this will sound crazy but sometimes i genuinely feel like some michael fans view this man as white. it’s already annoying enough because a lot of people are still ignorant about his vitiligo, thinking michael could control it, which is insensitive in itself. the reason why i believe some michael fans view him as white is through some fan art, the way he’s written in some fanfic, and overall perceived in and by the media. i know what i am saying is not anything new, but it is bothering me, while having the knowledge that michael, when alive, was always proud to be a black man, and had to basically force people to see that. you’re contributing to a harmful narrative if you do view michael as a white man, in any way, shape, or form, that’s an undeniable fact. i could go on about why i feel this way and how i do think that even some of his non-black fans are a contributor to why, not just press, weirdly enough, if that makes sense, even a little. because my conversation on how some non-black fanfic writers exclude black readers when it comes to making michael x reader fics ties into this a bit. also, going back to fan art, and how some non-black artists draw michael to have skin as pale as an actual white man, which is, problematic in itself. i am not even trying to offend anyone, it’s just something that’s been on my mind for a while.
part 1 ; part 2 ; part 3
pairing: michael jackson x fem!reader (jackie’s wife)
era: late 70s/otw
wc: 3.5k
summary: someone finally learns how to love and someone learns how to let go.
warnings /tags: ⚠️
ANGST!!!! infidelity(?), brother-in-law trope, age-gap (reader is slightly older), reader is jackie’s neglected wife :(, guilt, angst, mutual emotional repression, michael is catastrophically in love, ANGST ANGST ANGSTTTT, also an inaccuracy - i've made it look like "she's out of my life" was written by michael when in reality it wasn't but idc it's for the plot :c
taglist : @kae2kaee , @boredpretty , @18lkpeters , @mjssluttyfish , @skiicoreee , @evetheegoonette ; @xoxogossipgirl02 ; @tojiswifeforlife ; @pixieelixer-24 ; @weepingwillow12344 ; @bringitonhomejohnb ; @bawdylanguageee
a/n : ahhhhh this is the final part of healing touch :( im gonna miss writing this sm!! thank you for all the reblogs and notes and love for this series!!
It was past midnight and Michael was still in his studio. The fairy lights were on, headphones sitting around his neck instead of over his ears because he'd stopped actually listening to the playback an hour ago and had been sitting there since with the notebook open in front of him, pen in hand, not entirely writing. He'd been in the studio since before dinner. He told himself it was the album, and it was, partially.
He heard the door open and assumed it was Marlon coming to tell him to eat something. Then the door closed and the sound of it made him turn around.
Jackie stood inside the studio, still dressed from earlier, arms loose at his sides. Michael had seen Jackie angry before but this was different.
Michael took the headphones off and set them on the console and waited.
"Stay away from my wife," Jackie said.
Michael went cold.
Jackie moved further into the room, taking his time, stopping near the couch to look around—the fairy lights, the mixing board, the open notebook—before his eyes came back to Michael. "I know something happened. I don't need the details. I just need you to understand me." He tilted his head slightly. "I've been watching for weeks, Michael. I'm not stupid."
"I know you're not," Michael said.
"Then act like it."
Michael stood up from the stool but not to fight; he just couldn't sit down for this. He turned slightly away, staring at the board. There was something sitting in his chest that he recognized, had been recognizing for a while, and it wasn't just guilt. It was the kind of feeling that builds over years of being the youngest, the one who keeps the peace, the one who listens quietly and never says what he actually means because saying it out loud makes it someone else's problem and he had spent his whole life not wanting to be anyone's problem. He was so tired of that.
"Stay away from her," Jackie said again. "Whatever this is, it ends. She's mine."
Mine. Not I love her, not I'm scared of losing her, nothing that pointed to a feeling. Just the word you use about something that belongs to you.
Michael turned around. "Then love her," he said simply.
Jackie blinked. Just once. "What."
"Love her." Michael's voice came out quiet and completely steady, which surprised even him a little. "And don't do it because you're scared. Don't do it because something made you realize you could lose her. Love her because she's worth it and she has been worth it every single day while you were looking everywhere else. Buy her flowers because you actually want to see her face when she gets them. She likes the yellow ones, if you didn't know. Take her to dinner because you want to sit across from her and hear what she's saying. Look at her when she's talking to you—just look at her, all the way, because you want to."
Jackie's expression shifted. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"When was the last time you noticed her?" Michael asked. "She came to find you during that party and told you her feet hurt and you turned back to your friends. She cooked for twelve people that night and you didn't say a word to her about it. She is always apologizing for asking from you." He paused. "I was there when you weren't, Jackie. I've always been there. I've been watching you not see her for years."
"Michael—"
"She has to dim herself down for you." He kept going because he had started and there was no clean place to stop now. This was two years of keeping his mouth shut and it was done keeping itself shut.
"She makes herself smaller so she fits into whatever small space you decide to give her that day. She used to light up every room she walked into. She still does, when she forgets to hold it back—but around you she's learned to hold it back because it's easier than being too much for you. This is what has been happening in your house while you weren't looking."
Jackie crossed the room fast, the full weight of being the oldest and the biggest, stopping close enough that Michael had to hold his ground. "That is my wife," he said, his voice low and shaking with something trying hard to stay controlled. "She is my wife. You don't get to stand in here and tell me who she is—"
"I'm not trying to take her from you." Michael meant it and he said it simply enough that Jackie heard the truth in it and stopped. "I'm telling you to keep her. I'm telling you she's worth keeping, and not just when you're scared someone else noticed her first. You ignored her for years, Jackie. And the second somebody else paid attention, now she's worth fighting for?"
Jackie stared at him. Something was working behind his eyes that wasn't quite getting all the way to anger, because underneath whatever was going on, he started to recognize his mistakes but did not want to admit it. "You think I'm scared," he said quietly. "Of you. You think I'm scared of my little brother."
"I think that you should be," Michael said. "Did you end up finding my necklace in her hair?"
The room went completely silent.
Jackie's jaw tightened. "Careful," he said.
"I'm just asking," Michael wasn't being cruel about it, he was just asking a question he already knew the answer to. "Because you came in here telling me what's yours. I'm just wondering if you noticed it was already gone."
Jackie moved before Michael finished the sentence and grabbed the front of Michael's shirt and he let him, didn't flinch back, just stood there and looked at his brother at close range with that same expression that had no guilt in it.
"Don't," Jackie said. His voice had finally lost the controlled tone. Something raw underneath it now, hot and unsteady. "Don't you dare stand here and—"
"What?" Michael said quietly. "Tell you the truth?"
Jackie held him there for a long moment. His breathing was audible. His knuckles were white in the fabric of Michael's shirt and Michael looked at him without saying anything else.
Slowly, Jackie let go.
He stepped back. Smoothed the front of his jacket with both hands, a gesture so practiced it looked almost involuntary. He looked at Michael with the expression of a man who has been handed a mirror he didn't ask for and can't look away from it.
"She's my wife," he said finally, quieter now. Not like a threat this time, but almost like he was reminding himself.
"I know," Michael said. "Go act like it."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There were yellow tulips and daffodils on the counter in a glass of water, stems already trimmed, sitting in the patch of morning light that came through between eight and nine. Jackie was at the table with his coffee and he looked up when you walked in and smiled, easy and warm, the way he had been smiling at you lately.
"Thought you'd like those," he said. They were exactly the kind of flowers you would have pointed to in a shop window years ago, in that early part of your relationship when you were still paying close attention to what he noticed and what he let pass.
"They're beautiful," you said, and your voice came out right.
He took you to dinner that Saturday at a restaurant you'd mentioned once, months ago, in the middle of a different conversation and you'd said it so casually like the kind of things you say and immediately file under things he won't remember. But he'd remembered.
He asked about your sister, and not a vague how's-the-family kind of way. He listened to you carefully. He refilled your water. He laughed at something you said with his whole face, the way that made him look young and easy, the way you had once loved. He put his hand over yours halfway through the meal and left it there.
You looked at his hand covering yours and thought, without deciding to, about a different pair of hands. About what it felt like to be held like something worth being careful with. You smiled at your husband and the smile came out right and every time it did it cost you something.
Michael had made himself careful about being in the same rooms as you. You would come into the kitchen and find a coffee cup still warm, a chair pushed out. You'd walk into Marlon and Tito laughing about something and see an indent on the couch next to them like someone had just gotten up and left.
Sometimes, you'd stand at the right window late enough and hear, faintly, music from the studio at the far end of the property. He was in there working. The guilt and the grief had both moved into permanent residence by now and they did not take up a lot of space but they were always there, in the corner of every good moment Jackie gave you.
You lay awake one night and stopped telling yourself it was coincidence. Jackie's sudden presence and Michael's careful absence had arrived the same week, within days of each other, and Jackie did not just decide to try. Jackie did not just happen to remember the restaurant or the flowers. Something had shifted the ground underneath him and you already knew who was behind it.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You went to the studio on a Wednesday afternoon. You hadn't made a formal decision about it—more like your feet had been making it for days and the rest of you had finally caught up. The jasmine was overgrown on the path and it caught at your arms as you walked through it. You had the necklace in your hand. You knocked.
There was the sound of movement inside, then his voice. "One second." The door opened and there he was; white t-shirt, curls pushed back with one of those thin headbands he wore when he was working, pen still in his hand, a tiredness behind his eyes that had been there for weeks and that sleep wasn't touching.
"Hey," he said, warm and careful.
"Hey. Can I come in." You held up the necklace. He stepped back without a word.
The studio was the same—fairy lights on even in the afternoon, notebooks across the worn couch, the smell of the room that had gotten so specific to itself that you felt it every time like something pressing gently against your chest. You sat on the edge of the couch. He quickly moved the notebooks away and gestured you to take a seat properly, still keeping the space between you deliberate.
"Please make yourself comfortable," he said. "Quincy was here earlier and we were brainstorming, sorry for the mess."
"Jackie has been buying me flowers," you said. "He took me to dinner last week, to a place I mentioned months ago. He holds my hand across the table." You looked up at him. "He's been doing everything I spent years asking for and stopped asking for because I thought he just wasn't capable of it."
Michael said nothing.
"What did you say to him," you said.
A pause. "Nothing he didn't already know."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
You watched him for a moment and understood that he wasn't going to tell you. Whatever happened between him and Jackie would stay in between them. Michael absorbed costs without showing receipts; that was just how he was made. He did the hard things and let people believe they came easily. You looked back down at the necklace.
"I came to give this back," you said. "For real this time. And I need to say something first."
He waited.
"Michael," you said, and he made a small sound like he was going to argue, so you kept going. "Michael you are about to put out something that the whole world is going to hear and lose their minds over. You know that. What's been coming out of this studio—the world is going to open up for you in a way you can't fully picture from here. You're going to go everywhere. Walk into rooms and have people love you loudly and openly, in public, in daylight."
You swallowed. "You deserve that. You deserve someone who can love you like that—who isn't already someone else's, who you don't have to hide, who can say it without it costing you your brother and your family every time she looks at you. Someone who can love you in a way that I will never be able to."
"You're not going to let yourself move on while I'm here," you said. "I know how you are. You'll never ask me for anything because you would rather burn than make it my problem. And I cannot keep letting you do that to yourself." A breath. "You deserve so much, Michael. So much more than this."
"If things were different," he looked down at his hands.
You went still.
He looked up at you. "If none of the rest of it existed. No Jackie, no family, no any of it. If I was just a man and you were just a woman." His jaw was tight. His eyes were bright. "Would you have picked me."
You couldn't speak for a moment.
"Please don't ask me that," you whispered.
"I know." He said it immediately, and something in his face did something fast that you almost missed. "I know, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"
"Michael—"
"Forget it. I'm sorry." He pressed two fingers to his mouth and looked away briefly. Then back. "Forget I said it."
But the answer was already in the room. It had been in the room since you walked in, maybe since long before that, and you both knew what it was. You could see that he knew. The look on his face when your eyes met his told you he knew exactly what your silence meant, and the knowing of it was its own kind of awful.
"Please," you said, barely above a whisper. "Don't hold this place open. Just go live."
He nodded once. Then he held his hand out, palm up, and you placed the necklace in it and watched his fingers close around the chain. He looked at it in his fist, then back at you, and he was holding himself together with visible effort—you could see it in his jaw and his breathing and the way his eyes were very bright.
"I'm glad," he said finally, his voice rough at the edges. "That he's doing it. Jackie. Whatever I said to him—I'm glad you're being seen. I'm glad someone in that house is finally looking at you the way you should have been looked at the whole time." He exhaled slowly and it shook. "Even before any of this. Even when I knew nothing could ever happen. Even when it was just me sitting across the room wondering if you'd had a good day." A small, miserable sound that was almost a laugh.
"I just wanted somebody to love you right. I just didn't think it was going to hurt this much when it wasn't me." Tears were pooling in his eyes now. You couldn't do anything about them.
Your chest tightened so hard it hurt. Because there was no villain sitting across from you. No selfish man trying to take what wasn't his. Just Michael. Michael, who loved you so much that even now, while his heart was breaking in front of you, he was still trying to be happy for you. Still trying to convince himself that this was enough.
"Don't," you said. "You're making it impossible."
"I-I know. I'm sorry." His voice finally cracked, just slightly, just at the very edge of it.
You stood up and crossed the studio and pressed your palm to his face. He closed his eyes. One tear slipped out and you caught it with your thumb, the same way he had once caught yours in this room, and he turned his face into your hand, barely, the smallest motion, something he probably wasn't even aware of doing.
