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20!!/@ sugacore on ao3

[prettyangeliczz]

they always say they wanna fuck old men but when i come and say i would fuck michael even when he needs a cane, i look crazy. his voice is naturally deep so imagine him not giving a fuck while having sex with you and looking up at you with those pretty eyes of his while his hands rest on your hips, “that’s it baby, take me just like that.” deep voice and strokes cause he can’t go as fast as he used to, but you’re more than okay with it.

[etherealiti]

If you've ever seen *Wedding Dress* by Taeyang MV, it's kind of like that. You can make it either Jaafar or Michael.

Basically, the reader and whoever you choose are childhood best friends. They've both liked each other for years, but they're too scared to confess. Eventually, the reader decides to try forget her feelings and starts seeing someone else, which is actually going well. She keeps it a secret at first because she wants to tell them herself, but things keep coming up, so she never gets the chance.

Eventually, they find out on their own, which leads to a huge fallout between them.

Years later, the reader is still in touch with one of the siblings and ends up inviting the family to her wedding. That's when they meet again for the first time in years. 🤡🥲

Maybe hard angst, unresolved feelings, and a devastating reunion scene🥲

forever friend | michael jackson

- summary: after a fallout, the next time you see your long time friend that you were in love with, thriller!michael, is at your wedding. with another man.

word count: 8k

warning: angst, like just that, actually. miscommunication, i'm talking heavy. missed chance, the one that got away, kind of "diana, what letter?" moment tbh, iykyk!! pacing is awfully off and rushed, i'm being serious here. mentions of oc named charles, he's kind of a bummer for our main two fr. hopeful ending bc why wouldn't it be?? flashbacks to jacksons!mike and otw!mike bc i love that time so bad

* no usage of y/n, michael refers to reader as 'baby' and 'sweetheart'

author's note: Well, I truly hope the anon is still here somehow (⁠╯⁠︵⁠╰⁠,⁠) it's been over a month. I could have finished this sooner, but with all the father in the hospital thing, I did not... Anyway, this song was literally my high school bff's favourite song to sing, so this was really a flashback. SE asians, yk how it is. And I fell so much in love with this plot, it's your blueprint for angst, and I love love love reading angst. It's unfortunate I don't WRITE IT WELL. But I do hope you enjoy this, anon, I'm so sorry for the delay and if this didn't go the way you'd like it to.

Also note, believe me when I say the pacing is godawful. Literally rushed. And so so short. Don't even get me started on the plot holes! Maybe one day I can redo this and split them and actually flesh it out, because that was my first thought for this req before life got in the way. Anyway...

+++ not proofread, kinda. a lot of uhm mixed tenses, it's kind of intentional

+++ english isn't my first language! and i'm not a professional writer by any means! but i do hope you'll all love this!

taglist!; @jaafarsbaby @mbafi @umafanficdoidaqualquer @sebbysbaby @universesweetheart @sugarrushbell @cosmic-aura @astrxwitch

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

They weren't kidding around about this whole 'wedding jitters' thing. You're so close to having a migraine and there's not even a reason for it. 

Everything is going according to plan. It's almost disturbingly perfect that you are just waiting for something to go wrong. Maybe one of your bridesmaids will come in to show how her dress is ruined from top to bottom, or maybe one of your uncles has finally realized the bar opens early and makes a fool of himself in front of everyone. 

All kinds of things run through your mind as you stare at the mirror, biting your lip nervously. You're alone in the dressing room, it's a quaint large space with cream walls and wine red furnishings. The full length mirror reflects your tense figure, eyes visibly announcing their worry. All the bridesmaids have left the room per your request, because frankly speaking, you were getting kind of tired from their compliments. And you need time for yourself. 

You take a slow, deep breath. 

In.

Holding for five seconds, your look of resignation gazes back at you. 

Out. 

Clearing your throat, you wiggle your fingers and hands to shake off the remnants of jitter. You don't know if that actually helps or not, and truth be told, you couldn't care less anymore. 

You're about to get married and you're doing it with anxiety levels that are through the roof. 

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you relax a little. As cocky as it sounds, you look quite beautiful in the wedding dress, having had the chance to pick it out yourself without any persuasion from others. It's not your dream dress, per se, but it sure does wonders for your body as well as your face, and it fits the budget. You truly don't regret it, though. The dress really is almost perfect. 

With a pleasant hum, you trace the neckline with your fingers, a small smile hesitantly growing onto your face.

You wanted to know whether it was normal for a bride to force a smile on her wedding day, but maybe it's best to shelve that thought away. 

A knock on the door snaps you out of your head, and with a nervous voice, you loudly say, "Come in... Unless you're my groom, then don't because of bad luck or something like that." 

"It's Janet!" You hear from behind the door. A gasp escapes your lips and you turn with a squeal, rushing towards the door as it opens from the outside. When Janet sees you, she squeals the same and before you know it, the both of you are hugging each other tightly, slightly jumping up and down. 

"You made it!" You sigh out and pull her closer. 

"I did! God, you look so beautiful. Just look at you!" Janet squeals again and pulls away, analysing you from head to toe. 

You pull her in for a quick squeeze again, replying, "You too, oh, how gorgeous you've grown every time I see you. It's been a long six months, I see." 

"Excuse you, I've never not been gorgeous," the girl replies, feigning offense. You let out a small laugh, reaching out to pinch her cheek. 

"Of course, but you're eighteen now. You will embrace beauty in a much kinder way, just as it has always embraced you," you tell her.

Janet rolls her eyes goodnaturedly, giggling as she nudges your hand off of her cheek, "Gosh, I've forgotten how much of a cornball you are! It's the writer in you." 

The both of you laugh for a few more seconds before a knock comes again, this time on the already opened door. Your eyes flick to the older woman standing behind Janet, and your smile widens.

"Mama Kate, I'm so happy you made it!" 

You walk up to the smiling woman, and pull her into a gentle hug. Once pulling away, she grips onto both of your hands and gives you a look of pure love and warmth. "Almost everyone made it, save for Randy and Joseph. Rebbie sends her love as well. LaToya is runnin' late but she'll be here in time for the reception. My, how lovely you look, my dear." 

Biting your lip, you put on a sheepish grin. "You think so?" 

The woman nods and hums, softly patting your cheek. A moment later, you hear different sets of footsteps, paired with familiar voices and once nearing the open door, familiar faces. The Jackson brothers – consisting of Jackie, Jermaine, Marlon and Tito– are talking amongst themselves, laughing loudly before the latter finally sees you in front of his mother, and a wide smile appears on his face.

"Hey, look at the little rosebush here!" Tito exclaims, causing the others to quit their conversation and focus their gazes on you. You fight your instinct to look down with a shy smile, knowing how it would make them tease you further. 

"Oh, baby rose, you look beautiful!" Marlon says, opening his arms wide and welcoming you into a hug. "It's been so long, girl, I think I forgot how you look," he snickers, ignoring the soft pinch of your fingers on his waist. 

Jermaine pulls you into a sidehug, smiling down at you. "Guess little rosebush ain't so little anymore. Gettin' married and everything!" 

"Well, hello to you too, guys," you let out a scoff, holding back a giggle. "I am my own person, y'know? But sure, the first time you've seen me in ages and it's all about me getting married!" 

Jermaine's arm around your shoulder slackens, and his face of bafflement reflects the ones on all the other men's faces as well. Jackie murmurs quietly, "She says this on her wedding day. Figures." Chuckling at the look you give him, the man pulls you in for a brief hug before you usher all of them into the room properly, closing the door after. 

Marlon whistles as he walks around the room with hands in his pockets, observing the space. "Nice place, little rose. Your man chose this venue? Doesn't seem like somewhere you'd hang around at." 

"Hey, I can be classy!" You narrow your eyes at him, ignoring the giggles from Janet. The others make themselves comfortable, with the many sofas and velvet stools all around the room. Tito leans on the backrest of the sofa he's on, raising a brow at you, "Well, did you pick this place, then?" 

You clear your throat, looking away. "Well, no."

"Hah!" Marlon snorts, "Knew it was Mister Moneybags. Not too shabby." 

"He has a name, okay?" you scold him, heading to the mirror and fixing your hair that must have been lightly tousled from all the hugs you've been giving. 

“Eh, Chuck-schmuck is a little poor for my taste,” Marlon teases, cackling when an affronted look appears on your face and you turn to pinch his arm. 

“Marlon, don't tease the bride and groom, they're off limits for you today,” Katherine remarks, trying to hide her smile to no avail when you poke your tongue out to her son. 

When your lips part, about to say something probably just as mean about Marlon to the man himself, another knock comes on the door. You excuse yourself with a polite grin, telling the family not to bother getting it. 

“It's probably one of my bridesmaids. They keep leaving their hair pins everywhere, so can you guys please make sure you're not sitting on any of it?” Throwing an apologetic look to the others, you turn back around and open the door, ready to lecture your friend, but instead you're graced with the sight of Michael standing right in front of you. 

He's standing right in front of you, dressed all nice and fancy in a suit, face etched with the utmost surprise. 

Oh my god, Michael is standing right in front of you. 

“H-hey!” You manage to breathe out. 

The man in front of you continues to look at you with wide eyes, lips slightly parting. It's five solid seconds of no reply, until he manages to squeak out against the silence. 

“H-Hi! Hey, sweetheart!” Michael greets, warmth and wonderment lacing his words. A smile starts to grow onto his face as his eyes soften, gaze sliding down to your dress and back up to your face. 

Ignoring the twinge in your heart at the way he called you — the old way he used to call you, anyway, but that’s completely irrelevant— you put on a polite smile and open the door wider. 

“Hi, Michael. Come in! Everyone else is here,” you say, motioning for him to enter the space. Michael walks in a little too hesitantly, and he's met with all different kinds of looks from the rest of the family. 

Tito makes himself comfortable, crossing his legs. “Say, rosy, how old do you think you’ll be when you have your first kid?”

Your lips part with surprise, a choked laughter escaping your throat. “Gosh, I don’t know, maybe the day everyone stops calling me rosebush?”

“We’ll stop when hell freezes over. Or when Mike starts callin’ you that,” Jermaine shrugs. “Whichever comes first.”

Although you’ve been spending the years apart trying to shelve away any thought or notion regarding Michael’s existence, all turned out to be no avail. You know the merit of Jermaine’s words.

It was years ago, when you and Michael were only twelve. It was the last time you both wrestled with each other, playfighting and tumbling about. Mike then had accidentally pushed you, and you somehow landed right on top of a rose bush, a thorn pricking on the skin of the apple of your cheek. Both of you squealed in shock, and he felt so terrible he cried for three days straight at seeing your scar. The brothers have called you any name signifying a rose ever since, more to tease on Michael, and he detested it so much back then.

The scar lived to be permanent, and you catch Michael’s detestful gaze on it now.

Marlon clears his throat, eyes glinting with amusement, and Michael quickly schools his expression before the scowl that was unconsciously forming onto his face could properly take place. The latter turns to you, and a sigh escapes his lips without permission. 

“You… You really look lovely, sweetheart. Truly.”

Meeting his stare, you bite your lip before looking away. Laughing just slightly, you thank him quietly. 

“It's uhm…” you begin. “It's been a while. You look great too, Mike.” 

The both of you nod, only looking at each other with small smiles awkwardly displayed for the sake of decency. The twinge in your chest worsens at this. You used to be so close. Never a dull moment with him. Never a second of doubt or hesitation when it came to him. You've always known what the other was thinking of. That feeling of having your soul aligning with his, harmoniously humming through the years. To see the living evidence of how even forever does not last, hurts you to the bone.

You'd never thought that your bond with Michael would fall victim to Father Time. But then again, to blame only time itself would be contradictory to what had actually transpired between the two of you. 

“Yeesh…” Marlon speaks against the silence brewing, yelping in pain when Janet slaps the back of his head. “We’re gonna head out. See you out there, rosy girl. Congratulations again.”

The group of them slowly leaves the room, you receiving kisses on the cheeks from some, and indecipherable looks from others. Katherine’s the last to leave, and she gives you the longest hug that it almost makes your eyes well up. Hugging her is almost an equivalent action to hugging your own mother. Despite the years apart, that love is still there. Being held by her in this way gives you a sense of apprehension. Something along the lines of saying a final goodbye to an old dream of yours. An old thought, of what could have been.

The subject of that topic is standing right behind the woman holding you, with hands in his pockets and a glowing look of melancholy in his eyes. Everything about that is so familiar to you. 

The door closes, leaving just you and Michael in the room. It’s as if the rest of them knew it was necessary. An unspoken rule of letting things between you two foster its state again, unwilling to accept its end. Any room you’re sharing with him tends to do that. In your memories, every single time, it has always ended with you two in the quiet, finding home in the stillness and each other. 

The silence from earlier returns, though the man visibly relaxes at the absence of others. His shoulders loosen, and his gaze returns to lock with yours, eyes softening up even further. He takes a step closer, growing a small smile that melts your heart the exact same way it always did. 

“It’s been… so long,” Michael says in a soft tone, breathless.

“Yeah…” You say quietly, looking away before your eyes get lost in his. Clearing your throat, you walk a few steps away, fiddling with the fabric of your skirt. “It’s been what? Over two years?”

Michael hums in response, “Almost three.”

Nodding slowly, you readjust the bodice of the dress, eyes focusing on the appearance on the mirror. Behind you, the reflection of Michael shows the faraway look in his gaze. The melancholy from earlier returning, and you watch with bated breath as he glances at you again. 

“Three years too long, I’d say,” he whispers into the quiet. When you meet his gaze through the mirror, your mind clicks. The familiarity of the look. The forlorn way he’s holding himself, the somberness etched on his face. It’s almost a dead ringer for how he was looking at you in exactly the same way, all those years ago.

-

1976

Michael stared at you with open eyes and a heartbroken frown, hands in his pockets. 

“And h-he– he just told me he’s going with that other girl instead!” You stuttered out, blowing your nose into the tissue. A sob escaped you, and you sniffled. “And now, I can’t even go because I’m gonna be so embarrassed. Everyone knew how excited I was that someone had asked me!”

You were sitting on a sofa in the Hayvenhurst living room, crying into the seventh piece of tissue. Wearing a floor length dress so pretty that you had to beg for extra allowance to purchase, you think of how pitiful you look. Getting bailed on senior prom night by a guy that personally asked you in the first place, just in favour of going with another girl is not something you’d wish for anyone. Not even your worst enemy. 

“A-and LaToya worked so hard for my hair, and for my makeup and–” you take a shaky breath before blowing your nose into the tissue again, crumpling it up and throwing it to the side before stealing another one from the box. Michael sighed and crouched down, looking at you with severe sympathy. Reaching his hand to slowly stroke the back of your head, he hushed you gently. 

“It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. I’m tellin’ you, everything is gonna be alright. It’s his loss, alright? Nothin’ more than that,” he said softly. You sniffled as he talked, and leaned your head on his shoulder. The response was almost immediate. His arms wrapped around your waist, and he pulled you slightly closer, the warmth of his chest pressed against yours calming you down. 

Heaving a sigh, you whispered. “But I was so excited, Mikey. How could he do that? I know I’m not as pretty as Sherry but I thought he liked me.”

Michael shook his head, pulling slightly away, a firm stare fixed on you. With brows furrowed, he said to you, “That guy is a bum, actin’ like a straight up fool. I don’t know who that Sherry girl is but I know nobody in that school is even close to holdin’ a candle to you, sweetheart.”

Laughing through the tears, you nudged his chest. “You’ve never even seen the students there.”

“And? I said what I said,” Michael huffed, a small smile on his face at seeing you laugh. 

Taking your hands, Michael stood up and pulled you off of the sofa. He brushed invisible lint off of your dress and tucked a hair behind your ear. Wrapping his arms around your waist again, the both of you hugged properly this time. 

“You’re absolutely wonderful. Some people are too stupid to see that,” he murmured against your temple. “But not me, sweetheart.”

“Not you?” You looked up at him.

“Mm-mm,” he shook his head. “Never me.”

You pressed your head against his chest, heaving a deep sigh. There he goes again. Being the absolute sweetest. 

It was a few more minutes of him rocking you back and forth, and giving the occasional kisses to your head, before you found it in yourself to actually pull away. Another sniff escaped you, and you looked up at him sheepishly. 

“I guess I’m just gonna go home. Maybe they’ll let me return this dress tomorrow,” you said, taking a few steps away.

“Wait, don’t!” Michael abruptly stopped you, holding onto your hand. 

You turned to him with a look of confusion.

“I mean– uh, well, maybe not yet,” he motioned to you. “Sweetheart, you look breathtakin’. And you said so yourself, my sister worked really hard on it, too. It shouldn’t go to waste.”

“Well, Mike,” you rolled your eyes, shrugging in disbelief, ignoring his compliment and how it made your insides flutter. “I’m not stepping foot in that school tonight. I’m already ashamed.”

Michael tutted, gripping your hand tighter. “I didn’t say anythin’ about school.”

The corners of your lips slowly quirked up, and you raised a brow to him. “What have you got going on, Mike?”

“I’m sayin’ that you’re not missing out on your prom night because an idiot did somethin' idiotic.”

Michael all but dragged you upstairs to head to presumably his bedroom, and he chuckled as you questioned him over and over again about what he planned to do. You thought to yourself how the steps you took could almost be considered as souvenirs of your memories, the laughter and joy that are shared with Michael carving its way into the corners and the crevices of the staircase, and into the walls of the house. Your eyes focused on his grip, fingers intertwined with yours. 

Once arrived at his room, he led you inside, motioning you to sit on the foot of his bed. He didn't sit next to you, however, and instead took a few steps back. Hands put up, face contorted into pure concentration. 

“Stay put. Right there.”

“Mike?” You questioned again, laughing. 

“I'll be right back! Stay!” 

And then he left the room and slammed the door closed, to your utter confusion. 

Blowing air out of your cheeks, you let out a sigh and decided to roam his room. There was nothing there that should surprise you in any way, given how often you visit the house and enter his room on a daily basis. He and his brothers were currently in the middle of recording the new album, the first one since they left Motown. Everyone was practically on edge most of the time, desperate to do well and prove their former label wrong. As busy as they were, you knew Michael didn't have much time to actually clean his room. 

You shrugged and picked up some stray books from the floor, placing them neatly on the shelf. Might as well. 

It was a good fifteen minutes, and you're about to storm out after seeing no sign of Michael, when a knock comes onto the door. You made a face. There was no way this was any of the siblings. They'd usually barge in. Slowly getting up from the bed, you slowly opened the door. And what an absolutely delightful sight it was.

There stood Michael, dressed in a dark tuxedo with a cute little bowtie. He had a bright smile on his face, almost gleaming. He was standing up in such a way that was almost mockingly poised, replicating a distinguished gentleman from the covers of those old Victorian books. He pulled out his hand from his back, revealing a lone stem of a red rose. 

“Michael!” You gasped out. 

“It’s no corsage,” he shrugged shyly. “But I didn’t know how to do that. We can go to the garden later if you want. Find somethin’ else, since the rose is too… corny and all—”

“What on earth are you talking about? This is… Oh, Mikey, this is so wonderful, I– I don’t know what to say,” you said with a hitched breath. You took a step closer and took the flower from his hands, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck to pull him into a tight hug. He chuckled, holding you just as tight. 

“I ain’t even shown you everything yet. C’mon, let’s go down.”

You guffawed at him. “Wh– there’s more?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t know if you know this, but prom is more than gettin’ a flower from your dashing date, y’know? There’s dancing… and spiked punch, I hear.” Michael whispered in a conspiratorial way. 

“Well, what do you know, Mister Tour For All Eighteen Years Of My Life?” You laughed, nudging him on the chest before holding his hand as he led you down the stairs. 

He scoffed, “Not my whole life, that’s an exaggeration. So, hah! And also, I know things, alright? And what I know is that since you and I will never experience senior prom in a school, I thought I’d just bring it to us. I know, I know. Genius.”

You were about to reply when the living room stopped you in your tracks. The lights were dim, but there was a small disco ball hanging on by a rope— not tied very securely, might you add– with music playing from the turntable. The furniture was set aside, making some space in the center. 

“Michael…” You spoke up, breathless. 

He looked at you then, biting his lip nervously. He tightened his grip on your hand, and took you to the center of the room. His arm snaked around the back of your waist as he lifted up your interlocked hands, slowly swaying from side to side in rhythm to the music.

Clearing his throat, Michael gave you a look of anticipation mixed with dread. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” you almost sob. “This is the greatest thing anyone has ever given me. And I’ve been given a lot of things… mostly by you too!”

Michael’s eyes widened at your sudden outburst of emotions, hurriedly trying to calm you down by patting your back repeatedly. “H-hey, stop that cryin’! I’m supposed to cheer you up, sweetheart!”

You continued to sniffle, shaking your head and reaching up to cradle his cheek, still slow dancing. “You don’t understand. You’re my best friend. You’ve done so much for me, and I keep taking and taking, and I don’t know how to give back.”

“Baby, are you on your period or something– Ow! Ow, okay. Got it, no askin’.” He stopped himself after you swat at his chest, still sniffling very loudly. Michael sighed and leaned down to press his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. 

“I’d do anything for you, y’know that. You’re somethin’ like a... forever friend for me, so yeah. Just take, okay? Take all I give, because that’s what I intend to do.”

You stared at him, foreheads still pressed together. His eyes closed, all furrow between the brows gone. He looked so at peace. “You’re always so wonderful to me,” you whispered against the calmness. “How could I ever find anyone better to spend my time with?”

He huffed a laugh, eyes still shut. “You won’t have to. Forever friend entails forever, if you must know.”

But I don’t want to be just your friend, you thought.

Your eyes tracked down his perfect nose to his perfect lips without permission, lingering there despite your inner self warning you repeatedly. Without any thought, you leaned in closer, secretly pleading for him to open his eyes. 

“Michael--”

A rumbling of footsteps echoed through the hall. Marlon’s voice rang in tow, “I heard we got a party goin’ on down here!”

Michael groans without opening his eyes, pulling away to your disappointment. He didn’t notice your deflated self, and yelled out, “I told y’all to get lost!” Turning back to you, he shrugged helplessly and smiled. And with that, you forget about the thoughts that were swarming you just a few moments ago and moved on. Just as you’ve always done these past few months. The both of you danced properly after, him leading you with giggles and laughter against the stillness of the night. 

“Where did you get that disco ball?” You asked him, snorting quietly. 

With a smug smile, Michael laughs and murmurs a response. “Baby, we’ve had parties here, remember? Joe wants to throw the decorations every time it ends, but we keep some of it.”

Two minutes of slow dancing later, he whispered in your ear, “I’d prefer it if we don’t reach under that disco ball, though, sweetheart. I hung that myself earlier and I don’t think that was the smart move.”

Giggling, you only closed your eyes and held him closer, wishing so much you could just dance the night away, and many more nights to come, with Michael.

-

PRESENT. 

“So, you’re really marryin’ him, huh?” 

