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Guys can i be honest…i hate when im reading like real good angst and it turns into smut and whoever you’re reading about just did the most diabolical shit ever
pairing ⁀➷ bully! cameron cade x plus-size! black reader.
synopsis ⁀➷ cameron has teased you for years on end, but suddenly wants your help with schoolwork. you oblige, but soon find out his hatred for you is not as it seems.
song of chapter ⁀➷ ‘wish you well’ by brent faiyaz (unreleased)
word count + warnings ⁀➷ 3.9k || 18+, nsfw content, no minors! bully!cam, nerd reader, jealous! cam, teasing, nitpicking, mentions of masturbation, one-sided crush, soft fem domme reader, body appreciation, slapping (cameron likes it🤭), jerking off.
‘darling, i don’t wish you well. when you ain’t with me, i want you crying.’
ᥫ᭡
bully! cameron, who seemed to despise your entire existence.
you couldn’t quite figure it out, but each shoulder check, mocking laugh and condescending comment, let you know he for sure hated your guts. you only shared one class with the highly esteemed quarterback, but ran into him on a constant basis in the college hallways.
it was like cameron’s unpaid job was to put you down. pointing out any little mistake you might make—from tripping on your on two feet to dropping your books on the school's floor, cameron is there to let you know how pathetic you really were.
can’t see where you’re going? you’d think with glasses that fucking thick, you’d be able to see miles away.
you ignored him each time, continuing on with homework assignments for your next class without a word. this thing between you two had gone on since your days of high school—you couldn’t understand it. you would’ve thought after years of teasing, he’d grow tired and find someone else to pick with, but cameron’s attention remained lasered on you.
it’s your bully cameron who asks for a request from you. you’re face deep in a cell biology book when he approaches you in the reserved study room. you often found yourself in the library long after school hours, catching up on school work and spending spare time here instead of parties or social functions. you only had one best friend and didn’t do well in large gatherings. school, family, and home were your main priorities.
when cameron sits across from you at the table, you immediately note the expression on his face. he looks serious. more serious than you’ve ever seen him before. he usually held this demeanor during practice or before a big game. while part of you is annoyed, the other half is intrigued. what did he want?
cameron is the one to ask if you could tutor him throughout the week. he’d heard from classmates about the essays and homework you contributed to. you were a fucking genius and able to help almost everyone get their grades up to at least a ‘c’ average. he desperately needed to get his grades together, or he would risk being kicked off the schools football team.
you’re unsure. this was the same guy who made fun of your glasses at any chance, picked on your height and joked about your smarts. he now wanted your help?
“absolutely not.” you’re firm on your stance.
that is until—
“i’ll pay you good. whatever price you want.”
a day turned into weeks and your sessions with cameron continued. the two of you worked on a multitude of subjects. anything cameron needed help with, you were willing to provide. he made sure to pay on time before each session, and you made sure to help him receive the best grades possible. you couldn’t quite put your finger on cameron cade. he was interesting, but he remained quiet—a complete difference from the way he behaved when his friends were around. he worked, listened to what you asked of him and went back to home as usual.
at least that’s what you believed.
unbeknownst to you, cameron cade didn’t always go directly home after every study session.
it didn’t start like this initially.
cameron truly found you annoying.
your perfect hair, starched clothing and positive energy pissed him off. why were you so chipper at 9 in the goddamn morning? why did you know the answer to every question the professor asked? why did seeing your face make him so fucking angry?
he couldn’t understand it.
the one thing cameron was able to manage was his actions towards you. berating and calling out everything you did to was easier than sitting with his true feelings.
the feelings that hit cameron late at night when it was only him and his thoughts in the comfort of his bedroom. not a sound or soul around—just the whir of a nearby fan blowing throughout the room and the ache of his dick trapped behind boxer briefs.
those same thoughts made his vision blur as he imagined your frame underneath the stockings and pleated skirts you wore. he’d think of how you’d look on top of him. would you take your time and ride him slow—or be just as desperate as he’d been and ride him as wildly as you could?
it was the same thoughts that made cameron growl into the air as he came hotly—sticky white substance dripping over his chest and hand, before he washed up to imagine it all over again. maybe a different fantasy this time—one of you, and he crammed in the back seat of his car. he wouldn’t mind, cameron would find a way to make space for you.
cameron’s maladaptive daydream is interrupted as there’s a sound right outside his bedroom window. cameron lived at home with his parents as it was easier to attend school and save money at the same time. he remained in his childhood bedroom and often gazed out the window to look down on the neighbors and their current shenanigans, but it’s during this that he notices a familiar face and shape.
it’s you…
it’s you and cameron’s next door neighbor.
his neighbor lived at home with his parents, just like cameron. he also played football for the school’s rival team, so cameron has no clue as to why you’re meeting with him. he’s obviously an enemy, but you’re downstairs being best friends with him.
cameron watches as the young man hugs you goodbye and proceeds to walk to your car. you smile stupidly in his face before starting your car to drive off into the night, leaving cameron as confused as ever.
“what the fuck?”
cameron lets the time pass. he writes the interaction with you and his neighbor off as a tutoring session, believing that you wouldn’t be in any kind of relationship with someone like him. it helped put his mind at ease for just a bit.
that is, until he encounters the two of you once again.
you both were exiting a local restaurant just as cameron was crossing the street. it’s late at night and cameron is supposed to be walking the family dog, but finds himself eavesdropping on the conversation you two hold. back pressed to the brick wall of a nearby building, cameron listens carefully as you bust into genuine laughter at his neighbor’s joke.
“no, but seriously, y/n, you’re fucking amazing and i really appreciate you.”
“oh, it’s nothing,” he hears you giggle and you never giggled while you were with him. the sound of your beautiful laugh makes his chest tighten. he wished he’d been the reason for your joy. “i can’t wait to see you again. have a good night, babe.”
babe?
the pet name enrages cameron. he holds enough irritation to knock down this entire brick wall, race over, snatch you up and knock that loser the fuck out.
but cameron does nothing.
you weren’t his. he had no rights to you, no rights to behave this way towards you.
days later, cameron’s phone vibrates in his pants pocket.
it’s a text message from you.
hey, i’m sorry to cancel on you, but i won’t be able to make it today. maybe we can meetup sometime next week?
cameron’s eyes lowered as he read over the message once again. he took a deep inhale and clicked on the power button to his phone.
you and he met in the city’s library for tutoring lessons every wednesday and friday without fail. for weeks, cameron spritzed cologne over his neck and wrists, applied oil to his short hair and made sure to keep a tube of mint scented chapstick in his bookbag for…educational purposes. he absolutely looked forward to sessions with you. whether they be one-sided with only your voice speaking throughout the library or silent altogether—wednesday’s and friday’s were his favorite days of the week.
yet, you cancelled.
cameron couldn’t understand it.
are you sure? we can probably meet sometime later tonight, i really don’t to fail this upcoming exam.
cameron paces his room as he awaits a response from you, hoping his excuse doesn’t sound too desperate.
you won’t fail. we can meet up next week.
you wouldn’t budge, and cameron can’t come up with another reason.
“fuck,” he huffs, tossing his phone onto the bed. cameron takes only a second to collect his thoughts before racing to change out of his current outfit and into looser attire.
he needed to blow off some steam.
a two-hour workout session helped to clear cameron’s mind just a little, but not nearly enough. a few bench presses, a jog on the treadmill and a boxing session with a punching bag—yet he kept thinking of you and the message you’d sent earlier. part of him wanted to let you know how he felt—to tell you the resentment he held towards you was misplaced and that he didn’t know how to regulate emotions regarding you. the other half wished you could read his mind and know exactly what he wanted.
cameron passes the school’s library as he leaves the gym. had it been any other day, cameron would’ve went home as usual, but the cancellation of today’s session was getting to him. he couldn’t fucking think straight. he stopped inside and decided to take a seat at the table you and he usually sat in. cameron sorted through his bookbag and fetched textbooks for tomorrows exam, eyes darting over the words as he tried to comprehend the reading material.
you would’ve helped him to understand it.
your calm voice reading over the text before asking what did he think about it. you would’ve cracked open a notebook and wrote down important information with your black ball point pen. you would’ve taken your time and used real-world situations to compare with the homework, helping him learn everything he can before a big test.
you’re all cameron can think about.
so much so that he swears he can hear you.
it’s the same laugh he’d heard for the first time the other day, and cameron is positive he’s completely lost his mind until he sees you and his neighbor emerge from a study room. cameron hides behind the large textbook to avoid his cover being blown. he listens closely and peers from behind the spine of the book as you hug and peck the cheek of his neighbor.
cameron can only sit for so long—waiting until his neighbor has left the library to follow behind as you slip into the basement area of the building.
you don’t hear or see him—cameron makes sure to keep quiet as he tiptoes behind you, searching for words to perfectly convey his thoughts.
“what the fuck are you doing, y/n?”
there’s aggravation in his tone, and the sound of his tenor causes you to flinch—not jump, but simply raise your shoulders in surprise. you turn on the toes of your leather loafers, eyes widened in surprise at cameron cade’s presence.
“are you following me?”
cameron ignores your question. “answer me, y/n.”
“i’m minding my business, cameron, that’s what i’m doing. now answer my question, are you following me?”
cameron pushes past you to walk further into the dusty basement, brushing towards a nearby book case before he speaks. “why are you dragging this nigga all over town? smiling in his fucking face, hugging him and shit.”
“because i can, cameron. why does any of this matter to you? why are you watching my every fucking move.”
“you and that stupid motherfucker are flaunting around town, i can’t help but to see it.”
he expects you to make a run for it—for you to angrily march up the stairs and never talk to him again, but you instead hold a conversation with pinched brows on your gorgeous face. he can’t help the way his stomach whirls when he’s able to see you fully. the basement of this dusty library is dimly lit, just a flicking light bulb that sways back and forth in the corner of the room, but it helps cameron to see you.
you looked beautiful as usual, but a bit more laid back tonight. boho braids flowing around your shoulders—free from the tight bun you often wore, a small hue of blush upon your round cheeks and no glasses on your pretty face.
you weren’t wearing your glasses.
he only takes a second. brief and steady as he glances over you. “where are your glasses?”
“huh?” you squint and it’s not because you weren’t wearing said glasses. usual black frames are not on your face because you were looking for a change in appearance, at least for tonight.
“you heard me. where are your glasses, y/n?”
you’re surprised cameron picked up on it, but cameron forgot absolutely nothing when it came to you. he’s like a wolf hunting prey. he can’t miss the curls strewn through your hair, the neat pressing of your outfit or the heady scent of the perfume you’re wearing.
“and you’re wearing fucking perfume…you-you put that on for him, didn’t you?”
“who?”
“who? you tell me, y/n, who is the nigga to you?”
you’d never seen him like this. so hostile and on edge over you, but it’s at this moment that reality sets and you remember who you’re dealing with. you don’t owe him anything. not an explanation or even an excuse. you push forward and wiggle out of cameron’s intimidating stance.
“it doesn’t matter. it doesn’t matter what i do, or who i do it with, cameron. you aren’t my boyfriend, so it’s none of your business, and i think it’s best that you leave.”
you walk towards the entrance and hold the heavy door open, waiting for cameron cade to exit onto the other side of it, but he just stands in place. icy eyes peer back at you and they’re unforgiving. the only thing that diverts cameron’s attention is the sound of a notification of your phone as it pings from your book bag.
shit.
it’s a short race between you and cameron as you both rush over to grab the device. you should’ve knew better. a 6-foot behemoth was easily going to overpower you. the most athletic thing you conquered was a brisk walk up a flight of stairs to enter your favorite coffee shop.
“give me my phone, cameron!” he holds a hand outward to block the catty hits you give in attempt to get your phone back.
cameron forgets his place.
the idea of someone else having access to you made him go crazy. cameron could almost handle the thought of him not being with you, but someone else getting the pleasure of being near you was enough to drive him through a wall.
“i don’t recall this being any of your fucking business, cameron. why does it matter what i’m doing?!”
“because you’re fucking hugging and kissing him after canceling a tutoring lesson with me.”
“i was helping him study cameron—there! does that make you feel any fucking better?”
“fuck no! you’re getting fucking dressed up for him, but bailing out on me, i’m fucking pissed.” you can sense the genuine anger surging through cameron as he speaks. his usually light irises darken as they pierce into you.
“i’m sorry, cameron.”
but it’s not enough.
“nah, i need to talk to that motherfucka, i need to know something.”
“you’re going to talk to him for what, cameron? i’m confused as to how this is any of your concern. you hate me, so why are you so worried?”
you and cameron begin to tussle. he’s attempting to push past you, searching all throughout your book bag for the vibrating cell phone. you’re holding him by the arm to stay in place, but cameron’s strong—tall, big—any of the words you could think of, so you have little to no fight at this moment, being easily brushed to the side as he moves about.
it’s a last-minute effort, but the heavy smack you send to his left cheek stops him in his tracks. the inside of your palm rings, while a stinging red mark forms on the side of cameron’s face. you’re about to say something—an apology of sorts when cameron forces you to pause. he releases the tiniest surprised moan—low and trapped in the back of his throat, as you watch his dick twitch behind the confines of his shorts.
cameron is silent. pleading eyes wandering over you as he tries to understand why do you turn him on like this? your book bag and the contents inside fall to the ground once cameron drops it.
“you like that? y-you like me smacking you around?” you’re taken aback by his reaction.
cameron remains quiet, but his dick answers whatever questions you have. you can practically feel the heat radiating from it, as he grows harder, continuing to flinch around underneath his clothes.
“answer me, cameron.”
it’s like chewing glass, and cameron can’t swallow the broken pieces down fast enough to speak. he’d kept these feelings locked away for years. years of longing, aching and needing to be near you vanished into thin air from a harsh slap you’d given him. cameron can’t believe the magic you hold.
“answer me, cam,” you’re on the tips of your leather shoes, lush lips skimming across his neck as you speak. you await an answer, but only draw out another shaky moan from him. “tell me, cameron and i can help you feel better. i gotta hear you say it.”
he gulps sharply, forcing his eyelids closed as he tries to regulate. “f—fuck, fuck, yes, yes.”
you began to soften up some. smugness to your voice when you question him, finding delight in the sorrowful position you have him in.
