they always say they wanna fuck old men but when i come and say i would fuck michael even when he needs a cane, i look crazy. his voice is naturally deep so imagine him not giving a fuck while having sex with you and looking up at you with those pretty eyes of his while his hands rest on your hips, “that’s it baby, take me just like that.” deep voice and strokes cause he can’t go as fast as he used to, but you’re more than okay with it.
edit: i know he wasn’t old, but just imagine with me guys, see my vision for a second
summary: a blurb of michael releasing in your mouth
content: oral (m!receiving), smut with no plot, sub!mike, dickmatized!reader, barely proofread
wc: 837
authors note: i imagined otw michael for this but couldn’t decide if afro mike or jerry curl mike fit it better, so yall get both 🌚
the loud choking sounds of michaels thick cock hitting the back of your throat and constricting your breathing is all michael can process.
its so embarrassing. he really didn’t want you to do this... this thing. in his mind, it was disgusting, vile, degrading-- something he couldn't shake from years of beliefs he never quite managed to shake. no woman, especially his women, should ever have to do something like that for him.
but then you'd pout with those big brown eyes and beg like it was something you’d wanted to do forever, and it made him keel. how could he say no to you? when all you wanted to do was make him feel good?
‘s-slow down, minnie. you’ll choke,’ michael begs you softly, raising a hand to caress the back of your head as you gobble him into oblivion. strings of drool slide down your chin as you stuff your mouth full of him. the taste of him so addicting-- his skin slightly salty and smooth on your tongue. and so so heavy. a comforting weight that reassures you he's actually there with you.
michael marvels at the way you eat him up. the perfect suction you apply when you bob your head back up to his tip. swirling your hot tongue around his tip, making sure to press against that vein that makes him jump. the bubbles of spit that escape into his curls when he bottoms out in your throat.
something that was supposed to be obscene became, the most beautiful thing he'd ever witnessed.
michael, dazed and transfixed, bucks his hips. mindlessly chasing this deep, earthshattering bliss you never fail to rain on him. the hand on your head curls into a loose fist, silently anchoring you to him. silently making you take him.
the added length has you choking frantically around him, tears brimming your eyes as you try to keep up with his thrusts. they're uncoordinated and unpredictable, driven more by emotion than control. deep thrusts here and then as though someone's gaining control, reverts back to shy, timid spasms.
'mama 'm so close,' michael warns softly, hoping you'll ease off him. all you do is smile up at him and bring your hand up to his balls, cupping him firmly. squeezing the sac gently while sliding your fingertip just behind it, probing lightly at the line that leads to his asshole.
michael lets out a startled gasp, feeling his release pool right at his tip. it's so close he starts to leak into your mouth, like saliva filling the mouth before someone hurls. his eyes cram shut and his shoulders fold inwards, panic overcoming his features as he realizes what's happening.
'you need to m-move, minnie,' he chokes out, reaching for your shoulders to push you off him.
please. anywhere but there, he prays.
he barely wants you anywhere near it, let alone it going in your mouth.
michael's nails press firmly into your skin as he feels you force him further down your throat. there's nowhere for him to run. you've trapped him between the warm cavern of your mouth and his bed. all he can do is sit there and let you take whatever you wanted from him.
'angel i-it's comin- oh god,' michael cries, one final attempt to get you off but you’ve gone deaf to his pleas. solely focused on his whimpers that fuel the ache torturing your flower.
michael, lost in rapture, tightens the fist in your hair and pulls you all the way down to his base, completely cutting all your oxygen off. he bucks a couple times, a violent shudder ripping through him as he releases a thick load into your mouth. it's warm and slightly bitter, filling your cheeks with long spurts he can't control.
a broken sound escapes him, deep and guttural, as he feels you squeeze his balls, milking him until he runs dry. his hips thrust and twitch involuntarily, pushing his seed past your lips and down your chin.
it's messy and sloppy but you love it, separating from his cock with a pop before swallowing what didn't leak out.
michael lowers his eyes, a hot sear of guilt burning his skin. 'im sorry,' he whispers, shame staining his cheeks bright red. quietly hoping the bed would swallow him whole. you smile understandingly and lean down, smearing his mess across your lips with his tip.
'minnie, please,' he gasps, unable to hide his embarrassment. quickly he uses his thumbs to wipe your face clean. a laugh erupts from you before letting his cock fall soft against his wet balls.
'mike,' you say softly, a small smile tugging at your lips. 'pretty please, let me do this whenever i want?'
you look up at him with a pleading expression, trying to convince him with nothing but your sincerity and charm. michael visibly gulps before letting out a defeated sigh, because somehow, when it comes to you, he never seems to be able to say no to his baby.
'o-okay.'
author's note: this is so bad but i wanted to put something out before i take the weekend to wrap up my long smut/angst fic..
If anyone had told you that the sweetest, most soft-spoken superstar on the planet was secretly a ravenous, borderline-obsessive fiend behind closed doors, you would’ve laughed. But now? Shaking, sweating, and gripping the headboard of his massive master bed for dear life, you knew the terrifying truth.
Michael was a munch. A total, unapologetic eater.
"Michael, please," you gasped, your thighs twitching violently as his warm, heavy hands locked your hips in place. "I'm—I can't. I’m too sensitive, baby, stop—"
He didn't stop. He didn't even slow down. Michael just peeked up from between your legs, his damp curls clinging to his forehead, his lips glistening with your slick. His dark eyes were wide, blown-out, and completely shameless as he swiped his tongue slowly from the bottom of your slit all the way up to your aching clit, making you sob out loud.
"Shh," he murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly contrast to his usual high pitch. "I didn't say you could close your legs, beautiful. Keep 'em open for me. Let me taste how much you love me."
He was a perv, plain and simple. It didn't matter if you were trying to watch a movie, winding down after a long day, or literally just woke up; if Michael got a whiff of you, he was diving in. He treated your body like his personal, five-star buffet. He was highly addicted, completely obsessed with the natural, warm scent of your skin, especially when your everyday scent mixed with your natural wetness. He’d bury his nose in your neck, trail his lips down your stomach, and just inhale deeply between your thighs before his tongue even touched you.
He had absolutely zero boundaries, too. If you were sitting on his lap while he was writing music, his large hands would inevitably slip under your skirt to check your moisture. If you were even a little wet, he’d instantly drop to his knees on the floor, pulling your panties to the side right there. He was so incredibly visual, preferring to turn on all the bedside lamps just so he could watch his long fingers parting your rich, folds, blending beautifully against your skin. He'd even pull your lips apart himself, whispering muffled, dirty praise like, "You taste so sweet, baby... look at how much you're leaking for me," as he swallowed every single drop.
"Michael, seriously, I'm going to pass out," you whined, trying to push his head away as a fresh wave of overstimulation hit you.
But he loved when you tried to fight it. He loved the control, often pulling your hips right over his face to anchor you down, whispering, "Smother me, baby. Don't be shy." Even after you’d just had a screaming, toe-curling orgasm and your legs were shaking like jelly, Michael’s greed knew no bounds. He’d wait barely thirty seconds—just long enough for you to catch your breath—before his tongue was right back on your swollen clit. As you cried out and tried to wriggle away, he simply pinned your wrists to the mattress, looking up at you with a dark, teasing smirk. "Just a little more, mama. I need to taste my baby"
reader getting married to someone new and Michael is her ex husband/ baby daddy and stops the wedding or begs her back ughhhh
forty eight hours
synopsis: two years ago, breaking up with michael jackson felt like the safe option. the mature option. now, the wedding is only forty eight hours away, michael shows up and your door to drop off your son. every piece of your perfect new life completely shatters beneath you.
themes: HIStory era! michael x non famous! fem reader, ex-boyfriend, baby daddy, heavy hidden feelings, you’re getting married, he’s begging for you, lots of desire, kiss, fingering, angsty michael.
note: i have been SOOO excited to write this!! i hope I’ve done it justice!!
People always assumed that because you and Michael Jackson had broken up, it must have ended in a spectacular, tabloid-worthy explosion. The public imagined screaming matches that shook the walls of Neverland, shattered glass, dramatic betrayals, or bitter ultimatums.
It hadn’t.
That was almost the cruelest part of it all. There was no villain to hate, no specific sin to forgive.
You had simply reached a quiet, devastating point where life became too heavy to carry.
His career was a beast, swallowing him whole, demanding every ounce of his energy and soul as he traveled from country to country, stadium to stadium. Meanwhile, you were drowning in the profound, isolated exhaustion of raising a newborn. The silence of empty hotel rooms morphed into the silence of a massive estate. Every goodbye at the tarmac hurt more than the last, chipping away at your foundation until, one rainy Tuesday night in a dimly lit kitchen, you’d both quietly agreed that maybe loving each other simply wasn't enough to survive the storm.
It had been the easy option. The safe option. The kind of mature, rational decision that made perfect sense on paper.
Until it didn’t.
Because two years later, there still wasn’t a single day not a single fraction of a second that either of you had truly let each other go.
Co-parenting Prince had become second nature, a flawless, well-oiled routine. Michael was a fiercely devoted father he never missed his designated days unless a physical impossibility or a global tour dictated otherwise. You’d celebrate birthdays together under a shower of confetti, laugh genuinely over the ridiculous, mangled words your toddler said, and even spend Christmas mornings in the exact same room, unwrapping presents while pretending the phantom ache in your chest wasn't there.
Only the two of you knew how dangerous that performative peace really was.
There had been moments. Unguarded, terrifying moments. A lingering glance over the top of a storybook that lasted a beat too long. An accidental brush of hands while passing a baby bottle. Late-night conversations that stretched out into the early hours of the morning, long after Prince had fallen asleep in his crib and the rest of the world had gone quiet.
And then… there was two weeks ago.
Prince had been fast asleep upstairs at Neverland after a long movie marathon. You had been waiting by the grand front doors for your driver to arrive, your coat already pulled tightly around your shoulders, when Michael offered to walk you out to the porch.
The night air was crisp, smelling of jasmine and wet earth. You’d laughed about something incredibly trivial neither of you could even remember the punchline now and then the laughter had slowly died down, leaving a thick, charged silence in its wake.
He’d looked at you. Really looked at you, with those deep, searching eyes that seemed to read every hidden secret in your soul.
"You look beautiful tonight," he had murmured, his voice a low, raspy velvet that vibrated straight through you. "You always do, but tonight... you're glowing."
Your breath had caught sharply in your throat. "Mike, don't say that."
"Why not?" he whispered, taking a slow step closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. "It's the truth."
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers didn't pull away; instead, they lingered against the sensitive skin of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline with a reverence that made your knees weak.
"So…" he’d whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips before locking back onto yours.
"So…" you replied, your heart hammering a frantic, painful rhythm against your ribs. "I should... I should see if the car is here."
Neither of you moved. The world stopped spinning. Michael leaned down, resting his forehead against yours for barely a second. It was close enough that you could feel the exact cadence of his uneven breathing, close enough that the scent of his familiar cologne overwhelmed your senses. His lips had brushed against yours not a full kiss, but a ghost of a touch, a desperate, feather-light graze that tasted like everything you had lost. One more inch would have completely rewritten the past two years.
Instead, panic had flared in your chest. You’d stepped back, breaking the spell, pulling your coat tighter around your shivering frame.
"Goodnight, Mike," you had choked out, rushing toward the car without looking back.
He hadn’t tried to stop you. He had simply stood on the porch, a solitary figure under the warm golden glow of the lights, watching you drive away into the dark, leaving you to spend the next fortnight drowning in the phantom feeling of his lips against yours.
You promised yourself it had been nothing. A momentary lapse in judgment. A symptom of nostalgia. After all, you were getting married. You had a meticulously planned future. A beautiful new house, a successful, dependable fiancé who adored both you and Prince, and a life free of chaos. There was no room left for old feelings.
There couldn't be.
Two days before the wedding, the new house was finally beginning to feel like a home, though it was still trapped in a state of transition. Cardboard boxes sat unopened in the corners of the living room, glittering wedding gifts filled the dining room table, and your own exhaustion was starting to weigh heavily on you despite your best efforts to tidy up before your fiancé got home from his business trip.
The clock on the wall read just after eight when the sweeping flash of headlights washed across your living room windows.
The quiet hum of an engine died out in the driveway, followed by the sound of a car door firmly shutting. A moment later, there was a gentle, rhythmic knock at the front door.
You smiled despite yourself, the tension in your shoulders dropping for a brief second as you walked down the hallway. You pulled open the heavy front door, and Michael stood there on the porch, holding a sleepy Prince securely in his arms. He was finally dropping him off after their day out at the zoo.
Prince mumbled sleepily, burying his small face into the crook of Michael's neck and tightening his little arms around his dad's shoulders.
Michael looked up from Prince, his gaze meeting yours. The easy, playful smile on his face softened into something quieter, something entirely intimate.
"Hey," he murmured.
"Hey," you replied softly.
"I wore him out," Michael said, shifting Prince’s weight to his hip.
"I can tell."
Prince’s little curls were a wild, static mess, a telling smudge of chocolate ice cream stained the collar of his shirt, and his eyelids were visibly heavy, fluttering as he fought a losing battle against sleep.
"We went to the zoo," Michael explained, a faint chuckle in his voice. "He insisted on seeing every single animal twice."
"I know. I heard all about the lions over the phone earlier."
"They were THIS big, Mommy..." Prince mumbled suddenly, waking up just enough to weakly stretch his tiny arms out a few inches before dropping them back around Michael's neck.
Michael laughed, rocking him. "They definitely weren’t that big, Prince. You're exaggerating."
You couldn’t help the genuine smile that tugged at your lips. "Thank you for bringing him back, Mike. And thank you for taking him. I really needed the afternoon to clear out some of these boxes."
"My pleasure. Always," he said.
An abrupt silence settled between you. It wasn't awkward; it was comfortable, heavy with history, and desperately, dangerously familiar. You looked at him standing in your new foyer the foyer of the house you were about to share with another man and a sudden pang of hospitality, or perhaps pure self-destruction, took over.
"You… uh…" you glanced at your watch, clearing your throat. "Have you eaten dinner yet?"
Michael hesitated, his eyes darting to the unpacked boxes, then back to your face. "No. I was planning on grabbing something back at the hotel."
"You should probably…" You knew better. Every logical instinct in your brain was screaming at you to stop, to wish him a good night, to close the door and lock it tight. Your heart completely ignored the warning. "…come in. I was just about to order something."
Michael’s eyebrows lifted in slight surprise.
"You sure? I don't want to intrude."
"It’d be rude not to feed the father of my child after he spent the day chasing a toddler around a zoo," you rationalized, stepping aside to let him through.
A tiny, knowing smile appeared on his lips. "If you’re sure."
"I’m sure."
You shouldn't have been.
An hour later, empty cardboard takeaway boxes covered the sleek marble of your new kitchen island. Chinese food. It was Michael’s absolute favorite. Neither of you had mentioned the glaring fact that you’d ordered his exact usual, steamed white rice, vegetable spring rolls, and garlic broccoli, without even asking him what he wanted. Some habits were too deeply ingrained to ever truly erase.
"So…" you smiled, swirling the remaining wine in your glass.
"So…" Michael echoed, leaning his elbows on the counter, looking relaxed in a way he rarely was in public.
"Prince is getting so big," you murmured softly, looking toward the hallway. "He's starting to ask questions about everything. He wants to know how the world works."
"He's smart," Michael said proudly, a soft look in his eyes. "Just like his mom. He has your curiosity."
"And your stubbornness," you retorted with a smirk.
"Hey, that's a good trait to have," he defended with a completely straight face, pointing a chopstick at you. "Helps him stand his ground. I’m not crushing his spirit."
You laughed, shaking your head. "You are unbelievable."
"I’ve been told," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, intense warmth.
The conversation flowed with an embarrassing, terrifying ease. You talked about Prince's upcoming preschool, old memories from the Bad tour, favorite movies you'd both seen recently, and new music. It was seamless. It was everything except the one colossal, suffocating topic hanging over both of your heads.
The wedding. In forty-eight hours.
Suddenly, Prince’s little head dropped heavily against your arm where he sat next to you, his eyes completely shut, a soft little snore escaping him. He was completely spent.
"Looks like the zoo finally won," Michael whispered, a tender smile on his face.
"I've got to put him to bed," you said softly.
"He's practically a zombie."
You carefully scooped Prince into your arms, his small body warm and heavy against your chest. "I'll be right back."
"Take your time," Michael murmured, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite decipher.
You carried Prince upstairs to his new bedroom, the one with the freshly painted walls and the star-shaped nightlight. You gently pulled off his shoes, changed him into his favorite pajamas, and tucked the soft duvet up to his chin. He mumbled something incoherent, turning onto his side, completely asleep. You stood over his bed for a long moment, brushing his curls away from his forehead, your heart aching with a profound, terrifying confusion. When you finally closed his door and walked back down the stairs, you felt entirely exposed.
You walked back into the kitchen, your motions slow and deliberate. Michael didn’t sit back down. Instead, he stood there, looking around the pristine, modern kitchen. His eyes tracked the takeaway boxes, the two half-empty wine glasses, and finally, they landed on you. A soft, bittersweet laugh escaped his lips, a sound tinged with a heavy sadness.
"What?" you asked, leaning forward slightly against the island.
He shook his head, looking down at his shoes before looking back up. "This…"
"What about it?"
He walked over, resting his hands on the high back of the barstool opposite you. "This is the old days."
You frowned, your chest tightening. "What do you mean?"
"Us," he said, his voice dropping into a nostalgic, velvety whisper. "You putting him to bed, walking back downstairs to the kitchen where it's quiet, and finding me exactly where you left me. It feels exactly like the old days. Like we never left that kitchen in Neverland."
You swallowed hard, the wine suddenly tasting bitter on your tongue. "He was only little then, Mike. It was a different time. We're different people now."
"Are we?" Michael asked softly, taking a step around the kitchen island. "Because when I look at you, I don't feel different. I used to love walking back downstairs, or waiting for you to come down, just to have this peace with you. Just us."
The silence that followed was suffocating. The air in the kitchen grew thick, charged with an undeniable, electric tension. Michael walked slowly, his footsteps completely silent until he stopped right beside your stool.
Then, without another word, his long, slender fingers gently slid across the marble and found yours.
Your entire body stiffened. His hand was warm, larger than yours, comforting, and far too familiar. It felt like a homecoming you weren't allowed to have, a beautiful ghost pulling you backward into the dark.
"Mike…" you warned, your voice trembling as you tried to pull away, but his grip tightened just enough not to hurt, but to beg you to stay.
"I loved you so much when I first met you," he whispered, his eyes wide and glossy under the kitchen lights.
You closed your eyes, shaking your head. "Michael, please don't do this. Don't say these things now."
"But then you became a mother," he continued, completely ignoring your plea. His thumb began to gently brush back and forth across your knuckles, a sensation that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "And somehow… I didn't think it was possible, but… I loved you even more." His voice cracked, a raw, fragile sound. "I didn't think my heart could hold that much."
Tears instantly burned behind your eyelids, hot and threatening to spill over. "Mike, stop. Please, I'm begging you."