Something inside your chest felt like it was being pulled apart stitch by stitch. But you didn't cry, you couldn't. Not when he was already carrying enough of it for both of you.
So you swallowed hard and forced your hand to leave his face.
"Go be extraordinary," you said, your voice wrecked and past caring about it. "Go see all of it. Let people love you loud and don't hold this place open."
He opened his eyes. "Y/N." Just your name.
"I know," you said. "Me too."
You walked out and the jasmine caught at your arms and you made it about halfway down the path before the crying caught up with you— not the quiet kind, the ugly kind, your hands coming up over your face even though there was no one to hide it from. You walked the rest of the way to the house like that, shoulders shaking.
You were upstairs with the shower running hot enough to fog every surface, both palms flat against the tile, head down, and tears mixing seamlessly with the scalding water, you cried hard and silent. You couldn’t even feel your own tears in the downpour, and that made it easier to pretend they weren’t there at all. Now you were putting yourself back into your own body. Back into your life. Back into being someone’s wife. The steam was thick and the mirror had completely disappeared, you were grateful for that because you were not ready to look at your own face yet.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Weeks blurred into months.
Off the Wall came out the following fall and the world, as you had told him it would, completely lost its mind. Michael won a Grammy for it, Best R&B Vocal Performance, and you watched the clip one evening with Jackie's arm around your shoulders on the couch. Michael at the podium, wearing a black tuxedo, soft-voiced and gracious as he thanked everyone. He didn't look into the camera for long, shy as always.
It was a Tuesday night a few weeks after the Grammys when you heard it.
The bedroom was dark. Jackie was asleep beside you, breathing deep and even, and the radio on the nightstand was playing low—some late-night countdown. You were on your back looking at the ceiling, not thinking about anything in particular, or telling yourself that, which had become a nightly habit. The host said something in his smooth late-night voice, alright, alright, this one's been flooding our requests all week, this is Michael Jackson, 'She's Out of My Life', and then the piano came in.
And then his voice.
She's out of my life.
You lay completely still.
She's out of my life, and I don't know whether to laugh or cry.
Jackie shifted in his sleep and pulled you closer on instinct, his arm warm around you, completely unaware. You lay inside his hold and the song played and the tears slid sideways into the pillow without you making a sound, because you had gotten very good by now at crying without making a sound. You cried because you know she's out of my life was recorded in one take, because Michael kept stopping and starting over and finally Quincy just let the tape run. The version on the album is the one where he cried at the end.
𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘪𝘤 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭 𝘣𝘪𝘰𝘱𝘪𝘤 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦. inspired by threatened, absolutely love that song. ✮
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.7𝐤 🤍
𝘔𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘦𝘭 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘹 black 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 ✮
𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘺🏆
18+ mdi
the invincible album was Micheal’s opportunity to create something different, unique without any interference of the publics disdain. this was completely him. raw, natural and pure.
you had become a star in many music videos with him before, something that you were known for was being Micheal’s muse. multiple songs were written for you detailed with passion and love. as always it was only right if you made an appearance in the visual.
the room was dimly lit ajoined with dancers, producers, and photographers with their eyes on you. every single move. this was your first video in a year and you wanted every single step to count.
Micheal stood along his sister Janet with a small digital camera in his hand, his enticing curls tucked into a messy ponytail. he started to speak “now sweetheart this one is really important, i want you to capture all of the emotions in this song..” he paused shyly stepping a bit closer to you “it’s very sexual, i want your movements to depict that.” you nodded in agreement.
𝟷, 𝟸, 𝟷, 𝟸, 𝟷, 𝟸 ✮
your shoulders swayed harshly back and forth following the rhythm as your back arched. you looked down at your chest moving your breast up and down. then shaking your hips to follow the same pace.
“okay that’s great. i like that.. stop the music please.” Micheal spoke out. you looked up slightly catching your breath, he started “i want to play some different instrumentals that way you have a variety of sound.. it’ll help that way you can change up the movements more fluidity or sharpness. come up with whatever you like my love. this is yours.. make it yours.”
scream by the siblings in front of you started to play out, you noticed he was testing you, admiring your creativity and you had all intentions of passing this test.
your shoulders bounced, harder this time as you started skipping almost, spinning around no longer facing the Jackson’s your hips moved up and down snapping to the rhythm. you heard whistles and cheers yet continued arching your waist deeply and turning your head around to look past your shoulder. “just like that, that’s perfect. now faster.” he called out, recording you with the black digital camera that was specifically used for any clips of you, zooming in immediately to catch your rhythm. Janet admired “she’s doing really great!” with her hands clamped together she smiled with excitement.
“stop pressuring me, make me wanna scream”
you dropped down into a squat, rocking your hips back and forth.
“stop the music.”
no he did not just cut off your damn music when you were this far-
“sweetheart this is perfect, how long do you think you can stay like that? i really want to push you, i know it’s a lot but it’ll be worth it.” he came closer to you his slacks nearly grazing your face.
when did he get so close..
“i want you exactly like that. i wanna see you do this part again, with fire. different sound.”
the music cued and you caught your breath, you absolutely adored the way he talked to you. as if nobody was there, hell you could do anything he wanted you to.
the raunchy beat of 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘵 ? started to play and you immediately felt shivers down your spine as his hand brushed your shoulder almost pulling you to reality. dance bitch! you started your movements again this time with more agression and your hips followed the bass. “feel that beat…just twerk with it, let it move you” as he stood in front of you his hand reaching towards you tilting your head up making eye contact with you. he tapped his foot to the rhythm moving his shoulders slightly and starting to dance alongside you. thrusting his hips towards you. he nodded once. approval without words.
the audience watched intentionally and so did the cameras following every single movement.
a group of the dancers whispered “should we be watching this.. it’s so..”
“sexual, provocative, and nasty.” one of the girls responded with the biggest smile.
“alright everyone let’s take a break.” Micheal called out. the audience clapped and withered away.
“you know i dislike that song.” you softly laughed, “i know my love im sorry. but it helped, you’re dancing perfectly for me.” you rolled your eyes out at him, turning your head away.
the vocals detailed the emotional break up between you two. the accusations were completely false and despite his understanding that the song was not completely accurate it became a number one charting song. although he cleared up the rumors that the split in your relationship was not due to any infidelity— speculation still persisted.
even though you two were no longer split in a completely healthier relationship, you couldn’t bring yourself to like the song. in fact you almost despised it even.
“sweetheart I’m terribly sorry, please forgive me.” he lead his hand out helping you up from the floor.
he never had intentions to bring back those memories he just wanted to make sure you got this down perfectly. he rubbed both of your shoulders softly massaging them together.
he started to laugh “i think for the next part, i should stand behind you there needs to be close proximity between us.” you blinked out of relaxation starting to comprehend what he was stating. you’d basically be gyrating on your fiancé in front of the audience that was slowly starting to form again. “you’re really serious-“ his lips hovered over your ear “we’re almost there, so close” his hands slid down to your waist gripping you softly. he snaked his hands up and down as if he was afraid of losing you again. you felt his warm girthy bulge press into you slightly, rubbing into your silk pants. jolting your body back into him you kept in your moan.
“let’s take it from the top.”
the movements became more defined as Michael danced with you he realized this choreography was perfection. the concept he created in his head was being accurately displayed through your execution. the way your hips rocked back and forth inviting his smooth steps to follow pursuit. he was chasing your rhythm and he was so confident in this race. as you both wrapped up the closing sequence of the dance you followed pursuit sliding forward on the the floor then crossing your arms together deepening the curvature of your back until you were pressed nearly centimeters away from the ground your curvy hips snapped against the floor emphasizing the bounce of the beat.
the sequence of loud cheers and whistles—snapped you back into reality. micheal rolled over on his back and brought you closer to him — his strength always amazed you. “you’re literal perfection. that’s exactly what i envisioned” he hummed to you softly. you felt your cheeks burn immensely.
“okay everyone thank you all for your patience and support i really appreciate it and we’ll see you all soon!” Micheal acknowledged as the crowd burst into applause a familiar routine that often signified the end of rehearsal. you turned to see your husband standing tall basking in your presence, before you could even speak he grasped your hand. “i think there’s a few things we should go over privately.” his voice sultry and low. as you both approached the hallway trying to keep up with his pace “is that why you ended rehearsal early? we could’ve stayed i don’t understand.” “shh it’s okay, I’ll make you understand.” you entered the limousine it’s dark sanctuary enticing you and your partner.
𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘑𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘰𝘯 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 ✮
you waltzed into the foyer practically questioning Micheal’s silence. he was usually so talkative and just as you continued to ponder he finally broke the tension in the air. “you were so amazing i couldn’t even hold myself back at times.. so undeniably beautiful for me.” he spoke out “let me reward you please my love, so perfect. just for me.” you stumbled back a bit, suprised my his pleading words “okay.” he picked you up carrying you to the kitchen placing you gently on the island, never breaking eye contact with your velvety eyes. his lips scanned your neck grazing kisses against your soft skin. his callous hands rubbed against your thighs consuming them as if he’d been holding on to dear life.
heat begins to follow the trail of kisses Michael has polluted on to your skin, his hand slithers from your thighs to your shoulders “you’re incredible.” he murmurs against your aching skin. “baby please..” you called out feeling his hand rubbing your breast finding your hardened nipples as his throbbing length teased you thrusting against your legs. “I’m sorry my love i can’t help it i have to take my time with you.” he groaned insatiably he was definitely hungry for a taste of you.
after such generous attention he removed your thin silk pants to be met with your drooling pussy, beautiful essence leaking from your panties. he placed a delicate kiss upon you hooking his fingers pulling your garment to the side, making room for his wet tongue. he took you in so effortlessly tasting you.
you didn’t even realize you had been holding your breath in, allowing the biggest moan out you harmonized. “that’s right beautiful let me know how good i make you feel.”
he rolled his tongue back taking in the flavor of your sweet patience and warmth. “making me wait all day to taste you.” he whispered into your thighs. “teasing me with your presence.” he worshiped.
you couldn’t help but tangle your hands into his curls it was the biggest habit you had, always making sure not to pull to much to hurt him. you groaned shutting your lids tight, overstimulated with his words.
“fuck just like that, don’t stop.” your hips bucked towards his tongue that darted into your lips as he placed his fingers in between them spreading you a part. Micheal took his time appreciating you, showing his affection was persistent and genuine.
the pressure, the tension rapidly increased, every second pulling you in closer. his fingers grazing against your skin ignited a rush of emotion beneath the surface. you loved every second of his presence underneath you.
“I’m not done with you beautiful, I need you to feel how proud I am.” his words lingered, replaying over and your head.
A/N: got all these imagine ideas and I wanna get them alll outttt!!!!
Warning: Age gap (I don’t mention it tho), smut, Michael fine ass
May 6th, 1995
The silk sheets were cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the furnace of his body beside you. The world outside was a blur of Los Angeles lights, but inside this suite, in this velvet-draped sanctuary, there was only him. Michael. His hand traced a lazy path down your spine, fingertips whispering over the sensitive skin just above your hip. You shivered, but not from the chill. From the heat. From the memory of what had just transpired, what had pushed you both to the very edge of something raw and desperate.
He’d been different tonight. Not the careful, almost shy lover you’d known in the months of discreet hotel meetings, the sweet secret you kept from the prying world. No. Tonight had been a conquest. A claiming. From the moment you’d stepped into the room, smelling of his favorite perfume, he’d looked at you with a hunger that stripped away all pretense. His voice, usually so soft and melodic, had been a low, commanding rasp. “Come here.”
And you had. You always did.
The foreplay hadn’t been gentle. It had been a frantic dance of teeth and tongues, of his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to leave faint marks, of your nails digging into the broad shoulders hidden beneath his simple black shirt. He’d pushed you against the panoramic window, the city sprawling beneath you, and kissed you until your lips felt bruised and swollen. He’d whispered things you’d never heard him say. “You drive me crazy. I need to feel you. All of you.”
It had been a frenzy. A delicious, terrifying blur of sensation.
Now, in the calm aftermath, your body was a map of every touch. Your muscles were liquid. Your mind was hazy, floating in a sea of endorphins and sheer, unadulterated need. But beneath that haze, a sharper, clearer emotion was crystallizing. It had been growing for weeks, fed by every stolen glance, every secret laugh, every time he’d held you just a little longer than necessary. Love. Not just the grateful affection of a sugarbaby for her generous daddy. Not the thrill of being with a legend. This was something deeper, more terrifying, more real.
Your heart was pounding again, but not from desire. From fear.
His fingers still moved on your back, a gentle, rhythmic pattern that felt like a heartbeat. You turned to face him. The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp casting a golden halo over the bed. He looked… serene. His famous features were softened in repose, the sharp jawline relaxed, the wide, expressive eyes half-closed. He was beautiful. Not the icon, but the man.
You took a breath that felt like shattering glass in your lungs.
“Michael?”
His eyes opened fully, the dark pools focusing on you. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His voice was back to its normal, gentle tone. The beast had retreated, leaving the gentle soul you adored.
“Nothing’s wrong,” you said, your voice trembling. “Everything’s… perfect.”
He smiled, a small, private smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. He reached up and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “It was perfect. You were perfect.”
The words were a catalyst. The dam broke.
“I need to tell you something,” you whispered, the words rushing out before you could cage them. “And it’s scary. And it might… change things.”
