Summary: See what happens when 2 exes bump into each other after 3 years at Wimbledon
WC: 1.2k I think
Warnings: Exes to lovers, these fools broke up over BS, they get back together, allusion to her finna get broken through that mattress, not an OC his nickname for her is just cherry
Your close friend Tiffany asked if you wanted to go to the Wimbledon match with her today, and your answer was an automatic yes. You would be a fool not to go. You had a plan to look your absolute best, get some content to post, watch a match, and maybe, just maybe, meet a man or two. Bumping into your ex was not on your damn bingo sheet. So imagine your surprise when you're walking with Tiffany, looking to your right, and there he is, looking the way he does. Finally making eye contact with you, he stops his conversation, excusing himself to the person he was talking to, making his way over to you.
Tiffany starts slapping you on the shoulder: ā Girrrll, your man is coming over here, and he looks goodā. Straightening out your clothes in a hurried fashion, you turn to her: ā First, he is not my man and has not been in 3 years, and second, I am not worried about him at all. Now, how do I look?āā
Hearing someone clear their throat, pausing in your bickering, you see your ex- fiance standing there in front of you with his hands in his pockets. āWow, Cherry, you look just wow,ā folding your arms. āJaafar, you look quite handsome yourselfā. Nodding his head, he takes a glance around, then back to you, āYeah, it's been a while since we've seen each otherā. āYeah, Jaafar, thatās what happens when two people break off an engagementā. He sighs, messing with his shades.ā
Sighing, ā Jaafar, listen: what we had was fun, but itās over; weāre not together anymore for a reason,ā going to walk away but gently grabs her wrist. Looking over at Tiffany, āCould you give us a few minutes?ā She looks at you: āScream if you have to, and Iāll cut him; I don't care how big his booty is,ā and you stare at her with your head tilted. āTif- yeah, it's fine, just go.ā She walks away .
ā Listen cherry I miss you-ā cutting him off, ā Jaafar, I don't want to hear that, dudeā. Gently grabbing both of her wrists, āWoman, please, will you just listen to me for once? This is why we splitā
āNo, we split sir, because we just didnāt workā. āSee, I donāt believe that these past three years of my life have been miserable without you, baby. I miss my woman.āā
Removing his hands from around your wrist, āOkay, we can talk after, just not right now,ā putting a hand on his shoulder and letting it trail down, you turn to leave.
Jaafar looks up at you from his seat, now smirking, āWell, isnāt this just fate for us, Cherry?ā Sitting down in the seat next to him, you heard Tiffany cackling in your ear. With a raised eyebrow and a quirked lip, you point a finger at him, shake your head, and proceed to turn away.
āNope, I said talk after, so weāre talking afterā. He rests his left arm around the back of your seat and looks at you: ā I think this is the perfect time- I really did miss you, mama; we- no, I shouldāve fought more to keep youā. You go to speak, but you're cut off, hearing everything begin, you put your hand on his thigh, patting it.
The point that was in play is now over you and jaafar were itching to continue the conversation from earlier. You lean over to whisper, āCome on, let's go talkā. Walking without waiting for him to follow, because the way it was looking, you had a feeling you were getting your man back. He was single and begging for you, and you missed him, so yeah, youāre getting him back. Checking your mini mirror to make sure you still looked good, you didn't hear him walk up behind you.
āCherry,ā you gasp, ā Jaaf yeah, umm.ā āI can't sit here and lie and say I haven't missed you as well, but I don't want to be how we were when we broke up,ā Ā putting your hands on your face, laughing.
āFor three years straight..ā You inhaled deeply before letting it out slowly. āI pretended not to think or be bothered by not having you anymore, but youāre right, I canāt do it anymoreā.
Youāre not paying attention, pouring your heart out before you feel a pair of pillowy lips against yours. You both stand there for a moment, reconnecting through the intimacy of kissing, pouring your longing from the past years into each other. You separate to catch air and laugh as you wipe his bottom lip. His hands are holding your face, and yours are holding onto his neck. āYou know, if you wanted me to shush forehead, you could have just said that.ā
He laughs, āMama, you should be the last person to speak on foreheads.ā āYeah, yeah, whatever mr.dumptruckā. He stares at you: āToo far, no butt jokesā. You laugh, letting go of him reaching for your purse to grab your phone. Putting up a finger to signal one minute to him as he looks confused, you take your phone and start typing. āSo weāre really trying this thing over again?ā
He nods, āYeah, we are, and weāre going to be mature and communicate and not run at the first sign because I can't imagine life with anyone elseā.
āWell, in that case, you should check your messages.ā Walking backwards, you wave your phone towards him. āWhy ,what did you send me?ā he looks at his phone. āYou sent an addressā. With your back now facing him, you call over your shoulder, āItās my hotel address, and if you're not there in the next 30 minutes, Iāll definitely already be started before you ā. Jaafar grabs his keys and runs to the valet area to beat you to the hotel. Looking down at the text you sent to his phone, cheesing because he got his woman back, and this time he wasn't letting her go.
Cherry Pieš: 423 Stewart Lane. See you soon.
Outer Galaxy Space Agents
Tags- @mamasturns @mamasturn @swavydadon @niyahctrl @neighbourscat @melaninjoys @darkseidex @mouthfullofrocki @moodymp4 @multifandomposts-blog @callmeoncette @cherrishkissed @faiology @angelfacediary @esioleren @allth3stars @sintizc @yourleogf @narratedillusions @alohaluz @bawdylanguageee @prettyangeliczz @maczken @aristoleyaferrarii (let me know if anyone wants to be removed)
warnings: cursing, smut (mdni!), fingering, praise kink, unprotected sex (p in v, wrap that thang up).
synopsis: michael reassures his girl that sheās the only lady in his life (did ya see what i did there ;).
word count: 1.5k
āoh come on doll, itās not that big a deal,ā michael pleaded as you stormed through your shared penthouse, irritation filled your body as you made your way to your bedroom.
āmichael please be for real, iām not fucking stupid, she did that shit on purpose. i was born at night, not last night.ā
tension filled the air like a thick, suffocating fog in the sky. the two of you had been going back and forth for the past hour and a half. today was the filming of the music video for the way you make me feel. per usual, michael invited you to come to set with him, and being the loving wife that you were, you obliged.
you loved when michael invited you onto sets for photoshoots, music videos, and even recording sessions at the studio. you loved watching him successfully pull off the constant long nights of brainstorming and composing. he always managed to easily create masterpieces and make it look majestic and today was no different. a year ago while the two of you sat inside his rolls royce, he played the demo version of the track to you. another love ballad that he dedicated to you, that was one of your favorite qualities about him. how sweet and romantic he was, always managing to keep you on your toes.
the first half and hour of filming was going so good, mike managed to flash a smile your way when the camera was not rolling. and then she showed up. she being tatiana, the leading lady for the music video. a few months ago, you were first introduced to her through michael and his team when they decided to cast her for the video.
at first everything started off cool between the two of you. then, you would start picking up on little shady gestures that she would make towards michael, him being completely oblivious to it. calling the house late at night, unnecessary feeling on his arm when he would tell a joke, it irked your soul and you werenāt afraid to let him know. he always managed to reassure you that you were the only woman for him. you knew it was true, michael was as loyal as a golden retriever, which could sometimes be an achilles heel for him when it came managing relationships. you trusted him with every bone in your body, it was her you didnāt trust around him.
the first strike: she purposely bumped into you, causing you to spill your water all over your dress. you shrieked, causing heads to turn and michael rushing over to you. just as he reached you, she managed to give a bullshit apology, not a lick of sincerity in her voice.
the second strike: every time you looked up, she was rolling her eyes, mugging you down.
the final straw? as her and michael stood a few feet away from you while he was thanking her for the good work she did, she gave him a kiss on the cheek, you fumed as you saw a red kiss print on his cheek. as she walked past you, she gave you a devilish smirk, chuckling to herself. you almost yanked her by the scalp until you felt michaelās warm hand wrap around your forearm, stopping you in your tracks. a scowl written all over your face, to say you were mad was an understatement. from the end of filming til you arrived back home, you let michael have it about that heifer.
