can't spend another night alone
michael jackson x black!reader
synopsis: after seeing him and his recently new girlfriend together you’re beginning to wonder if michael is actually done with you for good now.
warnings: smut (18+), angst, infidelity, reader is lowkey a bird (for the plot), michael is a soft spoken hoe and a bit ooc just so i could make this work, use of the n-word, toxicity
author note: this is inspired by all for me by mariah the scientist (the grand bird). i also learned how to do custom color for text so prepare to be SICK of me.
"The King of Pop and Elvis Presley's daughter—“
flick
“Hollywoods most famous coup—“
flick
“Michael Jackson and Lisa-Marie Pres—“
You sat back against your couch with a long groan, tossing the remote controller lightly across the cushions. Jesus, was this all the news reported? Where was the important shit?
You looked back up at the TV. The screen cut to live footage of Lisa and Michael stepping off his private jet, having just landed in New York to attend an upcoming awards show—the very same event that brought you to the city.
Your gaze zeroed in on their intertwined fingers. You watched, a lump forming in your throat, as Michael smoothly ran his thumb against the back of Lisa’s hand. It was a small, intimate habit. Something he used to do to you. You couldn’t deny the sharp sting of jealousy that pierced through you, but you two weren't together, so why should you care? It was clear he didn't.
You and Michael had been trapped in a messy, off and on cycle for about five months. Before the tragic breakup, you had just hit your year and a half mark last May.
You vividly remembered that night. For months, it felt like Michael was constantly putting his work ahead of you. As a famous artist yourself, you understood the grind, but you were always willing to pause a session or push back a deadline when it came to him. He never did the same for you. Anytime you tried to bring it up, he subtly changed the subject, dismissing your concerns. You used to distract yourself from the ache by burying your head in studio sessions or attending industry events, but it only made you miss your boyfriend more. Those were the things you were supposed to be doing with him.
You finally had enough one night and confronted him. You could still see the agitated look in his eyes when you accused him of not caring about you anymore—that, and maybe a sliver of guilt he tried to hide.
You might have reacted differently, might have reached a compromise, if it hadn't been for his response. He had just looked at you, cold and defensive, and blamed you for being "too clingy" when you knew how busy he was.
That threw you completely off. The hurt instantly turned into sheer anger. You didn't yell, you simply looked him in the eye and told him that if being together was such a chore, then you should just break up.
He tried to act like he didn’t care. He stood there with a blank face, acting as if he hadn't made it seem like your very presence was something he relied on just to survive a few months ago. As if he had never spent endless, dark, quiet nights tracing your soft skin, kissing every inch of your naked body, and whispering how much he loved you into the dark.
So how fucking dare he?
How dare he act like you were the problem when he was the one pulling away? How dare he try to flip it and treat you like some desperate hoe off the street he had to shake off, when you were the one holding his ass together behind closed doors?
Watching him on that screen, doing his signature thing with another woman right in front of the world—it wasn't just hurtful. It was insulting.
And yet, you were the only person in the world who knew the real truth: he could never stop coming back to you. No matter how many women he was seen with, no matter how many public kisses were stolen for the cameras, he always ended up crawling back to your doorstep.
It was a flex, but at the same time, it wasn’t.
On one hand, how many people could say they had thee Michael Jackson groveling on his knees for their forgiveness? Had him willing to lose his mind if anyone else dared to touch what was his, despite him never following his own rules? But on the other hand... if you thought too much about it, the truth was much uglier. He probably kept coming back because he knew you would let him.
You would run out of fingers trying to count the number of times you’d gotten up to your door at three in the morning—bonnet halfway off— after hearing the doorbell repeatedly go off, only to find Michael standing there looking like a kicked puppy, spewing his same old tired ass apologies.
“I’m sorry, baby. You know I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I’ll do better this time, princess, I promise.”
“I love you s’much, you know I’m yours. Can we please try again?”
And every single time, you let him smooth talk his way into your panties. Like a dumbass.
But when the night was over, and you lay with your back pressed against his bare chest after several hot rounds, the high would fade. You were left with only one thought:
Why do I keep doing this to myself?
Every time you gave in to his lies, trying to wipe the slate clean and start fresh, reality would slap you in the face. It never took long before you were reminded exactly why you two broke up in the first place.
But despite the fact that you hadn't officially been together for almost six months, you still loved Michael deeply and this back and forth bullshit was only making it harder to get over him. You wanted to let him go so badly—to finally be free of his nonsense—but the moment you looked into those big, pretty brown eyes, and his strong hands caressed your thighs, every single moral you stood by just evaporated.
Trying to shake the heavy memories from your head, you focused back on the TV screen just in time to watch Lisa press a sweet kiss to Michael’s cheek.
She was the new chick he’d been parading around lately. Normally, when he popped up with his little flings, they lasted a few weeks—maybe a month if the girl was lucky. But this one hadn’t disappeared yet, and it had been almost three months.