His smile faded, replaced by a look of cautious concern. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to look down at you. The sheet slid from his chest, revealing the smooth, toned skin you’d worshiped with your mouth just an hour before. “You can tell me anything. Nothing you say could ever make me send you away.”
It wasn’t about being sent away. It was about being kept.
You swallowed, gathering the scattered pieces of your courage. “This… what we do… it started as something else. You know that. I know that. It was fun. It was exciting. It was… convenient.” You forced yourself to meet his gaze, to dive into those deep, knowing eyes. “But it’s not that anymore. For me. It’s not about the gifts, or the trips, or the secrecy. It’s about you. Just you. Being with you. Talking to you. Listening to you laugh. Seeing you get excited about a new song idea.” Your voice cracked. “I love you, Michael. Not like a fan. Not like a sugarbaby. I love you like… like I want to wake up next to you every day. Like I want to argue with you about what to eat for breakfast. Like I want to hold your hand when things get hard out there in the world.”
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, suffocating. He didn’t move. His expression didn’t change. He just stared, his eyes searching yours, as if looking for a trapdoor, a joke, a lie.
Your stomach twisted into a cold knot. You’ve ruined it. You’ve broken the spell. The beautiful, freaky, perfect spell.
Then, slowly, a tear welled in the corner of his right eye. It glimmered in the lamplight, a single, liquid diamond. It traced a path down his cheekbone, and he didn’t wipe it away.
“Oh, baby,” he breathed, the sound raw and full of wonder. “You really feel that?”
“Yes,” you said, the word a solid truth. “I really do.”
He blinked, and another tear followed the first. He cupped your face with both hands, his palms warm and slightly rough against your skin. “You have no idea,” he whispered, his voice shaking now. “No idea what it means to hear that. To have someone look at me… see me… and say that.” He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, a gesture of such intimate connection it made your chest ache. “I live in a world of mirrors. People see a reflection. They see the dance, the voice, the clothes. They don’t see the man inside. They don’t want to see him. It’s too messy. Too real.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you again. “But you… you look right through the mirror. You’ve always looked right at me.”
A hope, fragile and blazing, began to ignite in your core. “So… you…”
He didn’t let you finish. He kissed you. Not the frantic, possessive kiss of earlier, but a deep, slow, soul-searing kiss. It was a kiss of confirmation. Of acceptance. Of answer. His lips moved against yours with a tenderness that threatened to dissolve you. When he finally broke away, his eyes were glistening, but a smile was breaking through like sunrise.
“I love you too,” he said, the words simple, clear, and devastatingly sincere. “I’ve been so scared to say it. Scared it would scare you. Scared it would break the… the arrangement. But I do. I love your mind. I love your spirit. I love the way you make me feel like I’m just a man, not a monument.”
The knot in your stomach unraveled, replaced by a soaring, dizzying euphoria. You laughed, a sound that was half-sob, half-triumph. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him down onto you, holding him with all the strength your exhausted body could muster. He buried his face in your neck, his breath warm and shaky against your skin.
“So what happens now?” you asked, your voice muffled against his shoulder.
He lifted his head. The smile was now full, bright, real. “What happens now is we stop hiding. Not from the world—we’ll still have to be careful, for a while. But from each other.” He traced your lips with his thumb. “We date. Like real people. You’re my girlfriend. I’m your boyfriend. The sugarbaby thing is over. This… this is real.”
The words were a key turning in a long-locked door. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Simple words. Mundane words. But for you, in this context, they were magic.
The emotion, the confession, the new, stunning reality—it all stirred something else deep inside you. The physical hunger, momentarily subdued by the emotional tsunami, began to reawaken. It pulsed in your veins, a low, throbbing beat that synced with the rapid rhythm of your heart.
You saw the same recognition flare in his eyes. The tenderness melted, just a fraction, into that earlier hunger. The beast wasn’t gone. It was just… transformed. Now it was a beast that loved you. A beast that you loved.
Your hand, which had been stroking his back, slid lower. Over the curve of his hip. To the firm, hot muscle of his thigh. You squeezed, feeling the power there. He gasped softly, his eyes darkening.
“You’re still here,” you murmured, a new boldness infusing your voice. “The you that took me against the window. The you that made me scream into the pillow. I want that you again. I want to feel you again… now that I know.”
A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. It was a look you’d never seen before—playful, possessive, and utterly yours. “You want to celebrate?” he asked, his voice dropping back to that commanding rasp.
“Yes,” you said, pushing him gently so he rolled onto his back. You straddled him, looking down at his glorious body laid out beneath you. The evidence of his desire was already rising, thick and eager against his stomach. “I want to celebrate us.”
He reached up and grabbed your hips, his grip firm and guiding. “Then celebrate,” he said. “Take what you want.”
You didn’t hesitate. You leaned down, your mouth finding his. The kiss quickly deepened, turned hungry. Your tongue plunged into his mouth, tasting him, claiming him. He groaned, his hands sliding from your hips to your ass, kneading the soft flesh there. You broke the kiss and trailed your lips down his neck, to his collarbone, to the hard plane of his chest. You took one of his flat, brown nipples into your mouth, sucking and teasing it with your tongue until he arched beneath you, a sharp cry escaping his lips.
“God,” he muttered, his fingers tightening on your ass.
You continued your journey south, your hair trailing over his skin. You kissed the tight ridges of his abdomen, the faint trail of hair leading downward. You nuzzled the hot, velvet-skinned flesh of his inner thighs, feeling him tremble. Then, finally, you took him into your mouth.
He was already fully erect, thick and heavy on your tongue. You moaned around him, the sensation of his taste, his heat, his size flooding your senses. You started slow, worshiping him with long, deep strokes of your mouth, your hands braced on his thighs. His hips began to move in tiny, involuntary thrusts, pushing him deeper into your throat. You relaxed, letting him in, taking him all until the head pressed against the back of your mouth.
“Oh, baby… yes… just like that,” he choked out, his hands now fisted in the sheets beside him.
You built a rhythm, sucking hard, swirling your tongue around the sensitive crown, then plunging deep again. You could feel his tension building, the muscles of his stomach tightening, his breath becoming ragged gasps. You wanted him to lose control. You wanted to feel him shatter in your mouth, to taste his release as a testament to this new beginning.
But he stopped you. With a sudden, gentle firmness, he pulled your head up. “No,” he breathed, his eyes blazing. “Not yet. I want to be inside you when it happens. I want to feel you come with me.”
He guided you back up his body, until you were kneeling over him again. His hands went to your waist, then lower, his fingers finding your wet, aching center. You were dripping for him, swollen and ready. He stroked you, his touch expert and relentless, making you buck and cry out.
“You’re so ready for me,” he murmured, a note of awe in his voice. “So perfect.”
Then he positioned you. He held your hips and guided you down, slowly, until the broad tip of his cock pressed against your entrance. You looked down, watching the moment of connection. Then you sank onto him.
The feeling was blinding. It was fullness, heat, a stretching pleasure that bordered on pain. You took him inch by inch, your body opening, accepting, welcoming him. When he was fully seated inside you, buried to the root, you both paused, panting, locked together in a perfect, breathless union.
He looked up at you, his face a mask of pure ecstasy. “You feel that?” he asked, his voice a strained whisper. “You feel how we fit? It’s like we were made for this.”
You could only nod, your vision swimming.
Then he moved. He thrust upward, a deep, powerful surge that lifted you on the bed. You cried out, the sound torn from your throat. He set a rhythm, not frantic like before, but deep and deliberate. Each stroke was a claiming. Each withdrawal was a promise of return. His hands gripped your hips, helping you move, grinding you against him on every downstroke so his pelvis rubbed against your clit with delicious, friction-filled precision.
The pleasure built in a steady, rising wave. It started in your core, where he filled you so completely, and radiated outwards, heating your skin, tightening your muscles, shortening your breath. You rode him, your own muscles working, your hips rolling in a counter-rhythm to his thrusts. The room filled with the sounds of your union: the slap of skin, the wet, slick sounds of penetration, his low groans, your high, keening moans.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his eyes locking onto yours.
You obeyed. You looked down into his face, into the eyes of the man you loved, as he moved inside you. The intimacy was devastating. It was more than sex. It was a communion. A vow.
The wave peaked. Your orgasm approached not as a surprise, but as a certainty. You felt it gathering, a tight, hot coil in your belly, ready to snap. Your moans became continuous, a stream of soundless pleasure. Your thighs began to shake.
“I’m gonna come,” you gasped, the words barely coherent.
“Come with me,” he growled, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, more urgent. “Let it go. Give it to me.”
And you did. The coil snapped. A white-hot explosion of sensation detonated in your core, radiating out in pulsing waves of pure, unadulterated bliss. Your body convulsed around him, your inner muscles clamping down on his cock in rhythmic, milking spasms. You screamed, a raw, unfiltered sound of release.
The feeling of your climax triggered his own. With a final, driving thrust, he buried himself deep and held there. His body stiffened beneath you. A harsh, guttural cry ripped from his throat. You felt him pulse inside you, hot and urgent, flooding you with his release. The sensation of his cum, jetting deep into your clutching channel, sent another, smaller aftershock of pleasure rippling through you.
You collapsed forward, falling onto his chest, your body spent, your mind blank. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight as you both trembled in the aftermath. His skin was slick with sweat, his heart hammered against your ear.
For long minutes, you just lay there, fused together, breathing in the scent of sex and skin and him. The world had narrowed to this bed, this embrace, this moment.
Finally, he shifted, pulling out of you gently. He didn’t let you go. He kept you tucked against his side, your head on his shoulder. His hand stroked your hair.
“My girlfriend,” he said softly, the words a satisfied sigh.
“My boyfriend,” you whispered back, nuzzling into his neck.
The future stretched out before you, unknown, fraught with the difficulties of his world. But in this moment, it didn’t matter. You had him. He had you. The secret was no longer a transaction. It was a love story.
And it was just beginning.
The scent of him still clung to your skin—that mix of clean sweat, musk, and the faint, expensive cologne he wore. It was a perfume of possession, of the night’s raw, passionate claiming. You lay tangled in his arms, the silk sheets cool against your heated limbs, your mind drifting in a hazy, satisfied fog. His girlfriend. The word played in your head like a sweet melody. It changed everything. It changed nothing. The world outside was still the same, but inside this room, inside your heart, a new reality had bloomed.
Michael’s breathing was slow and deep, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. You traced a finger over the smooth skin, feeling the steady beat of his heart. He stirred, his arm tightening around you.
“You’re thinking,” he murmured, his voice sleep-rough and intimate.
“Just… savoring,” you whispered back.
He smiled, a lazy, contented curve of his lips. “Savoring what?”
“This. You. The words you said.”
His hand slid down your back, a languid, possessive stroke. “They’re real words. They’re true.” He kissed your forehead, a gentle press. “And now, I want to savor you. All of you. Slowly. Completely.”
He shifted, rolling away from you and sitting up. The lamplight caught the elegant lines of his back, the graceful taper of his waist. He stood, a vision of lean, masculine power, and turned to look at you. His eyes were dark, intent, but softer than the fierce hunger of before. This was a different kind of desire—one of exploration, of worship.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice a low invitation.
You sat up, the sheet falling away. “Where?”
A playful, secretive smile touched his lips. “The shower. I want to wash you. I want to touch you where the water touches you. I want to make you feel clean and new… like our beginning.”
The idea sent a fresh, electric thrill through your exhausted body. You nodded, rising from the bed. Your legs were shaky, muscles still weak from the earlier climax, but you followed him. He led you through the luxurious suite, past the panoramic window now reflecting the first hints of dawn, to the sprawling marble bathroom.
It was a palace of steam and tile. A massive, glass-walled shower stood in the center, with multiple heads positioned at different heights. He walked in first, turning on the water. A cascade began from the ceiling—a gentle, warm rain. Then he activated another, a wall-mounted head that created a soft, horizontal spray. The room began to fill with steam, the air turning humid and fragrant with the scent of his expensive, citrus-and-sandalwood shower gel.
He stepped back, beckoning you. You entered the glass enclosure, the warm water instantly soaking your hair, running down your shoulders. It felt like a baptism. He stood before you, water sluicing over his body, highlighting every contour, every muscle. He looked at you with an intensity that was both tender and deeply carnal.
“Stand here,” he instructed gently, positioning you under the rain shower.
You obeyed, letting the water run over your face, your breasts, your stomach. He moved closer, his body not touching yours yet, but his presence enveloping you. His hands came up, but he didn’t grab. He began.
His fingertips started at your temples. They traced the line of your hair, pushing the wet strands back from your face. The touch was so light, so deliberate, it felt like a meditation. He moved down, tracing the arch of your eyebrows, the curve of your cheekbones. His thumbs brushed over your closed eyelids, making you shiver.
“So beautiful,” he whispered, the steam making his voice seem closer, more intimate. “Every part of you.”
His hands slid down your neck, following the column of your throat. He used both hands, his palms open, gliding over your skin with the water as a lubricant, a silky barrier that heightened sensation. He reached your shoulders, his fingers kneading the tense muscles there, a slow, therapeutic pressure that made you sigh and lean into his touch.
Then he moved to your breasts.