“can i see it, cameron?”
“w-what?” he stutters. “you—you want to see me?”
cameron’s been convinced you were disgusted with his entire presence, hearing your words makes his dick stiffen more. cameron can’t think clearly, but he knows he wants this, knows he wants you to want it as well.
“let me see you, baby.”
you’ve switched—and so quickly at that. cameron’s not sure if you’ve always been like this, but starting as a timid nerd and turning into a sweet voiced domme, shakes him to his core. cameron’s willing, though. he’s happy you were into it like he was.
so cameron obeys.
untying the string to his shorts, cameron starts to fumble with the clothing items until they fall to the ends of his ankles. and the expression on your face cannot be contained—a mix of surprise and satisfaction. you expected a handsome boy like him to have a nice dick—well groomed and beautiful in color, but his length? cameron was a fairly decent size. you would rather not give him too much credit, but his umber tinted dick truly took your breath away.
“you’re big, cameron.”
“yeah?” he’s breathless as he responds.
nodding your head as you continue. “yes and you’re so pretty, you look so good, baby.”
cameron could die happily with the way you’re talking to him, his dick bobs in appreciation from the complimentary words you utter.
“show me what you can do.”
and cameron’s on it immediately, willing to do whatever he can to please you. his large hard drags over his hard dick in a fast motion, jerking along the tightened shaft without regard or concern. his eyes flick back and forth—from you and down to his piece in hand, while you watch.
“you’re rough.”
you giggle a bit as you cross over the room, taking a few steps to get closer to him, as cameron continues to jerk his dick raggedly. he’s too excited—too anxious to reach his nut, that he can hardly contain himself.
“what’s the rush? we got all the time in the world.”
cameron’s looking to you for relief, awaiting whatever you can give him to get off completely. you step beside him and attempt to reach his height from the short distance you stand, clothed breasts brushing the outside of his strong arms as you linger.
the pad of your soft thumb traces over the end of his chiseled jaw, slowly finding your way to
his bottom lip as you grin softly. “open your mouth, cam.”
you only have to ask once because cameron trusts you. he doesn’t know why, but a major part of him knows you’d get him there without a hassle. cameron’s tongue wraps around your thumb without hesitation, moaning in satisfaction at the faint smell of perfume along your skin. his eyes fall closed in satisfaction of the contact.
“drool on that dick, baby, i want you to get it wet for me.”
you pull your hand away from his lips and cameron follows the instructions, opening his mouth wide enough that an elongated string of spit hits the base of his dick without pause. it’s fucking sexy when he does it, hand holding onto a nearby bookshelf as you watch intensely. you try not to moan and only enjoy the show, but it’s almost impossible with a star football player falling apart the simple commands you give.
“do you want me to touch it, cam? want me to make you feel good?”
and it’s more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life. cameron’s skull could rattle with how fast his head shakes. you only give him a little, gentle fingertips twisting at the head of his dick while he shivers in response.
“yes—yeah, please, y/n, please.”
then you think. “but, do you deserve it? have you been good, cameron?”
cameron knows the truth—he’d been acting a fucking fool as of late, but he was here now and he was willing to try, willing to try and be good just for you.
“i can—i can be better, y/n. i can be calmer, nicer—fuck, just touch me please.”
“promise me cameron. promise you’ll be good from here on out. promise you’ll listen to me.”
he nods furiously, “yes, yes, i’ll be good, i’ll be good and i’ll do whatever you want.”
with the lubrication of his spit, you’re easily able to tug on cameron’s big dick, opposite hand finding purchase around his wide neck. you choke him softly, just enough that it takes his breath way and makes him moan at the same time.
“lift your shirt up, i wanna see you, baby, i gotta see you.”
with hardly any focus, cameron scrambles to unzip his jacket and raise his plain t-shirt like you commanded him to. your soft hand grazes the rippled skin of his abs in admiration. his skin is damp from a previous workout and the anxiety of being in your hold and you can smell it on him. the scent of his natural sweaty aroma combined with a woodsy cologne makes your pussy clench around nothing.
you wanted him.
you didn’t mind the idea of cameron bending you over this bookcase and fucking you like nobody’s business, but you knew better—knew you couldn’t give it to him that easily. cameron would have to earn it. you jerking him off was an act of kindness after canceling the tutoring session. anything from this point forward would require some serious effort.
Pairing: Cameron Cade x Black!OC Lael Cosette, Esq.
Summary: Years ago, Lael and Cameron were a unit, a force to be reckoned with beneath the scales of Lady Justice and the gravel of their prestigious law school. Hope is deferred when Lael's heart is crushed beneath the weight of nepotism and privilege, and she is determined to come after what's rightfully hears--hell, or high water.
Songs:
WC: 1820
Warnings: Angst. Law terms. Unrequited love. Friends to enemies to something undefined.
Note: This took me three months to write because of how emotionally intense it is, but here we go. Enjoy.
BEFORE THE CASE
“You’re so smart, Cameron. Devastatingly intelligent. And yet, you can’t see that your parents would rend the heavens themselves--with Olympus and every god of land and sea—just to see you win. Why would they allow you to drop the mantle they carried like a generational bruise?
“Why would they allow you to know what struggle feels like, when they broke every stronghold in advance so you would never touch the ground? Your mind may have gotten you to the threshold but know this—your parents kicked down the door, cleared the smoke, and crowned you before you took your first breath. So, shine on, Golden Boy. Blind the world with your power and privilege, and unusual allegiance to these deranged institutions while proclaiming justice and peace.
You’re a walking contradiction, Cade.”
I – The Grant
Attending university seemed like a star in the Milky Way—only achievable by rocket science and calculations reviewed by experts. An opportunity, a chance, that seemed few and far between. But when the letter of her acceptance on a full-ride academic scholarship to her top-choice university arrived at her door like a gift from the divine, she knew favor was on her side.
Four years.
Grueling.
Tiresome.
Rewarding.
Because of the sleepless nights, budgets wound tighter than a spring, and the prayers of a righteous mother, grace carried her across the stage on a rainy day in May with her neck heavy with medallions and heart swelling with pride. That day rolled out the red carpet toward the bigger dream—law school.
Months of preparation for the LSAT tore her away from friends. It left margaritas unmade at the restaurant, had seats on airplanes empty, and library seats too accustomed to her favorite pair of leggings. Tears watered the seeds planted by her mother’s gentle affirmations and grandmother’s wildest dreams.
Lael Cosette was accepted to law school.
But not without its own trials and tribulations.
Partial scholarship.
Merit-based support fell short.
Until a new opportunity arose.
Another opportunity to gather the ducks lost along the way. Another chance to bridge the gap between hope and reality. A scholarship. Endowed by private sponsors of the university’s law program. Willing and generous enough to provide $50,000 for a young pupil to refuel the tank drained by capitalism and lack of caffeine.
She applied. With fervor and zeal. Only for devastation to weigh her down like a blanket the moment her joint study session was disrupted by the email. Tears welled in her eyes and fell down her cheeks like a waterfall, flooding the flashcards half-bent under the weight of her forearms.
“Hey, hey.” Warmth filled her space, but that didn’t stop the shiver that ran down her spine. His cologne was soft as it flooded her senses. “What happened?” He bowed before her reverently, palms heavy against her thighs as he whispered the sweetest somethings.
Lie. She passed. Aced it.
He knew she was lying. And didn’t press.
The beginning of deterioration.
She found out weeks later that he, Cameron Cade, was named the victor in the eyes of the scholarship board. $50,000 ground to liquid gold and spoon-fed to a man who’d only eaten from silver since his first breath.
Closeness met distance.
Coolness suffocated warmth.
Understanding was crushed under bitterness.
Until nothing remained of a once destined union written in the stars.
II – The Firm
She arrived with fury in her eyes and lightning beneath her wings. Vengeance on her mind and violence in her fingertips.
There was something to prove. To others? No. To herself? Everything. That reclamation didn’t come from firm handshakes and fake smiles that dropped the moment she turned her back.
It was earned. Through preparation. Through discipline. Through something that cost her.
She’d given up enough.
What was something else?
Junior Associate. Not the big dog—not yet. But her bite was still strong. Dangerous.
And she smiled at that. Her weapons were still on the blacksmith’s anvil. At rest until they were meant to be wielded.
Until then—she’d do what she’d done best.
Fight.
And win.
III – The Case
Power didn’t boom like thunder crackling through the night sky in Cade Cosette Merrin Lowell Shaw.
It didn’t scream or announce itself.
It hummed and crackled low in the steady pulse of a pressure cooker, squeezing tension to the surface. Lived in glass walls and marble floors that squeaked beneath the soles of expensive Italian leather shoes and red bottoms, required uniforms on a battlefield where brilliance sharpened itself for battle.
It lingered beneath the morning sun, encapsulated by glass, trembling as the footsteps of mighty titans thundered down the hallway, the light bending toward their shadows in reverence as they turned a sharp corner.
The conference room, the pit that swallowed five giants every day once the horizon dipped below the curve of Earth, rattled as they entered, one by one.
Cade. Cosette. Merrin. Lowell. Shaw.
Five names carved into black stone like scripture.
Five legacies.
Five storms learning, unwillingly, to orbit.
And yet power didn’t shift here; it circled.
Slow.
Predatory.
Waiting for one misstep between Lael Cosette and Cameron Cade.
Lael stood at the head of the long oak table crafted by artisan hands, fingers resting on a stack of organized files—stillness masquerading as calm beneath a rabid storm. Stillness that lied. The kind of predator that maintains itself before a vicious kill.
She heard him before he spoke.
The quiet, confident cadence.
The soft exhale of someone who never had to raise his voice to command a room.
“Your prosecution was…” Cameron paused, searching for the right word, as if the right word would bend her spine a fraction. “…unfair.”
Lael didn’t turn.
Didn’t blink.
Dark eyes remained locked on the pages before her, though she no longer saw a single word.
Her nostrils flared.
Her finger paused on the page.
Her spine stood rigid.
Instead, she saw him—his privileged posture, his polished certainty, his lineage stitched into every syllable like a watermark he didn’t know he carried.
A humorless laugh slipped from her throat.
Hit the ground with a heavy thud—something between a laugh and a long-forgotten wound unraveling.
“Grow a thicker layer of skin, Cade,” she retorted, her voice velvet dipped in venom. The metal barrel of a pen was heavier than legal textbooks and more expensive than the overtly large gold watch that wrapped around his wrist. “Part of the game. You either know how to play, or you don’t. Do you?”
She didn’t have to look up to know he was straining.
Jaw wound tight like a string.
Fingers clenching at his side.
Inhaling and exhaling like an amateur student in a yoga class—bit off more than he could chew.
Cameron’s exhale was heavy. Rugged as the carpet beneath their feet, that yelped with each press of her heel into the fabric. His nostrils flared. Foot tapped against the ground like a bull ready to charge at its prey. “I play it well. It’s how I know you’re playin’ dirty, and for what? Unfair.”
Her palm hovered over the pen until it clattered against the glass table.
A crack in the foundation.
Vulnerability leaking at the seams.
“So was the scholarship.” Heat struck behind her eyes. The Earth was scorched by a ring of fire, blazing everything in its path like vengeance armed with flames. It destroyed the tender ground and plowed toward the seas—he stepped back.
She inhaled deeply.
The storms rolled in.
Heavy.
Powerful.
Flooded her until she sank beneath words lodged in her throat.
She didn’t say anything else.
But he heard her clearly.
The fire seared the seas with rage.
You, Cameron Cade, are insufferable.
IV – The Revelation
They were alone.
No conference table.
No observers.
No buffer of glass or marble.
Lael circled her desk slowly. Her nails whispered against the dark wood as she planted herself in front of him
Firm.
Immovable.
Unshakeable.
“You’re not Ares.
You are not an immovable god haloed with the reverence of patrons.
Administrations don’t bend at the whisper of your name.
Governments don’t flee like you’re vengeance in cashmere and Italian leather.
No, Cameron.
I am vengeance.
I am war manifested, justice personified.
I am the verdict you never prepared for.”
She didn’t raise her voice.
“And you.”
A pause.
“You are Achilles.
A presumably mighty warrior with a simple weakness that will destroy you from root to tip.
And that weakness, Cameron Cade, is you.”
Silence.
“You think you’re the storm.
I’m the weather.”
Another pause. Smaller now. Equally heavy.
“I am the hell and the high water you should have learned to flee.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“And yet,” she continued, quieter, “Here I stand. Across from a man, the bright-eyed heir to an empire undeserving, waiting for life to spoon-feed him another victory he didn’t bleed for. Who mistakes inheritance for merit.”
She looked at him then.
Finally.
“Tell me, Cameron. Where are your wounds?”
V – The Verdict
“I’m sorry.”
The words were quiet. Not rehearsed. Not elevated. Quiet.
“I am so sorry.”
Lael didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Not with a heavy sob bundled in her throat, waiting for her jaw to unhinge, desperate for release.
“I didn’t know,” he continued. “I didn’t need it. But that doesn’t change anything. I don’t get to undo it. I don’t get to make it right.” His breath caught on words he’d never thought he’d say. “I am so sorry you suffered because of my name.”
Silence pressed in.
Cameron took a step.
Then another.
He stopped just short of her space, like he was checking if the distance mattered—it did. It mattered the moment they stepped on campus nearly ten years ago and it mattered now, when the flames settled to embers, pulsing under tension.
She trembled then, finally. An involuntary break. Her lip bobbed as her eyes searched his face, searched for a lie, and an opportunity to yell “gotcha!” Darkness scoured the seas for, quick and sharp, looking for the smallest fraction of a tell that showed a slither of disingenuousness. Something, a justification, that she could tear open.
Humility.
She came face-to-face with humility. Pity, maybe? No, not that. Humility. Raw and open, waiting for salt to be dumped in a wound where he’d never known to be cut.
His eyes had changed. Not piercing like the seas hiding the lost kingdom. Softer now. Open sky. A place where nothing was sheathed.
When he lifted his hand, it was slow. Deliberate. His thumb brushed the tear from her cheek before it fell, then caught another at her waterline, her dark eyeliner sliding down his skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. Softer. Familiar. “I’m sorry, baby.”