"I watched you become everything I’d ever hoped the woman I loved would be," he said, looking down at you with a heartbreaking, unshielded honesty that stripped away every defense you had spent two years building. "You gave me Prince. You gave me a real family. Not a headline, not a crowd. A family. Do you know what that meant to me? What it still means?"
The room was dead silent, save for the uneven, ragged sound of your own breathing.
Then, he leaned down slightly, his lips inches from your ear, and whispered the words that destroyed everything: "I still love you now."
Your heart stopped dead in your chest.
"No…"
"I do."
"No, Michael, you don't," you cried, finally ripping your hand away from his touch as though it physically burned you.
"I’ve tried not to," he confessed, a tear finally escaping his eye and tracking down his cheek. "God knows I've tried. I've stayed away, I've buried myself in the studio, I've tried to force myself to see you as just my co-parent. But it doesn't work. It never works."
"You can’t say this to me," you choked out, standing up so quickly that your barstool scraped harshly across the hardwood floor.
"You can't do this to me right now."
"You can't look me in the eye and tell me you don't feel it too," he urged, standing his ground, his eyes burning into yours. "Look at me and tell me you don't ache for me the way I ache for you."
"I am getting married!" you yelled, your voice cracking under the sheer weight of your panic.
"I know."
"In two days, Michael! Two days!"
"I know."
"You shouldn’t even be in this house right now! You shouldn't be saying these things to me!"
"I know!" he yelled back, his own voice breaking as he took a step toward you. "I know all of it! I know it's wrong, I know the timing is terrible, but I can't keep pretending anymore! I can't let you walk down that aisle without knowing that my heart is still lying at your feet!"
"No," you sobbed, shaking your head violently, covering your mouth as the tears finally spilled over. "No, no, no. I promised myself."
Michael’s expression fell, looking completely shattered. "What did you promise yourself?"
"I promised myself that whatever happened between us two weeks ago on that porch… whatever that almost-kiss was… I was done looking backwards. I was moving forward. I have a life planned, Michael! A safe life!"
"I wasn't done," he said softly, a desperate plea in his eyes. "I never stopped looking back. I've been looking back every single second of every single day, drowning in the memory of you."
"Don't do this," you begged, pressing your hands against your temples. "Please, don't do this to me."
"Why are you marrying him?" Michael asked suddenly, the question cutting through the air like a knife.
"Because he loves me!"
"So do I!" Michael shouted, taking another step forward, his hands gesturing between the two of you. "I love you more than my own breath! I love you until it physically pains me to breathe!"
"He’s here, Michael!" you screamed back, your chest heaving. "He is actually here! When life gets complicated, when things get loud, he doesn't fly to another continent! He stays! He's consistent!"
"But you’re looking at me," Michael whispered, his voice suddenly dropping into a fragile, devastating octave. "Even when he's here, you're looking at me. Your body is reaching for mine right now, I can feel it."
"I am not."
"You are. You've been doing it all night." His eyes searched your face, tracing the tears on your cheeks. "He gives you stability. I know he does. He gives Prince security. He’s safe. But let me ask you something… Does he make you laugh until you cry?"
You bit your lip, fresh tears rolling down your face, unable to answer.
"Does he know how you take your coffee without you having to ask?" Michael pressed, his voice thick with emotion. "Does he know that you sing under your breath when you’re cooking, completely unaware that you're doing it?"
"Stop it, Michael," you sobbed, turning your head away.
"Does he know you still sleep with one foot outside the duvet because you get too warm in the middle of the night?"
"Please stop…"
"Does he know the exact face you make when you're trying desperately not to laugh at something inappropriate? Does he know the sound of your real laugh? The one you only give when you're completely happy?" Michael’s voice was breaking completely now, a ragged, breathless sound.
You covered your face with both hands, your shoulders trembling violently as the brutal accuracy of his words tore through your armor. He knew you. He knew every microscopic, trivial detail of your existence because he had loved you with an intensity that another man could only dream of mimicking.
He stepped into your space, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face so you were forced to look at him.
"So why him?" he whispered, his eyes completely bloodshot, glittering with unshed tears. "So why not me?"
Your breath hitched, a broken sob tearing from your throat. "Because you broke my heart!"
Michael flinched as if he’d been physically struck. The tears finally cascaded down his face, his lips trembling. "I broke my own too," he admitted, his voice barely a whimper. "I broke my own heart every single day I spent away from you. Every hotel room, every stage, every crowded stadium... I was entirely alone because you weren't there."
Neither of you moved. The house was completely silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the refrigerator and the sound of your shared, fractured breathing. The yearning between you was a living thing, stretching tight, pulling you toward him like gravity.
Michael’s grip on your hands softened, becoming entirely desperate, his fingers intertwining with yours as if he were drowning and you were the only thing keeping him afloat. "I know I chose the easy option back then. I know I let you walk away because I was terrified of destroying you with the madness of my life. I know I spent two years pretending co-parenting was enough, telling myself that if you were happy, I’d survive it."
He shook his head, a look of pure, unadulterated terror crossing his features. "But I was wrong. I won’t survive watching you marry someone else. I won't survive seeing another man hold my son and love my woman. It’s an agony I can’t bear."
Your heart shattered into a million unfixable pieces. You wanted to pull away, but your hands gripped his jacket instead, your fingers bunching the fabric, pulling him closer even as your lips formed a protest.
"I’ll smile for Prince," Michael whispered, his chin trembling. "I’ll shake his hand at the altar. I’ll tell the press, I’ll tell everyone who asks that I’m happy for you. I’ll play the perfect, supportive ex-boyfriend." His voice broke entirely, a sob escaping him. "But it’ll kill me. It will absolutely kill me. I'll be a ghost walking through life."
He took one final step forward, closing the remaining distance between your bodies. His forehead came to rest against yours once more, mirroring the night on the porch, but this time, he wasn't pulling back. He was trembling, his chest heaving against yours, the desperate, unyielding hunger of two years of separation crashing over both of you.
"So don’t," he begged, his warm breath mingling with yours, his lips brushing yours with every word. "Don’t marry him."
"Michael…" you breathed, your eyes closing as the sheer force of your own longing threatened to consume you. "It's too late. The invitations, the house, the future..."
"It's never too late," he cried, his hands moving up to cup your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears. "Please. Look at me. Just look at me."
You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze, completely undone by the raw devotion shining through his tears.
"Choose me," he pleaded, his voice a broken, desperate whisper. "Let me spend the rest of my life making up for choosing fear instead of us. I don’t care if we have to start completely over from scratch. I don’t care if we have to earn each other’s trust all over again, piece by piece. I don’t care if it’s difficult, or if the media goes crazy, or if the world screams. I don't care about any of it anymore. I just need you. I'm empty without you."
He squeezed your face gently, his lips lingering just a millimeter away from yours, the torment of the space between you almost impossible to endure.
"Just… please," he whispered against your lips, a final, ragged breath of a man pouring his entire soul into your hands. "Please don’t marry him. Come back to me. Come home."
Michael’s hands slowly dropped from your face, the absence of his touch instantly leaving you cold. He stepped back, his chest still heaving, looking at you with a gaze that was entirely raw, stripped of the global superstar facade. He looked entirely like the man who loved you in the quiet hours of the night, before the rest of the world got a say.
Turning away, he began to walk slowly toward the dining room doorway, his footsteps heavy against the hardwood. He stopped at the threshold, gripping the frame, his back to you for a moment before he turned his head.
"You still have time to decide," he said, his voice dropping into a soft, gravelly whisper that cut right through the quiet kitchen. "You have forty-eight hours. The choice has always been yours."
He didn't wait for your answer. He walked out of the kitchen, his silhouette moving through the dimly lit dining room and toward the front entrance door.
For a single second, the silence of the house rushed back in the heavy, suffocating reality of the unopened boxes, the wedding gifts, and the safe, predictable life waiting for you in two days. It was the ultimate battle of logic against instinct.
But your head didn't stand a chance. Your heart completely took over, shattering every promise, every rational thought, and every ounce of fear you’d been hoarding for two years.
You ran.
Your bare feet slapped against the floor as you bolted from the kitchen, tearing through the dining room just as Michael’s hand wrapped around the brass knob of the front door.
"Michael!" you gasped out.
He stopped, freezing in place before slowly turning around. His dark eyes widened slightly as he saw you standing there, breathless, your chest rising and falling rapidly.
You took a step closer, your voice trembling but entirely resolute. "How bad do you want me?"
Michael’s breath hitched. A dark, intense fire suddenly ignited in his eyes, the tragic sadness from moments before burning away into pure, unadulterated hunger. He let go of the doorknob, stepping away from the exit.
"So bad," he rasped, his voice vibrating with a deep, dangerous intensity that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "So bad it feels like a sickness."
"How bad do you need me?" you pressed, taking another step, the space between you completely dissolving.
"More than you will ever know," he whispered fiercely, his eyes tracking the frantic movement of your lips. "More than my own soul."
"What can you offer me, Michael?" your voice cracked, desperate and pleading, needing to hear it one last time. "If I throw everything away... what do you give me?"
"Life," he said instantly, closing the final distance between you until he was looming over you, his heat enveloping you completely. "Life. Love. A non-broken family. Prince getting to be with his mom and dad all the time, under one roof. Me and you. Everything we were meant to be before I let the world tear us apart. Just trust me."
That was it. The final thread snapped.
With a low, possessive growl that was entirely uncharacteristic of his gentle demeanor, Michael lunged forward. His hands gripped your waist, and in one swift, powerful motion, he spun you around and slammed your back against the heavy wood of the front door. The impact jolted through you, but any shock vanished the instant his lips crashed onto yours.
The kiss was explosive a violent, desperate release of two years of unendurable yearning, stolen glances, and suppressed agony. He didn't kiss you like a ghost anymore; he kissed you like a man claiming what belonged to him. His mouth parted yours hungrily, his tongue tangling with yours in a deep, bruising rhythm that made your head spin.
You let out a broken gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to wrap firmly into his jacket, pulling him closer, crushing your chest against his. You wanted to dissolve into him.
"Ah, God," Michael groaned into your mouth, his lips moving down to trace a path of searing kisses along your jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck. "You're mine. Tell me you're mine."
"Yours," you cried out, arching your back off the door as his lips found the sweet spot at the base of your throat. "Always yours, Mike."
His hands became frantic, sliding down your hips, gripping your thighs through your clothes before his fingers fiercely hooked into the waistband of your pants. He didn't hesitate. His long, warm fingers slipped beneath the fabric, sliding smoothly past your underwear to find the bare, burning skin of your hip.
You whimpered, a sharp spike of heat pooling between your legs as his touch slid lower. Michael’s breathing was completely ragged against your ear, his chest heaving aggressively against yours as his fingers slipped directly into your wetness.
"Michael—" you choked out, your fingers tightening in his hair, your head snapping back against the door.
"I've got you," he whispered darkly, his fingers finding your slick heat and immediately moving in a slow, torturous stroke. He knew exactly how you felt, exactly how to touch you, his muscle memory guiding him perfectly. He slid one finger, then two, deep inside you, stretching you out as his thumb found your swollen center, pressing down with a firm, deliberate friction.
A loud, uninhibited moan escaped your lips, completely muffled as Michael brought his mouth back down to yours, drinking the sound straight from your throat. He began to pace his fingers inside you, pushing deep and pulling back, matching the desperate, frantic rhythm of his tongue. Your hips buckled against his hand, completely helpless under the sheer, blinding pleasure of his touch. He was driving you over the edge within seconds, the intensity of the reunion too overwhelming for your body to handle.
"Look at me," Michael breathed, pulling his lips back just an inch, his fingers continuing their wicked, relentless rhythm inside you, driving you to the absolute brink of sanity.
You forced your heavy eyelids open, your vision blurred with tears of pleasure, meeting his dark, blown-out pupils.
"You're not marrying him," he ordered, his voice raw, dropping into a terrifyingly beautiful, low pitch.
You let out a broken, trembling gasp, your body shaking against the door, completely at his mercy. "Michael... the wedding..."
"No," he cut you off, his grip on your waist tightening until it borders on bruising. "The decision is made for you."
He growled the words against your skin, a sound so fiercely possessive it made your heart stop, before he crashed his mouth back onto yours. The kiss wasn't just a reconciliation; it was an absolute takeover. It was a declaration of ownership, a promise that he would tear down the entire world before he ever let you walk away from him again. He drank your cries, his tongue deep and demanding, claiming every part of you as his fingers delivered the final, hard strokes that sent you crashing over the edge.
The climax ripped through you like wildfire, a breathless, sobbing cry torn from your throat as your walls clamped tightly around his hand. Michael held you up, pinning you flat against the door, absorbing the violent tremors of your release while his own ragged breath burned against your neck.
Slowly, the blinding waves began to recede, leaving you completely spent, clinging to his broad shoulders for support, your chest heaving in sync with his. Michael gently withdrew his hand from your pants, but he didn't give you an inch of space. He kept his heavy, solid frame pressed firmly against yours, trapping you in his warmth.
He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into a dark, velvety whisper that promised everything and left you entirely undone.
"Go upstairs. Pack one bag for you and Prince. Just one." He kissed the sensitive spot right beneath your jaw, making you whimper all over again. "I'm calling the car. Tonight, you're coming home."
—𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒; being married to michael jackson had its perks and downsides — the latter ultimately leading to your divorce. ex-wives, demanding jobs, and loneliness all lead to your split while you’re pregnant with his fourth child — but your secret, mutual love never falters. but, at your son’s seventh birthday party hosted at neverland, and multiple bottles of wine — can the love be rekindled?
—𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆; SMUT, 18+, p-in-v, creampie, mentions of love-bites & bruising, oral (f!receiving) ANGST, lots of it, failed relationship, divorce, mentions of pregnancy, birth, labour, etc, heavy drinking, fluff mixed in there too.
—𝐀/𝐍; sorry this took so long, it’s cuz it’s so long so strap in and enjoy! heavily inspired by @michaeldiary mwah love u
Alcohol often does incredulous things to people.
And right now, you finally understood why.
Waking up with a pounding headache, throat dryer than the Sahara, eyes squinting almost painfully from the bright light that shone through the ajar curtains, and an unsettling bubble of nausea growing in your stomach — all roads led back to alcohol.
What didn’t lead back to alcohol was a noticeable sting between your thighs, and a dull ache from blooming bruises on your hips.
In the shape of fingers..?
And the puzzle piece only started slotting into place when your head turned to the side, eyebrows neatly furrowed into your forehead, as a hand came up to rub your tired eyes—Ouch!
Your hand retracted instanetously when something cold, hard and metallic scraped along your eyelid — your eyes blowing wide open at the jewellery clad on your ring finger.
Your wedding ring.
One you had taken off over a year ago — was now firmly pressed back onto your ring-finger like it hadn’t left at all.
And oh! If that wasn’t enough to remind you of your previous night.
Your stark naked ex-husband, Michael, littered in lovebites and smudged lipstick, sleeping soundly next to you, in his bed, at his house, was more than enough to do so.
Looking down, reality hit you like a ton of bricks — you had evidently had sex with your ex-husband. Plain and simple — and embarrassingly clear. The deep, indented, slowly forming bruises now adorning your hips were, painfully obviously, in the shape of the hands of the man deep in slumber next to you.
Eight years together makes things like that easy to spot.
And that daunting fact, slowly, but surely, let the ever-so-wonderfully reminding thought that you were in fact divorced, creep back up into your pounding brain.
You were divorced. Split up. Not together anymore. Legally binding from February 2003.
But, this didn’t look very divorced right now.
“Oh, God.” You mumbled, voice hoarse and croaked as you sat up, stomach churning and the relentlessly thumping in your head never letting up, as you sighed, running a, wedding ring free, hand over your face.
Your hands fell lazily and defeated into your lap as you shook your head at your heedless actions — vision locking on the diamond-encrusted wedding band that fit like a glove on your finger, and was twinkling in the morning light.
The divorce had been messy, and rushed for that matter. A meticulous, devastatingly, continuous stamp on your heart every time you had to appear in court — bags evident under your eyes, the same ones that were glassed over in constant tears, and hands shaking from adrenaline and sheer emotion over having to recount the same story of your marriage over and over again to the Judge.
It wasn’t as though anything particularly nefarious had happened in your marriage that would cause such a divorce, something horrible like infidelity or abuse, no, far from it, Michael was the perfect husband — until he started slipping.
He slowly, but nevertheless painfully, turned from the doting, present husband — to so brutally consumed in his career that it felt as though you were a single mother. Late nights at the studio, events that stretched long into the night, tours all across the States, even going as far as globally — all of it added up. Pushing you further and further into a lonely pit of despair — begging for the man you once knew.
Michael never did this maliciously, and that was quite possibly worse, he didn’t even realise what he was doing. Nor the damage he was causing. And every time you’d bring it up to him, whenever you finally got a night just to the two of you, cuddled up in bed, a hand on your small, growing bump — he would act none-the-wiser, as if the pain you were feeling didn’t exist. Promising that he would be home soon, be around more, that things would change — but, alas, they never did. If anything, he only got busier.
Having three kids was difficult, especially so when a fourth was on the way, and even more so when you have a career like Michael Jackson does — having to juggle recording, then interviews, then tours, then gala’s, and award shows, then signings, and then coming home to help look after three children and your pregnant wife.
But, none of it phased him — at the start. He was, and is, an excellent father. Spending every last second he could with his children before leaving for an eighteen hour day, or coming home at three-AM and kissing his children on their foreheads as they slept, and then retreating slowly into his bedroom, where his pregnant wife slept, and pulling her close, and holding her all night.
It came naturally to him — he was made to be a lover, and a father. And he adored every minute of it.
But, where the waters got muddied was when he began to blend those two separate aspects of his life — music and family. And when music seemed to become a higher priority than his family.
A house polluted with the noise of three screaming, giggling kids, a children’s television show blasting throughout the living room, or toys screeching out nursery rhymes from a plastic, worn out speaker that was staticky and stuttered pathetically, fighting against the electrics of the old mechanism — was now also filled the noise of demo’s, loud business men laughing, inappropriate jokes and guitar strings, plugged into an obnoxiously loud speaker.
In August 2002, you’d had enough.
It was the hottest summer the 2000’s had seen yet — the sun was beating down relentlessly over California, and the humidity was at its highest. Mixing the warmest weather you’d ever experienced in your lifetime with having a five-year-old, Prince, with the energy of a wild animal, a four-year-old, Paris, who was constantly screaming for her Father, and a clingy six-month-old, Blanket, who daren’t not be on your hip or else he’d wail the place down, all the while being four-months pregnant, wasn’t a good cocktail.
You silently cursed yourself for having such an attractive husband and being so horny only two-months postpartum that now led you to this mess.
And on top of all of that, Michael had so kindly, not, invited some friends, musical and not, round to work on some new demos he’d been cooking up late in the studio recently.
But, it wasn’t the fact that he’d invited people over, that you didn’t care about, you could handle the kids, to an extent, on your own just fine — it was the noise.
Michael was shy, and often quiet anyways, but with his pals round, his infamous loud laughter, mingling in with the loud strums of a guitar and the deep, rumbling voices of men you’d never even met before, was now sounding throughout the house like thunder. All that jovial, unnecessarily high in decibel, laughter blending with the screams and squeals from your children had now manifested itself inside you in a blinding headache.