āy/n, baby will you please look at me,ā his voice rang from the bedroom door frame while you slipped into your black nightgown. you rolled your eyes as you wrapped your pressed hair before slipping on your bonnet. you sigh as you felt his arms make itās way around your waist, his soft lips immediately pressing against the exposed skin on your neck. as you managed to escape his grip, he spun you back around, his brown eyes wide and filled with emotion.
āyou know youāre the only woman i want, the only woman i need. now, when weāre old and grey, forever.ā his forehead rested on top of yours, his hands caressing your hips. your face softened into a tiny smile before michaelās lips met yours, the kiss filled with desperation yet so much passion. you gasped softly as you felt his lips make their way down your chest, his fingertips brushing against your shoulders as he rolled the spaghetti straps of your nightgown down your arms, let it cascade down until it swam around your ankles on the floor. the cool air hitting your now bare body as he took a step back to admire you, licking his lips as hunger filled his eyes. you made your way to the center of the bed, elbows propping you up as you watched him eagerly strip down out of his clothes. he crawled towards you, his legs in between yours as he sat on his knees.
āyou're so beautiful baby,ā he whispered as his face hovered above yours, your naked bodies entangled with another. you giggled as you felt michael softly placing kisses up and down your body before making his way back up to your breast. you moaned softly as you felt him take your erect nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling and suckling around it before making itās way over to your other one. your fingers softly ran through his curls as you felt his fingers part your wetness.
āpussy wet for me already huh?ā he murmured against your chest as he slowly dipped his digit inside of you, your soft moans traveling around the room as the moonlight peaked in from the window, the two of your bodies glistening from the illumination. you gripped the sheets as you felt another digit be added to your soaking flora, pumping in and out of you, hitting the perfect spot each time.
āshit baby.ā
āi know pretty girl, i know how good it feels.ā you bit you lip as you watched him slowly stroke himself with his other hand, throwing his head back as he pushed his fingers deeper inside of you, trying to suppress his moans as he watched your juice flow more and more with each thrust of his fingers, your pussy stretching more and more.
a pout formed on your face as you felt his fingers leave from inside of you. he lined himself up at your entrance, precum oozing from his tip as he slowly made his way inside. moans and groans escape both of your lips as he pushed himself deeper inside of you, every inch of him slowly filling you up and stretching you out, every vein of his dick felt like heaven inside of your warm and wet, spongy canal.
āoh my gosh, mikey!ā
āshh, cāmon baby, i know you can take it. take all of it like a good girl.ā
your arms wrapped around his shoulders as his wrapped under your legs, his body on top of your body. your mouth wide open as sweet cries and moans of ecstasy left your lips. your claws dug into his smooth back as he bottomed you out, your skin slapping against each other as your pelvises connected. grunts and groans escaped his lips as he continued to bury himself inside of your slickness, his eyes reaching the top of his head when he thought you were not looking.
āyou feel so good mama, so damn good,ā he stammered as his hands gripped your bottom firmly as you throbbed around his member. your eyes met his as you pulled him into a deep kiss, you moans filled his mouth as he stroked deep and hard inside of you, your juices squelching with each snapping of his hips onto yours.
āfuck baby, iām close mikey.ā
āi know baby, but you gotta wait for me mama. i wanna feel your wet, tight pussy cuminā all over me while iām filling you up. you think you can do that for me mama.ā you desperately nodded, agreeing to anything that would grant you your release the fastest. your screams of mantras of his name heightened as that familiar pit swirled around your stomach as you began to clench more around his pulsating length.
ābaby, i canāt take no more, please can i cum?ā
āyes mama, iām cumminā too, let it out baby.ā
you toes curled as you and michael rode out your climaxes together. curses and incoherentness leaving the both of your lips as your legs shook. he remained inside of you as the two of you laid there, trying to gather yourselves. he slowly pulled out of your warmth, rolling to the opposite side of the bed as he pulled your head onto his exposed chest, your leg flung around his waist as the comforters covered you before you drifted off to sleep.
ā¦ premise ... š šššš ššššššššš ššššš ā after returning home to neverland, michael is greeted with an unexpected surprise: food, a new family movie, and an evening with the only person who makes the mansion feel like home.
ā¦ contains ...Ā ( fluff )ćlovesick puppy!michael, cuddling, kisses, romance, slight yearning, no use of y/n
ā¦ adoreās note ... i wrote this drunk, still am drunk. i could only fufill this req when i wasn't in my head. not proof read bc mama's tired. so, goodnight and enjoy !
requestedćļ¹ćanon ā”
The late afternoon sun filters through the grand, arched windows of the entry hall at Neverland, casting long, dancing shadows across the gleaming marble floors. Michael is sitting on a long, ornate bench, its dark, carved wood a stark contrast to the bright, airy space. He's wearing a simple, white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a pair of black, tailored trousers. His feet are bare, a small, uncharacteristic act of casual comfort that speaks to the quiet solitude of the moment.
He's fidgeting. His long, elegant fingers tap a restless, syncopated rhythm on the polished wood of the bench. He checks his watch, a sleek, gold Cartier, then immediately regrets it, a small, frustrated sigh escaping his lips. He runs a hand through his hair, a nervous, agitated gesture that is so unlike his usual, polished poise. He's waiting.
And then, he hears it. The crunch of gravel on the long, winding driveway. The low, familiar rumble of an engine. A slow, bright smile spreads across his face, a genuine, unguarded expression of pure, unadulterated joy. He's on his feet in a single, fluid movement, a graceful, almost dancer-like burst of energy that is full of a boyish, impatient anticipation.
The heavy, oak door swings open, and you step inside, blinking against the sudden shift from the bright California sun to the cool, dim light of the hall. The door swings shut behind you with a soft, solid thud, and before you can even take a proper breath, he's there.
He wraps you in a hug that is so tight, so fiercely possessive, it almost knocks the breath out of you. He buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply, a contented, sighing sound of pure, unadulterated bliss.
"You're back," he murmurs, his voice a muffled, happy rumble against your neck. "You're back."
"M'back," you echo, your words a soft, breathy laugh as you wrap your arms around him, your hands splayed across the warm, solid expanse of his back. "Miss me?"
He pulls back, but only just enough to look at you. His face is a beautiful, brilliant smile, his dark eyes sparkling with a light so bright it could rival the California sun. And then, he starts kissing you.
It's not a passionate, demanding kiss. It's a barrage of soft, sweet, impossibly warm kisses, a joyful, chaotic celebration of your return. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, your chin. He's a flurry of affection, a human hummingbird, a whirlwind of happy, welcoming kisses. You're laughing, a loud, unrestrained sound that is full of a deep, abiding happiness, trying to duck and dodge his playful assault.
"Michael!" you gasp, between fits of laughter. "Stop! I can't breathe!"
He finally relents, pulling back with a final, soft kiss on your forehead. He's still holding you, his hands gentle, firm on your waist, a happy, contented hum vibrating in his chest.