He didn’t grab them. He adored them. His hands cupped them from below, lifting them gently, feeling their weight as water streamed over his wrists. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, circling them slowly, making them tighten into hard, sensitive peaks under the warm spray. He bent his head, his mouth following his hands. He kissed one nipple, not sucking, just a soft, lingering press of his lips. Then he did the same to the other. The sensation was exquisite—the warm water from above, the heat of his mouth, the gentle friction of his tongue as it flicked lazily across the tip.
You moaned, your hands coming up to rest on his shoulders for balance.
He looked up, water dripping from his lashes. “Just feel,” he said. “Don’t think. Just feel my hands on you.”
His journey continued. His palms slid down your ribcage, tracing each bone with a slow, worshipful attention. He reached your waist, his hands spanning your hips, holding you as if measuring you. Then he moved to your stomach. His fingertips danced over the soft plane, tracing invisible patterns, dipping into the shallow hollow of your navel. He leaned in again, kissing your stomach, his lips warm and firm against your wet skin.
The water rained down. The steam thickened. The world was this glass box, this liquid heat, this man whose touch was rewriting your very nervous system.
His hands moved lower, over the curve of your pelvis. He knelt before you in the shower, the water cascading over his back and shoulders. From this position, he looked up at you, his eyes reverent and hungry. His hands settled on your outer thighs, stroking them, from your hips all the way down to your knees. His touch was thorough, complete. He explored every inch, every curve, the strength of your muscles, the softness of your inner flesh.
Then he turned his attention to the center of you.
His fingers brushed through the wet curls between your legs, parting them gently. He didn’t plunge inside. He teased. He traced the outer lips, following their shape with a fingertip so light it was almost a ghost-touch. You gasped, your hips jerking slightly.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice a calming vibration. “I’m just looking. Just learning.”
He used both hands now, spreading you open with a tender, deliberate pressure. The water ran directly over your exposed flesh, a new, intense sensation of warmth and wetness. He watched, his eyes fixed on the intimate view. Seeing him look at you with such focused, unabashed desire made your core clench with a fresh, aching need.
Then he touched you properly.
One finger, slick from water and your own arousal, stroked up your slit. It was a slow, dragging motion from bottom to top, ending with a gentle press against your clit. You cried out, the sound echoing in the marble space. He did it again. And again. Each stroke was agonizingly slow, building a pressure that was entirely different from the frantic fucking of before. This was a slow-burn, a deep-building itch that demanded relief.
“You’re so swollen,” he observed, his voice husky with awe. “So ready. Even after everything.”
He increased the pressure. His finger circled your clit, not fast, but with a relentless, clockwise precision. The water hitting it created a strange, double sensation—the direct touch of his finger, and the indirect, pulsing massage of the warm spray. Your thighs began to tremble. Your breath came in short, sharp pants.
He saw it. He smiled, a knowing, sensual smile. Then he leaned forward.
He didn’t use his mouth aggressively. He nuzzled. He pressed his face against your inner thigh, kissing the soft skin there, inhaling your scent mixed with steam and soap. Then he moved inward. His lips found your center. He kissed you there, a soft, closed-mouth kiss that was somehow more intimate than any deep thrust of his tongue. You felt his breath, hot and damp, against your sensitive flesh.
Then he opened his mouth.
His tongue emerged, flat and warm. He licked you, a long, slow, sweeping stroke from the very base of your opening all the way up to your clit. It was a tasting. A savoring. He did it again, changing the angle, exploring the texture of you. He found your entrance and dipped his tongue inside, just the tip, a shallow, probing intrusion that made you arch and cry out.
“Michael…” you pleaded, your hands gripping his wet hair.
He ignored your plea for more. He was in control. This was his exploration. He continued his slow, oral worship. His tongue flicked against your clit, light and rapid, then returned to long, languid strokes. He alternated, building a rhythm that was unpredictable, maddening, perfect. He used his lips too, sucking gently on the outer lips, then on your clit itself, creating a soft, pulsing pressure that bordered on pain.
The pleasure was a deep, coiling spring inside you, winding tighter with every second of his attention. It wasn’t the sharp, sprinting climb to orgasm you’d experienced earlier. This was a marathon. A slow, exquisite ascent. Your body was on a plateau of continuous, high-level arousal, each touch pushing you a little higher, but never letting you peak.
He finally pulled back, his face glistening with water and your essence. He stood up, his body towering over you again. His own need was evident, his cock standing thick and proud against his stomach, water streaming over its length.
“Turn around,” he said softly.
You turned, facing the glass wall. He stepped close behind you, his body not touching yours yet. His hands returned to your shoulders, his fingers massaging the knots there. Then he began to move them down your back. He traced your spine, each vertebra, with a slow, loving attention. He reached the small of your back, his palms spreading to cover the dimples there. He kneaded the flesh, his thumbs pressing into the muscles beside your spine.
His hands slid over your hips, to your ass. He took his time here. He cupped your cheeks, feeling their fullness, their softness under the slick water. He massaged them, his fingers digging in with a firm, pleasurable pressure. He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding the side of your neck. He kissed you there, his lips hot against your wet skin. His teeth grazed you lightly, a hint of the previous night’s dominance returning.
One hand left your ass and trailed down the back of your thigh, to your knee, to your calf. He lifted your foot gently, washing it with his hand, massaging your arch. He did the same with the other foot. You felt utterly cared for, utterly serviced.
Then his hands returned to your hips. He pulled you back, just an inch, so your body pressed fully against his. You felt his cock, hard and urgent, nestle against the cleft of your ass. He didn’t push for entry. He just held you there, letting you feel his need, his heat.
His mouth was at your ear. “I want to be inside you again,” he whispered, the steam making his breath a hot cloud against your skin. “But not like before. Slow. So slow you feel every millimeter.”
You nodded, desperate for him, for any kind of connection. “Please.”
He guided you forward, until your hands were pressed against the cool glass wall for support. The rain shower beat down on your back and his. The horizontal spray hit your legs. He positioned himself behind you, one hand on your hip, the other guiding his cock.
He didn’t thrust. He eased.
The broad, wet tip pressed against your entrance, which was slick from water and your own relentless arousal. He pushed forward, an inch, then stopped. The feeling of that partial penetration, that teasing fullness, was agonizing. You whimpered, pushing back against him slightly, trying to take more.
“No,” he said, his voice firm but gentle. “Wait.”
He held still, letting you feel just that inch of him inside you. The water ran over your joined bodies. He leaned forward, kissing your shoulder blade. Then he pushed another inch.
It was a deliberate, maddening progression. He moved in incremental advances, each one a tiny, exquisite invasion. You felt every fraction of his length entering you, the stretch, the heat, the ownership. He took a full minute to fill you completely, his body pressed tight against yours, his chest against your back, his arms wrapped around your waist.
When he was finally fully seated, buried deep, you both paused, panting. The sensation was overwhelming. The slow penetration had sensitized every nerve, making the final fullness feel like a profound, complete consumption.
“Feel me?” he breathed into your ear.
“Yes,” you gasped. “All of you.”
He began to move.
His thrusts were not quick, not deep pumps. They were slow-motion withdrawals and returns. He pulled out almost completely, until just the tip remained inside, teasing your entrance. Then he pushed back in, that same slow, inch-by-inch re-entry. Each withdrawal was a heartbreaking loss. Each return was a soul-deep relief.
The pace was relentless in its slowness. It gave you time to feel everything. The texture of him inside you. The way your inner muscles clenched around him, trying to keep him in. The friction, amplified by the water acting as a slippery, sensual lubricant. The angle—his cock hitting a deep, internal spot that the previous position hadn’t reached, sending bright sparks of pleasure up your spine.
His hands roamed your body as he moved. One hand stayed on your hip, guiding the slow rhythm. The other hand explored. It stroked your back. It reached around and found your breast, cupping it, thumbing your nipple. It slid down your stomach, to the junction of your bodies, his fingers finding your clit again.
He rubbed you there, his touch matching the slow, deliberate pace of his thrusts. The dual stimulation was unbearably good. The deep, full penetration combined with the precise, circling pressure on your clit created a feedback loop of pleasure that built and built with each slow, measured stroke.
Your moans became constant, a low, steady stream of sound that echoed in the shower. Your legs shook. Your fingers splayed against the glass, leaving wet prints. You were losing yourself in the rhythm, in the sensation, in the sheer attention he was giving you.
“You’re so tight around me,” he groaned, his own control starting to fray. “So perfect. Taking me so slow… so good.”
His thrusts began to deepen slightly, though the pace remained slow. He pushed harder on the inward stroke, hitting that deep spot with more force. The change sent a shockwave through you. Your inner muscles spasmed, a prelude to the coming climax.
He felt it. His finger on your clit pressed harder, moved faster. The rhythm there escalated, a counterpoint to the still-slow thrusting. The mismatch was exquisite—the deep, steady penetration and the frantic, focused stimulation on your clit.
The coil inside you, wound so tight from his prolonged teasing, finally reached its breaking point.
It didn’t snap violently. It unraveled in a long, luxurious, slow-motion burst.
The orgasm began as a deep, internal pulse, a clenching wave that started where he was buried deepest and radiated outward. It was a full-body experience, a warm, flooding sensation that seemed to flow from your core to your fingertips, to the roots of your hair. You didn’t scream. You sighed, a long, trembling release of breath as the pleasure washed over you in slow, undulating waves.
Your body milked him, your inner muscles contracting and releasing in a rhythmic, slow pulse that matched the pace of his thrusts. You shuddered against the glass, your vision blurring from the steam and the ecstasy.
Your climax triggered his own. He had been holding back, maintaining that torturous, slow rhythm, but the feeling of your body pulsing around him broke his control.
With a deep, guttural groan, he thrust forward one final time, burying himself to the root and holding there. His body stiffened against yours. You felt him pulse inside you, his release hot and urgent, jetting deep into your clutching channel. The sensation of his cum, filling you in the warm, watery environment, sent another ripple of pleasure through your already-peaking body.
He held you there, both of you trembling, connected, as the water rained down on your spent forms. His arms wrapped around you tightly, his face buried in the wet hair at the nape of your neck. His breath was ragged against your skin.
For a long time, you just stood there, leaning against the glass, him inside you, the water washing over you both. It felt like a purification. A renewal.
Slowly, gently, he pulled out. You felt the loss, a hollow ache where he had been. He turned you around, his hands on your face. He looked into your eyes, his own eyes soft, satisfied, deeply connected.
He didn’t speak. He just kissed you, a slow, tender kiss that sealed the moment.
Then he reached for a bottle of shower gel, pouring a generous amount into his hands. He began to wash you, truly wash you now. His hands smoothed the slick gel over your shoulders, your back, your breasts, your stomach. He was cleansing you, but his touch was still sensual, still loving. He paid special attention to between your legs, washing you there with a gentle, caring intimacy that felt like a benediction.
He washed himself too, and then you helped wash him, your hands sliding over his sleek muscles, tracing the contours you’d come to worship.
Finally, he turned off the water. The sudden silence was stark, broken only by the drip of residual water and the sound of your breathing. He stepped out of the shower, grabbing a large, plush towel. He dried you first, patting your skin with a soft, attentive care, starting with your face and working down your body. When he was done, he dried himself quickly.
He led you back to the bed, not to the messy, passion-strewn sheets of before, but to a clean, dry part. He pulled you down beside him, wrapping you in his arms. Your skin was clean, warm, slightly damp. His scent was fresh now, mixed with the clean smell of soap.
You lay there, curled together, the dawn light beginning to filter through the windows, painting the room in soft, gold-and-gray tones.
“That was…” you began, but words failed you.
“A beginning,” he finished for you, his voice quiet and sure. “The first morning of us.” He kissed your temple. “My girlfriend.”
You smiled, nestling closer. “My boyfriend.”
The words felt even more real now, cemented by the slow, worshipful joining in the shower. It was a new chapter, written in water and steam and slow, deliberate touch.
— tags : ennemies to lovers (the beef is kinda one sided) badera!michael, singer!reader, tension, mutual pinning, oral(f!receiving), nsfw, fingering
— disclaimer : wrote this in class and i had to keep myself from screaming in front of my classmates…
ᝰ.ᐟ꩜ what will happen when a heated rivalry get trapped in the only suite available in the hotel ?
████████
it was common knowledge to everyone in the industry that her and michael jackson were oil and water, fire and ice, a complete storm when forced to breathe the same air. they were the top two pop stars in the world, so comparisons were constant, but it ran deeper than career rivalry. for her, the dislike was visceral; she found his public persona performative, his voice grated on her, and his mere existence in her space felt like a challenge. she had made subtle digs in interviews, eye-rolled during award shows when he swept the categories, and generally exuded a chill so profound around him that it could freeze hell over.
for michael, it was just plain annoying. he actually respected her talent, which made her gratuitous, public, almost obsessive hatred of him all the more infuriating. he couldn't stand being hated for absolutely no reason. they were scheduled to play opposite stadiums on the same summer weekend in london, and now, by a cruel twist of booking fate, they were not just in the same massive hotel, but both had been confirmed for the very same top-floor royal suite due to a monumental clerical error. the air is thick with tension, and she has a scowl that could curdle milk. she just wants to get up to the room and get away from him, and he just wants her to stop treating him like a complete villain.
the managers were currently locked in a heated debate at the front desk, each pulling out every industry connection and contract clause they could think of to secure the suite for their respective star. she stood a few feet back, leaning against a marble pillar and huffing with pure impatience, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she watched the chaos. finally, she couldn't take the incompetence anymore and marched up to the desk, cutting right through her manager’s sentence.