This headache, now bordering on a migraine, wasn’t just your average Joe — it was a deep, dark thud of pain that stretched from behind your eyelids to the nape of your neck. Any noise was a shrill, blood-curling scream in your head — grating through your bones like nails on a chalkboard.
It had to stop.
And it forced you to reach that extent
Usually, whenever Michael and whoever he had brought round for the umpteenth time this week, would make noise and near enough trash the house with cans of beer, cartons of orange juice (For your Michael) and boxes and bags of devoured KFC, you’d let them be — let the boys have their fun.
But, today, enough was enough.
“I know, baby, but Mama’s feelin’ a little sick right now, okay? We can play outside later when Daddy’s not with his friends, how does that sound?”
“Noooo! ‘Wanna to go outside, now!” Prince, tears now forming in his lower lash-line, demanded, stomping his little foot onto the carpet of his bedroom, now pushing your hands away abruptly as you attempted to change his shirt which was smothered in his lunch.
You sighed, your patience beginning to wear thinner and thinner as you repeated yourself for the thousandth time that day about not going outside as Prince refused to let it go.
You raked a hand over your face, a noise of frustration leaving the back of your throat as you met Prince’s eyes — whose were now streaming with tears as he cried violently, cheeks flushed and stained with the evidence of his upset.
“Baby, please, stop crying for Mama, please? I promise—Mama pinky promises we can go outside later, okay?” You tried one last time, trying to put on the most motherly, comforting voice you could as you forced the irritation down your throat.
Just as Prince began to consider diminishing his resolve and abandoning his tantrum, Paris ran into the room, “I wanna play outside, too, Mommy! Please, please, please!”
The groan that left you was failure of suppression — your eyes fluttering shut as the two small children now teamed up against you, both now chanting in their high-pitched voices to go outside. And if that wasn’t enough to send you over the edge, baby Blanket began wailing at the sudden loud noise of his siblings screaming to do what you distinctively told them not to repeatedly over the past morning — his screeches and cries of displeasure colliding with the sound of Paris and Prince begging loudly.
You scurried to your feet, a lump in your throat forming, as you took Blanket in your arms, rocking him gently in your grasp, cooing softly into his ear as you attempted to nurse him to silence.
No avail.
For once, baby Blanket wanted nothing less than to be in your arms — you tried every rocking sensation you knew he liked, but no luck. He continued to scream — tears staining his cheeks now flushed a dark shade of crimson, as his little fists bawled up tight at his sides.
You had reached your wits end.
You only realised your feet were moving until you reached the stairs — turning on your heel to watch as your two younger children ran after you as you exited Prince’s room. Their relentless chanting to go outside had been, finally, abandoned — but, now replaced with ‘Where are you going, Mommy?’ ‘Why is Blanket crying, Mommy?’ ‘What’s wrong with Blanket, Mama, is he okay?’ ‘Mama get Blanket to stop crying! It’s hurting my ears!’
It was incessant.
You absolutely adored your children — but moments like these you wished you could just run away.
And that’s exactly what you did.
You stormed down the stairs, checking back every so often to make sure Paris and Prince weren’t on the brink of falling, before heading directly towards the loudest area of the house. If that was even remotely possible with the screaming baby in your arms.
You marched into the room — eyes landing on Michael who was sat on the couch, surrounded by at least twelve other men, not that you even had the brain capacity to count in the moment, all laughing and shouting as they recounted former memories.
“Baby.” You spoke, voice trembling.
No answer.
The conversation continued, as if you weren’t even there, the loud laughter only worsening the pain that consumed your brain.
“Michael.”
Laughter.
“Michael.”
Laughter.
“Michael!”
For the first time in weeks, the room fell silent.
The sound of your distraught, wrecked shout of his name even sent your wailing baby in silence — for about three seconds, before his screeches of discomfort sounded throughout the room once more. Everyone’s eyes were on you, including your confused husband, whose were now wide with shock at the sight you — eyes now also streaming with tears, lip wobbling, hands shaking with a screaming Blanket in your arms, and Prince and Paris at your feet, now also babbling about the garden and tugging at your clothes.
“I can’t—I can’t take this.”
Michael rose to his feet, “Baby, what’s wrong?”
“Don’t you ‘What’s wrong?’ me!” You exclaimed, “Look at me!”
He was lost, and quite frankly, worried — he had never seen you so wrecked, a silent plea for help as you shook where you stood.
“Ta—Take him.” You extended your still wailing baby out into the air, eyes fluttering as droplets of tears you didn’t even realise had fallen, drooped from your eyelashes.
Michael rushed over to you, instantly taking Blanket into his embrace — rocking him slowly in his arms as the crying slowly fading into soft whimpers as Michael comforted him.
You let out a scoff of a laugh at the irony of the situation — Michael, who got to sit around and play with instruments like toys with his friends all day, soothed your crying baby in three seconds as if you hadn’t been dealing with it all day with no prevail.
“I’ve gotta go. I actually can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Michael.” You started, voice rapid and racing, buzzing with emotion, “You—You can’t sit around all day and do nothing, and expect me to deal with this all day—I can’t, I just can’t.”
“Baby, please, what are you talking about?” Michael questioned, concern and confusion laced in his tone, “What happened?”
“What didn’t happen!” You exclaimed, not caring that thirty pairs of eyes were all on you as you blew up what you’d been holding in for weeks, “Prince threw his lunch everywhere, all over the floor and his clothes, and then refused to change, and then begged and begged and begged to go outside even after I told him no.” You breathed out a laugh, despite finding none of the situation amusing, “And Blanket barely slept last night and neither did I, and he will not stop crying—it’s been on and off all day, and I’ve got a pounding headache and I’m tired, and I just can’t take it anymore.”
Your rant ended with a loud sob, one that echoed throughout the room as your Nanny, one that had failed to be absent while all of the commotion from your children had occurred, took a concerned looking Paris and Prince away from the room by their small hands, as you ignored the way they stared at you worriedly as they exited.
“And don’t even get me started on you.” You spat, pointing an accusatory finger at Michael, “You’ve been at this for weeks! You’re a father too, y’know! I need help, I’m pregnant for fuck’s sake and doing everything while you sit around and fiddle with guitars like children and laugh at a fucking thousand decibels.”
“Honey, wait—calm dow—“
“Don’t you fucking dare tell me to calm down.”
He could tell you were serious. To your core. You had never ever spoke to him that way, ever. You looked absolutely destroyed — like the world had literally come crashing down on you all at once.
“I’ve had enough. Enough, Michael.” You exclaimed, watching as the Nanny returned to pry a now sleeping Blanket from Michael’s arms, before scurrying out of the room once more, “Whether it’s phone calls at three-AM, or late nights at the studio, or events that end you up in the club until early hours, or inviting God knows into our house—you’re not here!” Tears were now streaming down your face with no sign of stopping, every word now a silent sob as you broke down, “I feel like you’re not—sob—not even here anymore! I feel like I’m doing this all alone, and we’ve got another one on the way for fuck’s sake! I can’t—I genuinely cannot do it anymore, Michael, I’ve had it up to here.”
As your hand raised to demonstrate the intensity of how thin your patience has deteriorated — Michael couldn’t help notice the way your hand shook aggressively.
It all finally rained down on him.
Like violent meteorites — all his wrong-doings came crashing down in an abrupt realisation.
Every point you made was correct, and that’s what hurt most. You weren’t exaggerating or overreacting — you were speaking the plain, distasteful truth. A truth that flooded guilt and heartache throughout his system harder than he’d ever felt it. His subconscious absence had pushed you over the edge — without him even realising he was doing it.
You had promised him, the day you started dating, that you would always be there despite his demanding career — but, you, nor him, imagined it would get this bad. So bad to the point you were considering walking away from the family you had built from the ground up. A family you had literally created in utero — and formed from a lousy blind date your friend set you up on, now blossomed into a committed marriage with three, nearly four, children.
In your romantic pledge, you didn’t ever mean this. Never meant that you’d let yourself be humiliated and abandoned so brutally to the point where you were metaphorically, and nearly literally, tugging your hair out.
And Michael’s flabbergasted silence only made things worse.
He couldn’t even find the words to claw himself out of this grave that he’d dug — mouth opening and then closing as he stared at you, eyes still blown wide open as he watched you heave, still sobbing violently.
Instead of waiting for an apology you knew wouldn’t fix things now, you scoffed and turned on your heel, storming out of the room as another sob wracked through you. Michael instantly chased after you, ignoring the tension that had settled from the uncomfortable audience behind him, his longer legs catching up to you as you made it to the front door.
“Hey, hey, stop—baby, wait!” He reached you, hands grabbing your arms and stopping you in your tracks, “Baby, wait, please, don’t do this, please.”
Another loud, distraught gurgle of tears left you, your head shaking as you stared at the ground, “I—I can’t take anymore, Michael”
“I know, I know, I’m so sorry.” He started, “I’m so so sorry, baby. I’ve been the worst husband in the world, I’m so sorry.” His heart clenched as another sob left you, “I should’ve been there, I’m sorry, I know better, I do. Things—Things have been hectic with the new album, and I just—I don’t even have a reasonable explanation, I should have been around, there’s no excuse.”
At the sound of his declaration of wrong-doing and his utmost apologies — your loud cries turned into soft sniffles and hiccups. You finally lifted your head, bloodshot and glossy eyes meeting his worried ones — lip quivering as you settled.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Michael whispered, voice breaking ever so slightly, “Please, don’t leave. If it’s not for me, please don’t leave the children. They need you.” He went silent, “I need you.”
“I needed you, Michael. But, where were you when I did?”
The words hit him directly in the chest.
It wasn’t because they were hurtful, or disrespectful, or offensive — it was because they were true.
When they said the truth hurts — he never imagined he’d experience it this way.
Watching as his wife, mother to now four of his children, literally begging for his presence for weeks, and subconsciously taking no notice, had broken his heart — but, not nearly as much as he broke yours, which made things twice as bad.
“Baby..” His voice trailed off, quiet and broken, a beg for you, not that he was even in the place to do so right now.
You shook your head, another silent cry leaving your mouth, tears cascading down your cheeks in a slow, aching reminder to Michael of exactly what he’d done — a twang vibrating through his heartstrings.
“I’m sorry, I just—I need some space.” You spoke, a loud, huff of a shaken breath leaving you as you stepped back, retreating from his embrace.
“Baby, please,” Michael begged, “Please, don’t go. What about the kids?”
“Only for a little while. I’ll be at my Mom’s, just for a few days while I think.”
“Think? Think about what?”
“Whether or not I can take anymore of this.”
Michael didn’t think it was possible to feel anymore heartbroken and scared — but your final sentence before turning your back to him and walking out the door exceeded that. His heart ached, a hand coming up to rest against his chest, as he watched you climb into the back of a car and whizz out the driveway — the last evidence of you being dust and dirt that flew up into the air at your exit.
That night Michael called your Mother’s house phone twenty-seven times — each time going straight to answerphone, as you begged your Mother to just ignore it as she held you while you cried into her lap. And each time, Michael would leave a message on her answer machine.
‘Baby? I don’t know if you can hear this but I love you, and the babies love you. I miss you already and I’m so so sorry. Please come home soon.’
Beep!
Riiiiing! Riiiiing!
Ignore.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother, I know you’re upset, and I know it’s ’cuz of me, but I just—I can’t leave you there knowing you’re so broken and it’s all my fault. I wish there was something I could do to turn back time. I love you, baby, please come home.’
Beep!
Riiiing! Riiiiing!
Ignore.
‘Please, call me back, baby. I need you. I’m so sorry I let things get to this. I’m sorry I let things get so bad. I’m sorry for everything. Please, baby, please, I love you so so much, I can’t do this without you. And that quite possibly makes it so much worse, as that’s exactly what you needed from me and I subconsciously denied it from you for so long. I’m such an idiot, a total, complete and utter idiot. I should’ve been better, I’m so sorry. Please, honey, please.’
Each time the answer machine would beep and another message would come through, now late into the night as you curled up on the couch and drifted off to sleep, Michael’s voice grew more and more wrecked, now laced with silent sobs and broken whispers to prevent waking the children. And each time, you would continue to cry — face smushed into the cushion, now soaked with your tears, until the answer machine finally went silent at four-AM.
The next morning, your chest sported a dull, deep ache of emotional distress as you awoke — eyes swollen from the relentless crying. The headache had subsided, thankfully, but now replaced with an intense heartache that you knew would never diminish.
Not after everything that had happened.
After a few days to allow the dust to settle, you decided returning home was a reasonable idea — letting your Mother lecture you about ‘not putting up with anymore shit’ before you left her house, a bag full of dirty over-night clothes and an old toothbrush slung over your shoulder.
The drive back to Neverland was unusual — you weren’t quite sure what the forefront emotion you were feeling was.
Worry? Sadness? Hurt? Confusion? — it wasn’t clear. But, the waves of anticipatory nausea that flooded through you were enough to show that you were definitely concerned about where this left your relationship with Michael.
You had spent the last three days at your Mother’s pondering on what to do. The much needed space, despite calling your children every night to remind them that Mommy still loved them and was coming home soon, allowed you to think about whether or not your marriage was still fulfilling anymore — whether you could continue to live in a house that, despite being full to the brim of people, felt so unbearably lonely.
The walk up to the house felt longer than usual. Like you were moving in slow-motion as you reached the door, hands trembling, not only from the lack of sleep you’d gotten over the past seventy-two hours, but increased anxiety for what you were about to walk into.
And if you’d known what came forth — you never would’ve stepped back into the house at all.
Your heart stopped as you pushed open the door, vision locking on the scene before you — face scrunching into a look of undisguised shock and despair, an array of swirling emotions buzzing round your body in a brutal battle to become the forefront.
But, the one that took the cake was disgust.
There, stood in foyer, laughing, smiling, joking, and holding your baby was Lisa.
Lisa Marie Presley.
Your husband’s ex-wife.
When you described to people after the divorce what really happened, when they pried for answers to their personal, probing questions, you claimed you struggled to find a time where you knew the marriage was over.
But, you knew the truth.
You knew that this very moment before your eyes was that time.
And you knew Michael knew it too.
His eyes instantly shot towards the door, smile still pressed on his face at something she had said — before it fell faster than a brick to the ground. The sheer altitude of how swift the grin wiped itself off his face was almost cartoony — like the main character in a corny, children’s TV show had just had a nanosecond change in expression in the freeze-frame.
Alas, this wasn’t a show nor fictional — this was your life. And the extent of the situation was becoming all too real for the both of you.
“Baby?”
Michael’s voice sounded out first, breaking the atmospherically intense atmosphere that had skyrocketed from thin air — the squeaked sound of his surprised, scared voice filling the room.
At first, words failed you — all of the thousand things you could’ve screamed or yelled or cried lodged themselves in your throat like a hard piece of candy swallowed too quickly. It felt as though you’d been punched by world-class boxer in the stomach — knocking all the air from your lungs in a brutal, nefarious blow.
“I—I swear—I promise it’s not what it looks like.”
The classic one-liner.
You scoffed, the sound almost coming out gurgled as the lump in your throat formed — eyes glassing over in tears.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
He took one slow step forward, hands out in front of him, creeping like a man to a provoked bear, in attempt to keep you where you were. Your eyes darted between them — Michael, who looked as thought he was attempting to save million-dollar porcelain china from falling off a thousand foot drop, and Lisa, who looked like she’d been caught in the act, an expression of bewilderment and shock plastered across her face.
“Honey, please, calm down. I swear there’s an explanation.”
A breathless laugh left you as a single tear slipped down your face — cheeks flushed with exceeding adrenaline as your nervous system went into overdrive.
“Why the fuck is your ex-wife here, Michael?” You snapped, voice a harsh, bitter spit of venom.
Michael sighed, eyes wrecked as he attempted to piece things back together helplessly, “I—I just—I got overwhelmed with the kids, and Blanket was crying and Prince was crying—all for you, they wanted you, and I didn’t know what to do.” He let out a broken breath, “I didn’t know what to do, so, I called the first person I thought of who had children and would know what to do.”
Your heart sank.
No, no, more like violently plummeted — straight to your stomach, mingling with the growing nausea that never let up, concocting together in a ruthless cocktail.
“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice came out shaken and depleted, tears now streaming down your cheeks in a merciless storm, “You—You called your ex-wife for help with our children? You called your fucking ex-wife instead of the Mother of those children?”
You were shouting now — pointing and yelling as your voice hit a higher decibel than you knew it even could, sobs croaking from your throat in wrecked, consuming wails.
“I didn’t know what to do! I was a mess—A total mess, I—I was scared and worried, and you had left, and I—“
“I only left because of you!” You roared, “All of this—this fucking mess—is because of you, Michael! You!”
“I’m sorry! Fuck, I—I’m so sorry.” The curse left him before he could even stop himself. In another scenario, if your brain wasn’t total mush, you would’ve realised Michael’s apology was sincere due to his usual lack of using curse words, but you were too far down the rabbit hole of despair to notice.
As Michael began another spout of meaningless explanations behind his reckless decision, your glassy eyes landed on Lisa, who stood awkwardly by the stairs, vision locked on Michael’s apologetic frame and your angered own — eyes refusing to meet your own.
But, upon further inspection, your stomach dropped again — as if on a never-ending rollercoaster that relentlessly dropped you from high heights, toying with your body like a game of cat and mouse.
“Did she fucking sleep here?”
The room fell silent — that was all the answer you needed.
You’d figured that distressing fact out by paying close attention to Lisa’s clothes — her body sporting one of Michael’s pyjama t-shirts, one that you had bought him at Disneyland on one of your anniversary’s.
“Baby, please, I swear, we didn’t sleep in the same bed.”
Michael’s frantic plea for you to listen went on deaf ears as you stumbled back out the door — heart hammering nearly medically worryingly fast as you clutched onto the doorframe for support.
“Oh, my God, I’m gonna be sick.”
And that you did.
Hunching over and vomiting violently into the grass that adorned the front yard of Neverland — stomach churning as you emptied your guts from the sheer panicked and distraught truth that came before you.
Michael rushed to your aid, calling your name in a frenzied, worried manner as he pinned your hair behind your head, making sure none of your aggressive release got into it.
You instantly shoved him away — standing upright, and wiping your mouth, “Don’t fucking touch me, Michael.”
For the first time in his life, Michael truly understood what it was like to not be the heartbroken, depressed, wrecked person, and finally be the one to be inflicting the pain — a feeling he never, ever, in his deepest, darkest nightmares, thought he’d be giving to someone.
Let alone his loving, devoted wife.
A loud wail sounded out through the room, this time not from you, but from Blanket who writhed in Lisa’s arms.
Anger became the fore-front emotion rapidly.
You stormed past Michael, barging past his shoulder harshly as you went, and marched straight up to the woman who was curating this argument. The sound of her comforting Blanket sent shockwaves of coursing fury through you — as if you’d been struck by lightning as you pried the baby from her arms.
“Don’t you fucking dare come near any of my children again, do you hear me?” You yelled, face like thunder as you grit your teeth, not caring how deluded and psychotic you must’ve looked covered in tears, spit and vomit, as you came face to face with her.
“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, breathlessly as a single tear slid down her face.