"Sorry," he says, but he's not sorry at all. His smile is a full, brilliant, megawatt thing that makes your heart do a funny little flip. "I jus' missed you."
"I missed you too," you say, your voice a soft, affectionate murmur. You reach up, gently brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. Your fingers linger on his skin, a soft, familiar caress.
"I have a surprise f'you," you say, a playful, mysterious glint in your eye.
His own eyes light up, a childlike, eager curiosity that is utterly endearing. "A surprise?" he repeats, his voice a low, intrigued whisper. "What is it?"
"You have to wait," you say, pulling away from him and taking a step back toward the door. "I have t'go back to the car t'get it. Don't peek."
You turn and disappear back through the heavy oak door, leaving him standing in the middle of the grand hall, a look of happy, confused anticipation on his face. He paces, a slow, restless circuit around the marble-topped table in the center of the room, his hands stuffed into his pockets. He's like a kid on Christmas morning, a bundle of excited, nervous energy.
The door opens again, and you reappear, your arms laden with goodies. You're holding a large, familiar red and white bucket, the glorious, greasy aroma of fried chicken filling the air, a stark, delicious contrast to the usually pristine, scent-free environment of the house. Tucked under your arm is a black plastic DVD case, the colorful, cartoonish image of a giant, floating baby on the cover.
His eyes widen, a look of pure, unadulterated delight on his face. "Is thatā¦?" he asks, his voice a hushed, reverent whisper.
"Is it what?" you ask, a playful, innocent smile on your face. "This old thing?"
He closes the distance between you in three long, eager strides, his eyes fixed on the bucket. "KFC," he breathes, the word a happy, worshipful sigh. "I was just thinking about how good KFC would be."
"And that's not all," you say, presenting the DVD case to him with a flourish. "I present t'you, the cinematic masterpiece of our time: 'Honey, I Blew Up the Kid'."
He lets out a loud, delighted laugh, a beautiful, uninhibited sound that echoes in the vast, empty hall. He takes the bucket from you, his fingers brushing against yours, a warm, electric spark. He peeks inside the bucket, inhaling deeply.
"Oh, you're a saint," he says, his voice full of a grateful, almost tearful sincerity. "A true, honest-t'God saint."
"I try," you say, a self-satisfied smirk on your face. "Now, I'm going t'go change into something a little lessā¦ public. I'll meet you in th' theatre."
You give him a quick, mischievous wink, then turn and head for the grand staircase, your footsteps a light, happy sound on the marble.
You find him in the private theatre, a space that is less a room and more an experience. There's no stadium seating here, no sticky floors or overpriced popcorn. Instead, a single, plush, red velvet armchair sits in the center of the room, an oversized, decadent throne that is big enough for two. It's facing a massive, wall-sized screen, the soft glow of the menu screen for the DVD casting a warm, cinematic light across the space.
He's already in the chair, looking small and almost swallowed by its plush, velvet expanse. He's kicked off his shoes and has the bucket of chicken balanced precariously on the wide armrest. He's already wearing a pair of soft, grey sweatpants and a faded black Motown t-shirt, a comfortable, casual look that you rarely see him in outside the privacy of your shared spaces. He looks up as you enter, a soft, welcoming smile on his face.
You've changed too, swapping your jeans and t-shirt for a pair of your own soft, worn-in pajamas. You climb into the chair beside him, the velvet cushioning sighing under your weight. You snuggle up against him, your head resting on his shoulder, your legs tangled with his. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close, a gesture that is as natural and as essential as breathing.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low, soft murmur against your hair.
"Ready," you say, your voice a happy, contented sigh.
He presses a button on a small, remote control, and the theatre lights dim, the room plunging into a soft, velvety darkness. The screen flickers to life, the familiar, boisterous theme music of a 90s family comedy filling the silence.
He reaches for the bucket, pulling out a piece of chicken. The crispy, golden skin glistens in the light from the screen. He breaks off a piece, holding it to your lips.
"Open up," he says, a playful, commanding tone in his voice.
You obey, your lips closing around the piece of chicken. It's glorious. Greasy, salty, a little bit spicy, a forbidden, delicious treat in this temple of health-consciousness. You moan, a low, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
"Good, right?" he asks, a proud, triumphant smirk on his face as he takes a bite for himself.
"Amazing," you say, your mouth still full.
You settle in, a comfortable, happy silence falling between you, broken only by the sounds of the movie and the occasional, happy sigh as you both devour the chicken. You pass the bucket back and forth, your fingers slick with grease, your hearts full of a simple, profound contentment. It's these moments you cherish the most. Not the grand, public spectacles, not the dazzling, sold-out concerts, but these quiet, private moments of pure, unadulterated normalcy.
The movie is exactly what you expected it to be: ridiculous, heartwarming, and utterly delightful. You find yourselves laughing at the same silly jokes, your bodies shaking with shared amusement. He's completely engrossed, his dark eyes fixed on the screen, a look of childlike wonder on his face. He's humming along to the soundtrack, a soft, tuneless murmur that is more endearing than any symphony.
About halfway through the movie, he shifts, reaching for the thick, fleece blanket that is draped over the back of the chair. He shakes it out, a billowing cloud of soft, warm fabric, then drapes it over the both of you. It's a cozy, intimate gesture, a small, simple act that makes your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost takes your breath away.
You snuggle deeper under the blanket, your body pressed against his. The warmth of him, the softness of the fleece, the delicious, greasy remnants of the chicken, the silly, comforting drone of the movieāit's a perfect, self-contained bubble of happiness.
You can feel yourself starting to drift, the events of the day, the contentment of the moment, a warm, heavy blanket pulling you down into a soft, welcoming sleep. Your head is still on his shoulder, your breathing starting to slow, to sync with the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest.
You're vaguely aware of the giant baby on the screen causing some kind of chaos in a shopping mall, the familiar, boisterous sounds of a cinematic climax. But it all seems very far away, muffled and distant, like you're hearing it from underwater.
You feel him shift again, a slow, deliberate movement. His arm tightens around you, pulling you even closer. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, a gesture that is so full of love, so full of a deep, abiding tenderness, that it makes your heart ache.
"Love you," he murmurs, his voice a low, sleepy mumble against your hair.
You try to respond, to tell him that you love him too, but the words won't come. You're too far gone, already floating in that warm, hazy space between wakefulness and sleep. You manage a soft, contented sigh, a nonverbal response that you know he will understand.
He shifts again, his own body starting to relax, to soften. His head droops, resting against yours. You can feel the soft, tickling brush of his hair against your cheek, the warm, steady rhythm of his breath, a slow, calming cadence that lulls you deeper into sleep.
The movie plays on, its bright, flashing lights a silent, colorful spectacle in the darkened room. The bucket of chicken sits forgotten on the armrest, the last piece of chicken getting cold. Outside, the sun has set, the last of the day's light fading from the sky, plunging Neverland into a deep, peaceful darkness.
But in here, in this oversized, velvet throne, there is a different kind of light. There is the warmth of the blanket, the warmth of his body, the warmth of a love that is as simple and as profound as this. There is the quiet, rhythmic sound of two hearts beating in perfect sync, a steady, unwavering rhythm that is the only soundtrack that matters.
You fall asleep, a deep, dreamless, peaceful sleep, your body curled into his, your head on his shoulder. He follows you moments later, his own breathing deepening, his body going slack with sleep.
And there you stay, a tangled, sleeping heap in the middle of the private theatre, a silent, still portrait of a perfect, ordinary, extraordinary moment. A king in his castle, and you, his queen, asleep on a throne, wrapped in a blanket, with the faint, lingering scent of fried chicken in the air. A strange, beautiful, perfect fairy tale.