"give me the key," she snapped, her voice like ice as she bypassed her manager. "there has to be another suite. check again. the penthouse, a deluxe, a broom closet—i don't care."
the receptionist swallowed hard, her fingers trembling over the keyboard. "i'm so sorry, ma'am. with both your shows tonight, every five-star room in london is gone. we’ve checked the surrounding hotels too. it's either the royal suite or... well, the lobby."
she let out a sharp, jagged laugh, turning her head just enough to glare at him over her shoulder. "i’d rather sleep in the bus than spend five minutes in a room with him."
michael, who had been standing back with a look of exhausted patience, finally stepped forward. his voice was low, laced with an irritation he was tired of hiding. "it’s a four-bedroom suite. it’s bigger than most houses. you won't even have to see my face."
"that's still too close, michael," she spat, turning fully to face him. "your 'energy' is suffocating."
he rolled his eyes, a dry smile tugging at his lips. "my energy? you’ve been making miserable faces at me since the 84 grammys. i'm the one who should be worried about sharing a floor with someone who clearly wants me dead."
"just give us the damn key," michael sighed, looking back at the secretary while she continued to fume. "she can have the master bedroom. i'll take the one furthest away. we’re both adults—well, one of us is acting like one."
she scoffed, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the quiet lobby. "acting like an adult? is that what you call it? i call it being a condescending prick, michael."
she snatched the gold-plated key card from the stunned receptionist's hand before he could even reach for it. her knuckles were white from the grip she had on her designer handbag, and her eyes were narrowed into slits. she knew she was trapped; the thought of sleeping on a cramped tour bus with her hair and makeup team was even less appealing than facing him, but she wasn't going to make this easy.
"fine," she hissed, stepping into his personal space, the scent of his expensive cologne hitting her like a physical blow. "but let’s get one thing straight. you stay in your wing, i stay in mine. if i hear so much as a single note of you humming in the shower, or if you even breathe too loudly in the hallway, i'm locking you out on the balcony. are we clear?"
she didn't wait for his answer, spinning on her heel toward the elevators with a dramatic flair. as the gold doors slid open, she looked back at him, her expression one of pure, unadulterated disdain.
"and don't you dare think this means we’re cool. i still can't stand you."
once inside the sprawling suite, she moved like a shadow, immediately claiming the furthest bedroom and slamming the door so hard the crystal ornaments on the console table rattled. she spent the next hour pointedly ignoring his existence, emerging only to grab a bottle of water from the common area with her chin held high, looking everywhere but at him. every time their paths nearly crossed, she would pivot or walk faster, radiating an almost physical aura of rejection that made the massive room feel small and suffocating.
michael sat on the edge of the velvet sofa in the main living area, his leather jacket discarded beside him. he watched her flash past the doorway again, the sheer effort she was putting into hating him finally reaching his breaking point. it wasn't just annoying anymore; it was genuinely baffling. he was used to adoration, to screams, to being loved by millions, and here was someone who treated his presence like a biohazard.
"you know, it's actually impressive," he called out, his voice cutting through the heavy silence of the suite. "the amount of energy you're wasting just to make sure i know you're miserable. doesn't it get tiring?"
she stopped in her tracks, her hand on the handle of her bedroom door. she didn't turn around. "what’s tiring is you thinking you’re entitled to my conversation, michael. stay on your side of the rug."
he stood up, pacing toward the center of the room, his frustration bubbling over. "i don't want your conversation if it's going to be like this. but this? this silent treatment? it's childish. i haven't done a single thing to you, yet you act like i'm some kind of monster. it's too much. it’s actually insane how much you hate me for nothing."
she spun around, her eyes flashing with a cold fire as she stared him down. "it’s not for nothing, and i don’t need a reason to stay away from you. just leave me alone, michael. i want to finish this night without having to acknowledge that you’re even in the same zip code as me, let alone the same room."
she turned back to her door, expecting that to be the end of it, but something in michael finally snapped—in a different way. the sheer intensity of her anger was so over-the-top that it crossed the line from insulting to hilarious. he realized that the more he tried to be the "bigger person," the more she thrived on her disdain. if she wanted a villain, maybe he’d give her a nuisance instead.
a small, mischievous glint appeared in his eyes as he leaned against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching her retreat. "oh, i see. you're afraid," he said softly, his voice carrying perfectly across the suite.
she froze, her hand tightening on the doorknob. "afraid of what? your ego?"
"no," he chuckled, taking a slow, deliberate step toward her. "afraid that if you actually talk to me for five minutes, you might realize you don't actually hate me. it's a defense mechanism. it’s actually kind of cute."
"cute?" she whipped around, her face reddening. "do not call me cute. and i am not afraid of you. i'm disgusted by you."
"right, right," michael nodded mockingly, picking up a small decorative pillow from a nearby chair and tossing it up and down. he walked closer, invading the invisible boundary she had drawn in the air. "is that why you're shaking? or is it just the 'energy' in the room?"
he stopped just a few feet away, a playful, lopsided smirk on his face that he knew drove her crazy. "you know, since we're stuck here, i was thinking... maybe we should watch a movie. i hear 'thriller' is a classic. have you seen it? i could give you a live commentary."
she rolled her eyes so hard it physically hurt, letting out a sharp, derisive snort. "thriller? please. that music video is twenty minutes of you dancing with dusty skeletons in a graveyard. it’s overrated, michael. it’s dramatic, it’s long, and quite frankly, the special effects are tacky. i’d rather watch paint dry in the dark than sit through your live commentary of a horror movie parody."
she turned away quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs in a way that made her stomach flip. inside, she was spiraling. it was one thing to hate him from a distance or across a crowded room, but having him stand there, looking relaxed and teasing her with that stupid, knowing smirk, made her feel dangerously off-balance. she felt weird—exposed, almost—and it frustrated her that his presence was suddenly making her pulse race instead of just making her blood boil.
"you think you're so charming, don't you?" she added, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound bored. "it's pathetic. you really can't handle the fact that one person in this world doesn't want to join your little fan club."
michael just laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to vibrate in the air between them. he took another step, closing the gap until he was hovering just outside her personal space. "oh, i handle it just fine. it's just that the 'i hate you' act is starting to wear a little thin. you’re overcompensating. what are you really hiding behind all that attitude?"
she bit her lip, her mind racing to find a comeback that didn't sound like a stutter. for the first time in her career, her sharp tongue had failed her. her thoughts were a tangled mess of irritation and a sudden, terrifying awareness of how close he was standing. why was his voice so calm? why did the air in the suite suddenly feel like it was losing oxygen? she felt completely out of her depth, and the confusion was making her skin itch with a nervous heat she couldn't explain.
"i'm not hiding anything," she finally managed to choke out, though her voice lacked its usual bite. she couldn't look at him anymore—not when his eyes seemed to be reading every flicker of doubt on her face. "you’re just... you’re a lot. and i’m tired. i'm going to take a shower, and when i come out, i want you to be invisible. or at least silent."
she didn't wait for his reaction, practically stumbling into her bedroom and grabbing her silk robe with shaking hands. she needed the steam and the locking door to ground her. as she stepped into the bathroom, she leaned against the cold tile, her heart still thudding a frantic rhythm.
it was supposed to be simple. she was supposed to hate him. but the way he had looked at her—like he was seeing right through the wall she’d spent years building—made her feel more unsettled than any tabloid headline ever could. she turned on the water, the loud hiss of the spray drowning out the silence of the suite, but it couldn't drown out the nagging thought that she wasn't as repulsed by him as she desperately wanted to be.
michael leaned back against the mahogany sideboard, listening to the muffled roar of the shower behind the heavy door. a small, knowing smirk remained on his lips, but as the minutes ticked by, his expression softened into something more contemplative. he reached up, absently tugging at a loose curl on his forehead, his mind replaying the way her voice had faltered at the end.
it was fun, he had to admit. there was a certain thrill in watching her icy composure melt into pure, unadulterated frustration. for years, he had been the one on the receiving end of her silent treatment, but now that he had finally pushed back, he realized she wasn't nearly as bulletproof as she pretended to be. her "disgust" was starting to look a lot more like a shield, and he found himself wondering what exactly she was trying to protect.
he paced the length of the living room, his boots silent on the thick carpet. he was still annoyed—the things she had said about the "thriller" video were uncalled for, even if she was just trying to get a rise out of him—but the annoyance was being replaced by a nagging curiosity. why was she so determined to make him the villain? and more importantly, why did she look so genuinely shaken when he stepped into her space?
"confused," he muttered to himself, a low chuckle escaping his throat. he could see it in her eyes—that split second where the hatred flickered and turned into something else, something much more vulnerable.
he knew he should probably just let it go and go to bed, but the mischievous side of him wasn't finished yet. he wanted to know if he could break that wall down completely. he wasn't sure if he liked her—she was still incredibly rude, after all—but he definitely liked the way she couldn't seem to look him in the eye anymore.
as he headed toward the kitchen to make some tea, he found himself wondering if she’d come out of that shower with her armor back on, or if the cracks he’d made were permanent. one thing was for sure: this was going to be the most interesting night he'd had in london for a long time.
the steam cleared slowly as she stepped out of the shower, her skin flushed from the heat. she reached for a towel, wrapping it tightly around herself before pausing in front of the large, illuminated vanity mirror. instinctively, her fingers went to her damp hair, smoothing back the stray baby hairs and checking her reflection with an intensity she usually reserved for red carpets. she caught herself applying a touch of lip balm and adjusting the way her silk robe sat on her shoulders, then immediately froze. she scoffed at her own reflection, annoyed that she was subconsciously trying to look presentable for a man she was supposed to loathe.
she shook the thought away, tightened the belt of her robe, and steeled her nerves. she wasn't going to let him win.
stepping out of the bedroom and into the common area, she headed toward the kitchen to put her water bottle away. the suite was quiet, save for the soft clinking of a spoon against a ceramic mug. michael was there, leaning against the marble countertop with a cup of tea in his hand, looking entirely too comfortable in her presence.
she felt his gaze on her the moment she entered the room. usually, she would have a sharp insult ready to fly, something to keep him at a distance, but the words felt stuck in her throat. instead, she opted for a heavy, pointed silence. she walked past him, her eyes fixed forward, though she couldn't help but give him a look of pure, concentrated venom as she reached for the fridge.
it was a glare that should have ended the conversation before it started, but there was no fire in her voice this time. she was unusually quiet, her movements quick and slightly stiff. she didn't say a word as she slammed the fridge door shut, but the way she avoided his eyes spoke volumes. the air between them was thick, and the confusion she had felt in the bathroom was only growing as she realized that being near him—even in total silence—was making her heart race all over again.
michael didn't look away this time. usually, he would have politely averted his eyes or offered a professional smile, but something about the way she was trying so hard to ignore him made him do the opposite. he took a slow sip of his tea, his eyes trailing over her—not with his usual teasing smirk, but with a quiet, intense curiosity that felt far more intimate. he noticed the way the silk of her robe moved and the way her damp skin caught the light from the kitchen pendants.
"you're still doing it," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave, breaking the heavy silence.
she stopped halfway across the kitchen, her grip tightening on her water bottle. "doing what, michael?"
"holding your breath," he replied, setting his mug down on the counter with a soft thud. he didn't move toward her, but his gaze was so focused it felt like he had. "you're acting like if you stay quiet enough, i'll just vanish. or maybe you're just afraid that if you speak, you'll say something nice for once."
he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes never leaving hers. "it’s okay to admit the room feels a little different now that the managers aren't here to watch us fight. you don't have to perform for me."
she finally turned to look at him, intended to snap back with something cruel, but she found herself caught in his stare. it wasn't the look of a rival or a nuisance; it was the look of a man who was seeing right through her carefully curated mask, and for the first time, she couldn't find the breath to tell him to go to hell.
she didn't answer, her chest heaving as she scrambled for a way out of the suffocating intimacy of the kitchen. "i'm not performing anything," she muttered, her voice barely a whisper as she spun on her heel and retreated toward the expansive living room. she just needed space—away from the scent of his tea, away from the heat radiating off him, and especially away from those eyes that seemed to be peeling back layers of her soul she hadn't even looked at herself.
she practically threw herself onto the far end of the velvet sofa, grabbing a random fashion magazine from the coffee table and flipping through the pages with frantic, meaningless speed.
michael didn't stay in the kitchen. he followed her, his footsteps light and rhythmic on the hardwood floor before they were muffled by the rug. he didn't sit down; instead, he began to pace slowly in front of her, his presence impossible to ignore as he circled the space like a predator who had finally found a weakness in the armor.
"you’re hiding behind that magazine, but you’re holding it upside down," he pointed out, his voice smooth and laced with that newfound, playful confidence.
she froze, her eyes darting to the glossy pages. he was right. she felt her face burn a deep, humiliated crimson as she flipped it over with a sharp snap. "leave me alone, michael. i mean it."
"why?" he asked, stopping right in her line of sight, forcing her to look at his legs if she wouldn't look at his face. "is it because it’s harder to hate me when i’m just a person standing in front of you? no cameras, no press, no charts. just us."
he leaned down slightly, resting his hands on the back of a nearby chair, his gaze dropping to the way her fingers were trembling against the paper. "you've spent so much time convincing the world i’m the worst thing to happen to music, but right now, you look like you’re just trying to convince yourself."
she dropped the magazine onto the table with a muffled thud, her breath hitching in her throat. she couldn't even pretend to read anymore; the letters were just a blur against the backdrop of her own skyrocketing pulse. she kept her gaze fixed on her own hands, noticing how the pale silk of her robe rose and fell with every shallow breath. the silence in the room wasn't empty anymore—it was heavy, charged with a static electricity that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up.
michael took another step closer, his shadow falling across her lap. he was being relentless, peeling away her defenses with a soft-spoken precision that was far more terrifying than any of their public shouting matches.