You laughed a bitter, choked, unamused laugh, “What the fuck are you crying for? Realising you’ve broken up a marriage? Oh, boohoo, poor Lisa, always the victim.”
“Wait, what?”
The room fell silent as Michael’s devastated voice hit your ears.
“Broken up a marriage?” He sounded windless and confused, eyes now brimming with tears as he locked onto your gaze, “So, you—you’re leaving me?—“
“Prince! Paris!”
You ignored him as you shouted your children’s names, refusing to listen as Michael stumbled over his words at your insinuation.
Soon, two pairs of pattering feet came storming through the house, innocent giggles and squeals of excitement masking the sound Michael’s broken stutters. Prince and Paris screeched in excitement as they clung to your legs, exclaiming their adoration for you, as they tugged at your clothes.
“Mama, why are you crying?” Prince asked, a pout forming on his face as he took in your devastated expression.
You knelt down to his eye-level, pressing a kiss to both his and Paris’s cheeks, “Mama’s okay, baby, I’m just a little sad, but Mommy will be okay, I promise.”
“Don’t be sad, Mommy.” Paris chimed in, resting her cheek on your knee as she mimicked her brother’s pout.
“I’m not, baby, don’t worry.” You smiled at her as maternally, and convincingly as possible, “Go get in the car for me, okay? We’re gonna go stay with Grandma for a while.”
“No, baby, please.” Michael’s voice cut through the discussion, “Please don’t do this.”
As Prince and Paris, now in the care of the Nanny, with a baby Blanket in her embrace, taken from your arms, were escorted out of the home, you stood back up to face him.
Anger had been replaced by unadulterated, hopeless anguish.
“Why, Michael?” You whispered, another sob threatening to wrack from your throat, “Why would you do this to me?”
Michael finally let himself break — a miserable, wretched wail escaping from his mouth, streaks of unstoppable tears falling from his eyes.
His hands reached for you as you stepped towards the door, “Please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me, baby, I beg of you. Please let me make things right, I—I swear things will be better, I—“
“I thought you loved me, Michael?”
I thought you loved me.
Those were the last, non-legally binding words you spoke to Michael, one’s that rang in his head every-day since, before you left for good. Turning on your heel in a slow, wobbled movement, and scurried down the driveway, letting yourself cry for a few seconds more, before you hopped into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes, wiping your eyes and putting on a brave face for your children. You blocked out Michael who chased after the car in a screaming, dejecting protest as it sped off, leaving him in a cloud of dust, and a swarm of tears.
He was served the divorce papers the next morning.
From then on, it was everywhere — every news, radio and TV station was covering it, plastering pictures of you and Michael over the front cover with a taunting, exaggerated headline. You tried to block it out, like you always had done, but reading ‘Not even this one could hold Jackson down for even a decade’ definitely had a negative effect on you.
After a long, mentally-depleting five months of court, the divorce was finalised in February, and you were now nine-months pregnant and over it. Your large belly had dropped — signifying you were creeping nearer to labour. You knew the stress of the break-up and the gruelling divorce wasn’t good for the baby, so you took time after court steady.
Back in December, right before Christmas, you moved into your own place. It was a beautiful house, not as large as Neverland, nothing ever could be, but it was home. Unfortunately, or not, the home had been plagued before you even stepped foot into it.
As Michael had paid for it.
You had told him a thousand times that you weren’t together anymore, that you were no longer ‘Mrs Jackson’, so therefore paying for such lavish things like a whole house, wasn’t necessary. But, as he always did, he insisted — and demanded you never attempt to give him even a cent back. Whether it was a sly con to get you back, you didn’t know — but it certainly did work.
In the midst of the divorce, you settled for shared custody — that was a given. Michael was a fantastic father, and you’d never deprive him of his children. You thought just because your relationship broke down, didn’t mean his with your kids had to. So, every week, Bill would turn up outside your front door in the same black Mercedes he always did, with an excitable Michael in the front seat — grinning like a Cheshire cat, opening the door before Bill had even stopped. He’d race out the door and scoop up the children in his arms, kissing their faces all over and letting them ramble on about what they did with you that week. You’d stand in the doorway, watching with a soft smile as Paris would instantly cling to Michael’s clothes like she was scared he was going to disappear while Prince would pinch his cheeks, and a now nearly one-year old Blanket, nestled into the crook of Michael’s neck.
If he couldn’t be a husband, he was definitely going to be a dad. And a good one at that.
But, the damage had been done. And whenever Michael would approach you, letting Bill scurry the children into the backseat, clipping them into their car-seats, the awkward tension would arise. The conversation would be polite and acquainted, as if you’d never met before, with a simple ‘How are you?’ and ‘Were they good?’ or ‘How many weeks left?’
The last question always made your chest ache, not only because you knew you’d soon be a single mother, and having to accommodate your now ex-husband into your routine after the baby was born, but because you knew he already knew — he had kept a strict track of your pregnancy, knew every trimester, how many weeks, your cravings, discomforts, how you liked to sleep, how many kicks you’d had that day, he knew it all. So, every time he’d ask, you knew he was trying to be polite, and come across as nonchalant — like he didn’t know you like the back of his hand.
But, the nonchalance melted into nothingness once the baby came.
It was a cooler day in February, clouds settling over the skies of California, and your back had been aching from the moment you woke up. Luckily, a lazy morning was in order as it was Michael’s week to have the kids — so once eleven-AM rolled around, you forced yourself out of bed.
Unlike at Neverland, where personal chefs were at your beck and call whenever you so pleased, you had to grow to love cooking for yourself. Luckily, you often cooked for your children, even when you lived with Michael, and even more so now you lived alone, so cheffing up a quick breakfast wasn’t too taxing.
But, trying to ignore the dull, relentless ache that settled itself in your lower abdomen was growing harder to do so, gritting your teeth as you scrambled eggs on the stove. This wasn’t a usual cramp or crotch pain like you’d experienced — it was a familiar feeling that you’d felt three times prior.
And your suspicions only came fact when you turned on your heel to fetch salt from the pantry when a flood of liquid gushed through your shorts and onto the floor.
Contractions started simultaneously — growing more and more frequent from the car-ride to when they situated you into a private hospital room. You had been attempting to pace your breathing, the sharp, brutal pains of labour sending you into tachycardia as pain consumed you, the minutes between them decreasing quicker than you remembered they were supposed to, giving you no time to recover.
You were alone in the room, figuratively rather than literally, as dozens of nurses swarmed you, but no loved ones were present. And that was quite possibly worse, your anxiety was sky-rocketing, important people were asking important questions you didnt have the brain power to answer, and hands were all over you, attaching a cannula — it was all too much.
“Mrs Jackson, I’m going to have to ask you again to sit down, you’re bordering on seven centimetres, so baby could come at any time soon, and it’s important you’re in a sensible position.”
You groaned loudly, choosing to ignore the way the nurse referred to you as ‘Mrs Jackson’, as your head hung low, eyes squeezed shut as you hunched over the bed once more, legs wobbling from the sheer intensity of the contraction.
“Ma’am, I going to have to—“ “Enough.”
You breathed a loud sigh of relief, one that your more mentally stable being would’ve kept to yourself, as Michael’s voice sounded throughout the room.
The room fell into hushed silence as he stepped forward, ignoring the eyes on him and shared glances between nurses, and pressed a hand on your back, glistening in tiresome sweat.
“Do you want all these people in here, baby?”
The familiar pet-name fell from his lips before he could even stop himself — an all too welcoming feeling spreading across your chest as you shook your head, mumbling an almost inaudible ‘No’ that mingled into a loud whine of agony.
“You heard my wife, if you’re not going to be delivering our baby, please leave.”
Michael was never rude to workers, but right now he was stern and he wasn’t apologetic about it — he wanted nothing more than your comfort in one of the most important moments in both your lives.
But, even in your pain consumed state, you still managed to pick up on his words, “I’m not your wife anymore, Michael.”
He shushed you gently, rubbing soft circles into your back, before leaning down to press a tender kiss into your hair, “I know, but, just for today, baby.”
You would’ve scolded him if you had the ability, tell him off for acting so husbandly and loving even though only a mere few weeks ago your divorce was finalised — but you hadn’t the energy. And secretly, you needed all the love and support you could get right now.
Luckily, shortly after Michael ordered the dozens of nurses out of the room, your baby was born. You had decided to keep the sex a secret to you both for when it was born, a surprise meant to be then shared and celebrated once the two of you went home together — it was beautiful, but bittersweet, as you knew you would both go off to your respecting homes afterwards instead.
It was a boy — your third boy of the family, and now the littlest. Age and weight, he was, unlike most babies born after their siblings, smaller than your others — weighing seven pounds, three and a half ounces, all of beauty and wonder.
The birth was tiring, but luckily short, not diminishing your energy as much as the others had, and left you unscathed of any tearing. You liked to believe it was the universe giving you a little luck after the heartbreaking few months you’d had to endure.
Once you’d settled in your bed, blanket pushed up to your chest as you held your little boy in your arms, body aching nonetheless, Michael entered the room, pushing the door open quietly.
“Is he asleep?” He whispered, popping his head through the crack in the doorway.
You smiled, “No, come in.”
Michael did so willingly — creaking the door open fully before stepping inside the room, and closing it gently. He walked softly, with a proud smile on his face as he approached you, taking a firm seat in the chair next to the bed with a sigh.
“He’s perfect.” He spoke tenderly, voice cracking ever so slightly as he brushed a delicate finger over his son’s cheeks.
You giggled as you watched your son’s eyes darting around the room, totally entranced by the lights and noises surrounding him, “He is, isn’t he?”
“Have you thought of a name yet?” He asked quietly, eyes still locked on the way his son’s nose twitched and his lips smacked as he became accustomed to life.
“What do you think about Mickey?”
Michael could’ve sworn his heart had grown twice the size already today at the birth of his third son — but this moment was slowly tripling it.
His eyes flicked up to yours — a raw, deep, utterly loving expression crossing his face.
“Y’know, ‘cause you love Disney and Mickey Mouse so much..” You trailed off your explanation, “He can still be Michael Joseph, but, I don’t know, I just thought it was sweet.”
“Baby..”
Your expression softened at him for the first time in nearly a year — he was wrecked. Slow, overwhelming tears trickling down his cheeks that flushed crimson, lip wobbling and eyes full of adoration at your idea of his son’s name — chosen solely from his love for Disney.
“Do you like it?”
“Honey, I love it.” He whispered, sniffling, a hand coming across to rest over your own that cradled the baby’s head, “I love it so much, baby, thank you. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“‘S okay,” You whispered, smiling softly at him, “So, Mickey it is?”
“Mickey it is.” He confirmed, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss known to man-kind to the top of Mickey’s warm head, “Mickey Jackson. Heh, kinda sounds like Michael, huh?”
You chuckled, “Bad or good?”
“Good. Real good.”
You noticed the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked over your knuckles — a romantic display of his utmost adoration and gratitude for you for bringing his fourth baby into this world. And in that moment, your heart had never felt so full — even after the worst pits of hell you’d felt you’d crawled into over the past few months after everything that had occurred, none of it mattered in that room, holding your baby as he drifted off into a slumber, with the father of said baby holding your hand as he did so.
The overwhelming hormones and emotions from birth hit you like a truck as tears began to fall — cascading down your cheeks just as Michael’s did.
“Hey, what’s wrong, honey?” Michael question, a tight knit in his eyebrows as he glanced at your upset expression.
“Nothing, nothing, I’m—I’m okay, I just—I’m just happy.” You sniffled, “Happy you’re here.”
You looked up from peering at Mickey’s sleeping face and meet Michael’s eyes — ones that were full of devotion. His hand left the embrace of your own, and reached up to wipe the tears that slipped from your waterline.
“Me too, baby.” He spoke delicately, his hand coming across to cup your flushed cheek, “Me too.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward or forced like it had been recently since the divorce, no, it was raw — a subtle demonstration of overpowering intimacy that needed no words, only a look of sheer joy at the miracle that had been brought onto this Earth from the love you both shared. The intensity of the soul-baring, vulnerable, cherished sensation that flooded both of your systems became overwhelming — the sound of both of your hearts hammering in your chests blasting in your ears as you remained locked in a sincere gaze.
“Michael.”
He didn’t even need confirmation — he leant forward before he could stop himself and connected your lips in a gentle, warm, deeply devoted kiss that send shockwaves of electricity throughout your body. You gasped into his mouth, hands tightening ever so slightly around Mickey to steady yourself as he moved his mouth slowly against your own. You kissed back immediately — a sound almost like a sob leaving your throat as more tears spilled from your eyes, as your lips collided together in a scared, dreamlike connection.
You pulled away to catch your breath — panting softly as your head lolled forward to rest your forehead against his own, the scent of his cologne becoming intoxicating from the closeness.
No words were spoken about that kiss ever again.
Not when yours and Michael’s family came to see the baby, especially so when your three children came to do the same, and even more so when you returned home and went about your lives. And there was definitely more than enough time to discuss it, even though it never was, especially when Michael was at your house practically every day to come check on you and help out with Mickey.
Some nights he’d even sleep on the couch downstairs, and take the night shifts to let you rest, or he’d take the kids out into the garden or back to Neverland to play, with Mickey, while you showered and cleaned the house, or took everyone out for dinner to save you cooking — he was always there. And instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like you assumed it would’ve been while you were still pregnant, it was surpisingly pleasant. And felt like old-times.
But, once Mickey reached the four-five-six month old mark, you didn’t need as much help — and your old routine went back into motion. And with all things considered, everything between you and Michael was jovial.
Until Wednesday.
Today, Friday, thirteenth of February 2004, the day of your son, Prince’s, seventh birthday — you had to battle showing a brave, excitable face for your son, who was buzzing in joy over all the presents laid out in the living room of your home, with the undeniable fury that flamed inside you at what Michael had done.
On Wednesday, Michael had been spotted out at a lavish, fancy restaurant in Manhattan with his ex-ex-wife, Lisa Marie Presley.
Oh, yes! The same woman that helped break up your marriage two years ago — that Lisa!
Why Manhattan? Why that restaurant? Why the secrecy? Why two days before his son’s birthday? Why Lisa?, most importantly — a million questions swirled around your head, and you knew it’d be difficult to keep them there, and not spewing out of your mouth.
Especially when you were seeing him in an hour.
Michael had decided to host a massive gathering for Prince’s birthday at Neverland, inviting all of his family over to celebrate — and obviously, being Prince’s mother, included you. And you definitely weren’t going there looking like you usually did, oh, no, you had to make a statement. Remind him of who gave him four children, who stayed even though the marriage was failing, and carried his baby all through an exhausting divorce — you.
So once Paris was in her prettiest dress, Blanket and Prince in their finest dress shirts, and baby Mickey in an ironic Mickey Mouse t-shirt, you slipped on the most eye-catching, jaw-dropping dress you could find appropriate for the occasion.
It was black, Michael’s favourite colour on you, and figure-hugging — clutching your hips and curves in all the right ways, and showing just enough cleavage to make Michael sweat. It was perfect — and just enough to make him realise what he was missing.
Not that you were intending to make him come back, or so you thought.
The drive was boisterous — nearly one-year old Mickey was, unusually, wide awake, most likely from all the noise his siblings were making as they chatted loudly in the backseat. Paris, now six-years old, and Blanket, two nearly three, were old enough to engage in playful conversations as Prince recounted to you, and Bill who chuckled in the drivers seat, all of his favourite presents, which, surprise surprise, was all of them.
“Thank you, Bill. Nice to see you.” You spoke kindly, offering him a sweet smile as you pulled Mickey onto your hip, as the others clambered out the car.
“And you.” Bill replied, “Tell Michael I said hi.” You smiled thinly, knowing there was nothing you wanted to do less than speak to him, “If he’s still surviving after seeing you in that dress, that is.”
You laughed loudly as Blanket took your hand, now old enough to walk, “Well, if you don’t hear from him, then you know why.”
Bill chuckled softly as he waved goodbye to the children, before driving away. Paris and Prince instantly took off towards the door, squealing as they went. Blanket, although confident and more than capable of running, was still the clingy baby you birthed nearly three years ago, and liked it better by your side, as Mickey nestled his face into your collarbone, sucking his thumb.
You took a long, precise, deep breath as you reached the door, collecting yourself and pushing your anger further down your nervous system before pushing the door open.
The room erupted in excited laughter and shouts of your names as they locked eyes on your presence entering the home. Prince and Paris, of course, had sped off in the direction of where all the noise was — jumping into the arms of their uncles and aunts, and accepting countless kisses from their Grandma Katherine, Michael’s mother.
Blanket’s hand slipped from your own as you shut the door as he jogged towards an all too familiar face that emerged from the crowd.
“Daddy!”
“Hey, Applehead!”
The hilarious term of endearment Michael had given all of his children rang in your head as Blanket jumped into Michael’s embrace — instantly wrapping his short little arms around his neck as he cuddled into his shirt.
“You okay, buddy? How was your morning at Mama’s?” Michael asked, smoothing his hair across his forehead.
“Good, Prince got loads of presents.” Blanket revealed, as you fought the urge to laugh.
“Well, that’ll be you in a few weeks, bud.”
Michael was right, Blanket’s birthday was only around two weeks post-Prince’s, thankfully, not, for your bank account. Michael looked up from Blanket’s smiling face to meet your gaze, and he folded instantly. He didn’t even try and hide the expression that spread across his face — jaw slack and eyes blown as his vision trailed along your frame, clad in a gobsmacking dress and heels.
However, your stare was ice-cold, and he noticed — watching as you daren’t smile as you sauntered near him, heels clicking against the floor.
“Hey, you okay?” He spoke, clearing as throat as he attempted to regain some composure.
You hummed in response as you stopped next to him, watching as he gulped thickly.
“Hey, little man, how’s my littlest boy, hm?” Michael turned his attention the smallest son your hip, who now blabbered and kicked violently in your arms at the sight of his daddy — now slobbering all over himself.
Michael reached over and used his free hand, the one not holding up Blanket, to use his bib to wipe his mouth clean, “How was he this morning? Prince didn’t wake him up with all the noise, did he?”
“No, he’s been good. They’ve all been good.” You forced out jovially through gritted teeth, eyes only focusing on Mickey who giggled as Michael squished his cheeks.
“So, Prince had a good morning, then? I’ve been so busy recently, I can’t believe how fast his birthday has rolled around.”
“Busy, huh?” You fired back as Blanket wriggled from Michael’s grasp and ran towards his Auntie Janet who beckoned him over, “You been real busy, Michael?”
You knew you didn’t need to say anymore, as you walked away, from the look on Michael’s face — he knew you knew now and it was obvious in his expression. His jaw twitched as it fell ajar ever so slightly, his eyes squeezing shut as you walked away, muttering under his breath, shaking his head.
“Hey, girl!” Janet called, her voice excitable as she smiled at you, waving you over as she just did Blanket, who was now playing with her hair.
“Hey, Jan.” You smiled, leaning over to kiss her cheek, as she did the same “How ‘you been?”
“Oh, yeah, good, good. What about you?”
The conversation flowed from there as if you saw one another yesterday — laughing wildly and joking playfully about all of her brother’s and sister’s, who fawned over your kids dramatically, while discussing her relationship with American rapper, Jermaine Dupri, who she’d been with for two years at this point.