ššš š¬: friends turned to secret romance?, fluff, smut, mutual loss of virginity, consent is key, michael being sweet, but ends up being a freak, cunnilingus (f.receiving), unprotected p in v (practice safe sex please!), don't worry he pulls out in time, reader is thicc.
š°šØš«š ššØš®š§š: 6k
ššš¢š¬š²āš¬ š§šØšš: this was supposed to be a double post but i finished late asf. i like to try out different aspects of black women in my writing so having a plus sized woman as the reader was a no brainer. don't worry, mikey knows how to handle it all. also, i know that i've put '70s michael out back to back, but if you can't tell; its one of my favorite eras of his. and obviously i know he definitely did not lose his virginity during this time period, but thereās something about two twenty year olds being so in love and lost within one another that they explore sexuality. i'm also gonna drop the song that's used in the story if you wanna hear it. rufus and chaka khan have a special place in my heart. as usual, if you have requests, hit me up! :)
June 16, 1979
The engine of the rented, unpretentious Chevy Nova purred softly against the curb of Hayvenhurst, its dark green paint bleeding into the shadows of the overhanging oak trees. It was just past eleven oāclock on a warm june night. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the faint, sweet tang of exhaust.
Inside the car, you gripped the steering wheel, your heart doing a rhythmic tap-dance against your ribs. You adjusted the rearview mirror, checking your reflection under the dim dome light. Your afro was picked out perfectly, a soft, rounded halo that framed your face. You wore a pair of high-waisted, fitted denim shorts that hugged your curves, paired with vibrant orange and yellow striped halter top that tied securely behind your neck. You looked goodācurvy, soft, and distinctly, undeniably ā70s.
A shadow darted from the side gate of the Jackson family home. The figure was slender, wearing an oversized, floppy newsboy cap pulled low, a corduroy jacket despite the warmth, and thick-rimmed glasses that obscured half of his face. He moved with a dancerās innate grace, even while trying to appear small.
The passenger door opened, and Michael slipped inside, closing it with a muted thud. For a second, he sat rigid, peering through the windshield to ensure no cameras or overzealous fans had materialized from the bushes. When the street remained quiet, he let out a long, shuddered breath, his shoulders dropped a full two inches.
He turned to you, and the most radiant, brilliant smile broke across his face, instantly melting the tension in the car.
āHey,ā he whispered, his voice soft, high-pitched, and laced with that distinct, gentle sweetness that defined him outside the recording studio. āWe made it. I canāt believe I actually sneaked out.ā
āI told you I had it covered,ā you laughed, reaching over to squeeze his hand. His skin was warm, his fingers long and elegant. āYou ready for a real night out, honey? No bodyguards, no press, no autograph books. Just you and me.ā
Michael laughed, a high, fluttering sound that made your chest ache with affection. He pulled off the ridiculous glasses and tossed the newsboy cap into the backseat to reveal his beautiful, tight afro and those deep, expressive brown eyes. He was twenty years old, at the absolute peak of his youthful radiant beauty, yet he so rarely got to just live it.
āMan, you donāt even know,ā Michael said, turning in the vinyl seat to face you, his eyes scanning your appearance. A soft, distinct blush crept up his high cheekbones, and his gaze lingered on the soft swell of your chest beneath the halter top before dropping to the curve of your thighs. āYou lookā¦ wow.ā You look really beautiful, girl. Serious. That outfit is justā¦ far out.ā
āThank you, Mike,ā you said, feeling an intense flush of heat rise up your neck that had absolutely nothing to do with the California summer. āYou donāt look too bad yourself, even in that disguise. Now hold onto to your seat. Weāre going to the rink.ā
As you shifted the Chevy into drive and pulled away from the curb, Michael reached down and turned up the volume on the radio. A heavy bassline filled the cabin, and within seconds, his right foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the floorboard, his fingers drumming a complex, syncopated beat against his knee. He looked out of the passenger window, watching the neon signs of los angeles bleed together in a blur of gold and electric blue.
āItās just so nice,ā he murmured softly, almost to himself, his eyes reflecting the passing streelights. āTo not have to be āMichael Jacksonā for a few hours. To just be Mike. Peopleā¦ they donāt see me as a real person sometimes, yāknow? They just see the records, or the television shows. But with youā¦ itās different. Thank you for doing this for me.ā
āYou deserve to be a normal twenty-year-old, Michael,ā you replied gently, taking one hand off the wheel to place it flat against his thigh. The denim of his jeans was rough beneath your palm, but the muscle underneath was solid and warm. āTonight, youāre not a superstar. Youāre just a guy out on a date with a girl who really, really likes him.ā
He placed his larger hand directly over yours, intertwining his long fingers with yours, pressing your palm closer against his leg. āI like you too. A whole lot. More than I probably say. Itās justā¦ sometimes I get real nervous around girls. But not with you. Well, maybe just a little bit right now,ā he confessed with a shy, breathless laugh.
The venue was called The Cosmic Roller, a local slightly tucked-away spot nestled in a valley strip mall. On a typical Friday night, the place would be packed to the gills with teenagers and young adults sweating under black lights, the air thick with the smell of cheap concessions and teenage hormones. But tonight, the asphalt parking lot was completely empty, illuminated only by a single, buzzing sodium light.
You had pulled some massive favorsāand spent a considerable portion of your savings to rent the entire venue out for three hours after closing. The manager, an older gentleman who had been a fan of the Jackson 5 since their early Motown days, had promised absolute discretion, leaving the back employee door unlocked and the main system primed for your arrival.
When you pulled the car around to the rear entrance and killed the engine, Michael peered out the window at the glowing neon sign of a winged roller skate in the window, his eyes wide with pure, childlike wonder.
āWe really have the whole place?ā he asked, turning back to you with an expression of utter disbelief. āNobody else is gonna walk in? Not even Marlon or Randy?ā
āNobody but us, Mike. I promise. Come on.ā
You grabbed your custom outdoor skates from the trunkāclassic white leather with bright pink polyurethane wheels while Michael carried the brown leather rental pair the manager had left on the bench for him. Stepping inside the darkened rink was like entering a temple of pure, unadulterated funk culture.
The floor was a massive, gleaming expanse of polished hardwood, reflecting the overhead neon rings of hot pink, electric blue, and vibrant green that hovered like flying saucers above the track. The air smelled familiarly of floor wax, popcorn, and old vinyl records.
Michael practically bounded over to the carpeted benches near the rental counter, his earlier hesitation completely evaporated. He kicked off his loafers and began lacing up the high-top skates with quick, eager movements, his tongue sticking out slightly between his teeth in concentration.
āI used to skate a lot when we were younger, you know.ā he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes, a playful, competitive glint dancing in his dark eyes. āBack in Gary, and when we first moved out here to Encino, Marlon and I used to tear up the rinks. Iāve got some serious moves, girl. Donāt think youāre gonna have to carry me around the floor tonight.ā
āOh, really?ā You stood up, testing your balance on your wheels, your hips automatically swaying to the faint, ambient hum of the buildingās amplifiers. You looked down at him, letting your eyes track the lean, elegant line of his torso, the way his black silk button-down shirt was tucked neatly into his high-waisted denim. āWeāll see about that, Jackson. Letās see if you can keep up with a girl with a little more cushion to her pushinā.ā
Michaelās jaw dropped slightly, a deep, breathless chuckle escaping him as a dark contrast to his usual high laugh. āOh, youāre bad. You think youāre real bad, donāt you? Saying stuff like that. Man, you make my head spin.ā
āI know I am,ā you winked, rolling backward toward the rink entrance with effortless, practiced grace, the wheels humming smoothly against the wood.