"you’re so quiet now," he murmured, his voice dropping to a near-whisper that vibrated in the small space between them. "where did all that fire go? the girl who told the press i was 'artificial' seems to have run out of things to say."
she swallowed hard, her throat feeling tight. she finally looked up, but it was a mistake. he was closer than she realized, leaning over the edge of the sofa just enough that she could see the dark intensity in his eyes. the playful smirk was gone, replaced by a look of genuine, piercing inquiry. he wasn't just teasing her anymore; he was studying her, searching for the exact moment her resolve would shatter.
"i'm just... i'm tired of the noise," she managed to say, her voice small and uncharacteristically fragile. she reached up to nervously tuck a damp lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing against her temple.
"is it the noise?" michael asked, his gaze following the movement of her hand. "or is it that you're realizing the person you've been hating all these years doesn't actually exist? you’re looking at me like you’ve never seen me before."
he reached out, his hand hovering just inches away from the velvet of the sofa near her arm. he didn't touch her, but the proximity was enough to make her heart do a violent somersault. she felt trapped, not by the room, but by the sudden, overwhelming realization that his presence didn't feel like a threat anymore—it felt like a magnet. she shifted slightly, her knee accidentally brushing against the fabric of his trousers, and the small contact sent a jolt through her that made her gasp softly, her eyes widening as she looked into his.
the air in the suite felt thick, almost heavy enough to touch. she sat frozen, her breath caught in her lungs as the silence stretched between them, no longer cold but burning with an unspoken friction. she looked down at where her knee had grazed him, her heart hammering so loudly she was sure he could hear it. the nervous energy she had been carrying all evening was reaching a boiling point, and the confusion was being replaced by a terrifying, electric awareness.
michael didn't pull away. instead, he leaned in further, his presence engulfing her. the playful taunting had completely vanished, leaving behind something raw and focused. he watched the way her pulse jumped in the hollow of her throat, his own expression unreadable but intense.
"you’re shaking," he whispered, his voice a low velvet rasp that sent a fresh shiver down her spine. "tell me again how much you can't stand me. tell me you want me to leave."
she tried to find the words, tried to summon the familiar wall of disdain that had protected her for years, but it had crumbled. she looked up at him, her eyes wide and clouded with a vulnerability she had never shown anyone. "i... i should," she breathed, her voice barely audible. "i should want you to go."
"but you don't," michael countered, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fleeting second before locking back onto her eyes. he slowly moved his hand, finally closing the small gap and resting his palm on the sofa right next to her thigh. the heat from his body was overwhelming. "the hate was easier, wasn't it? it kept things simple. but we aren't being simple anymore."
she let out a shaky exhale, her head falling back slightly against the cushion as he moved even closer. the proximity was dizzying; she could smell the faint trace of his tea and that expensive, woody cologne that had been haunting her senses since the lobby. her hand, still trembling, reached out instinctively, her fingers hovering near the lapel of his shirt as if she didn't know whether to push him away or pull him closer.
michael jackson was standing right in front of her, stripped of the stage lights and the bravado, and all she could feel was the magnetic pull of the one person she had sworn was her greatest enemy.
the space between them had vanished, replaced by a magnetic heat that made her vision blur. she felt her back press firmly into the velvet sofa, her breath coming in ragged hitches as michael’s hand began to move. it wasn't a sudden grab; it was a slow, agonizingly deliberate crawl. his fingers first brushed the hem of her silk robe, the contact so light it could have been a trick of her imagination, but the look in his eyes told her it was very real.
he watched her face with a predatory focus, tracking the way her pupils dilated and the way she bit her lip to keep from making a sound. his hand slid further, his palm finally making full contact with the smooth skin of her thigh. his touch was warm, possessive, and carried an authority that completely bypassed her logic. she should have pushed him away, should have screamed, but her body felt like lead, heavy with a sudden, overwhelming desire she had spent years suppressing.
"you’ve spent so much time talking about me," michael murmured, his thumb beginning to trace slow, hypnotic circles against her skin, moving higher with every rotation. "all those interviews, all that anger... it was just a way to keep from feeling this, wasn't it?"
she let out a soft, broken whimper, her hand finally gripping the front of his shirt, her knuckles turning white as she anchored herself to him. the friction of his thumb against her inner thigh was causing a fire to spread through her veins, turning her knees to water. she looked up at him, her defiance finally shattered, her eyes searching his for a sign that he was going to stop.
but michael wasn't stopping. he leaned down until his lips were just an inch from her ear, his breath hot against her damp hair. "it’s a long night in london," he whispered, his hand tightening its grip on her leg, pulling her a fraction closer to him. "and i think we’re both done pretending."
she didn't argue. she couldn't. the tension had snapped, and as he shifted his weight to loom over her, the only thing she could feel was the desperate need to bridge the final gap between them. the enemy she had spent a lifetime fighting was the only person she wanted to touch.
the air in the suite was suffocatingly hot, thick with a tension that had been building for years. michael’s eyes never left hers, dark and intense, as he maintained that maddeningly calm composure. he shifted his weight, his presence looming over her until she was pinned against the back of the sofa, her robe slightly askew.
with a slow, deliberate movement, he used his free hand—the only one touching her—to apply a firm pressure against the inside of her knee. he didn't rush; he savored the way she trembled under his touch.
"you've been so loud for so long," he murmured, his voice a low, melodic growl that vibrated in her chest. "but right now, you’re so quiet. is this what it takes to shut you up?"
he nudged her leg further, his fingers hooking into the edge of the silk. "go on," he whispered, his gaze dropping to the space he was creating. "open up for me. let's see if you're still as tough as you were in the lobby."
she felt her resolve dissolve completely. as she instinctively obeyed, his hand slid higher, his palm flat against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. he started to caress her with a slow, torturous rhythm, his thumb grazing dangerously close to the center of her heat. he wasn't even rushing to give her what she wanted; he was taunting her, playing with the boundary between irritation and pure, unadulterated need.
"look at you," he chuckled softly, his hand pausing for a second just to feel the frantic beat of her pulse through her skin. "the big star, reduced to this just because i’m finally giving you the attention you were screaming for. you don't hate me. you’ve just been waiting for me to do this."
every stroke of his hand was a challenge, a reminder of the power dynamic he had just flipped on its head. she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders, unable to look away from the man she had called her enemy, who was now the only thing keeping her grounded.
she let out a sharp, choked breath, her head falling back against the velvet as his fingers continued their slow, agonizing ascent. the friction of his palm against her inner thigh was electric, a torturous contrast to the cold disdain she had tried to maintain all evening. she was completely exposed now, the silk of her robe falling away as his single hand dictated exactly how she moved.
"still nothing to say?" michael teased, his voice dropping to a velvety whisper as he watched the way her eyes clouded with a mix of frustration and pure, raw want. "where’s that sharp tongue now? you were so brave when there was a microphone between us."
his hand moved a fraction higher, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that made her hips arch instinctively toward him. he was mocking her with his touch, showing her just how easily he could dismantle the wall she had built over years of public rivalry.
"you’re so tense," he murmured, leaning his face so close she could feel the heat of his skin. "just let go. you’ve been fighting this since the moment we walked into this suite. you don't have to be the enemy anymore."
she gripped his forearm, her nails digging into his skin as a wave of heat crashed over her. she hated that he was right, and she hated even more how much she wanted him to keep going. she was trapped in the gravity of him, her body betraying every nasty thing she had ever said about him in the press.
"look at me," he commanded softly, his hand pausing at the very top of her thigh, his fingers curled slightly against her skin. "tell me you want me to stop. say it right now, and i’ll walk away."
she opened her mouth to speak, to finally reclaim her pride, but all that came out was a soft, broken moan that signaled her total surrender. michael’s smirk widened, his thumb finally crossing that last line, proving once and for all that the line between their hate and this was nonexistent.
the air was thick with the scent of his skin and the heavy silence of the suite, broken only by her shallow, hitched breaths. she felt completely paralyzed under his gaze, her pride having long since fled the room. her mind was a static mess, every witty comeback and sharp insult she’d ever prepared for him dissolving into nothingness.
"nothing left to say?" michael whispered, his voice low and dangerous as he watched the frantic pulse in her neck. "where's that attitude you're so famous for?"
she tried to find words, to tell him how much she still hated this, how much she hated him, but her brain wouldn't cooperate. "oh god..." she finally breathed out, the word escaping her lips like a broken prayer, her voice trembling and raw. it was the only thing she could manage to say, a desperate acknowledgment of how far gone she was.
michael’s smirk deepened at the sound of her surrender. he leaned in closer, his dark curls brushing against her forehead as he moved his hand one last time. slowly, with agonizing precision, he slid his fingers past the damp silk of her robe, finding the heat he had been seeking.
he didn't start to stroke her yet. instead, he simply let his fingers rest there, barely brushing against her most sensitive skin with a delicate, ghost-like touch. he was hovering, teasing the very edge of her control without giving her the release she was silently begging for.
"you’re so warm," he murmured, his eyes locked onto hers, searching for the exact moment her pupils dilated even further. "does this feel like 'artificial' energy to you? or is this the most real thing you've felt all year?"
he stayed like that, perfectly still, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter between them. he wanted her to feel every second of his presence, to realize that the man she had called her greatest enemy now held her entire world in the palm of his hand. her fingers clutched at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer as she let out another shaky, frustrated moan, her body arching involuntarily against the light, mocking pressure of his hand.
the silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the sound of her frantic breathing. michael stayed perfectly still, his fingers barely resting against her, prolonging the torture of the wait. he could feel her trembling against his hand, the heat radiating from her skin evidence of just how much her body was betraying her mind.
"you’re so quiet now," he whispered, his voice smooth and low. "what happened to all that talk? i thought you couldn't stand to be near me."
he shifted his hand just a fraction of an inch, his fingers ghosting over her without any real pressure, just enough to make her gasp. he was intentionally holding back, keeping her right on the edge where the frustration was almost physical. he watched the way she bit her lip, her eyes fluttering shut as she tried to maintain some semblance of control.
"look at me," he commanded softly. when she finally opened her eyes, he was smiling—that same mischievous smirk that usually infuriated her, but now it only made her heart race faster. "i want you to see exactly who’s doing this to you. the man you hate so much."
he began to move his fingers with agonizing slowness, just brushing against the very surface, teasing the sensitive skin without ever giving her a full stroke. every time she tried to move against him, to force the contact she was craving, he would pull back just enough to keep her reaching.
"michael..." she whispered again, her voice cracking as her fingers dug into his shoulders.
"is that all you have to say?" he teased, his hand still just hovering, dancing around the center of her need. "because i think you want to say a lot more. you've been fighting this for years, haven't you? pretending you didn't feel this pull every time we were in the same room."
his thumb traced the very outer edge of her, a slow, circular motion that was so light it was almost a suggestion, yet it sent waves of static through her entire frame. he was enjoying the power shift, the way the most vocal critic of his life was now completely at his mercy, unable to do anything but whisper curses and pray he wouldn't stop.
the atmosphere was thick enough to suffocate, the only sound being the rhythmic, frantic hitch of her breath against the silence of the suite. michael leaned in even closer, his face inches from hers, his dark eyes scanning every inch of her flushed skin. he could feel the heat radiating off her, the way she was vibrating under his hand, yet he kept his fingers perfectly still—just a ghost of a presence right where she was most desperate.
"you're so desperate to move, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice a low, smooth purr that felt like a caress in itself. he felt her fingers tighten on his shirt, her knuckles white, her body arching instinctively toward the contact he was teasing her with.
"michael..." she whispered, his name trembling as it left her lips. it felt sharper, more raw, echoing the total breakdown of her composure.
michael’s smirk sharpened, that dangerous, playful glint returning to his gaze. he didn't budge. he stayed right on the edge, his thumb ghosting over the very top of her inner thigh, never crossing the line.
"is that all you have for me? just one word?" he challenged, his voice dropping to a velvety command. he nudged her leg just a fraction wider with his palm, keeping his fingers hovering in that torturous, agonizing space. "i want to hear you say it. i want you to tell me exactly what you want."
she let out a broken, frustrated sound, her eyes searching his for a mercy he wasn't ready to give yet.
"beg me," he whispered, his breath hot against her lips. "if you want me to stop playing and actually touch you... if you want to feel what you've been pretending to hate... you're going to have to ask for it. properly."
he gave her a tiny, infinitesimal flick of his finger—just a tease, a second of friction that made her hips lurch—before going completely still again. "tell me. what do you want me to do to you?"
she was drowning, her lungs burning with the effort of trying to stay afloat in the sea of tension he’d created. her pride was a distant memory, burned away by the heat of his gaze and the torturous stillness of his hand. she looked up at him, her eyes glassy and wide, seeing the dark triumph in his expression—that same sharp intensity that had always gotten under her skin, but for a completely different reason now.