What was different about her?
“Bitch ugly anyways…” you muttered bitterly, finally pushing the power button and turning the TV off.
You glanced over at the clock on the wall. It was 4:02. You sighed, rubbing your face as the reality of the evening set in. You needed to stop stressing over that boy and call your makeup team if you were going to be anywhere near ready on time.
As you got ready, you couldn’t ignore the growing pit in your stomach at the thought of seeing Michael tonight. He hadn’t come to see you since he started dating that Lisa bitch girl.
Was she really different? Had he finally found someone worthy enough to replace you?
The media sure thought so. Everywhere you went, their relationship was thrown in your face. Even the paparazzi had started cornering you, throwing out intrusive questions every time you stepped out. Were you jealous of their relationship? How did it feel seeing them together? Did you think Michael thought Lisa was prettier than you? No.
You never gave them an answer. You simply ignored the flashing lights and walked away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a headline, but your ass to kiss instead. It was exhausting having to hear about them constantly. But you kept your head down, staying focused on your work and your image. You didn't have time to be crying over a man. Michael didn't seem bothered in the slightest, so why should you be?
But when the chaos died down and it was just you, completely alone in your big, empty bed, you couldn't deny that you missed him. Bad.
You missed his warmth, his undivided attention, his touch. Even though those late night moments were fleeting, you missed the quiet pillow talk after the sex. You missed laying on his chest while he traced lazy, smooth circles on your behind, pressing soft kisses to the crown of your head while he whispered sweet nothings into your hair. I love you. You’re mine. I’ll always be here.
You never realized how much you actually relied on those late night visits until they suddenly stopped. You’d tried moving on before. You’d gone out with other guys, but it was never the same. You would usually get bored by the third date and toss them aside.
They just weren’t Michael.
You took a deep breath as you looked at yourself in the full length mirror, turning at an angle to get a good look at how the fabric fell. It was a long, silky black dress with a completely open back, the hem flowing seamlessly down over your toes. It wasnt nothing too extravagant, yet it fit your curves perfectly. It accentuated the shape of your hips and gave just the right amount of cleavage—exactly the look you were aiming for.
A sudden knock on your door broke the silence, “Ma’am,” a deep voice called out from the other side—a voice you instantly recognized as one of your main security detail. “The car is outside.”
“Okay, just give me a second!” you called back.
You smoothed down your hair, giving yourself one last thorough check in the mirror before grabbing your clutch and heading out the door.
After what felt like an hour long drive, the limousine finally slowed to a stop. Staring through the tinted window at the crowd, you took a breath to center yourself before the door opened. You didn't really want to be here tonight, but it was too late now.
The moment you stepped out, the cameras swarmed the barricades, everyone calling your name for a photo. You didn't flinch at the flashing lights, your professional mask slipping effortlessly into place. You tilted your chin to catch the angles, and gave the lenses an unknowingly fake—but gorgeous smile. You glided down the carpet with an easy grace, pausing to pose and giving them exactly what they wanted while keeping your prominent exhaustion buried as deep as you could.
You were about to pass the press line and head straight into the venue, but a reporter eagerly called your name, gesturing you over for a quick interview. Figuring one brief chat couldn’t hurt, you redirected yourself. But as soon as you stepped up to the microphone, you immediately regretted it.
“Can I just say, you look absolutely breathtaking tonight! Who are you wearing?” the interviewer began, holding the microphone out. But before you could even open your mouth to respond, an almost deafening explosion of cheers and frantic screaming erupted just a few feet away. Another limousine door had opened.
It was Michael and Lisa.
It felt as though the entire world suddenly shifted into slow motion. You watched, frozen, as Michael stepped out first, immediately turning back to offer his hand to Lisa. She took it, stepping onto the carpet beside him, and the flashes went ridiculous.
Damn, he looked good. He was wearing a sharp, tailored black suit—your favorite color on him—and a few of his long curls were pulled back into a loose, effortless ponytail, leaving the rest to frame his face. Your eyes traced the familiar line of his jaw, a bitter ache stirring in your chest.
He was flashing that perfect smile for the cameras—the exact smile you used to adore, the one that used to be reserved just for you in the quiet hours of the morning. As they posed, his hand slid smoothly down, settling low against Lisa’s waist, while she rested her hand flat against his back. They looked .. perfect.
This was exactly what you had been trying so hard to avoid. You knew running into them was inevitable tonight, but you had hoped to keep your distance. Instead, you were stuck in the front row of their show.
What hurt the most was how comfortable he looked with her. The way he leaned into her space, the soft look in his eyes when he glanced down at her—it was the exact same way he used to look at you. It was like your entire relationship had been copied, pasted, and handed to someone else.
Then, as if sensing the weight of your stare, Michael’s eyes began to scan the crowd. His gaze wandered past the sea of photographers, searching the line, until his eyes landed squarely on you.
