
“y/n! w-what is this?! no, no, get it out!” he commands, his feet digging deeper into the couch. you hold back a laugh at the pure horror on his face.
“she’s the dog i was just telling you about! isn’t she so sweet?” the puppy is staring up at him from the floor, her head twisted to the side
michael glances at you but flickers his gaze back to the puppy, as if to brace himself for any unwarranted attack.
“baby, i don’t like dogs that much.. they bite.”
you frown, coming closer to the two.
“mike, she’s a golden retriever—one of the least aggressive dog breeds. please, just try? i think you’ll really like her.”
michael glances at you. “a-are you sure?”
you nod. “yes. even the ladies at the shelter said she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
michael bites his lip, peering down at the golden retriever, then back at you, unsure what to do.
he huffs. “okay.. fine. i’ll try—but no promises.”
you grin.
he cautiously loosens his grip on his knees as he unravels his body and lets his feet touch the ground again. the puppy moves back, weight shifting on her four feet.
he warily eyes the puppy before he decides to test the waters. bending his body a bit, he brings his hand close to the puppy. he waits for her reaction, and the next few movements happen in a slow, delicate rhythm.
his fingers slightly tremble as she comes up to sniff them, wet nose tickling his flesh. you can see the rise and fall of michael’s chest slowing, and the guard on his face from earlier beginning to slip.
you bite your lip to conceal the smile threatening to show.
she adjusts her head and gazes up at michael. you watch in real time as his face shuffles through fear, skepticism, and hope before he brings his palm down on the puppy’s back, gently smoothing her fur, then retracting his hand.
at the absence of his touch, the puppy lets out a pained noise and moves a bit closer to him.
his eyebrows raise as he places his palm on her again. this time, with more confidence. he strokes her thick fur, going over her head to her back. at the sensation, the little golden retriever’s tail begins to rise and sway side to side.
“michael!” you squeal, hands covering your mouth.
his body recoils from the puppy at your voice. “what! what’re you screamin’ for?”
you look at him with joy in your eyes. “d-do you see that? her tail is wagging! that means she likes you!”
michael glances down at the little ball of fur, and for the first time tonight, a smile takes over his features.
at that moment, you feel like you might actually explode with happiness.
“okay, maybe… maybe you were right,” michael admits after a while, his hand working through the golden retriever’s soft fur.
you hum, feigning ignorance. “about?”
he narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no real annoyance in them. “‘bout this. i guess dogs aren’t all that bad.”
you smile, sitting closer to michael on the couch. “i told you so, but you are just so hardheaded—”
“no ‘m not!” he cuts you off.
you shrug. “okay, mr. all-dogs-do-is-bite-and-i-will-not-have one-in-my-house.”
he opens his mouth, then closes it. “… i’ve never said such words,” he lies.
you laugh. “okay, whatever you say.”
“you’re…” he lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “you’re something else, y’know that?”
“yeah,” your lips turn upward. “and you should listen to me more.”
he sighs, but you can see a smile forming.
“baby..”
“yes?”
“what’re we gonna name her?” michael asks.
your eyes widen.
“so, you wanna keep her?” you try not to let your excitement show, but the slight crack in your voice at the end of your sentence gives it away.
michael emits a breathless laugh, like he can’t believe he’s doing this. you can feel the shake of his body. his eyes find yours once again, fondness evident in his features.
“yeah… yeah, i think i do.”
you beam.
“how about… annie?” you offer.
michael considers this, looking at the puppy at his feet.
𓂃⋆.˚ synopsis: ao'nung can't stop thinking impure thoughts about one of the sully siblings.
𓂃⋆.˚ content warnings: aged up characters, NSFW (MDNI), pervy ao'nung, innocent reader, explicit & pervy thoughts, hands on learning
𓂃⋆.˚ word count: 1.5k
𓂃⋆.˚ author's note: based on this request!! i had so much fun writing ao'nung's thoughts hehe
part two here!
Aonung stared at the back of your head, his gaze tracing the way your hair floated in the humid, salt-heavy air of the reef. He felt like a predator, though not the noble kind that hunted the skimwings or the ilus. No, he felt like something bottom-feeding, something that lurked in the silt and watched with hungry, wide eyes. It was a rot in his chest, a heavy, pulsing heat that made his palms itch and his throat feel like he’d swallowed a handful of dry sand.
He knew what people said about the Sully’s—they were half demons, they were outcasts, they were the bringers of war—but to Aonung, you were a feast he wasn't allowed to taste. You were the sister of those two hot-headed forest boys, Lo’ak and Neteyam, and that fact alone should have been enough to make him turn away.
If Lo'ak ever saw the way Aonung’s eyes lingered on the curve of your waist where your loincloth met your deep blue skin, the forest boy would probably try to slit his throat with one of those animal bone knives. If Neteyam ever caught wind of the imagery currently dancing behind Aonung’s eyelids—images of you pinned against the rough, woven floor of a marui, your legs tangled with his thicker, oceanic ones—there wouldn't be enough of Aonung left for the Eywa to reclaim.
He was the son of the Olo’eyktan; he was supposed to be a leader, a paragon of Metkayina strength. Instead, he was standing here, hidden by a thicket of mangrove roots, watching you practice your swimming and feeling a shameful, agonizing tightness in his loincloth.
I am a monster, he thought, his pupils blown wide until the turquoise of his irises was a mere sliver of light. I want to see her cry, but not from pain. I want to see her eyes roll back while I find out if her skin tastes like the forest or the sea. I want to ruin that look of pure, agonizing sweetness she gives everyone. I want to be the reason she can’t walk straight for a week.
He didn't care about the consequences. The threat of Tonowari’s scolding or Ronal’s piercing, judgmental stare felt distant and flickering compared to the roaring fire in his gut. The danger actually made the hunger intensify. It added a metallic, electric tang to his obsession. He was a prince of the sea, and he had decided that the most precious thing the ocean had ever spat out was a forest woman with too-big eyes and a smile that made him want to commit sins that he didn’t even know existed.
The sun beat down on the shallow flats, the scent of crushed sea-lilies and sun-warmed kelp rising in thick, sweet waves. Aonung stepped out from the shadows, his heavy tail leave a rhythmic drag in the wet sand. He watched you struggle with the buoyancy of your own body, your tail—thin and twitchy like a lemur's—splashing uselessly against the surface. You looked up, blinking water from your long lashes, and when you saw him, your face lit up with a genuine, guileless warmth that made his stomach do a slow, sickening flip of desire.
"Aonung! You're back," you chirped, your voice like the chime of shells hitting one another in a breeze. "I've been trying to do the rhythmic breathing Lo'ak showed me, but I keep floating up like a cork. Am I doing it wrong?"
He walked into the water until it reached his hips, his thighs cutting through the surf with practiced ease. His skin was cool, but inside, he was boiling. "The forest way is not our way," he said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming a low, vibrating rumble in his chest. "Your brothers are clumsy. They teach you to fight the water. You must learn to invite it in."
I want to invite myself in, he thought, his gaze dropping to the rise and fall of your chest. I want to feel those lungs gasping against my own skin until you don't know where the air ends and I begin.
He moved behind you, the proximity sending a jolt of static through his nerves. You didn't pull away; you simply adjusted your stance, trusting him completely.
To you, he was the mentor, the friend, the boy helping your family find their place. To him, you were a soft, pliable thing that he wanted to mold to his own dark whims.
"Put your hands here," he commanded softly, reaching around to place his large, three-fingered hands over your diaphragm.