Michael’s voice snaps you out of your thoughts. You turn your back to the mirror, facing him. A huff of laughter escapes your lips, disbelief marring your face. 

“Michael, you’re at the wedding. Yes, I’m marrying him. Why?”

“Nothing, it’s just… You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman,” Michael says, softer. More hesitant. 

You scoff goodnaturedly and cross your arms, “Mikey, we’re the same age.”

His eyes light up at that. As if once he hears you call his name in a warmer manner, almost all of his doubts fleet from his mind. The man looks down for a moment, biting back a grin. “Well, yeah,” he finally says. “But I mean, you’ve… The both of us have grown so much. I never thought we’d be seein’ each other this way, after… after so long.”

“Well,” you stare at him, an unreadable look on your face. “How did you think we would see each other again?”

Michael makes himself smaller, so different from the confidence he exudes whenever you used to be in the room with him. You hate that everything has changed, down to the tiny little bits of how he carries himself around you. 

He whispers into the tense silence. “I don’t know. I never really thought we’d have a reunion of some sorts in the first place.”

“You thought I wasn’t gonna invite you to my wedding?”

A scowl appears on his face very briefly, but you notice. He shrugs, “No, I didn’t expect there would even be a wedding any time soon.”

A beat. “So… I’m unmarriable now?”

“No!” he exclaims, face paling. Michael heaves a deep sigh, “I didn’t think we’d be so apart, okay? Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Well, I kinda have to when all you’ve given me is radio silence, Mike,” you raise a brow at him. Looking away, you murmur under your breath, “And it’s not my fault we’re apart when you’re the one who didn’t call.”

“Pardon?”

A sigh leaves your lips. “Michael.”

“I didn’t call?” he puts his hand to his chest, affronted. “All I did was try to call you. You're the one who never called back.”

You stare at him. Longer, this time. Lips parting in surprise. The furrow of your eyebrows come next. 

“What do you even mean? I called you first, and you never answered. I called you that night after we fought! Don’t change what happened!”

Michael stands up straighter, his face etched into pure confusion and indignance. 

“I called you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did! I called you the day after the fight, and you didn’t answer! I called you again that night, and no answer! What was I supposed to think?” Michael says, growing impatient and frantic. He walks up to you, and you can’t look away from the urgency in his eyes. “I called, sweetheart.”

You shake your head, eyes welling up despite the effort not to. “I didn’t get any calls.”

“Well, neither did I,” Michael says, voice cracking. “I would have answered, baby, I would have.”

“Michael, don’t– don’t call me that…” You trail off, breathing shakily. 

“But you are,” he whispers hoarsely. “You’re baby to me.”

Biting your lip, you hold back a sniffle. “It’s not right, I’m getting married today.”

“What’s not right is you tellin’ me that you’ve been thinking I never reached out to you this whole time, when I did. What’s not right is everything between us falling apart right afterwards and that the first time I see you properly is you gettin’ married to another man.”

You look at him in shock, “Michael, please!”

“Sweetheart, that night was one of the worst ones of my life,” he says in a tone that makes you quiet down. The tenacity in his eyes and how much anguish you see in them makes your heart stop completely for a second. “It felt like you dropped something so horrible and heavy on me, and what’s frustrating was that you didn’t even know, and worse is that neither did I.”

You only could look at him breathlessly, the gaze of a pained man staring back at you.

“Every time I remember, all I feel is regret over not stoppin’ you then and there from leaving your house.”

-

1981

You were fixing your earring, staring at the mirror reflecting back when a knock came onto the door. 

Charles is early, you thought to yourself.

Walking up to the front door, you opened with a bright smile, ready to greet the man you've been seeing for about two months now. The smile froze, however, when instead of Chuck with his neatly trimmed hair and burly figure, it was Michael, your best friend who'd been on tour for the past few months. 

“Mike!” 

“Hey, sweetheart!” He greeted with warmth lacing his words, arms held out to pull you into a hug. You squealed from happiness and pulled him closer, taking a few steps backwards to bring him into the house. His arms around your waist tightened, and so did yours around the back of his neck.

“What are you doing here?” You breathed out and pulled your head back, tracking every inch of his face with your eyes, unashamed. 

Michael's lips quirk up. “Final run of the tour, remember? Four days at The Forum. We have practice later but I needed to see you for just a second.” He buried his head into your shoulder and tightened his grip, if even possible. Breathing against your neck, he murmured, “Missed you so much, baby.” 

Your insides fluttered, heart melting at his words and you let yourself revel in it further before you internally winced. 

Charles wouldn't like this, you thought to yourself again. 

You cleared your throat and willed yourself to pull away, hands sliding downwards to his chest, and you gave him the widest smile you could have mustered. “I missed you too, Mike.” 

It was only then that he realized your attire. And your hair. And your makeup. His heart skipped a beat. Something inside him started to brew, but he didn't know what it was. 

“You look beautiful, sweetheart. What's the occasion?” 

“Oh, I, uh… I've got a date,” you told him, suddenly shy, looking away from his intense gaze. 

Michael froze ever so slightly, eyes flickering from your face to your dress, as if he was analysing the truth to your words. 

“Since when…” he started. “Since when did you go on dates?” 

You wanted to tell him the decision was made not very long after realizing your feelings for him. You wanted to tell him how loving him deeply had made you sink, and you needed someone who was not him to help you float again. But you shoved those words deep down. And found something else to say. Something normal, something that he would have understood. 

You shrugged, biting your lip to numb the nerves. “Since a few months ago. With the same guy.” 

“Same guy?” Michael's brows raised. “You've been goin’ on dates with the same guy for months?” 

At your nod, that thing swirling in his gut worsened. Michael rubbed the back of his neck, and decided to ask more questions just to destroy whatever it was inside him. 

“You're gettin' serious?” 

“It's too soon to tell… maybe?” 

“What's his name?” 

“Charles.” 

“Charles? His name is Charles?” 

“Yeah, what about it?” You asked, miffed at his tone. 

His hackles slightly rose, his brows raising at your defensiveness. “I didn't say anythin’.” 

“Your tone was different.” 

“Who cares about my tone? You can't blame me for bein’ just a little caught off guard, now could you?” 

You crossed your arms. “What do you mean caught off guard?” 

“I'm just sayin’ it's been a few months, and you said no word of this to me. Did you even think to tell me?” Michael said, heat coursing through him, but he didn't know what the hell was the reason.

Although, truthfully, a part of him, some small one, probably knew what it was. 

“I tried to tell you!” You snapped, throwing him an apologetic look right after. “I did try, but you were either too busy or tired.” 

“I always called you because I'd never be too tired to talk to you, why didn't you just tell me then?” Michael asked, throwing his hands up. 

“Well maybe it's because nowadays when you call, it's always during afterparties where you're having the time of your life,” you rebutted. “I don't even think you heard me most of the time with all that noise from your side.” 

“Okay, so it's my fault that the others decide to have fun while I find the time to call my best friend?” 

“No!” You exclaimed, looking at him severely. “Just – just, forget about it! Why do you even care, you know now!” 

Michael stared at you, disbelief and something you couldn't identify swirled in his eyes. “You're right. It's forgotten.” 

It was a stupid and painful silence, with the two of you clueless on how to navigate things. You’ve never fought in this way, with either of you not really sure of what triggered the sudden hostility. Never in your life would you have expected to be defensive against him, and he thought the same too. The changes were already taking place, and twenty-three year old Michael blamed that on the existence of the damned man you were seeing. He shoved his hands in his pockets, heatedly gazing down at the floor. 

“Well, I'm happy for you,” he bit out. And that hurt you. He was kidding himself, as well as you, but for the life of you, you couldn't really figure out why things took a turn. You didn’t know what to do, with Charles arriving any second, Michael with his broodiness coming out of nowhere. 

You were about to say something, except you didn’t, not when a honk could be heard from outside. Your nerves welled up. 

“That was Charles.”

Michael’s jaw clenched very briefly. His gaze towards the door, questioning. After a moment’s thought, he only nodded. “Go ahead. I’ll see you when I can. Have fun. I’ll lock up the house before leaving.”

You walked to the door before turning to him. Somewhat desperately, echoing your inner thoughts and frantic inclination. “Mike…” You breathed out. 

Michael didn’t look you in the eyes. It kills you that he didn’t, but he stepped closer to you, anyway. He nudged your arm, gripping your hand briefly before pulling away. He whispered into the rigid silence, “Have fun, sweetheart.”

You feigned a smile, heart not in it. Not when Michael couldn’t even hug you goodbye. The brief moment where he gripped your hand is almost mocking, from the remnants of his warmth rapidly falling away, the absence of it much stronger than the presence. You only looked at him for a few more seconds longer, urging yourself or him to say something more. He only stared at your dress, how pretty it looked on you. How similar it looked with your prom dress years prior. He tried to gather the courage to say something about that, but alas, the universe decided to kick his ass just once more. 

Another honk was heard from outside just as he parted his lips. He shut his mouth immediately. 

“Mike, I have to go,” you told him, the feeling of regret lying underneath the words. 

He only nodded, couldn’t really bring himself to tell you to have fun a third time. It wasn’t with him. As immature and selfish as that sounded, Michael couldn’t face the music. You’ve grown just as he had. You had your own life to live, with your own people. Despite classifying himself as your best friend, he didn’t know what movie you watched recently that you liked. Maybe Charles did. He didn’t know if you’ve been to any restaurant that’s just opened and hated it. Charles probably already took you.

Michael’s heart started cracking. There’s no such thing as a forever friend, not when the last time he thought of you as just a friend was years before. He realized that now. He also realized that the feeling in his gut was envy. And God, he fucking hated that.

Your hand briefly brushed against the back of his. He stared at the contact. 

And then you were gone.

Things fell apart quite quickly after that.

You called his house after your date, but they were still on the journey home, leaving late after the practice. He called your house the morning after, but you were out for a jog. Every single time, unbeknownst to either of you, the phone calls were just missed by the other, sometimes by a mere few minutes. At his lack of response, you took it to heart and assumed he was still upset. What you didn’t know was that he felt and thought the exact same.

Days of silence became weeks, and before you know it, your forever friend was no more.

-

PRESENT.

“Why are you marrying him?”

“Mike, stop.”

Michael leans in and presses his forehead against yours. “No, tell me. Why are you marrying him?” He whispers.

“Because– well, I’ve been with him for a long time, Mike,” you try, heartbeat increasing.

“I’ve known you longer,” he interrupts, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of your breath fan across his face. “And even if I didn’t, I could meet you for the first time today and still know you more than he does.”

“You haven’t talked to me in the past two years,” you whisper, eyes fluttering sadly. “How could you know?”

“Janet tells me sometimes,” Michael says, pulling away to your dismay. “She tells me that sometimes you call. Asking how we were. Telling her how you were, with that guy… Baby, he honked for you. I thought it was just the one time. But he honked for you every single time instead of knocking on your door. And when you start living with him, you pick up after him. He doesn’t even seem to know what you’ve been writing. You used to tell me every week about a new story. Janet tells me you’re about to have a big meeting with a publishing company soon. Has he even– has he done anything to celebrate? What sense does that make? He doesn’t treat you the way he should.”

You sigh deeply, turning away and rubbing your temple. “Michael, please.” 

He slowly walks up to you, gently turning you to face him again, hand reaching up to cradle your cheek, tender. “I know we’ve been apart, and we’re more different than when we were younger. I know that, sweetheart. But you’re tellin’ me you’re gonna marry that guy who doesn’t even see you fully? That guy who seems to have no intention of loving you the way you deserve? That guy and not—” His breath hitches, eyes welling up. 

Staring deeply into his eyes with your own teary ones, you let out a shaky breath. “Not who?”

A small quirk of his lips before Michael closes his eyes again, pressing his forehead against your temple, whispering softly to you, “Don’t.”

“Michael,” you bite back a sob. “He’s… he loves me in his own way. Those things you said aren’t at all a big deal. It doesn’t have to make sense for you.”

“Well, does it make even a lick of sense to you, sweetheart?” he counters. “You’re marryin’ him because he loves you in his own special way? Is that it?”

You pull away from him roughly, sniffling and reaching for the box of tissues on the coffee table. “Michael, stop being mean.”

“This whole conversation, sweetheart, not once did you stop me by just saying that you love him.”

Freezing at his words, you shut your eyes tightly. With your hands trembling, you press the crumpled up tissue to your chest, letting the tears fall. Makeup be damned. No, you couldn’t say that to him. Because that would be a lie. No, it’s not that you didn’t love Charles. Just maybe, you couldn’t do it completely. Not when you knew there was always someone else who would treat you and love you better. 

And in spite of your dire need to say just that to the man behind you, your mouth stays shut. It’s not the right time anymore. It never has been, apparently. 

“I can give you everything you need, you know this,” he hoarsely says. “Just tell me you love him and I’ll leave you alone.”

Charles is… he’s a guy you know what you’re going to get when you’re with him. There’s in it the stability and the predictability of everything. Your family likes him well enough. His family loves you. After Michael was gone from your life, he was the next person you’d always imagined spending most of your time with. It’s not the same, nothing will ever be, but it was good enough.

You muster up the courage to turn around, revealing your tear stricken face to him. Michael lets out a low whine, coming up to you and wiping your tears with his thumb. Pressing soft kisses against your head, he whispers to you again. “Sweetheart, please…”

“Mike…” is all you could say, slowly shaking your head, making his insides crash and break into a million pieces. 

His heart aches with every breath he takes, staring into your eyes that are so defeated, so confused and helpless. Michael takes a moment. Tracing the bridge of your nose, your nose warming up from the sniffles, the apples of your cheeks, the little forsaken scar on it. The one that he’d caused all those years ago. Leaning in, he presses a small kiss on the scar, lingering there and drowning himself with your scent for five seconds before pulling away completely.

The room is once again silent, only filled by sounds of crying and sharp intakes of breath. Michael stares at you, and flickers his gaze to your dress. He stares at your dress hard, internally cursing at everything when yet again, it’s reminiscent of the former dress you wore for that date the night of the fight, and the dress you wore to his homemade prom years before that.

It seems to him that the universe is mockingly cruel. The most beautiful woman he’s loved for most of his life is standing right in front of him, and she’s to be wed to another in a matter of a few minutes. 

A knock comes onto the door. 

“Rosy girl, no idea why those girls sent me to get you but, uh…” Marlon clears his throat. “It’s almost time.”

Michael lets out a heavy sigh. His posture weakens, deflates. With resignation in his movements and in his gaze, he leans in once more, to briefly kiss your temple. “Congratulations, sweetheart,” he whispers brokenly. “I’m so…” he swallows, “I’m so proud of you.”

A sob escapes you, and he hushes quietly. Hand reaching up to softly pat your cheek, he murmurs under his breath, gazing into your eyes intensely. “Stop that cryin’, hm? You’re gonna be great. If you say he loves you, then it is so.”

Pulling apart from his hold felt like pulling apart half of your soul. And the thing is, you didn’t even know that part of you still exists. The presence of him within only a few minutes, has reawakened it, just for everything to be torn away by your own doing. The heartburn you’re experiencing is unlike any other, and seeing that haunted look on his face? It tells you he’s suffering just as much, if not more than you. 

You hate yourself for walking away. You hate yourself more when you see Marlon looking at his brother from your peripheral vision, his face stricken with sympathy. When the brother heads inside and closes the door, and a muffled sob is heard through the wood, you think this is what it’s like to have yourself destroyed. 

-

That night, Michael doesn’t move from his bed. The whiplash of everything happening in less than a day, his emotions took a hard toll. He sees you in his visions. The slow walk down the aisle, how hard you tried to avoid his eye contact during the officiating ceremony. Some sick part of him was intently praying for you to come to your senses and he could take you right out of that altar, spending the rest of the day rediscovering things about each other. 

But that didn’t happen. The whole wedding went well, and so did the reception afterwards. Save for pitying looks from his family, Michael was crowded with strangers asking questions about his life. Some were even asking how he knew you. 

That angry younger Michael would have made a face, telling anyone and everyone that he’s your best friend, first and foremost person in your life. Your forever friend. With that being said, he’s now older and is always expected to act like an adult. 

“I’m an old family friend,” is what he’d end up saying, and the insides of him would churn at the lack of emotional history in that regard. To reduce the years they shared to something old, and distant. He wanted to go home right then and there. 

He’s long stopped crying since that time in the dressing room, Marlon having to comfort him and talk slowly with him. He’s long stopped trying to think of any way to get you to snap out of it. He’s trying to embrace the fact that maybe, just maybe, you were right. It’s not the right time. It probably never will be, if that damned man makes you so happy. 

He had the chance, and he blew it. The same goes for you too. Bunch of idiots, you two were.

All of a sudden, Janet opens his door slightly, peeking her head through. “Mike? Telephone for you.”

With tiredness of a man who’s been through hell, and in his head he actually was put through his own personal version of it, he gets up from the bed and follows Janet out the door. Heading down the stairs, he doesn’t notice Janet’s look and reaches for the landline. 

“Hello?”

He hears a shaky breath from the other side of the line and his heart skips a beat. 

As silence grows, so does his anticipation. Could it be? His body trembles with trepidation, and he presses the handset harder against his ear, afraid he’d be missing out on any words being spoken.

A sniffle.

“I made a huge mistake, didn’t I?” your heavenly voice comes from the telephone transmitter.

Michael gasps softly, almost collapsing against the wall with awe and relief. Holding back a sob, he manages out a broken ‘Sweetheart’ before the other line continues to sniffle.

And all he could see in his vision then, is you in that dress of yours, this time finally heading his way.

[dreamylace]

ᝰ.ᐟ I’M A GOOD GIRL, OFFICER!

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: policeman!michael jackson x f!reader (au)

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: speeding along the freeway, a policeman pulls you over with a punishment in mind.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: smut, 18+, p-in-v, creampie, fingering, car sex, semi-public sex, mean!mike, groping (consented), corrupt police officer? but readers into it, use of pet names ‘sweetheart’ ‘baby’ …is this too freaked out?

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: that pic of him brought this idea straight into my sick mind …enjoy! btw i do not condone speeding, it’s a very dangerous and reckless thing to do which can injure/end the lives of many, including yourself—so drive safe! i lowk got lost in the sauce whoopsies …this ain’t for everyone but i had fun tehehe

82MPH in a 70 probably wasn’t the wisest idea you’d ever had.

It was late—2am to be exact—and you’d just finished a gruelling, tiring shift at the diner, and were ready for the sweet haven that was your bed. There wasn’t a car in sight—full beams illuminating the road ahead of you, the only thing visible was dust, straw that had escaped from the back of a truck, lingering on the ground, and the occasional litter that shot up into the air from the wind that your beat-up Toyota blasted past it.

You were naive, though, to believe that late into this Saturday evening, on July 4th weekend, prompting your later-than-usual finish, that a certain black Chevrolet Caprice wouldn’t be hiding in the shadows to find a reckless law-breaker such as yourself. The thankful thought to slow down never hit you as you cruised along, completely forgetful to the fact that Police often roamed around later than usual on a busier, popular weekend such as this one.

But, not to worry—you were soon reminded!

Red and blue blasting lights consumed your vision in your rear-view mirror, as well as a patronisingly infamous siren screaming at you into the quiet night, as you whizzed past a hidden vehicle behind a cluster of trees.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ You panicked instantly, pressing on the brake to slow down to a comfortable 68MPH, before the familiar Police car caught up to your speed, tailing behind you closely.

The sirens never let up, neither did the lights, and that only meant one thing—Pull over.

“Oh, fuck, shit, shit, shhhhiiit!”

Panicked adrenaline pumped through you instantly—hands shaking as you indicated right, pulling over messily to an old dirt lay-by area, the gravel crunching under your tires as you slowed to a stop. The sleek ‘81 Chevrolet joined you—parking a few metres behind you, for safety precautions, the sirens finally halting.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic—breathe, breathe, breathe.” You affirmed to yourself, closing your eyes briefly to focus on your breathing, hands trembling in your lap as you prayed for a humble, generous Officer that would show you mercy.

In your right wing-mirror, you gazed anxiously, awaiting the Officer to exit their car, and ruin your night with a $75 ticket. But, as the luckiest lady you were, a tall, slim, young male emerged from the car—adjusting his belt, adorned with a .38 Special service revolver hanging along his upper-thigh, and a flash-light, that was being pulled from its sleeve, and flicked on as he approached your car.

Bingo!

You knew exactly how to get out of this one.

With swift, nimble fingers, you popped open the top three buttons of your pink blouse, ‘Ricky’s Diner’ embroidered on your left breast now folded over to slightly conceal your place of work—before grabbing a handful of your breasts, and pushing then further together in your bra.

A Policeman is a man at the end of the day—and what man can resist a poor lady with her tits out in the middle of the night!

You jumped slightly as the hard plastic of his flashlight banged against your window. Your head flew in the direction of the noise, and swallowed thickly as you reached for the lever, winding down the mucky glass slowly.

“Licence and registration, please.”

Your heart stopped as you met the dark eyes of the Policeman in front of you—this was about to get real good. He was ethereal—quite possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on, staring broodily down at you. For a second, his gaze flickered as it met your own, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smug smirk, as his eyes shamelessly dropped to your exposed cleavage, before trailing back up to your eyes.

Flirting was going to be real easy when he looked like that.

He was dressed in a dark, fitted navy long-sleeve shirt that hugged the curve of his biceps deliciously, paired with deep black trousers, and black boots on his large feet. Alongside the matching navy blue peaked cap upon his trained set of dark curls on his head, a twinkling silver badge, with ‘LAPD’ etched into its shape, rest upon his clothed left breast, and on the other side a nameplate above the right pocket that read ‘M.JACKSON’—He looked edible.

“Evening, Officer Jackson.” You started, eyes never leaving his own as you dug through your glovebox, “What’s the reasoning for this?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, lil’ lady.” The man breathed out a short laugh, “Licence, now, please.”

“Yes, Sir.” You answered, drawled and sensual, lip coming between your teeth as you handed both documents to him.

“Ma’am, are you aware of how fast you were goin’ back there?” He spoke smoothly, voice laced with a thick accent that you clenching your thighs together involuntarily.

“No, Officer, I’m sorry …was I going a little too fast?” You feigned innocence, eyelashes fluttering as you cocked your head to the side.

“Just a lil’ bit, ma’am.” Officer Jackson spoke, fighting a smirk at your faux-innocence, “82 in a 70.”

You gasped fakely, “No! Was I really? Oh, well, Officer, I am deeply sorry. Just tryna get home after a long shift, y’know how it is, Sir, hm?”

“I sure do, ma’am, but I stay under the limit.” He shot back smartly, “Just headin’ home after work, were ya?”

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, gaze still locked on his, “Can’t wait to get home, take off all my tight, sweaty clothes and get in a warm shower.”

You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched at your words—tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes trailing to your conveniently pressed up breasts again, before finally landing on the documents in his grasp. He shon the light of his beaming flashlight directly at the plastic card of your personal information in his hands—vision raking over the numbers and letters.

“Ma’am, are you aware your licence is expired?”

Fuck.