Lael turned away from him, her cheek brushing against his suit jacket.
Some victories weren’t meant to be shared.
Only understood.
For now, that was enough.
-
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# str8 mistreat it up ! cameron ‘the cannon’ cade ::
featuring. ▷ ⛐ ᩙᮬ twee-cutie creed sister!black fem reader x underground + professional boxer!cameron cade & childhood intimidator ﾒ
warnings. nsfw. explicit language below! smut with zero plot. brief mentions of blood. rough!mean!asshole cameron cade. unprotected banging! semi-public [locker-room]! manhandling. pussydrunk cam. indications of cheating. squirting. slight choking. cam’s soooo big! standing position! cervix-kissing. multiple orgasms. eventual creampie. ++ lowercase intended! pinterest links included! emdashes!
𓈒 ˙ ꪆৎ if someone asked the cannon: ‘cameron, is there anything better than boxing?’, he would have knocked them clean out and spit over their withering body. because how dare they? how dare they even assume there be an answer? the question had not once, in his entire six-year professional career, even occurred to him. boxing was the absolute core of his identity, down to the most microscopic parts of his being . . .
just ten minutes ago, his boxing mitts and robe were the largest gift. his world began and ended in the squared circle; twenty-three feet by twenty-three feet, sixteen ropes parallel, four fucking posts . . .
but he’s found a new love. a love that’s been in his life far longer than boxing. a love that’s always stared up at him with goggly eyes set behind massive lenses and chunky, dorky frames. a love he’ll curse himself for rejecting and swatting off, like one pesky mosquito. a love he never saw himself indulging; frequently assuring his closest brother — who was presently demoted to stupid-fucking-opponent — that he would never make any advancements, “wouldn’t touch that girl wit’a ten foot pole. trus’me.”
and almost ten years later, he is touching. touching all over. and licking and biting and kissing and grunting and moaning and trying his very best to calm it. he hasn’t had a hard-on this severe since the night he lost his virginity. those light-green eyes were watery, and very blood hot, but cameron ‘the cannon’ cade would have sworn on a stack of bibles that they were also the eyes of a sober man . . . of a man who only had his fiancée on his mind. he looks to his opponent’s sister and desperately wants to see his fiancée . . . but his brain won’t let him. she didn’t feel like this- and she damn sure didn’t smell like this either.
there’s a different sort of sweetness in the air. a homey, secure smell. a smell that when his eyes flutter shut from pleasure, his pussy-drunk brain presents a paradise his younger-self would hurl at. somehow, this smell completely overpowered the unpleasant stench of him . . . totally shocking, given the sweat hanging at his hairline, behind his steaming neck, along his tensed arms and hands (still wrapped in reddened bandages), between his straining fat thighs, and the dried blood below his nostrils and at his busted lips . . . the cannon feels stupefied.
another girly, futile whine spills and his weighty cock is twitching. it burns having to go soooo slow, but he doesn’t want to cause pain. not any more than what he was already inflicting on such a precious body. and he wasn’t even all the way in, just barely a full quarter. every-time cameron pulled back, stopping before his plump, glossy tip — deep pink in shade — could plop out . . . he’d push back to feed more of his delicious cock in— “‘s t-too m-mucch- “
shit- what a voice. “it’s not- stop sayin’ that shit.” but there wasn’t much else to do. cameron was holding both arms back, using one large hand as a makeshift-cuff. “wish i had a camera . . . let you hear how fuckin’ ungrateful you sound.” because yeah, most girls would kill to be in this position: pressed against a chilly locker with their flowery top bunched at the waist, polka-dot skirt hiked and few-of-a-kind undershorts torn through. “no more runnin’. jus’ let’me fuck you open- c’mon . . . trus’me.”
and if you weren’t so absolutely smitten by cameron cade . . . you would’ve stopped this right here. he was going against about five of your ‘non-negotiable’ boundaries during sexy-time. “you trust me, righ’?” with that free hand of his, he snakes around your waist and clamps his palm over your shivering abdomen, that dangling jewellery marking your brown skin. “i’ll make us feel good- i promise.”
“i promise,” he whispers against your neck, “i’ve got’chu.” and kisses and nibbles and licks. “know you’wanna make this dick nut- “ cameron dropped your hands and swooped around, collecting one soft boob. he squeezed and tweaked at your nipple, slowly wiggling his hefty hips, digging that huge cock a little further. there was a hole to be pierced and molded; to the shape of him. “no more cryin’ . . . le’me do ‘t all, yeaah . . .”
your face, all flush and livid pallor, blazed . . . glittery lips drawn back from your teeth in a mini pout . . . is enough to make the cannon explode. cameron bends in, hot breath fanning over your parted lips, “i’m gon’a nut insid’a you, ‘kay?” more of a declaration than a warning. a sure-thing. almost guaranteed. nothing would stop him from cumming in your tummy, not even you.
he’s in. “ooooh . . .” all the way. “shit.” you’re shuddering wrackingly, legs feeling rubbery and unreliable. “. . . doesn’t that feel soooo much better?” cameron pecks the salty patches of your cheek. “say it- tell me ‘t’s my dick makin’ this sloppy pussy feel good . . .” cameron pleads through aggressive munches.
after so long, yeah, it had been him. finally. your college-self wouldn’t believe this to be true. the boy you had a gigantic crush on throughout your child, pre-teen, and teen years? wanting to make you feel good? you? the girl cameron cade pinched and tripped and plucked and shoved and teased and mocked . . . currently being forced to take the entirety of his curvy cock.
thwack thwack thwack! seemingly, all those years of unnecessary mistreatment has . . . gone out the window. faded out into nothing. to darkness with each thwack thwack thwack. how could you still be upset when this was the outcome? frankly, you’d experience it all over again if it meant having cameron cade’s dick so far up your pussy — it was a miracle to be so incredibly lengthy and girthy and know just how to use it . . . shining pearls of wetness bubble over his happy trail and pubes.
shlap shlap shlap! “you-you’re being . . . so . . . rough!” huffing, puffing. and cameron doesn’t take that as a cry to stop. he doesn’t even ease up. again, your arm swings back to try and stop his mean ramming, but he just forces you away — changing his mind, cameron clutched a hand around your bicep, which made fucking you that much smoother.
“nuh-uh. stay here,” he chokes out, “you got it. you got it. you got it.” cameron’s voice significantly pitches and he’s so into it that he doesn’t even realize that you’re squirming . . . yet splashing and dribbling juices over your pretty, velvety ballet flats.
with the other hand, he lets go of your wobbly hip and grips the front of your neck, snatching you into his torso— “ahhn-gh~!” —so beefy. and so insanely sweaty.
plapplapplap! plap . . . plap . . . plap . . . cameron’s slowing down just so he could pant mumble in your ear, rude and annoyingly, “anyone fuckin’ this at home? hmm? who better? me or him? say th’ truth” he’s such a boy. you swallow thickly despite having an awfully dry throat, voice all raspy and strained for the very obvious reason: “nno,” you hiccuped.
cameron hums and leans his head in. like he didn’t hear you the first time. “no h-him.” and cameron feels butterflies. for a reason he can’t yet pinpoint. with a sly smile, “yea’?” well . . . this just got far more intimate. you’re nodding against him, cunt leaking a bunch more — even with sluggish, mindful plunges, he was still so deep. so so deep. sooooo deep. he didn’t have to try. he just was. that. big. and fat. for no reason at all. small amounts of slippery arousal that oozed from his tip painted your cervix.
“mggh~!” and his pace has quickened. the cannon could practically taste his oncoming load. cameron drawls, “ohhhh fucccccck,” listening to the way your gooey pussy peels away from his soaked thighs; a slich slich slich! clicky noise as he sinks back into your ribbed, silken walls. his eyes snap shut and both of his hot hands grab onto your shoulders.
with unbelievable power, cameron is banging you backbackback onto his cock. “fnh-hnnnh! cam- fucc-ah!!” and he continues to grunt out curses, knees starting to buckle. the way your pussy slurps him in, ass clapping at his pelvis, you’re short-circuiting: tearing and drooling and squirting a-fucking-gain. he keeps at it; taking you upupup to that orgasm cliff and harshly bringing you back down.
“‘m bouta busss~” cameron chortles, tugging and slamming you back and forth, just jackhammering without a single care in the world. filthy words leave his mouth, ones he could never imagine saying to you if he weren't so gone and not so damn pussy whipped. “mmm-righ’there. uurrgh!” his chest’s ballooning and you could feel how fast his heart’s beating from his palms, how careless he’s becoming from his strenuous efforts.
tongue lolled out like some stupid doll, you don’t think you’ve ever been fucked like this before. ever. and after this evening, would you ever get this back? this dick? probably not. a new bar’s been impossibly set. cameron’s ruined everything for the next man —
GASP. there’s an explosion: “hnnht!” and another sticky spurt: “hnht!” and another splash: “fuck!” syrupy ribbons of sweltry white seed trickles from your walls. to cameron, it feels like the winds been knocked right outta him. and you . . . you are suffocating. roasting from the inside out. he keeps his arms around you, worried he may collapse.
adonis is going to kill you. cameron first.
𓈒 ˙ ꪆৎ hello. it is currently 4:40am edt (the birds are chirping) and this took approximately 2days. i have genuinely been busy with my summer career class, job, & trying to make time for personal relationships. i do get creative writing ideas often, but i’ve been lacking the brain power to push forward. i have NAAWT dropped from the ‘tyriq withers’ wagon. i’m still at the party literally. + wondering what else i could share with this univerrssseeee!!!!!
the shit i’m seeing on twitter about this gc business/baenation i hope yall are proud af! because now jaafar ain’t gon give yall the light of day like you harassed his wife and didn’t think we would call the cops and block yall? stay in a fans place if yall intl focused on the issue at hand with her this wouldn’t be happening like clockwork yall do this bull in every male actors fanbase and wonder why they start pulling beyoncé’s and don’t wanna interact with yall and be private
addition: this also shows that yall didn’t give a fck about no zionism or palestine as a whole only used that as a cover for your jealousy and parasocialism because instead of harassing her and constantly speaking on her like some kind of fan you could’ve been sending this girl sources on how to raise awareness to gaza and even films to watch to show how serious this genocide is but no oh no yall just wanted to be performative to your own benefit and now look and i bet he finna tell jermajesty along with the family so kiss yall lil fantasies goodbye
through every era, him. 18+ (cassie as singer claim)
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Addicted.
That was the only word to describe the way Michael felt about you.
Like a junkie hooked on white powder or burning liquor — he craved you like a man dying of thirst in the desert.
He was spellbound.
He knew it was heavily frowned upon, to be completely and utterly infatuated with you, due to his martial loyalty to another woman — but there was something so tempting and dangerously fascinating about you that he couldn’t deny. A feeling that lingered deep in his soul from the moment he heard your gracious voice, let alone your face.
The crazed obsession started on a bleak, icy morning in November of ‘95, the air had grown colder with each passing day in the winter month, forcing Michael to wrap up in a thick coat as he slipped into the back of Bill Bray’s car. Although Bill, his life-long Head of Security and the embodiment of a father figure, had reduced his day-to-day personal contributions to Michael’s bustling life — he was always there to provide Michael a lift like the good old days.
“Hey, son.” Bill spoke first, turning to face the now older man he had helped raise, a calming smile spread across his face, “Lisa’s?”
“Yes, please, Bill.” Michael replied, his voice soft and gentle even in his adulthood.
Bill started the car, the engine rumbling to life as he slotted it into gear and rolled slowly forwards. Silence consumed the car as the radio played familiar, popular songs of the mid-90’s in the background, Michael eyes transfixed on the blurs of the streets as they sped by.
“How are things with you two?” Bill qiestion, his voice tentative as he raised the obvious question on everyone’s lips.
Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of the famous Elvis Presley and now wife to Michael Jackson himself, hadn’t made their marriage easy. Vacations with ex-lovers, fighting at award ceremonies, silent treatment games back and forth — it was becoming a toxic relationship, something Michael wanted no part in. Everyone in Hollywood, and across the globe for that matter, was relentlessly hounding the pair with questions regarding the state of their marriage — and the answer was simple.
Destroyed.
Michael sighed, “I don’t know,” He started, voice quieter, a tone of sadness evident, “Not good, I think.”
Bill laughed despite the sensitive topic, “You think? Son, that definitely can’t be good.”
“Yeah.” Michael breathed a reciprocal laugh, “It’s not.”
Silence consumed the car once more as Michael’s brain flooded with thoughts of his wife. If you’d even class as her one, as she hadn’t been acting as such. Fights, brutal screaming matches, happening every day — like clock work. Whether it was over the phone, in person or even through their own personal management — there were arguments. Ones that grew so volatile that it had Michael shaking in anger. He didn’t want to grow to hate her, to resent his own wife, but his heart was sure going that way. He was getting older, and ready to settle down, not spend his days in a whirlwind of cuss words and shouting.
It was only the sweet voice of a blissful symphony that dragged Michael out of his depressive trance.
The beat was slow and fluid — the type you’d involuntarily sway your hips to. The backtracking beat was low, something you could easily groove to, paired with a high-pitched, yet not unpleasant, ding! that flowed beautifully with the music.
And then your voice sounded out — and Michael’s heart stopped.
You sounded angelic, like the gates of heaven had opened and dropped you straight into a recording studio, opening your pretty lips and blowing everyone away with your utterance. You sang with such incredible delivery and talent that Michael’s breath hitched in his throat as he listened intently to each words that came through the radio.
‘One touch can bring us closer,
Don’t want this to be over,
You know that you complete me,
Your love is what I need,
Don’t rush to say you’re leaving,
Stay with me while I’m sleeping,
‘Cause you know what you do to me,
I’m weak and you know my heart is beating,’
Michael hummed — hands tapping against his clothed thighs as the fluidity of the beat took control of his body, leg bouncing and head nodding in time.
“Want me to turn it up, Mike?” Bill spoke as the music flowed quietly into the car.
“Please do.”
Once the dial of volume control was turned to the right, your voice now a perfect decibel to hit his delighted ears as you reached the chorus — Michael was a goner.