His touch was firm, his palms rough with the callouses of a diver. He could feel the delicate lattice of your ribs, the terrifyingly soft texture of your skin that felt like wet silk. You let out a tiny, surprised huff of air but stayed still. "Now, breathe. Not from the throat. From here. Deep. Slow."
"Like this?" you asked, taking a lungful of air.
As you inhaled, your back pressed firmly against his chest. Aonung’s eyes closed for a brief, tortured second. He could smell you—a musky, floral scent like crushed hibiscus and the damp earth of a jungle floor after a heavy rain. It was intoxicating, a physical weight that pressed against his senses. He leaned down, his chin hovering just above your shoulder, his breath hot against the sensitive curve of your neck.
"Slowly," he hissed, his fingers splaying out across your stomach. He began to knead the muscles there, ostensibly to help you relax, but his thumbs traced the dip of your navel with a lingering pressure.
She is so small. I could break her. I could wrap my hands around her waist and meet my fingers on the other side. I want to feel her trembling under me while I tell her exactly what I'm going to do to her.
"It feels... different when you do it," you whispered, looking back at him with those wide, innocent amber eyes. You actually smiled, a tiny, dimpled thing that should have been illegal. "Thank you, Aonung. You're a much better teacher than my brothers. They just yell."
He felt a surge of pride. He liked that you were comparing him to them and finding them wanting. He liked that you were leaning into his touch, completely unaware that his mind was currently stripping you bare, imagining the way your tail would curl around his leg as he drove himself into you. He imagined the sound you would make—not a thank you, but a shattered, high-pitched keening as he took everything you had to give.
"Your brothers don't understand the depth of the water," Aonung murmured, his hand sliding lower, his pinky catching the top edge of your loincloth. He lingered there for a heartbeat too long, feeling the heat radiating from your hips. "They only see the surface. But there is so much more beneath, isn't there? Secrets."
You nodded, oblivious, turning back to the horizon to try another breath. "The Way of Water has no beginning and no end. That's what your sister says."
"Guess my sister can say wise things," Aonung said, trying not to think of his dumb sister right now. He stepped even closer, his pelvis brushing against the back of your thigh. He could feel the firmness of your glutes through the thin fabric, the way your body was toned from a lifetime of climbing trees. He wondered if you would be just as strong when you were trying to hold onto him.
I want to bite that shoulder. I want to leave marks that your mother can see from across the village, so everyone knows you belong to me.
"Try again," he whispered, his hand moving up to trace the line of your throat, his thumb resting right over your pulse point. He felt it leaping, a frantic little bird trapped under your skin. Was it from the exercise, or did some small, primal part of you recognize the predator standing at your back? "Deep breath. Hold it. Feel the weight of the ocean pressing in on you. Let it take you."
You obeyed, closing your eyes and sinking slightly into the water. Aonung watched the way the water beaded on your collarbones, the way your nipples peaked against the cool air as the tide ebbed. He felt a literal ache in his jaw from clenching his teeth so hard. He was drowning in his own depravity, and the most delicious part was that you were holding his hand while he did it.
She’s thanking me, he thought, a jagged, silent laugh vibrating in his throat. She’s smiling at me while I’m thinking about how much I want to hear her beg.
He reached out, his hand dipping beneath the surface to steady your hip as a small wave rolled in. His fingers brushed the soft skin of your inner thigh, a touch that was entirely unnecessary for the lesson. You didn't flinch. You just adjusted your balance and leaned your weight into his hand, trusting him to keep you upright.
"I think I'm getting it!" you said, beaming at him.
"You are doing perfectly," Aonung lied, his voice a gravelly rasp.
Eywa, forgive me, because I’m never going to stop.
┊ ♡ ﹒ summary : after a fight with her commitment-phobic situationship at a pool party, (name) hides in a laundry room to contemplate her life choices. unfortunately for her, michael has been looking for her like a lost puppy for the better part of twenty minutes and accidentally confesses he’s memorized her entire personality. things escalate from there.
┊ ♡ ﹒ byi : love triangle, sibling rivalry emotional infidelity / cheating themes, arguments and relationship conflict, age gap (reader is four years older than michael), complicated relationship dynamics, emotionally messy people making messy ass decisions, slight smut, reader uses michael’s hand, shy / submissive michael, lowkey pussy drunk off kissing alone.
(Name) and Jackie exist in a relationship that’s somehow both serious and.. not serious at the same time. It’s ridiculous, yeah. To everyone around them, they’re practically together. They arrive places together, leave parties together and know each other with a level of emotional and physical intimacy that usually only belongs to committed couples. Jackie calls her when he’s lonely, when he’s bored, when something exciting happens and she’s the first person he wants to tell. He knows how she takes her coffee, which songs and movies make her cry, and exactly what expression means she’s seconds away from telling him to get out of her face because she’s annoyed with him and overstimulated. Their lives have become intertwined in a hundred ways, making it very difficult to explain why they aren’t.. officially anything at all.
The problem isn’t that Jackie doesn’t love her. No. In fact, that’s what makes the situation so fucked up. Let’s keep it a buck, Jackie is a dog. But if someone asked him whether he loved (Name), the answer would come without hesitation: yes. The issue is that love and commitment have never felt like the same thing to him. Jackie has spent most of his adult life moving freely through the world, unburdened by permanence. Women come and go, opportunities come and go, cities come and go. And somewhere along the way, freedom stopped feeling like a luxury and started feeling like a necessity. Marriage doesn’t scare him because he doubts her or anything like that. It scares him because it feels so final, like a door closing on every other possibility and a version of himself disappearing forever.
And what makes Jackie selfish is that he already knows exactly what he has. He knows (Name) isn’t temporary. He knows she’s the kind of woman a man marries once and spends the rest of his life trying not to lose. He can picture a future with her effortlessly: a home, a family, growing old together. Those visions sound like heaven on Earth, but that’s on hold for right now. So instead, he keeps one foot in the future and one foot out the door. He continues seeing other women, fucking these women because giving them up would mean admitting his life has already made its choice. He wants the comfort of knowing she’ll be there when he’s finally ready, while refusing to offer the security that would justify her waiting.
And because (Name) loves him, she stays longer than she should. She keeps giving him chances he hasn’t earned because she sees the man he could be and mistakes that potential for a promise. That’s the mess at the center of their relationship—the “I can fix him” mentality of a woman who deserves better and the “I want options” guy who thinks the best option is going to wait forever. The gag is neither of them are confused about how they feel about each other, the feelings are actually the easiest part. Jackie already knows he wants to marry (Name) someday. The problem is that someday keeps moving further away. Every time he asks for more time, he assumes she’ll still be standing exactly where he left her. Deep down though, he knows there’s a very real possibility that one day she’ll wake up, realize she’s spent years waiting for a man who already knows she’s the one, chooses to not choose her still, and decide she’s tired of waiting for him to catch up. And he’ll be damned if he lets another man take you away from him.
What makes Jackie so difficult to leave is that every complaint (Name) has about him is real, but so is every reason she loves him. The problem has never been that Jackie doesn’t care; he cares just enough to keep her holding on. Every time she reaches her breaking point, every time she decides she’s tired of waiting, tired of sharing him, tired of feeling like she’s standing in line for a future that never seems to arrive, Jackie somehow senses it. He becomes softer. More attentive. More present. And suddenly he’s calling just to hear her voice. Suddenly he’s showing up at her door with flowers, gifts, sweet treats. Suddenly he’s holding her a little longer when he hugs her goodbye, looking at her with that look that makes her feel like she’s the only woman in the world.