“Yeah, he’s so good to me, it’s so refreshing.” Janet told you as you settled on the couch, shortly after saying hello to the rest of Michael’s family, “We’re going away to Hawaii in April, I’m convinced he’s gonna propose.”
Although you smiled and gasped in joy, grasping her hands and asking a thousand questions about her possible engagement, you couldn’t help but let your heart ache at the mention of the start of a new beginning — your mind instantly jumping to the memory of Michael proposing, and then your wedding, and into the start of your marriage.
“Girl, I know that look, talk to me.” Janet cut herself off, raising her eyebrows at you as she took a sip from her glass of red-wine.
You groaned, rolling your eyes with a playful smile— Janet knew you nearly as much as Michael did, playing the part of a real sister, even if you weren’t married to her brother anymore.
“It’s just—Please tell me you saw it too.” You started, not even wanting to say it out loud.
Janet instantly knew what you were referring to, “Honey, everyone saw it.” She scoffed, “I think he’s a complete idiot for doing that.”
You laughed, shaking your head, “Well, it’s not like we’re together anymore, so there’s no loyalty there, but, why her, y’know? Out of everyone he could’ve chosen to take out, or even date, it had to be her.”
“She’s a vulture.” Janet spat, “I never forgave her for going on vacation with her ex while they were together. Totally unforgivable. And I will support Michael till the day I die, and I did when he didn’t speak to her for six weeks after that, but this? This is a big no.”
You sighed, “Yeah, me too. He’s the father of four of my children, so, I’ve gotta keep the peace for their sake—but, fuck, Jan, I’m livid. I didn’t think I could even get this angry anymore.”
Janet rest a soft, comforting hand on your knees as you let out another audible breath, “Honey, I don’t blame you. Not after what she did before you broke up. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” Janet leant in, “But, I doubt Michael had such, how do I put this?, devious intentions. Like you said, he is technically single and can date whoever he likes, but I doubt he’d ever do it to hurt you. He’s just too polite for his own good and it ends him up in bad situations. But her? She’s got an ulterior motive — ‘cause she’s a bitch.”
You chuckled again, harder this time, “No, I know. I know he would never intentionally hurt me, but I just get more irritated when it’s her, y’know? Especially after everything that happened between us three.” You let a breathless laugh escape you, “I mean I’d rather it be Diana.”
Janet cackled, “Girl, I reckon that ten times worse.”
The two of you shared more laughs and glasses of wine as you changed the subjects quickly — discussing vacations, work, your children, fashion, family, everything. Janet had always been your favourite, after Michael of course (not that you’d ever admit that to him now), and then Marlon, who was now approaching you from across the room.
“There she is! My favourite baby mama!” He called, arms out wide as he entered your orbit.
You snorted in laughter as you stood up to hug him, “What the hell, Marlon? I’m pretty certain all of my children are Michael’s.”
“Let a man dream, alright?” He quipped, nudging your shoulder with a playful grin, “Hey, later on, all of us are gonna have some drinks once the old fogey’s leave and the kids are asleep — just like old times. Whadda’ say?”
What Marlon referring to was when you and Michael first started dating, you would often go with him to Hayvenhurst when he visited his parents, alongside his siblings. And once Katherine and Joseph went up to sleep, all the siblings and their partners, including you, would all huddle in the living room and drink to your heart’s content — the house getting increasingly more loud as the group of you got more and more intoxicated. Michael never got that drunk at that age, and especially so when he felt a responsibility to take care of you — which he did. More often than not after one of those evenings, carrying you to bed once you returned home, undressing you and taking your makeup off while you babbled and kissed him all over, before passing out, which often amused him.
“Uh, duh.”
Marlon laughed, clapping his hands together in anticipatory excitement to his future drinking, before Katherine’s voice sounded out into the room.
“Cake time!”
Prince practically exploded with excitement as he raced over to you, squealing like a little piglet as he clabbered onto your lab. He sat with his small back facing your chest, legs kicking wildly against your shins as he radiated with joy — little hands grabbing at the material of your dress in anticipation.
Soon, the room fell into silence just as Blanket and Paris climbed next to you, nestling into your sides, as the lights flicked off before Michael arose from the darkness, a large buttercream frosting covered cake with seven ignited candles standing atop — as his melodic, sweet-symphony of a voice sounded out into the room.
Everyone soon joined in, even your two little ones next to you, for the famous Happy Birthday song, even Katherine. You knew birthdays and Christmas weren’t celebrated amongst their family due to Katherine’s religion — so, you felt an extra splash of gratitude for the Jackson’s when it came to celebrating the day of your son’s birth without their faith in mind. But, you knew Kate would do whatever her grandbabies.
Just as Michael reached you, crouching down to Prince’s level as he giggled, the song came to an end, and the birthday boy blew out his candles, with a slight struggle from his little lungs. And as the room enclosed into darkness and cheers of ‘Hip-Hip Hooray!’ echoed in your head, your eyes landed on Michael’s, whose were already locked on you.
The look in his eye was a familiar one — a glint that he wore four times previously, and on this day seven years ago when his first baby was born, was one of pride and intense adoration. The same look he also sported before the intimate lock of lips you shared in the hospital last year when Mickey was born — the look of love.
It was undeniable — the way his lip wobbled as his eyes glassed over in proud tears, cheeks flushing a sheer shade of burgundy, and the raw shine of adoration in his vision.
You soon adorned the same look, a simple, unspoken expression that said a thousand words, as well as one more plain sentence of ‘That’s our baby boy’.
But, the lights flicked on and you both snapped out of it — clearing your throats and swallowing thickly as you looked away from one another, forcing your attention onto Prince who demanded a slice of cake that had to be bigger than Paris’s. And soon, the night continued as it had done, now with bellies full of cake and, for the adults, wine.
However, as ever, Michael’s intense and noticeable gaze was hard to ignore — every conversation you slotted yourself into was always dragged away by a subtle eye movement behind said person, and catching the locked stare of Michael, who watched you like a hawk, often letting his bottom slip between his teeth before looking away. Every time your stomach would jump — a flare of burning electricity coursing through your veins like wildfire.
And, as it always does, the party began filtering out — offering hugs and kisses to cheeks before heading out the door. Even including Joseph, who grumbled a good-bye, and Kate, who engulfed you in a tight embrace, kissed your cheek and thanked you for bringing her beautiful grandchildren into this world, before leaving with Michael’s eldest sister, Rebbie, who had to send her children off to bed.
You did the same — sending your four babies up the stairs of Neverland, and into their respecting bedrooms, cooing each little one to sleep with a sweet, hushed bedtime story or a recount of their day, before they all succumbed to a much needed slumber. And as Mickey, who fell asleep in your arms, was laid carefully in his crib-like bed in Michael’s room, you shut the door and head back down the stairs to where the party awaited you.
And then, there were nine — You, Janet, La Toya, Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and, of course, Michael.
The dozen of you situated yourselves in the living room adorning three large couches — all spreading across the furniture in equal numbers. Michael, tactically, sat across from you. You knew exactly why — he wanted to keep staring. But, you’d let him — what else was the dress for?
Marlon took a firm seat before letting three bottles of wine clatter onto the small table that sat in the middle of the room — before grabbing one himself and pouring a large glass.
“Let’s get the real party started.” Jermaine laughed as he took the bottle from Marlon, and topped his one glass of.
“Hey, that’s my baby’s birthday party you’re dissin’.” You quipped, chuckling as you thanked La Toya for passing you the bottle after she’d finished with it.
“I’m not dissin’” Jermaine defended with a smile, taking a sip of his wine, “I’m just sayin’, ain’t this way more fun?”
“Love Prince, but absolutely.” Marlon joked, sending the room into laughter.
The room settled into a comfortable buzzed environment — everyone quietly conversed with those nearest to them, occasionally engaging in a large group discussion, as the multiple glasses of consumed wine took over everyone’s blood-streams.
“Oooh, you know what we should play,” La Toya squealed, “‘Never have I ever?’!”
Jackie laughed, “Seriously? Are we fifteen?”
“What? It’s fun!” Toya defended, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I mean,” Marlon started, grinning playfully, a joke clearly pending, “We are in Neverland.”
“You are so corny.” Randy shot with a chuckle, “I’m down.”
“Yeah, me too.” Janet said with a grin, “Why not?”
As everyone, including yourself, agreed, all eyes landed on Michael — who had remained deliberately quiet.
“You in, Mike?” Tito question, placing his nearly empty wine glass on the side table, peering over at his brother next to him.
Michael let out a breathy laugh, eyes flicking up to you before he nodded, “Sure.”
Everyone cheered before putting one hand in the air as La Toya cleared her throat, before stating the first prompt.
“Never have I ever spent more than $50,000 in one day?”
The room chuckled as Jermaine, Michael and Janet put a finger down — but, Michael was a given. He was Michael Jackson after all.
“That’s so tame, sis.” Marlon laughed, “Never have I ever had sex in a pool?”
“Ew, Mar, what the hell?” Janet scrunched her face up, as Marlon cackled with laughter.
La Toya, Tito, Jackie and Jermaine put a finger down, succumbing to the teasing that soon followed from their siblings as the room erupted into laughter once more.
“Alright, alright, if that’s the route we’re going down, Never have I ever had sex more than ten times in one day?”
Well, shit.
Your eyes locked on Michael’s as the room fell into silence as everyone’s visions darted towards everyone’s hands — but, soon chaos ensued as you and Michael’s fingers slotted down.
“Oh, my God, Mike.” Jermaine cried, clutching his stomach, “You dog.”
You chuckled, shaking your head as you recounted the memory clearly in your head. It was the night, and more so day, after your wedding — and you spent the whole twenty-four hours after tying the knot making love. So much so, you both slept for at least fourteen hours that night, both covered head to toe in sweat, spit and cum — and completely spent.
“We’d just got married, what did you expect?” You giggled, the deep smile on your face on deepening as Michael dropped his head as he laughed breathlessly, clearly embarrassed from such intimate talk.
A few more intimate, hilarious and interesting rounds followed — memories from the siblings childhood, as well their respecting relationships and embarrassing moments all being revealed with each breath. As well as more wine.
“I can’t believe you peed on Randy, you two.” Janet gasped for breath as she laughed.
Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head, as he recounted the memory of sharing a bed with his brothers, “He’s such a liar.” He spoke, his words slightly slurred as the alcohol took over.
“I am not!” Randy fired back.
“Well, it wasn’t me.” Michael giggled, raising his eyebrows in Marlon’s direction who screamed with laughter.
“When you gotta go, you gotta go, little brother.” He winked, ignoring the way Randy cursed at him, “Alright, if you wanna come for me, Never have I ever got caught having sex by Mom?”
Randy groaned as he put a finger down, just as you gasped, “Oh, fuck’s sake, that includes us!”
“No way! When?” La Toya gasped as the room bustled with questions at your drunken revelation.
“Oh, come on, girl, why’d you tell ‘em?” Michael whined, his voice drawled as his cheeks flushed, as he slotted a third finger down.
The alcohol had clearly hit everyone, including you, as your cheeks flushed pink and your body buzzed with a heavy, noticeable daze of intoxication, as you began retelling the story. It had been a night just like this, five years ago, when Paris was still young, and your Mother had been looking after her and Prince while you had a party-night at Hayvenhurst with all the siblings. But, this time, Michael got equally as drunk as you, and was too under the influence to attempt to get home, so opted for spending the night at his parents. And, as most couple’s do when drunk, you began having sex, albeit much louder than you intended to. But, you hadn’t let Kate know you were staying over — so, when she marched into the room, wondering if there was a burglar, she witnessed you, naked, atop of her son, riding him.
Michael’s hands enclosed around his face as Tito shook his shoulders with a laugh, teasing him, as you added Kate had a stern talk with you the next day, like you were irresponsible teenagers, about safe sex, especially after having a baby.
“That was your fault.” Michael pointed at you, a lazy grin spread across his face, as his eyes drooped slightly.
You giggled, “Me? You came on to me.”
“More like into, but sure.”
“Oh, good, God, Michael!” La Toya squealed, covering her ears as everyone laughed.
“I always forget how he gets when he drinks.” You slurred with a chuckle, “As the story reveals.”
“Oh? You wanna go there?” Michael fired, “Never have I ever broke a mirror during... it?”
You gasped, folding a finger down as the memory of your legs giving way, and falling forward when Michael was fucking you from behind in front of the mirror, and it smashing from the weight of your tumble, hit your brain.
“Alright, Never have I ever fell asleep during sex?”
Marlon cackled as Michael pursed his lips together, “It was after the tour, girl, I was tired!”
“Put that finger down, Michael.”
“Fine, speaking of fingers, Never have I ever broke a finger during sex?”
As you slot a finger down, recounting the way you jumped on Michael from the edge of the bed, in between switching positions, and broke his pinky finger, you shot back, “Never have I ever slipped in the shower during sex?”
Michael cursed with a laugh as he put a finger down — the tension of his previous actions melting into nothingness as your teasing continued.
“Never have I ever been pregnant?”
“Oh, that’s playing dirty.” You gasped, putting a finger down until one was left, “Never have I ever woke the kids up from how loud you were being?”
“Fine, Never have I ever argued with me during sex?”
“Never have I ever been an asshole that it required an argument?”
Michael’s jaw clenched as the room fell into uncomfortable silence, “Never have I ever divorced the one man who actually put up with you?”
Oh, now he was pissed — and so were you.
“Oh, fuck you.” You spat, the tension rising back up as you dropped your hand, now not caring about the game, “Never have I ever ruined my marriage by letting my ex-wife sleep over at my house and take care of my loving wife’s kids while she was crying at her Mom’s house because of what I’d done?”
“You know it wasn’t like that.” Michael spat through gritted teeth, his hand also abandoned.
“Oh, really? So maybe, Never have I ever took my other ex-wife out for dinner who ruined my marriage, two days before my son’s birthday, is more fitting?”
Before Michael could even get another word out, you slammed your wine glass onto the table and stormed out of the room — heels clicking wildly against the floor, covering the sound of your quiet sobs as tears slipped from your eyes.
You soon found one of the many downstairs bathrooms, slotting yourself inside with a stumble due to your intoxication, and locking it shut. You hunched over the sink, letting tears drip onto the cold tiles that surrounded the basin as you choked out a sob.
‘Divorced the one man who put up with you’ rang in your head like a blasting speaker in your mind — circling around in your drunken thoughts. Michael had never been cruel, even when drunk, but his words had been harsh, which allowed your slurred brain to run away with itself, believing that it was true.
After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded onto the wood of the door, “Honey? It’s me.”
Janet’s quietened voice hit your ears from behind the door, as you stood up with a huff and unlocked the wooden barrier, pulling it open. She sighed sadly at the sight of your crying frame, before pulling you into a tight hug, rubbing your back as a few stray tears fell from your waterline.
“I’m sorry, honey, I—I have no idea what happened back there, but, I think you two have a lot to discuss.” She spoke gently as she pulled away, offering a small smile, “We’re all heading home now, do you need a ride?”
You let out another long sigh, “No, I’m okay. And you’re right, we should probably talk. I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Don’t stress it, sweetie. Call me if you need, okay?”
And with quiet goodbyes with his brothers at the front door, who teased you carefully about your dispute with Michael, letting the tears dry and soft laughter erupt from your chest, the house fell into loud silence — the kind where you could move one step and it would echo.
You breathed out again, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, before heading back to where the group had once been. Your chest ached at the sight of Michael — head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, body unmoving, now in dim lighting, the main light dialled down to a softer array of light across the room.
Michael’s head lifted at the sound of your heels clicking as they had done all day, your footing still unstable from the lingering alcohol, as you approached him. You took the high road, sitting firmly next to you with a huffed breath, hands settling on your thighs as you got comfortable.
The room, if it was even at all possible, fell into deeper silence, the only sound radiating between you was the sound of your slurred, slow breaths.
“I’m sorry.” Michael finally spoke, voice croaked and quiet as he sighed, “I—I don’t know why I said that.”
“Why did you?” Your voice a near whisper as tears threatened to brew at the reminder of the sentence that was haunting you, “Was I really that bad?”
“Not at all.” He spoke quickly, turning towards you briskly, his eyes meeting your own, “I was just angry and I blurted it out.” He ran a hand across his face, “I don’t know why I did.”
“That really hurt, Michael.” You breathed, “And, when you—sigh—when you, y’know, with Lisa the other day.” You swallowed down the lump in your throat, “Why?”
Michael grew quiet, pursing his lips together as he breathed out once more, “I don’t even know. I was bored, and in Manhattan for a gala, and she called me asking if I was free. I just—I just wanted to catch up.”
“Catch up with your ex-wife? After all that happened?” You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows.
“I know it sounds ridiculous, I hear it, I do. I don’t even know why I agreed really, but, we didn’t go home together, or kiss, or nothin’, if that’s what you’re thinkin’, ‘cause I bet you are.” You let a soft chuckle at his words, which were undeniably true, “It was harmless, to me at least. I definitely see how it looks.”
“Looked real bad, Mike.” You laughed breathlessly, “Jan said you were probably just being polite, and I guess she was right. But, it still hurt, Michael, seeing you with her, it was like opening an old wound that I worked so hard to heal.”
Michael didn’t reply right away, just stayed locked in your gaze, eyes a sunken display of his upset — hurt in the way he’d caused you pain. The look in his eyes was a watered down version of the way he looked at you when you caught him with Lisa the day you split up — the vision sending shockwaves of irrevocable pain coursing through your traumatised veins.
“I’m sorry.” He mumbled again, a hand coming down to rest over yours that crumbled together in your lap, “The last thing I want is for us to fall out when we have kids. It’s not fair to you, as well as them. That’s the last thing I want for us.”
The latter word hung heavy in your head the second it left his lips — a spike of a familiar adoring feeling spreading through you.
“Us.” A smile drifted onto your face, as you glanced down at your connected hands, “Haven’t heard that in a while.”
Michael watched as you toyed with his fingers, rolling the digits between your own, rubbing the soft skin with the pad of your thumb so delicately his heart skipped a beat at the touch.
“We were pretty good together.” He admitted softly, “You made it perfect.”
Your smile deepened, “So I wasn’t hard to put up with?”
Michael chuckled softly as you reciprocated, “No, not at all.” He confirmed, “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, and that’s a positive thing. I mean I’m a dad of a four now, and I love being a father, and I love our kids, and I love yo—“
He cut himself off, visibly tensing, before he could finish the sentence — but, it was too late. The way you gasped softly revealed you’d heard it — his casual revelation for his love for you, even after all this time.
“Michael.” You whispered, peering up from your entwined hands to meet his gaze, “What did you say?”
You had heard, loud and clear, but you needed confirmation before you let your heart burst, while it hammered violently in your chest.
“I said I love you.” Michael sighed, accepting defeat and owning it, “I do now, as I always have done, even after everything. The break-up, the divorce, the kids, Lisa — everything.”
His voice was lazy and slurred, and strong smelling of alcohol as it drifted over your nose from his breath.