“I—um—“

“Hm? What’s the excuse now, ma’am?” He taunted, the smug smirk finally reaching his lips as he peered down at you.

“I …uh, I wasn’t aware, Officer, I’m sorry. Work’s been hectic, I haven’t had chance to check it.” You spoke, honestly this time.

He hummed suspiciously, eyes once again flickering over your face, chest, and dropping to your short skirt that danced along your upper thighs, exposing the skin to his wondering eyes under the spotlight of his light.

“Where’d you say you worked again?” Officer Jackson pressed, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at your provocative outfit.

“I didn’t, Sir.”

“Is that a refusal to answer Police questioning?”

Shit—what?

“No—no! I work at Ricky’s, down on 4th.” You answered honestly, “Worked there for 5 years now.”

“Ah, I know it. Opposite the KFC, right?”

You giggled genuinely, “Yes, that’s the one. Been real hard gettin’ customers with such a big chain across the street.”

He hummed again, more of a satisfied noise this time, allowing a small smile to grow on his face, “Well, you’re outta luck, girl, ‘cause I love KFC.”

“Well, if you stopped by some time I could show you some real cooking.” And the charm was back on—game time!

With an elbow on the window, your hand pressed under your chin, and a sweet, toothy smile—you put the magnitude of your flirting to its maximum.

“I see what you’re doin’, ma’am.” He started, the smirk, however, never leaving his face, “Y’know it’s a felony offence to attempt to seduce your way out of a citation?”

“ …Uh—“

“Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle for me, please?”

Well, shit. The idea that just because he was hot, that he’d succumb to your devious flirting was a stupid one. That citation, and even an arrest with a court date scheduled, had your name written all over it now.

You complied—switching off the engine, and popping the door open to swing your legs out. Hitting the gravel road, your legs shook in panic as your undecided fate lay in the hands of the painfully attractive man before you, who was now eyeing you up and down slowly—taking in your slightly trembling frame, clad in your matching pink blouse and skirt, and black kitten heels over your pedicured toes.

“Little slutty for a diner, hm?”

You gasped softly—the nonchalance and causality of his crude words hit you suddenly, your mouth falling ajar.

“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to like tha—“

“Ma’am, there’s no need to get aggressive.” He interrupted, the smile permanent on his face, as a hand came out in front of him, “If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to detain you.”

“What the fuck? Detain me? For what?”

“Two felonies—speeding and expired license.” Officer Jackson recalled, “And possibly aggravation towards a Police Officer.”

“You just called me a slut, Sir, I—“

“Ma’am, I told you to calm down already.” Oh, this guy was playing a real sick game right now, “This is your last warning.”

You scoffed, words failing you as you eyed the man in-front of you. You weren’t sure whether he was a seriously corrupt Police Officer who strived off making money and arrests to innocent, vulnerable women, or an aroused, perverted fiend just like yourself. And with the way he was licking his lips, wetting the skin, as he gazed dreamily at your exposed chest—you were sure it was the latter.

And you were more than into it.

“I’m so sorry, Sir,” You pouted, welling up faux-tears in your eyes as the flirtatious charm sprang back into life, “I’m just so nervous—feel my heart, it’s beatin’ right outta my chest.”

Without giving him any time to process your next move, your hand clasped around his extended hand, and pressed it directly against your bare chest—deliberately smushing his dark brown palm into the plush of your breasts.

“See? You just make me so nervous, Officer.”

“Turn around.”

The gruffness of his usual soft tone made you widen your eyes suddenly—lip coming back between your lips, as you willingly turned around. Your heart hammered loudly in your chest—whether it was genuine nerves or the thrill of being so close to such an attractive man, you weren’t sure—probably both.

“Just a mandatory pat-down.” He spoke lowly, his chest mere inches from your back as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low grumble behind your head, “Do I have your consent, ma’am?”

“Yes, Officer.” You breathed, voice shaken as you braced yourself for his hands against your body, trembling in ecstatic anticipation.

“Good girl.”

He didn’t miss the way you gasped—breath catching in your throat as he chuckled darkly. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands met your tensed shoulders, rubbing the skin quickly—his hands were warm and large, covering substantial surface area of your arms as he made his way down. His hands smoothed down your back slower this time, sliding to follow the curve of your waist, and around your middle—fingers curling over the plush of your stomach. By the time he crouched down, hands patting over your exposed legs, prickling with goosebumps, you had been biting your lip so hard you tasted blood—it had been a long time since you’d been touched, by anyone, let alone being pat down by a divine man such as the one behind you.

“Oh!”

The word left you before you could stop yourself as his two large palms cascaded over the round of your behind—each cupping a cheek of your ass, kneading gently. He could easily play it off as attempting to feel for any weaponry, but the way he was toying with the plushness of the skin was hard not to interpret as sexual.

“Need me to stop, lil’ lady?” He whispered, breath hot against the back of your ear as he rose to his feet once more, hands now sliding across your lower back, and back to your waist.

“N—No, it’s okay. Keep going.”

God, you sounded pathetic—your voice broken and wobbling, chest heaving as his thumb trailed across the side of your breasts, your jaw instantly clenching at the sensation.

Soon enough, his hands cupped the swell of your clothed breasts—palms gliding over your now pebbled nipples, fully erect from the sensual touching. Involuntarily, your back arched into the touch, a quiet, almost inaudible mewl left your gnawed lips—You froze. As did he.

In the silence of the dark freeway, it was hard to miss the way you just moaned at a Police Officer groping your breasts for a mandatory search. Even the quietest of whimpers hit his perked up ears, his hands stilling around the mounds.

“Well, well.” He murmured, voice husky, “What are we gonna do with you, girl?”

Another noise left you as his thumb, deliberately, trailed against your left nipple—the pebbled nub rolling over the pad tantalisingly slow.

“Officer, I—“

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He whispered, chest pressing against your back, hands still tracing over your clothed breasts, “I think a strip-search is in order, I’m not satisfied you’re not concealing any weapons.”

You swallowed thickly, turning around slowly, his hands leaving your chest, your blown-out pupils meeting his own. Your hands, now shaking from anticipatory excitement, reached for your shirt—painfully slowly popping open each button, the blouse coming increasingly more loose as you finally reached the last button. Even as you slid the shirt from your body, your lacy, black bra on full display, your gazed never slipped from his face—even when his vision locked on your exposed breasts. His lip, just like yours had been, was caught tightly between his teeth, as if he was fighting every urge to not break any code or agreement he’d signed once he started the job—but, he was already too far gone. Especially when you unzipped your skirt at the back, and let it fall to the floor in a swift drop—now, half-naked in your matching undergarments and high-heels.

“Well,” He croaked, throat going extremely dry as his eyes raked over your bare frame, “I didn’t say leave those on.”

“You want me to go all the way, Officer?” You breathed, licking your lips.

“Hmm.” Officer Jackson hummed, nodding briskly.

Your hands crawled behind you, fiddling with the clasp, before popping it open—letting it fall off your arms. You fought a grin as Officer Jackson’s breath hitched in his throat—teeth grinding together as he eyed your swell breasts, nipples hardened from equal parts the cold, crisp air, and the arousal that flowed through your veins like electricity—pooling in the panties you were now sliding down your legs.

You didn’t even care that you were stark naked in front of the stranger before you—pussy and tits in his complete vision as he eye-fucked you, hunger dazzling in his eyes even in the dark.

“This better, Sir?”

“Much.” He mumbled, nodding slowly, “But, a physical exam is still required.”

“And how does that work, Officer?” You questioned, feigning stupidity—you knew exactly what that meant, and every fibre of your being was praying to God that he’d take those large hands of his and fuck you senseless with them.

He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, deep and musky, danced around in your nostrils—the smell dizzying and sending you breathless as he towered over you. Up close, you really got to look at him—he had dangerously gorgeous brown eyes, almost black from how blown-out how pupils were in desire, stunning brown skin, baby-hairs smoothed to his forehead, just before his neatly-kept dark curls, as well as a small, blooming moustache atop his upper, plump lip.

His hand dipped, smoothing under the back of your left knee, and raised your leg—resting your levitated leg on the sliver of your exposed tire. This position was vulnerable and open—your legs now deliciously spread, your arousal painting your thighs as you awaited his next move.

“This is mandatory, y’see?” He drawled, a hand crawling up your inner thigh slowly, “Can’t miss a single spot.”

“I understand, Sir.” You breathed, “You can search anywhere you want.”

He hummed once again, the noise rumbling in the back of his throat, as his finger came in direct contact with the wetness soaking your thighs. He swallowed thickly, pressing himself closer to your body that radiated a scorching heat—rolling a familiar bulge into your other thigh. You gasped at the feeling of his stiffened dick beneath his slacks, a bodily reaction purely from your nakedness—your own body reacting similarly, more slick drooling from your bare sex.

“Consented, right, sweetheart?”

You blushed harshly, your cheeks glowing a deep red as his middle finger grazed along your folds, “Yes, Sir.” You forced out through gritted teeth, fighting every urge not to beg for his fingers.

That calculated logic went straight out the window the second his finger pushed past your soaked lips, and slipped inside your wet heat—the impressive length of his slender digits reaching so deep that submissive whines fell past your plump lips.

“Jesus.” He groaned lowly, his facade faltering as you clenched around his finger, your slick arousal coating his digits, dripping down his knuckles.

A second finger joined the first, and instantly began a gruelling pace—curling against your front wall to abuse the sweet spot inside you that your hand flying to his wrist, acting as an anchor, as he worked you open with his fingers.

“Officer!”

“Shh, just take it.” Officer Jackson whispered, rolling his hips forward, his erection rubbing against the bare of your thigh as he repeatedly nudged your G-spot, “‘M just doin’ my job, right?”

You nodded, eyes rolling to the back of your head as pleasure consumed you, your brain going numb, “You’re such a good Police Officer, Sir.”

“Yeah?” He breathed, hips stuttering at the praise, fighting a groan that threatened to slip from his lips, “Y’doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

You moaned, louder and shamelessly, head lolling back, eyes fluttered shut as his thumb grazed upwards—now rolling your throbbing clit along the pad, doubling the pleasure. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, the other scratching the paint from your bonnet as the lewd sound of your squelching cunt filled the silent air—alongside your carefree whines and whimpers.

“Oh—Oh, God, I—Oh, fuck, Officer, I’m gonna—“

“Yeah? You gonna give it to me? Gonna make me proud?” Officer Jackson growled, leaning forward to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath warm against the skin, goosebumps blooming once again over your skin at the sensation.

You cried out, louder than you expected, turning your head to capture his lips in a fierce, frantic kiss as you released—moaning loudly into his mouth as your hand flew to his face, cupping his warm cheek, as your tongue danced into his mouth. He groaned into your mouth—teeth grazing your bottom lip as he french-kissed you swiftly, not wanting to waste a single second apart from you as your pussy spasmed around his fingers—creamy release drooling down his hand, his pace slowing as you came down from your high.

“Not deep enough.” He panted against your lips, hands, still coated in your slick, fiddled with his belt, unbuckling it quickly, “Don’t know if you’re still a threat.”

You whined, lapping into his mouth desperately as he forced his blacks slacks and impossibly tight boxers down to his mid-thighs, his hard, thick dick springing free from its restraints. He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your hot cheek, to the crook of your neck—nipping and sucking at the skin, marking it in deep, dark purple lovebites. Meanwhile, his right hand fisted his stiff cock—pumping himself, allowing pretty, flustered noises to escape into your flesh, as he prepped himself.

“Turn back around, baby.” Officer Jackson commanded, a large hand splaying across your lower back, signaling you to move.

You did so quickly and frantically—your heeled foot meeting the gravel once more as your bare chest hit the cool of your metal bonnet, hissing as the crisp, coldness rolled against your sensitive nipples. The iciness didn’t last long as Officer Jackson pressed himself against you—warm chest flush against your chest, as his twitching dick, drooling with pre-cum, slid between your glistening folds.

“Needa’ see if you’re gonna hurt me, baby. You wouldn’t do that, right? I’m such a good cop after all, hm?”

“Never, never—mmh!—please, please!” You heaved, nails dragging along the bonnet, scratch marks indented into paint as the head of his dick caught at your entrance.

A string of profanities left your lips as he slid inside—the size of him knocking the air out of your lungs as he pushed himself as deep as he could go in one fell swoop. Your name, one he’d memorised from your licence, fell from his mouth, a sensual, lewd, low growl as your tight pussy constricted around him, accommodating the stretch.

“God, y’so fuckin’ tight.” Officer Jackson breathed, heart hammering against your shoulder blade, as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the side of your head, “You gonna be a good girl and comply, hm?”

“Yes! Yes, Sir—do what you want with me.”

Needy and desperate—that exactly how you sounded, and exactly what you were. Dying for him to move, to feel the drag of his throbbing dick against your spongy walls, abusing the sensitive spot inside you that had you seeing stars without even needing to look up at the night sky.

And that’s exactly what it did.

With every thrust, his hips snapping against yours ruthlessly, you screamed—the dark blue paint of your Toyota physically coming up under your nails as he pounded into you relentlessly. His name, ‘Sir’ and ‘Officer’ repeatedly spilled from your mouth—begging him for more, deeper, harder, faster, as he took you on the hood of your car. He was unforgiving—just as a Police Officer should be, despite his irresponsible, corrupt ways, by ploughing into you with such fever you couldn’t help but cry out into the night.

“Fuck, girl, y’pussy’s squeezin’ me so hard. What’cha tryna hide from me?” He teased, his tongue darting out to trace your earlobe, “You got a concealed weapon I don’t know about? You tryna get arrested, sweetheart?”

“No! No! Swear—mmmhh!—“ You exclaimed, breath ragged and uneven, as he drove in harder, angling his hips to repeatedly slam against your anterior vaginal wall, an area that had your second, more powerful orgasm, creeping up your spine.

“Mm, I don’t trust you.” Officer Jackson taunted, his pace never letting up as his hands climbed up your front, one hand cupping your breast, rolling your right nipple between his nimble fingers, and the other slipping between your conjoined legs to rub your sensitive clit.

The triple sensation, sending the pleasure to another level, had you blabbering nonsensical sentences—his surname, not knowing his first, along with cries of ecstasy, mingling with the shlap! shlap! shalp! of his hips against your recoiling ass.

“Oh! Fuck, fuck, Officer, ‘m gonna cum!”

Your voice broke loudly, your hips bouncing back to meet his thrusts, forcing him to the hilt, as your second orgasm hit you like a freight train—the overwhelming euphoria washing over you violently.

“Fuck!” Officer Jackson spat, hand tightening around your breast, as his hips stuttered at your pussy clamping down on him harshly, “So fuckin’ tight—should be fuckin’ illegal the way you’re squeezin’ me, baby, fuck!—“

With a low, loud grumble of a moan, the ferocious pounding sped up, if even at all possible with the speed he was fucking you, ending with a crescendoing, harsh thrust—burying himself to the brim, the tip of his flushed cock nudging your cervix, as he spilled inside you—warm, thick, spurting cum flooding your convulsing pussy, whining softly as you shook from the aftershock of your orgasm, as well as the sensation of him flooding your womb.

For a moment, no one moved—the ragged, broken heave of your breaths being caught surrounded the quietening atmosphere, his hips still pressed firmly against your ass as he softened inside you. His hand dropped from your breast, and to your hip as he finally eased himself out of your pussy, ignoring the way you whined at the loss of fullness. A whispered curse fell from his mouth as a dollop of his release dripped from your sex, and onto the gravel beneath your feet.

“Here.”

You craned your head at the sound of his gruff voice, still pressed against the bonnet, legs weak and shaking, watching as he handed your clothes to you—now coated in thick, dusty dirt. You took your blouse and skirt from him, holding it close to your exposed chest, feeling suddenly too vulnerable for your liking, as he crouched down to grab your panties.

“Leg.”

His voice was short and simple as he peered up at you from his bent knees—holding your panties open for you step into you. You tried to ignore the way your heart clenched at the sweetness of his actions, as you slipped your feet into each hole of the lacy panties, smiling softly as he slid them up your body, and around your bottom half once again. He did the same routine with your skirt, letting you slowly stand into it, and sliding it up your body, zipping it back up gently. You opted for no bra—just sliding the blouse over your chest, and doing up a few buttons—too fatigued from the feverish sex to do anymore.

Officer Jackson cleared his throat once he’d risen to his feet once again, after retrieving the flashlight he’d thrown the floor previously, tucking his softened dick back into his trousers, buckling them up again, smoothing out the material, before looking back at you.

“Now, I’m gonna let you off just this once, but get that licence renewed ASAP, miss.” He ordered, the stern, authoritative tone returning, pointing a finger at you, the same one that had been deep inside you a few minutes prior, “And slow down.”

“Yes, Sir, will do.” You smiled, the post-orgasm buzz consuming your body as you succumbed to the hazy feeling, “Thank you.”

He hummed, checking his watch, cursing, and wetting his lips, “Gotta head off, got another criminal like yourself to catch.”

You giggled, “I understand.“

You waited for him to turn on his heel and speed off in his Caprice—but, he kept his feet planted where he stood, before he lunged forward, his hands cupping your cheeks as he smashed his lips against yours once again. You gasped in surprise into his mouth, your hands darting to his forearms as you kissed him back frantically.

He pulled away with a sharp breath, “I’m Michael.” His voice a gentle whisper, “Here.” He let his hands fall from your face to dig into his back pocket, retrieving a small, rectangle piece of cardboard, before handing it to you, “I gotta go, but drive safe, girl.”

Without waiting for your response, he rushed away, turning on his heel and jogging towards his car—climbing in quickly, putting it immediately into drive, and speeding off into the dark. As the red and blue lights, one’s that originally had you panicking and sweating, now had you smiling deeply at the crude memories, sped off—you climbed back into your own car, flicking on the dim, amber roof lighting, and glancing down at the card. You laughed softly, running a hand over your warm face, clenching your thighs together as another dollop of his release slipped from your pussy, into your panties—what a night.

LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT

OFFICER MICHAEL JACKSON

BADGE NUMBER : 4389

MOBILE NUMBER : (213) 555-1***

And scribbled underneath in messy black biro—

—Call me ;)

was this too crazy …?

© dreamylace 2026 ❦ all rights reserved

taglist: @cherrishkissed @curlypytclubx @thetruemia @californiawhoo @platanita @hiiioliviaxoxo

[sugacor3]

going on vacay means missing all the filthy fics 😢 I can hear my heart actively break as we speak

[888latte]

𝗦𝗵𝗲’𝘀 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝗹𝘀𝗲 ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙—

⊹ ࣪ ˖ SYN; as personal assistant, your supposed to keep your dirty little secret to yourself. This time.. you couldn’t hold it anymore. Not when michael’s insecure about his nose.

. ⊹ 🍮🥄 ៹ ݁contains: sexual themes, eating out, soft!dom thriller michael. fem!reader & use of ! nicknames. michael is downbad, lwk fwb , he begs. (f! receiving.) ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱

Michael had a habit of turning his face ever so slightly whenever someone lifted a camera.

You'd noticed it months ago. Never enough for anyone else to question it, but enough that you found yourself wondering why every photograph seemed to catch only one side of his smile. It wasn't until one evening, long after rehearsal had ended, that he finally admitted it.You'd been sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, sorting tomorrow's schedule into neat piles while he absentmindedly stood in front of the mirror, fingers brushing lightly across the bridge of his nose. "I think it looks... strange." His voice barely carried across the room.

You looked up. He didn't. "I don't know." His shoulders lifted in a small shrug. "I just..." The sentence dissolved before it ever reached the end.The mirror suddenly seemed much more interesting than you.You closed your planner.Walked over without saying anything. He kept his eyes on his reflection.You kept yours on him.Then, with all the gentleness in the world, you reached up and rested your hands against either side of his face.

He finally looked at you. "I like your nose." A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...You don't have to say that."

"I'm not saying it because I have to." Your thumb brushed lightly across his rosy cheek. "I'm saying it because it's true." He searched your face as though expecting to find the joke somewhere hidden inside your expression.He didn't.

Before he could think of another reason to disagree, you leaned forward and pressed the softest kiss against the bridge of his nose. Just one. When you pulled away, Michael blinked at you in complete silence. "...You kissed my nose, minnie."

"I did."

"...Why?" You smiled. "Because I like it." The room stayed quiet for another moment. Then, almost shyly, his hand drifted back to his face.

Not to hide it this time. Just to touch the place you'd kissed. "You are..." He looked down at the floor, still smiling to himself. "...You're somethin' else." You only shrugged. "Just for you, mr jackson." Without another word, he leaned his forehead against yours, his smile lingering this time.

you avert eyes, you clear your throat. you feel the heat, looking down at your hands, so you finally blurt it. halfly.

"i actually think about riding you. your nose..." you mumble so clear to his ears. your tummy flips, and you clench your thighs so embarrassingly stupid you slam your face into your palms. "f-for how long?" he blurts, biting his cheek while his hands creep up to your sides. "h-how long have you been thinking like that? about me? minnie-"

"since forever. fuck- shit-" you blurt, pushing him away, "i-i'm so sorry Michael i don't wanna be a weirdo but-" Michael reaches for your waist, as his body lowers to meet you, dominating, peering. "say it again. minnie, say you want to ride my nose. i'll give you everything you ever wanted, pretty lady."

"Don’t call me that.. Michael, let’s just-"

"i will call you whatever i want, baby." he's mean. a new found confidence lies under his smug grin when he forcefully plops you onto his lap. he even had the audacity to shrug off your cardigan to reveal your white shirt that tightly wrapped around you. "say it, baby."

you look away from him, and in that moment, he lowers his face down, trying to catch your shy eyes while his nose grazes your cheeks, your jaw and your lips. "c'mon baby, say it," he whispers desperately. "please.." you look at him, warmth creeping onto your cheeks. you feel his length against you. "i wanna ride your nose," you mumble softly.

the confession was enough for him to shuffle his body flat on the bed and palm your bottoms, and your begging made it worse. he growls, literally growls and gropes your tits until you gasp. "sorry sweet girl, please.. just sit on me i-- please-" his mouth agapes when he sees your cute brows twist up while he pants with desperation.

"i wanna make you cum on my face.. please."

"Shit!" you cry, feeling your panty slicken as he dry humps your core through your frilly undergarments. he can't hide it. the way he's smiling through his bitten lips and creased brows. he can't fucking hide it the way he's been wanting it. "mm. shit- pretty girl." he groans, "so wet, all for me." you knew Michael was a fucking pervert, you felt his eyes only on you way before you began to deny it. you squirm under his touch, still anchoring on his lap while a finger catches your slick to lick.

"Michael..." you whimper, and he melts, cock still hard, now irritated. he clamps you down until the zip goes undone on itself from him rubbing you on his crotch. "s-wanna make your dreams come true." he grottles. "pretty girl. please. shit- just." he mutters.