And Jackie knows exactly what to say and exactly what to do.
He knows how to hold her when she’s upset and slowly talk her down from the ledge of every reason she has to leave. He’ll tell her he’s trying. Tell her he’s been thinking about things. Tell her he’s getting older now and starting to see life differently. He’ll talk about the future in vague, beautiful pieces. A house somewhere quiet. Waking up next to her every morning. Growing old together. Knocking her up. All these things when he’s digging in her guts with nine thick inches of dick, mind you. So, poor girl doesn’t even know left from right or up from down because he fucks her so good—pressing down on her tummy so he can feel himself rutting into her.
These are the kind of conversations he’s avoided with her for years, and they suddenly spill from him so naturally that she starts to wonder if maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment she’s been waiting for.
Maybe he’s finally ready.
The insane part is that Jackie usually believes himself when he’s saying it. In those moments, looking at her, holding her, fucking her, imagining a future that feels so comforting rather than.. restrictive, and he genuinely means every word. That’s what makes him so convincing because isn’t delivering these bullshit lines. He’s speaking from whatever emotion he’s feeling at that exact second and when Jackie loves, he loves completely. The problem is that his certainty only seems to exist in the moment. Once the emotion fades, once life resumes, once the pressure disappears, so does the urgency to change.
That’s why (Name) keeps getting pulled back in. Because every version of the future she’s ever wanted exists somewhere inside Jackie. She can see it. Sometimes he lets her see it too. She catches glimpses of the husband he could be, the father he could be, the man who would spend the rest of his life loving her. Those glimpses are powerful enough to make her stay another month. Another year. Powerful enough to convince her that maybe all he needs is a little more time.
But.
If Jackie is the source of (Name)’s uncertainty, Michael is the complete opposite. There is nothing uncertain about the way Michael feels about her because his crush is so painfully obvious.
Everyone notices it eventually. The way he watches her when he thinks she isn’t looking. The way conversations he’s half listening to seem to brighten the second she joins them. The way he suddenly becomes hyper aware of himself whenever she’s nearby, straightening his posture, fixing his clothes, stumbling over words he’d normally say without thinking. Michael is utterly, hopelessly gone, and the worst part is that he doesn’t have the slightest idea how to hide it.
Unfortunately for him, (Name) knows.
She figures it out much earlier than he realizes and finds it almost impossible not to tease him about it. He’s just so cute—and granted, there is a little age gap but it’s nothing crazy. Michael is four years younger than her so naturally, she’s endeared by him because he makes it so easy to dote on him. He blushes when she compliments him. Gets flustered when she touches his arm. Completely short circuits whenever she cups his jaw and tells him how pretty he is. She’ll smile at him across a room and spend the next ten minutes watching him try to recover. There’s something almost irresistible about how sweet he is, how transparent he is. Michael wears every emotion openly, and when he looks at her, it’s like watching someone hand over all their secrets without realizing it.
What Michael loves most about her isn’t one singular thing. It’s the totality of her. Her confidence. The softness. The way she carries herself like a woman who knows exactly who she is and what she wants. He notices everything, from the sound of her laugh to the way she fills a room simply by walking into it. Even her presence seems capable of rearranging his priorities. There have been moments where he’s caught himself standing beside her and become so acutely aware of his own lankiness that he’s genuinely considered spending more time in the gym. And she’s never suggested he should, but being around her makes him want to be the best version of himself. He just.. has these thoughts worrying about if he could be able “handle” all of her from her hips, to her thighs, her breasts—he doesn’t think he has a chance in hell but still. He understands why she’s with his big brother.
But anyway, around (Name), Michael becomes strangely domestic without meaning to. He remembers little things. He carries things for her before she asks. He saves her a seat. If she’s tired, he’s immediately concerned. If her feet hurt after a long night, he’ll end up sitting on the floor in front of her, gently rubbing the ache from them while she talks about whatever happens to be on her mind. And there’s no expectation of getting something in return. Taking care of her simply comes naturally to him. Sometimes he doesn’t even realize he's doing it until somebody points it out and embarrasses him.
Unlike Jackie, Michael isn’t holding anything back. His affection is constant, uncomplicated, and sincere. He looks at (Name) like she’s already something precious. Like she doesn’t need to become anything more to earn his devotion. And while she finds his crush endlessly adorable, there’s a small part of her that tries not to think too hard about it. Because every time Jackie leaves her waiting, every time he asks for more time, every time he chooses freedom over certainty, Michael is there in the background offering the exact thing she’s been asking for all along without ever demanding she choose him back.
And that’s.. not good.
The party had settled into that golden hour that made everything look softer than it really was. The pool shimmered beneath the setting sun, throwing ribbons of orange light across the patio. Music drifted from the speakers, low enough to blend into the conversations and laughter around them. People leaned against the bar with drinks in their hands, clustered together in little groups, their skin still warm from a day spent in the sun.
(Name) couldn’t enjoy any of it.
The farther she got from the pool, the quieter everything became. The music was still there, buried beneath the sound of splashing water and laughter, but it felt distant now and muted. She stopped near the side of the house where the shadows had started to creep across the stucco walls, holding her glass that had been bleeding condensation
Of course he followed her.
Jackie rounded the corner a minute later, irritation already written across his face. His sunglasses were pushed onto the top of his head, one hand resting on his hip as he looked at her.
“Now what you stompin’ off for?” He asked, stopping a few feet away. There wasn’t much concern in his voice anymore. Mostly annoyance. “I been lookin’ for you. What’s your problem?”
(Name) stared at him. “My problem?”
“Yeah, your problem.” Jackie gestured vaguely toward the party behind them before letting his hand fall. “You've been givin’ me attitude all afternoon.”
She laughed in disbelief. “I’ve been giving you attitude?”
Jackie immediately sighed and tipped his head back.
“Nah, see, here we go.” He dragged a hand across the back of his neck and looked away toward the pool for a second. “I knew it was gonna be somethin’.”
“No,” she shot back, shaking her head. “Here you go, Jackie.”
“Baby, I was standin’ there talkin’.” Jackie pointed vaguely toward the party behind him before looking back at her. “That’s all I was doin’.”
“You were flirting with those girls in front of my face. Do you understand how embarrassing that is? How pathetic you make me look in front of your family and friends?” (Name) asks, a bewildered look on her face.
“I was not.” He laughed once through his nose and adjusted the sunglasses sitting on top of his head. “See, that's what I'm talkin’ bout."
“Jackie, literally nothing is funny right now.”
"I wasn—” He stared at her for a moment before throwing one hand into the air. “You know what. Sometimes I think you make your mind up before I even open my damn mouth.” He took a few steps closer, frustration beginning to creep into his voice. “You decide what happened and then that’s it.”
“Oh my God.” (Name) looked away, rubbing her forehead.
“I'm serious.” He responds.
“No, baby. You’re not, you’re actually being very unserious right now and it’s about to piss me off.”
“Baby.” Jackie pointed toward the backyard again. “Half them folks over there was standin’ around talkin’. Was I supposed to sit by myself in a corner all day?”
(Name) laughed, but there wasn't an ounce of humor in it. “You always got a smartass answer.”
“‘Cause you always got an accusation.” He folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight onto one leg. “It gets old.”
Her expression hardened. “You know what gets old? Watching you do this to me every single time.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m crazy.”