Michael stood up, his long, slender legs slightly wobbly at first as his center of gravity adjusted to the slickness of the hardwood. He let out a dramatic, high-pitched yell, his arms flailing for a split second before he caught his balance, locking his core with the instantaneous control of a master dancer. He skated toward the track, his movements a bit stiff initially, but gaining an undeniable rhythm with every passing stride.
You rolled over to the master control booth near the edge of the floor, flipping a heavy toggle switch. Instantly, the house lights dimmed into a deep, atmospheric twilight, leaving only the vibrant, rotating neon wheels to cast long, dramatic shadows across the empty room. You pressed the heavy play button on the reel-to-reel tape deck.
The heavy, unmistakable bassline of Rufus and Chaka Khanās āAny Loveā began to throb through the massive house speakers. Chakaās rich, velvety, impassioned voice filled the cavernous space, the slow-to-mid tempo funk groove pulsing right through the floorboards and into the soles of your feet.
Michael was already out on the floor, gliding into a wide, sweeping circle. The neon lights washed over him in successive wavesāblue, then pink, then gold highlighting the sharp, gorgeous geometry of his cheekbones and the damp, shining curls of his hair. He began to catch the rhythm of the track, his shoulders dipping low, his hips swaying to the heavy plucking of the bass guitar.
āOh, this is my jam!ā He calls out, his voice echoing in the empty rink. He attempted a quick spin, his wheels clicking sharply against the wood, though he stumbled slightly at the tail end, his arms shooting out to stabilize himself against the air.
You skated out to meet him, moving with smooth strides that accentuated the fullness of your frame. Your hips rolled perfectly with the music, the denim shorts showcasing the soft curve of your backside. When you reached him, you didnāt stop; you looped tightly around his body, brushing your shoulder against his chest, leaving the scent of your perfume in his wake.
āYou call that a spin?ā you teased, looking back over your shoulder with a playful smile. āCome here, let me show you how we do it on the West Coast.ā
Michael skated up beside you, his breathing already a little heavy from the excitement and the physical exertion. āShow me then, big shot. Letās see what you got.ā
You reached out, taking both of his hands in yours. His palms were warm, slightly damp, his long fingers wrapping securely around your wrists. āOkay, look at my feet. You gotta keep your center of gravity low, Mike. Donāt stand up so straight. Use those hips. I know you know how to use āem.ā
Michael laughed, his eyes fixed intently on yours, ignoring his feet entirely. āI know how to use āem on stage, but this is friction, girl! The floor is slippery. You trying to make me break my legs?ā
āTrust me,ā you murmured, stepping closer until the space between your bodies virtually disappeared. You dropped one of his hands, placing your palm flat against the small of his back, right above the waistband of his jeans. You guided him, pulling him directly into your specific rhythm. āFeel the bass. Cross your right foot over your left, then slide. There you go. Just let it flow.ā
Michael followed your lead, his movements smoothing out as his natural, unparalleled sense of timing took over. He stopped overthinking the mechanics of the skates. He crossed his foot, slid and suddenly he was gliding perfectly in sync with you, his chest almost pressed flush against yours.
The proximity was dizzying. Every time the overhead neon wheel spun, it illuminated the intense, burning heat gathering in his dark eyes, mixed with raw vulnerability. He wasnāt looking at you like a casual friend anymore; he was looking at you with a deep, concentrated longing, his gaze dropping repeatedly to your lips before sliding down to the exposed skin of your collarbone and the heavy swell of your breasts lifting and falling against the tight halter top.
āYouāre real good at this,ā Michael whispered. His voice had dropped an octave, becoming that raspy, intimate murmur he used when he was being completely, entirely serious. He moved his hand from your waist, his long fingers sliding up the bare skin of your back, his palm resting right between your shoulder blades where the fabric tied. The heat of his touch sent a violent jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
āI have a good student,ā you breathed, your wheels naturally slowing down until you were both just drifting at a snailās pace near the center of the rink, completely enveloped in the dark, warm atmosphere and Chaka Khanās soaring vocals.
āNo, itās not just that,ā Michael said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch in your throat. He stopped moving entirely, locking his skates. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer, his chest pressing against your breasts. āItās you. The way you move, girl. You got so much rhythm, so much soul. It drives me crazy, yāknow? Just watching you walk down the street drives me wild. It makes me feelā¦ real grown up, but real scared too.ā
āMichaelā¦ā you whispered, your hand resting on his shoulders. The fabric of his shirt was thin, and you could feel the rapid, hard thud of his heart hammering against his ribs. You shared that exact fear, the electric terror of the unknown.
āI mean it,ā he said, his voice thick with a sudden, heavy emotion. āI spend all day with people telling me what to do, who to be, how to sing. But when Iām with youā¦ I just feel so free. Like I can breathe. And you look so beautiful tonight. I canāt stop looking at you. I donāt want to look at anything else.ā
He leaned down, his face inches from yours. You could smell the sweet, clean scent of his cologne mixed with the faint, musky heat of his skin. His lips, full, soft, and slightly parted, brushed against yours in a teasing light soft ghost of a kiss.
Before you could close the gap to deepen it, Michael attempted to shift his weight to bring both arms completely around your waist. His rear wheel caught a microscopic groove in the hardwood floor.
āWhoaā!ā
He lost his footing, his long arms flailing. In a sudden panic, he grabbed onto your waist for dear life. But your center of gravity was already compromised by the sudden shift. With a loud yell and a chaotic, echoing clatter of wheels against the wood, both of you went down.
You hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud, landing squarely on your backside, which fortunately provided plenty of natural padding against the impact. Michael landed right over you, his long legs tangling completely with yours, his hand planting firmly on the hardwood floor on either side of your head to prevent his full weight from crushing you.
For a long second, the massive rink was completely silent save for the echoing music of Rufus and Chaka Khan, the horn section currently blaring a triumphant, funky solo through the overhead speakers.
You looked up at Michael. His hair was slightly mussed, a few tight curls falling over his forehead, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He looked down at you, his eyes wide with surprise, and then, the pure absurdity of the moment hit him.
He burst into a loud, uninhibited roar of laughter. It was a deep, infectious belly laugh, the kind he rarely let out when the cameras were rolling. He collapsed forward slightly, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest vibrating intensely against yours as he laughed until his ribs ached.
āOh my god,ā he gasped, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin of your collarbone. āOh man! Did you see that? I totally wiped out! The great Michael Jackson, flat on his face in front of a pretty girl!ā
You laughed too, your hands automatically coming up to wrap around his back, holding his slender, muscular frame close to you. āI told you to keep your center of gravity low, Jackson! You got cocky because Chaka came on!ā
āI did, I did,ā he chuckled, lifting his head slowly. But as his eyes traveled down to meet yours, the laughter died instantly in his throat.
The position you were in was intimate. You were flat on your back, your legs spread slightly with his torso positioned right between them. The friction of the fall had caused your halter top to shift slightly sideways, exposing a deep, tantalizing glimpse of your full cleavage. Your hips were pinned flat beneath his, and through the heavy denim of his jeans, you could feel a distinct, rigid hardness pressing right against your pelvic bone.
The mood in the vacant rink shifted instantly, the playful energy evaporating into something thick, heavy, and suffocatingly hot. The rotating neon wheel above turned a deep, seductive crimson, casting a red, primal glow over the sharp lines of Michaelās face.