“Michael, I—“
“You don’t need to say anything. I know you left for a reason, and a valid one at that. I know I fucked everything up, before and after we split up, I just—I don’t think I can go another day without you.” He let out a broken, shaken breath as a single tear slipped down his face, “I still love you so much, so much it physically hurts whenever I see you leave when you pick up the kids. I can literally feel my heart breaking in my chest whenever we talk like we didn’t spent eight years together. Eight years learning routines, and favourite dinners, and—and little quirks. Eight years of sleeping next to one another, washing together in the shower, and rubbing each other’s feet after a long day, or taking off your make-up when you’re too drunk to do it.” You laughed softly at his words, “Eight years of marriage, seven of being parents to the most wonderful children on the planet, I just—I can’t bear that they think their Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore, when that’s not the truth.” He finally took a breath after he rambled, “At least it isn’t for me.”
You didn’t even realise you were crying until salt lingered on your tongue from where your tears trickled onto your lips — eyebrows tucked deep into the crease of your forehead, lip wobbling as you let him pour his heart out, a raw, vulnerable display of his adoration.
“I never stopped loving you, Michael.”
The sound that left Michael was a broken choke, half a sob as his hands enclosed tighter around your own.
“I was mad at you—fuck, so mad at you. So mad and distraught and lonely, and you saw none of it. You were just so busy and cooped in your own insanely demanding career that you took me for granted. Assumed I’d always be there, that I’d never leave, that I’d always put up with it.” You sniffled, wiping the tears that dripped from the tip of your nose, “But, I just couldn’t. I let you push me closer and closer to the edge, until I willing jumped off, y’know? I just couldn’t take anymore.” You continued, “But, that never meant I stopped loving you.”
As you finished, you let out a deep, trembling breath that released all of the past two years of stress from your body — your shoulders slumping ever so slightly as more tears slipped from your eyes.
“I could never, ever stop loving you, Michael.”
Michael didn’t waste a beat — hands flying from your enclosure to cup your cheeks, and connect your lips.
You gasped into the kiss, your own instantly taking a hold of his shoulders as he moved quickly against you. He was making up for lost time — his hands moving from your face, to your neck, to your waist, pulling you closer to his body radiating pulsing heat, as he hummed into your mouth. A low, deep grumble left him as you crawled onto his lap, lips still connected, instantly finding a familiar comfortability as your legs settled either side of his. Your tongue swiped his bottom lip, requesting entry, as your hands splayed across his panting chest, as he let you in. The kiss only got frequently more frenzied, hands running across one another’s bodies, as if attempting to remember the shape, as your tongues glided together — the kiss growing warm, wet and messy.
If alcohol wasn’t in the equation, you most likely would’ve left it there — pulling away from the kiss and continuing the conversation about your relationship, maybe even attempting to reconcile or rekindle, but not now. Not when your hips slowly began grounding down on the obvious tent in his slacks, moaning into one another’s mouths as his hands cupped the curve of your behind through your dress. The same one that had ridden up your thighs, now revealing your delicate, lace panties that sported a wet patch from where you drooled from anticipatory arousal — now rolling against Michael’s crotch.
“Oh, God, I missed this.” Michael panted, lips leaving your own, revelling in the way you whined into the air, as his mouth trailed down your jaw, to your exposed neck, as your head lolled back, “Missed you, shit, I missed you so much, baby.”
His mouth licked and sucked the skin of your neck, erupting in red-hot heat from the alcohol, and the ecstasy his mouth was providing — littering your skin in dark, blooming love-bites, ones he soothed with his tongue afterwards.
“Michael, please.”
Michael groaned at the sound of your needy plea — a hand guiding your rocking hips against him as he leaked into his boxers at the sensation, “Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”
“Need—fuck, need you, baby, Oh—“
Your breath caught in your throat as Michael lips reached your breasts — pressing open-mouthed, spit-stricken kisses against your cleavage as a hand crawled up to cup your left breast, kneading one in his palm.
“Yeah?” He breathed, voice panted and wrecked, mouth now covered in your lipstick, “What do you need, baby?”
You whined, loud and desperate, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he grazed your erect nipple with his teeth, your back arching at the feeling, “Make love to me, please.”
How you ended up in Michael’s bedroom was a blur — a rushed, hushed and stumbled run up the stairs, shedding clothes before you even made it to the room, stealing kisses and subtle touches in the dark, in quietened voices to not wake your sleeping children.
But, once you made it, Michael pounced like a lion on its prey — guiding you backward as he kissed you until your legs hit the bed, before laying you down gently. Michael had always been a tentative, doting lover in the bedroom, making sure you always finished first, and had the most pleasureful, comfortable experience possible — and even after all this time, he was the same.
He had already rid his shirt outside the room, and managed to pull your dress halfway up your legs, so when he fell to his knees in between your bare thighs, he only had to push your dress the other half of the way off, before you were bare before him, aside from your panties.
He shimmied your soaked underwear down your legs and shuffled back on his calves — eyes trailing over your stark naked, trembling frame.
“Wow.” He breathed, “My beautiful lady. God, the things you do to me.”
“I think I have somewhat of an idea.” Your voice was teasing and tantalising as a bare foot, your heels left to rot on the stairs, pressed firmly onto the bulge in his trousers.
Michael cursed under his breath, head falling forward to rest against your knee as his hand gripped your ankle at the sensation — he hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with a woman, besides hugging, since you split up a year ago, and by God, was he desperate now.
As your foot retracted and he gained composure, he pressed swift kisses up from your knee and along your thighs — before two large slowly parted your legs as he slot his face between them.
Before he delved in to where you needed him most, he peered up at your panting frame, eyes blow at the anticipation of his mouth, “Can I taste you, baby?”
“Oh, God, please, ye—Oh, fuck, Michael!”
The cry left you before you stop yourself as his tongue flattened against your sex — a low rumble of a groan leaving his lips, vibrating against your core as he let the taste of you settle on his tongue. You writhed at the vibration, soft gasps and whines leaving your throat as he began slow, practiced figure-eights along your throbbing clit — your hands flying to capture his hands that rest against your thighs in a tight grasp to steady yourself.
“Fuck, you taste even better than I remembered, mama.” Michael mumbled against your sex, licking a long stripe from your weeping hole, to where your clit twitched violently.
He dove back in, but this time, slipping a slender finger inside you — revelling in the way your back arched and you cried his name, the pleasure you yourself too hadn’t felt in a year consumed you entirely. His fingers found that spot instantly — rubbing the part of your drooling cunt that made you cry out in overwhelming pleasure repeatedly as you saw stars.
With the dual sensation of his fingers and relentless mouth now suckling your clit into his mouth, releasing it with a pop! and then swirling his tongue around it — your orgasm approached quicker than you expected. And hit you like a freight train.
“Oh, my, God, I’m gonna—fuck, Michael, I’—“ You sounded awfully desperate and whiny as you panted, legs shaking as your first non-self-inflicted orgasm washed over you.
His name fell from your swollen lips like a chant — hitting his ears as he contained to stimulate you, his tongue and fingers never letting up as you rode the wave of your release.
“That’s it, that’s my girl.” Michael coaxed, his fingers slowing as you slumped against the sheets, “Did so good for me, baby.”
Michael gasped as you sat up and grabbed him by the belt — dragging him to his feet as his crotch became level with your face from where you sat on the bed. Your nimble fingers worked open his belt with practiced ease, an action you’d performed thousands of times over your relationship, as you pushed his slacks and boxers to his ankles.
Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of him — you’d seen his cock, hard and soft, a million times before, but this time was different. He looked the hardest he’d ever been — twitching cock flushed a deep shade of pink against the mauve-coloured tip, pulsing veins painting the underside of his shaft, and sporting a drool of perfectly white pre-cum from the head that stained his abdomen as it slapped against it.
You pulled him down by his hips as you lay flat against the sheets — back hitting the bed as Michael crawled atop of you. He connected your lips instantly, but, this kiss was gentler than the previous — his mouth moved slowly and delicately against yours, as if savouring the taste of sweet red-wine and buttercream frosting on your tongue, mixing with the familiar taste of your saliva.
His hands moved quicker than his mouth — pulling your legs up into the air by the back of your knees, and slotting them onto his shoulders, as he nestled closer to your chest. With a spare hand that wasn’t cupping the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, Michael took a firm hold of the base of his cock and slot it between your folds with ease only a former husband of eight years would know to do, even in an intoxicated state.
“Please, baby.”
“Patience.” He whispered against your mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before sitting up on his knees, “Wanna do somethin’ first.”
He leant over to the nightstand next to the bed, ignoring how you whined from the lack of touch, and retrieved a small black box. He lodged himself back between your raised legs, and chuckled, opening the black box, as you gasped.
“Wanna be my wife again for the night, baby?”
There, in the black, velvet box, the same one he opened nine years prior on golden sands in Italy at sunset, held your engagement ring, and nestled neatly above it, your wedding ring, the same one you wore for eight years, and mailed back to him the day after you broke-up. One that he kept all this time in the drawer of his nightstand — a subtle way of holding onto you all this time.
Michael pulled the wedding ring out of the box, saving the engagement ring for safe keeping, and threw the box across the large bed. He slotted your legs over his shoulders once more, slithering his cock between your glistening folds, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth at the sound of your breathy whine — before guiding himself to your clenching hole.
With one swift, beautifully erotic jerk of his hips — Michael sheeted himself inside you, at the same time as he slipped your wedding ring back onto your ring-finger.
The sensation of not only being stuffed to the hilt of the cock you’d missed for two years, the one you touched yourself to the thought of every night since you left, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around the size of him, but also your finger now snug with your wedding ring around it once more had your pussy gushing and pulsating around the length of him.
Michael didn’t miss it — leaning forward, slotting himself only deeper with a huff, and pressing his mouth against yours, “Oh? You like that, huh?” He teased, lips ghosting against your own, “You like the idea of being my wife again, baby?”
“Mmh—fuck, yeah, baby—” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the tip of his cock nudged your cervix — a sensation that had you gasping for breath at the fullness.
“That’s right, darling,” Michael breathed, pulling back slowly so only the tip of him remained, “‘Wanna make you mine again so bad.”
And his relentless thrusts began — hips moving at such a pace that you lost your breath, eyes rolled so far into the back of your head you became dizzy, and noises of undeniable pleasure so loud you were certain at least one of your children were to wake. Michael always had insane stamina, especially so after your wedding, but right now it was unstoppable — so pent up for your body for over a year that you didn’t think he’d ever stop.
His hands rest harshly on your hips, grip so hard you were certain it’d leave a mark, and that it did, as he fucked you back down onto his cock — the sound of your squelching cunt filling his ears.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Michael breathed, breath warm against your skin, “Listen to that—y’pussy’s so wet f’me, honey. Missed your husband that much, huh?”
“So—fuck—so much, Mikey—God.”
Your noises were whiny and needier than you’d ever heard them, not that your drunken brain was registering in the moment, as you buried yourself into the crook of his neck — lips instantly finding solace in his warm skin, covered in a sheen of sweat, that danced on your tongue as you sucked marks into the flesh. Michael groaned near the shell of your ear, hands tightening around your hip as you clamped down on him — now rutting impossibly faster at the sensation of your spasming cunt and your lips against his skin.
“Michael!—Holy fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—“
You only got louder, and therefore whinier, when he pressed your legs against your chest in a brutal mating press — now despicably deeper inside you, and relentlessly abusing the sweet spot, the one he previously curled his fingers against, as your second orgasm crept up your abdomen.
“God, baby, you feel—Jesus, just like how I remember.” Michael panted, moving his head to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss once more, “Fuck, I love you.”
You cried out indefinitely into his mouth, hands threading through his soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck, “I love—Mmh!—love you so much, Michael.”
He cursed under his breath, jaw hanging swiftly slack as his eyes squeezed shut — cock now twitching violently inside you as he quickened his thrusts swiftly. Your orgasm was dangerously close — now only a few ruts against your G-spot away as Michael continued to pepper kisses over your lips and face, groaning against your skin.
“Fuck, baby, I—“ He cut himself off with a whine, deep from his chest, “Wanna give you another baby so bad.”
His words sent you over the edge — cunt clenching him so hard his thrusts faltered ever so slightly as he cried out at the sensation. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks — your back arching and mouth falling open for frenzied pants and whines to escape your throat as the sweet, delicious familiarity of an orgasm coaxed out by Michael consumed your body. Irrevocable ecstasy coursed through you like buzzing electricity — setting you alight as you mumbled incoherently into the air.
“Jesus, is that what you want, mama? You wan’ a fifth? Oh, Jesus—“
Speaking the filthy words aloud, Michael threw himself into his own release — hips sputtering as he pushed himself impossibly deeper, spilling inside you with a loud groan, muffled by the safe haven of your collarbone, his teeth sinking into the skin to soften the noises. His pushed his incredibly, obviously, fertile seed further inside you — retracting his teeth and licking the marks in your skin in a soothing manner as his hands tightened around your hips, the jerks of his own slowing with each lazy thrust.
Soon came the silence — now this time not angered, or tense, or awkward, or saddened, but familiar. The ragged pants of breaths as you attempted to catch them, and gentle, loving, soft kisses stolen on necks, jaws, cheeks and lips — whispering heartfelt desires and thoughts into one another’s skin, promising love and devotion.
Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and crumbled next to you — instantly pulling you to his chest, and situating you under the blankets. His head hit the pillow with a sigh as you nestled onto his skin — both your brains swirling with alcohol and adrenaline-induced intoxication.
Just as your eyes fluttered shut, sleep threatening to take over, Michael pressed an adorably gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes squinted open, fighting sleep in a loosing battle, as you met his too sleepy gaze.
“Whatever happens in the morning,” He whispered, “Just know I love you.”
He didn’t expect a reply, especially so when your eyes fell back shut and you drifted off to sleep, as moments later he did the same.
And that’s the reality of the night that had hit you in this very moment — sat upright in Michael’s bed, more hungover than you anticipated, and swarming with dread as you stared down at the wedding ring on your finger.
The night wasn’t unpleasant — it was far from it. If anything, it actually fixed the main problem in your life — being a single mother of four, and having to pretend like you didn’t still have feelings for your ex-husband. But, fucking him drunk wasn’t exactly the route you thought you’d take to reconcile your relationship.
“Baby?”
Michael’s hoarse, croaky, morning voice hit your ears, making you jump as you gasped softly, breaking out of your train of through as you met his sleepy gaze. He mumbled softly as consciousness erupted in his system, rubbing his tired eyes as they settled on you — covered in love-bites, bruises and completely stark naked.
“Oh, Jesus, did we—?”
“I think that’s fairly obvious, Michael.” You forced out a scarce laugh, pursing your lips against one another as Michael slotted the puzzle pieces together, “Do you—Do you remember anything, or..?”
“I—I think so, I don’t—Is that your wedding ring?”
You peered down at the shining jewellery, as a soft chuckle escaped you, “Uh, yeah. I think we kinda got re-engaged last night.”
“Oh, my God.” Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands bashfully, “I’m so sorry, I just know it was me who instigated that.”
Another genuine laugh slipped from your mouth, mingling with Michael’s in the air of the bedroom, “Yeah, seems like it.”
Silence followed shortly — but, as it had been ever since you revealed your unspoken love for one another after everything, it wasn’t tense. Nor unsettling. If anything, the silence was calm and peaceful — like you both had so much to say, yet felt no pressured obligation to do so frantically.
“Well, you, um, you put it on.” Michael spoke shyly, “So, do you want to—do we, uh, shall I—“
You slipped the ring from your finger, and presented it to him, “I think we should have this decision when we’re of more sound mind.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” Michael replied quietly, taking the ring from your grasp.
You could tell from the way he spoke that he was disappointed — like you had shattered his heart all over again.
“That’s not to say I don’t want to discuss us, and what was said last night. I’m not closing that off for good, so, don’t worry. I just think getting engaged before we even discuss getting back together is a bit far-fetched.”
Michael chuckled, a real laugh escaping him as a smile danced onto his lips, “Yeah, you’re right, good idea, mama.”
You couldn’t help but let your heart flutter with fondness at the easiness of the nickname — the familiarity of it sending waves of butterflies through your stomach.
The rest of the morning was jovial — you washed and dressed yourself, in a pair of Michael’s old joggers and an old Victory Tour t-shirt, with light banter and easy conversations with him, both of you waking the children up together and curating breakfast for the whole family. You managed to shut down any probing questions Prince and Paris hounded you with, like ‘Mama, why are you here if you don’t live with Daddy anymore?’ or ‘Mama, are you and Daddy back in love?’ and ‘Daddy, are you gonna marry Mommy again soon?’
You diminished them all with a stern warning to stop asking, before exchanging hushed giggles and side-eyed glances to one another at the comedic timing of your two eldest.
But, all good things must come to an end, as Michael helped you with yours and the children’s belongings to Bill’s car, which awaited you out front. As Michael conversed with Bill, you ushered the children into the back seat, clipping them in like you had done the day previously, before turning to Michael.
“Come here.” He smiled, opening up his arms.
You chuckled softly, walking into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around your waist, as yours situated against his chest, the sound of his rhythmical heart beating making your heart flutter. He pressed a swift kiss, while the kids weren’t looking, to your forehead before you pulled away.
“Call me, okay?” He spoke to you, blowing a kiss to Paris as she waved at him through the window, “We can talk about everything, whenever you want.”
“Okay, Michael.”
You returned the smile he offered to you as he pulled the car door open for you, and pushing it gently shut once you’d climbed in. Michael waved theatrically goodbye as the car sped off out the driveway — his frame becoming smaller and smaller in the wing-mirror as Bill drove further away.
“The dress trick worked then, huh?” Bill teased with a playful smile.
You laughed, “Don’t even start.”
From then on, you contacted Michael frequently — calling him, even if it was just to ask him about his day, often, just to hear his voice. You didn’t know when you wanted to discuss that night, as you were the one who ended the relationship, and as dearly as you loved him, you had to be sure that things were going to change. You didn’t want to mess yourself around, as well as your children, by getting back into a relationship out of infatuation and attachment, rather than knowing for sure.
So, Michael would take any opportunity he could to show you just how much he meant what he said. He took you out anywhere and everywhere, just the two of you, dates like the old days when you first got together — dinners, theme parks, movies, bowling, dancing, all child-like and utterly ridiculous, but yet so meaningful. And he never once talked about work, unless you asked, never answered a phone call, or started mentally drifting away from the conversation as his mind slipped back into work mode — he was there. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
He started making a real, true, genuine effort — and one that you never asked him to.
The first time you called him after that night was a few days afterwards — just to check in. And he asked you out — said he would love to take you out to dinner to the restaurant you both used to religiously go to when you were married. Your favourite Mexican restaurant in all of California.
And from that point on, he never stopped — never let up on his effort. He took you everywhere, and treated you like you weren’t his ex-wife whom he was attempting to get back. He was behaving out of pure love and devotion to you — proving himself and making up for lost time. Meanwhile, not once did he ask nor expect sex — your drunken night had been intoxicated led, and as much fun as he had, he strictly told you that the time you were spending together wouldn’t be sexual, as he wanted it to be meaningful. When you teased him that you thought he was saying your sex wasn’t heartfelt, he quickly shut it down — reminding you that although sex between you two is sacred to him, earning your trust and respect back was more so.