"please," she whimpered, the word finally breaking through the wall of her silence. her fingers digging deeper into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down until their chests were almost touching. "please, michael... touch me. i can't—"
she broke off with a hitched breath, her hips jerking upward in a desperate, involuntary plea for the friction he was withholding. the silence of the suite was gone, replaced by the loud, frantic thudding of her heart against her ribs.
"you can't what?" he whispered, his voice dangerously low as he leaned in, his lips brushing against her earlobe. he still hadn't moved his fingers, keeping them hovering in that agonizing, ghost-like tease. "finish the sentence. tell me what you need so badly from the man you supposedly despise."
"fuck, michael, just... please," she sobbed out, her head rolling back against the sofa. the sheer weight of her desire was crushing her. "i want you to touch me. right there. i don't want to wait anymore. please."
she felt his chest vibrate with a low, dark chuckle that sent a fresh jolt of electricity through her. he finally let his gaze drop from her eyes to the space between them, his smirk turning into something more hungry and focused.
"well," he murmured, his thumb finally pressing down with a firm, rhythmic stroke that made her vision go white. "since you asked so nicely."
as the words left her lips, the air seemed to ignite. michael didn't wait another second. his hand, which had been a ghost of a presence, suddenly became a solid, grounding force. he didn't just touch her; he claimed her, his fingers sliding home with a confidence that made her entire world narrow down to that single point of contact.
"there you are," he murmured against her skin, his voice thick with a dark, triumphant satisfaction.
he began to move, his fingers finding a rhythm that was steady and relentless. he wasn't teasing anymore; he was showing her exactly why he had been so patient. every stroke was deliberate, designed to shatter what was left of her composure. she let out a loud, unrestrained cry, her back arching off the velvet sofa as she tried to pull him even closer, her legs falling wider apart instinctively as she surrendered to the sensation.
"fuck... michael..." she gasped, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands moving from his shoulders to his hair, pulling at the dark curls with a desperate energy.
he leaned over her, his body a heavy, warm weight that pinned her down, his lips trailing hot, damp kisses along the line of her jaw. he was watching her face now, savoring the way her features softened and blurred with pleasure. his persona was still there—the edge, the intensity—but it was directed entirely at her, focused on breaking her down until there was nothing left but this.
"i knew you’d sound like this," he whispered, his thumb catching her rhythm perfectly, pushing her higher and higher. "all that fighting, all that shouting... it was just a rehearsal for this, wasn't it?"
she couldn't even find the breath to argue. her head thrashed against the cushion, her voice reduced to broken stammers of his name and desperate english curses. she was right on the edge, the tension coiling into a tight, white-hot knot in the pit of her stomach, and michael was right there with her, his eyes dark and burning as he drove her toward the finish line he had planned for her from the moment they walked through the door.
she couldn't even form a coherent thought, her mind completely submerged in the friction of his movements. michael leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that felt just as intimate as his touch.
"don't look away," he commanded, his thumb circling with a punishingly perfect pressure. "i want you to stay right here with me. i want you to remember exactly who is making you feel like this."
she let out a ragged moan, her fingers tangling deeper into his hair as she tried to ground herself. "michael... please..."
"please what?" he whispered, his eyes burning into hers, dark and heavy with a possessive heat. "you spent years telling everyone i was just a shadow, just an image. does this feel like an image? does this feel fake to you?"
he increased the pace just a fraction, his fingers mimicking the frantic beat of her heart. he watched her face shatter, her lips parted and her eyes clouded with a haze of pure, raw sensation.
"you’re so loud now," he teased, a small, dark smile playing on his lips. "i think i like you much better when you're not arguing. when you're just... mine. for as long as i want you like this."
his hand was relentless, driving her toward a peak that felt impossibly high. he leaned in even closer, his chest pressing against her heaving breaths, his voice dropping to a final, devastating murmur. "you can hate me again tomorrow, if you think you still can. but right now, you're going to scream my name until you forget why you ever tried to fight me."
she was already on the brink, her body trembling with a frantic energy that made the silk of her robe hiss against the sofa. michael watched her, his eyes dark with a calculated, heavy desire. he knew exactly how much she could take, and he was enjoying every second of her unraveling.
"you're almost there, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice dipping into that low, rhythmic rasp.
without breaking eye contact, he shifted the angle of his hand. his thumb kept its steady, maddening pressure on her surface, but he slowly, deliberately slid one finger inside her. the transition was seamless, a deep, invasive warmth that made her eyes fly wide and her breath hitch in a sharp, broken sob.
"fuck..." she gasped, her hips jerking upward as her body tried to accommodate the new, fuller sensation. her nails dug into his forearms, leaving crescent marks in his skin.
"shhh," he whispered, his finger beginning to move within her, curling slightly to find the exact spots that made her toes curl and her voice fail. "just feel it. no more thinking, no more talking. just this."
he increased the tempo, his hand working with a coordinated precision that felt like it was tearing her apart and putting her back together all at once. he was relentless, his finger pushing deep as his thumb continued to drive her toward the edge.
"look at me," he commanded, his face so close she could feel the heat of his skin. "don't close your eyes. i want to see the moment you break. i want to see you lose everything to me."
she was helpless, her head thrashing against the cushions, her voice reduced to a series of sharp, rhythmic gasps that matched the movement of his hand. the world outside the suite didn't exist; the rivalry didn't exist. there was only the weight of him, the fire between her legs, and the devastating realization that he was exactly what she had been missing.
the air in the room seemed to vibrate with her ragged breathing as michael finally shifted his weight. he didn't pull away entirely; instead, he began to trail slow, languid kisses down the side of her neck, his lips barely brushing her skin but leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
"you're so sensitive," he murmured against her collarbone, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "every time i touch you, you jump. it’s like you’ve been starved for this."
he moved lower, his hands sliding down her sides to her waist, pulling the silk of her robe further apart. he dropped to his knees on the plush rug between her legs, his dark curls spilling over his forehead as he looked up at her from below. the view from down there was possessive, his eyes tracking the way her chest heaved and the way her thighs trembled, still slick from his touch.
"don't hide from me," he whispered, his hands firmly grasping her knees to keep them wide. he leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the skin of her inner thigh, right above the knee. "i told you it was a long night. we're going to take our time with every single inch of you."
she let out a shaky moan, her fingers tangling in the hair at the back of his head, unsure if she was trying to pull him closer or hold him back. michael didn't stop. he continued his slow descent, his lips peppering hot, damp kisses higher and higher along her soft skin.
"you spent so much time trying to tear me down in public," he said, his voice muffled against her skin, his breath ghosting over her most sensitive areas. "but here you are... begging me not to stop. who’s really in control now, darling?"
he reached the apex of her thighs, his nose brushing against her, his gaze lifting one last time to lock onto hers. "i want to hear you," he breathed, his hands sliding up to grip her hips tightly. "i want to hear exactly how much you like this."
she let out a stifled sob, her fingers tightening desperately in michael’s dark curls as she looked down at him from the sofa, completely vulnerable. she no longer had the strength to lie, no longer the energy to play the role of the cold, detached critic.
"it’s you... fuck, michael, it’s always been you," she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of the confession. "i never wanted anyone else... i was just too terrified of how you made me feel."
michael paused for a beat, his hands gripping her hips with a newfound intensity. a slow, triumphant smile spread across his lips, but this time, the mockery was gone, replaced by a deep, burning satisfaction. he loved hearing her admit defeat, especially when she looked so beautiful in her surrender.
"that’s all i wanted to hear," he breathed, his warm breath ghosting against her damp skin.
true to his word, he tilted his head and pressed his lips against her with a delicacy that made her shudder from head to toe. he started with small, light kisses, almost chaste, on the tops of her thighs before moving closer to the center of her heat.
"look how you react for me," he murmured between kisses, his voice nothing more than a velvety growl. "all that anger... all that venom in the press... all of it just to end up here, trembling under my mouth."
he traced his tongue with unbearable slowness along her length, savoring the taste of her desire and the violent shiver that racked her frame. she arched her back, letting out a strangled cry, while he continued to kiss her tenderly, almost religiously, turning every inch of her skin into a field of pure electricity. he wasn't rushing anymore; he wanted her to feel every second of this devotion, proving to her with his lips what she dared not deny any longer.
the friction of his lips against her skin was a sensory overload, a soft contrast to the hard, demanding edge he had shown just moments before. he hovered there, his breath hitching as he felt her thighs quiver against his cheeks. he was taking his time, worshipping the very part of her that had been wound so tight with tension.
"you're so perfect like this," he whispered, his voice vibrating against her inner thigh. "so open. so honest."
he leaned in further, his tongue darting out to taste her again, a slow, swirling stroke that made her hips lurch upward uncontrollably. she let out a long, high-pitched whine, her head thrashing against the velvet cushion. she felt his hands slide from her hips down to her underside, lifting her slightly to meet him, grounding her as he focused all his attention on her center.
"fuck, michael... please," she gasped, her voice barely a thread.
"i've got you," he murmured, his gaze lifting for a split second to catch her blown-out pupils before he returned to his task.
he began to alternate between soft, feather-light kisses and the rhythmic, insistent pressure of his tongue. he was teasing her again, but in a way that felt like a promise. he knew he had won, but he wasn't just interested in the victory anymore—he wanted to drown her in the pleasure he knew only he could provide. each time she thought she was about to snap, he would slow down, trailing his lips back to her sensitive skin, murmuring low, dark praises that made her blush even deeper.
"tell me you're mine," he breathed, his teeth grazing her lightly, sending a fresh wave of static through her nerves. "tell me there's no one else you want but me."
"only you," she sobbed out, her hands gripping his hair so tightly she was practically pulling him into her. "it's only ever been you, michael. god, please, don't stop."
he let out a low growl of satisfaction, his grip tightening on her as he buried his face against her, finally giving her the deep, relentless attention she was begging for, determined to make her forget everything but the feeling of him.
the sound of her voice admitting he was the only one seemed to flick a switch inside him. his restraint, once so calculated and cool, began to fray into something much more primal. he didn't pull away; instead, he used his hands to pull her hips right to the edge of the sofa, bringing her flush against his face as he knelt between her trembling legs.
"good girl," he growled, the words vibrating directly against her heat.
he took her then, his tongue sweeping over her with a sudden, intense hunger that made her entire body stiffen in shock. it wasn't the delicate teasing from before; this was deep, rhythmic, and demanding. he used the edge of his teeth just enough to make her gasp, followed immediately by the soothing, wet glide of his tongue that drove her closer to the edge than she had ever been.
"fuck... michael, i'm... i'm going to—" she couldn't even finish the sentence, her voice hitching into a series of broken, high-pitched sounds as the tension in her lower body reached a screaming point.
"let it happen," he commanded, his voice muffled but firm. "give it all to me. i want to feel every bit of it."
he didn't let up for a second. his hands were like vices on her thighs, holding her open and still so she had no choice but to take everything he was giving. the world narrowed down to the scent of his cologne, the heat of his mouth, and the sheer, overwhelming power of the man who had gone from her greatest rival to her absolute master in the span of a single night.
as she finally shattered, her body arching in a violent, beautiful release, michael stayed right there, drinking in her cries and the frantic pulsing of her muscles. he didn't pull back until the last of her tremors began to fade, leaving her slumped against the cushions, breathless and completely spent.
he looked up at her, a stray curl falling over his dark, shimmering eyes, and a smudge of her lip gloss on his chin. he looked every bit the king she had feared and craved, and as he reached up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, he gave her a look that said this was only the beginning.
the heavy silence that followed was broken only by the sound of her gasping for air, her chest rising and falling in jagged movements. michael didn't move from his position on the floor, his knees still pressed into the rug as he watched her with a dark, predatory calm. he reached up, his thumb tracing the line of her lower lip, which was swollen and trembling.
"see?" he whispered, his voice smooth and terrifyingly steady. "no microphones, no cameras, no lies. just you, breaking for me."
she couldn't even find the strength to pull her robe back together. she felt completely unraveled, her skin still tingling from the intensity of his mouth. michael stood up slowly, his movements fluid and graceful, and sat back on the edge of the sofa beside her. he didn't touch her intimately this time; he simply tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that felt almost more intimate than what had just happened.
"you look so much better when you aren't trying to fight the world," he murmured, his eyes searching hers. "it’s exhausting, isn't it? pretending you don't need this. pretending you don't need me."
she swallowed hard, her voice coming back in a hoarse whisper. "fuck... i hate that you're right."
michael chuckled, a low sound that vibrated in the small space between them. he leaned down, pressing a final, lingering kiss to her forehead before resting his chin on his hand, watching her with that signature intensity.
"you don't hate it," he corrected gently, a spark of that the playful mischief returning to his eyes. "you just hate that i'm the one who proved it. but don't worry, darling. we have the whole night ahead of us to make sure you never forget it again."
he watched her for a moment longer, his dark eyes drinking in her disheveled state, before he moved. he didn't give her a chance to overthink or retreat back into her shell. leaning forward, he captured her lips in a kiss that was vastly different from the teasing ones before—it was deep, slow, and possessive, tasting of her surrender and his victory.
"oh my god..." she breathed against his mouth, her hands instinctively finding their way back to his neck, pulling him closer.
michael shifted his weight, moving from the edge of the sofa to hover directly over her. he lowered himself with agonizing slowness, making sure she felt every inch of his body making contact with hers. his chest pressed against her heaving breaths, his thighs slotting between hers, pinning her gently but firmly into the plush velvet.