Jackie's face tightened immediately. “Ain’t nobody callin’ you crazy.”
“You imply it enough.”
He rubbed both hands down his face and let out a long breath. “Lord have mercy.”
“No, seriously.” She stepped closer now, her drink sloshing dangerously in the glass. “You flirt with women right in front of me and then somehow I’m the problem for having eyes—Jackie, we’ve had conversations about you sleeping with women outside of me. So, I don’t know why you’re playing dumb. Yes, I’m going to feel upset when I see you whispering in another girl’s ear and touching on her!”
Jackie looked away for a second, jaw working and clearly irritated. “See?” He pointed at her. “That right there. That’s what I'm talkin' about.”
“No, Jackie, what’s crazy is that you genuinely think this is normal.” For a moment neither spoke and music drifted through the evening air. A burst of laughter erupted somewhere near the pool. Jackie’s gaze dropped to the ground before returning to her face.
Jackie's patience finally snapped.
“Nah,” He spread his arms wide and took a step back. “The fact that I gotta stand here defendin’ myself over a conversation.”
“It wasn’t just a conversation, Jackie!”
“For God’s sake.” He looked up at the sky before looking back at her. “I didn’t sleep wit’them girls yet.”
Silence.
The second the words left his mouth, the fight drained from her face and the disappointment landed slowly. He saw it happen, saw her shoulders sag, saw her look away.
“..Yet?” (Name)’s voice was so small.
Jackie’s expression immediately shifted. Knowing. He told on himself. “Aw, c'mon.” He stepped forward, one hand reaching out. “That ain’t what I meant, babygirl..”
“But that's what you said.” She’s tearing up.
“You know what I mean.” He watches how she can’t even look at him anymore—but she never could when she was about to cry.
“(Name)..” Jackie opened his mouth, closed it and opened it again. She set her drink down on a nearby table with a sharp clink and grabbed her heels. “Baby, hold on.”
“’M going inside, I’m all partied out..” She said quietly, brushing past him.
“You really gonna walk away over this?” Jackie asked, following her a few steps.
(Name) turned before Jackie could stop her, her shoes dangling from two fingers as she headed back toward the house. The concrete was still warm beneath her bare feet, damp in places where pool water had been tracked across the patio. Each step left a faint wet print behind her. Her pace was quick, bordering on a storm, shoulders stiff with frustration as the sounds of the party swelled and faded around her. The loose ties of her bikini skirt fluttered against her thighs while her hair clung slightly to the back of her neck from the lingering heat of the day.
She didn’t look back. The only indication that Jackie had spoken at all was the brief swallowing of her throat. The movement of her body carried the urgency of someone trying very hard not to cry, not to turn around, not to give somebody one more chance. Even the rhythm of her walk felt determined, her heels knocking softly against one another where they hung from her hand while the sunset stretched her shadow long across the wet concrete ahead of her.
By the time (Name) made it inside the house, the party felt like it belonged to another world.
The music was still there, but just muffled through walls and glass. Every so often she could hear a burst of laughter or the distant splash of someone jumping into the pool, but it all sounded far away now. Detached like she was listening to it from underwater.
She wandered through the kitchen first, passing half empty bottles and abandoned cups, countertops were crowded with evidence of a good time. People drifted in and out of rooms without really noticing her and she wasn’t sure where she was going. She just knew she needed to be somewhere Jackie wasn’t.
Eventually she found herself standing in front of the laundry room, the door was partially open and the room was small, warm, and quiet. Smelled nice too.
Perfect.
(Name) slipped inside and nudged the door shut behind her. The hum of the machines immediately wrapped around her, steady and comforting in a strange sort of way. There was something nice about the simplicity of it. No music. No conversations, just white noise.
She climbed onto the dryer and sat down, setting her heels on a towel hook beside her. For a moment she simply stared at the opposite wall. Her drink remained in her hand, condensation continuing to gather against the glass before dripping onto her fingers.
The adrenaline from the argument was beginning to wear off. But that was always the worst part, because the anger never stayed. It always dissolved into something that felt uncomfortable to sit in.
Her shoulders slumped slightly as she leaned forward, massaging her own neck with the opposite hand. The dryer vibrated faintly beneath her. Somewhere down the hall, somebody laughed. A door opened and closed.
She barely registered any of it. Instead, her thoughts drifted back toward Jackie despite her best efforts. The argument replayed itself automatically, each line hurt more now than it had been in the moment. The dismissiveness. The frustration. The way he’d looked at her when he thought she was overreacting. The way she’d almost let him pull her back in again.
Almost.
The glass felt cold against her palm and she watched a droplet of water slide slowly down its side before falling onto her thigh.
For a long time she simply sat there, disassociating.
Michael didn't realize he was looking for her until he couldn't find her.
The party had settled into that dreamy part of the evening where everything felt warm and golden. Music drifted across the backyard, people gathered around the bar with drinks in their hands, and laughter seemed to rise from every corner of the patio. Normally, Michael would’ve been right in the middle of it. Instead, he kept catching himself scanning the crowd. Looking toward the pool. The patio doors. The groups of people clustered beneath strings of lights. Every few minutes his eyes searched for the same person before he could stop them.
At first he didn’t think much of it. Maybe she’d gone inside. Maybe she’d gotten caught talking to somebody. But as the minutes passed, an uneasiness began settling into his chest. He’d seen the look on her face earlier. Seen her watching Jackie. Seen her walk away. Michael had always been the sort of person who noticed things, especially when it came to her. The longer she remained missing, the harder it became to focus on anything else.
Eventually he gave up pretending he wasn’t distracted and slipped inside the house. The cool air immediately swallowed up the noise of the party. He wandered through the kitchen, then the living room, barely registering the people he passed along the way. His attention remained fixed on one thing. Finding her, and the house suddenly felt much bigger than it had an hour ago.
When he finally noticed the faint light spilling from the closed laundry room door, something in him relaxed before he even opened it. Sure enough, there she was. Sitting on top of the dryer in her bikini with a drink still dangling loosely from her fingers, staring at absolutely nothing. For a moment Michael simply stood in the doorway. Relief washed through him so quickly it almost felt silly. She wasn’t hurt, at least from what he could see. She was just somewhere far away inside her own head. And somehow, after spending the last fifteen minutes searching for her, the sight of her sitting alone in a laundry room felt like finding exactly what he’d been looking for.
For a moment, Michael simply stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame as he looked at her. The dryer hummed softly beneath her while she stared down at the drink dangling from her fingers. Outside, the party carried on without them. Music drifted through the walls, accompanied by distant laughter and the occasional splash from the pool.
“Hi.” The quiet greeting was enough to pull her from her thoughts. (Name) looked up, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased when she saw him standing there.
“Hey, lovebug.” The nickname immediately softened his expression. Michael stepped into the room, letting the door close shut behind him. His eyes moved over her face for a moment before he asked the question she’d known was coming.
“You okay?”
(Name) glanced down at her drink and shrugged lightly. “I’m okay.”
Michael didn’t respond right away, he just looked at her. The silence stretched long enough to make it obvious he didn’t believe her. But she smiled anyway, small and unconvincing. “Really. I'm fine.”
His hands disappeared into his pockets. “Did Jackie make you cry?”
The question caught her off guard enough to make her laugh. It wasn’t a happy laugh. More surprise than anything else. “What?”
“Did he?” Michael's expression remained completely serious. He wasn’t teasing, genuinely wanting to know. (Name) looked away toward the tiny window above the washer.