‘One, two, three, kiss, that’s when I know that we,
Four, five, six, kiss, have the right chemistry,
You don’t have to hold back or be shy,
I can tell you want me in your eyes,’
You repeated the catchy chorus once more, unaware to how besotted Michael was becoming with the sound of your voice and your musical talent — now complete submerged in the effortlessness of your sound.
‘Feels so good ‘cause I know that you’re mine,
Boy I got my eyes closed ‘cause you know that I,
Love it when you kiss me,
Love it when our lips meet,
You intoxicate me,
I barely can breathe,
I love when you kiss me.’
Now, he was hooked.
Mumbling a silent curse of blissful disbelief under his breath, a wild smile splayed across his face, lip coming between his teeth as he attempted to suppress the grin — but failed to prevail, teeth shining in the morning light as your beautiful vocals continued to bless his ears.
“Bill,” Michael sounded out as the song finished, only allowing silence for when you were singing, “Find out who that girl is.”
And that he did — Michael was informed you were an up-and-coming, young singer from LA, born and raised. At first, he was let down, assuming you were going to portray yourself like every other Californian singer — but alas, not. He watched every interview and concert you provided to his willing eyes — you were a sweetheart, always appreciative of your parents for bringing you into this world to provide music, and for selflessly paying for your singing lessons and vocal coaches. He was similarly enamoured by the way you would thank God for helping guide you through the hard, starting years where your career didn’t take off, stating his patience and commitment to your success was forever indebted to them. His heart would flutter, like a small boy with a crush, each time your delicate, gentle voice would hit his ears with a girly giggle.
But, it wasn’t just your lovely, down-to-earth nature or perfect voice that really got him good — it was that face. And by God, that body.
He hated himself for being such a lewd man — but whenever your gorgeous complexion would cloud his vision, he’d physically feel his heart rhythmically fall into tachycardia in his chest. In mind, body and soul, as well as voice and face, you were truly an angel — a truly heavenly being that had swept him off his feet from the moment he fell deep into your orbit. He had grown to love every part of you — the way you talked with such delicacy, the nude lipgloss adorning your plump lips glistening in the bright light of the interview recording he’d been watching, or the way your skin glistened like a glazed baked good begging to be devoured, or the way your slender fingers adorning a fresh manicure moved as you talked, or how your hips moved with experienced precision when you danced to the beat of one of your beautiful songs, hair flailing behind you as you grooved — every part of you had him transfixed, willing to be at your mercy if you so needed him to.
He spent the next few months, his affection for you bleeding into December, completely in love. With his wife, barely. No, he was dangerously in love with you. Something he deep down hated himself for — a thought he’d push to the back of his mind, hiding his guilt behind his fleeting, boyish crush.
He attended a routine interview, one he was bored of the second he arrived, growing increasingly more fatigued as he was grilled about impersonal and inappropriate questions — not once attempting to ask him about his musical career or inspirations, just about his private sexual life and his failing marriage.
It was only when your song, the one he had fallen deeply head-over-heels for, began playing softly in the background of the interview did he perk up — the radio softly crackling as your angelic symphony filled his ears. He hummed, an undeniably wide smile spreading across his face at the sound of your vocal heaven, hand tapping in time along the arm of the chair he was say comfortably in.
The reporter picked up on it — “Do you like this song, Michael?”
Michael really couldn’t hide his grin now, “Hm? Oh, yeah,” He breathed, the mere thought of you in his dazed brain flushing his cheeks burgundy, “I really do love it, yeah. She’s so talented. Truly an amazing, notable artist of this generation.”
“And beautiful too, right?”
Michael knew what the pressing interviewer before him was trying to do — attempting to force him to make a mess of himself on camera after making subtle hints to the decline of marriage, and then admitting he found another woman attractive.
Michael laughed, the answer ‘Oh God, yes’ hitting the forefront of his brain, as he just nodded in agreement, requesting the next question, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, cheeks now scorching hot.
You had heard the interview yourself — wanting nothing more than to watch it over and over again a thousand times as Michael’s words hit your ears. You had squealed so loudly your throat burned — cheeks flushing in admiration at the King of Pop complimenting you wholeheartedly and alluding to your beauty. You were, unbeknownst to Michael, in a similar state of infatuation with the said man — your heart hammering in your chest every time he would appear on your television, or play through the radio, his own beautiful, unlike-no-other voice hitting your ears having a familiar affect on you like you did to him. You had admired him for years — him being one of the main inspirations for starting your music career due to his passion and strong leadership in the artistry — that and he was gorgeous, truly a godly statement of handsome in the industry.
You had responded swiftly at an award ceremony, one that he regretted instantly not attending — talking jovially with a reporter when they asked you about him.
“Oh, yes, I saw that.” You giggled, suddenly shy at the reminder, “He’s so lovely, I’m truly thankful for his kind words. He’s been an idol of mine for many years.” You paused, winking as you spoke your next words, “And I think he’s pretty beautiful too.”
Michael had to practice his breathing after he watched what you said — his heart hammering violently in his chest as you spoke flirtatiously with ease. You had noticed him — yes, he was Michael Jackson, arguably one of the most famous men in the world, but you had acknowledged him, and he was spiralling, unable to wipe the smirk off his face for a good two days afterwards.
But, that smile was soon wiped clean off his face as the latest hot gossip that was revealed to the media.
You had got yourself a boyfriend.
One Michael decided he absolutely despised without even meeting him, let alone even meeting you — he knew he had intense, undeniable feelings for you, growing more so as his marriage declined further, and this idiotic, teenager-looking loser wasn’t about to take you away from. Not that he even had you — you had acknowledged him a few weeks ago, and to him that meant everything, his heart only swelling further, practically begging for you. But, he wanted you, badly — so badly that every chance he got to talk about you, or listen to your new single’s or even the incredible album you released, he did, your name on his lips constantly.
Lisa noticed this — questioning him constantly about your affiliation. He’d reassure her, despite the ache in chest, that he hadn’t even met you in person before — that you were just two artists in the same musical category and had acknowledged one another’s talent. Nothing more, nothing less. Technically, to his dismay, it wasn’t a lie — but, he knew, a thought that constantly plagued his mind, that the way he felt about you wasn’t professional, it was full-blown infatuation.
In January 1996, Lisa-Marie filed for divorce — a bold move that Michael could sense was coming. At first, he was shocked and upset — the end of his first marriage suddenly flooding nostalgia and grief into his heart. But, as a smitten man does, he soon let his soul consume itself with relief — relief that he was finally free of what was holding him back from getting to you, and having you to himself.
Sure, he hadn’t finalised it yet — but when did that ever stop an emotionally detached man from loving another woman who wasn’t his wife?
And it wasn’t until he finally met you did his heart truly skip a real beat.
It was Elizabeth Taylor’s 64th birthday — now February 1996, and a party was now bustling at her large, elegant home. And Michael was antsy at the prospect that you were attending. He had wiped his sweat-stricken hands on his slacks around eighty times before Elizabeth picked up on his unusual behaviour.
“Honey, what is up with you?” She questioned with a giggle, pulling him to the side of the loud room, filled with music, chatted and laughter, “Everything okay? Did something happen with you-know-who?”
Elizabeth, one of Michael’s life-long friends and idols, always respected his sensitivity to certain things — especially now so he was going through a very public divorce, whilst also worried his shy self was overstimulated in the frenzied room.
“No, no,” He reassured, “That’s still being finalised. I’m just..” He paused, “I’m just nervous.”
Something he’d only ever reveal to the older lady stood before him as he swallowed thickly, eyes falling to his shoe as he mindlessly scuffed the floor.
Elizabeth smiled at his timidity, “Nervous about what, sweetie?”
Michael, now forming an obvious blush on his face, attempting miserably to suppress the bashful smile that crept into his face, turning his expression away from her to hide it.
“Is this about a lady? Oh, please, tell me it is! Is she here? Do I know her?” Elizabeth rambled, eyes flashing hopefully as she grabbed a hold of his arm, practically shaking the answer out of him.
“Yes, yes, it is, but please don’t tell anyone.” He whispered, his eyes finally meeting her own, “She’s supposed to be here, but I can’t see her anywhere. ‘S makin’ me nervous thinkin’ about when she’s gonna arrive.”
Elizabeth giggled excitedly beside him as Michael shot her a playful roll of his eyes, he knew she’d always disliked Lisa, so any new romantic interest of his, she already liked.
“Look, honey, I’m sure it’ll be fine and she’ll be here soon.” She reassured, sending him a warm smile, “You’ll have to introduce me when you talk to her, okay? I don’t even know half of these people and it’s my own party.”
Michael chuckled, “Bold of you to assume I’m gonna talk to her. I’m sweatin’ all over, probably make a fool of myself.”
“You will talk to her. It’s my birthday, you have to.”
“That’s an awful excuse, ‘Liz.”
“Hey! Don’t say tha—Oh, sweetie! Hey, come here!” Elizabeth’s excitable voice cut herself off, her eyes lighting up as they met the gaze of another guest who had just entered, her hands beckoning the mysterious person over.
Michael followed Elizabeth’s eyeline — and his eyes shot open.
There you were.
In all your enchanting glory, a beautiful smile spread across your face as you strode towards the older woman — wrapping her in a hug as she welcomed you to the party. You looked absolutely breath-taking, your outfit physically giving Michael a violent, visceral reaction as his jaw fell slack at the sight of you. Your dress was an eye-catching display of the finest jewels only a dedicated miner could obtain, shining diamonds glistening in the light, adorned with white, delicate feathers rimming the bottom hem of the dress — while also dangerously low-cut, the swell of your breasts visible to pretty much every one that was now staring at you as you walked further into the room.
If Michael thought he was sweating before — he was mistaken. The second his glinting eyes landed on your gorgeous frame, his body shuddered, a cold bead of sweat trickling down his temple, one he wiped swiftly with the back of his hand to save himself some dignity, as he let out a shaken breath he didn’t know he was holding. You were a thousand times more beautiful in person — your face dolled up to a T, hair cascading elegantly down your back, nails manicured white to match your captivating outfit as well as your stilettos that clicked against the marble flooring, and the dangerous dress hugging your curves in every way a man could dream of.
“You must meet Michael. He’s just over here.”
Elizabeth’s words hit his ears before he could even compose himself — eyes widening even further as anxiety flooded his system at the idea that he was about to finally meet you in person.
They both approached him, giggling at one another’s jokes, attention on themselves — unaware of the nervousness that consumed his whole body as you grew closer.
“Michael, this is one of the loveliest ladies I’ve ever met.” Elizabeth stated, telling him your name before continuing, “Her Mother and I were good friends back in the day. And, lovely lady, this is Michael.”
When you met his eyes, Michael swore he died and went to heaven — you locked gazes with a genuine smile tugging at your lips that his breath hitching in his throat as you extended your hand.
“Hi, Michael.” You started, in-person voice just as sweet as it had been through the television, “Finally, huh?”
“Y-Yeah,” Michael finally breathed, cursing himself as he stumbled over his words, voice cracking as he attached your hands, a jolt of unmissable electricity igniting through his body at the contact, “Been wanting to meet you for a while.”
“Likewise,” Your voice was as smooth as silk as you shook his head gently, eyes never leaving his own, your fiercely intense gaze sending exhilaration coursing through his veins, “I’m sorry to hear about you and Lisa-Marie.”
Michael smiled appreciatively as your hands dropped, the loss of connection finally allowing his heart rate to decrease slightly, “Thank you, I appreciate that. It’s been hard, but it was expected.”
“I bet you understand that a little bit, huh, honey? You and what’s-his-name just broke up, didn’t you?” Elizabeth questioned, facing you with a pointed finger as she revealed the words that sent Michael ablaze.
Fireworks of delight exploded in Michael’s chest at Elizabeth’s admission — you and that idiotic boyfriend were done. His mind instantly ran away with itself — you were both, on a technicality, single, finally free of your dead-weight partners.
“Yeah, we did.” You smiled despite your saddened news, “Much needed, though, he was a real sleaze-bag. Total bum. Literally jumped for joy the day we split up.”
“Sounds like Michael over here.” Elizabeth laughed, “I was so happy when they filed, god, she is a vulture that woman.”
“Is that so?” The way you smirked, contrasting your angelic persona with a devilish tug of your lips, looking happy that he disliked his ex-wife, had Michael flushing in heat once more — the way you were looking at him, like you were planning something evil and calculated, like a predator who just stumbled across its prey.
Michael was certain his cock had never been harder.
“Wasn’t the greatest marriage.” Michael admitted, voice soft and low, to avoid prying ears, “‘S over now.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He wasn’t sure whether you meant for his benefit or yours, but, he didn’t care — shooting you a sly smile as his wondering eyes raked over your frame.
“I’ll leave you to get acquainted. Thanks for coming, sweetie.” Elizabeth spoke pleasantly, squeezing your shoulder before turning on her heel and busying herself in the growing crowd beside you.
“So,” You started, a smile that could kill still plastered on your face as you peered up at him, “Am I as beautiful in person?”
Michael, almost choking on his own spit at your boldness, let his mouth fall open ever so slightly — you were so sweet and delicate for professional interviews and in front of your fans, but right now? A formidable flirt — teasing him with every word.
“Yes.” Michael spoke, all too quickly for a man trying to hide his intentions, “Really beautiful.”
You hummed, satisfied with his response, “I’m going out for a cigarette, care to join me?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t keep me company, Mr Jackson.”
The way his name fell from your lips, in a sultry, provocative tone that he didn’t miss, had him swallowing slowly, nodding, watching as your smile deepened. You took his hand in your own and turned on your heel, leading him through the crowd, not a care in the world for who staring at the pair of you — the King of Pop with America’s new popstar-sweetheart.
You lead him through the backyard, walking straight past the odd small group of people he didn’t recognise nearer to the patio doors, and towards the end of the long garden. The cold air of February whipped around you, engulfing your half-naked frame, hair swaying softly in the wind, as your hand remained a warm testament in his own — guiding him into the dark of night.
You finally stopped, reaching a large, oak bench decorating the farthest end of the backyard, near the edge of a cliff — staring out onto the gorgeous view that adorned the back of Elizabeth’s grand home. You took a seat, letting go of his trembling hand, and got comfortable. Michael, awkward as always, stood by the arm of the bench, awaiting your next move as you rustled into your purse, digging out a pack of Molboro Red’s and a baby-pink lighter. You slid one out of the packet, placing it neatly next to you, before slipping it between the plump of your lips — your lipgloss staining the white paper.