The change was instant. His smile dropped slightly, the warmth in his eyes replacing itself with a sudden, intense shock. Time stopped completely as you two just stared at each other across the chaotic barrier, the noise of the red carpet fading into background static.
Keeping your mask firmly in place, you forced a small, polite smile. But it was empty, and it didn't come close to reaching your eyes. You had never wanted to go home more than you did right now.
After wrapping up that awkward interview, you practically fled the press line and made your way into the building. Escaping into the dim, ambient lighting of the auditorium, you navigated the rows to find your assigned section. You finally located your seat, but the moment your eyes scanned the placeholder cards, your eyebrows furrowed in disbelief.
Right next to your designated spot was a card with his name on it.
Michael Jackson
Are you fucking serious? Out of the hundreds of celebrities in attendance, you end up sitting next to him. You stared at the empty velvet chair, a bitter, breathless laugh escaping your lips.
“God, what did I do to you?” you whispered to yourself, glancing upward as if the heavens would actually look down and give you an answer.
Reluctantly, you smoothed down the back of your silky dress and sat down. Leaning back into the cushion, you crossed your legs and stared straight ahead at the stage, praying with everything you had that this night would go by as quickly as possible. But deep down, you knew the real test hadn't even started yet. He was going to walk through those doors any minute.
You spent the next few minutes letting your nervous energy take over. You picked at your nails, brushed imaginary lint off of your dress, and kept a restless rhythm of tapping your heel against the carpeted floor. Anything to keep your mind occupied.
Then, a soft, familiar voice drifted over the noise of the auditorium.
“Hey.”
The sound of it sent a jolt straight down your spine. You pulled your head up, watching as Michael smoothly took his seat in the empty chair right next to yours. He settled in, his shoulder brushing dangerously close to yours, acting as if this was just any other casual encounter.
Hey?
Was this nigga serious? That was all he had to say to you? After six months of silence and watching him practically parade another woman in your face, all he says is.. hey.
You stared at him, your jaw tightening as you slowly blinked, letting the sheer disbelief show on your face for just a fraction of a second. Without giving him the satisfaction of a single word in return, you looked back down at your lap, folding your hands and completely ignoring him.
“You look pretty, baby,” he murmured, his voice low enough for only you to hear, his eyes trailing down your figure.
The pet name sent a sharp, painful pang straight through your chest, but you didn't let it shake your composure.
Without turning your head, you kept your eyes fixed straight ahead on the stage. “Shouldn’t you be saying that to that white girl you brought with you?” you replied, your tone completely blank.
“Lisa?” he questioned softly, tilting his head with a look of fake innocent confusion that made you want to smack the shit out of him.
“Nah... unless there’s another white girl I don’t know about,” you muttered, the sarcasm dripping from your voice.
“There are no others,” he chuckled, the low, rich sound vibrating between you. He actually found this amusing, which only made you roll your eyes harder.
A heavy beat of silence stretched between you as the house lights began to subtly dim, signaling the start of the show. Michael shifted in his seat, his gaze still heavy on the side of your face.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight,” he admitted quietly.
You finally turned your head, offering him a dry, deadpan look. “Welp... behold.”
The lights finally dropped completely, and the opening music began, drawing a loud burst of applause from the audience. Everyone’s attention shifted to the stage—everyone except Michael’s.
“Baby.. about the last few months—“ he whispered, leaning in just enough that his warm breath brushed against the shell of your ear, sending a shiver straight down your spine. He sounded so soft, almost vulnerable.
You closed your eyes for a brief second, swallowing down the sudden lump in your throat before turning your head to look at him directly.
“Michael, I don’t wanna have this conversation here,” you said, your voice a sharp, quiet hiss. You kept your face perfectly composed for the crowd, but your eyes held nothing but exhaustion. “Honestly... I don’t wanna have it at all.”
Michael's mouth opened slightly, a retort forming on his lips—but then he stopped. He held your gaze for a long moment, something unreadable flickering behind those deep brown eyes. Then, slowly, he turned his head forward, facing the stage.
But he didn't look at the stage.
He stared ahead, but his focus wasn't on the opener cracking corny jokes. His jaw was tight, and His hands rested on his thighs, fingers spread, perfectly still—but you knew him well enough to see the tension burjing through his entire frame.
When the final award was announced and the audience rose for the closing remarks, you moved quickly. You gathered your clutch, smoothed down your dress, and began making your way toward the aisle before the crowd could swallow you. You didn't look back.
But as you slipped through the sea of celebrities and flashing cameras, heading for the exit, you felt his gaze on your back. And something told you this wasn’t over.
The second the heavy door to your hotel room clicked shut, the suffocating weight of the night finally lifted. You didn't even make it past the entryway before kicking off your heels, letting them clatter against the floor as you walked barefoot across the carpet. You practically flopped onto the couch with a exhausted huff, some of your dress bunching up around your thighs.