"you’re so soft," he murmured against her lips, his voice a low vibration that sent fresh shivers down her spine. "i’ve spent so long wondering if you’d feel this good under me."
he supported his weight on his elbows, framing her face with his hands. his eyes were dark, burning with an intensity that made her feel like the only person in the world. he began to trail slow, damp kisses from her mouth to her jaw, then down to the sensitive hollow of her throat.
"stay right here," he whispered, his lips grazing her skin. "don't go back to that person who fights me. just be mine tonight."
she arched beneath him, the weight of him feeling like the only thing keeping her grounded. her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him even tighter against her as she let out a broken, needy sound.
"i'm not going anywhere," she managed to choke out, her fingers tangling in his hair. "just... michael, please don't stop."
he let out a low, satisfied hum, his body settling completely onto hers, a perfect fit. the power struggle was over; there was only the heat of the room, the scent of his skin, and the slow, rhythmic movement of his hips as he began to lead her into the next part of the night.
the weight of him was a warm, solid comfort against her, but he didn't stay still for long. his hands, large and steady, began a slow journey across her skin, tracing the curves he had only ever seen from a distance. he started at her shoulders, his palms smoothing over her heated skin, before sliding down the length of her arms to interlace his fingers with hers, pinning her hands gently against the cushions.
"you're shaking," he whispered, his voice a dark silk against her ear. "i can feel your heart hammering against my chest. it’s like a trapped bird, isn't it? trying to fly right into me."
he released her hands to let his touch wander further. his fingers grazed the sides of her ribs, his thumbs tracing the delicate line of her hip bones through the opening of her robe. every touch was deliberate, intended to keep her skin humming with a constant, low-voltage electricity.
"fuck, michael..." she gasped, her head rolling to the side as his hand slid upward, his palm brushing the underside of her breast.
"shhh," he murmured, his lips moving against the pulse point in her neck. "i want to know every part of you. i want to know where you're the most sensitive, where you hide your secrets. i want to see if you can handle how much i want you."
his hand moved lower again, his touch becoming firmer, more possessive as he stroked the length of her thighs. he watched the way her eyes clouded over, the way her lips parted as she struggled to keep her breath even.
"you’ve spent so much time talking about me," he said, a slow, dangerous smirk touching his lips as he looked down at her. "writing about me. analyzing every move i make. but this... this isn't something you can write down, is it? you can't describe the way your body feels right now. you can only experience it. with me."
he leaned down to catch her bottom lip between his teeth, a tiny, sharp tug that made her arch into him. "don't think about tomorrow. don't think about what you're going to say when you leave this room. just feel what i'm doing to you right now."
as michael hovered over her, he pulled back just enough to create a sliver of space, his dark eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached for the buttons of his shirt, his gaze never wavering.
"you’re looking at me like you’ve been waiting for this for a long time," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
he unfastened the first few buttons, his fingers moving with a grace that was almost hypnotic. as the fabric parted, revealing the smooth, toned expanse of his chest and the sharp line of his collarbone, she felt a fresh wave of heat crash over her. he looked incredible— his silhouette, the lean muscle, the raw confidence that radiated off him in waves.
"oh my god, michael..." she whispered, her voice thick with desire. seeing him like this, partially undone and completely focused on her, made her blood feel like it was boiling. he was effortlessly attractive, his presence filling the room until there was nothing else left to see.
"is that it?" he teased, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he shrugged the shirt off his shoulders, letting it pool around his elbows. "you’re getting so hot just looking at me? i haven't even started yet."
he leaned back down, the cool air hitting her skin where his body had been, only to be replaced by the searing heat of his bare chest pressing against her. she could feel his heart beating—a steady, powerful rhythm that matched her own frantic pulse.
"you want me, don't you?" he whispered, his lips brushing against hers, his hands sliding up to frame her face again. "more than you ever wanted to admit. i can see it in your eyes. you're burning up for me."
she arched into him, her hands wandering over the smooth skin of his back, marveling at the strength she felt beneath her fingertips. he was right; she was on fire, and the sight of him—this close, this real—was the spark that was about to turn the whole room into an inferno.
michael let out a low, breathy laugh as he felt her hands roaming feverishly over his bare shoulders. he moved with a slow, feline grace, reaching down to unbuckle his belt, the metallic click echoing sharply in the quiet suite. he didn't take everything off yet; he just loosened his clothes enough to feel the friction of her skin against his without any barriers.
"you’re staring," he whispered, his voice dropping into that dangerously smooth register. he leaned down, his bare chest finally making full, skin-to-skin contact with hers. the heat was instantaneous, a white-hot bridge connecting them. "do i look the way you imagined when you were writing those cold, professional articles about me?"
he began to move against her, a slow, torturous grind of his hips that made her let out a broken, needy sound. he was so lean, so powerful, and the sight of his dark curls falling over his eyes as he looked down at her was almost too much to bear.
"you're so flushed," he murmured, his fingers tracing the curve of her jaw before sliding down to grip the back of her neck. "i can feel the heat radiating off you in waves. you want this so badly it’s making you shake, isn't it?"
he tilted her head back, exposing the long line of her throat, and began to pepper hot, open-mouthed kisses along her skin, moving toward her ear.
"i told you... i’m not just a story for your magazine," he breathed, his teeth grazing her earlobe just enough to make her gasp. "i’m real. and i’m going to make sure that every time you pick up a pen from now on, you feel exactly what you’re feeling right now. you’re going to taste me in every word you write."
he shifted again, his body heavy and perfect on top of her, his hands sliding down to pull her legs even tighter around his waist. "tell me you're ready. tell me you want me to stop talking and finally give you what you’ve been begging for."
she locked her eyes onto his, her fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders. "i’ve never been more ready in my life," she whispered, her voice vibrating with an urgency she no longer tried to hide. "make me forget everything, michael. make me feel like i’m yours."
michael let out a low growl, a mix of triumph and raw desire. he pressed himself against her, his burning skin against hers, and began to move. it wasn't penetration yet, but a slow, heavy, and rhythmic friction against her center, already slick with longing. he wanted her to feel every inch of him, every curve of his power, torturing her deliciously before the point of no return.
"feel that," he breathed against her temple, his hips tilting with exquisite precision. "i want you to feel exactly what you’re doing to me. i want you to be obsessed with this weight, with this heat."
he increased the pressure slightly, his hands sliding under her back to lift her and press her even more firmly against him. the friction of his loosened trousers and the searing heat of his body created an unbearable sensation that made her groan in jagged gasps. every movement was calculated to bring her to the edge of the abyss, giving her maximum sensation while still withholding exactly what she was begging for.
"look at me," he commanded softly, his voice nothing more than a hypnotic murmur. "don't close your eyes. i want you to see the man who is driving you out of your mind. i want to be the only thing that exists in your world."
she was at her limit, breathless, her hips instinctively trying to follow the rhythm he imposed, while he continued to rub against her with a provocative slowness, savoring every shiver that racked her body.
she watched him, mesmerized, as he finally pushed his trousers down and kicked them away, leaving him completely bare before her. the sight of him—strong, lean, and unmistakably ready—made her heart skip a beat. he looked like a god in the dim light, and the way he looked at her made her feel like the most precious prize he’d ever won.
"see what you do to me?" he whispered, his voice thick with a raw, masculine hunger. "you’ve spent months trying to take me down with your words, but your body... your body has been begging for this since the very first interview."
he moved back over her, the full weight of his naked body finally meeting hers. the sensation of skin-to-skin contact was electric, a total sensory explosion. he gripped her thighs, draping them over his broad shoulders to open her up completely to him.
"you're so beautiful when you're caught like this," he murmured, his thumb grazing her lower lip as he positioned himself at her entrance. "no more games. no more reviews. just this."
he didn't rush. he pushed into her with a slow, agonizingly steady pressure, his eyes locked onto hers to catch every flicker of emotion on her face. he watched her gasp, her back arching as he filled her completely, the breath leaving her lungs in a long, shaky exhale.
"fuck... you're so tight for me," he growled, his forehead dropping against hers as he stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust to the stretch of him. "it’s like you were made specifically to hold me. tell me how it feels. tell me you've never felt anyone like this."
"never," she sobbed out, her hands clutching his damp back, pulling him deeper. "never like this, michael. please... don't ever stop."
he let out a low, triumphant sound and began to move, a deep and rhythmic pace that claimed her entirely. "i’m going to make sure you never think of another man without tasting me," he whispered between heavy breaths, his pace quickening as he drove her higher and higher. "i'm going to ruin you for everyone else, darling. you're mine now. every word you write, every breath you take... it belongs to me."
the rhythm of his movements became more urgent, a relentless and deep cadence that left her gasping for air. he was moving with a raw, athletic grace, his muscles rippling beneath her fingertips as she clung to him like he was the only solid thing in a world that was spinning out of control.
"look at me," he commanded again, his voice strained and heavy with the effort of his own restraint. he reached down, his fingers interlacing with hers and pinning her hands to the pillows once more, forcing her to endure the sheer intensity of the pleasure he was driving into her. "i want to see you break. i want to see the moment you realize you'll never be free of this."
"i'm already... there," she cried out, her voice breaking as she arched her back, her hips rising to meet every one of his thrusts. the friction, the heat, and the sound of his low, guttural moans in her ear were driving her toward a peak that felt terrifyingly beautiful.
michael leaned down, his lips brushing against her sweating skin, his breath hot and ragged. "you're so perfect," he hissed, his pace turning into something faster, something more primal. "so loud for me now. keep making those sounds. i want the whole world to know who you're screaming for."
his movements became more powerful, each strike intentional and deep, claiming her over and over again. he was no longer just a man; he was a force of nature, and she was drowning in him. as the tension coiled tighter and tighter in her lower body, she felt the first sparks of a massive release beginning to flicker.
"michael... oh god, michael!"
"that's it," he growled, his grip on her hands tightening until it almost hurt—a delicious, grounding pain. "give it to me. let go. give me everything you’ve been holding back."
with one final, devastatingly deep thrust, she shattered, her body convulsing in a violent, exquisite climax that went on and on. michael let out a loud, triumphant roar, burying his face in the crook of her neck as he followed her over the edge, his own release hitting him with a force that made his entire frame shudder against her.
for a long moment, the only sound in the room was their synchronized, frantic breathing and the distant hum of the city outside, as if the world had stopped spinning just to witness their collapse.
he stayed collapsed against her for several minutes, his heavy, rhythmic heartbeat thumping against her chest like a drum. the air in the room was thick with the scent of them—heat, sweat, and the fading notes of his expensive cologne. michael slowly lifted his head, his face softened by a vulnerability she’d never seen, though that possessive spark still flickered deep in his eyes.
"you're still shaking," he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear that had escaped from the corner of her eye. he didn't pull away; instead, he shifted his weight to his side, pulling her with him so they were tangled together, chest to chest, on the edge of the velvet sofa.
he draped the discarded robe over her trembling shoulders, his touch surprisingly tender for a man who had just claimed her so ruthlessly. "you aren't going to be able to write a single word about tonight, are you?" he murmured, a low, tired chuckle vibrating against her collarbone. "because there are no words for this. for us."
she leaned her forehead against his chin, her voice barely a breath. "i think you've effectively ruined my career, michael."
"good," he said, his grip tightening around her waist. "then you'll have more time to spend right here. where you belong."
he began to trace lazy, soothing circles on her lower back, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of her head. the fire was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but for now, there was only the quiet, heavy weight of their shared breath.
"don't move," he commanded softly, his eyes finally closing as he pulled her closer into his heat. "the world can wait until morning. tonight, the king isn't going anywhere, and neither are you."
████████
warning !!! if you read this at 3am you may get pregnant 😣😣
everything about him enticed her, she took a liking to the small things. the way his long tresses cascaded his shoulders. how his eyes would light up when he talked about his interests. specifically music.
his radiance was irresistible even.
he introduced her to all his friends, teasing them amongst her presence. he made sure she was comfortable at all times around them. never wanting to make her uncomfortable. he spoke highly of his family, those who he got along with. hell it was how the two met. comparing the looks of him and his sister and similarities. they walked to the exit and hugged and seemingly she had been hooked since.
it was no doubt that after that, he popped up everywhere. his presence was more defined. maybe by the depth of his voice or his laugh lit up the room. it was clear he was an embodiment of joy.
he made her wanna feel something. she enjoyed the warmth in her cheeks when he spoke or the casual touch of their hands. almost too casual. she sensed a correspondence between feelings but again brushed it off so slightly. he was just friendly, right ?
he was a vixen.
however the flirting became too much. indeed, making her feel something she longed for. passion. the lust between their eyes when they held eye contact. how touchy they got in just a matter of time. desire. they could speak with one another without speaking. the exchanges of looks started to attract aspiration.
she often thought of him as a forbidden fruit.
all of those feelings came crashing down in a matter of seconds. just from those delicate words.
and maybe she heard incorrectly and this was all some sick joke. twisted to be exact.
Tyler, The Creator Going On Tour For CALL ME IF YOU GET LOST With Kali Uchis, Vince Staples & Teezo Touchdown
Tyler, The Creator's CALL ME IF YOU GET LOST North American tour will kick off in February of 2022 and run through the springtime. Kali Uchis, Vince Staples and Teezo Touchdown will join him on the bill for all of the thirty-four arena shows. The humorous follow-up to his 2019 Grammy-winning IGOR album debuted at number one on the much-vaunted Billboard 200 Chart. Tickets will go on sale Friday at 10AM from callmeifyougetlost.com.