“No. But almost..” A truthful answer. “Tired of crying over the same thing..” She says under her breath.
His jaw tightened slightly as he looked down at the floor. “He makes you sad a lot.”
The words seemed to surprise him as much as they surprised her. Almost immediately he looked away, like he’d accidentally said something he'd been keeping to himself for a very long time. The laundry room fell quiet again, filled only by the hum of the machines.
“Michael.” He looked up. “I don't wanna talk about Jackie.”
Something softened in his face immediately. “Okay.”
And just like that, he dropped it. No pushing. No questions. No attempt to convince her otherwise. He simply moved farther into the room and leaned against the washer across from her, content to sit in the quiet with her if that’s what she needed.
For a while, neither of them spoke. Michael remained leaning against the washer across from her, his hands tucked into his pockets while the dryer beneath her hummed steadily. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt strangely safe.
Then, without looking at her, he said it. “I wouldn’t treat you like that.”
The words were so quiet she almost thought she’d imagined them. Michael was staring at the floor when he said it, the toe of his sandal nudging absentmently at a crack between the tiles. He looked embarrassed before he’d even finished the sentence.
(Name) blinked.
The comment tugged at something inside her despite herself. She was still upset. Still angry. Still carrying the emotions of the argument with Jackie. But there was also something undeniably cute about Michael standing in a laundry room trying very hard not to confess the world’s most obvious crush.
A small smile pulled at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, yeah?”
Michael immediately looked like he regretted opening his mouth. “Forget it.”
“No.” She shifted slightly atop the dryer, tilting her head. “Go ahead.”
His face flushed. “There ain’t nothin’ to go ahead with..”
“Michael.” He groaned quietly and looked away and smile on her face grew. “And what do you know about making me happy?”
She meant it teasingly, lightly. You know, playfully. The sort of question she expected him to stumble over. But, Michael surprised her.
“A lot, actually.”
(Name)'s smile faded a little and Michael swallowed.
“I know you like extra ice in your drinks even when everybody tells you it waters ‘em down. I know you pretend not to care what people think until somebody you love says somethin’ mean and then you think about it for three days.” He gave a nervous laugh. “I know when you’re genuinely happy because you start talkin’ with your hands more.”
(Name) stared at him and Michael wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was staring at the floor.
Still talking.
“I know you get quiet when somethin’s wrong, even when you’re tellin’ everybody you’re fine. I know you hate being embarrassed in front of people. I know you act tougher than you are.” His voice had become quieter now, thoughtful.
“I know you like when somebody remembers little things.” Michael finally looked up and he second he saw her expression, realization hit him. His eyes widened like he’d suddenly become aware of everything he’d just admitted. Inadvertently admittedly his feelings for her.
“Oh.” He immediately pushed himself away from the washer. “Oh, man.” A nervous laugh escaped him. “’M sorry..”
“Michael—” (Name) can barely get a word out before he’s stumbling over his words.
“No, that was weird.”
“It wasn’t.”
"It was." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, already retreating toward the door. ”I shouldn’t’ve said all that.” The poor thing looked mortified but really, he’d accidentally handed her pages from a diary.
“‘M sorry,” he repeated. “Forget I said any of that.” He reached for the doorknob. That’s when she hopped off the dryer.
“Michael.” This time her voice stopped him and his hand froze.
Slowly, he turned around and (Name) was looking at him with an expression he’d never seen directed at him before. For lack of better words.. it was suddenly feeling a little too grown. He’s only ever been envious of this look because it’s what Jackie gets. Never in his life would he have thought he’d even been remotely close to unlocking.. this..
(Name) stared at him for a few seconds before tilting her head.
“Can you keep a secret, papa?” Michael blinked, caught off guard by the question. Then he nodded immediately. Once. Twice. So quickly it was almost funny.
“Yeah. ‘Course I can.”
A smile tugged at her mouth. “C’mere.”
He hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room. The closer he got, the more nervous he seemed to become. By the time he reached her, his hands were practically glued to his sides. (Name) reached up and slipped her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, and the movement stopped him completely. His breath caught as he looked down at her, doe eyed and uncharacteristically speechless.
Gently, she pulled him closer. Michael followed without resistance, one hand finding the edge of the dryer to steady himself as she closed the distance between them and led him into a kiss. It was soft and tender, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer to a question neither of them had been brave enough to ask out loud.
When she pulled away, Michael remained exactly where he was. Frozen. His eyes searched her face for a long moment, disbelief and hope flickering across his expression so openly that it nearly hurt to look at. As if he genuinely couldn’t decide whether what had just happened was real. And somehow, that look affected (Name) far more than the kiss itself ever could.
Their lips find each other again hungrily, moving in sync with one another. The air is thick with nervous energy as their figures collide lips meeting in a clumsy, urgent rush. No soft buildup this time around, no gentle lean in; just teeth accidentally clashing before they find the right angle. (Name) tries her best guiding him through it but he seems to be really eager to even be touching her.
One hand grips the back of his neck tightly—fingers tangled in curls that’s slightly damp from the pool while her other presses flat against his chest, his heart pounding like it might burst. Mouths open messily, not quite synced and when tongues finally meet, it’s sweet from candy and salty sweat. A quiet mmph escapes him as their noses squish together again and again.
The second kiss left Michael strangely still.
When they pulled apart for air, he didn't go very far. His forehead settled against hers almost immediately, his eyes closing as though he were trying to gather himself. One hand remained braced against the dryer beside her while the other hung loosely at his side. The laundry room hummed around them, the sound of the machines blending with the distant music and laughter filtering in from the party outside. Neither of them seemed to notice. Michael, especially, looked completely disconnected from everything beyond the small space they’d carved out for themselves.
“We should stop.” The words came out so quietly she almost thought she'd imagined them.
“Huh?”
Michael swallowed hard. His eyes stayed closed for another second before he finally opened them. “We should stop..” It didn’t sound like something he wanted. It sounded like something he was forcing himself to say.
For a moment he simply looked at her. Really looked at her. Then his gaze dropped, as though holding eye contact made it harder to think. His forehead remained resting against hers, neither close enough nor far enough to make the situation any easier.
“I’m havin' a hard time thinkin’..” A shaky breath left him. “I know how I feel about you..” The confession was quiet and matter-of-fact, because at this point it had become impossible to deny at this point.
“And I know you just had a fight with Jackie.” He shuts his eyes tighter. “I don’t wanna be somebody who takes advantage of that..”
The honesty of it landed harder than she expected. For all the longing written plainly across his face, there was still that stubborn gentleness in him. The part that cared more about doing the right thing than getting what he wanted.
Yet he still hadn’t moved away.
If anything, he seemed incapable of it.
His eyes drifted shut again and he let out another slow breath.
“But if we keep kissin’..” His voice faltered for the first time all evening. A faint flush climbed into his cheeks. “I don't think I’m gonna want to stop..”
The admission hung between them in the soft hum of the laundry room. Michael looked almost embarrassed by his own honesty, but he didn't take it back. He simply remained there with his forehead resting against hers, looking completely overwhelmed by her, a man who’d been in love for far too long and was finally running out of ways to hide it.
She reaches up and caresses his face, eyeing him with those pretty eyes he’s only ever dreamed of even though he can’t bring himself to open his own eyes just yet. She peppers kisses all over his face before leaning over to whisper in his ear.
“Do you wanna touch me, Michael?”
Michael nods against her. “I-I do,” He swallows. “But I’ll need your help..” He says shyly, he’s not very experienced quite yet—not like his brothers.