"sit on me." he begs.

and so you do, lowering down slowly still in your panties as he clamps you down himself, "please, baby... sit." he begs, pushing your weight down onto him as you feel the vibrations of his moans against your core. his nose digs into your clit, rubbing against the fabric, rubbing against you as you slowly tilt your hips to grind on him. he slaps yours ass before ripping your panties to the side. "s-so eager.." you mumble, and he grips your thighs until you yelp in response. you're moaning through his fucking noises, his lips sloppy, slowly licking long strides against your folds while his nose catches your slick and rubs figures on your clit. "s-slow down! mike- I’m sensitive."

"S-sorry baby." his muffled response got you twitching with ease, perky tits and hard nipples rubbing against the headboard as you look down at the view, his brows peaking out and creasing in the way that which you know, he's enjoying it.

your hips shift slightly rough, tentative, testingg the waters. the weight of his hands on your thighs doesn’t falter, digging into you, holding you just firm enough to remind you he’s still there, still sloppily exploring your folds before your own mouth. still looking at you like you’re some kind of divine miracle; like he’s been starving for years. you shiver. his breath fans across your skin, uneven and warm, and your fingers rest against his soft curly hair, tangling, tugging when he nudges deeper into your clit. he pauses, pressing the slightest kiss to the inside of your thigh and you gasp, not because it surprises you, but because of how gentle it is. He looks at you as he stops, cock throbbing in his undone pants, hands unwaveringly still on your thighs as he gropes them, wanting more. waiting, for you to respond.

"Michael." you whisper, breathless, not knowing what you’re asking for. not knowing if you’re asking him to stop or to keep going or to never move again.

from beneath his lashes, cheeks flushed and lips parted, your tummy churns at the sight of his soft features, eyes eager and submitting at your body. you've never seen this perspective of him- and to feel it? so hot your breathe unevens. even with the way his grip tightens, even with how wrecked his breathing sounds, even with how his eyes are glazed over like you’re the only thing he sees. "You’re doing so good, f’me baby." your chest tightens at your own words, and you try to breathe through it. you try to stay focused, but the room feels too hot, your head too light, and all you can feel is the press of his fucking mouth and the tremble in your own legs.

you then try to form a sentence. something. anything.

but all that slips out is a broken moan and his name again, breathier this time. more vulnerable. more undone when he pushes you off of him, landing you on your back as as towers over you. he peppers kisses on your stomach, and you see his face glisten under the soft lights, painted in your own clumsy wetness. he kisses your thighs, whispering filthy praises as he bites the side for a while. he lifts your thighs onto his shoulders, you pant. "yes mike, please... you're so hot."

he hums at that, clearly pleased, clearly affected, and it sends a sensitive vibration through you that makes your thighs tighten instinctively around his shoulders. he doesn’t move. if anything, he pushes his rough tongue in further, lets himself sink into it. "been dreaming about this beautiful pussy." he groans against your walls, his soft eyes tearing up at the side of his hands and lips kissing your beautiful core. "let me be yours, please."

"i'll be so good. let me make love to you, let me eat you. shitt! i’ve got you. i promise." Michael practically begs while he laps at you. you clench around his head, tugging onto his curls while he deliberately uses his bridge to rile up your swollen clit. your moans only power him, your hands move down to his cheeks, cupping him gently, and you tilt his face up. he looks dazed, wrecked, so far gone, and yet, completely focused on you. the momentum starts to cave at a pace that makes you tremble, and Michael’s getting confident. way more confident.

you breathe in, eyes starting to sting at the corners from the intensity of it all, from the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything. like this moment is everything. you whimper.

"Mikey-," you say again, trembling. "i think i’m gonna-"

he nods like he already knows, like he’s been waiting for it, like he’s been holding himself back just to let you fall apart the way you need to. not rushed. not forced. he continues to lap onto you, through your shaky breaths and broken moans, your hips stuttering into his face while he precums into his briefs.

your fingers coil tighter in his hair. your back arches. and you let yourself break loud, you cum with a guttural moan that shakes your whole body to jerk up while sweet Michael moans into your core, feeling your heat wash up against him. he continues to rub circles with his tongue, kissing the sides of your folds as you try to calm down. Micheal’s hands left imprints on your thighs and waist, and he reclaims those mouldings again when you look at him like you've reached nirvana. "i just came. in- baby- i just came in my pants." he slightly chuckles, breathless as you reach for his warmth.

quieter, Micheal kisses the inside of your thighs before reaching your chin. he tilts them to his face, and you see his nose, lips and chin glossy with your mess. he's awkward, smiling, rosy cheeks and his eyes are pleading, hungry but, pleading. "You did so good f’me pretty, c-can i get a kiss?"

"you..let me sit on your nose, ride your face til i came in your mouth but you're shy to kiss me now?"

"i-i..just wanted to ask baby,"

Michael whines playfully, brows knitting as he nuzzles closer into your neck, kissing your jawline before he reaches your lips. he looks at them with thirst, looking back into your eyes. "i want my kiss..please.." and so you kiss him relentlessly, years of tension finally unsettling like the first wave of climax sent to shake down your body. you feel heat pool again when you straddle him, legs still a little firm to control. your slick panty gets thrown off to the side, and you strip your thin white shirt, watching Micheal’s eyes dart to your tits and flushed face.

"mike," you pause, eyes daring to look up at him dangerously, "now let me ride you." you watch his brows spring up, smirk on display as he lowers down to kiss you, deep and rough. "shit..that's my good girl..using her words." and the night was longer than it seemed.

m.list.

❤︎ © 888latte.

mil talks ૮ • ﻌ - ა. i think ts was too rushed.. heh help >.< I’m working on a longer fic, just wanted to feed y’all <33 please let me know if u enjoyed. And if u wanna be added to the Taglist > here.

[888latte]

( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ '♥︎. taglist; one open! @kaiomii , @disireezz , @sugacor3 , @luminousshardobelisk , @bluegangstaaaa , @fashionjewel777 , @lustonfilm , @fairyofurdreams , @amarah1114 , @applewebb ,

[filthytabloidpress]

why the FUCK am i the only one on here writing bladder control / watersports mikey like😞😞😞😞

if u have any good reqs pls cmt……💔

[curlypytclubx]

𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐚𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: mature!michael jackson x black pregnant!wife!reader

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: when a sudden late-night craving pulls you out of bed in the quiet hours of a rainy evening, you don't expect your husband to catch you red-handed in the kitchen. what starts as a sleepy midnight snack quickly turns into a tender, romantic interlude as he finds a far sweeter way to satisfy your appetite.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬: fluff, slight suggestive themes, established relationship, domestic bliss, tease!michael, michael being a sweetheart to his wife (iktr).

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 3.4k

𝐝𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this came out of my head the other night and i couldn't go to bed until it was written out. for my mature!michael girlies, i hope this is what you need. as always, i've put myself on a schedule to post at least every other day. i am working on requests which is why i'm pretty busy at the moment, but part three of midnight at studio 54 will be coming out soon too! :)

The rain had a way of turning the estate into an island. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite, the downpour hit the manicured grounds of Neverland in a low, continuous roar, drumming against the heavy glass and sealing the world off beyond the gates. Inside, the house was draped in soft, heavy shadows, smelling faintly of sweet vanilla candles, expensive cologne, and the crisp, clean scent of damp earth creeping in through the terrace vents.

It was 2:15 in the morning.

On the left side of the massive silk-draped bed, Michael stirred. His sleep was usually light and restless when the weather was like this, but his body had developed a new, hyper-sensitive radar over the last few months. His hand—long-fingered, warm, and instinctively reaching out through the dark—swept across the fitted sheet searching for the familiar heat of your body.

When his palm met only cool, empty silk, his eyes fluttered open. 

“Hmm…”

He blinked against the gloom, pushing himself up on one elbow. He was wearing a button-down pajama top, completely unbuttoned at the chest and draped loosely over his frame, paired with comfortable, relaxed dark lounge pants that rested low on his hips. He sat up fully, tossing the heavy duvet aside. His jet-black hair—naturally soft, shoulder length with a few soft, relaxed tendrils tumbling messily into his face shook slightly as he looked toward your side of the bed. 

The pillows were still warm, but you were gone.

A tiny line of concern etched itself between his brows. You were firmly into your second trimester now—eighteen weeks, to be exact. The morning sickness that had plagued your first three months had finally passed, replaced by a radiant, glowing energy, a sudden roundness to your hips and belly, and an appetite that seemed to wake up at the most unpredictable hours of the night.

Michael swung his bare feet out of bed, resting his elbows on his knees for a second as he ran a hand over his face. He let out a low, sleepy exhale, a small smile already tugging at the corner of his lips as the realization hit him.

The kitchen.

He didn’t bother grabbing his slippers. He stepped quietly across the plush carpet, pushing open the heavy master bedroom door, and stepped out into the quiet, cavernous hallway.

The house at night was peaceful in a way Michael cherished. The antique clocks ticked softly in the distance, and the soft nightlights along the baseboards guided his path. He padded silently down the grand staircase, his bare feet making no sound against the polished hardwood. As he rounded the corner past the dining hall, a faint, warm glow spilled out onto the floor from the archway of the main kitchen.

Michael slowed his pace, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, taking in the view before you even knew he was there.

You were standing near the island, illuminated by the warm, under-cabinet accent lights. You were wearing a loose, blush-pink silk chemise that draped over the lovely, pronounced curve of your bump, topped with a rich plush robe that hung lazily off one your shoulders. Your dark hair was gathered in a loose, cozy wrap, a few stray curls framing your neck. Your lips pulled into a frown as you stared down at a cutting board with intense, laser-focused concentration, a butter knife in one hand and a jar of chocolate hazelnut spread in the other.

Michael stood there for a long moment, just watching. His heart felt absurdly full, a quiet aching sort of affection swelling in his chest. You looked so soft, so domestic, so utterly his.

He leaned deeper into the woodwork, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice coming out as a low, raspy velvet murmur, heavy with sleep.

“You know… sneaking out of bed without a hall pass is a serious offense around here.”

You gasped, jumping slightly and turning around with the butter knife still mid-air.

Michael couldn’t help the low, breathy chuckle that escaped him—that signature, gentle laugh that bubbled up from deep in his throat. He pushed off the doorframe and slowly glided into the kitchen, his dark, soulful eyes dancing with quiet amusement.

“Michael! You scared me,” you breathed, putting a hand over your chest, though a guilty smile was already breaking across your face. “I was trying to be quiet.”

“Quiet?” He came to a stop right in front of you, his hands resting lightly on his hips over his low-slung pajama pants. He shook his head, a soft, teasing pout on his lips. “Applehead… you practically stripped the duvet off me when you left. I woke up, and my favorite part of the bed was completely freezing.”

He reached out, his long fingers tenderly brushing a stray lock of hair away from your neck. His touch was light, his thumb lingering against the smooth skin. His dark hair frame brushed against his shoulders as he leaned in slightly.

“What are we doing down here at two in the morning, huh?” he asked softly, his eyes dropping down to look at the cutting board, then sliding lower to the gentle, rounded swell of your stomach beneath the silk. “Is the baby bossing you around again?”

“It’s not my fault,” you defended warmly, holding up the jar of hazelnut spread like exhibit A. “Your child demanded chocolate. And strawberries. And… maybe a slice of that vanilla pound cake that your mother brought sitting in the breadbox. I tried to ignore it, Mike, I really did. But they were very persistent.”

Michael’s eyes lit up, a brilliant, wide smile breaking across his features. He let out another soft hee-hee under his breath, shaking his head as he stepped closer, closing the distance between you until the heat of his chest was wrapping around yours.

“Oh, so now it’s my child when they want late-night snacks?” he teased, his voice dropping into a low, playful register. “I see how it is. Blame it on the baby.”

“Well, who else gave them this insane sweet tooth?” you countered, raising an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t use to raid the pantry at midnight before I met you.”

“Hey…” he put his hands up in mock defense, his dark eyes sparkling under the dim kitchen lights. “Don’t bring my reputation into this. I am a victim of circumstance. I just happen to appreciate the finer things in life… like sugar. And you.”

Before you could reply, he stepped fully into your personal space. He didn’t hesitate; his long, warm arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, taking a deep, long inhale of your scent—a delicious blend of warm cocoa butter, lavender, and the natural heat of your skin.

“Mmm…” he hummed against your collarbone, sending a delicious shiver down your spine. “You smell so good. s’warm.”

His hands slid down from your waist, smoothing over the plush fabric of your robe until his warm palms rested directly over the curve of your stomach. He held you there, cradling your bump with an absolute, reverent gentleness. 

For a second, the playful banter faded into a quiet, profound stillness. The only sound in the vast kitchen was the hum of the refrigerator and the rhythmic pour of the rain outside. 

Michael shifted his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, beneath your ear, his warm breath fanning across your skin.

“How are you feeling tonight, sweet face?” he whispered, his tone shifting into that deeply gentle, protective cadence he only ever used with you. “No nausea? No cramping? The baby’s quiet?”

"No nausea," you answered softly, leaning back into his solid chest, resting your head against his shoulder. "Just hungry. And tired, but my mind was racing. They’ve been fluttering around all evening."

As if on cue, a tiny, faint sensation—like a little air bubble popping or a butterfly brushing its wings—fluttered against the right side of your lower stomach.

Michael went completely still.

"Did you feel that?" you asked gently.

Michael didn't answer with words right away. He slowly stepped around you, dropping down onto his knees right there on the hard, dark wood floor. He didn't care about the chill of the floorboards or his dark silk lounge pants dragging. He leaned forward, his hair spilling over his forehead as he pressed his cheek directly against your bump, his hands holding you securely at the hips.

"Hey there, little one," Michael murmured, his voice cracking slightly with a quiet, raw emotion. He pressed a warm, soft kiss straight through the silk of your chemise onto your bare skin. "What are you doing up? You’re supposed to be sleeping, helping your mommy rest."

He paused, waiting motionless. A second later, another soft kick struck right against his cheek.

Michael gasped softly, a high, breathless sound of pure joy. He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his dark eyes wide, shining, and utterly luminous under the low light.

“They kicked me,” he whispered, a wondrous, boyish grin taking over his entire face. “Applehead, did you feel that? That was a strong one! Oh, my goodness…”

He leaned back in, pressing a rapid succession of sweet, lingering kisses all over your stomach—left, right, top center—making you bubble over with soft, melodic laughter.

“Michael, stop, that tickles!” you giggled, running your fingers through his thick, soft locks, feeling the familiar texture between your fingertips.

“I can’t help it,” he grumbled playfully against your skin, blowing a soft breath against your belly before standing up. “Our baby is talking to me. I have to answer.”

He rose back up to his full height, looking down at you with an expression so intense, so dripping with adoration, that it made your breath catch in your throat. He looked at you the way he always did—like you were the only person in the universe—but lately, with your body changing and carrying his child, that gaze had acquired a deep, possessive warmth that set your blood on fire.

“Now,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, returning to that smooth, silky tone. “Let’s take care of this midnight craving properly. You shouldn’t be standing on your feet on these cold floors anyway.”

“Michael, I’m perfectly fine standing—”

“Shh,” he cut you off gently, putting a finger to his own lips. “No arguing with the boss.”

Before you could protest, Michael reached out and placed his large hands firmly on either side of your waist. He didn’t give you a second to brace yourself; with effortless ease, he lifted you up off the ground and set you right down on the edge of the smooth, polished granite countertop.

You let out a small gasp, reflexively wrapping your legs around his hips to stabilize yourself. The action pulled you flush against his unbuttoned shirt, your chest resting against his, your eyes now completely level with his smoldering gaze.

His hands didn't leave your waist. He stepped directly into the space between your parted knees, closing every inch of distance between you.

"There," he murmured, his hands smoothing up your thighs, over the silk of your robe, resting warmly on the upper part of your legs. "Much better. Now you’re at my height."

The shift in the room was instant. The cozy domesticity of the kitchen raid suddenly melted into something far more magnetic, laced with a slow, simmering heat.

"Michael..." you whispered, your voice suddenly sounding small in the quiet space.

"Hmm?" He tilted his head, a faint, dangerous little smidgen of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. He reached over with one hand, grabbing the bowl of freshly washed strawberries you had laid out, along with the jar of chocolate spread. He picked up a large, ripe berry, dipping it generously into the rich chocolate.

He held it up to your lips, his dark eyes fixed entirely on your mouth.

"Open up, sweet face," he instructed softly. "Let me feed you."

You complied, opening your mouth and taking a bite of the strawberry. The combination of sweet fruit and rich chocolate was incredible, but it was hard to focus on the taste when Michael was staring at you like you were the dessert.

A tiny drop of chocolate caught at the very corner of your lower lip.

Michael’s eyes tracked it instantly. His breath hitched softly.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice raspy, trailing off. "Making a mess..."

He didn't grab a napkin. Instead, Michael leaned in slowly. His hand reached up to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling into your hair wrap, gently tilting your head back. He brought his thumb up, slowly smoothing away the drop of chocolate from your lip.

Then, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he slowly brought his thumb to his own mouth, licking it clean.

Your heart did a violent, fluttering backflip against your ribs.

"Michael..." you breathed out, your hands coming up to rest on his broad shoulders, feeling the smooth black silk of his open pajama top under your fingers.

"You have no idea," Michael whispered, his voice vibrating right against your skin as he leaned in closer, his nose grazing along the shell of your ear, "how beautiful you are right now. How breathtaking you look carrying my baby."

He slid his hands under the edges of your plush robe, slowly, deliberately pushing the thick material off your shoulders. The robe fell away, pooling around your elbows and down onto the cold granite counter, leaving you exposed in just the delicate blush-pink silk chemise.

The cool air of the kitchen hit your shoulders, but you barely noticed it because Michael’s hands were immediately there to replace the cold with intense, radiating heat. His large, calloused palms mapped the line of your collarbones, sliding down to gently cup the sides of your breasts—fuller now, sensitive and warm—before tracing the curve of your waist and settling back over your bump.

"Mike..." a soft, helpless sigh escaped your lips.

"I mean it," he murmured against your throat. He pressed his lips to the spot right beneath your jawline, holding the kiss there, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse against his mouth. "You glow. Every single day, you just get more gorgeous. I can't keep my hands off you. It’s driving me crazy."

He shifted his mouth, trailing a line of slow, wet, velvet kisses down the column of your neck. His hands on your hips squeezed gently, pulling your lower body even closer to his chest. 

Your fingers tightened in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. "You're supposed to be feeding me..." you teased weakly, though your breath was hitching with every touch of his lips.

Michael hummed against your collarbone, a low vibration of satisfaction. "I am feeding you," he whispered playfully, his lips moving up to graze your jawline again. "I'm feeding your soul, baby."

You let out a soft laugh, but it was cut short when Michael finally brought his lips to yours.

The kiss wasn't rushed; it was deep, unhurried, and intoxicatingly sweet. He tasted like vanilla and dark chocolate, his lips soft and full, pressing against yours with an effortless, practiced passion that made your head spin. His tongue swiped gently against your lower lip, asking for permission, and when you opened to him, he took his time exploring, turning the simple midnight encounter into a slow, electric fire.

His hand slid up from your waist, his long fingers spreading wide across your back, pulling you flush against his chest so that there was no air left between you. You could feel the steady, heavy thump of his heart beating against your own ribs—wild, fast, and completely out of rhythm.

When he finally pulled back, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, both of your breaths coming in shallow, heavy hitches in the dim light.

"Mmm..." He breathed out, a soft, dazed smile touching his lips. He ran his thumb gently across your bottom lip, which was now plump and flush from the kiss. "God, you're sweet."

You rested your hands against his chest, feeling the smooth rise and fall of his breathing. "Michael... we came down here for a snack."

"I know," he chuckled softly, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners with that irresistible, mischievous warmth. "And I got one."

He nudged your nose with his, giving you a quick, playful peck on the tip of your nose before turning his attention back to the counter. He picked up a slice of the vanilla pound cake, breaking off a small, soft piece with his fingers.

"Here," he said gently, his voice returning to that tender, loving cadence. "Eat some cake. I don't want my two favorite people getting hungry."

You smiled, taking a bite from his fingers. He watched you chew with a look of unadulterated devotion, resting one hand over your bump while the other absentmindedly stroked your thigh. You spent the next fifteen minutes sitting on that counter, sharing bites of cake and fruit in the dim light, talking in hushed, soft whispers about the nursery, about names you were secretly considering, and about how much life was going to change in just a few short months.

 Every few minutes, Michael would lean in just to steal another soft kiss, or to whisper some low, sweet nonsense into your ear that made you blush like a teenager.

Finally, when the plate was cleared and your appetite was thoroughly satisfied, you let out a long, heavy yawn, your eyelids growing heavy.

"Alright," he said softly, catching your chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Time to get you back to bed."

"I can walk, Mike," you murmured, though you were already leaning your head against his shoulder.

"I didn't ask if you could walk," he teased gently.

He pulled your robe back up over your shoulders, wrapping it securely around you to keep the night air off your skin. Then, with smooth, practiced care, he slid one arm behind your back and the other under your knees, lifting you cleanly off the granite counter and pulling you into his arms.

You let out a soft sound of surprise, instinctively wrapping your arms around his neck, burying your face into the warmth of his chest.

"Michael, I'm heavy now," you murmured quietly as he began walking out of the kitchen.

Michael paused in the middle of the hallway, looking down at you with a mock look of sternness.

"Don't ever say that," he scolded softly, his dark eyes brimming with tenderness. "You are carrying my world in there. You're light as a feather to me, sweet face. Always."

He carried you down the quiet corridor, his bare feet padding softly against the floors, up the grand staircase, and back into the dark sanctuary of the master bedroom. The rain outside was still steady, creating a cozy cocoon of sound against the glass.

He laid you down on the silk sheets with absolute precision, making sure the pillows were stacked comfortably behind your back and side to support your bump. He pulled the heavy duvet up over your shoulders, tucking the edges in like he was preserving a priceless treasure.

Then, he climbed into bed beside you.

He didn't stay on his side. He slid immediately over, pulling you back against his chest so that you were spooned flush against him. He wrapped his long arm over your waist, his hand coming to rest firmly, possessively over your lower stomach, holding both you and the baby close.

He buried his face into the nape of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, his lips pressing a final, lingering kiss against your skin.

"Goodnight, my beautiful girl," Michael whispered into the dark, his voice a low, raspy velvet murmur that washed over you like a warm blanket. "Goodnight, baby..."

You rested your hand over his, lacing your fingers with his long ones over your stomach. As you drifted back to sleep, wrapped in his heat and the steady rhythm of his heart against your back, you felt another soft flutter from the baby right beneath Michael’s palm.

Michael felt it too. He squeezed your hand gently in the dark, letting out a soft, contented sigh, and held you tight until the rain lulled you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.

© 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐲𝐭𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐛𝐱

taglist: @muddyloserlia @loves2tour @cupidslyrics @dreamylace @michaeljacksonspyt @motormouthmj @cal3xx @hernamewaswinnie @divaaprincess @missharper33 @feelthatheat @apqlehead @emsownworld @melodiesmurakamis @berlinswifey @tojiswifeforlife @misscowboyhat @imaladykiller (if you wanna be tagged lmk !!)

