summary: michael gets flustered when you call him pet names, but he’s not about to let anybody else make fun of you for it. that’s it. that’s the plot.
word count: 1486 (this one's a quickie)
author’s note: anon, kiss your brain for this suggestion! ♡ not an ounce of angst or smut in sight; just pure, unadulterated fluff.
i took the liberty of including his brothers in this because i literally cannot help myself
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
“Whatever you say, angelface.”
You were on the floor in Michael’s bedroom, him sitting propped against the bed and you laying with your head resting on his lap.
“Don’t call me that.” He groaned, tipping his head back against the footboard.
The two of you had been listening to some old, classical record that he’d insisted you must hear, and he was droning on and on about the merits of the composition, but you were so focused on the shape of his mouth and the way he talked with his hands when he was passionate about something to catch more than every third word.
You’d answered without a clue what you were responding to, thoroughly enjoying the way his cheeks flushed at the pet name. Even from this upside-down angle, it was one of your favorite sights in the world.
“Why not?” You asked innocently, and his blush deepened, keeping his eyes on the ceiling.
“‘cause I get shy.”
You giggled, marveling at the contrast between the suave, confident man on his own record covers (which were mixed in with the pile of vinyls he’d shuffled through to find the one that was playing), and the sweet, bashful boy currently trying not to look you in the eye.
“I like it when you get shy.” You shrugged, pulling yourself up and sitting in his lap instead, taking his face in both hands. “Pretty boy.” His cheeks were warm underneath your palms, and they only got warmer when you called him that.
“Stoooop.” He whined, but didn’t pull away, which encouraged you to continue.
“What d’you want me to call you? Lovebug? Buttercup? Honey bun?”
You ticked off a list of increasingly silly terms of endearment, peppering kisses all over his face—his nose, his lips, his cheeks, his chin. By the end of it, he was still blushing furiously, but he was laughing along with you.
The laughter stopped when his bedroom door opened.
“Hey, Mike! I need you to loan me twenty dollars.” His brother, Marlon, barged into the room without knocking. He barely batted an eye at the sight of you in his brother’s lap, but you had the decency (for Michael’s sake) to get off and sit cross-legged on the floor beside him.
“Marlon. ‘m not givin’ you twenty dollars.” Michael rolled his eyes, his face now almost the exact color of the jacket he’d worn in the Thriller music video. (“It’s a short film!” the imaginary Michael in your head corrected you.)
“But I need it!” Marlon flopped down on Michael’s bed so hard that he bounced, and you had to look away not to laugh, trying to keep a straight face in solidarity with your boyfriend.
“I don’t care. You got your own grown up money.” He glanced around for something to throw at Marlon, but the only things within arm’s reach were you and his precious record collection. “What are you doin’ in my room, anyway? Y’don’t even live here.”
That fact didn’t really dissuade any of Michael’s brothers from pestering him. Daily. Even though most of them had moved out by now, they were always around— swimming in the pool, rummaging in the pantry for food, playing basketball in the driveway… You’d think that six brothers who grew up sharing a triple-decker bunk bed would covet their personal space, but no. Walking into Michael’s room uninvited was as normal as calling him up on the phone.
“Our mama wanted to eat dinner with her baby boys! Take it up with her.”
He shifted so that he was hanging upside down off the end of the bed, his face now between yours and Michael’s. “Jackie an’ Tito are downstairs.”
He’d barely gotten the words out before the two older brothers—speak of the devils and they shall appear—walked through the open door.
“Just kiddin’. Jackie and Tito are upstairs.” Marlon gave you a goofy grin, and rolled backwards so that he landed fully sprawled out on the floor between the two of you.
“’m gonna kill you.” Michael tried to shove him out of the way, but Marlon didn’t budge. “I’m helpin’ you leave room for Jesus! You shoulda seen ‘em when I came in here, guys. Practically tearin’ each other’s clothes off.”
That made you blush, and you covered your face with your hands, but Jackie and Tito didn’t seem to pay him any mind. They’d both had a couple of decades to get used to Marlon’s antics.
“Nobody was tearin’ anybody’s clothes off.” Michael muttered, dragging himself to his feet and marching to his door, gesturing for all three of his brothers to get out.