Michaelās eyes darkened, his pupils dilating until they were almost completely black, swallowing the brown. His breath hitched, his lips parting as he stared down at your mouth. His hands, still planted on the floor, twitched against the wood. Slowly, deliberately, he shifted his weight, pressing his groin down just a fraction of an inch into your softness. A nervous tremor ran through his frame, a silent acknowledgement that neither of you had ever been this close to anyone before.
A soft, involuntary gasp escaped your lips, your hips tilting up slightly in response.
āMikeā¦ā you breathed, your voice trembling with a sudden, overwhelming need, your own heart thudding in time with the anxiety of the unknown.
āYouāre so soft,ā he whispered, his voice completely stripped of its usual boyishness. It was deep, gravelly, and dripping with a raw, adult desire that made your stomach clench. āEvery time I touch you, youāre just so soft and warm. Itās all I think about when Iām in the studio. Itās all I dream about. Butā¦ I donāt want to mess up, yāknow? I want to make it nice for you.ā
āYou wonāt mess up, Mike,ā you whispered back, tracing the line of his jaw. āWe can just go slow.ā
He lowered his head, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below your earlobe. A violent shiver tore through your entire body. He licked a wet slow path up your jawline, his tongue warm and rough, before his mouth finally crashed against yours.
The kiss wasnāt just passionate; it was an exploration of two people learning the contours of desire together. It was hungry, desperate, filled with the pent-up frustration of months of longing, of secret glances in crowded recording rooms, of quick, stolen touches backstage. Michaelās tongue slid into your mouth, deep and demanding, swirling against yours with a possessive tempo that mimicked the heavy funk beat pulsing through the floorboards.
You groaned into his mouth, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down as hard as you could. Your thighs clamped around his hips, your heavy skates providing a strange, grounding weight that anchored you to him on the hard floor.
Michael groanedāa deep, guttural sound from the back of his throat that made you wet between your legs. He broke the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes wild and unfocused as he looked down at you, the heavy weight of his innocence and yours hovering in the air.
āNot out here,ā he panted, his chest heaving against your breasts. āSomeoneā¦ what if the manager comes back early? What if someone sees us through the glass? I want to be alone with you. Really alone.ā
āThe managerās office,ā you whispered, your hands reaching up to cup his face, your thumb rubbing over the smooth, warm skin of his cheekbone. āHe said itās unlocked. In the back, past the arcade games.ā
Michael didnāt say another word. He scrambled to his feet, his skates clicking loudly and frantically against the hardwood. He reached down, grabbing both of your hands, and hauled you up with a surprising, wiry strength. Without letting go of your hand, he began rolling toward the back of the rink, his movements urgent, completely discarding any pretense of smooth skating.
You followed him, your heart hammering violently against your ribs, the thrill of the illicit encounter making your blood feel like liquid fire.
The managerās office was small, cluttered, and dimly lit by a single desk lamp casting a warm amber glow over wood-paneled walls, green filing cabinets, and old concert posters from the early ā70s. A large, worn leather sofa sat against the far wall, looking ancient but deep and comfortable.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Michael threw the deadbolt lock. He turned around, and before you could even draw a full breath, he pinned your body against the heavy wooden door.
His mouth crashed onto yours again, harder this time, his hands flying directly to your waist. He gripped your fleshy hips, his fingers digging deep into your skin, molding your curves to his body. He lifted you slightly, and because you were still wearing your roller skates, the heavy pink wheels scraped against the wood of the door, providing a strange, rough friction that forced your pelvis directly against his rigid length.
āMm, god,ā Michael groaned against your lips, his hips rolling forward in a slow grind that made you whimper. He was rock-hard now, the thick, unyielding length of his dick burning through his denim right into your sensitive core. āYou feel so good. You donāt even know what you do to me, girl. You drive me crazy. Iāmā¦ man, Iām shakinā inside.ā
āMe too, Mike,ā you confessed against his mouth, your breath hot. āItās okay. Itās just us.ā
āI want to see you,ā he whispered hoarsely, his breath hot against your skin. His long, nimble fingers moved to the back of your neck. With a quick, deft pull, he untied the strings of your halter top. The fabric fell away instantly, exposing your full, heavy breasts to the warm amber light of the office.
Michael let out a low, shaky breath, his eyes wide as he looked at you. āLook at youā¦ youāre so beautiful. sāfull. Look at all this woman. Youāre perfect. Iāve neverā¦ Iāve never seen anyone like you before.ā
He reached out, his warm, large palms cupping the undersides of your breasts, lifting them. His thumbs brushed repeatedly over your nipples, which hardened instantly under his touch. You let out a loud cry, your hands flying to his hair, weaving through the tight, soft curls of his afro as he leaned down and took one dark nipple into his mouth.
He sucked heavily, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud before drawing the entire aureole past his lips. The sensation was so intense, so raw, that your knees buckled. If he hadnāt been holding you tightly against the door, you would have slid right down to the floorboards.
āMike, oh my god, Mikeāā
He switched to the other breast, his teeth grazing the tip, his hand sliding down to the button of your denim shorts. He popped it open with one hand, the zipper rasping loudly in the quiet room. He shoved his hand down into your panties, his palm cupping your warm mound.
You were already soaking wet, the heat and slickness of your pussy coating his fingers the moment he slid them past the cotton barrier. Michael let out a triumphant, ragged gasp into your skin, his fingers twitching slightly with a burst of sweet, nervous energy as he encountered your wetness for the first time.
āOh, youāre so wet for me, girl.ā he purred, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.
His fingers moved tentatively, parting your lips to find your clit hidden underneath. He stroked it once, twice, his long finger applying just the right amount of pressure as he paid close attention to the way your body reacted.
You screamed into the empty room, your body convulsing against him. The heavy wheels of your skates rolled back and forth against the bottom of the door, a frantic, rhythmic clicking sound that filled the small space.
āCome here,ā he panted, breaking away from your chest. He took your hand and guided you over the leather sofa.
You collapsed onto the cracked leather, your legs sprawling over the edge, your skates dangling off the side. Michael immediately dropped to his knees on the floor between your thighs. He didnāt care about the dust, he didnāt care about his clothes; his entire focus was fixed on the space between your legs, his expression a mix of absolute devotion and quiet anxiety.
He gripped your thighs, pushing them wide apart. The amber lamp light caught the wet, glistening sheen of your pussy.
āMichaelā¦ā you murmured, a sudden wave of self-consciousness hitting you as you looked down at your soft, curvy stomach and the fullness of your thighs. āThe lightā¦ and Iā¦ I havenāt ever done this before, Mike. With anyone.ā
He looked up, his expression melting into something incredibly tender and fiercely protective. āDonāt you dare hide from me. Youāre perfect. You hear me? Every single inch of you is perfect. Andā¦ I havenāt either. Youāre my first, too. Thatās why I want to see everything. I want to just be you and me, learning each other.ā
He didnāt wait for a response. He leaned forward, burying his face in your pussy.
The first touch of his tongue was a broad, wet, slightly hesitant stroke from the bottom of your opening all the way up to your clit. You shrieked, your hands gripping the leather cushions so hard your nails dug into the seams.
Michael was a performer; he understood rhythm, tempo, and control and even in his inexperience, his natural instinct took over. His tongue became a weapon of pure pleasure, darting in and out of your pussy, tasting your sweetness, before focusing entirely on your swollen clit. He sucked it into his mouth, using a firm suction that had you writhing beneath him.