Your eyes immediately landed on the table in front of you. Without a second thought, you reached for the complimentary bottle of wine and a clean glass, desperate for a drink to finally take the edge off.
You uncorked the bottle and poured a generous amount into the glass. You brought it to your lips, taking a hearty, long sip that burned down your throat. The room was completely quiet now, which was what you wanted. But the silence only made your mind race faster.
What could he possibly want you to understand about the last few months? Lisa was what he wanted. Lisa was what he got. You weren’t in the picture anymore—you had been erased from the narrative—so there was absolutely nothing left for him to explain. It was over, and his sudden urge to talk about it felt like an insult to the months you’d spent alone because of him.
You stared blankly at the dark red liquid swirling in your glass, the burning question twisting like a knife in your gut. Why were you so incredibly bothered by him dating Lisa now?
Usually, you managed to tune out the headlines. Usually, you didn't care. So what the hell was so different tonight?
Was it was because he actually looked like he loved her? Like he genuinely liked being with her? It didn’t seem like just a publicity stunt or a casual rebound.
Tears pricked the corners of your eyes as you took another ragged breath, the silence of the room suddenly feeling suffocating. What did she have that you didn’t? What part of you wasn't enough to make him stay?
You felt stupid. Setting the wine glass down on the table with a trembling hand, you pressed your palms against your eyes, but it was too late to stop the rush. Your heart physically ached, a heavy, hollow throb in your chest that made it hard to breathe as you began to cry softly.
The quiet sniffling sounded so small in the empty room. You hated yourself for letting him have this much power over you, hated that a few glances and a soft whisper could completely undo months of your attempts of healing. You curled your knees up to your chest, letting the tears finally ruin your perfect makeup, wishing you could just turn your brain off and erase the image of his hands on someone else's waist.
Then suddenly, sharp knocks against the heavy wooden door cut through your soft sobs. You froze, your breath hitching in your throat as your crying stopped. You kept perfectly still, eyes darting toward the entryway, hoping maybe you had just imagined it. But a second later, the knock came again—firm, and undeniably real.
You rushed over to the mirror, quickly wiping at the stray tears under your eyes and making sure you looked at least somewhat presentable before facing whoever was at the door. You stood on your tiptoes and peered through the tiny peephole. Your breath caught.
Michael was standing right outside your door. He had already changed out of the formal suit, now wearing a dark leather outfit that clung to his frame, paired with his black aviator shades. Even in the dim lighting of the hotel hallway, he looked effortlessly sexy.
You let out a heavy, exhausted sigh, dropping your forehead softly against the wood of the door for a brief moment. There was no escaping him tonight, clearly. Pulling yourself together, you clicked the lock open and pulled the door inward.
You stood in the open doorway, gripping the knob just to keep your hands from shaking. Michael didn't move immediately, he just stood there under the hallway lights, his expression hidden behind the dark tint of his shades, though you could feel his eyes tracing every inch of your face.
“What do you want, Michael?”
Your voice came out incredibly soft, a stark contrast to the sharp, coldness you had used to shut him down earlier. There was little to no bite left in your tone now—just a raw, heavy exhaustion that you couldn’t bother to hide anymore. You sounded tired and defeated.
“Can I come in?” he asked, his head tilting down slightly as if trying to catch your eye over the rim of his glasses.
“No,” you replied instantly, tightening your grip on the doorknob. “What do you want?”
“Mama, I just wanna talk. Please,” he pleaded, his voice dropping into that familiar, desperate tone that always used to soften your resolve. But you forced yourself to stay anchored. “It’s never just talking with you, Michael. You’re just gonna say some slick shit just to try to get me in bed with you again.”
“‘M not,” he insisted, stepping a fraction closer, the scent of his expensive cologne invading your nose. “I wanna talk about us...”
You let out a dry chuckle. “There is no us. You’re with Lisa, remember? Go back to her.”
“I don’t like her!”
The words cut through the quiet hallway sharply, his voice tense and clipped, though he kept it low enough not to draw the attention ofthe other guests. Theraw honesty of the outburst was enough to completely shut you up. Your jaw tightened as you stared at him, the silence stretching between you like a wire.
Michael took a slow breath, his shoulders dropping as he softened his tone. “Please. Just let me in so I can talk. After that... if you still don’t wanna see me, I’ll walk out. I won’t contact you anymore. Okay?”
You stood frozen, searching what little you could see of his face, desperately debating whether you should believe the promise or protect yourself from the inevitable fallout. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Finally, with a defeated exhale, you pushed the door open wider and stepped aside to let him in.
The door clicked heavy behind him, sealing the two of you inside the quiet room. Michael didn't push his way further into your space. Instead, he stood in the small entryway, his gaze instantly locking onto you.