[l-apotredelalune]

✦ SUPERSCAR ─ Michael Jackson x F!Reader

you and michael have been through the thick of it since you were kids. and in an unforgiving and lonely industry like this, becoming best friends wasn't only just for survival- it was for sanity. but as the both of you are pulled into different life paths over the years, you are forced to choose: do you stay with a burdened heart? or do you risk leaving michael behind and seeing the twin flame you once kindled together flicker away?

tags: 14k (pls don't say damn when you see the word count), jacksons > thrad > badangerous > history!michael, no y/n usage, reader is POC-coded (no descriptors but the struggles are very minority-coded), ANGST AND HURT, unresolved tension, WORLD'S LONGEST EMOTIONAL SITUATIONSHIP, best friends to enemies to ???, writer is incapable of not making a backstory for the reader...

disclaimers: MINORS, DO NOT READ! although this is fairly sfw, the themes discussed are mature and may trigger certain people (alcoholism is discussed). d*ana r*ss and l*sa m*rie pr*sley jumpscare. not proofread.

act one.

You and Michael had always been inseparable.

In an industry as isolating as this, the rarity of an authentic relationship- platonically or otherwise- was hard to find. But with Michael, you never once felt the need for your walls to automatically go up.

As a fellow childhood star turned global superstar yourself, the two of you shared an experience few people could understand and even fewer could survive.

You also understood the stranger parts of each other.

Neither of you questioned it when the other found inspiration in the most ordinary things. Where other people might have looked at you strangely, Michael would become perfectly still and listen.

You understood the particular misery of being perfectionists who could detect the flaw no one else could hear. You could spend hours agonizing over a single verse while producers assured you the song was already finished. Michael knew better than to tell you that something was good enough. You extended him the same courtesy.

Your own journey had begun when you were ten years old. Your parents recognized your talent early and made the immediate decision to build the family’s future around it. Local auditions became televised talent competitions. A televised appearance led to a contract with Capitol Records, which soon secured you a recurring role on a children’s variety show.

By the time you were old enough to understand what a career was, you already had one. You spent your childhood moving between soundstages, recording studios, dance rehearsals, and hotel rooms. Adults discussed your voice, your image, and your earnings as if you were not sitting in the room. You were taught how to smile through exhaustion and thank people for opportunities you had been too young to choose.

At thirteen, critics praised your voice for containing an astonishing amount of soul for someone so young. No one seemed to question why a child could make heartbreak sound so convincing.

Thirteen became fifteen- the age you met Michael while filming an episode of Cher’s television show. The producers had decided that the two of you would perform a romantic duet together. It was apparently their idea of a natural introduction between a pair of teenagers who had never spoken before.

Michael had been standing beside the piano you brought into rehearsal, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture painfully polite. He greeted you softly, his eyes darting toward yours before slipping away again.

You glanced at the sheet music waiting for you. “They could’ve given us something easier for a first meeting,” you grouchily remarked.

Michael looked down at his copy. “You mean, pretendin’ we’re in love for the whole country?”

You turned to him, startled.

He immediately ducked his head, but not before you caught the mischievous smile threatening to appear.

“So you do talk,” you teasingly pointed out with a tilt of your head.

Michael became bashful at your observation, shifting from one leg to the other. “Yeah. Sometimes.”

“But only when you’re making things more awkward?”

That earned you his first laugh.

Whatever nervousness existed between you disappeared as soon as the music began.

Michael watched the passion with which you approached every lyric, singing as if you had personally survived each betrayal described in the song. You watched him do precisely the same. Beneath the bright studio lights, he ceased being the shy boy who had barely looked at you during introductions. He transformed the moment he began to perform, pouring everything he possessed into the song until the two of you seemed to be singing to each other rather than to an audience. By the final chorus, the embarrassing part was how little acting it required.

“You sing like you mean every word,” Michael told you after the taping.

Those words stuck with you for months.

The performance became a national sensation. It was replayed on television, discussed in magazines, and dissected by people who had decided they could recognize young love from a single exchange of glances.

Neither of you took the speculations seriously. What had formed between you away from the cameras mattered more- the chemistry became undeniable. It was as if two souls had never realized they were split in half until they came together. From then on, the two of you would always find each other.

At award shows, Michael would locate you from across the room with an ease that bordered on instinct. When everyone laughed, he turned toward you first to see whether you were laughing too. You began doing the same. Backstage visits became telephone calls, and telephone calls that were supposed to last ten minutes stretched well past midnight.

Years later, Michael personally invited you to participate in the recording of “We Are the World” after the American Music Awards.

“There’s a recording session tonight,” he told you, appearing at your side before you could leave. “It’s for charity, lots of people are gonna be there.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight," he nodded eagerly.

“Michael," you laughed, "It’s nearly eleven and you’re telling me this now?”

“I knew you wouldn’t make other plans if I waited until last minute.”

You stared at him from the side. “Sounds incredibly manipulative.”

“So you comin'?”

You scoffed, “Obviously.”

Michael’s triumphant grin widened.

With a playful roll of your eyes, you conceded but not without humbling his ability to predict your behavior. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

“I knew you’d say yes.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because it’s polite.”

And with the both of you laughing, Michael took your hand and began pulling you in the direction of the waiting cars before you could reconsider.

The recording session lasted until morning, but you remained until the final voice had been recorded. You were hardly a newcomer to the industry by then. You had spent most of your life on stage, but that room made you feel like fifteen all over again. There would never be another opportunity to stand in the same studio as so many of the artists who had inspired you- Tina Turner, Diana Ross, Stevie Wonder, Lionel Richie. The list of faces you recognized went on.

You really tried not to stare.

Michael, meanwhile, appeared perfectly at ease among them. You watched him confer with Lionel and Quincy, demonstrate harmonies, and offer suggestions to people who had been making music longer than either of you had been alive. Even as Michael was directing you when it was your time to sing your part, he spoke softly- in fact, everyone listened. There was no arrogance in him- he simply heard what the song could become and trusted his instincts enough to articulate it.

By the time the session reached one of its rare lulls, fatigue had begun to settle over everyone. Half-finished cups of coffee appeared stacked in random corners. Formal jackets and accessories had been discarded over the backs of chairs. Singers who had arrived fresh from the awards ceremony were now sprawled across couches or leaning against the walls, conserving whatever remained of their voices.

Sitting against the wall with your knees drawn close to your chest, you watched the room through increasingly heavy eyelids. You had slipped off your heels nearly an hour earlier. Michael eventually found his way back to you and lowered himself onto the floor at your side, one knee raised and his shoulder brushing yours.

Neither of you spoke for several moments. You were content simply to sit together amid the restless noise of the studio.

Then you remembered something of grave importance. You grasped Michael's forearm before you proclaimed in a hushed whisper, “I got the new X-Men comic today!”

Michael practically jolted at your touch, head turned so quickly that several curls fell across his eyes. “You did? How? We were at the awards all evening.”

You glanced away, suddenly ashamed of the answer.

Michael studied you. “What did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.” You maintained your innocence, playing it off with a nonchalant shrug.

His eyes narrowed.

“…My assistant may have waited in line for me.”

“You made somebody stand in line while you were at an awards show?”

“I asked very nicely! And she was greatly compensated," you clarified. "With money and my eternal gratitude."

“That doesn’t make it better.” Michael shook his head, laughing under his breath. “That poor woman.”

“She knew what the job required when she accepted it.”

“I don’t think waiting for comic books is part of being an assistant.”

You reached for the bag lying beside you. “It’s in here. We can look at it if you promise not to bend the cover this time.”

“I have never bent any of your covers-”

"There you are!" The familiar voice stopped your hand before it reached the clasp of your bag.

You looked up and found Diana Ross standing before you.

Your breath caught.

Even after sharing a studio with her for most of the night, you had not properly met her. From a distance, you had been able to pretend that she was simply another participant in the session. Now, with one of your idols standing directly before you, every practiced fragment of composure seemed to abandon you at once.

Her attention, however, was not on you. It was entirely fixed upon Michael.

His expression changed the moment he saw her. The smile that spread across his face was not necessarily wider than the ones he gave you, but it was different. The quiet confidence with which he had been directing the room receded, leaving behind a glimpse of the shy boy he must have been when Diana first entered his life.

Michael immediately rose from the floor. “Hey, you.”

Diana opened her arms, and he stepped willingly into them. She embraced him with the familiarity of someone who had never considered the possibility that he might resist. One arm circled his waist while the other settled at the back of his neck, holding him firmly against her. Michael’s hands rested lightly at her sides.

“Look at you,” Diana murmured, drawing back just far enough to inspect him. “Working yourself to the bone, as usual.”

“I’m fine," he timidly reassured.

“You’re always fine.” Her fingers brushed several curls away from his forehead. “And still too thin.”

“Diana,” Michael protested, his voice caught somewhere between embarrassment and affection.

“What? You are.” She smoothed the front of his jacket and then cupped his cheek, smiling as though she was pleased with the man he had become.

There was affection between them, that much was unmistakable. What unsettled you was that you could not determine what kind.

It would have been easier if Diana’s touch had seemed entirely maternal or openly flirtatious. Instead, it occupied some indistinct place between the two concepts. She coddled him as though he were still the boy she had once mentored, yet there was something almost possessive in the way she kept him close now that he was grown.

Michael didn't pull away. He only glanced toward you, color rising faintly beneath his cheeks as though he had suddenly remembered that you were there to witness it.

You rose from the floor as well, smoothing your clothes and tucking your hands behind your back- immediately fiddling with the bracelet on your wrist out of sheer nerves. The movement finally drew Diana’s attention toward you.

Her gaze traveled slowly over your appearance before returning to your face. For one terrible moment, you wondered whether Michael intended to introduce you. You were no longer confident that you remembered how to speak.

Then Diana’s expression brightened with recognition. “I know you.”

Michael opened his mouth. “This is-”

“No, no, I know exactly who she is.” Diana smiled brilliantly. “You’re the girl with that sweet little ballad. My children love you.”

The girl.

The sweet little ballad.

Your smile remained fixed in place. “Thank you, Ms. Ross. I’m glad they enjoy it.”

“Oh, call me Diana. Ms. Ross makes me feel ancient.”

You gave a quiet laugh. “Diana, then.”

Her arm slipped through Michael’s, though she remained facing you. “And may I say, it is so refreshing to see a young woman in pop who understands restraint,” she continued. “Everyone wants to be louder than everyone else now. They think they have to shock people to hold their attention.”

You felt Michael glance toward you.

“But you don’t do any of that,” Diana said warmly. “You put on a lovely dress, sing your pretty song, and allow that beautiful voice to speak for itself. Parents can put your record on for their children and never have to worry. It’s wonderful to see someone so image-friendly nowadays. Truly.”

The words were offered as praise but that was what made responding to them so difficult.

Each compliment seemed to make your work smaller. A lovely dress. A pretty song. A beautiful voice. Not a word about the lyrics you had fought to keep, the arrangements you had written, or the weeks you spent arguing with executives and your own parents who insisted the record needed to be simpler. In Diana’s description, your artistry had happened to you. Someone had dressed you, handed you a song, and placed you before a microphone to look pleasant while singing it.

Politeness had been one of the first skills the industry taught you. You summoned it now.

“I’m grateful that families can enjoy it,” you replied. “Although I’d like to think there’s enough beneath the ballad for the adults listening, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure there is,” Diana assured you. “And there will be plenty of time for you to explore all of that as you grow. You shouldn’t be in such a hurry to make yourself too serious. Audiences like sweetness. You have something very easy to love right now.”

As you grow.

As if you hadn't been performing since you were ten years old.

Your smile tightened at the corners. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

Michael shifted beside his mentor. “She wrote the song,” he interjected. “The lyrics and the melody. She arranged the strings, too. And she co-produced the record.” His voice had remained soft, but there was a firmness beneath it that had not been there moments earlier.

You turned toward him, your shoulders eased up by a fraction at his encouragement towards your craft.

Diana’s eyebrows lifted. “Did you really?”

“I did.” You offered a small yet shy smile towards your idol.

“Well, look at you.” She reached out and gave your forearm an affectionate pat. “Beauty and brains. No wonder Michael keeps you around.”

Michael didn't laugh. You did, because one of you had to.

“Most days, he keeps me around for my impeccable taste in comic books," you quipped.

Diana glanced down at the bag near your feet. “Comic books?”

“She got the new X-Men,” Michael explained.

“Of course, she did.” Diana laughed, tightening her hold around his arm. “The two of you are still children.”

There was no cruelty in the remark- if anything, fondness softened her voice. Still, there was something about being reduced to a child as a twenty-something year old woman while standing beside another twenty-something year old man she continued to hold so intimately. This only made your discomfort settle more deeply.

“Only outside business hours,” you continued to banter.

Michael lowered his face, trying to hide his smile.

Diana appeared not to notice the humor beneath your answer. “Don’t lose that,” she told you. “This business makes people hard if you allow it. Although you should learn to let other people do some of the heavy lifting. You don’t have to prove you can do everything yourself.”

Your finger tugged at your bracelet with a bit more force than usual.

She could not have known how much of your life had been spent fighting for ownership of your own work. She could not have known how often people attributed your accomplishments to your parents, your label, your producers, or whichever man happened to be standing nearest to you.

That ignorance did not make the advice sting any less.

“I’ll remember that,” you replied graciously.

Diana smiled, apparently satisfied.

Then she turned her attention back to Michael with such completeness that you might have disappeared from the room. “Come with me. Lionel’s been looking for you.”

“We were, um," Michael hesitated, eyes flitting from the ground to Diana, "We were in the middle of somethin’.” He gestured towards your bag, and then to you.

Diana’s hand slid down his arm until her fingers circled his wrist. “She’ll save your place.”

For the first time since Diana approached, something in his expression seemed to ask for your help. Whether he wanted permission to leave or reassurance that you had not misinterpreted what you had witnessed, you could not tell.

You regretted not helping him that night, ushering him back to do whatever he had to do. Comics would wait, the both of you were still in work mode- after all.

Michael, still caught in between decisions, glanced toward the crowd and then back at you.

“Later?” he asked, biting down on his bottom lip.

You knew he was referring to the comic but you suspected he was referring to something else as well.

“Later,” you agreed, trying to give him a smile that didn't come off as too hurt. You had to stop yourself from being too selfish, keeping a part of him here with you in your own little world when other people needed a part of him as well.

Michael reached for your hand, and the both of you loosely threaded your fingers together. He gave the inside of your palm a gentle squeeze, before walking backwards- fingers slowly slipping away but his doe eyes still locked onto yours with a tinge of guilt for being summoned by his cohorts- and disappearing back into the crowd.

Until that night, you had never seen anyone make Michael appear uncertain about his own place in a room. Diana could summon an earlier version of him with little more than a touch and a familiar smile- a version that still seemed desperate for her approval, even as something more complicated flickered beneath his shyness.

You could not name what existed between them, you only knew that it had made you uncomfortable. Little did you know that would become a recurring pattern for the women in his life.

Somewhere along the years, the boy you had known began to grow into himself. You watched his shyness transform and sharpen into something more deliberate. Michael spoke up for himself now, but he would still duck his head when embarrassed and covered his face when he laughed too hard, yet there was a confidence in the way he moved now.

He had grown into a charming young man right before your eyes, retaining all the boyish sweetness you loved while acquiring a maturity that made you reconsider things you had once taken for granted. The way his hand settled at the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd. The way your fingers remained linked after he had helped you to your feet after you fell from a chain of dance moves you had attempted to execute.

Michael's charms paired his incessant reminders on how to be childish without making you feel immature. He coaxed you onto amusement park rides at Neverland Ranch after midnight after multiple stressful days at the studios or at executive meetings. He would chase you through the halls with water balloons, and made you laugh until your stomach hurt on days when the industry had nearly convinced you there was nothing left in you worth enjoying.

You would never forget the first time he invited you to Neverland after the ranch had finally taken the shape he had imagined for it.

Michael had only recently returned from touring. Most of the construction was finished, the rides had been installed, and the sprawling property he had spent years describing to you had become something real.

Your own life had changed just as drastically.

In your later twenties, you had made the painful decision to become estranged from your parents- a decision the press discussed with the hunger of a pack of drama-starved hyenas. Depending on the headline, you were either an ungrateful daughter who had abandoned the people responsible for your success or a courageous woman who had finally seized control of her life. The truth was too complicated for either narrative.

Certain life events revealed which relationships were built on love and which had merely been built on access. Your separation from your parents had done both.

They had retained much of the money you earned as a child, controlled your accounts, and prevented you from releasing music that didn't suit the version of you they knew how to sell. Your accomplishments were repeatedly diminished in private and claimed as their own in public. Any attempt to assert yourself was treated as betrayal.

The legal battle lasted three years.

There were restless nights, vicious accusations, and tears that eventually seemed to dry up from sheer exhaustion. Michael saw what the stress did to you. He understood the confusion of being loved and used by the same people and the guilt that followed when you could no longer pretend the two were indistinguishable.

Michael never tried to make decisions for you. He never offered empty assurances or reminded you that family was family, as though blood alone excused every cruelty. He simply remained beside you while you fought for your life to belong to you.

You would later regard that period as pivotal to your relationship with him. You had known Michael for years by then, but that was when you learned he would not love only the easy, entertaining version of you. He stayed through the anger, the grief, and the silence in which you had nothing left to offer him.

The afternoon your final contract expired, Michael insisted you come to Neverland.

“Come over tonight,” he told you over the telephone.

“Why tonight?”

“To celebrate,” he had simply stated. "Everything's finally ready, and I want you to see it before what anyone else thinks of it."

“Why do you care what I think?”

The question was teasing, his answer was not.

“Because you know what I meant it to be.” He replied fondly. Michael's tone then lifted to shift the mood to something more lighthearted afterwards. "That, and I have a surprise for you."

The surprise was the Ferris wheel.

The California night seemed made for an unveiling. A mild breeze moved through the trees, the sky was unusually clear, and the lights scattered across the grounds glittered beneath you like a private constellation. From the rising gondola, you could see the carousel turning in the distance, the empty pathways illuminated by rows of lamps, and the main house glowing warmly beyond them.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke. You sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, silently taking in the world Michael had created for himself.

As the gondola carried you higher, you turned toward him with a grin you could no longer contain. “Mikey.”

His attention remained fixed on the carousel below. “Hmm?”

“Guess what?”

Michael finally looked at you, his expression softening immediately. “What is it, Tweety Bird?”

You blinked, a huff of laughter leaving your mouth. “Where'd that come from?”

“You were hummin' the entire drive over.”

You tried to look offended, but a giggle betrayed you. “So, anyways. My contract…" You continued on with your thought, "It expired this morning.”

It took Michael a full second to understand what you had said. You watched him cycle through several emotions- the pull of his eyebrows, the parting of his lips, the slow widening of his eyes.

Then he dragged you into a bone-crushing embrace. “You’re… you're free!” The words were muffled against your hair, but you heard them clearly. "Actually free, I mean!"

Your eyes closed as your arms wrapped around him. Of all the congratulations you had received that day, his were the first that made the victory feel real. “I’m free,” you repeated.

Michael rocked you back and forth until the gondola began to sway.

“Michael!” You laughed nervously, gripping onto his shirt for support.

“I know, I know.” He stilled, though he did not release you. “Y’know what this means, girl? I could talk to some people at Epic. We could get you signed over there with me. Or we could get into the studio first and make something together. I already have a few ideas-”

“Woah," you interrupted, leaning away from your best friend but still resting the palms of your hands against his chest, "Slow down.”

“What?”

“I’ve been free for less than a day," you emphasized, "Could I enjoy being unemployed for just a couple of minutes?”

“You’re not unemployed.”

“My contract expired and I currently have no label. That sounds suspiciously like unemployment.”

“Sounds more like an opportunity," he challenged, breaking into an even bigger grin.

You leaned back farther, enough to look at his smug expression. “God, why does it sound like you’re proposing to me?”

Michael’s hand stilled against your back, but he did not let go of you. Instead, he lowered his face toward your hair, concealing the smile spreading across his lips. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Your heart gave one dangerous leap, your eyes widened at his response that too you aback. You shoved at his shoulder, making the gondola sway again.

“Hey!” Michael caught your wrist, laughing. “We’re in the air!”

“Then don’t propose to me on a Ferris wheel!”

“I didn’t propose," he shook his head, but you could see the mischievous smile still plastered on his face.

“You said you wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Michael opened his mouth, only to find himself without an answer.

“That’s what I thought.” You scoffed, playfully rolling your eyes. Fortunately, the darkness and the shifting carnival lights concealed the warmth spreading across your face.

Michael draped an arm around your shoulders, still refusing to let you move very far from him. After a token amount of resistance, you melted against his side. Your head settled beneath his chin while the two of you began discussing all the endless possibilities your newfound freedom had opened.

“What would you make,” Michael quietly asked, “if nobody could tell you what it had to sound like?”

You considered the question. There were so many undeveloped and abandoned ideas in your notebooks, lyrics that spoke of your vulnerability or stories you've wanted to create, dance genres you could finally dip your toes in. You settled with a vague, yet simple answer: “Something they’d tell me I shouldn’t.”

He laughed softly, giving your forearm a hearty rub. “That’s my girl.”

“And what about you?” You gestured with the tilt of your head toward the glowing grounds beneath the two of you. “Is this everything you imagined?”

Michael looked out across Neverland, his eyes were that of a restless perfectionist- still chasing after some kind of greatness that may or may not even be achievable. “It’s close.”

“Close?”

“There should be more trees," he pondered. Then a beat passed. “And another theater.”

“You already have a theater.”

“Okay, well, I want a bigger one.”

You shook your head, grinning at his ridiculous idea. “You’re impossible.”

“You like me.”

“Occasionally," you shrugged off, but the smile concealed by your hair told otherwise.

Michael's arm tightened around you. “You’ll keep coming here, won’t you?”

You tilted your face toward him, something unexpectedly vulnerable had entered your voice.

“Try keeping me away.”

act two.

Then Michael met Lisa.

It would have been easier if you had disliked her.

Instead, you found Lisa devastatingly beautiful. She had piercing, catlike eyes and the sort of figure that could bring men and women alike to their knees. Her humor was dry and impeccably timed, drawing surprised laughter from you on more than one occasion. She carried herself with a coolness that complemented Michael’s softer, more boyish nature in a way you could understand.

On paper, they made sense. There was even something endearing about watching Michael become almost bashful around her. He leaned closer when she spoke. He watched for her reactions whenever he made a joke. Every so often, Lisa would look at him with an expression so quietly fond that you felt guilty for the unease curling in your stomach.

You knew very little about her, but being around her made your skin go cold.

Still, you tried. You asked about the music she liked, the films she watched, the places she had traveled. She answered politely, and occasionally the two of you found enough common ground to hold a conversation. Yet every exchange seemed to reach a dead end. There was no hostility in her, nothing you could rightfully accuse her of, but there was an awareness between you that made warmth nearly impossible.

Lisa knew you mattered to Michael. And you knew that she knew.