You turned your head to look at his bashful stance, eyeing him up and down as he stood oddly, looking like a kicked puppy, “Are you gonna sit?”
He obeyed as you flicked the lighter, the fluorescent burn of the orange flame lighting your face in a dim glow as you singed the end of the cigarette. Soon smoke flooded his nostrils as you took a deep inhale, holding the cigarette between your two fingers, your elbow resting on your bare thigh as you exhaled with a sigh, eyes fixated on the captivating view in front of you.
“You know smoking is really bad for the vocal cords.” Michael spoke quietly, watching as your face tugged up into a smile.
“Don’t want me to ruin my pretty voice, do’ya?”
Michael blushed for the millionth time that night — turning his face the other way as he grinned, words failing him as he hid from you.
“It’s a bad habit I haven’t been able to kick for a long time.” You admitted, “But, what celebrity doesn’t smoke these days?”
“Me.” He replied, sheepishly, smile deepening as you laughed loudly.
“Well, you are one of a kind,” You revealed, eyes finally meeting his own as you took another drag, letting silence fill the gap in the air before you questioned him, “What does Michael Jackson like to do when he’s not being the King of Pop?”
The question hit him full force — a sensation filling his body that he wasn’t sure of. He didn’t think anyone had ever asked him a question so personal, in the sincerest way, before. And not the improper, raunchy personal like the reporters did — the kind of personal where it seemed like you actually cared.
“I don’t know,” Michael breathed, his breath shaking as he exhaled, eyes fixated on the way you took a particularly long drag, and let the smoke trickle from your mouth like water as it uplifted into the dark sky, “I’m not really sure what I like these days.” He admitted wholeheartedly, the question stumping him, “Ever since me and Lisa.” He paused again, “I feel like I’ve lost myself a little bit.”
You hummed, listening intently as silence consumed you once more, as eyes flickered towards the skyline in front of you both, the bustling high-way and skyscrapers glistening brightly, a sight so beautiful it had have stunned the average person — but Michael couldn’t care less for it, his vision still full of your gorgeous frame, slightly hunched over as you smoked, making the toxic habit look gracious as the end of the cigarette ignited in glinting red and orange colours each time you took a drag.
“I get that,” You finally spoke, leaning back to meet his gaze, “That’s why I plan on not gettin’ married.”
Michael laughed, “Ever?”
“Well,” You breathed with a chuckle, “If I meet the man of my dreams, then maybe I’ll consider it.”
Michael watched you deeply — locked on the way you would smile as you talked, clearly amused by your own words.
“I’m sure that won’t be hard for you.”
You giggled, “Oh, now that was smooth. Whoever said you were shy was lyin’.”
“I am shy.” He protested, failing to his conflicting smile miserably.
“Sure, honey, the second you aired that you thought I was beautiful on live television while being married, I knew you were a smooth-talking flirt underneath.” You teased, sending him a wink.
“Oh, God, that looked real bad, didn’t it?”
“If it wasn’t me you were talkin’ about, I’d say yes. But, since the Michael Jackson thinks I’m hot shit, I’d say it was the best day of my life.”
Your unison laughter filled the space between you, shaking torsos and flashy smiles co-ordinating between you as you shared a humorous moment.
“You’re real interesting, y’know?” Michael’s voice dropped a decibel, suddenly feeling high on adrenaline at your continuing interaction, “I really didn’t expect you to be like this.”
“Good or bad?” You pressed, wetting your plump lips as you slot your long, bare leg other the other.
“Good. Definitely good,” Michael replied, “You intrigue me.”
You smile deeper, titling your head to study him — eyes dancing over the way he sat, comfortable yet awkward at the same time, like he was trying to convince you he was confident, even as his hands rested shyly on his legs, rubbing the material of his black slacks. His hair looked gorgeous as you studied him, not like his usual curls, now sleek, long black locks that rest upon his shoulders — suiting him well.
“How so?” You pressed, bringing the torched stick between your lips once more.
Michael sighed, eyes flickering away from you nervously as he searched for the words, “I don’t know, ever since I heard you singing, something just clicked inside me, I guess,” He started, “You truly have the voice of an angel, which is why I think you should put that thing out.” You laughed loudly, ignoring his request as you exhaled the smoke, “Your voice just—I don’t know, it takes a hold over me. In the strongest grasp I’ve ever felt, like you’re literally there in front of me and squeezing me like a python around its prey.” He carried on, “And now meeting you, you’ve got this intense aura around you like a divine being. You’re so carefree and confident, like this lifestyle is a walk in the park for you. I find it refreshing and therefore intriguing.” He paused before speaking his next words, “That and your beauty is other-worldly. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with such natural femininity before. And it makes me want to figure everything out about you in one fell swoop.”
Michael, transfixed on the sight before him, distracting him from the love-sickness of his words, missed the way you stared at him in shock — mouth agape as the cigarette sizzled shorter in your hand, utterly gobsmacked at his admission of his infatuation.
He soon picked up on your silence — turning his head innocently to meet your eyes, that twinkled with desire and longing, smiling softly.
“Michael.” You breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh. I’m sorry, that sounded weird, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way, I just—“ “Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me, please.”
Your words took a few seconds to register in his mind, before any sense of screaming doubt in his mind was quickly evacuated as he rushed to you as you flicked the cigarette to the floor, your hands cupping one another’s face as your lips met.
Michael felt exactly like the song you had sung, the one that sent him into a besotted frenzy, as you kissed. Your lips locking in a frantic, panting connection that had you both heaving and humming into one another’s open mouths as he worked against your rosebuds.
You wasted no time — the kiss deepening as you climbed upon his lap, legs tightening around the thickness of his clothed thigh, a low groan leaving his mouth into your own at the sudden connection. His lips parted from your own frantically, his hand cupping one side of your jaw as his mouth peppered kisses sloppily against the other — hips twitching at the sound of your mewls.
“Michael, please.”
Your plea had him groaning louder than before into your skin, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sound of your quiet begging — your head thrown back to allow him access, your back arching into his touch as his free hand slipped down to cup your waist.
“Patience, baby,” He panted, “I’ve wanted to have you for so long — gonna take my sweet time with you.”
You whined — desperate for the pleasure you had been needing him from the moment you heard him nod in agreement at your beauty. Your own hips moved, beginning the hump the obvious bulge that protruded through his trousers, a lewd gasp leaving your spit covered lips as the head of his cock nudged against your clit. He moaned into the flesh of your neck as he sucked dark marks into it, hands now travelling down the small of your waist to cup your plump behind in his large palm — kneading the plushness of your ass, the feathers of your dress tickling the skin of his hand.
“Wanted you for so long too,” You suddenly admitted, panting, as his lips met the curve of your right breast, peering down at him latching onto your tits, “Loved you for too long—God, way too fucking long.”
Michael whined, a deep, guttural noise from deep within his chest at your words — an admission of your mutual yearning, his hips bucking up languidly to meet every roll of your own, drinking up every erotic noise that fell past your lips, any sense of patience now far gone.
“Take me out.” He ordered, unable to hold back anymore after the words fell from your whimpering mouth, as he pushed your dress up your body, now bunched around your waist.
Your hands moved quicker than your mind could process — fumbling with the buckle of his trousers, fingers trembling as you finally managed to get it open, lip tucked between your teeth as you shoved the tight item of clothing, along with his boxers, down his legs.
Michael huffed as his cock sprang free, the cold February air enveloping around the warmth of his manhood — but soon sighing in relief, head falling back, as the small of your hand, slicked in spit, wrapped around him.
“God, baby, just like that.” He whined, eyes squeezed shut as you pumped him fluidly, tightening each time you would enclose around the tip, his pre-cum drooling over your digits.
He was big — bigger than you had ever had, large in both length and girth, a fact that had you writhing on top of him, anticipation of the fullness he would bring to you sending shivers down your spine.
Michael, regaining some composure, lifted his head, still groaning lowly at the feeling of your tight fist around him, and pulled your panties to the side — eyebrows knitting into his forehead at the sight of your lacy G-string moulding into the shape of your drooling pussy lips.
“Fuck, you been this wet the whole time, baby?”
“Since the moment I laid eyes on you, Michael.”
Michael moaned, your hand never letting up as you jerked him, at the sound of your admission — swallowing thickly. Your hands moved with calculated precision — guiding him between your legs where you needed him most, gasping loudly at his cockend nudged against your clit.
“Tell me how badly you’ve wanted it.” You breathed, teasing him, and yourself for that matter, as you coated him with your seeping arousal, sliding him between your folds.
“God, baby—fuck, needed you since the very first time I heard your beautiful voice,” He panted, chest rising and falling quickly as his eyes locked on his dick slipping between your glistening pussy lips, “Thought about you everyday, fuck, even with her,” He couldn’t even say his ex-wife’s name as you rocked him over your throbbing clit, “You were the only woman I wanted.”
You moaned loudly at his words, his eyes a needy form of begging as they met your own — finally deciding to put an end to his pained misery, edging him towards your clenching entrance, and sinking down. Cries of relieving pleasure left both of your mouths, filling the air around you as Michael bottomed out instantly — tip kissing the sweet spot inside you from the get go, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around him.
Michael, not wanting to let any more time spent without being inside you slip away, took a firm hold on your hips and slammed up inside you with one brutal thrust. You whimpered and writhed into his touch as the position, allowing him to claim you as deep as possible, forced his cock to kiss your cervix — leaving your back arched and lips agape as he resumed his nibbles against your neck, hips now bucking up into you at a swift pace.
The noises that left your lips were arguably more melodically breath-taking than any song you’d ever sang — his name falling from your mouth like a prayer, eyes rolled to the back of your head and clinging to his shoulders was truly a sight to see, forcing his cock to twitch violently inside you.
“Oh, fuck, Michael.” You whined, nails digging into the skin of his back, as a harsh thrust had you seeing stars, “God, you feel so good—so big.”
Michael’s ego inflated at your whimpered admission, huffing out a large breath as he continued his brutal assault on your pussy, revelling in the way your cunt, now forming a milky-white, frothy ring around his base, spasmed aggressively around him — low groans of his own muffled against your skin.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, baby,” Michael revealed, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his grip on your hips tightening as his pace never faltered, “I’m so in love with you.”
Some may say it was love-bombing and wrong the way he confessed his love to you after only meeting you in person a mere few hours ago — but the way you tightened around him and cried out so loudly that Michael had to muffled your screams with his mouth, the enticing taste of cigarette’s still on your tongue, put any of those thoughts to shame.
It was exhilarating.
Knowing the feelings that were nestled deep inside your body for so long, your ferocious, undeniable love for him, were reciprocated was enough to have you on the brink of orgasming from just his words.
“Deeper—oh, fuck, baby, I love you too—need y’deeper, please!” You cried, mumbling against his lips, drowning in the noises he fed you.
You gasped as he stood abruptly, holding you tightly underneath the plush of your ass, and placing you swiftly, albeit gently, atop of the bench — the cold of the wood in the winter’s air pressing flush against your bare back.
Michael, forcing your legs to your chest in a brutal mating press, slammed back into you with all the strength he had to give — cock now driving the deepest it had been all night as he draped your hovering legs over his shoulders. Your tits, now spilling from your dress, were latched into his mouth — tongue swirling around your erect nipple, as his free hand trailed between your body, toying with your swollen clit, eliciting the neediest, most eager whines from your mouth at the dual stimulation.
“Gonna cum, Mikey!”
Your high-pitched warning hit his ears as he groaned against your nipples, the vibration only furthering your overwhelming pleasure as your orgasm smacked into you — your back arched into a beautiful curve, Michael’s hand, mouth and cock never stopping their attack on your body, fucking you through your release as you squirmed beneath him. The blinding arousal that seeped through your body like blood pumping through your veins had you seeing stars — whining like a bitch in heat whilst your cunt clenched tightly around him.
“God, y’gonna make me cum so quick, baby.” Michael panted, his stuttering as he neared his own release.
Just as you came down from your high — Michael pulled out suddenly. Your eyebrows forced themselves into the crease of your forehead as you studied his actions as his hand wrapped around his length. He moved to straddle either side of your shoulders, cock now inches from your face as he jerked himself in front of your face, chest heaving.
“Open your mouth, pretty.” He ordered, lip coming between his teeth as he watched you loll your tongue out, awaiting his pleasured essence.
Michael leant down, slotting his cock into your mouth, whining as your pretty lips wrapped around his length, suckling the tip, hand moving to grip at the meat of his thighs.
Michael came, not with a groan, but with words that had your cunt, stricken with your post-orgasm slick, clenching around nothing,
“Yeah, ‘m gonna fill this angelic throat,” He started, panting as the first spurt of his seed landed on your eager tongue, “Want those pretty vocal chords coated with my cum so you can only sing so heavenly knowing I painted your beautiful voice box white. So you can bless the world with that voice knowing it belongs to me.”
You moaned loudly around him as he finally let out a delighted groan — head thrown back as his cum flooded the throat he had just claimed, the bittersweet taste of his arousal settling on your tastebuds as you lapped at the underside of his cock, tracing the vein that throbbed underneath, with your tongue.
Michael, crouched over you, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, while the other gripped the back of the bench so hard his knuckles had flushed white — finally let his hips stutter for the last time before slipping his softening cock from your mouth.
You sat up as he lurched back against the arm of the bench, panting heavily, attempting to catch his breath, his flaccid cock laying gently against his thigh. You too, heaved, eyes fixated on his furrowed eyebrows, completely transfixed on his post-orgasm beauty.
Michael, finally opening his eyes that were squeezed shut, met your intense gaze for that countless time that night — a dazed smile creeping up on his face to mirror your own before you spoke flirtatiously, just as you had the whole night,
“Want those pretty vocal chords coated with my cum so you can only sing so heavenly knowing I painted your beautiful voice box white. So you can bless the world with that voice knowing it belongs to me.” BITCH
through every era, him. 18+ (cassie as singer claim)
°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
Addicted.
That was the only word to describe the way Michael felt about you.
Like a junkie hooked on white powder or burning liquor — he craved you like a man dying of thirst in the desert.