At the six week mark of you and Michael beginning to rekindle your relationship — you had never felt so high. Your children were let on to a ‘little secret’ that Mommy and Daddy are close friends now, and can be around one another — so dinners and trips out were spent as family again. Their adolescent brains didn’t question it for very long — but you could tell your eldest were secretly pleased. Especially Paris, who whispered to you one night while you coaxed her to sleep, with Michael stood in the doorway, watching happily, that she was happy you and her Daddy were friends again, and that she loved you both so much, before falling asleep.
That was all the confirmation you were making the right decision that you needed.
Michael had woken at his own house alone, this morning, for once — you had spent the evening out with his sisters last night, and requested a solo night at your house. A choice he respected — which led him to awake in his bed all by himself. He had the kids round, which meant his peaceful morning would probably be disturbed in a matter of minutes, with Prince, Paris and Blanket leaping on bed, before he fetched Mickey from his.
But, the first disruption was the loud sound of the phone ringing.
Michael jumped — body seizing as the sound rattled through him. He cursed under his breath as he reached for the phone, picking it up and bringing it to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Michael?”
The sound of your voice would usually bring a smile straight to his face, and flutters throughout his body — but, you sounded panicked. And he instantly noticed.
“Baby? Are you alright?”
“You better get that wedding ring out again, Mike.” You laughed, but clearly sounded unamused as Michael furrowed his eyebrows.
“Huh? What do you mean, honey?” He replied, confusion swarming his senses.
𓈒❤︎︎࣪˖ an alternate universe in which michael 𝓳ackson didn’t have to wait 21 years to celebrate his birthday for the first time. . .
the first of my 𝒅𝒂𝒚𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒔 collection! ₊‧.°.⋆💭˚₊⋆. a series of my thoughts written into short pieces of work { ≤1k }
➳♡ childhoodbsf!popstar!reader x 𝓳ackson5!michael
For eleven years of Michael Jackson’s life, birthdays were non-existent. Being a Jehovah’s Witness meant that celebrating them was forbidden, and even while his young, inquisitive mind would often question why it had to be that way—when all the other kids at school could celebrate freely—his mother would only respond with dismissal, warning him not to ask silly questions about things that were religiously set in stone.
So, in his obligations, he stopped asking. He began to accept that this was just the way things were in his household. His mother and father had provided him with so much, given him ample opportunity to thrive in the business, so why should he complain that he couldn’t celebrate his own birthday, or the birthdays of his siblings? Why should he complain that he was banned from celebrating Christmas, too? He must focus on being grateful for what he did have, his mother always told him.
But there was one person in his life who disagreed with that line of thought. The girl with the pretty face and the flowy dresses, the girl he spent every possible second with whenever she was free—his sweet best friend. She would never once excuse any argument for why a child just like herself shouldn’t celebrate their birthday. Not yet even a teenager, she knew these social constructs were ridiculous, and that they only sought to make people miserable and kept in a cult-like mindset of thoughtless obligation.
She wouldn’t allow the boy with the perpetually sad eyes to refuse himself of something that could be enjoyed if only he could pluck up the courage and remove the guilt to do so in secret.
And when she had convinced him, they began a beautiful tradition.
Every year since Michael’s twelfth trip around the sun, as the clock struck midnight on August 29 the young girl would climb up the side of the Jacksons’ Hayvenhurst mansion, hooking her hands and feet onto the railings that were surprisingly steady enough. She would slip in through her best friend’s window, and there he would be—sat cross-legged on his bed by the fireplace, hands clasped together or rubbing at his temple as he waited in the guilt that never really subsided completely.
But a mere two minutes in her presence, and he would be alright. It was the thought of his rulebreaking that concerned him, but then his favourite girl would be seated across from him as the anniversary of his birth began—she too in a cross-legged position, with an eager smile that took away all his anxiety.
Sometimes the little boy would have to strategically attempt to cover up the bruises running over his arms after he’d had a harsh beating from his father, because a pretty girl didn’t deserve to worry herself with such dark circumstances. They were his circumstances, and he initially always tried his hardest to keep them that way, but it didn’t take long for her to find out.
From that point on, she would gently, non-invasively check for the marks herself, then using on him her mother’s witch hazel, soaking a washcloth in the astringent liquid and pressing it to Michael’s skin to cool his inflammation and reduce his swelling.
Upon sitting down on his bed following the strike of midnight, Michael would be made to open the birthday gift he always insisted she shouldn’t have bought him. Even as a child, he didn’t like to be the receiver—he preferred to give instead, but he didn’t seem to understand that one could experience both sides of the giving and receiving spectrum. Michael was so used to false friendships where he helped others and never got anything genuine back, so that felt like the norm to him.
The exception had been when she had entered his life, and from then on he began to finally experience a friendship so perfectly balanced.
“Happy birthday, Bambi,” she would whisper to his flustered face, retrieving one of two cupcakes decorated in Michael’s favourite frosting, aside a small lighter and a single candle that she placed in the centre.
Despite his shy protests, she would sing happy birthday under her breath, her gentle tone the perfect cadence for Michael’s anxious ears. In those moments, he could successfully block out everything else.
And Michael loved sugar, but he’d always had a disordered problem with eating, so his best friend would eat her cupcake while he ate his, settling him into feeling more comfortable, and reminding him that he had permission to indulge. It was all okay whenever she was with him, no matter what life was like outside of her presence.
She would often stay for the rest of the night after his birthday had been formally celebrated, sleeping in his bed while he turned to face the fire and tried to calm his racing heart—a heart that burned with a strength even fiercer than the blaze before him.
This midnight ritual became a tradition, and each year that primary organ in the centre of Michael’s aching chest was in the same frenzy. The pretty girl was so oblivious to the way his eyes would shine with adoration when she sung, to how he couldn’t stop smiling and messing with his hands whenever she cuddled really close—which she so often did—to the way he simply couldn’t stop staring at her side profile whenever she wasn’t looking. For almost eight entire years, he secretly admired her and wrote about her in awe, until he finally laid bare the truth.
One night, on his fourteenth birthday, Latoya had been in the bathroom at one o’clock in the morning, hearing whispers coming from Michael’s room. She walked in, slowly twisting the door handle to make as little a sound as possible, and there she saw the two of them, cuddled up with teddy bears, laughing as Michael made a wish and blew out the candle on his cupcake. They never noticed she was standing there, and she smiled as she walked away, willing to keep the memory for only herself, never to allow anybody else in the family to find out and ruin what little freedom the two young friends had together.
Hi babe. So I need a breeding kink fic when reader is looking so delicious he can’t resist.
Cuz this man literally has Leo venus ans taurus mars!!! It’s just HAS to be truthful
ohhhh ur so good for requestin this
.✦── achin' for you
wc: 2.5k
̩͙ ⠳⠀⠀ .⠀⏜ pairing: dangerous era!michael x fem! reader ̩͙
tags: smut, breeding kink, creampie, body worship, emotional smut, ovulation kink, mike is down BAD - trust, overly horny mike,
A/N: this was written in like 2 hrs in a Starbucks the tense is all over the joint so … be gentle w me
18+ mdni... or ill getcha
the tour bus sways slightly as the driver merges across the highway lanes. the tinny sound of the metal hauling over asphalt was a strange but soothing sound.
miles of dark highway blurred past the windows; swallowing the roar of the stadium crowd still ringing in your bones. the air on the bus was close and smelled of stale coffee, leather, a faint hint of hairspray.
you stood dripping and furious in the narrow corridor, a sodden puddle forming around your bare feet on the plush carpet, the air conditioning raising goosebumps on your skin.
“no towels,” you seethe to the empty lounge, your voice tight, “not a single goddamn towel in this whole billion-dollar bus,” and you stomp, barefoot and naked, past the kitchenette, past the bank of TVs showing silent security feeds, your hair still dripping, painting cold tracks down your spine with every furious stride. you hoped michael could hear you.
he’s could hear you, of course.
he lay propped against a mountain of pillows on the massive bed that took up the entire rear wall, a hardcover book open in his lap.
but his eyes aren’t on the page, they’re tracking you, a slow liquid sweep from your damp scowling face, down the sheen on your collarbones, over the curve of your breasts, the dip of your stomach, the swell of your hips, as you march to the dresser bolted to the wall.
“unbelievable,” you mutter, yanking a drawer open, the sound loud and violent in the quiet, rummaging around in the top drawer. your pyjamas were off with the laundry department that were on hire for the dangerous tour so you had to make do with michael’s long black band t-shirts.
“i feel gross, puffy, my body’s just holding onto everything this week, i’m up three pounds from yesterday... my jeans are tight in the wrong places, everything feels swollen and sore and wrong,” you keep rummaging, seething about the fact your cycle has you ovulating… it was a curse - you were horny but… pudgy as your hormones fluctuated.
you shook out an old AC/DC shirt-with no holes, because heaven knows you were always finding old sentimental shirts with gaping gaps in em- and in the turning, caught your reflection in the mirror. The frown was already there, deep and worn
“look,” you whined, “it’s like my body’s betraying me,” and you slap a hand against your outer thigh, the sound a sharp, satisfying smack in the quiet. “ugh ive gotten so soft”
that’s when he speaks, his voice a low warm rumble that seems to vibrate through the floor and up into the soles of your feet. he hasn’t spoken in a bit.
“i like it.”
you freeze, the shirt halfway over your head, pull it back down, and turn to look at him. he’s closed the book, set it aside. his gaze is unwavering, dark as the night outside the window, utterly focused. his hair is natural, down and soft looking. he’d showered directly after the show, so it had gone a little fuzzy.
he looked sweet sitting there - a goofy tshirt from Disney world that he’d worn the print so bad with washes, that the cartoon looked deformed. the tshirt was bundled up on his stomach, showing a dark wiry happy trail that led down into some plaid boxer shorts.
you drunk him in, how pretty he looked without his makeup, and the cute little splodges of pigment on his legs. he was so endearing, but hot at the same time, you kinda just wanted to —
“wait what?”
you had totally lost your train of thought whilst looking at him. and he knew it.
“i like seein’ you a little fuller,” he says, simple as stating the time, his eyes drifting back to your thighs,
“specially there. when i’m between your legs, with my mouth on you… i can really feel them then.” he smirked at you, his eyes dancing with mirth. he was teasin’ cause he knew you were horny.
“they press against my ears, my cheeks. they cradle me in. it’s like… the whole world is just your taste and the softness of your thighs. i love that feelin’.”
he says it all so matter-of-factly, so honestly, that the anger seeps out of you, replaced by a slow creeping heat spreading low in your belly. you smirk, a deflection.
“you’re so full of it, mike. you’d say anything to get laid.”
he swings his legs off the bed, pads over to you on silent feet, “no, no i mean it. i see you gettin’ frustrated with yourself. but to me… you look healthy. strong. your skin’s got this warmth to it.” his hands come up, resting lightly on your hips through the soft cotton of the shirt, his thumbs finding the new gentle curve of your lower belly,
“it’s not just weight. it’s your body workin’. doin’ what it’s meant to. Protectin’ you. it makes you softer right here,” he murmurs, pressing gently against your lower tummy, “it’s mother nature. I’ve read about it.”
you roll your eyes but the heat in your belly is a traitorous spreading warmth, a direct counterpoint to the frustration knotting your shoulders,
“you’re just sayin’ that. we’ve been eating trash food and I’ve been having one too many cocktails with the crew at the after parties. that’s why i’m bloated and irritable and down on myself“
you brought your arms up to rest around his neck. “you’re just trying to make moves because you know my cycle and know I’m ovulatin’” your mouth quivers into a sly smile.
“I see you looking in my diary mike”
the moment the word leaves your lips—ovulatin’—his entire demeanor shifts, subtle but profound, the sleepy appreciative warmth in his eyes sharpening into a focused, almost crazed intensity, his pupils dilating, the hands on your hips stilling then flexing, his fingertips pressing in just a fraction more, as if he can feel the truth of it under his palms.
he doesn’t bother to laugh the accusation off. he just looks at you, his dark eyes serious, almost shy in that terrifyingly focused way. he closed the last bit of distance, his body heat a wall against the bus’s chill,
“its jus ‘cause i love you,” he says, his voice dropping even lower, becoming hushed, “i can tell without the diary. you’ve got a… a glow about you this week. a warmth. i’ve been noticin’ it.”
“you’re such a darling thing when you’re hormonal, you’re little frustrated faces,” he continues, teasing. his voice is low though, almost a mumble.
hes clearly nervous. he’s correcting your assumption that he’s only noticing because he wants sex, his gaze dropping to his thumbs tracing the shape of you,
“i think about it — i mean… when you’re like this… a little softer. it means your body is… ready. And it makes you hotter” he’s fumbling over his words.
“you think about me bein’ hormonal and puffy? Does that get you off?” you tease, but your voice has lost its edge, caught in the gravity of his stare.
he shakes his head in aggreeance, finally looking up at you, a flush creeping up his neck but it isn’t from just embarrassment now, it’s from a building raw tenderness, “i think about you bein’… ready for me. your body knowin’ exactly what it wants. what it’s meant for.” his grip tightens, pulling you a half-inch closer, “it’s all i’ve been able to think about today.”
“tell me more.” you whisper
he ducks his head, his forehead touching your shoulder, his words a warm secret murmur against your skin, “i imagine you. full with my child. for real. your hips would get a lil wider, to make room. you’d be so heavy with it. all round and soft. beautiful, and your breasts…” he trails off, his breath catching, “they’d be full, too. achin’ sometimes… y’know. from the milk. and i’d want to ease the ache for you, suckle on em and make you feel good.”
the image is so stark, so visceral, it steals the air from your lungs.
“you’re out of your mind,” you breathe, deflecting but you’re arching into his touch, the frustration melting under a wave of sheer wanton need.
he reaches around with both hands, his palms broad and warm, and takes a firm, deliberate hold of your backside, his fingers sinking into the soft, full flesh through the worn cotton of the t-shirt. he squeezes gently, kneading, pulling you a fraction closer against him until you can feel the hard line of his arousal pressed against your stomach.
“i know,” he whispers back, his voice a low, rough vibration against your lips as he finally lifts his head. all the earlier softness, the boyish shyness, is gone, completely stripped away. what remains is a look of pure, undiluted intent, his eyes so dark they seem to swallow the dim light of the bus.
“baby, we’ve waited,” he says, the words thick with a pent-up hunger you can feel in the tremor of his hands.
“been so damn careful. pills, condoms, timin’… playin’ it safe like our lives depended on it.” he leans in, his forehead touching yours, his breath hot and shared. “tonight, i don’t wanna be careful. i don’t wanna hold back a single goddamn thing.”
his hands slide from your backside, smoothing up the curve of your spine, and find the hem of the shirt. his knuckles brush the bare skin of your waist, sending a lightning-bolt shiver through you. in one slow, deliberate motion, he begins to gather the soft black fabric in his fists, lifting it, exposing you inch by inch to the cool air and the heat of his gaze.
“let me fill you up” he breathes, the words a formality, “please. i need to feel you. all of you. i need to be close to you. right now.”
you nod, a tiny helpless motion, that’s all the permission he needs. because deep down you want it too.
you’d usually tell him, the words a breathless, unconvincing plea in the dark, “n-no, mike, pull out, please,” even as your thighs would clamp tight around his hips, your ankles locking at the small of his back, your whole body pulling him deeper, holding him in-every clutching movement screaming the exact, desperate opposite of the weak protest leaving your lips.
the last pretense of patience evaporates, he kisses you then, deep and slow. a sweet, thorough claiming of your mouth that has your knees buckling, he walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of the massive bed, he lays you down, following you, his body covering yours, all lean warm muscle and trembling urgency.
he pushes the t-shirt up and over your neck, his mouth leaving a searing trail down your throat after your bare for him. over your collarbone, and then lower, he takes one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue circling the peak until you cry out, your back bowing off the mattress.
“we’re always so lost in followin’ the rules,” he mutters against the damp skin of your sternum, his hands gripping the softness of your hips, holding you still, “but not tonight. I cant, not when you’re lookin so good like this.”
he moves down your body, his breath hot on your belly, his thumbs hooking in the hollow behind your knee bone to spread you open.
he doesn’t even bother teasing, he puts his mouth on you with a low grateful sound, his tongue laying a broad wet stripe over your clit before settling into a slow relentless rhythm, his nose pressed against you, his cheeks cushioned by the flesh of your thighs.
he loves you with his mouth, tender and thorough, until you’re shuddering, your heels digging into his back, until you’re whispering his name into the quiet of the bus that’s still driving, only when you’re clenching around nothing, your hips lifting off the bed in a silent plea, does he rise up.
he scrambles back on his knees, his movements suddenly frantic, boyish with eagerness. he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his plaid boxers and shoves them down in one hurried, graceless motion, kicking them off his ankles. he’s already hard, the heavy, flushed weight of him curving up against his stomach, the skin taut, patchy and gleaming in the low light. the sight of him, so desperately ready, so stripped of his usual controlled grace, makes a bubble of fond laughter threaten in your chest. you bite down hard on your lower lip to trap it, the pressure turning into a shaky, wanton smile instead.
he doesn’t even seem to notice, his entire world is you. the space space between your thighs. he moves over you, the broad, aching crown of him nudging insistently against your soaked entrance, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still. a fine sheen of sweat gleamed on his temple. his breath sawed in and out of his chest.
"god, look at you," he choked out, his voice wrecked. "so ready. you're always lovely but tonight… tonight you're perfect."
he leaned forward and dropped his forehead against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary jerk against your clit that made you both gasp with pleasure.
“i need to put a baby in you so bad it's makin' me stupid."
you can’t speak, you instead just nod. your eyes are watering with the emotion of it all.
you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your answer in the arch of your body.
a broken sound tears from his throat and he sinks into you, deep, one long devastating thrust that stretches you perfectly, hilting him completely, a punched-out gasp leaving your lips. he’s staring at you, his face strained with the angle but still so perfect.
his lips full and red, a vein on his forehead protruding with his concentration. you reach up and thumb his mouth, right over his perfect cupids bow.
“yes baby, I love you so m-much, you make me feel so good” you mutter over and over again and he’s saying it back, it’s perfect, your voices harmonising in the quiet space
he’s moving purposefully, each thrust lived in a little longer before he pulls out to drive back in, it’s tender in its absolute focus.
he moves with a deep rolling rhythm, his eyes locked on yours, fluttering shut every one and a while from pleasure. every push is a claim, every withdrawal a promise to return.
"gonna watch you change," he pants, the words hot and broken against your mouth, his forehead slick with sweat where it presses to yours. all you can taste is salt.
"day by day. gonna feel it happen under my hands." his hips roll, crazily slow, your eyes rolling to the back of your head. "your skin gettin' tighter. your curves. all mine. you're gonna be so damn beautiful it'll ruin me.
after a few minutes of this slow claiming pace, he pulls out almost completely, his breath ragged, “turn over for me,” he murmurs, his hand guiding your hip, “on your side.”
you comply, curling onto your side, he slides in behind you, one arm hooking under your top knee, hiking your leg up high, the angle is obscenely deep, intimate, he can go no further, and he begins to move again, shorter sharper thrusts that rub a spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids, “Jesus,” he grunts, his lips against your shoulder blade, “you feelin’ okay baby?”