At first, you convinced yourself that your discomfort came from protectiveness. Michael loved deeply and trusted recklessly. Naturally, you were wary of anyone allowed close enough to hurt him. You had watched opportunists circle him like vultures for most of his life. You had earned the right to be cautious.

But protectiveness did not explain why your chest tightened whenever his hand found Lisa’s. It did not explain why you suddenly felt like an intruder in rooms where you had once belonged.

For weeks, you wondered if you were losing your mind. Then, one afternoon, you had Elizabeth Taylor- a longtime confidante of Michael’s who had gradually become one of your own- over at your house to catch up on life. The afternoon in which you confided in her your innermost thoughts had felt like they dragged on for hours.

“I thought you two would get together, actually,” Elizabeth confessed, the comment was dropped so casually that it took you a moment to understand it.

Your head snapped toward her as you spluttered, “Wh-what?”

“Oh, don’t look so horrified.” Elizabeth lifted her teacup, entirely unbothered by the panic she had stirred. “You must know what the two of you look like.”

“We look like friends," you pointedly corrected her.

“Hun, you look married.”

“Elizabeth.”

“You do,” she insisted. “You’re both attached at the hip. You finish each other’s sentences and neither of you seems capable of entering a room without immediately looking for the other.” Her eyes narrowed knowingly. “And don’t even get me started on the day I walked in and found you stroking his hair on the couch.”

“Okay!” You raised both hands in defeat, heat rushing into your face. “He had a headache.”

“Yes, and apparently the only known cure was lying with his head in your lap.”

“He fell asleep after!”

“I’m sure he did.”

“Liz.” You goaded, your voice losing its humor as quickly as it had been found. You turned away, pretending to straighten the bracelet around your wrist. “That isn’t why I brought this up.”

Elizabeth’s expression softened.

You swallowed. “I’m only saying that I don’t think I fit into his world anymore. I feel as if I’m intruding on his happiness.”

“My love.” Elizabeth moved closer and rested a hand on your shoulder. “He’s still giddy every time you come around. Lisa or no Lisa.”

“That may be part of the problem.”

Elizabeth studied your face carefully. You could feel her understanding settle over you before you had fully understood yourself.

“We’re just friends,” you disclosed, the words emerging too quickly from your mouth as if to cover an underlying truth. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Perhaps you were confiding in her. Or perhaps you were rehearsing the lie you would soon need to tell yourself.

The day Michael and Lisa married became a turning point you would never forget.

You simply had not known it was a turning point while it was happening.

For nearly four weeks, the two of them had carried on as husband and wife while you remained entirely unaware. Their marriage had been hidden from almost everyone- friends, relatives, the press.

You had learned they had quietly flown to the Dominican Republic and married in a private ceremony in La Vega on May twenty-sixth. Lisa’s divorce from her ex-husband Danny had been finalized only twenty days before.

And by the time you learned any of this, almost an entire month had passed.

To this day, you could not decide whether you had ever been meant to know at all. Perhaps Michael intended to tell you eventually. Perhaps he had been waiting for the proper moment, though you could not imagine what moment he considered more proper than any of the conversations you had shared since returning from the Dominican Republic.

He had spoken to you twice in those four weeks.

Once over the telephone, when he called to play you a melody he had been working on. The two of you had remained on the line for nearly an hour, bickering over whether the bridge needed another harmony. He had laughed. You had laughed. He had asked when you were coming to Neverland again and once again you pushed his invitation back.

Not once had he mentioned that he had a wife.

The second time had been in person, briefly, at the recording studio. Michael had hugged you as he always did, held you a little longer than necessary, and complained that you had been too busy for him lately. There had been a wedding ring beneath the sleeves of the coincidentally oversized sweater he wore that day.

You wondered afterward whether he had thought about telling you then.

The truth came from Elizabeth, of course.

Once again, with her impeccable timing and her remarkable talent for releasing life-altering information as though commenting on the weather, Elizabeth told you over lunch at your house.

You had invited her because you had been away for several weeks and she had also accused you of becoming impossible to reach whenever you were working. But unlike Michael, you rarely ever saw Elizabeth more than you did with him. Lunch had been your peace offering: a modest spread arranged at the terrace of your house- far away from restaurants, cameras, and anyone eager to turn two famous women eating bread into a headline.

The afternoon had been ordinary until then. Elizabeth sat across from you beneath the shade of the umbrella, her sunglasses pushed into her hair and her attention divided between the fruits on her plate and a story about an actor who had offended her at dinner. You listened with your chin propped against your hand, laughing in all the proper places as she performed several cruelly accurate impressions of him.

Then the conversation drifted toward Michael. It usually did.

“I haven’t seen him since he came back,” you pondered, being the first to bring him up. You reached for your glass, swirling its contents around. “He called last week, but he sounded distracted.”

“I imagine he has rather a lot to adjust to.”

You glanced at her, your heart dropping for a nanosecond. Her response immediately ringing alarm bells in your mind as you thought of the worst possible outcomes of an answer. “…Does he?” You had asked with a guarded curiosity.

“Well," Elizabeth mused, continuing to mindlessly peel at the clementine. "Marriage does require some adjustment.”

Your expression slowly dropped, the hand you held the glass in stilled.

Elizabeth continued peeling the clementine, unaware that the entire world had just gone silent around you.

You waited for the punchline, but nothing came.

“Whose marriage?” You asked flatly.

It was the way you asked it that made her look up. Elizabeth’s hand stilled against the fruit. Her expression transformed slowly- first confusion, then understanding, followed by an unmistakable flash of horror.

Your fingers tightened around the glass as you leaned closer into the table “Liz.”

She placed the clementine down on the table. “My love-”

“-Whose marriage?”

For once, Elizabeth Taylor appeared to have no idea what to say- and that frightened you more than anything.

“Michael and Lisa's,” she answered carefully.

Your heart finally gave into the drop.

You stared at her- there was no glint to be seen in your usually expressive eyes. Just… the truth refusing to settle in and your mental fighting it back in real time.

Elizabeth returned the stare back, but hers was the face of a woman who had accidentally opened a Pandora's box of melodrama.

You put down the wine glass with a conscientious precision, the motion was supposed to be natural- normal, even. But the tips of your fingers were vibrating with a type of unease that made executing any gesture look irregular.

The two of you sat in silence for a second, surrounded by the sounds of nature. Another second passed. Then another.

Elizabeth sat from across you, shoulders stiffened in distress at the sight of the brief lapse of your usual bright self.

Then you… laughed. You couldn't help it- the sound escaped you in a short, disbelieving burst because the alternative was accepting that she was serious. “This isn’t funny, Liz.” You shook your head with a smile that reached your eyes, but there was not a singular ounce of warmth in it.

“I’m not joking," Elizabeth responded with the upmost seriousness.

“Michael isn’t married.” You continued to shake your head, the dry laughter slowly dying in your throat.

Elizabeth’s face softened with pity, and you immediately resented her for it.

“Yes,” she attested. “He is.”

“No.” You shook your head firmly this time. “He would have told me.” The certainty in your own voice nearly convinced you.

Elizabeth reached across the table, but you withdrew your hand before she could touch it.

The confrontation of the reality had to settle in you eventually, so you asked: “When?”

“The twenty-sixth of last month.”

You stared at the untouched food between you, attempting to make the date mean something. May twenty-sixth. Nearly four weeks ago. You had spoken to him nine days after that. Seen him again the following week.

He had already been married both times.

“Where?”

“In the Dominican Republic," Elizabeth conceded. "La Vega, I believe. It was a very private civil ceremony.”

“In the Dominican Republic,” you repeated in disbelief. “And no one knew?”

“Hardly anyone," she managed a shrug. "They wanted it kept secret.”

“But you knew.” You looked at her sharply. “How recently, Liz? How recently did you know?”

Elizabeth hesitated, her eyes going from the patio door and then to you, before giving you the answer. “A few days.”

A few days. The distinction should have made you feel better. It did not- instead learning more and more about this marriage was beginning to make your head turn to static.

“How did you find out?” Your eyes glossed over, still maintaining your expressionlessness on the surface.

“Michael told me.”

Your eyes lowered to the table once more, a sharp inhale overtaking your lungs.

Michael had told Elizabeth.

He had sat with her- or called her, perhaps- and spoken the words himself. He had chosen to bring her into the secret while you remained outside it, carrying on conversations with him as if nothing in his life had changed.

Elizabeth must have seen the thought cross your face. “I assumed you already knew,” she said quickly. “That’s why I mentioned it so casually. I thought you would have been one of the first people he told.”

“So did I.” Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

That was what finally cracked the composure you had been desperately gathering around yourself. Not the marriage itself. Not yet, at least. The shock was too fresh for you to begin untangling what it meant that Michael had chosen Lisa, promised himself to Lisa, and become someone’s husband without so much as a word to you.

It was the fact that Elizabeth had assumed. Because everyone who knew the two of you would have assumed the same thing.

You were his best friend. Or so that's what you had thought. You were the person he called at impossible hours because a melody had to be played on your piano, when the both of you knew damn well he had one as well. You had known when he was frightened, when he was lonely, when he was frustrated but too gentle to admit it.

Yet you had not known this.

“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth muttered as she extended a hand across the table in reconciliation. “I truly believed he had told you.”

“You don’t have to apologize.” You looked back at your dear friend, very aware it was not her intention for the reveal to not go like this.

“I should have never-”

“-No.” You pushed away from the table and rose before the pity in her voice could undo you. “It wasn’t your secret to keep from me.”

You carried your glass toward the open doors- quickly downing all of its contents in one, painful gulp. Though you had no reason to bring it inside anymore. you simply needed something to do with your hands- no matter how shaky they were gradually becoming.

Behind you, Elizabeth remained silent.

“He spoke to me last week,” you had divulged, the sensitivity of your words seemed to leave your mouth of their own accord.

Elizabeth’s expression tightened. “Perhaps he didn’t know how to tell you.”

You set the glass down on the kitchen counter with too much care. “He said he missed me. He spent twenty minutes trying to convince me to visit.” Another humorless laugh escaped you. “He asked why I was always too busy for him.”

“My love-”

“-Was Lisa there?” You rested a hand against your heart, beginning to feel the panic building up in your chest as you thought of all of these hypotheticals while Michael had maintained this type of normalcy behind your back. “Did he call me with his wife sitting in the same room?”

The word felt foreign on your tongue. His wife.

Your stomach violently turned. You had to close your eyes shut to ground yourself as you felt a sense of vertigo overtaking your senses. The first round of tears were threatening to release at your waterline.

Elizabeth rose from the table and followed you inside. “They hid it from nearly everyone. Even members of their families weren’t told immediately. This wasn't something he did specifically to hurt you.”

“I know.” You painfully nodded, eyes still closed.

And you did know. Michael had spent his entire life having private moments stolen from him. Every friendship analyzed, every outing reported, every gesture and uttered words transformed into evidence of something larger. You could understand why he and Lisa had wanted one decision that belonged only to them.

But understanding it did nothing to dull the pain.

“I know he didn’t do it to hurt me,” you repeated, “But that doesn’t mean he didn’t.”

Elizabeth stopped a few feet away.

You folded your arms, suddenly cold despite the June heat pouring through the open doors. “Did you know Lisa’s divorce had only just gone through?”

“I knew it was recent.”

"Recent," you bitterly echoed with a scoff. “Twenty days recent."

Elizabeth said nothing at that.

You turned toward her. “They married twenty days after her divorce was finalized. In another country. Without telling their families. And he expects everyone to accept this as perfectly reasonable?”

“No one has accused Michael of being reasonable when he is in love.”

On any other day, the remark might have made you smile. Now it only deepened the ache.

In love.

Because Michael never did anything by halves, least of all loving someone. He would have thrown himself into it completely, recklessly, with that wholehearted devotion you had spent years pretending you didn't want for yourself.

You looked away before Elizabeth could read too much in your face. “I need to speak with him.”

“Not while you’re upset.”

“I am not upset.”

Elizabeth gave you a pointed look.

"Okay," you exhaled and pressed your fingertips against your forehead. “I won’t shout at him.”

“That is not what concerns me.”

“Then what does?”

“That you’ll convince yourself you aren’t entitled to be hurt.”

Your hand slowly fell to your side.

Elizabeth approached and took both of your hands before you could retreat again. “You are entitled to ask him why,” she reassured, gently brushing over your knuckles. “Just be certain you’re asking about the secret and not something else.”

You met her eyes with an uncertain nod of your head. Neither of you needed to say what that "something else" was.

You planned to take up on Michael's offer to visit his home- there, you would confront him. Once Elizabeth had gone and the house had become unbearably quiet, you stood beside the telephone. biting at your fingernails in panic, in your kitchen in complete stillness. Your hands felt clammy, your heart had never felt so heavy like this when it came to calling Michael. All the little quirks you took for granted suddenly felt more… deliberate.

After having an inner battle with yourself for several minutes, you pushed past the anxiety of your beating chest and dialed his number.

Michael answered after the third ring. “Tweety Bird.” His voice was the picture of ease, still carrying the same enthusiasm with which he always greeted one of his oldest friends. You could not hear the deception in it. In truth, you would not have known what to listen for had Elizabeth not told you about the secret he had been keeping for nearly a month.

“Does your invitation still stand?”

There was a brief silence that followed.

Then his voice brightened with such immediate delight that you nearly lost your nerve. “You're finally comin' over?”

“If you still want me to.” You wrapped an arm around your body, your opposite shoulder lifting in a shrug he could not see.

“Of course I want you to." You could hear the smile in Michael's voice, and the familiar warmth of it made your heart ache. "When?”

“Does tomorrow evening work?”

“Tomorrow?” He laughed softly. “You must’ve really missed me.”

You closed your eyes. Something in your chest twisted so tightly that your arm fell from around your body, your hand reaching instead to grip the edge of the table.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Mike.”

You started to lower the receiver, but Michael called your name before you could hang up.

Your grip tightened around the telephone. “Yeah?”

“Everythin’ good?”

You bit down on your bottom lip harder than you intended.

He was catching on. Something had been noticeably wrong with you throughout the entire conversation. Ordinarily, you would have taken every opportunity to tease him. You would have laughed at his suggestion that you missed him or told him not to flatter himself. Instead, you had treated the call like a business arrangement- your questions flat, your answers curt and painfully direct.

"Just tired."

“I don’t believe a word you’re sayin’ right now,” Michael replied with a quiet scoff.

You could not bring yourself to unload the truth on him. Not yet. Not through a telephone receiver, where you could not see his face when you asked him why he had kept something so important from you.

"It's just..." You exhaled, grimacing as you exaggerated your exhaustion to save face. “I just finished rehearsing the final version of this choreography and…” You fabricated an explaination, forcing any kind of words out before your silence betrayed you. “Y’know how it is. It really took a lot out of me.”

Michael quickly empathized, but not without quipping back at you. "It's not like you to be exhausted like that. You usually have so much energy before and after stuff like this." A beat passed before he jabbed, "Must be the age catching up."

For once in the night, you gave in to his humor and let out a huff of laughter. "Maybe," you considered.

The two of you sat in a comfortable silence for the next two seconds before you ended the phonecall. You could hear the shuffling of what seemed to be papers on his end, indicating that he might still be working. The thought of lingering even further set your nerves on edge. You really didn't have it in you to continue lying to Michael.

"Hey, Mike," you breathed in. "I'll… I'll see you tomorrow afternoon, then."

"Yeah, of course," Michael had responded effortlessly.

You put down the receiver, finally engulfing yourself in an uncomfortable silence.

Only then did you allow yourself to break.

You covered your mouth as the first sob escaped, pressing your other hand against the edge of the kitchen counter to keep yourself upright. Every instinct urged you to not come over, to catch him before he reached a certain demise and confess that he had done nothing wrong and that it was just your selfish nature to keep him to yourself.

The next day, you forced yourself to take that drive down to his place. It felt longer than all the other times before. You had made it so many times that every turn in the road was ingrained in you.

In the past, the sight of the ranch had always brought a quiet sense of relief. Neverland was one of the few places where you and Michael could disappear from the rest of the world. Once the gates closed behind you, the world the both of you created was to yourselves. There had only ever been the two of you.

Today, the gates looked like a boundary. Security had clearly been expecting you. Your car was waved through almost immediately, and you followed the familiar drive toward the main house with both hands held rigidly against the steering wheel.

Michael was waiting outside when you arrived. The sight of him produced the same instinctive warmth it always had. For one treacherous moment, nothing had changed. He was simply Michael- dressed casually in black trousers and a loose plaid button up, his hair was loosely pulled back into a ponytail but that didn’t stop his curls from shifting in the evening breeze.

He descended the steps to meet you, feet light with movement. “The woman of the hour!”

He reached the car before you had fully closed the door.

Michael gathered you into his arms without hesitation, holding you tightly enough that your feet nearly left the ground. Ordinarily, you would have laughed and wrapped your arms around his neck. You might have complained that he was crushing your ribs while making no effort to escape.

This time, your hands settled lightly against his back.

You returned the embrace because withholding it would have revealed too much too soon.

Still, Michael noticed.

When he pulled away, his hands remained on your arms. His smile faltered as he searched your face. "You okay?”

“I’m fine," you replied flatly.

“You don’t look fine," Michael laughed off your response.

"I've been dancing for the past ten hours yesterday, Mike.” You forced yourself to banter. “I think I'm about to collapse at any moment now,"

Despite yourself, the familiarity of the exchange nearly made the two of you smile. Michael seemed encouraged by the faint movement of your mouth twitching upwards in a smirk. He slipped his hand into yours and began leading you toward the house.

“I’ve been working on somethin',” he started. “I wanted to play it for you over the phone, but it just wouldn't be the same.”

Your gaze fell to your joined hands, Michael held yours as naturally as he breathed.

You wondered if Lisa knew that.

The thought made your fingers tense in his. Michael looked back at you, a flicker of uncertainly in his gaze, but you kept walking before he could ask another question.

The house appeared unchanged. The same sunlight fell across the floor. The same photographs lined the walls. The air still carried that soft, indistinct sweetness you had always associated with Neverland.

Yet everything felt subtly rearranged now, as though the secret had altered the shape of each room without moving a single object.

Michael brought you into the music room. Several pages of handwritten notes were scattered across the piano. He released your hand and lowered himself onto the bench, motioning for you to sit beside him.

“C'mere.”

You remained standing.

Michael's eyes flitted around the room and then to you in confusion- a distance made all the more unsettling after years of undisclosed touches and unguarded confessions that had never required explanation.

"…You're scaring me over here, Tweety." He chuckled nervously, smoothing his palms over the nonexistent dust on his trousers.

“Michael.” You drew in a slow breath, closing your eyes for a moment as though darkness might help you gather the courage you had spent the entire drive rehearsing. When you opened them again, you locked your gaze with his.

Something in your voice wiped the last of the brightness from his expression. He turned on the bench to face you properly, hands now ghosting above the piano keys. “What happened?”

You had imagined asking the question calmly- casually, even. You had pictured yourself watching his face for the smallest betrayal before he could construct an answer.

Now that you stood before him, the words would scarcely move beyond your throat.

“Are you married?”

Michael went completely still. One of his hands remained suspended over the piano keys. When it dropped, his fingers struck two notes that sounded dissonant in the silence.

For several seconds, he didn't answer.

You stared at him- unwilling to look away, unwilling to spare him from the hurt written openly across your face.

His eyes shifted over your face, and you watched the realization settle into them. “Who told you?” He asked as he deliberately dragged each word slowly- as if to make sure you weren’t bringing up another subject.

Your lips parted in disbelief. “That’s your first question?”

“No, I jus' mean-”

“Is it true?”

Michael looked down. The moment he got caught was the confirmation you had been looking for.

The knowledge wounded you all over again, sharper now because it had come from him- even if he had not yet found the courage to speak it aloud. “Say it.”

His head lifted. “What?”

“I need you to say it to me.”

You waited for him to respond, time felt like it had dragged when not even two seconds had even passed.

Pain finally tightened in his expression. “Yes." Michael swallowed, before nodding slowly. “Yes,” he repeated quietly. “Lisa and I are married.”

The room seemed to contract around you. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails pressing into your palms until the pain gave you something tangible to hold on to.

“When?”

“The twenty-sixth.”

“Of last month?"

He nodded again.

“Where?”

“The Dominican Republic.”

“La Vega," you bitterly added. "Right?"

His eyes flickered with surprise. Elizabeth had apparently given you more details than he expected.

“It was a private ceremony,” he explained, as if explaining things would make you or the context lessen the emotional blow. “Nobody knew about it for the first couple of weeks.”

“Twenty days after her own divorce," you dryly remarked. "Don't you realize how ridiculous this all sounds? For the both of you?"

Michael abruptly stood from the piano. The bench scraped harshly across the floor, the sound tearing through the room. You stepped back before he could approach, the movement stopped him more effectively than any shouted warning could have.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice nearly gave in.

“We weren’t telling anyone.”

“But you told Elizabeth," you recounted flatly.

“Only recently.”

“Recently enough that she assumed I had known before her.”

“I was going to tell you.”

"Tell me?" A humorless laugh escaped you. “Tell me when?”

“I- I don’t know," he responded, fumbling to find a better response.

“You don’t know?” You echoed back at him, tone full of mockery.

“I was tryna find the right time.”

“You called me nine days after you married her,” you argued. “I did the math. We spent nearly an hour arguing over a song, and you never said a word. You invited me here while you were already married.”

“I wanted to tell you that night.”

“But you didn’t.” Your eyebrows pulled together, lips pulled into a frown that was about to give way to a quiver. “Why?”

He moved away from the piano, agitation beginning to show in the restless movement of his hands. “It wasn’t only you. My family didn’t know. Our friends didn’t know. We wanted something that was ours before everyone started interfering.”

“I am not everyone.”

The words came out louder than you intended.

Michael stopped.

You pressed a hand against your chest, attempting to steady the emotion climbing into your throat.

“I understand keeping it from the press,” you clarified. “I understand not wanting opinions from people who believe they’re entitled to run your life. But I am not one of those people. Or that's what I thought.”

“Yes, I know that," Michael replied quietly.

“Then what," you raised your voice but not enough to alarm him, "Did you think I would do? Sell the story? Call your mother? Try to drag you away from the ceremony?”

“No," he shook his head. "None of that."

“…Did you think I would try to stop you?”

His hesitation was nearly imperceptible. Nearly.

Your eyes narrowed. “Did you?”

“No,” he answered quickly. “Not like that.”

“Then what does that mean?”

“I didn’t know what you would say.”

“You didn’t even give me the chance to say anything.” You began to pace in your spot, trying to wrap your head around his justification. “You keep saying that as though admitting it makes this less humiliating.”

“Humiliating?” Michael’s brows drew together. “I never wanted to humiliate you.”

“Then what would you call this?” Your voice trembled, arms spread out to gesture the space between the both of you. “Elizabeth sat across from me and spoke about your marriage as if it were something I had known for weeks. She looked at me as if she had accidentally informed me of my own birthday.”

“I’m sorry-" He meekly interjected.