He was spellbound.
He knew it was heavily frowned upon, to be completely and utterly infatuated with you, due to his martial loyalty to another woman — but there was something so tempting and dangerously fascinating about you that he couldn’t deny. A feeling that lingered deep in his soul from the moment he heard your gracious voice, let alone your face.
The crazed obsession started on a bleak, icy morning in November of ‘95, the air had grown colder with each passing day in the winter month, forcing Michael to wrap up in a thick coat as he slipped into the back of Bill Bray’s car. Although Bill, his life-long Head of Security and the embodiment of a father figure, had reduced his day-to-day personal contributions to Michael’s bustling life — he was always there to provide Michael a lift like the good old days.
“Hey, son.” Bill spoke first, turning to face the now older man he had helped raise, a calming smile spread across his face, “Lisa’s?”
“Yes, please, Bill.” Michael replied, his voice soft and gentle even in his adulthood.
Bill started the car, the engine rumbling to life as he slotted it into gear and rolled slowly forwards. Silence consumed the car as the radio played familiar, popular songs of the mid-90’s in the background, Michael eyes transfixed on the blurs of the streets as they sped by.
“How are things with you two?” Bill qiestion, his voice tentative as he raised the obvious question on everyone’s lips.
Lisa Marie Presley, daughter of the famous Elvis Presley and now wife to Michael Jackson himself, hadn’t made their marriage easy. Vacations with ex-lovers, fighting at award ceremonies, silent treatment games back and forth — it was becoming a toxic relationship, something Michael wanted no part in. Everyone in Hollywood, and across the globe for that matter, was relentlessly hounding the pair with questions regarding the state of their marriage — and the answer was simple.
Destroyed.
Michael sighed, “I don’t know,” He started, voice quieter, a tone of sadness evident, “Not good, I think.”
Bill laughed despite the sensitive topic, “You think? Son, that definitely can’t be good.”
“Yeah.” Michael breathed a reciprocal laugh, “It’s not.”
Silence consumed the car once more as Michael’s brain flooded with thoughts of his wife. If you’d even class as her one, as she hadn’t been acting as such. Fights, brutal screaming matches, happening every day — like clock work. Whether it was over the phone, in person or even through their own personal management — there were arguments. Ones that grew so volatile that it had Michael shaking in anger. He didn’t want to grow to hate her, to resent his own wife, but his heart was sure going that way. He was getting older, and ready to settle down, not spend his days in a whirlwind of cuss words and shouting.
It was only the sweet voice of a blissful symphony that dragged Michael out of his depressive trance.
The beat was slow and fluid — the type you’d involuntarily sway your hips to. The backtracking beat was low, something you could easily groove to, paired with a high-pitched, yet not unpleasant, ding! that flowed beautifully with the music.
And then your voice sounded out — and Michael’s heart stopped.
You sounded angelic, like the gates of heaven had opened and dropped you straight into a recording studio, opening your pretty lips and blowing everyone away with your utterance. You sang with such incredible delivery and talent that Michael’s breath hitched in his throat as he listened intently to each words that came through the radio.
‘One touch can bring us closer,
Don’t want this to be over,
You know that you complete me,
Your love is what I need,
Don’t rush to say you’re leaving,
Stay with me while I’m sleeping,
‘Cause you know what you do to me,
I’m weak and you know my heart is beating,’
Michael hummed — hands tapping against his clothed thighs as the fluidity of the beat took control of his body, leg bouncing and head nodding in time.
“Want me to turn it up, Mike?” Bill spoke as the music flowed quietly into the car.
“Please do.”
Once the dial of volume control was turned to the right, your voice now a perfect decibel to hit his delighted ears as you reached the chorus — Michael was a goner.
‘One, two, three, kiss, that’s when I know that we,
Four, five, six, kiss, have the right chemistry,
You don’t have to hold back or be shy,
I can tell you want me in your eyes,’
You repeated the catchy chorus once more, unaware to how besotted Michael was becoming with the sound of your voice and your musical talent — now complete submerged in the effortlessness of your sound.
‘Feels so good ‘cause I know that you’re mine,
Boy I got my eyes closed ‘cause you know that I,
Love it when you kiss me,
Love it when our lips meet,
You intoxicate me,
I barely can breathe,
I love when you kiss me.’
Now, he was hooked.
Mumbling a silent curse of blissful disbelief under his breath, a wild smile splayed across his face, lip coming between his teeth as he attempted to suppress the grin — but failed to prevail, teeth shining in the morning light as your beautiful vocals continued to bless his ears.
“Bill,” Michael sounded out as the song finished, only allowing silence for when you were singing, “Find out who that girl is.”
And that he did — Michael was informed you were an up-and-coming, young singer from LA, born and raised. At first, he was let down, assuming you were going to portray yourself like every other Californian singer — but alas, not. He watched every interview and concert you provided to his willing eyes — you were a sweetheart, always appreciative of your parents for bringing you into this world to provide music, and for selflessly paying for your singing lessons and vocal coaches. He was similarly enamoured by the way you would thank God for helping guide you through the hard, starting years where your career didn’t take off, stating his patience and commitment to your success was forever indebted to them. His heart would flutter, like a small boy with a crush, each time your delicate, gentle voice would hit his ears with a girly giggle.
But, it wasn’t just your lovely, down-to-earth nature or perfect voice that really got him good — it was that face. And by God, that body.
He hated himself for being such a lewd man — but whenever your gorgeous complexion would cloud his vision, he’d physically feel his heart rhythmically fall into tachycardia in his chest. In mind, body and soul, as well as voice and face, you were truly an angel — a truly heavenly being that had swept him off his feet from the moment he fell deep into your orbit. He had grown to love every part of you — the way you talked with such delicacy, the nude lipgloss adorning your plump lips glistening in the bright light of the interview recording he’d been watching, or the way your skin glistened like a glazed baked good begging to be devoured, or the way your slender fingers adorning a fresh manicure moved as you talked, or how your hips moved with experienced precision when you danced to the beat of one of your beautiful songs, hair flailing behind you as you grooved — every part of you had him transfixed, willing to be at your mercy if you so needed him to.
He spent the next few months, his affection for you bleeding into December, completely in love. With his wife, barely. No, he was dangerously in love with you. Something he deep down hated himself for — a thought he’d push to the back of his mind, hiding his guilt behind his fleeting, boyish crush.
He attended a routine interview, one he was bored of the second he arrived, growing increasingly more fatigued as he was grilled about impersonal and inappropriate questions — not once attempting to ask him about his musical career or inspirations, just about his private sexual life and his failing marriage.
It was only when your song, the one he had fallen deeply head-over-heels for, began playing softly in the background of the interview did he perk up — the radio softly crackling as your angelic symphony filled his ears. He hummed, an undeniably wide smile spreading across his face at the sound of your vocal heaven, hand tapping in time along the arm of the chair he was say comfortably in.
The reporter picked up on it — “Do you like this song, Michael?”
Michael really couldn’t hide his grin now, “Hm? Oh, yeah,” He breathed, the mere thought of you in his dazed brain flushing his cheeks burgundy, “I really do love it, yeah. She’s so talented. Truly an amazing, notable artist of this generation.”
“And beautiful too, right?”
Michael knew what the pressing interviewer before him was trying to do — attempting to force him to make a mess of himself on camera after making subtle hints to the decline of marriage, and then admitting he found another woman attractive.
Michael laughed, the answer ‘Oh God, yes’ hitting the forefront of his brain, as he just nodded in agreement, requesting the next question, pushing the thought to the back of his mind, cheeks now scorching hot.
You had heard the interview yourself — wanting nothing more than to watch it over and over again a thousand times as Michael’s words hit your ears. You had squealed so loudly your throat burned — cheeks flushing in admiration at the King of Pop complimenting you wholeheartedly and alluding to your beauty. You were, unbeknownst to Michael, in a similar state of infatuation with the said man — your heart hammering in your chest every time he would appear on your television, or play through the radio, his own beautiful, unlike-no-other voice hitting your ears having a familiar affect on you like you did to him. You had admired him for years — him being one of the main inspirations for starting your music career due to his passion and strong leadership in the artistry — that and he was gorgeous, truly a godly statement of handsome in the industry.
You had responded swiftly at an award ceremony, one that he regretted instantly not attending — talking jovially with a reporter when they asked you about him.
“Oh, yes, I saw that.” You giggled, suddenly shy at the reminder, “He’s so lovely, I’m truly thankful for his kind words. He’s been an idol of mine for many years.” You paused, winking as you spoke your next words, “And I think he’s pretty beautiful too.”
Michael had to practice his breathing after he watched what you said — his heart hammering violently in his chest as you spoke flirtatiously with ease. You had noticed him — yes, he was Michael Jackson, arguably one of the most famous men in the world, but you had acknowledged him, and he was spiralling, unable to wipe the smirk off his face for a good two days afterwards.
But, that smile was soon wiped clean off his face as the latest hot gossip that was revealed to the media.
You had got yourself a boyfriend.
One Michael decided he absolutely despised without even meeting him, let alone even meeting you — he knew he had intense, undeniable feelings for you, growing more so as his marriage declined further, and this idiotic, teenager-looking loser wasn’t about to take you away from. Not that he even had you — you had acknowledged him a few weeks ago, and to him that meant everything, his heart only swelling further, practically begging for you. But, he wanted you, badly — so badly that every chance he got to talk about you, or listen to your new single’s or even the incredible album you released, he did, your name on his lips constantly.
Lisa noticed this — questioning him constantly about your affiliation. He’d reassure her, despite the ache in chest, that he hadn’t even met you in person before — that you were just two artists in the same musical category and had acknowledged one another’s talent. Nothing more, nothing less. Technically, to his dismay, it wasn’t a lie — but, he knew, a thought that constantly plagued his mind, that the way he felt about you wasn’t professional, it was full-blown infatuation.
In January 1996, Lisa-Marie filed for divorce — a bold move that Michael could sense was coming. At first, he was shocked and upset — the end of his first marriage suddenly flooding nostalgia and grief into his heart. But, as a smitten man does, he soon let his soul consume itself with relief — relief that he was finally free of what was holding him back from getting to you, and having you to himself.
Sure, he hadn’t finalised it yet — but when did that ever stop an emotionally detached man from loving another woman who wasn’t his wife?
And it wasn’t until he finally met you did his heart truly skip a real beat.
It was Elizabeth Taylor’s 64th birthday — now February 1996, and a party was now bustling at her large, elegant home. And Michael was antsy at the prospect that you were attending. He had wiped his sweat-stricken hands on his slacks around eighty times before Elizabeth picked up on his unusual behaviour.
“Honey, what is up with you?” She questioned with a giggle, pulling him to the side of the loud room, filled with music, chatted and laughter, “Everything okay? Did something happen with you-know-who?”
Elizabeth, one of Michael’s life-long friends and idols, always respected his sensitivity to certain things — especially now so he was going through a very public divorce, whilst also worried his shy self was overstimulated in the frenzied room.
“No, no,” He reassured, “That’s still being finalised. I’m just..” He paused, “I’m just nervous.”
Something he’d only ever reveal to the older lady stood before him as he swallowed thickly, eyes falling to his shoe as he mindlessly scuffed the floor.
Elizabeth smiled at his timidity, “Nervous about what, sweetie?”
Michael, now forming an obvious blush on his face, attempting miserably to suppress the bashful smile that crept into his face, turning his expression away from her to hide it.
“Is this about a lady? Oh, please, tell me it is! Is she here? Do I know her?” Elizabeth rambled, eyes flashing hopefully as she grabbed a hold of his arm, practically shaking the answer out of him.
“Yes, yes, it is, but please don’t tell anyone.” He whispered, his eyes finally meeting her own, “She’s supposed to be here, but I can’t see her anywhere. ‘S makin’ me nervous thinkin’ about when she’s gonna arrive.”
Elizabeth giggled excitedly beside him as Michael shot her a playful roll of his eyes, he knew she’d always disliked Lisa, so any new romantic interest of his, she already liked.
“Look, honey, I’m sure it’ll be fine and she’ll be here soon.” She reassured, sending him a warm smile, “You’ll have to introduce me when you talk to her, okay? I don’t even know half of these people and it’s my own party.”
Michael chuckled, “Bold of you to assume I’m gonna talk to her. I’m sweatin’ all over, probably make a fool of myself.”
“You will talk to her. It’s my birthday, you have to.”
“That’s an awful excuse, ‘Liz.”
“Hey! Don’t say tha—Oh, sweetie! Hey, come here!” Elizabeth’s excitable voice cut herself off, her eyes lighting up as they met the gaze of another guest who had just entered, her hands beckoning the mysterious person over.
Michael followed Elizabeth’s eyeline — and his eyes shot open.
There you were.
In all your enchanting glory, a beautiful smile spread across your face as you strode towards the older woman — wrapping her in a hug as she welcomed you to the party. You looked absolutely breath-taking, your outfit physically giving Michael a violent, visceral reaction as his jaw fell slack at the sight of you. Your dress was an eye-catching display of the finest jewels only a dedicated miner could obtain, shining diamonds glistening in the light, adorned with white, delicate feathers rimming the bottom hem of the dress — while also dangerously low-cut, the swell of your breasts visible to pretty much every one that was now staring at you as you walked further into the room.
If Michael thought he was sweating before — he was mistaken. The second his glinting eyes landed on your gorgeous frame, his body shuddered, a cold bead of sweat trickling down his temple, one he wiped swiftly with the back of his hand to save himself some dignity, as he let out a shaken breath he didn’t know he was holding. You were a thousand times more beautiful in person — your face dolled up to a T, hair cascading elegantly down your back, nails manicured white to match your captivating outfit as well as your stilettos that clicked against the marble flooring, and the dangerous dress hugging your curves in every way a man could dream of.
“You must meet Michael. He’s just over here.”
Elizabeth’s words hit his ears before he could even compose himself — eyes widening even further as anxiety flooded his system at the idea that he was about to finally meet you in person.
They both approached him, giggling at one another’s jokes, attention on themselves — unaware of the nervousness that consumed his whole body as you grew closer.
“Michael, this is one of the loveliest ladies I’ve ever met.” Elizabeth stated, telling him your name before continuing, “Her Mother and I were good friends back in the day. And, lovely lady, this is Michael.”