“No way, man! She likes us hangin’ around! Tell ‘im you like it.” Marlon nudged you, and you pulled your hands away, looking between the two of them like you were torn. The truth was, Marlon was right. You did like them hanging around.
Not all the time, obviously, but you enjoyed their company, and the banter was fun to watch. It was certainly more entertaining than anything you could find on TV.
“I mean…” You trailed off, and Marlon immediately took that as a victory. “See?! She loves it!”
“Sorry, angelface.” You gave Michael an apologetic look, and the brother next to you howled with laughter.
“What’d you jus’ call him?”
“Angelface.” Tito repeated unhelpfully, and then all three of them were cracking up.
“Y’all leave the man alone!” Jackie scolded them through his own laughter. “It ain’t his fault he’s got a—what is it, babyface?”
“Angelface.”
Marlon looked near tears, and you watched Michael grip the doorknob so hard that his knuckles turned white.
“Shut up.”
“That’s some next-level freaky shit. What else d’you have her callin’ you? Sugar plum fairy?”
You weren’t sure if that was an intentional dig at Michael’s Tchaikovsky record or not, but the irony wasn’t lost on you, and you had to cough to cover up a giggle.
Poor Michael looked as close to a cartoon character with steam blowing out his ears as a human could get.
“Now you’re bein’ mean, Marlon.” Tito sobered up enough that you thought he was going to come to Michael’s defense, but no such luck. “She jus’ shortens it to sugarplum.”
Another round of raucous, uncontrollable laughter filled the room, and you were a hundred percent positive that their parents could hear the commotion from downstairs.
“Give me a break.”
Michael let go of the doorknob and walked back across the room, and for a moment, you were worried he was going to hit somebody.
He didn’t. Instead, he extended a hand to you, helping you to your feet and wrapping an arm around your waist.
“So what if she calls me that?” He demanded, glaring at his brothers.
“You wanna talk about embarrassing? Let’s talk about Joe catchin' you and Dee Dee foolin’ around in broad daylight.” He shot a withering look at Tito, then Marlon. “Or about all those letters you wrote Carol Ann last time we were on tour. Wanna pull those out, Marlon?”
“Yeah, Marlon! Pull ‘em out. I’ll get the popcorn.” Jackie chimed in, but Michael didn’t spare him either. “Don’t get me started on your relationship. How ‘bout you explain to everybody why you—”
Jackie cut him off with a shake of his head so fast you were surprised he didn’t get whiplash (which made you very curious about where that sentence was going). “Nah, nah, nah. We don’t gotta get into all that.” He held up his hands in surrender.
Marlon and Tito had similar looks on their faces, like little kids who were having a lot of fun playing a game, but were pouting now that they’d lost it.
Michael, on the other hand, was wearing the smug look of the kid who’d won.
“At least I’ve got an angel face. The three of you got faces only a mother could love.”
“Hey!” They all protested in unison, so in sync it was honestly kind of impressive.
And speaking of mothers… just then, theirs called from downstairs that dinner was ready.
“Get on out of here. We’ll be behind you.”
Michael cocked his head towards the door, and this time, his older brothers left.
You could hear them fussing at each other all the way down the stairs about who should get to fix their plate first, the whole “angelface” debacle already forgotten. (At least for now.)
“That was kinda hot.” You turned in Michael’s arms once the two of you were alone again, standing on your tiptoes to press a little kiss to his lips.
“What?”
“You standin’ up to them like that. You got all tough and sexy.”
“You thought that was tough, huh?” He raised an eyebrow, and you nodded.
“Yes. But you’re still a cutie pie.”
Michael groaned dramatically, and you mentally added that petname to the list.
bruh I don’t wanna see anyone flaming fanfic. the girls that get it, get it and the girls that don’t, don’t, if you don’t get it, then you’re just not that girl!
a little reminder since yall wanna watch that fuckass netflix documentary anyway
edit: oh and another thing, try and come into my ask box on anon to debate this, I will block you effectively and immediately bc I don’t listen to bullshit and won’t argue with stupid people either. - adding this to the original post since some of you wanna act a fool. 🪽
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