āOh god, Michael! Yes, right there, please!ā
He moaned against your wet skin, the vibration of his voice sending ripples of pleasure straight to your pussy. While his mouth continued its relentless assault, he slid two long, slender fingers inside you.
You were incredibly tight, a pure testament to your shared innocence, but so slick that his fingers slid in all of the way to the knuckles with ease. He hooked his fingers upward, finding the magical, ribbed spot inside you, and began to pump them in a fast, wicked pace that perfectly matched the frantic pace of your breathing.
The combination was too much. The heavy leather couch, the warm amber light, the distant, muffled sound of Chaka Khan singing about love, and Michael Jackson worshipping your body between your legs.
Your hips began to thrust wildly against his face, your skates kicking out into the empty air of the office.
āIām gonna cum, Mike! Iām gonnaāā
āDo it,ā he growled against your flesh, his fingers accelerating, his tongue swirling frantically. āCum for me, girl. Give it all to me. I got you.ā
With a loud, broken cry, your body shattered. Your walls clamped down violently around his fingers, and your core spasmed in a powerful, prolonged orgasm that had you shaking from head to toe. Michael didnāt pull away; he held you tight, drinking in your slick, his tongue catching every drop until your whimpers finally subsided into soft, panting gasps.
Michael stood up slowly, his face flushed; his lips wet and shining in the dim light. His eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with an unresolved hunger. He stood over you, his hands flying to the buttons of his shirt, ripping them open with an urgency that sent a tiny plastic button flying across the room, clicking against the filing cabinet.
He shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, revealing his lean, beautifully sculpted torso. His skin was smooth, his chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. He quickly unbuckled his belt and pushed his jeans and briefs down, kicking them away.
When he stood before you fully naked, your breath caught. He was magnificentālean, muscular, and beautifully, heavily endowed. His dick standing proud and rigid, your eyes taking the time to trace over every vein as it trembled slightly with anticipation and the sheer gravity of what was about to happen.
He climbed onto the sofa, hovering over you. He grabbed your waist, pulling your hips to the very edge of the cushions. He lifted your legs, draping your heavy, skated feet over his shoulders. The cold metal of the skate trucks rested against his bare collarbones, but he didnāt care. The added lift gave him the perfect angle into your soft, welcoming body.
āLook at me,ā Michael whispered, his voice trembling as he guided the tip of his dick against your still-throbbing entrance. He rested his forearms on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. A sudden wave of nervousness washed over his features, his chest heaving. āAre you sure? Does it feel okay? I donāt want to hurt you.ā
You looked up at him, your vision slightly blurry with tears of pleasure, your own heart racing with the beautiful finality of the moment. āIām sure, Michael. Please. I want it to be you.ā
He pushed forward.
He went slow at first, stretching your tight walls, his eyes closing tightly as a low groan tore from his chest. The barrier of your shared virginity resisted for a brief second before giving way, a sharp intake of breath leaving your lips as he slipped deeper. āOh, manā¦ youāre sātightā¦ sāwarmā¦ hold on, just hold onto me, girlā¦ā
He paused, burying his face in your neck, letting both of your bodies adjust to the sudden, overwhelming fullness. You wrapped your arms tightly around his back, feeling the tense, solid muscles of his shoulders. After a few long, quiet breaths, the initial sting faded, replaced by a deep, pulsing warmth.
āYou okay?ā he whispered against your skin, his voice incredibly gentle.
He pushed deeper, his hips sinking down until he was buried completely to the hilt inside of you, his hips crashing against yours. The fullness of the sensation was overwhelming. You let out a long, breathless wail, your hands wrapping around his biceps, feeling the hard, flexed muscle beneath your fingers.
Then, he began to move.
He started with long, slow, agonizingly deep strokes, careful and protective at first. Every time he pulled out almost completely, he would pause before plunging back in, driving himself deep into your pussy. As the rhythm settled, his confidence grew, the soft, fleshy curve of your thighs gripping his hips, creating a tight, suctioned seal that made every stroke sound wet and loud in the quiet office.
āAhā¦ yes, Mikeā¦ just like that,ā you chanted, your head tossing from side to side on the leather cushions.
His rhythm began to speed up, shifting from a slow groove to a fast, frantic funk beat as the initial nervousness dissolved into pure passion. He was losing control, his usual precision giving way to pure, unbridled animal instinct. He gripped your hips harder, his fingers leaving marks on your skin as he slammed into you, his breathing turning into a series of sharp, guttural pants.
āYouāre mine tonight,ā he whispered, his eyes opening, burning into yours with a possessive intensity that made you tremble. āNobody elseā¦ just us. You feel so goodā¦ damn, you feel so good.ā
The heavy wheels of your skates, still draped over his shoulders, rattled with every heavy thrust of his hips. The strange, industrial sound of the skates mixed with the wet slapping of your bodies and the desperate, breathless noises you were both making created a symphony of pure passion.
You could feel the tension building inside him, the way his muscles locked up, the skin of his back turning hot and damp. Your own orgasm was rushing back, triggered by the relentless, hard pounding against your g-spot.
āMichael, Iām close! Iāmāoh my god!ā
āMe too,ā he gasped, his thrusts becoming short, fast, and incredibly deep. He buried his face in your neck, his teeth biting down on your shoulder as he gave three final, devastating thrusts. āIām gonnaā¦ oh god, Iām gonnaā!ā
He drove himself in as deep as he could go and held himself there. He finally came to his senses as a loud, ragged scream tore from your throat, your muscles clamping down on him that drew another desperate groan from his lips. You were so caught up in your orgasm, you could barely feel him pulling out of you until you felt ropes of his cum against the plush flesh of your thighs and the curve of your stomach, desperate groans leaving his lips.
For a long time, neither of you moved. He remained over you, his entire weight resting heavily on your soft body, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against your ribs. The office was completely silent now, save for the sound of your combined breathing.
Slowly, Michael eased himself off of you and as he slid down onto the floor beside the couch and pulled his legs up to his chest, utterly spent but wearing a massive smile. You sat up slowly, your body aching in the most delicious way possible. You reached down and began the awkward task of unlacing your skates, tossing the heavy leather boots onto the floor with a loud clunk. Your feet felt light, your toes curling against the cool air.
You slid off the couch and sat on the floor right next to Michael, leaning your head against his bare shoulder.
He immediately wrapped his long arm around you, pulling you against his chest. He reached over and with his free hand, grabbing his discarded shirt, and gently wiped away the stray droplets of sweat and his cum from your thighs and stomach, his movements tender.
He looked down at you, his eyes soft, gentle and filled with profound, peaceful quiet that you had never seen in him before. The frantic energy of the pop star was completely gone, replaced by a young man who felt safe, loved, and entirely whole after crossing the threshold into adulthood with the person he trusted most.
āAre you okay?ā he whispered, kissing the top of your afro, his voice full of concern. āDid Iā¦ was it okay for your first time?ā
āIām better than okay, Mike,ā you smiled, looking up at him and wrapping your arms around his waist. āIt was perfect. That wasā¦ far out.ā
Michael let out a soft, beautiful laugh, his nose crinkles showing a massive wave of relief washed over him. āYeah. It really was. Out of this world. Man, I was so scared Iād do something wrong, but you justā¦ you made it so easy.ā
He looked around the room, at the scattered clothes, the heavy skates on the floor and the dim light. He tightened his grip on you, pulling you so close you could feel the steady, calming sound of his breathing.