When you met his eyes, Michael swore he died and went to heaven — you locked gazes with a genuine smile tugging at your lips that his breath hitching in his throat as you extended your hand.
“Hi, Michael.” You started, in-person voice just as sweet as it had been through the television, “Finally, huh?”
“Y-Yeah,” Michael finally breathed, cursing himself as he stumbled over his words, voice cracking as he attached your hands, a jolt of unmissable electricity igniting through his body at the contact, “Been wanting to meet you for a while.”
“Likewise,” Your voice was as smooth as silk as you shook his head gently, eyes never leaving his own, your fiercely intense gaze sending exhilaration coursing through his veins, “I’m sorry to hear about you and Lisa-Marie.”
Michael smiled appreciatively as your hands dropped, the loss of connection finally allowing his heart rate to decrease slightly, “Thank you, I appreciate that. It’s been hard, but it was expected.”
“I bet you understand that a little bit, huh, honey? You and what’s-his-name just broke up, didn’t you?” Elizabeth questioned, facing you with a pointed finger as she revealed the words that sent Michael ablaze.
Fireworks of delight exploded in Michael’s chest at Elizabeth’s admission — you and that idiotic boyfriend were done. His mind instantly ran away with itself — you were both, on a technicality, single, finally free of your dead-weight partners.
“Yeah, we did.” You smiled despite your saddened news, “Much needed, though, he was a real sleaze-bag. Total bum. Literally jumped for joy the day we split up.”
“Sounds like Michael over here.” Elizabeth laughed, “I was so happy when they filed, god, she is a vulture that woman.”
“Is that so?” The way you smirked, contrasting your angelic persona with a devilish tug of your lips, looking happy that he disliked his ex-wife, had Michael flushing in heat once more — the way you were looking at him, like you were planning something evil and calculated, like a predator who just stumbled across its prey.
Michael was certain his cock had never been harder.
“Wasn’t the greatest marriage.” Michael admitted, voice soft and low, to avoid prying ears, “‘S over now.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
He wasn’t sure whether you meant for his benefit or yours, but, he didn’t care — shooting you a sly smile as his wondering eyes raked over your frame.
“I’ll leave you to get acquainted. Thanks for coming, sweetie.” Elizabeth spoke pleasantly, squeezing your shoulder before turning on her heel and busying herself in the growing crowd beside you.
“So,” You started, a smile that could kill still plastered on your face as you peered up at him, “Am I as beautiful in person?”
Michael, almost choking on his own spit at your boldness, let his mouth fall open ever so slightly — you were so sweet and delicate for professional interviews and in front of your fans, but right now? A formidable flirt — teasing him with every word.
“Yes.” Michael spoke, all too quickly for a man trying to hide his intentions, “Really beautiful.”
You hummed, satisfied with his response, “I’m going out for a cigarette, care to join me?”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t keep me company, Mr Jackson.”
The way his name fell from your lips, in a sultry, provocative tone that he didn’t miss, had him swallowing slowly, nodding, watching as your smile deepened. You took his hand in your own and turned on your heel, leading him through the crowd, not a care in the world for who staring at the pair of you — the King of Pop with America’s new popstar-sweetheart.
You lead him through the backyard, walking straight past the odd small group of people he didn’t recognise nearer to the patio doors, and towards the end of the long garden. The cold air of February whipped around you, engulfing your half-naked frame, hair swaying softly in the wind, as your hand remained a warm testament in his own — guiding him into the dark of night.
You finally stopped, reaching a large, oak bench decorating the farthest end of the backyard, near the edge of a cliff — staring out onto the gorgeous view that adorned the back of Elizabeth’s grand home. You took a seat, letting go of his trembling hand, and got comfortable. Michael, awkward as always, stood by the arm of the bench, awaiting your next move as you rustled into your purse, digging out a pack of Molboro Red’s and a baby-pink lighter. You slid one out of the packet, placing it neatly next to you, before slipping it between the plump of your lips — your lipgloss staining the white paper.
You turned your head to look at his bashful stance, eyeing him up and down as he stood oddly, looking like a kicked puppy, “Are you gonna sit?”
He obeyed as you flicked the lighter, the fluorescent burn of the orange flame lighting your face in a dim glow as you singed the end of the cigarette. Soon smoke flooded his nostrils as you took a deep inhale, holding the cigarette between your two fingers, your elbow resting on your bare thigh as you exhaled with a sigh, eyes fixated on the captivating view in front of you.
“You know smoking is really bad for the vocal cords.” Michael spoke quietly, watching as your face tugged up into a smile.
“Don’t want me to ruin my pretty voice, do’ya?”
Michael blushed for the millionth time that night — turning his face the other way as he grinned, words failing him as he hid from you.
“It’s a bad habit I haven’t been able to kick for a long time.” You admitted, “But, what celebrity doesn’t smoke these days?”
“Me.” He replied, sheepishly, smile deepening as you laughed loudly.
“Well, you are one of a kind,” You revealed, eyes finally meeting his own as you took another drag, letting silence fill the gap in the air before you questioned him, “What does Michael Jackson like to do when he’s not being the King of Pop?”
The question hit him full force — a sensation filling his body that he wasn’t sure of. He didn’t think anyone had ever asked him a question so personal, in the sincerest way, before. And not the improper, raunchy personal like the reporters did — the kind of personal where it seemed like you actually cared.
“I don’t know,” Michael breathed, his breath shaking as he exhaled, eyes fixated on the way you took a particularly long drag, and let the smoke trickle from your mouth like water as it uplifted into the dark sky, “I’m not really sure what I like these days.” He admitted wholeheartedly, the question stumping him, “Ever since me and Lisa.” He paused again, “I feel like I’ve lost myself a little bit.”
You hummed, listening intently as silence consumed you once more, as eyes flickered towards the skyline in front of you both, the bustling high-way and skyscrapers glistening brightly, a sight so beautiful it had have stunned the average person — but Michael couldn’t care less for it, his vision still full of your gorgeous frame, slightly hunched over as you smoked, making the toxic habit look gracious as the end of the cigarette ignited in glinting red and orange colours each time you took a drag.
“I get that,” You finally spoke, leaning back to meet his gaze, “That’s why I plan on not gettin’ married.”
Michael laughed, “Ever?”
“Well,” You breathed with a chuckle, “If I meet the man of my dreams, then maybe I’ll consider it.”
Michael watched you deeply — locked on the way you would smile as you talked, clearly amused by your own words.
“I’m sure that won’t be hard for you.”
You giggled, “Oh, now that was smooth. Whoever said you were shy was lyin’.”
“I am shy.” He protested, failing to his conflicting smile miserably.
“Sure, honey, the second you aired that you thought I was beautiful on live television while being married, I knew you were a smooth-talking flirt underneath.” You teased, sending him a wink.
“Oh, God, that looked real bad, didn’t it?”
“If it wasn’t me you were talkin’ about, I’d say yes. But, since the Michael Jackson thinks I’m hot shit, I’d say it was the best day of my life.”
Your unison laughter filled the space between you, shaking torsos and flashy smiles co-ordinating between you as you shared a humorous moment.
“You’re real interesting, y’know?” Michael’s voice dropped a decibel, suddenly feeling high on adrenaline at your continuing interaction, “I really didn’t expect you to be like this.”
“Good or bad?” You pressed, wetting your plump lips as you slot your long, bare leg other the other.
“Good. Definitely good,” Michael replied, “You intrigue me.”
You smile deeper, titling your head to study him — eyes dancing over the way he sat, comfortable yet awkward at the same time, like he was trying to convince you he was confident, even as his hands rested shyly on his legs, rubbing the material of his black slacks. His hair looked gorgeous as you studied him, not like his usual curls, now sleek, long black locks that rest upon his shoulders — suiting him well.
“How so?” You pressed, bringing the torched stick between your lips once more.
Michael sighed, eyes flickering away from you nervously as he searched for the words, “I don’t know, ever since I heard you singing, something just clicked inside me, I guess,” He started, “You truly have the voice of an angel, which is why I think you should put that thing out.” You laughed loudly, ignoring his request as you exhaled the smoke, “Your voice just—I don’t know, it takes a hold over me. In the strongest grasp I’ve ever felt, like you’re literally there in front of me and squeezing me like a python around its prey.” He carried on, “And now meeting you, you’ve got this intense aura around you like a divine being. You’re so carefree and confident, like this lifestyle is a walk in the park for you. I find it refreshing and therefore intriguing.” He paused before speaking his next words, “That and your beauty is other-worldly. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with such natural femininity before. And it makes me want to figure everything out about you in one fell swoop.”
Michael, transfixed on the sight before him, distracting him from the love-sickness of his words, missed the way you stared at him in shock — mouth agape as the cigarette sizzled shorter in your hand, utterly gobsmacked at his admission of his infatuation.
He soon picked up on your silence — turning his head innocently to meet your eyes, that twinkled with desire and longing, smiling softly.
“Michael.” You breathed, voice barely above a whisper.
“Oh. I’m sorry, that sounded weird, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it that way, I just—“ “Kiss me.”
“What?”
“Kiss me, please.”
Your words took a few seconds to register in his mind, before any sense of screaming doubt in his mind was quickly evacuated as he rushed to you as you flicked the cigarette to the floor, your hands cupping one another’s face as your lips met.
Michael felt exactly like the song you had sung, the one that sent him into a besotted frenzy, as you kissed. Your lips locking in a frantic, panting connection that had you both heaving and humming into one another’s open mouths as he worked against your rosebuds.
You wasted no time — the kiss deepening as you climbed upon his lap, legs tightening around the thickness of his clothed thigh, a low groan leaving his mouth into your own at the sudden connection. His lips parted from your own frantically, his hand cupping one side of your jaw as his mouth peppered kisses sloppily against the other — hips twitching at the sound of your mewls.
“Michael, please.”
Your plea had him groaning louder than before into your skin, hips bucking up involuntarily at the sound of your quiet begging — your head thrown back to allow him access, your back arching into his touch as his free hand slipped down to cup your waist.
“Patience, baby,” He panted, “I’ve wanted to have you for so long — gonna take my sweet time with you.”
You whined — desperate for the pleasure you had been needing him from the moment you heard him nod in agreement at your beauty. Your own hips moved, beginning the hump the obvious bulge that protruded through his trousers, a lewd gasp leaving your spit covered lips as the head of his cock nudged against your clit. He moaned into the flesh of your neck as he sucked dark marks into it, hands now travelling down the small of your waist to cup your plump behind in his large palm — kneading the plushness of your ass, the feathers of your dress tickling the skin of his hand.
“Wanted you for so long too,” You suddenly admitted, panting, as his lips met the curve of your right breast, peering down at him latching onto your tits, “Loved you for too long—God, way too fucking long.”
Michael whined, a deep, guttural noise from deep within his chest at your words — an admission of your mutual yearning, his hips bucking up languidly to meet every roll of your own, drinking up every erotic noise that fell past your lips, any sense of patience now far gone.
“Take me out.” He ordered, unable to hold back anymore after the words fell from your whimpering mouth, as he pushed your dress up your body, now bunched around your waist.
Your hands moved quicker than your mind could process — fumbling with the buckle of his trousers, fingers trembling as you finally managed to get it open, lip tucked between your teeth as you shoved the tight item of clothing, along with his boxers, down his legs.
Michael huffed as his cock sprang free, the cold February air enveloping around the warmth of his manhood — but soon sighing in relief, head falling back, as the small of your hand, slicked in spit, wrapped around him.
“God, baby, just like that.” He whined, eyes squeezed shut as you pumped him fluidly, tightening each time you would enclose around the tip, his pre-cum drooling over your digits.
He was big — bigger than you had ever had, large in both length and girth, a fact that had you writhing on top of him, anticipation of the fullness he would bring to you sending shivers down your spine.
Michael, regaining some composure, lifted his head, still groaning lowly at the feeling of your tight fist around him, and pulled your panties to the side — eyebrows knitting into his forehead at the sight of your lacy G-string moulding into the shape of your drooling pussy lips.
“Fuck, you been this wet the whole time, baby?”
“Since the moment I laid eyes on you, Michael.”
Michael moaned, your hand never letting up as you jerked him, at the sound of your admission — swallowing thickly. Your hands moved with calculated precision — guiding him between your legs where you needed him most, gasping loudly at his cockend nudged against your clit.
“Tell me how badly you’ve wanted it.” You breathed, teasing him, and yourself for that matter, as you coated him with your seeping arousal, sliding him between your folds.
“God, baby—fuck, needed you since the very first time I heard your beautiful voice,” He panted, chest rising and falling quickly as his eyes locked on his dick slipping between your glistening pussy lips, “Thought about you everyday, fuck, even with her,” He couldn’t even say his ex-wife’s name as you rocked him over your throbbing clit, “You were the only woman I wanted.”
You moaned loudly at his words, his eyes a needy form of begging as they met your own — finally deciding to put an end to his pained misery, edging him towards your clenching entrance, and sinking down. Cries of relieving pleasure left both of your mouths, filling the air around you as Michael bottomed out instantly — tip kissing the sweet spot inside you from the get go, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around him.
Michael, not wanting to let any more time spent without being inside you slip away, took a firm hold on your hips and slammed up inside you with one brutal thrust. You whimpered and writhed into his touch as the position, allowing him to claim you as deep as possible, forced his cock to kiss your cervix — leaving your back arched and lips agape as he resumed his nibbles against your neck, hips now bucking up into you at a swift pace.
The noises that left your lips were arguably more melodically breath-taking than any song you’d ever sang — his name falling from your mouth like a prayer, eyes rolled to the back of your head and clinging to his shoulders was truly a sight to see, forcing his cock to twitch violently inside you.
“Oh, fuck, Michael.” You whined, nails digging into the skin of his back, as a harsh thrust had you seeing stars, “God, you feel so good—so big.”
Michael’s ego inflated at your whimpered admission, huffing out a large breath as he continued his brutal assault on your pussy, revelling in the way your cunt, now forming a milky-white, frothy ring around his base, spasmed aggressively around him — low groans of his own muffled against your skin.
“You’re all I’ve ever wanted, baby,” Michael revealed, his breath warm against the shell of your ear, his grip on your hips tightening as his pace never faltered, “I’m so in love with you.”