“-I had to stand there and admit that I didn’t know. That somehow, everyone’s idea of how much I mattered to you was greater than the truth.”

“That’s not fair.” Michael’s voice sharpened for the first time.

You stared at him, still dumbfounded and head swimming in hurt.

“You matter more to me than almost anybody,” he insisted. “You know that.”

“No, Michael," your voice wavered. "I thought I knew that.”

"No," he firmly shook his head. "You do know.”

“Then why did I hear that you had gotten married from Elizabeth?”

“I told you, no one was supposed to know.”

“And I’m telling you that I thought I was different!”

The confession rang through the room. A painful silence followed quickly after it.

You turned away before Michael could see the full effect of what you had admitted. Your eyes burned, and you pressed your lips together until the first dangerous wave of emotion passed.

Behind you, Michael spoke more softly. “You are different.”

“Apparently not when it mattered," you shot back.

“That’s why I couldn’t tell you.”

You slowly turned back toward him. Michael’s anger had disappeared. In its place was something frightened and exposed.

“…What's that supposed to mean?”

He looked toward the windows, his jaw tightening as he struggled to find the words. “I knew telling you would change something.”

“You getting married changed something," you disputed. "Whether I knew about it or not. So then why pretend otherwise?”

“Because I didn’t want you to look at me the way you’re looking at me now!” The sudden force in his voice startled you.

Michael rarely raised his voice at you. Even in your worst disagreements, his anger tended to fold inward, becoming silence rather than shouting. Now he stood several feet away with his chest rising heavily, years of unspoken feeling gathering between you.

“And how am I looking at you?” You demanded.

“Like I hurt you.”

“You did, Michael," you grimaced. "You did."

His face crumpled, his shoulders losing its rigid frame and dropping. The sight nearly undid you. Some deeply ingrained part of you wanted to cross the room, take his face between your hands, and reassure him that nothing he could do would ever make you leave.

You forced yourself to remain where you were.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you,” he gently protested with a shake of his head. “I didn’t do this to keep something from you.”

“But you did keep it from me.”

“I was scared, okay?"

“Of what?”

He looked directly into your eyes. “Of losing you.”

The anger drained from your body, leaving you cold.

The slight shift in your posture must have given something in you away. Michael took a cautious step forward.

“I knew things would be different once you found out,” he continued. “I knew you’d start thinking about what was appropriate and what everyone might say. You’d stop staying over. You’d stop calling me late at night. You’d start asking whether Lisa was comfortable every time I wanted to see you.”

The accuracy of your predicted behavior left you silent. You hated that about him.

“And I didn’t want that,” he confessed, a raw sense of vulnerable emotion lilted in his voice. “I didn’t want to lose what we have just because I got married.”

“You can't just ask everything to remain the same," you pointed out.

“Why not?” He genuinely asked, not realizing the repercussions your relationship may face.

“Because you have a wife now.”

“That doesn’t mean I stopped needing my best friend.”

“But it changes the place I have in your life.”

“No," Michael was adamant, "It doesn’t.”

“Yes, Michael, it does.” Your voice softened, though the emotion beneath it became more dangerous. “It has to.”

His eyes continued to search yours, finding a blind spot to reason with you. “Is that what this is really about?”

Your posture stiffened. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged, stepping a bit closer to your vicinity. “You tell me.”

“There is nothing else to tell you.”

“I don’t believe that," he scoffed.

A hollow laugh escaped you. “You kept an entire marriage from me, and now you want honesty?”

“That’s not the same.” Michael continued to argue.

“Of course, it is.”

“No, it isn’t.” Frustration flashed across his face. “I’m standing here trying to explain myself, and you’re already deciding you don’t belong here anymore.”

“Maybe I don’t belong here anymore.”

Michael recoiled as if you had struck him. “You don’t mean that.”

You looked around the music room. So much of your friendship lived inside it: the nights spent hunched over the piano, the arguments over melodies, the comfortable silences during which neither of you had needed to perform. You had always felt that some portion of Neverland belonged to you- not the property itself, but the peace you and Michael had created within it. Now you wondered whether that belief had been its own form of trespassing.

“Does Lisa know I’m here?” You suddenly asked, breaking the tense silence.

The question caught him off guard. “She knows you visit me.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Michael flinched.

You nodded gravely, already having got your answer from the silence of his delayed response before he had the chance to answer. “Does she also know you invited me to stay?”

“You’re my best friend. You don't need a reason to stay.”

“But she's your wife.”

“Why are you making it sound like I’ve done something wrong by wanting to see you?” Michael continued to push through your unjust verdicts.

“Because you don’t understand that you can’t keep us in separate rooms forever.” Your composure finally began to splinter. “You married her in secret, and then call me as if nothing had changed. You invited me here as if I could walk through that door, take my usual place beside you, and never question what it means.”

“It means you’re important to me.”

Your patience was running thin with all the disparagingly soft questions and answers he had been giving you all night. With a roll of your eyes, you proposed a simple question of your own to him, “What am I to you, Michael?”

“My best friend," he effortlessly responded.

“Just that?” The words escaped before you could stop them.

Neither of you moved. Michael’s lips parted, but no answer came. You were left wordless, you could feel your palms getting clammy. Your heart began to pound so violently that you could hear it. You wanted him to say yes. You wanted him to say no. Both possibilities seemed capable of destroying what remained between you.

You looked away first, body turning away from him in shame. “That was unfair,” you quietly took back. “Forget I asked.”

“I can’t.”

“Well, you’ve become very good at pretending important things haven’t happened," you spat back. "Try.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?!” You barked back.

“Turn cruel because you’re afraid to tell me the actual truth.”

Your eyes snapped toward him. “You don’t get to accuse me of being afraid today.”

Michael took another step toward you. This time, you did not retreat.

“I thought about telling you before we left,” he admitted.

“So why didn’t you?”

“Because I kept waiting for you to give me a reason not to go.”

The air left your lungs.

Michael seemed to realize what he had confessed only after the words were between you- his gaze fell in guilt.

You stood frozen, afraid that the slightest movement would shatter the fragile control holding you together. “...So you admit you wanted me to stop you?”

“Y- No. No. Fuck, I- I don’t know.” Michael stumbled over his words as he dragged a hand over his face. “Listen, I love Lisa. I wanted to marry her.” Michael's breath hitched, before continuing. “But every time I tried to tell you, I started thinking about what your face would look like.” His voice dropped. “And I couldn’t do it.”

Your eyes filled before you could stop them, shaking your head in shame. “That was a terrible thing to put on me.”

“I didn’t mean-”

“You made me responsible for a choice I didn’t even know you were making.” You wiped angrily beneath one eye. “You cannot keep me close enough to wonder whether I would have stopped you and far enough away that I don’t know you’re married.”

“I wasn’t trying to-”

“-But you did!”

Michael reached for you, because the only other comfort he knew how to give you was through physical means. And you weren't having any of it, none of his embraces could heal the undisclosed grief you harbored in your heart. And yet, your body responded from habit, almost leaning toward him before your mind caught up. You stepped beyond his grasp.

His hand remained suspended between you.

“You should have told me,” you whispered harshly, voice echoing through the music room. “I would have congratulated you. I would have kept your secret. I would have been happy for you even if it-" You stopped yourself before you could finish the thought that had almost naturally slipped out.

“What? Even if it what?” Michael’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me. Please.”

“You know what?” Your lips pursed into a fine line. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It matters to me.”

You let out a dry laugh, one devoid of any humor to give to someone you once claimed as a close friend. “Clearly not enough.”

“-That isn’t true-”

“-Then why didn’t you tell me anything?”

The question brought you both back to the same wound.

Michael lowered his hand. “…I’m sorry,” he gave his last, empty apology to fill the air. “I don’t know what else to say.”

And you believed him, that was the tragedy of it. Michael had not married Lisa to hurt you. He had not hidden it because you were insignificant. If anything, he had kept it from you because the place you occupied in his heart was complicated enough to frighten him. But fear did not undo the betrayal.

It had seemed like the both of you were getting no where in what you had wanted to be a confrontation. However, you realized too late that there were certain ugly truths you nor Michael had never bothered to address. Years of things you took for granted overflowed like a cup until it couldn’t take it anymore- overflowing with the emotional and mental burden the both of you had never expected for your relationship unknowingly carried.

You looked from the entrance of his elaborate house, and then back to Michael. “I think I should go.”

"What?" His head lifted abruptly. “You just got here. You drove all this way and-”

“-I shouldn’t have even come over.”

"No," he firmly shook his head, making up his mind and striding up to you. “Don’t say that.”

You began to walk towards the door. Michael accompanied you into the hallway, unsure if he should stay besides you or follow closely behind- which made his pace seem erratic.

“Stay for dinner,” he threw out in suggestion, clearly wanting to save the already fragile moment. “We can talk after you’ve calmed down.”

“I'm calm," you answered very calmly- convincingly to you, at least.

“No, you’re not, and neither am I.” He moved ahead of you, forcing you to stop. “So don’t leave while we’re both upset.”

You halted abruptly before him, looking at the man you had thought trusted you from the shine of his shoes to the top of his head with a loose curl you wish you could push back for him. “...If I stay, I’m going to say something neither of us can take back.”

“Okay, so then maybe you should.”

You looked at him for a long moment, baffled at his suggestion.

There were so many things you could have said. You could have told him that you loved him. That every lingering touch and private glance had become a language you were both fluent in, yet too cowardly to translate. That learning he belonged to someone else had hurt, but discovering that he had not trusted you with the truth had hurt far worse.

Instead of unpacking all that, you stepped around him.

Michael continued to follow you outside. You were instantly greeted with the humid summer air.

At your car, Michael caught your wrist, calling your name with such desperation that it stopped you. “Please.”

You went still, but didn't turn around.

“Don’t disappear on me,” he pleaded. His voice trembled, the words barely above a whisper.

Your eyes closed, inhaling sharply. “I need time.”

“How much?”

You hesitated. There was so much to untangle on both of your ends- too much undiscovered hurt buried beneath anger. You weren't in the right headspace to deal with another explanation that went round in circles much longer, so you simply shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“A few days?” He desperately threw out. “A week?” His grip tightened against your wrist- a rare moment where he displayed his force against you.

You finally faced him, head sharply turning to lock eyes with a fragile Michael. The fear in his eyes made it almost impossible to breathe.

“I. Don’t. Know.” You emphasized, each word passed through your gritted teeth said with deliberate precision.

Michael’s fingers loosened, though he did not release you. The fear in his eyes made it almost impossible to breathe. He searched your expression as though trying to memorize it- as though some part of him already understood that he might not see you again for a long time.

Then, slowly, he pulled you toward him. The embrace felt nothing like the one he had given you upon your arrival. There was no laughter in it, there was no ease. Michael held you with both arms locked around your body, his face buried against your shoulder as though he could prevent you from leaving by refusing to let go.

For several seconds, you allowed yourself to hold him the same way.

Your fingers curled into the back of his shirt. Your eyes closed, and you let yourself remember every version of him you had loved- the boy who made you laugh, the man who trusted you with his loneliness, the friend who had once seemed incapable of building a life that did not leave space for you.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

You repeated the command until the words lost all meaning.

But there was too much hurt inside you to contain without consequence. Tears gathered beneath your closed eyelids and slipped free, hot against your cheeks. You refused to sniffle. If you remained quiet enough, perhaps he would not notice. Perhaps you could preserve some small piece of your dignity while falling apart in his arms.

The effort only made your grief look more painful.

You forced your fingers to uncurl from his shirt and pulled away, hoping the physical distance might change something, anything.

Michael’s arms remained around you for another heartbeat before reluctantly loosening. Only then did he see your face. Without thinking, Michael lifted his hand and brushed the pad of his thumb beneath your eye, catching one tear before it could reach your jaw. Another followed, and he wiped that one away too with a tenderness so familiar that it nearly broke what remained of your composure.

The gesture was instinctive. He had dried your tears this way before, back when his touch had felt like shelter rather than another thing you would have to give up. Now the contact only made the mixed emotions you felt much worse.

"Please," you croaked, holding onto his wrist to gently draw them away from your face. Your head faced towards the grounded as you meekly begged for him to- "Stop that."

“I- I’m sorry.” His hand dropped to his side, though you were no longer certain whether he was apologizing for touching you or for everything that had brought you to this moment.

“It's okay.” You whispered, giving a somber nod you did not feel.

An uncomfortable silence filled the air between the two of you. Cicadas droned throughout the warm, evening air- indifferent to the quiet ruin unfolding in Michael's driveway.

“...You’ll call me when you get home?”

You finally looked at him, but the both of you seemed to understand that he was asking about far more than the drive.

“Yeah,” you lied as easily as you were able to breath.

Michael opened the car door for you. You climbed inside without looking back at the house. You pulled the car away from the driveway, the sight of Michael growing smaller in the rearview mirror until the trees finally swallowed him from view.

Michael remained in the driveway long after your car disappeared. Even once the dust had settled and the road beyond the gates had swallowed every trace of you, he continued staring toward the place where he had last seen your taillights. His arms hung uselessly at his sides. The evening air pressed against the dampness gathering beneath his collar, but he barely seemed to register it.

He could still feel the moment you had stopped holding him.

That small withdrawal troubled him more than anything you had said. Even at your angriest, you had always allowed him to reach you: A hand around yours, his head against your shoulder, your fingers brushing the hair away from his face whenever his emotions made words impossible.

Today, for what seemed to be the last first time, you had stepped beyond his grasp.

Michael finally turned toward the house. Every step back felt heavier than the last. When he entered, the quiet awaiting him was different from the quiet he had left behind. It was no longer comfortable. Your absence seemed to occupy the rooms more completely than your presence ever had.

The sheet music remained scattered across the piano. The bench sat crooked from where he had risen too quickly. Two unfinished glasses rested on the table, though neither of you had touched them.

Michael stared at the empty place beside the piano where you had stood.

He had imagined the day differently.

He had imagined playing you the song, watching your expression change as you recognized the parts he had borrowed from an old melody the two of you had written together. Perhaps he would have told you over dinner. You would have been surprised, possibly annoyed that he had waited so long, but eventually you would have smiled. You would have embraced him. You would have asked questions. You might have teased him for running away to another country like someone in an old romance film.

Then everything would have returned to normal. He had never considered that normal might no longer be his to ask for.

“You look miserable.”

Michael turned.

Lisa stood at the end of the hallway, her hip resting against the frame of their bedroom door. She had changed into an oversized shirt and jeans, her dark hair falling loose around her shoulders. Her expression was difficult to read- not quite sympathetic, but not entirely pleased by his distress either.

“She left,” he simply stated.

“I noticed.” The flatness of her response made his shoulders tighten.

Lisa stepped into the hallway, folding her arms across her chest. Her gaze drifted toward the front windows beyond Michael and then returned to him.

“Well,” she murmured, “I can’t say I’m surprised. I saw this coming from a woman like her.”

Michael’s head lifted sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lisa gave him a pointed look, eyebrow raised as if the answer was obvious. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“No, I... I don’t?”

“A woman who’s had you practically to herself for half her life wasn’t going to take this well.”

The warning came quickly enough to surprise them both. “Don’t talk about her like that.”

Lisa’s eyebrows rose again. “Like what?”

“Like she came here to cause a problem," Michael scoffed. "Because she didn’t.”

“She came here to confront you about our marriage and left you standing in the driveway looking like someone died.”

“She's hurt," Michael firmly defended. “She had a right to be.” He glanced toward the direction of the music room, agitation returning to his hands. “I should’ve told her before now.”

“You should have,” Lisa agreed. “But I don’t think finding out late was the only thing that upset her.”

Michael looked at her. “What else would it be?”

Lisa studied him for several seconds, seemingly uncertain whether his confusion was genuine. Then she released a quiet, disbelieving breath. “Nothing.”

“No, you said something. What did you mean?”

“I mean that women like her don’t spend years making themselves indispensable to a man without expecting something in return.”

Michael’s expression hardened, his anger beginning to bubble up. “You don’t know her.”

“I know what I saw.”

“You barely saw her at all.”

“I saw enough.” Lisa stepped farther into the room. “I saw the way she looked at me when we met. I saw how quickly she left whenever I came around. And I’ve watched you spend the entire afternoon worrying about how our marriage might change things between the two of you.”

“That isn’t her fault.”

“I didn’t say it was," Lisa quickly defended herself, playing it off with a casual shrug.

“You’re making her sound calculating, and she isn’t.” His voice sharpened with every word. “She has never asked me for anything. She’s never used me, never treated me like I was something she could own. She was there before I had everything."

Lisa sighed, the sound came out as a dissonant apathy. “Yes, I know how long you’ve known her.”

“Then you should know better than to say something like that," he bit back.

Lisa’s mouth tightened.

Michael rarely spoke to her, or anyone for that matter, with such open anger. He was defensive of the people he loved, but this felt... different. There was an immediacy to it, an instinct so deeply ingrained that he had stepped between you and an insult even when you were no longer there to hear it.

“I didn’t call her a bad person,” Lisa shook her head. “But being loyal doesn’t mean she isn’t in love with you.”

Michael could only stare at the woman he now, on paper, considered his wife.

For one fleeting second, the questions you had asked returned to him.

What am I to you? Just that?

He pushed the memory away before it could fully form.

“You’re wrong," he solemnly replied.

Lisa gave an indifferent shrug, though something wounded flickered behind her composure. “Maybe.”

“She’s my best friend.” Michael reiterated, as if your title had changed in the scheme of things. “She’s upset because I didn’t tell her. That’s all.”

“If that’s what you need to believe.”

“It’s the truth.” He stood firmly on that matter.

Michael turned away, dragging a restless hand through his hair. His gaze fell once more upon the abandoned music room. “She just needs time,” he justified, his voice softer now. “Once she understands-”

“-Understands what?”

He looked back at Lisa. “That I love you,” he answered. “That what we have is real.”

Something in Lisa’s face shifted, her shoulders visibly lifting in a sense of relief.

Michael continued before she could respond, desperate to make the situation sound as simple out loud as he had once believed it to be.

“She doesn’t know you the way I do. She doesn’t understand our love yet. Everything happened so fast, and I should’ve explained it better. But once she sees how happy we are- once she realizes that marrying you doesn’t mean I care about her any less- she’ll come ‘round.”

Lisa really looked at him, her posture shifting from one foot to the other. For a moment, the defensiveness left her expression entirely. What replaced it was quieter and far more unsettling: the look of someone who had just discovered a crack in a foundation Michael insisted was solid.

“You really don’t see it, do you?" She pointed out, shaking her head in earnest as if to scold a child. “I’m not the one she needs time to understand.”

Michael’s brows drew together. “What does that mean?”

“It means you keep talking as though she’s confused about us.” Lisa unfolded her arms. “I don’t think she is.”

“Then what is she confused about?”

“You.”

He fell silent.

Lisa remained by the doorway, but her anger emanated restraint now that was no less present. “You want her to accept that I’m your wife without allowing it to change anything between the two of you. You want me to accept that she’s your best friend while you chase her outside and hold her like letting go might fuckin' kill you.” Her eyes searched his crestfallen face. “You keep insisting there’s room for both of us, Michael, but I don’t think you’ve ever asked yourself what kind of room you’re expecting either of us to live in.”

“That isn’t fair.” His eyes flickered from the floor to her face, mind still not comprehending the complexity of the situation.

“No,” Lisa quietly agreed. “It isn’t.”

Michael looked down at his wedding ring. Until that afternoon, it had felt like proof of certainty- something solid and undeniable in a life where everything private was eventually distorted by the world. Now the gold seemed heavier around his finger.

“I love you,” he repeated, as if repeating it would reassure a part of him truly did have the space in his heart to love the woman he legally swore himself to.

Lisa’s expression softened, though not enough to become reassurance. “I know you do.”

“-And I love her, too.” The admission came naturally- innocently, in his mind.

Lisa’s eyes lowered for a moment, her face slowly dropping. “I know that.”

From somewhere deeper within the house, a clock began chiming the hour. Each note moved through the silence with unbearable clarity.

Lisa glanced toward the bedroom. “I’m tired,” she stated, boredom coming back into her intonation.

“Lisa-”

“-I don’t wanna argue about her anymore.” She waved off any further remarks with the flick of her wrist.

“-She didn’t do anything wrong...!" Michael quickly added.

A bitter smile touched Lisa’s lips. “You can’t even let me leave the conversation without defending her.”

“That’s not what I-”

“Good night, Michael.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked back toward their bedroom.

Michael watched her go, unsettled by the dilemna she had placed upon him without ever speaking what it was out loud.

At the doorway, Lisa paused with her hand against the frame. “For what it’s worth,” she said her last piece without facing him, “I don’t think she came here expecting you to choose her.”

Michael’s throat tightened, awaiting for his wife to finish her thought.

“She came because she already knew you wouldn’t.”

The bedroom door clicked shut behind her.

Michael remained alone in the hallway, brimming with an unknown anger he didn't know how to deal with. He just stood there for several minutes, listening to the stillness that followed and hoping that could give him a miraculous answer to your problems. But through the silence, your words and Lisa’s became tangled in his thoughts until he could no longer separate accusation from truth.

You cannot keep me close enough to wonder whether I would have stopped you and far enough away that I don’t even know you’re married.

He looked toward the telephone that you had promised to call when you arrived home. And you had never broken a promise to him before.

Michael waited until the sky beyond the windows turned completely dark. When the telephone remained silent, he crossed the room and lifted the receiver himself.

He dialed your number from memory.

From behind the closed bedroom door, Lisa heard the faint sequence of buttons, followed by the distant ringing of a telephone in another house.

Michael listened until the call disconnected. Then he called again.

On the other end you ignored his calls, having them go directly to voice mail where he would ask if you were okay or to talk things out one last time.

He never got to see the violent sobs that racked your body in the other room as you heard his voice travel through the halls. He would certainly never see the empty bottles of wine that littered your kitchen counter because you couldn't fathom that you were actively and willingly cutting off a close friend because the both of you couldn't decide what or who you were. So you resorted to the one thing that offered you comfort when your parents made you feel insolent.

The last night where he embraced you for the last time you deliberately shortened your embrace, cutting him from all the private spaces he had once occupied with you so effortlessly. And because Michael would never willingly release you, you had to make him believe you no longer wanted to be held.

It was the only way you knew to leave him without asking him to choose.

In the months that followed, Michael stopped calling as often. Eventually, the messages disappeared altogether. You had wanted the space to recover, yet his silence felt nothing like relief. It felt like an amputation- necessary only because you had convinced yourself the alternative would kill you.

The two of you remained cordial whenever the world brought you together. You smiled for cameras. You praised one another in interviews. If an old photograph resurfaced, you spoke fondly of growing up together and called him one of the most important people in your life.

No one knew that you had begun avoiding his eyes at crowded events because he still looked at you as though waiting for an explanation. No one knew that when the room laughed, he would still turned towards you first. And no one knew that you still turned toward him too.