Slowly, he reached up and pulled off his shades, setting them onto the table by the door. Without the dark lenses shielding him, his eyes searched your face. It took him all of two seconds to clock the slight smudge of mascara beneath your lower lashes and the faint redness around your eyes. He knew your face better than anyone—he knew you’d been crying.
His eyes then drifted past your shoulder, tracking the layout of the room until they landed on the coffee table. He noticed the bottle of wine and the generous, barely touched glass sitting right next to it.
A heavy wave of guilt visibly washed over his face, his jaw tightening as he unzipped his jacket. “Baby...” he started, his voice thick with that sudden, raw regret you’d heard a million times before.
It was the same routine. The same heavy eyes, the same quiet pleading, the same toxic cycle that usually ended with your clothes on the floor and your feelings brushed under the rug until the next time he went public with someone else. But tonight, looking at him standing there, the charm didn't work. It just made you sick to your damn stomach.
“Stop it,” you snapped, your voice cutting through his like a blade. You refused to let him see how much your hands were shaking, crossing your arms tighter over your chest.“How can you say you don’t like a woman but then go around showing her off to the fucking world?! Explain that to me, ‘cause I’m so curious.”
Michael flinched at the harshness of your words, “I’m not trying to play with you,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. “I’m not. I swear, I’m not.”
“Then explain it, Michael,” your voice raised slightly, The dam was starting to break, and months of built-up humiliation were pouring out of you.
“Cause you seriously think you can just show up here and throw more bullshit in my face. I mean —do you have any idea what you’ve put me through?! Every single time we get close, every time I let you back into my life—you promise me things are going to change. You look me in the eyes, you tell me we're gonna be better, that you’re gonna do better, and the second my guard drops—the second I actually let myself believe you—you turn around, pull some stupid shit and I have to watch the exact same cycle repeat with a different girl!”
You felt your eyes begin to well up with tears, hot angry tears.
“And I feel so fucking stupid!” you cried, your voice breaking as you let out a ragged, breathless sob. “I sat around waiting for you, getting my hopes up like an idiot, just to watch you show her off like you used to do me. And you know what the worst part is? I can’t blame anybody but myself.”
You looked him dead in the eyes, tears streaming down your face, “I don’t even know why I kept thinking there was any saving this relationship.”
The words hung in the suffocating silence of the room. Michael looked like he had been physically struck, his face pale, his hands trembling as he reached out, though he stayed back just enough to respect your space. Tears were shining in his own eyes now.
“I thought I was saving you from me!” he suddenly choked out, the admission bursting from him like a desperate plea. You froze, your chest heaving as you stared at him through your tears.
“I hated myself for what I was doing to you,” Michael sighed, his shoulders slumping as he dropped his head into his hands for a brief second before forcing himself to look back at you. “Every time we got close, I’d mess it up. I kept getting your hopes up and then letting you down, and watching you hurt because of me was killing me. I thought... I genuinely thought that if I just left you alone, if I actually tried to move on with someone else and gave you space to breathe, you’d finally be happy. You’d finally be free of me.”
He took a cautious step closer, the absolute desperation in his eyes so prominent now.
“But I couldn’t do it,” he whispered, his voice completely broken. “I don’t care about Lisa. I never cared about her—I never cared about any of those girls. I spent every second with them wishing she was you. And seeing you tonight... seeing you sit across from me after all this time apart... it almost killed me. I can’t do this without you. I tried to leave you alone, baby, I swear to God I tried to do the right thing for once, but I can’t.”
“I’ve heard all this shit before, Michael. I can’t do it anymore,” you said, your voice shaking as a cold, dead certainty settled into your chest.
“Mama, please, you gotta believe me.” He took a step forward, the distance between you vanishing as he reached out, taking your trembling hands in his. The warmth of his skin felt like a cruel trick.
You quickly snatched your hands out of his grip, taking a sharp step back. “Nigga, fuck you! I went through hell because of you, and I’m not gonna just forgive you because you had an attack of conscience!”
“I'm not asking for instant forgiveness, I'm just asking you to hear me—” Michael pleaded, stepping into your space again, his hands reaching out to grab your shoulders, desperate to just hold you still, to make you feel how much he meant it.
But the sight of him coming at you—the audacity of him trying to touch you after everything—made something inside you snap. Out of pure, blinding anger, your hand flew out, striking him across the chest. It wasn't enough to truly hurt him, but it was a violent release of months of suffocating pain.
Michael reacted on pure instinct. Moving quickly but firmly, making absolutely sure not to hurt you, he grabbed your wrists and pushed you back until your spine hit the cool, solid surface of the nearest wall. He pinned your arms flat against the wall above your shoulders, using his weight to lock you in place so you couldn't swing at him again, all while his eyes searched yours with an agonizing intensity.
You thrashed against his grip, your chest heaving against his. “Let go of me! Get off me!”