āThank you,ā he said softly, his voice dropping into that sweet, sincere tone. āFor the date. For everything. I donāt think Iāve ever been happy like this before. Justā¦being me. Being a man with you.ā
āYou can always be just you with me, Michael,ā you said, turning to kiss his chest right over his heart. āAnytime you need to escape, Iāll have the keys ready.ā
āIām gonna hold you to that, girl,ā he murmured, his eyes fluttering shut as he drifted into a peaceful, contented state of rest, completely wrapped up in the warmth of your embrace while the faint, distant sounds of the ā70s night hummed outside the office door.
i need more jerdad fics manā¦its honestly amazing š¬š¬š¬
jerdad headcannons !
contains: no usage of y/n, some cursing, n word!
notes: i eventually wanna do more dad headcannons with the other jacksonās bc i be kicking my feet making these
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad! jermajesty who follows behind you everywhere just to watch you waddle around
you stopped in your tracks and slowly turned around ājermajestyā āhm?ā āwhy are you following meā he smiled at you ābecause itās funnyā ānigga iāll show you something f-ā
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad! jermajesty who massages your swollen feet every single night without you even asking
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad! jermajesty knows how irritable because of hormones you are but he likes to knit pic at you anyway
āare you serious?ā āwhatā āwhy are my chips all the way up thereā he stood next to you and looked at the chips on the very to shelf āohā ādonāt oh me why did you put them up there!ā āidk what your talking aboutā ājermajesty i canāt reach that high!ā he looked at you and shrugged
ālet me get out of here before i cuss you out..ā you mumbled waddling out the kitchen
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø also due to hormones you gave everyone attitude but dad! jermajesty knew how to deal with it basically becoming your personal translator whenever your pregnancy attitude starts showing
āwhat are you gonna name herā someone āwouldnāt you like to know smarta-ā jermajesty cut you off āwe havenāt decided yet!ā
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad! jermajesty secretly loves going to those new parents classes, beād never admit it, but he finds it very interesting
ānow take a deep breath inā¦and outā the instructor said āyou wanna go get chipotle after thisā jermajesty whispered in your ear from behind, holding your belly āyeah iām craving steak todayā you whispered back
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad! jermajesty who loves singing to your stomach whenever he can because heās convinced the baby recognizes his voice
ājust call my nameā¦and iāll be there~ā he sang āshe kicked! i think she likes that song!ā
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad!jermajesty who loves the fact that you donāt wear maternity clothes and uses your belly as a accessories, like rihanna
ācan you believe she told me to cover up? she can kiss my assā
Jermajesty looked you up and down āshe must be blind causeā you look fine as hellā
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad!jermajesty who starts every morning by kissing you and then immediately kneeling down to kiss your belly
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad! jermajesty who acts like your personal bodyguard in public the second your belly starts showing
āĖā”ā ā¦ļø dad! jermajesty who likes taking pictures when your not paying attention
you were sitting on the couch, feet kicked up, bowl of snacks resting on your belly
click !
you snapped your head and looked at him ādid you just take a picture of me?ā ānoā āi just heard itā āi took a screenshot of somethingā¦ā ādelete it.ā āmākay..ā
later that night youād catch him smiling at the same picture.
pairs: jaafar jackson x bsf!reader. syn: jaafar just being a cutie pants. Ė. įµįµ
it was sunday morning, sun shingling through your blinds. sundays for you were a hit or miss. sometimes it would be a cleaning day. where you would literally clean your entire apartment. then others, it was a relaxing day. get coffee, sit on your couch, and watch your favorite show. fortunately for you, this sunday was a chill sunday.
jaafar came by after his coffee run. baseball cap on, under the hood of his black hoodie. grey sweatpants, and a pair of sunglasses. he originally came by to bring you coffee and hangout. currently telling you some story about how even under all this paparazzi gear. he still managed to get recognized.
truly, you werenāt paying attention. he looked so damn good. the hoodie stopped just at his chin. the lighting was dim in your living room. making his eyes twinkle every time he looked up at you. in your mind, you hoped you didnāt look crazy staring at him. you werenāt even doing anything bad. you were just. staring.
āand then! the guy popped up at me out of nowhere and- (name)? (naaame) are you even listening?ā
jaafar waved his hand close to your face. teasingly.
āuh- huh? what? yea of course i was listening.ā
you scrambled. shit shit. you obviously werenāt listening. what was he saying again? you absolutely tried your hardest to think.
ādonāt worry babe. I know youāre not listening. just wanted to tease ya.ā
your cheeks flushed at the pet name. you swatted your hands at his, shaking your head.
āsorry your just so cute I canāt pay attention to your story.ā
you said arms crossed over your chest as your huffed. he was tew cute !
itās so sad seeing the āmichael jackson x readerā tag deteriorate in real time. cause why are my favorite writers getting a hundred to two hundred likes. when they usually get thousands. plus I feel like we all knew this was gonna happen with the craze of the movie. but shit. it happened to fast for my liking
šš ā tucked under otw!michaelās duvets, you lie on your left side as you cough over again while michael stands in front of you. heās already checked your temperature, and the bowl of hot soup he got katherine to make for you, stays on the bedside table as he checks his notepad. heās been timing how much medicine youāve been getting and how long itās been before he could give you another teaspoon.
michael had a heater at the end of the bed, not too close but enough to keep your body warm, since you complained about how cold you were earlier.
resting his hand over your head, you scoot closer to his touch. there was nothing more in this world that you wanted than his comfort, and he listened to that request. āhow you feeling, tink?ā michael mutters, his brows knitted together as he sits beside you, your stomach pressed against his back once the bed dips a little.
you clear your throat and lean your head up once he drags his hand down to your neck, rubbing it carefully. āreally tired.ā you sigh, michael nods and moves his hand over to the bowl of soup. you scoot up and press your back against the headboard, your body feeling weak and slightly hurting, especially in your jaw area.
your mouth felt a little dry, as if a filter had been covering it. michael scoops up some of the chicken soup, raising it to your mouth. closing your eyes, you blow on it before swallowing it, the warmth and rich flavor hitting your taste buds, the tension in your arms falling.
you hum and nod, a faint smile appears on michaelās face, opening your eyes you turn your head to cough a little before looking back at him. āthatās really good.ā you express, michael chuckles and smiles widely, āoh good, iām happy to hear that.ā
michael continues to feed you, slow with his movements to make sure not to burn you. about five minutes, you were almost done with the bowl, now full and more tired than before. michael places it on the table and helps you get back into a comfortable posture, fluffing out your pillow and tucking you back in.
you stare up at him, as he does these things, michael walks over to his window and shuts it as the cold air begins to get stronger. michael comes back to you, standing over you before leaning down and pressing a kiss on your forehead. āi love you.ā he mumbles, you smile and watch him turn the lamp off. āi love you too.ā you whisper.
michael hums and takes his shoes off and unbuckles his belt, taking it off and comes to the other side of the bed, pushing the duvet back, he gets under and pulls it up to his neck as he scoots to you and pulls your back to his chest. āmichael, youāre gonna get sick.ā you complain, he ignores you and kisses your cheek then your neck. āiāll be okay, mind over matter, right?ā you scoff and shake your head as michael slides his forearm under your pillow and close his eyes. the two of you going silent as sleeps finds you again.
I got pretty fed up with looking for words to replace said because they werenāt sorted in a way I could easily use/find them for the right time. So I did some myself.
āPALESTINE, SUDAN, HAITI, AND CONGO ARE ALL CONNECTED. THE COMMON DENOMINATOR IS COLONIALISM, LAND THEFT, RESOURCE PLUNDERING, AND IMPERIALIST GREEDā