For a fraction of a second, the years between you would disappear. You would look into your living room, imaging your best friend sitting cross-legged on your floor, humming an unfinished melody while waiting for you to find the chords on your piano. Michael would give you the faintest smile, and the old warmth would stir between you- instinctive yet painfully alive.

None of that would cease to exist anymore. Not for a long time.

hii if you got this far, thank you and i am sorry 😈 but also, 14k is a lot of words so i'm glad you stuck by hehe

a reminder that this is part one out of two so there is more to come ;) this will also eventually be crossposted to ao3 so i’ll update this with the link soon.

taglist: @rafageovanna78-blog @fncythatt @phenomenalphysicslover @beatitjean @absdoesnothaveabs

dividers by @/pixopix !!

[wildpandorasky]

Guys I’m FEININGGGG for heavy angst Michael fics. Like…. I can barely read smut fics anymore without skimming past for the plot unless it’s juicy as hell like….. I need a good 10k word plus fics with hella angst I need my heartbroken. I need to sob my eyes out. I need something real mane. Lowkey bouta checkout wattpad ngl 😭😭😭

[moonshinepeach]

Mr. Ghostface

Context: You beg him to wear the iconic Ghostface mask and he finally agrees.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ Bad era, cosplay, ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

The black plastic mask was sitting on the kitchen counter, iconic ghostly mouth gaping wide.

Michael stood a few feet away, leaning against the island with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, eyeing the plastic mask like it was a personal insult to his dignity.

"Absolutely not," Michael rumbled.

"Michael, please!" you squeaked, giggling hysterically as you picked it up and held it up right next to your face. "Look at it! It's classic! If you put this on with a black hoodie, it’s going to look so good!"

"Sweetie, I am a grown man," amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I am not putting on a cheap plastic Halloween mask because you spent ten minutes on the wrong side of the internet."

You giggled, bouncing on your tiptoes as you shuffled closer to him, holding the mask up toward his face. "Just put it on once! Just for five seconds! Please, please, please?"

Michael let out a low, long sigh, shaking his dark curls as you practically vibrated with excitement in front of him. You reached up, placing your soft hands on his chest, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes and a teasing grin.

"You're relentless," Michael stared down at you for three long seconds. Finally, with a dramatic, heavy roll of his shoulders, he let out a low rumble of defeat.

"Fine," Michael rasped, his voice dipping into a low, dangerous register as he grabbed the mask from your hands. "But the second I put this on, you don't get to run away when you get what you asked for."

He pulled a black, oversized hoodie over his head, flipped the dark hood up, and slowly brought the Ghostface mask up over his face, snapping the black cloth hood into place over his dark curls.

The transformation was instant—and terrifyingly effective.

Standing there full of confidence and completely unreadable behind the stark white-and-black mask, Michael transformed in a split second into an absolute menace.

Your giggles instantly caught in your throat, a breathless gasp escaping your lips as the sheer, imposing presence of him hit you like a freight train.

Michael didn't say a word. He just slowly tilted his head to the side—the classic, chilling Ghostface tilt—and took one slow, deliberate step toward you.

"Oh..." you squeaked, taking a tiny step backward, your cheeks instantly burning. "Okay... wait..."

Through the dark eye meshes of the mask, you could practically feel his dark, arrogant smirk.

Without warning, Michael bridged the gap between you in one lightning-fast stride. His hand shot out, catching you firmly by the waist and yanking you straight into his chest.

He leaned in close, bringing the cold, stark white plastic of the mask right down to the side of your flushed neck.

"What's the matter, angel?" Michael’s voice echoed from behind the mask. Muffled, and dangerously hot against your skin. "Not so funny now that your slasher caught you?"

The cool plastic of the mask rested right against the sensitive skin of your collarbone, sending an instant, electric shiver straight down your spine.

"Michael—" You were squirming, torn between high-pitched giggles and total, breathless shock at how fast the tables had turned. "Wait, you actually look terrifying!"

"You're the one who begged for this," Michael’s voice rumbled low behind the white plastic, thick and dangerously amused.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up with one hand and slid the mask up just enough to expose his mouth and jaw—leaving his dark eyes half-hidden under the stark white hood. A slow, wicked smirk was plastered across his lips, his white teeth catching the dim light of the kitchen.

"Now what was that you were squeaking about earlier?" Michael purred, his raspy voice dropping into a thick, low growl as he leaned down, burying his face right into the crook of your neck. "Something about me looking good?"

He didn't give you a chance to answer. His mouth found the sensitive patch of skin right under your ear, his lips pressing a heavy, bruising kiss that made your knees instantly turn to water. His heavy hand slid down from your waist to firmly cup the back of your thigh, hoisting your leg up around his hip so you were pinned completely flush against the wall.

You gasped out, your fingers tangling into the fabric of his dark hoodie.

"You brought a slasher into the house," his teeth lightly grazing your skin just enough to send a sharp, delicious shock through your core. "What did you think was going to happen when he caught you alone in the kitchen?"

His thumb caressing your hip while his mouth worked absolute magic against your throat. "Tell me how much you love seeing me like this. Let me hear it."

"I love it…so much," you whimpered, completely abandoning any attempt to play cool as your head fell back against the wall.

"Good," Michael whispered, his large hand coming up to firmly cup your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.

"Tonight, Mr. Ghostface is gonna thrill you until you’re begging for him to stop."

[apqlehead]

michael during the bad tour rehearsal in Rome, 1987

————

he’s such a flirtttttt omfg look at the last gif, ugh my man

[angelfcee]

‧₊˚ sleeping with pervy bsf!michael

You were laying facing him, having gone to bed with you snuggling into the warm skin of his bare, back.

Michael always woke up before you. His body was stiff from sleeping in the same position all night long, careful not to disturb you. He gently untangled his long limbs from yours, shifting his body to face you.

And oh, God.

When you shifted, the thin strap of your silk camisole slipped down, and your right breast fell free from the fabric, your brown nipple already hard from the morning chill.

He really felt like he had no choice. You were his sweet, gorgeous best friend—the one woman on earth who could make his body ache and his dick rock hard within a matter of two seconds.

He shifted his weight down a little bit, his dark eyes darkening further as he hovered over you. He ran the pad of his thumb directly across your hard, sensitive bud, glancing up through his lashes to see if you were awake.

When he saw you were still fast asleep, your breathing even and deep, his mind raced. His heavy cock twitched inside his white cotton boxers.

He ducked his head down, flicking his pink tongue right along your peak, a soft, pathetic whine catching in the back of his throat at the rich taste of you. He had dreamed about this for years.

His big, dark eyes flickered back up to your face, checking again. Your lips were parted just a little bit, looking so innocent.

His chest felt entirely too warm, his stomach aching with need. He knew he really shouldn’t be doing this to his best friend—the one line he swore he wouldn't cross when you two were just hanging out, watching movies and eating takeout. But you hadn’t ever let him touch you like this in all those years of friendship, and the temptation was eating him alive.

His lips gently enclosed around your nipple, drawing you in. His eyes almost rolled back into his head from how hot and good it felt.

He hadn’t even noticed that his right hand had drifted down, gently palming his heavy length right through the cotton of his boxers as he sucked your hard peak.

Your body shifted slightly, your torso rolling more onto your back as you continued to sleep, completely unaware your best friend was greedily devouring your exposed flesh.

He was already dangerously close, and he had barely even started. His tip was leaking pre-cum, wetting the fabric of his underwear, his hand frantically stroking himself while he gazed up at your pretty face.

His breathing was shaky and ragged. He was almost terrified of what would happen if you were to wake up right now, of how he would ever explain himself to you without losing you.

“Mmh…” he whimpered softly against your skin.

And then, as if sensing his desperation, you unconsciously arched your back up more into his mouth, chasing the friction.

Michael’s cock twitched violently, his entire body trembling. He spurted hot semen into his boxers, biting down on his lower lip to swallow a loud, breathy moan right around your peak.

Reluctantly, chest heaving, he pulled away. He stared down at your dark nipple, now glistening slickly with his saliva. Fuck, he didn’t know how much more of this secret torture he could take.

With shaky hands, he slipped out of his king-sized bed and practically scrambled into the bathroom to clean himself up.

By the time he came back out, looking flushed and trying desperately to act casual, you were stretching your arms over your head and rubbing your sleepy eyes.

“Good mornin’, Mike,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

He stood by the edge of the bed, offering a breathless, nervous little smile as he looked down at you.

“G’morning, Angel,” he whispered, his heart still hammering against his ribs.

[angelcrescent]

❛ like an old married couple! ❜ ₊˚✧ﾟ.

in which the hayvenhurst interview is disrupted ᧔࿔᧓⋆₊ ( 𝟏.𝟑𝐤 ) ❤︎ ~ thriller!michael 𝑥 childhoodbsf!popstar!reader

𝒊𝒏 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 '𝟖𝟑. . .

On this particular winter night, Joseph Jackson had ordered a compulsory family dinner, meaning that though his son had left Hayvenhurst nearly three years ago to move in with his wife immediately after their wedding, tonight was one of those times where he had to be back in his adolescent abode.

He was currently recording an unauthorised interview by the fountain outside the estate, a video he’d decided on randomly at the peak of the evening’s boredom as he anxiously anticipated dinner. While he spoke whimsically into the air, you began to walk up to him, holding a hot mug of coffee, its purpose to help him stay energised for the night ahead.

Despite the darkness, it was only five-thirty in the afternoon, because it was December and Michael loved to sit out in the winter dusk, when the moon and the stars appeared. He would be performing a standalone concert here in California at nine o'clock, and as usual was behaving as if there wasn't any necessary preparation to be done. It was true that he was talented enough and naturally skilled enough to perform on both little sleep and little food, but you knew he'd had one too many sleepless nights recently, therefore caffeine was incredibly necessary.

He didn't notice you approach at first, because he was gazing up and off into the distance—entirely away with the fairies, and in turn so ignorant to his very own Tinker Bell beside him.

“… But this is really magic to me ‘cause it’s like, um… It’s like a painting. It’s very artistic. It’s magic! ♪⋆ So wonderful… ♪⋆”

You snapped your fingers, and a man behind the camera chuckled.

Now Michael turned to you immediately, and his eyes lit up. "Hi, pretty," he smiled, orbs glazed over with both exhaustion and adoration. To the camera, he spoke in reference to you. “See! More magic! My beautiful princess.”

"Hi, baby," you grinned, running your hand over his cheek and kissing his lips twice. "I made you some coffee."

You presented the drink to him, but he only grimaced in disgust. "Minnie, y'know I don't like coffee."

"Mic—" you began, but he interrupted with persistence.

"I hate coffee."

"Michael," you said firmly, sitting down beside him by the fountain and taking no notice of the camera pointing directly at you both. "You got almost no sleep last night—you're gonna drink this."

"No, 'm not," he pressed on, like a stubborn child.

You set the mug down and rolled your eyes. "You need the energy for later. Don't argue with me."

"Yeah, I know, girl, but I don't like coffee."

"God, y'wanna tell me that again?! Didn't hear you the million other times…"

Now you were bickering like an old married couple, despite being in a mere two-and-a-half-year marriage at that stage. You argued like this a lot, because Michael could be so stubborn and frustrating, refusing to listen to you even when you knew what he needed. And it was then always the case that after each argument was over, you'd both go back to being sugary sweet as if nothing had even happened. The healthiest marriages were often that way, you figured.

"I got an idiot for a wife, folks," Michael joked to the camera, in one of those silly voices he always prank-called people with.

That only irritated you further, so you nudged his side and he nudged yours back, almost knocking over the coffee between you as he did. The camera continued to roll despite the interview's disruption, but you still weren't giving it a second thought. Having been so used to cameras throughout your adolescence, you often forgot they were there, even in private moments. Your whole life was an example of human surveillance.

"Michael, you nearly knocked it over!"

"Yeah, whatever—doesn't matter 'cause 'm not drinkin' it anyway," he muttered, turning his head.

But you reached out and turned him back by his jaw. "I said don't argue with me, Jackson."

"You're the one arguin' with me, Mrs Jackson."

"No, I'm tellin' you somethin' constructive—that you need to drink this coffee now, and I'll also say that you later need to drink another coffee, before you go onstage."

"’s not my fault I couldn't sleep last night."

You took hold of his hand absentmindedly as you replied, your fingers playing with his slender ones. "I know, but now there's somethin' you can do about it. I put milk and enough sugar in it, y'know." Michael always had a sweet tooth, where his main dislike for coffee was that it was usually so bitter.

He looked down at your interlinked fingers and instinctively gave a small smile, before looking back to you again and sighing in frustration.

"Try a sip," you urged. "It's not too strong, honey, I promise."

He looked at the camera and scrunched his face up in playful irritation. "Sorry for the interlude, viewers."

You looked into the lens too and shook your head with a chuckle, pinching his cheek. "My husband is the idiot. Not me."

"That's mean, darlin'," Michael frowned in his hypocrisy, before picking up the drink and sniffing it cautiously.

You snuggled into his side, linking your arm into his free one and resting your head on his shoulder. He took his first slow sip, still grimacing as he did, but as the hot liquid went down his throat, he nodded slowly and comfortably.

"It's not that bad, actually," he murmured, shy at his previously vehement refusal.

"Exactly," you smiled, kissing his cheek. You ran your thumb over it slowly, getting lost in his pretty face as he sipped some more.

Then you turned to the camera, hand now rubbing over his knuckles instead. "Michael Jackson is one stubborn—"

Your speech was cut off into giggles as Michael nudged your side again with the hand not cradling the coffee; and of course in doing so, he almost spilled said coffee over his pants. You exhaled a loud sigh, paired with a straight, lightheartedly unamused face.

"This is what I have to put up with," you continued playfully into the lens. "Our marriage is horrible. I don't know why I—"

He'd set the mug down now, in order to start a real playfight, chuckling as you squealed. He tried to pull you up onto his lap to settle you there, but you protested.

"No, I gotta go now, baby—'m not stayin'," you said softly, once the fight had subsided.

Michael immediately frowned again, tugging you closer into him. "Huh, why?"

"I've got some stuff to take care of with my producer, but I'll see you tonight at the show." You leaned forward to kiss him, one hand moving to his soft cheek and poking it as you did; but then you noticed the froth above his upper lip—as a product of his drink—and you chuckled at the adorable sight. Carefully, you wiped the foam away with your thumb, then smoothed over the curve of his lips before warming the flesh with your kiss.

Michael blushed profusely, eyes clamping shut in a shyness that only increased when you then cradled his jaw and said something that made his heart flutter.

"Make sure you drink the rest for me, beautiful."

He rolled his eyes at the intimate adjective you’d used for him, and made a joke to the camera to conceal the effects of it, because he believed that at least when in public it should be the man giving the woman such gentle affection and romantic speech, not the other way around.

"She's so corny," he sighed theatrically, and you rolled your eyes, before leaning in again.

"Shh. Bye, angelface—I'll see you later," you spoke airily, kissing him twice more.

"Oh bye, honey!" Michael replied in that sweet, whimsical tone of his, poking your cheek as you'd poked his a moment ago, before you stood up to leave.

"Remember to feed Brandon by six!" you called back, referring to your almost two year old son, who would be staying there for the night. "His yogurt’s in the fridge!"

The interview resumed, and he finished the coffee only because you’d really wanted him to, while unable to think of anything but you as he yapped to the camera. Throughout, he kept bringing up his 'beautiful, wonderful, magical wife'—much to the amusement of the guys recording, and to his own sister who joined him later on and teased his lovestruck soul. But Michael only ever laughed off the teasing commentary, so grateful that he had a lady to love profoundly and unashamedly for all time.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡₊˚⊹ everytime i watch this interview i wanna stroke his pretty face so badly...

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

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[applejuicepyt]

Cold Shoulder

☆Summary: You're adamant on giving him a cold shoulder after an argument and Michael takes it literally.

◇Word Count: 0.8k

》 the secretary and mature michael fic is ready for deployment soon, just need to let it rest and come back to it later with a fresh mind so I'm posting this just to contribute to the tag kekeke. NOT PROOFREAD

If there is anything that Michael learned from having grown up with a lot of brothers and sisters, it's to know how to end a fight without needing to speak or resort to physical means.

Or more accurately, fight back without directly doing so.

(Janet called him petty once for taking all the umbrellas with him to the studio when everyone tried him during a harsh rainy work day but he doesn't think it's the right word to describe it.)

Of course when he got in a relationship, he had to relearn the ways he'd go about an argument. You're not like his siblings, including Jermaine, who'd retaliate against him and the relationship would continue to be as it was before. Familial bonds are different from romantic ones.

You're to be his future, the mother of his children years later down the line. To create an amazing environment for the kids to grow up in and know what is to expect in people outside of their homes, their mother and father should know how to co-exist and collaborate well.

That being said, Michael always makes sure an argument ends the same day it began.

Even if he has to resort to his old ways.

It was a stupid argument in the first place about his extravagant and expensive hobby of spending his money. He saw you looked at the bag and picked it up to appraise it, so he went back and got Bill to buy it but for some reasons, it was the wrong move.

You say you don't need it, you have ten other bags you can use and circulate around for different events and themes. He insists you don't have enough for someone dating him and you took it as an attack, interpreting it maliciously like him saying you should fit in with the mold he's pushed out of.

He knows he has a flawed thinking but it's simply one of the ways he shows his love and appreciation for you who stayed through thick and thin, and cared for him without expecting anything—so much so that it makes him itch with the incredible need to spoil you anyways.

He didn't really plan on doing anything, he was actually waiting for night time once you come home from work and spring it up to you before sleeping. Until you decide upon arrival that you'll be building up a pillow fort in between you and respond to him with one word or a simple hum.

So what does he do when you're insistent on ignoring him before bed?

Turn the air conditioner temp up and hide the remote away.

You run hotter than most people he knew—or at least, had held a little too long to notice—and with this, came the fact that you're easily cold that even a night summer breeze makes you huddle into his side for warmth.

So he's going to capitalize on that weakness.

One minute in and you already suspected the plan in motion and threw him a suspecting gaze over your shoulders but of course, you didn't say anything and turned back to the opposite side so he carried on reading.

Around ten minutes, he watched you wrap the blanket tighter around yourself, legs curling a little bit higher to more comfort and warmth. 

He grinned.

It surprises Michael when you go past thirty minutes through pure stubbornness alone. He could see the slight shivers that wracks your body between long intervals but you persevered. At some point, you dragged yourself to the closet and came back wearing thick jogger pants and jacket with the hood pulled up.

“You know, you could always find warmth in someone very close to you.”

“Where the fuck did you hide the remote, Michael?” You snapped, irritated as you began rummaging through the bedside tables, the cabinets, and surveyed the shelves for any displacement that could indicate where he hid the remote.

“I'd fix the temperature at the cost of a hug and a proper conversation.”

“God, you're so…” You ran a hand down your face and his grin only grew wider. “Give me the damn remote.”

“The price is one hug and—”

“Michael, I'm fucking shivering. Turn the AC down!”

“I said the price is—” He didn't get to complete what he said before an Eeyore plushie was being hurled at him and he screamed, shielding his face at the last moment.

You stood there after, staring back at him and he stared back, although his was more lighthearted and teasing than your entirely pissed off narrowed glare. He may hate eye contact but he's also stubborn and competitive. 

Then finally, after playing this game for one hour, you groaned and trudged towards him with head hung down in defeat before falling on top of him with your full weight, knocking the breath out of his chest before he wrapped his arms around you.

“Are you ready to talk now, dear?”

“I hate you.”

“I love you!” He says in a sing-song tone.

[prettyangeliczz]

riding thick/dad bod michael, reverse cowgirl 😩 holding yourself up on his plush thighs, his big hand smacking your ass, other hand behind his head…then he might sit up while keeping you on top of him, letting you grind on his lap with his warm tummy and chest holding you up

these thoughts you’re putting in my mind is not healthy, don’t stop tho

[httpbluberri]

Honeybunny

todays hear me out- Michael and Wife!Reader voicing Jessica and Roger Rabbit

please tell me yall see it

[angelcrescent]

18+ 𓈒 ݁ ݂ mature!michael x f!reader { 0.5k } ❤︎ aug '08 ❤︎ you wake up with a craving… (∗˃̶ ᵕ ˂̶∗) ︎

“God, you’re so sexy, I wanna eat you,” you murmured into his chest. It was nine in the morning, and neither of you wanted to get out of bed.

Michael chuckled, kissing your head wordlessly, and so you continued.

“Baby, I really need to suck your dick.”

“You really need to?” he smirked down in amusement.

You smacked his bicep. “Yes.”

“Well, y'can’t, honey, 'cause the kids are down the hall.”

With an eye roll, you sighed. “Ugh, Michael—they’re older now—they’re not gonna come runnin' in like they did when they were babies. They know the distinction between their rooms and mommy and daddy's room."

“That’s not the point,” Michael laughed, still not giving in. “It’s mornin’ and they’re down the hall.”

“Well, a blowjob’s quieter than sex,” you pointed out, ignoring his disagreements.

He raised a brow. “I didn’t suggest sex either.”

“No, you didn’t—but you wanna please your lady, right? Give her what she wants?” you murmured sultrily, running your manicured nails over his chest.

“Oh, I think I’ve pleased her enough over the years,” Michael countered.

“She disagrees,” you pouted, to which Michael pulled a face of faux-shock.

“She’s also kidding,” you giggled, then nestled further into him, tucking your head into the crook of his warm neck. “Ugh, baby, please let me do somethin'. What if we just have cuddly, really slow sex so no one hears a thing?”

“Mama, what is with y' this mornin'?” Michael chuckled, intertwining your legs as he shifted so that you were now both on your sides. “Here I was, thinkin' sex drive was supposed to slow at this age.”

“I don't know, maybe it's somethin' to do with having the sexiest man in existence lying in my bed.”

“’m really not that at all, honey…” he sighed with a soft nudge, because after all these years he would still never admit how beautiful he was.

“Don’t give me your self-deprecating bullshit now. I have eyes—I know what I see,” you spoke firm. “And I also know how I feel down there, so that's physical proof of the impact your gorgeous body has on me.” You giggled now as he shied away, and you had to literally tug him back when he tried to roll onto the other side in his bashfulness.

Finally, in a bid to stop your incessant praise of his appearance and partly as a response to his growing member below the silk, he accepted your proposal.

“Alright, I'll give it to y', honey, but we need to make it quick 'cause Blanket really will be at the door askin' for us if we take any longer to come down for breakfast."

You laughed, wreathing your fingers through his hair as you pulled him into a kiss. Your leg hooked over his thigh, and he tugged the comforter up over both of your bodies to envelop you in his protection.

The sex was slow and sleepy, just as you’d craved, but Michael had to speed up when he remembered that it was now almost nine-thirty. One of the maids had knocked on your door to ask a question, but she’d heard the tell-tale sighs and moans amid the quiet though audible rhythmic creak of the bed, so had left the two of you alone. You’d see to the outside world later.

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡₊˚⊹ surprising u guys by writing for mature era :3 i have too many ideas for my au series pre-1990 so i never write for the later eras, but i was daydreaming n came up with this! ;)

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

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