“Baby, stop! Just listen to me!” he yelled back, his voice cracking, his own tears finally spilling over his eyelashes as he held you tight against the wall.
“No, fuck you! I hate you!” you screamed right into his face, your voice breaking into a tragic, jagged sob. You pulled against his grip, kicking your legs, fighting him with every ounce of strength you had left.
He didn't let go. He just held you firmer, absorbing every bit of your rage, refusing to let you run away from this. “Listen to me... please...” he whispered against your forehead.
Suddenly, the fight drained completely out of you. The adrenaline evaporated, leaving behind nothing but a crushing exhaustion. Your muscles went slack. Your hands ceased their pulling, and you finally gave up, letting your forehead drop heavily against his chest.
The dam broke completely. You clutched at the fabric of his sleeves with your fingers as the violent sobs tore through your body, burying your face in his warmth.
“I hate you,” you wept, the words muffled against his chest, sounding small and entirely broken. “I hate you... I hate you...”
“I know... I’m sorry, I really am,” Michael whispered, his voice cracking with the weight of his own tears.
His grip on your wrists relaxed, his hands sliding down to wrap entirely around you. He pulled you flush against his body, burying his face into the crook of your neck. One of his large hands moved to the back of your head, his fingers tangling softly in your hair, holding you close as if he were trying to piece you back together. He began to rock you gently from side to side, a comforting, familiar rhythm that you hadn’t realized how desperately you missed.
You just wept into his jacket, your fingers tightly fisting the material as your shoulders shook. The scent of his cologne mixed with the tang of your tears, wrapping you in a suffocating bubble of déjà vu. You still hated him for what he did, and you still hated yourself for letting him back in, but in this exact second, you were just too tired to move away from the only warmth you had felt in months.
The violent sobs gradually subsided into quiet, ragged breaths, the room falling into a heavy stillness. You stayed tucked beneath his chin, your forehead resting against his chest as the final bit of your armor dissolved.
“What did they have that I didn’t?” you whispered softly, your voice cracking on the words, sounding small and completely stripped of malice. It was the one question that had been eating away at your soul for months, the root of all the anger and the tears.
Michael’s breath hitched. He squeezed his eyes shut, a fresh tear slipping down his cheek as he tightened his arms around you, burying his face deeper into your hair.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” he choked out, his voice thick with a aching regret. “I was just being stupid. I should’ve never put you through this. I’m so sorry.”
He placed a soft, lingering kiss against the top of your head, his hand gently stroking the back of your hair as he kept you pressed tightly against him. For the first time in months, the suffocating distance between you was gone, replaced by the quiet, painful truth of how much you both had broken each other.
“Don’t go... please,” you whispered softly, a small sniffling sound escaping you as you tightened your fingers in his shirt. The fear of being left alone again in this empty room was suddenly far worse than the anger you had been holding onto.
“I’m not. I’m not leaving you ever again, I promise,” Michael vowed. He had spent so much agonizing time away from you. Now that he had you in his arms finally, he wasn’t going to let you go.
Before you could even process the words, he slipped his arms beneath you and picked you up effortlessly. As if by pure instinct—a muscle memory your body refused to forget—you wrapped your limbs tightly around him, burying your face into his neck as he carried you out of the dim entryway and into the the bedroom.
The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint city lights filtering through the sheer windows. Michael walked over to the mattress and placed you down gently. He didn't pull away, his hands lingering on your waist as his eyes searched yours in the shadows.
You looked up at him, your eyes still puffy and red, your breath still uneven from all the crying. His thumb traced a soft, soothing arc against your hip, and you felt the tension in your body slowly begin to unravel under his touch.
"I'm sorry, mama," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He leaned down, pressing gentle, featherlight pecks against your lips. Soft. Apologetic. Each kiss tasting like a silent plea. "Let me make it up to you, let me fix this..."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for permission. For any sign that you wanted this too.
You didn't say anything. You just reached up, your fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against his jaw, pulling him back down to meet your lips.
That was all the answer he needed.
"I love the way this dress looks on you," he murmured, his voice low and rough, "but I need it off."
His fingers found the thin straps of your dress, sliding them down your shoulders with a slowness that felt deliberate. The black silk pooled at your waist before he guided it lower, the fabric sliding against your skin as it slipped past your hips and fell to the floor in a soft heap by his ankles.
You laid before him in nothing but your panties, the cool air of the room kissing your exposed skin. Michael's breath caught, his eyes tracing over you like you were something sacred, something he'd been starved of for far too long.
"You get more beautiful every time I look at you," he breathed, almost to himself.
He leaned in closer, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, tilting your face toward his. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your neck—soft at first, his lips lingering against your pulse point. You felt him smile against your skin when your breath hitched.
Then he kissed lower. Just below your ear. The curve of your throat. The slope of your collarbone. Each kiss was slow, he was relearning your body after months.