He continues to breathlessly talk to you in between thrusts; “m’so happy i have this with you, so safe, so right”
you can only moan in response, he picks up the pace and starts mercilessly rubbing your clit with his four fingers. but you can feel the tension start building in him, the way his breaths are becoming ragged and the uncoordination; he’s not going to last.
“i need you on top,” he gasps suddenly, stilling, “i need to see you. need to watch you take me.”
he helps you turn, guiding you to straddle his hips, you sink down onto him, a slow breathless descent, for a moment you just rock and grind there, your hands braced on his chest, setting the pace.
“s-shit that’s good” you mumble
he lets you keep your pace for a bit, his hands roaming over your stomach, your breasts, his eyes worshipful, “look at you,” he breathes, “takin’ me. so beautiful like this.”
‘you’re perfect, so utterly perf–”
but then his control frays, his hands come up to grip your waist, then slide around to clutch your back, pulling your torso down hard against his chest, he holds you there, locked to him, your breasts pressed against his sweat laced skin, your face buried in his neck,
“stay like that m’girl” he whispers, his voice strained, and he begins to thrust upward, fast and desperate, driving into you from below. the force of it drives the air from your lungs, you can’t move, can’t do anything but cling to him as he moves under you, his hips pistoning. you were dizzy from how good it felt, him reaching your g-spot over and over again, with ease.
this is what undoes him, the feel of you pinned, taking him, while he drives himself home,
“’m close, baby, i’m so close,” he chants into your hair, his rhythm becoming erratic.
“let me…” he chokes on the pleasure slightly. “let me be on top for this,” he manages to grit out, “i need to… i need to see your face as i fill you up”
he rolls you both over in one fluid, desperate motion- a half-spin that leaves him on top again, never slipping out, his weight settling over you and his arms caging your head.
he’s breathing like a sprinter, his entire body taut, “i’m gonna finish inside you,” he pants, almost again shyly asking for permission. you nod and give a clipped “mhmm”
the vein in his temple throbs. “gonna give you all of me’,” he rasps, his voice scraped raw from the force of holding back. “every drop. you’re gonna take it. c’mon, baby. say you will. say it for me”
“shit–please,” you sob, your own climax building again, triggered by his desperation, “yes, michael– please.”
with a shattered cry he drives into you one final grinding time and holds, buried to the hilt, you feel him pulse, a hot rhythmic flooding deep inside you that seems to go on and on,
“ah—god, ohhh, sweet je— mhmm…” he groans, totally nonsensically, his body convulsing with each release, you clench around him, milking him through your own climax, as he messily rubs your clit with his thumb. you think even his words were enough to put you over the edge this time.
he stayed there, softening inside you. he looked like incredulous. “oh my god, that felt incredible,”
he sighed again, eyes roaming all over your body and then stilled at where you were both joined. “m’gonna have to do that every time now til we make a baby”
“uh-huh. Im pretty sure thats how this whole thing works– you have to do it over and over” you giggle.
‘Mhmm m’not complainin’ baby”
slowly, he slips out of you, but he doesn’t roll away, he shifts down your body, his movements languid, possessive, he hooks his hands behind your knees, pushing your legs up and apart, opening you to the cool air of the bus—and to his gaze.
there, in the dim light, his release is already beginning to seep out, he watches it, his expression one of profound quiet awe, he presses a thumb gently against you, spreading you open a fraction further, a thicker trickle escapes and slides down.
“look at that,” he murmurs, his voice hushed and full of wonder,
“filled my baby up so nicely.” he leans down and places a soft lingering kiss low on your belly, then looks back up at you, his eyes shining,
“you’re gonna be incredible. carryin’ our child. your body’s meant for it. you’re gonna be so beautiful, all round and glowin’.”
he doesn’t say anything else, he just gathers you, pulls you against his chest, and wraps himself around you, one hand splayed low on your stomach.
his dream is no longer just in the air between you, it’s a warm claiming presence inside you, and his quiet steady breathing against your back is pure satisfied possession.
your stupid ass certainly ruins the moment.
"Uh, Mike—" you whined, the spell thoroughly broken. "I gotta pee and you're squishin' me."
he laughs heartily and rolls away from you.
“yeaaaah forgot about the whole ‘peein’ directly after thing’.”
He pauses and then feigns anger. “don’t be such a moany pants”
you rolled your eyes and got up.
“Mhm laugh and joke now, michael, you’ll know all about moanin’ when I’m 8 months pregnant and the size of a minivan with anger issues”
⏖ ׄ ❛ thriller.era 𝑥 popstar.rea ❜ ⧽ 𝒸hapter three ﹕ at a private hollywood club, you and michael finally meet without cameras or industry pressure, allowing your rivalry to soften into an unexpectedly intimate conversation that ends with him giving you his number.
your publicist had spent most of the evening insisting it would be good for you to show your face, shake a few hands and pretend you enjoyed being trapped in a room full of executives searching for their next profitable connection. you had already done enough pretending for one night.
you smiled for photographs until your cheeks hurt, answered the same questions from at least six different reporters and listened patiently as strangers explained your own career to you. the last thing you wanted was another crowded room.
still, your car arrived outside the private club shortly after eleven.
the place was hidden behind an unmarked black door tucked between two buildings on sunset boulevard. there were no flashing signs or crowds gathered outside, only a velvet rope and a large man holding a clipboard beneath the soft glow of a wall lamp.
membership was supposedly exclusive. the kind of place actors, musicians and producers visited whenever they wanted to be seen without actually being seen. most importantly, cameras weren’t allowed inside.
you handed the doorman your invitation and stepped through the entrance. the noise from the street disappeared behind you.
inside, the club was dim and warm, glowing beneath amber lamps and scattered candles. red velvet booths curved along the walls while smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling. music played quietly enough that no one had to compete with it, a soft mix of jazz and soul spilling through speakers hidden somewhere in the dark.
it was crowded, but not suffocating. no reporters. no microphones. no one shouting your name from across the room.
for the first time that night, you felt yourself breathe.
“there you are.” your publicist appeared almost immediately, looping her arm through yours before you could escape. “i was starting to think you’d gone home.”
“i really considered it.” your voice smooth and calm.
“well, don’t. there are people here you should meet.”
of course there were.
she guided you through the room, introducing you to producers, managers and people whose exact jobs remained a mystery even after they explained them. you smiled when expected, laughed when appropriate and accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter even though you had no intention of finishing it.
after twenty minutes, you managed to slip away.
you found a quieter section near the back of the club, hidden beyond a heavy curtain and a narrow hallway. a balcony stretched behind the building, overlooking the scattered lights of hollywood below.
the cool night air hit your skin as soon as you stepped outside. you closed the door behind you, silencing the conversation and music inside.
finally.
you leaned your arms against the railing, staring out at the city as you kicked one heel loosely against the floor. from a distance, los angeles always looked peaceful. the lights glittered beautifully enough to make you forget how exhausting it was to exist beneath them.
“hiding?”
you insantly stiffened, that voice had become impossible not to recognize. you turned slowly.
michael stood near the doorway with one hand still resting against the handle. his curls framed his face beneath the faint balcony light. he had abandoned the jacket you’d seen him wearing earlier, leaving him in a pale button-down shirt with the sleeves pushed slightly above his wrists.
of course.
even in the one quiet corner of hollywood, he managed to find you.
“i was here first,” you said.
michael released the door and stepped onto the balcony. “i didn’t say you weren’t.”
“you were thinking it.”
“you don’t know what i was thinking.”
“you usually make it obvious.”
his eyebrows lifted.
“do i?”
“painfully.”
the corner of his mouth twitched, but he turned away before you could decide whether it counted as a smile.
he moved toward the opposite side of the railing, leaving a generous amount of space between you.
for a few moments, neither of you spoke. it felt strange.
you had grown accustomed to the noise that followed him. cameras clicking, people calling his name and reporters desperate to pull something interesting from his mouth.
without any of that, he seemed different—quieter and smaller, somehow—not in importance, but in presence. he no longer looked like the impossible figure printed across every magazine cover in the country, he just looked tired.
“you can go back inside,” you said.
michael glanced at you. “so can you.”
“i came out here to be alone.”
“so did i.”
“then you should find another balcony.”
“this is the only one.”
you looked toward the door, then back at him.
“unfortunate.”
“very.”
another silence settled over you. usually, it would have felt like a challenge but tonight, it didn’t.
michael rested his forearms against the railing, looking down at the street below.
“you don’t like these things either?” he finally broke the silence.
you eyed him suspiciously. “what things?”
“parties.” he continued.
“i like parties.” you explained.
“you’ve been hiding outside for almost ten minutes.”
“you’ve been counting?” you questioned him.
he looked over at you, “no.”
“sure.”
“i just noticed when you left.”
the admission slipped out so casually that it took you a moment to understand it.
you looked away first, “well, maybe i like parties in theory.”
“but not in practice?”
“not when every conversation feels like an audition.”
michael’s expression changed, only slightly, but enough for you to notice.
“yeah,” he murmured. “i know what you mean.”
you studied him from the corner of your eye, there was no sarcasm in his voice. no trace of the carefully polished smile he used during interviews. for once, he wasn’t trying to win.
“everyone always wants something,” you continued before you could stop yourself. “a quote, a favor, a photograph. sometimes they don’t even know what they want yet. they just know they want it from you.”
michael nodded slowly, “and if you don’t give it to them, you’re difficult.”
“or ungrateful.”
“or rude.”
“dramatic.”
he looked at you then.
you tried to keep your face straight, but his expression pulled a laugh from you before you could prevent it. it was small and quiet, yet genuine. michael pulled a smile, too. not the tight, passive-aggressive smile you had exchanged at the american music awards or the one he offered photographers whenever they instructed him to look pleased about standing beside you—a real smile. it softened his entire face.
you hated how different it made him look.
“you still think i’m dramatic?” he asked.
“i never said i stopped.”
“you don’t exactly make things easy.”
“for you?”
“for anybody.”
you placed a hand against your chest, pretending to be offended. “i’m a lovely person.”
“that isn’t what the newspapers say.”
“the newspapers say we’re secretly plotting each other’s downfall so..” you trailed off.
“aren’t we?” he rebuttals which caused to you narrow your eyes.
“speak for yourself.”
his soft laughter followed, and the sound surprised you more than it should have. you had heard him laugh before, usually from across crowded rooms or in carefully edited television appearances, but never this close, never because of something you said.
you turned back toward the city, the strange tightness in your chest followed.
“do you read them?” you asked, your voice settled in a softer tone this time.
“what?”
“the articles about us.”
michael hesitated before he answered “sometimes.”
“sometimes?”
“when people leave them around.”
you scoffed. “right.”
“what?”
“you read every single one.”
“and you don’t?”
“absolutely not.”
he gave you a look. you sighed.
“fine. most of them.”
“all of them.”
“don’t push it.”
a comfortable silence passed between you, but that was what unsettled you most. comfort had never existed between the two of you before. every interaction was usually edged with competition. every word carefully chosen so the other person couldn’t claim victory.
now, standing alone beneath the night sky, it seemed ridiculous.
“does it bother you?” michael asked quietly.
“the articles?”
“the comparisons.” he corrected.
you stared at the glass in your hand, watching the bubbles rise through the champagne.
“sometimes.”
he waited in the thick unfinished silence. you could have left it there yet instead, you continued.
“i worked my entire life to get here. then suddenly, everyone decided the easiest way to explain me was by attaching your name to mine.”
michael’s face remained unreadable as he listened to you speak.
“the female michael jackson,” you recited bitterly. “michael jackson’s newest competition. michael jackson should watch his back.”
“i never liked that one.”
you looked at him. “you read that?”
“someone showed it to me.”
“of course they did.” your eyes rolled.
“i didn’t ask them to.”
“i know.” you surprised yourself by saying it, michael looked just as surprised to hear it. you rested your glass along the railing.
“it’s not that i don’t respect you,” you admitted. “which you’re never allowed to repeat, by the way.”
“of course..”
“i just don’t want everything i accomplish to be measured against what you’ve accomplished.”
his gaze dropped toward his hands. “i understand.”
“do you?”
“more than you think.”
there was something in his voice that stopped you from responding too quickly.
michael rubbed his thumb over the edge of the railing.
“when you start young, people decide who you are before you’re old enough to figure it out yourself,” he said. “then, when you try to change, they act like you’re doing something wrong.”
you watched him carefully.
“everyone still expects me to be the little boy they remember,” he continued. “or they expect me to be something bigger than a person. there’s never anything in between.”
the words came slowly like he wasn’t used to saying them aloud.
“that sounds lonely.”
he gave a small shrug, but it wasn’t convincing.
“it can be.”
the honesty of it settled heavily between you.
you looked back toward the city, suddenly aware of how close you had drifted. there was no longer an entire balcony separating you, only a few feet.
“people think fame fixes everything,” you said. “like the second strangers recognize your face, you stop being allowed to feel bad.”
“because you have everything.”
“exactly.”
“even when you don’t.”
you nodded and added, “especially when you don’t.”
the music from inside changed, a slow bass line slipping through the closed door.
michael tapped his fingers lightly against the railing in time with it.
“sometimes i miss going places without having to think about it,” you confessed. “just walking into a store or sitting somewhere without wondering who’s watching.”
“i don’t remember what that feels like.”
you turned toward him while his eyes remained fixed on the street. the simple sentence managed to say more than anything else he had shared.
“i’m sorry,” you said.
michael glanced at you, almost as though the sympathy made him uncomfortable. “don’t be.”
“why?”
“because you didn’t do it.”
“that doesn’t mean i can’t feel bad.”
“i don’t want you feeling bad for me.”
“i’m not feeling bad for you.” his brow arched. “i’m understanding you,” you corrected.
the teasing disappeared from his expression. for several seconds, he simply looked at you. it felt far more intimate than it should have.
“that’s different,” he said eventually.
“very.”
the balcony door opened behind you.
voices spilled into the night as two men stepped outside, neither paying much attention to the two of you. the moment shattered almost immediately.
michael straightened, whatever openness had crossed his face disappearing beneath something more guarded. you understood, the walls returned whenever other people did.
one of the men recognized him and started forward, but michael gave a polite nod before turning toward you.
“do you want to go back inside?”
not are you going back inside?
do you want to.
you glanced toward the strangers, then at the crowded room beyond the glass.
“not particularly.”
“there’s another room downstairs.”
“another balcony?”
“no. but it’s quieter.”
you hesitated only briefly before following him.
michael led you through the club without drawing much attention. people noticed, of course. people always noticed him. but they kept their distance, either out of respect for the club’s privacy or fear of being removed from it.
the room downstairs resembled an old library. dark wooden shelves covered the walls while leather chairs surrounded a low table. only one other couple occupied the space, too absorbed in their own conversation to care about yours.
michael sat in one of the chairs. you chose the one beside him rather than the one across from him. you didn’t examine that decision too closely.
“so,” you began, settling back. “what do we talk about when we’re not arguing?”
“you started most of those arguments.”
your mouth fell open, “that is not true.”
“you told me i didn’t own the stage.”
“because you were acting like you owned the stage.”
“it was my rehearsal slot.”
“it was mine first.”
“according to the wrong schedule.”
“which wasn’t my fault.”
“it wasn’t mine either.”
you stared at one another then, at exactly the same time, you both began to laugh. it was ridiculous.
months of genuine irritation reduced to a scheduling mistake and two people far too proud to let it go.
“we’re stupid,” you said.
“you are.”
“aaand there he is.”
michael smiled, lowering his face for a moment.
the conversation became easier after that. you talked about music first—safe territory. he asked about the first record you ever bought, then criticized your answer until you demanded his. you argued over arrangements, producers and whether live performances should sound exactly like the record. they shouldn’t, according to him, the stage was supposed to make the song feel new. you disagreed only because he sounded too confident.
somewhere along the way, the conversation shifted, you talked about childhood—not everything—just enough.
he told you stories about performing with his brothers when he was young, keeping the darker parts tucked carefully beneath the surface. you told him about singing into a hairbrush before you ever held a real microphone and the first talent show you lost because your knees wouldn’t stop shaking.
“you get nervous?” michael asked.
“terribly.”
“you don’t look nervous.”
“neither do you.”
“i’m not.”
you rolled your eyes. “liar.”
he grinned.
time passed without either of you noticing. the crowd upstairs slowly thinned. the music softened. waiters began collecting abandoned glasses from empty tables.
when your publicist finally appeared in the doorway, her expression moved quickly between relief and confusion.
she looked at you—then michael—then back at you again. “your car is waiting.”
you stood reluctantly, “i should go.”
michael rose with you. “yeah, me-uh-me too.”
for some reason, neither of you moved toward the door.
your publicist seemed to recognize that she had interrupted something and quietly disappeared back into the hallway. you smoothed your hands over your dress.
“well.”
“well,” michael repeated.
“this was…”
“unexpected?”
“strange.”
he laughed softly. “that too.”
you looked at him—really looked at him.
there were a hundred sarcastic comments you could have made, but none of them felt right.
“i had a nice time,” you said instead.
michael’s expression softened. “me too.”
you turned toward the doorway, but he called your name before you reached it. when you looked back, he was searching through the pockets of the jacket he had left draped across the back of his chair.
“what are you doing?”
“hold on.”
he pulled a pen from one pocket, then reached toward the table and picked up a small matchbook stamped with the club’s name. you watched as he opened it and wrote something across the inside cover. when he finished, he walked toward you and held it out. you looked down.
a phone number stretched across the cardboard in dark ink.
you raised your eyes to his.
“what’s this?”
“what does it look like?”
“a very dramatic way of giving someone your number.”
“you said i was dramatic.”
“ahh, you remembered.”
“i remember everything.”
you accepted the matchbook carefully, causing his fingers to brush yours as he released it. neither of you pulled away immediately. the contact lasted only a second, but it was enough to make your pulse stumble—michael noticed. you could tell by the way his eyes flickered toward your hand before returning to your face.
“that’s my private number,” he said. “don’t give it to anybody.”
“who would i give it to?”
“the newspapers.”
you scoffed. “please. they’d probably print a story claiming i stole it from your dressing room.”
“they might.”
you folded the matchbook closed and tucked it safely into your purse. “i’ll guard it with my life.”
“i’m serious.”
“so am i.”
he studied you for a moment, visibly debating whether trusting you was a terrible mistake.
then he stepped closer, not enough to touch, just enough to lower his voice.
“don’t make me regret this.”
you held his gaze. there it was again—that challenge. only this time, there was something warmer beneath it.
“i could say the same.”
michael smiled, you carried the sight of it with you as you left the room.
your publicist was waiting near the stairs, practically vibrating with unanswered questions, but you ignored every one of them as she followed you toward the exit. the matchbook felt impossibly heavy inside your purse.
outside, your car waited beneath the dim streetlights. you slid into the backseat and closed the door, finally allowing yourself to pull it out again.
you opened the cover. unsuspecting, his number was still there. beneath it, written so small you almost missed it, were three additional words.
call me sometime.
you stared at the message for the entire drive home. for once, michael jackson had left you completely speechless.
what an asshole.
yet you smiled anyway.
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hi angels!! i hope enjoy this weeks chapter YES i will be uploading chapters weekly since i’ve already pre-written about 4 chapters! the slow burn is burning and the yearners are YEARNINGGG! brace yourselves for the next few chapters hehe!