Some may say it was love-bombing and wrong the way he confessed his love to you after only meeting you in person a mere few hours ago — but the way you tightened around him and cried out so loudly that Michael had to muffled your screams with his mouth, the enticing taste of cigarette’s still on your tongue, put any of those thoughts to shame.
It was exhilarating.
Knowing the feelings that were nestled deep inside your body for so long, your ferocious, undeniable love for him, were reciprocated was enough to have you on the brink of orgasming from just his words.
“Deeper—oh, fuck, baby, I love you too—need y’deeper, please!” You cried, mumbling against his lips, drowning in the noises he fed you.
You gasped as he stood abruptly, holding you tightly underneath the plush of your ass, and placing you swiftly, albeit gently, atop of the bench — the cold of the wood in the winter’s air pressing flush against your bare back.
Michael, forcing your legs to your chest in a brutal mating press, slammed back into you with all the strength he had to give — cock now driving the deepest it had been all night as he draped your hovering legs over his shoulders. Your tits, now spilling from your dress, were latched into his mouth — tongue swirling around your erect nipple, as his free hand trailed between your body, toying with your swollen clit, eliciting the neediest, most eager whines from your mouth at the dual stimulation.
“Gonna cum, Mikey!”
Your high-pitched warning hit his ears as he groaned against your nipples, the vibration only furthering your overwhelming pleasure as your orgasm smacked into you — your back arched into a beautiful curve, Michael’s hand, mouth and cock never stopping their attack on your body, fucking you through your release as you squirmed beneath him. The blinding arousal that seeped through your body like blood pumping through your veins had you seeing stars — whining like a bitch in heat whilst your cunt clenched tightly around him.
“God, y’gonna make me cum so quick, baby.” Michael panted, his stuttering as he neared his own release.
Just as you came down from your high — Michael pulled out suddenly. Your eyebrows forced themselves into the crease of your forehead as you studied his actions as his hand wrapped around his length. He moved to straddle either side of your shoulders, cock now inches from your face as he jerked himself in front of your face, chest heaving.
“Open your mouth, pretty.” He ordered, lip coming between his teeth as he watched you loll your tongue out, awaiting his pleasured essence.
Michael leant down, slotting his cock into your mouth, whining as your pretty lips wrapped around his length, suckling the tip, hand moving to grip at the meat of his thighs.
Michael came, not with a groan, but with words that had your cunt, stricken with your post-orgasm slick, clenching around nothing,
“Yeah, ‘m gonna fill this angelic throat,” He started, panting as the first spurt of his seed landed on your eager tongue, “Want those pretty vocal chords coated with my cum so you can only sing so heavenly knowing I painted your beautiful voice box white. So you can bless the world with that voice knowing it belongs to me.”
You moaned loudly around him as he finally let out a delighted groan — head thrown back as his cum flooded the throat he had just claimed, the bittersweet taste of his arousal settling on your tastebuds as you lapped at the underside of his cock, tracing the vein that throbbed underneath, with your tongue.
Michael, crouched over you, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock, while the other gripped the back of the bench so hard his knuckles had flushed white — finally let his hips stutter for the last time before slipping his softening cock from your mouth.
You sat up as he lurched back against the arm of the bench, panting heavily, attempting to catch his breath, his flaccid cock laying gently against his thigh. You too, heaved, eyes fixated on his furrowed eyebrows, completely transfixed on his post-orgasm beauty.
Michael, finally opening his eyes that were squeezed shut, met your intense gaze for that countless time that night — a dazed smile creeping up on his face to mirror your own before you spoke flirtatiously, just as you had the whole night,
Content: in which Michael's running a fever, yet refuses to stop practicing
A/n: I wrote this with otw Michael in mind, but it can be any era!
“Enough, Michael!” Your voice boomed over the music that blared from the speakers before your fingers moved towards the plug, abruptly cutting the music. The silence that fell amongst the room was almost deafening; the only thing that could be heard was the sound of his ragged breathing, as you watched his chest heave up and down in a rhythmic pattern, sucking up every little bit of air around him, sweat dripping down his forehead and neck, pooling at the collar of his T-shirt.
“But, baby—”
Classic Michael. Using pet names to deflect as soon as he was cornered.
“No, you're clearly not feeling well, yet you'd rather drop dead than admit it and give it a rest.” You crossed your arms, eyes narrowing at his sweaty form. The room felt hot and stuffy, small waves of air hitting the room from the open door, but it wasn't enough to cut through the humidity of the room.
“C'mon, you know I have to practice… I have to be perfect,” his voice was uneven, still catching his breath from the intense dance session that happened moments before. His knees seemed wobbly as he tried his best to hold eye contact. His hand pressed against the wall to steady himself, against the weight of his fatigue and fever. He looked absolutely exhausted, eyes heavy and half-lidded, shoulders hanging low.
“Mike, you've been in the spotlight for so long, performing for fans all over, I think you deserve to give yourself a break. I mean, look at you, you're on the verge of collapsing.” You looped your arm around his own sweaty arm. His skin was hot and flushed, like it could burn your own, but you didn't care. The only thing on your mind currently was keeping him upright.
“Let's get you back to bed, okay? I'll get you a compress and some soup. How does that sound?” You glanced at his features, completely drained of all the energy he had left.
Tags: jacksons!/ off the wall era michael, established relationship, fluff, making out, guys its just really sweet and a bit cringe, marlon is being an annoying big brother, pool party
Authors Note: hope y'all enjoy this lil fluffy drabble, its always fun to characterise and have silly interactions between the brothers. y'all know how much i love marlon and i will try include him whenever the hell i can
also, the nickname michael's brothers call him "giblets" is so funny... like wtf? link to that vid here. michael's speaking voice in it is so cutie
╰── You were looking at him in awe. The last of the sun melted over the hills of Encino, staining the sky in tangerine and lavender, and Michael was sitting beside you on a white pool lounger, his damp curls clinging to his forehead, his eyes wide and earnest and fixed on you....
The pool party had been a riot of the Jackson brothers splashing and being idiotic; Randy doing cannonballs and hitting the water so hard that his mother, Katherine started yelling at him that he was getting water on the patio windows, Janet and Latoya peering out from behind her to see what all the racket was.
Tito had been grilling burgers for the whole family, that Jermaine insisted on seasoning with something he called “soul paprika.” When he pulled it out everyone started making disgruntled noises and tutting.
"'Maine, why you gotta be so pretentious?" Tito had asked, shaking hsi head. "My burgers are damn good without that nonsense"
You’d been pulled into the chaos of the pool as well, laughing as Jackie kept lifting you up in your floatie and throwing you. This made Michael laugh - his big, head back high cackle he did when he was really tickled, and swim to come save you.
It truly felt like summer. The blue skies, the vintage lawn furniture, the bassy speakers playing It Only Takes A Minute by the Tavares. It felt fitting. You were absolutely smitten with Michael and his crazy family.
At some point you ditched the floatie and Marlon challenged you to a breath-holding contest, and much to your dismay, you kept losing. Michael had joined in, whining that he didn’t want to be left out, and won every consecutive round, popping up from the crystal clear water with a massive smirk on his face. This would not last long because Jackie and Tito would then tag team trying to playfully drown him for being smug. You’d laughed so much your ribs hurt.
Michael had been a little sunbeam; smiling at you like you were his world all day. You had been dating for about 8 weeks at this point, and it still was incredibly tender. This was both of your first experiences in a relationship.
There was an element of frustration on your part as not much had… happened yet. Other girls would tell you of their boyfriends holding their hands and kissing you, touching you whenever they could. Tigerbeat magazine described boys as more wanting, impatient and crude. Michael wasn’t really like that. He was awfully shy, and wanted to be very gentle with everything in his life, including you. Michael's sister Janet told you not to worry, and if judging by their other brothers antics, Michael just needed to come out of his shell.
He shifted on the lounger, the plastic creaking under his weight. His fingers, delicate and long, tapped a nervous rhythm on his knee.
You could see the decision hardening in his expression.
“I want to kiss you, properly” he said, the words rushing out like a secret he’d been holding underwater.
“Not like before. Not just a… a peck.”
Your heart did a silly little flip. “Okay,” you breathed, because what else could you say?
He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut. You met him halfway, your lips parting expectantly. What followed was so far removed from the soft, cinematic meeting of mouths you’d imagined. What you’d seen in the movies.
It was a sudden, earnest mash; his front teeth clacked directly against yours with a dry, ceramic tock. You jerked back, eyes flying open.
Michael’s eyes were wide with alarm. “Oh! Did I—?”
“It’s okay,” you said quickly, though your gums tingled with pain. “Just… go a little to the left.”
“Right. The left.” He nodded, steeled himself, and dove in again. This time he aimed lower, but his enthusiasm overcorrected; his bottom lip smushed against your chin, his nose bumped yours, and in the adjustment, his teeth grazed your upper lip. It felt less like a kiss and more like a slightly aggressive greeting from a very beautiful bunny rabbit.
He pulled back, a faint blush rising on his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It’s just… I’ve thought about this. A lot. In my head it’s smooth. Jackie told me ‘it just happens’.”
“Well, can go slow,” you offered, your voice gentle.
“Slow. Yes.” He took a deep, theatrical breath, as if preparing for a high note.
He cupped your face with both hands, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones—a gesture so tender it made your chest ache.
He tilted your head, leaned in with meticulous care, and—
You got 2 seconds in and his teeth were there again.
Smacking against yours. A distinct, dull crunch that made you both wince in unison.
You couldn’t help it, a snort of laughter escaped you, which you instantly tried to swallow into a cough.
Michael’s face fell into a look of such profound, comical dismay it was all you could do not to burst out laughing.
“Why is this happening?” he asked the universe plaintively. “The angles are all wrong!”
“Maybe we just need practice,” you suggested, biting your own lip to keep a straight face.
“Practice. Right. Okay. From the top.” He was treating it like a choreography session. “On three. One… two…”
Before he could reach “three,” the sliding glass door from the house slid open. Marlon strode out, a fresh can of soda in hand, his swim trunks on from earlier. They had little yellow rubber ducks on them.
He took in the scene: you and Michael, faces inches apart, Michael’s hands still framing your face preciously.
A huge, wicked grin split Marlon’s face. “Well, well. Look at Mikey, tryin’ to get his smooch on!” he crowed, his voice echoing in the quiet yard. “Sounded like two billiard balls kissin’!" He then started to laugh even more.
"Y’all are so sweet. Looks like a whole new interpretive style!”
Michael dropped his hands as if burned, shrinking into himself. “Marlon, don’t,” he said, but it came out more like a thin whine.
“Nah, come on—is this the new move? The lip-lock moonwalk?” Marlon demonstrated, launching into a ridiculous, stiff-legged shuffle toward you both, his arms swinging while he made exaggerated, silent kissing faces. “Pucker up, baby! Ooh-whee!”
“Marlon, please, be cool” Michael hissed, his embarrassment turning into something hotter. You saw his jaw tighten, a rare flash of frustration in his usually gentle eyes.
“Aw, I’m just playin’!” Marlon laughed, taking a swig of his soda. “Don’t let me stop y’all. Though from the looks of it Mike, you’re more likely to chip a tooth than steal a kiss.”
That was the last straw. Michael stood up abruptly, the lounger scraping against the patio stones.
He didn’t look at Marlon. He looked at you, his eyes blazing with a resolve that was both desperate and utterly serious. Without a word, he grabbed your hand, his grip surprisingly firm, and pulled you to your feet.
“Hey, where you goin’ all of a sudden?” Marlon called after them. “I was joking, giblets!!”
Michael didn’t answer. He was on a mission. He pulled you past the chuckling Marlon, through the sliding door into the cool, dim interior of Hayvenhurst.
The house was quite quiet now, soft melodic sounds coming from the TV in the den. He didn’t pause in the plush living room with its gold records on the wall, didn’t even glance at the grand piano where you both spent a lot of time.
He marched you down a hallway, past a confused-looking housekeeper, and straight into the large, spotless kitchen.
The overhead fluorescents were off, only the ambient glow from a digital clock on the oven and the moonlight through a window lit the space. He beelined for a heavy, polished wooden door near where the fridge sat; the pantry.
He yanked it open, revealing a deep walk-in cupboard lined with shelves of canned goods, pasta boxes, and industrial-sized sacks of flour. It smelled of dried herbs and clean wood.
He tugged you inside, into the cozy, dark space, then turned and closed the door firmly behind you both.
Click.
Darkness, total and velvety, swallowed you whole. You could hear his breathing, a little quick and shallow, and your own heartbeat in your ears. You could barely make out the silhouette of his slender frame.
Then his voice came, low and close, tinged with that unique Michael-esque blend of vulnerability and absolute conviction.
“Everyone’s watching,” he said, the words rushing out in the dark. “Out there… everyone’s eyes on me. God, even the animals. They were all watching me. I could feel them. And when I feel watched, my… well, I overthink when it comes to girls.”
You could hear him shift, his shoulder brushing against a shelf. “But in here,” he continued, and his voice gained a soft, triumphant confidence. “In the dark… it’s just my other senses. I can hear you breathing. I can smell your perfume; it’s like… gardenias and pool water. I can feel the heat of you from right here where I am standing. Just… me. And you.”
A hand found your waist in the darkness, his touch sure now. The other gently cradled the back of your head. His breath fanned your lips, warm and sweet, smelling faintly of the orange juice from the pool party.
“Its gonna work out this time” he whispered, and in the utter privacy of the pantry, with the world shut out, Michael finally, finally bridged the gap.
His lips found yours—it wasn’t a clack of teeth, nor a mash, but a real, soft, searching kiss. It was a little clumsy still, over-eager, his nose nudging yours again, but it was right. It was warm and sincere, and when he tentatively moved his lips against yours, it sent a shiver straight down your spine.
He pulled back an inch, a soft, wondering sound escaping him. “Oh,” he breathed. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like. I got butterflies”
Then he kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand moving to your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin as if memorizing its texture in the dark. You pushed him back to tease him a little;
“Practice makes perfect though, right?” you breathlessly laughed.
“Sure it does.” Michael agreed, his lips finding yours again in the dark of the pantry.