The moment stretches, humid and thick with anticipation as (Name) smiles, fingers hovering just above Michael’s wrist where his hand rests at his side. Her grip is firm but warm as she drags Michael’s palm down the curve of her hipbone, over fabric damp with choline and pool water. She presses hard until his fingers slip beneath the elastic waistband; the hot skin of her pussy meeting his fingertips that jerk reflexively at first contact.
She gently guides his wrist up and down, “Like this..” She says resting her forehead against his shoulder.
“Soft..” Michael whispers as he plays with her, but its short lived before there’s a knock at the door and they both scramble.
“(Name), baby. You in there? I wanna talk. ’Ya got me feelin’ bad..”
your cousin's business trip left you with his two little angels and a scheduled appointment to the doctor. only to have your niece and nephew assigned to two different pediatricians?!
pediatrician! phainon x fem! reader x pediatrician! qifrey
word count: 2.2k
note: i am no doctor and medical professional, most of the words and scenarios in here are from my research while making this fic (and also from the ungodly amount of hours i spent watching medical shows in my free time)
“Coco, Caelus, behave!” You dragged your whining niece and nephew inside the children's hospital despite their tantrums.
“Nonono! No doctor!” Little Caelus cried, holding on to his little garbage can plushie. “Nooo… Noooooo…” Little Coco sniffles sadly, trying to wipe her snot on her fuzzy brushbuddy toy.
This has been going on for a few minutes already. After your cousin went on a business trip three days ago, these two little angels have been giving you the best time of your life.
And nobody told you that these kids need a check-up!
So with a grumbling sigh, you dragged the two crying children to the receptionist. “Excuse me, these two here are scheduled for a check-up.” you nudged a look down at Coco and Caelus, much quieter now but with a bit of snot running down their noses.
“Coco… Caelus…” The receptionist chimed, her hands clacked on the keys as she shuffled through the appointments in the monitor screen. “Oh! Coco and Caelus.”
“They're two separate doctors.”
You blinked in confusion. Two? Seriously?
“What? Why two?” The question came out condescending, but the receptionist just sighs. “We're so sorry, there's been a few shuffles on the doctors lately. But, rest assured, the documents and details of the children submitted are with their assigned doctors.”
The explanation immediately got into you—so to just get this whole appointment over with, you nodded in agreement. “Alright, who are these doctors anyway?”
“Let me see…” The receptionist squinted her eyes. “Miss Coco is assigned to Doctor Qifrey… As for Caelus…” She scrolls her mouse a bit lower. “He's assigned to Doctor Khaslana.”
“And the time?” another few seconds of scrolling.
“Oh Caelus can be taken in now, Coco’s appointment is in thirty minutes.”
With the time determined; gently, you picked Coco up and gave her a gentle smile. “Will you be a good girl and stay here with miss receptionist, Coco?”
Coco nods quietly, her arms tightly held on to her brushbuddy toy. “Mmkay..”
Now that Coco is settled, you placed her down a chair for children and picked Caelus up, his one hand holding on to his garbage can plushie while the other desperately held on to your neck. “I'm scared..”
“It's okay, Caelus.” You gently pat his head and calmly walked to the room labeled ‘Doctor Khaslana || Open’
“Excuse me..” Your knuckles gently knocked on the door, followed by a “Oh come in!” as you turned the knob and went in.
The room was… calming to say the least. The doctor's desk remained near the door, but the room served a little nook for children. Tiny chairs on the corner coming in yellow and purple colors; the nook with a cute wheat field wallpaper, with tiny wooden toys like swords, shields, and spears kept on the corner.
Doctor Khaslana should supposedly be in his chair but he's also there on the nook—tidying up remaining toys. “Please give me a second.” He playfully hummed.
“There.” A second passed as he stood up and turned, only then did you realize that this guy is tall as a tower…
“Good afternoon! I'm Doctor Khaslana.” He gazed at you for quite a few seconds, then finally at little Caelus. “Hey little buddy.” Khaslana crouches to meet the little boy in the eye. “Call me Phainon, alright?”
“Fai…nun..” Caelus shyly mumbles and it seemed to make Phainon laugh. “Haha! Just like that!” He ruffled the kid's hair.
He stood up once more and offered to shake your hand. “A wonderful pleasure to meet you. Let's sit?” He smiles and offers you the seat nearest to his chair.
This doctor has gotta be nuts. You thought, because who honestly would waste such handsome looks for pediatrics?!
Still, you cannot deny that this doctor is awfully handsome, how old is he–twenty-five? twenty-eight?
“I'm twenty-eight.” Phainon blurts out, while writing on the patient records. “I mean… If you're wondering…” He sheepishly smiles.
You cannot deny the warmth creeping up your cheeks, was this room always this hot? Even with the air conditioner set on a pretty cold temperature, the smile that Phainon just gave you was enough to make you feel even just a teensy bit self-conscious.
“So! Little Caelus…” Phainon darts his gaze back to Caelus who surprisingly, stops looking anxious and is staring brightly at Phainon. “This is my little buddy.” He takes his stethoscope with a grin. “His name is Neikos! Is it okay if me and Neikos give you a little check?”
Another surprising feat as Caelus nodded eagerly, the persuasion proved to be effective as the little boy hands you his trash can plushie and extends his arms to Phainon, demanding uppies.
“Good job!” Phainon pats Caelus’ head, as he begins simple check-ups.
“You're really good with kids.” You expressed your awe over his amazing skill of making kids safe.
“Thank you, they did say I'd make a great dad.”
Phainon snickers softly, giving you a subtle glance as he focuses back to Caelus; still quiet and behaved.
It didn't take long for the check-up to finish, Phainon asked you basic questions about Caelus’ growth, appetite, and his sleeping habits.
“Very well, he doesn't have any complications.” Phainon puts his stethoscope to rest and smiles at Caelus. “Good work!” He raises his hand to give the boy a high-five.
“Since you've done so well, have a candy.” Phainon takes a tiny candy from his sweets jar and hands it over to Caelus, the little boy smiling with glee. “I'll talk to your mom for a second, okay? Look at those toys, wanna play with them?” Phainon coos and points to the children's nook, and without a sliver of hesitation, Caelus runs to the nook and starts playing with the toys, giving his garbage can plushie a toy sword.
The statement caught you off guard. A mom? You've heard a lot of misconceptions but you've never had anyone assuming that you're these two little kid's mothers..
“They're so adorable.” Phainon chuckles and gives you his full attention. “So what were we saying?–ah yes right.” He fixes his posture and looks you straight in the eye. “Caelus has no complications, give yourself a pat in the back, you're a great mom.”
“Oh I'm not his mom.. I'm his aunt.” You immediately protested, trying to brush off the awkwardness you felt after hearing his assumption.
“Oh really?” As if that reply made Phainon's face beam in joy. “Not mom?? Just aunt???” He double checked with a question, his face seemed to soften and lean closer. And to answer him, you nodded, a joyous grin elicited from his face soon after.
“Wonderful!–ahem..” He bashfully clears his throat. “Since Caelus has no problems, I won't have to give a prescription for anything.” He takes a prescription paper and writes.
“Here. Open it when you get home.” Phainon hands you the paper, both your hands lingered with a touch when you took the paper from his large hands.
“Thanks..” That familiar heat went up to your cheeks once more, to save yourself from embarrassment, you cleared your throat and called the little boy. “C'mon Caelus, it's time to go.”