His mouth trailed down to your chest, and you felt your eyes flutter shut, your fingers instinctively finding their way into his curls. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue circling the sensitive peak with practiced precision. His free hand found your other breast, massaging, kneading, rolling the bud between his thumb and forefinger until you were arching into his touch.
"Mikey..." you breathed, your voice barely a whisper, tangled in the strands of his curls.
He pulled away just long enough to meet your eyes, his gaze dark and heavy with want. "I know, baby," he cooed, pressing a final kiss to your breast before continuing his trail downward.
His lips mapped a path down your stomach, pausing to press kisses to your belly button, the soft swell of your hips, the skin just above the waistband of your panties. Your breath hitched as his giant palms caressed your thighs, spreading them gently apart. He touched you like he was trying to memorize every inch, like he was terrified he'd forget again.
He placed a soft, lingering kiss to your center—right through the thin fabric of your underwear. you squirmed beneath him, a quiet whimper escaping your lips.
Michael's teeth caught the band of your panties, tugging them down with a slowness that felt like he was torturing you on purpose. His hands followed, sliding the damp fabric down your legs, his fingers grazing your skin with every inch of progress. He tossed them aside without a second glance, his focus entirely on you.
Then he stood, and you watched as he shed his own clothes with ease. The leather jacket fell first, then his shirt, then his pants and boxers, until he in front of you in nothing but his skin, the pale glow of the city lights shining on him, making him look almost angelic.
Your eyes traced the familiar lines of his body—the curve of his broad shoulders, the v-line that you used to trail your tongue down so many times before, down to his hard, throbbing dick as it bobbed freely between his legs, undeniable evidence of how much he wanted—no—needed you. Your pulse quickened. It had been so long since you'd seen him like this.
He leaned back down, pressing a tender kiss to your stomach, his lips lingering there as if he was grounding himself in the warmth of your skin.
"I love you s’much," he murmured, his voice heavy with emotion, cracking at the end. "And I'm sorry."
You sighed softly, your fingers finding his hair again, stroking gently as you absorbed the weight of his apology. Your walls were crumbling, the last of your resistance dissolving under the warmth of his touch.
Michael moved downward again, his lips finding your slick center. The first contact sent a jolt through your entire body—his tongue slow, dragging through your folds with a skill that made your toes curl. He tasted you like he had been deprived of food for days and was just now getting a proper meal. His proper meal.
His tongue circled your clit with precision, alternating between soft, teasing flicks and firm, focused pressure that had your hips bucking against his mouth. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core.
"Missed this," he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled but clear. "Missed you. Taste s’good, mama."
Your hands tightened in his hair as he dived deeper, his tongue sliding through your slit before dipping inside you, tasting every part of your sopping wet hole like he was committing it to memory. His nose pressed against your clit with every movement, and the combination of sensations had you gasping, your back arching off the mattress.
"Michael—" you gasped, your voice breaking.
He pulled back just long enough to look up at you, his chin glistening, his eyes dark and devoted completely to you. "Let go, baby. I got you."
And then his mouth was on you again, relentless and loving all at once, pushing you closer and closer to the edge until you finally shattered beneath him, your thighs began to quiver and your cries filled the quiet room as he drank every last drop of your sweet juices.
Michael came back up, his chin glistening, utterly satisfied, kissing his way back up your body with slow, deliberate devotion. His lips traced the valley between your breasts, the curve of your collarbone, the sensitive hollow of your throat—each kiss a silent apology, a promise, a prayer.
When he finally reached your lips, he brushed his mouth against yours. Your hands moved to cradle his face, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was slow and searching, tongues tangling as you tasted yourself on his lips, tasting the salt of shared tears and the sweetness of reconciliation that you both so desperately needed.
He pulled away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.
"I'm yours, pretty girl," he whispered, his voice raw and trembling with sincerity. "I always have been. I always will be."
He pressed one last soft kiss to your lips before standing back up, his body casting a shadow over you in the dim light. You watched him through half lidded eyes, your chest still heaving and your skin still tingling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. If he didn’t give you his dick now you were going to start screaming.
His hand wrapped around his length, guiding himself to your entrance. You felt the blunt pressure of his tip— it was warm, flushed, aching—as he positioned himself against your slick folds. He paused there, hovering, his eyes locking with yours, asking without words if you were sure you wanted this.
You gave him a small, breathless nod.
He pushed in slowly.
Your lips parted as a deep, guttural moan escaped you, your head pressing back into the pillow as he filled you inch by inch. The stretch was beautiful—a familiar burn that bordered on too much and not enough all at once. But he watched your every reaction, his jaw slack, his eyes dark, drinking in the way your body surrendered to his.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped his lips as he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. He stilled for a moment, his forehead dropping to yours, your noses almost touching.
"Fit like a glove, baby," he whispered against your lips, his voice thick with awe.