Caelus gets up and grabs his plushie, clinging back to you as he gives Phainon a big wave. “Buh bye Fainun!” He hails as Phainon returns it with a cheeky grin. “Bye bye little buddy!”
When the doors went shut, you silently squealed in relief. That has got to be some kind of punishment. You've seen a share of handsome doctors in your life but Phainon? He knows he's hot.
Out of desperation to keep yourself intact, you slapped your cheek and moved on.
Now that Caelus is done, it's Coco's turn. You walked back to the chair you made Coco sit in. “Hey Coco it's time–”
Coco is nowhere to be found, the chair left abandoned as the panic starts to seep in. Where could Coco have gone?
“Coco? Coco!!” You call out, eyes frantically searching and prancing around while Caelus starts to get anxious. “Coco??” The little boy calls out as well.
A few seconds passed with no response anywhere until finally… “Auntie!” A little squeak caught your ears.
You snapped your head to the direction of the voice and saw Coco, smiling with her brushbuddy in her hands. A taller man held her in his arms, smiling gently as he approached them.
“Oh, are you Coco’s guardian?” The man asks, eyeing you intently from head to toe. You spared him a look and checked the tag on his coat. Qifrey.
“I'm Coco's doctor.” Qifrey puts Coco down, the two little children reuniting and hugging. “Waaah! Coco!” Caelus whines. “It's okay Cae! Mister Qifrey took care of me!” She tugs on Qifrey’s coat.
“You shouldn't be leaving children unattended like that.” Qifrey added, his tone laced with disappointment. “I am deeply sorry… But thank you for taking care of Coco too..” You looked at Coco ashamed.
Qifrey was right, you should've just brought Coco inside with Caelus during his check-up. They're both children, even if this was a children's hospital, you shouldn't leave a child unattended.
“No worries, but you should be saying that to Coco.” He glances at Coco who pats your hand. “I'm okay auntie… Thank you! Mister Qifrey is very nice!” The little girl assures you and pats your leg after.
“Shall we come in?” Qifrey offers, walking you to the room and opening the door for you. Although that action was quite confusing, doctors aren't exactly opening doors for you. Then why is he doing so?
You brushed off the confusing action and held Caelus and Coco's hands as you walked in—Caelus surprisingly tame now and sits quietly beside Coco after Qifrey offers a chair.
Unlike Doctor Phainon's room, Qifrey’s looked majestic. Stars and magic motifs plastered all over the walls; a little wooden table on a children's nook with small drawing papers and pencils labelled ‘magic pens’. Little story books on a purple shelf with fantasy themes and different colored dragons for book covers. The nook also comes complete with a velvet colored rug and little toys scattered on the floor.
“Ah pardon the mess… I just had one of my patients come in earlier and play with it… “ He smiles in embarrassment. “Ah Tetia, seriously…” He mumbles and fixes his seat.
“Alright, Coco is the patient, right?” At the mention of her name, Coco gets up and smiles “Yes! It’s me!”
Qifrey takes his stethoscope and looks gently at Coco. “Let's check you up, okay Coco?” His voice envelops the room, soft and gentle.
Carefully, Qifrey checks all of Coco’s vitals, heartbeat, height, and several questions about her wellbeing.
“For an auntie in charge, you're taking care of your nephews and nieces quite well.” He hums while writing on the patient record. “Coco is free of any complications.”
“Though I must say she's quite the fast learner, independent too.” Qifrey observes Coco who is now playing and drawing little circles on the drawing paper, copying the sigil on one of the dragon story books while Caelus stared at the book, drool slowly dripping.
“Ah yeah, she really likes to draw too.” You chuckle, attention also seemingly drawn to Coco.
Qifrey puts his pen down. “So you are aware.” The sound of his desk opening caught your ears, turning to look at him, he wrote on a small piece of paper and handed it to you.
“I’ll give you this, just in case you need a chart of how you'll track Coco’s growth.” He swiftly slid the paper on to your hands, his slender fingers intertwining with yours as he dips the paper in, eye contact with yours never breaking even for a second.
Qifrey offers you a flirty smile, his fingers slowly stroking your palm he pulls away.
The stare made you bashful, on equal par with the charming smile that Doctor Phainon gave you earlier.
What is up with handsome doctors in this children's hospital? Do you need the word ‘handsome’ in your resume to be qualified?
“Coco, it's time to go.” Qifrey stands up from his seat, leaving you flustered and confused as he approaches Coco and Caelus. “Is it time already?” Your niece pouts, but all Qifrey did was give a smile.
“Unfortunately, yes. I also have other little kids to take care of.” He picks Coco and Caelus up like they weighed nothing. “I gave your auntie something, ask her sometime if you want to talk ‘kay?”
Coco nods over his explanation, Caelus on the other hand stares back at you. “Home?” he asks.
“Yes, home.” You took Caelus from Qifrey's arms and held Coco by her hand with her brushbuddy in her pocket when she's placed down.
Qifrey holds the door open for you to walk out of “Thank you, Doc.” you offered a shy smile and walked out.
“Doctor Qifrey is so cool!!” Coco exclaims while walking down the hallway to the elevator. “He's so nice!”
Caelus wriggles out of your arms and walks beside you, holding your hand. “Doctor Fainun! Cool..!” He exclaims.
You can't help but laugh at the cute reactions your little nieces and nephews expressed. It seems that their doctors really caught their hearts and minds.
When you got home, the ‘prescription’ paper that Doctor Phainon gave and the note Doctor Qifrey handed you immediately crossed your mind.
While Coco and Caelus sat in the living room watching television, you opened both papers in unison.
[xxxxxxxxxxx It's my personal number, call me if you have any questions about Caelus… Or me <3 -Phainon Khaslana, Caelus]
[Here's my number if you ever want coco to talk to me, you're welcome to do so as well. xxxxxxxxxxx -Doctor Qifrey, Coco's Pediatrician]
notes: ah yes the concept of phainon and qifrey being pediatricians just sounded too good that i just had to make a lil fic abt it and also bc this was inspired from a recent medical mission i participated in and the pediatricians there were also good looking LOL (i totally wasn't giggling while writing this fic)
thriller!mj . . . who gets so easily flustered around you, hold his hand and he's blushing like a teenage boy ♡
thriller!mj . . . who just loves when you stay with him in between rehearsals, the thriller mv shot was a hard one! nothing better than melting in your arms admist all the energy.
thriller!mj . . . who favors holding hands so heavily, talking with the producers and you're beside him? hands slotted with yours, he loves sneaking kisses on the top of your hand in private when he's feeling romantic.
thriller!mj . . . who just can't get his eyes off you in between rehearsal breaks, he'd have to keep them off of you when the practices would commence, but in between breaks? he's admiring you from affar. there's even been times where an employee would be speaking with him, and he's just zoned out looking at you. "oh sorry! it's just too much for late at night, apologies." the backup dancer knows damn well he had his eyes glued on you.
thriller!mj . . . who becomes a needy mess when things get heated backstage after the days wrapped up, not pulling away from a kiss, getting handsy as his hands stay by your waist, trying to contain his composure but failing miserably, prep kisses on the side of his neck and he's a goner.
a/n : first time writing rpf... how'd I do.. this is my application to write for mj
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.
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader
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)
or… michael can’t help but act like a lost puppy whenever you’re around.
wc: 850 ish
contents: valleygirl!reader, fluff, slight age gap (literally like one year), michael is one extremely awkward teen, one sided crush, reader is pretty much the it girl, a few cuss words, this is meant to get a part two
a/n: as a youngest sibling its really healing to write the brothers being mean to randy LMAO
request guidelines. masterlist.