He pulled back slowly, almost all the way out, before pushing back in with a sweet and steady pace. Each thrust was measured, deep—like he was trying to pour every unspoken word, every regret, every ounce of love he had into the way he moved inside you.
One hand hand found yours, fingers intertwining, pressing your palm flat against the mattress beside your head. The other, he brought up to kiss your knuckles, then your wrist, then the inside of your elbow, never breaking his rhythm.
"I’m yours, babygirl," he breathed, his voice cracking. His pace quickened, just slightly, the room filling with the sound of skin against skin, breathless moans and whispered sweet nothings. But soon, the pace wasn't enough for him. Not after months of literally starving for you.
Michael pulled out completely, ignoring your whimper of protest, and flipped you onto your stomach in one fluid motion. He grabbed your hips, tugging them upward until you were on your knees, your face pressed into the pillows, your back arched perfectly for him.
"Want you to feel all of me," he damn near growled, his voice dropping an octave.
He guided himself back to your entrance, dragging his tip through your slick pussy, coating himself in your arousal before pressing inside again. This time, there was no slowness—he pushed in deep, all at once, burying himself to the hilt in a single, brutal thrust.
You cried out, your fingers twisting in the sheets as he stretched you open, filling you so completely that you swore you were going to pass out. “Oh my God!”
"Fuck—" he hissed through clenched teeth, his hips pressing flush against your ass. He stayed there for a moment, letting you adjust, letting you feel every inch of him pulsing inside you.
Then he moved.
His thrusts were deep, punishing, each one driving him impossibly further into you. He grabbed your hips harder, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he set a brutal pace, the sound of your squelching wetness filling the room—obscene, rhythmic, filthy.
The noise echoed off the walls, and Michael groaned loudly, his head falling back as the sound alone sent a jolt of electricity straight to his dick.
"Shit—you hear that?" he panted, his voice almost wrecked. "Hear how wet you are f’me? How good you're takin’ me?"
He slowed his pace just enough to pull out almost entirely, then slammed back in, watching the way your body swallowed him, the way your juices coated his skin.
A shudder ran through his entire body. His rhythm faltered for half a second, a high, desperate moan escaping his lips.
"Fuck, mama—that sound alone’s about to make me cum," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper, laced with embarrassment and raw need.
He couldn't help it. He pulled out again, ignoring another one of your desperate whimpers, and flipped you onto your back once more. He needed to see your face. Needed to watch your eyes roll back as he took you apart.
He lifted your legs, pressing your knees toward your chest until they were nearly touching your shoulders—the mating press. Was he trying to kill you?
He lined himself up again, his tip nudging against your soaked entrance, and pushed in with one deep, relentless thrust.
Your back arched off the mattress, a strangled cry tearing from your throat as he hit a spot so deep, so perfect, that it had you seeing stars.
"Right there," you gasped, your nails raking down the muscles in his back. "That’s my spot, baby. Don’t stop!”
He drove into you with a desperation that was almostt feral, his hips slapping against yours, the wet, lewd sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room. Each thrust was deeper than the last, his pelvis grinding against your sensitive clit with every movement, the angle so deep that you could feel him in your fucking stomach.
"So warm.. so tight," he grunted, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am, baby? This pussy was made for me."
The sounds were obscene, wet and utterly disgusting, and Michael's eyes rolled back, his pace stuttering as the noise pushed him closer to the edge. But then something shifted in his expression. The feral hunger softened into something raw, something vulnerable .
He slowed his pace, just barely, his thrusts still deep but no longer punishing. His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing over your swollen lips, his eyes searching yours in the dim light.
"Tell me you love me," he whispered, his voice cracking.
You blinked, your mind hazy with pleasure. "Huh?"
He thrust deeper, grinding against that perfect spot inside you, making your eyes flutter shut and a moan spill from your lips.
"Please..." His voice broke, tears glistening at the corners of his eyes. "Baby, I need to hear you tell me you love me. I'm sorry—I know I don't deserve it, I know I fucked up—but just... please. Tell me you love me."
He was trembling above you, his hips still rocking into you with that same deep, delicious rhythm, but his focus was entirely on your face, on your lips, waiting for the words that would put him back together.
"I love you," you breathed, the words tumbling out before you could stop them, honest and true. A soft sob escaped his lips, and he buried his face in your neck, his pace quickening again as he chased his release, his tears wetting your skin.
"Say it again," he begged, his voice muffled against your throat. "Please, sweet girl, say it again."
"I love you, a-angel face," you repeated, your fingers tangling in his damp curls. "I never stopped."
He cried out against your skin as he came, his body shuddering, his release spilling into you in hot, desperate pulses. You followed moments later, your walls clenching around him, milking him dry as a second orgasm ripped through you, your cries muffled against his neck. And he kept whispering it between broken sobs and trembling kisses pressed to your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips. I love you, I love you, I love you.
"I love you. I love you. I'm so sorry. I love you."