Encino, California - 1976
By eighteen, Michael should’ve been over this.
You were older than him — not by much, but enough to treat him like he was still just Latoya's little brother. You called him cute sometimes, not in a flirty way, but more of a ‘throwing the weird teenage rabid dog that follows me around sometimes a bone’ kind of way. You were loud in that way that only pretty girls seemed to get away with. All glossy lips, big hair, and that valley girl slang that no one really understood. Half the time you were either sprawled across a couch beside Latoya, flipping through magazines or talking shit about people he’d never met.
And he had the biggest crush on you ever since he could remember.
Michael didn’t know when he first realized it, maybe it was the first time you flashed him that smile of yours, or when he saw a boy your age flirting with you at a record store in downtown L.A and got way more annoyed than he should’ve been. Or maybe the time he found you outside putting Band-Aids on little Janet’s knees before anyone else even noticed she had fallen and skinned them.
No matter when it started, the entire Jackson family knew that Michael had the hots for you, and bad.
“Uh-oh, Mike’s making heart eyes at Y/N again!” Marlon announced, loudly enough that you would’ve heard from across the room if Latoya hadn’t been barking out laughter at something you just said. Michael whipped his head around, scowling at Marlon, who sat on the couch opposite him.
“Mind your business, man.” he shot back quietly, prompting a fit of chuckles from Jackie and Marlon.
But they had a point. it was hard for Michael to look away as he watched you laugh with Latoya. You were wearing a delicate lace-trim tank top, the straps thin enough to make anyone over forty clutch their pearls, and those damn flared jeans you always wore that hugged you perfectly and accentuated your figure in a way that made him have to remind himself to breathe. At this point, it felt like every outfit you wore was specifically designed to short-circuit his brain.
“What’s your deal with her anyway? She’s kinda… ditzy.” Randy chimed in unpromptedly from his seat on the floor.
“Shut up, Randy.” the three boys responded in unison.
“Sorry, it’s just— the stuff she says, man.” Randy began.
“I get you, man. I don’t understand half the shit that girl be sayin’, talking like she’s from a different planet.” Jermaine said as he walked into the room, sitting by Marlon on the couch.
“Just smile and nod.” Marlon added, which made the rest of the boys chuckle.
“Whatever…” Michael muttered as he stood, trudging his way up the stairs and into his bedroom, which went unnoticed by his brothers as they continued to poke fun at the stereotypical slang you used.
Hours later, the sun was beginning to set on Hayvenhurst, casting a faint orange glow across Michael's features as he sat on the floor of his bedroom, accompanied by the stereo that played one of his demo tracks.
He sang along with the unfinished lyrics, nodding his head to a chorus that wasn't quite written. He rhythmically tapped his pencil on his knee as the track played, soft sounds of music drifting throughout the halls.
Michael finished singing the workshopped lyrics, the demo track beginning to replay as he wrote something down on the notepad in front of him.
“That was really good.” a voice interrupted.
Michael jumped, head whipping over to find the source of the mysterious voice, only to meet your eyes as you stood in the entryway of his bedroom, chewing bubblegum as you leaned on the doorframe.
“Thanks- ‘s not finished yet, though…” he mumbled, feeling heat crawl up his neck.
“You’re really talented, y’know.” you said sincerely, blowing a bubble with the pink candy, then popping it.
“Yeah, me and all my siblings are.”
“Nah,” you shook your head, then smiled. Not a condescending smirk like he’d seen you give his brothers on occasion, but something much softer.
“Not like you. No offense to them, but you’ve got something special. Hold onto it.” The boy nodded bashfully, his poor brain short-circuiting at the fact that you even addressed him directly. Michael could hear Latoya’s voice calling for you somewhere down the hall.
“See you later, Mikey.” you finished, your jewelry jingling as you casually walked off like you hadn’t just said something that would keep him up at night for the rest of time.
When Michael was sure you were gone, he lay down flat on the floor, dramatically sprawling his long limbs out with a fond sigh.
“Whew.” Tito let out a low whistle, peeking in the lovesick teen's door on his way down the hall. “He got it bad, huh?”
“Bad bad.” Jermaine agreed in a whisper as the two snuck past the doorway with a shared chuckle.
I want to see insecure otw Mikeys reaction to being drawn by the reader [who's like maybe his first gf lolol]
I feel like he'd be really touched by that, that man is my muse
i didn’t know i looked so beautiful to you!
otw m. jackson x reader. anon says the most of it. you’ve always had a fond enjoyment towards art. it took a bit to convince michael to sit for you while you drew him. the entire time, michael couldn’t help but feel a little anxious and embarrassed.
this drabble contains established/new relationships, insecurity/body issues, reassurance, comfort, fluff and kisses.
──────────────────────
"Draw me?”
Michael pointed a finger at himself, eyes furrowed in disbelief.
"Yes. Draw you."
His unsure, skeptical demeanor made him feel as if this were some joke. Of course, he knew your motives weren't malicious; he couldn't help but feel a little self-conscious.
No matter how many times he'd gotten reassured, praised, or complimented on his looks, Michael couldn't ever bring himself to believe it. The moment you adamantly held a blank canvas, pencils, and pens for him to see, Michael's stomach twisted in on itself.
"You're gorgeous, I mean it."
Sitting down in front of him, the canvas settled in your lap while you began to freehand a base sketch.
"Baby, let me do this. You don't see how gorgeous you are. Let me draw you,"
"C'mon, really…y'don't have to." Michael sounded as if he were pleading, which only made you put up a finger. A few minutes went by, and you could start to see Michael's fidgeting growing more and more prominent.
Flicking your gaze to meet his, he immediately went still.
"What're you so worried about, hm? I'm already thinking this has to be framed."
Michael sighed, shaking his head with a gentle smile.
"I wanna see..."
Shaking your head, you were intently working on the outlines of his facial features. It gave you Abe excuse to really scrutinise Michael’s face, something you loved to do.
“Mm-mm…” Humming, you shook your head. A defeated exhale slipped from his lips, trying to hold his posture.
After what felt like hours, you were finally done.
──────────────────────
“This is really what you see of me?”
Michael’s hands were shaking; he felt so many emotions all at once. His fingertips grazed the canvas carefully, fingers pointing out the fine details.
“Of course, baby…you’re gorgeous. I mean that. Inside and out,” laughing softly, you pressed a kiss against his cheek.
Michael couldn’t hold himself before he set the canvas down, gently lifting it on display before he cupped your cheeks, drawing you close.
It caught you off guard, causing you to giggle endlessly while he peppered your face all over in kisses.
“Michael!” Grinning, you couldn’t squirm out of Michael’s grasp while he kissed you.
Soon enough, his lips pressed against yours. Michael’s arms wrapped around your waist, rubbing his palms down your hips.
After a few long seconds, Michael pulled away and stared at you adoringly. Every moment he’d gaze at you like that, you couldn’t help but wonder what went on in his mind.
“I love you, baby. Thank you. Didn’t know I could look so good.” Playfully, Michael’s hand slid to your waist, squeezing. “I’ll make it up to you, how ‘bout that?”
“We’ll see how artistic you can get.”
──────────────────────
this is kinda short, but it was a really good anon!! ahhh!!
romaincrisis
blakekathryn
izzy806
titsay
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tangentwithtanner
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