âCAN YOU STAND THE RAIN? | M. JACKSON
âmike will do anything for his girl! even if it means carrying her in the pouring rain (fluff, suggestive)
The grandfather clock in your familyâs downstairs hallway strikes midnight. The heavy, resonant bass of the chime bleeds through the thick wooden door of your bedroom, sounding like a warning. You freeze instantly, your back pressing flat against your mattress, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
You wait. Five seconds. Ten. You count the agonizingly slow ticks of the clock, listening intently for the floorboards outside your room to groan, or for the low, rhythmic snoring of your parents down the hall to break.
Nothing happens. The house remains dead silent.
Slowly, you let out the shaky breath youâve been holding. You slide out from under the heavy quilt, already dressed in a simple cotton top and a pair of denim shorts, your sneakers already tied tight. You move across the dark room on your tiptoes, carefully avoiding the one spot near the closet that always creaks. When you reach the window, your fingers are trembling, but you push the glass up centimeter by centimeter, praying the frame won't screech.
The moment the window glides open, the cool, crisp night air hits your face. It carries the sharp, heavy scent of damp earth, the unmistakable warning of a late summer storm brewing somewhere in the distance. But a little weather isn't going to keep you inside tonight.
Climbing out onto the sturdiest branch of the old oak tree outside your window is a routine youâve perfected over the last few months. You shimmy down the rough bark, your sneakers hitting the grass with a faint, muffled thud.
The streets of the neighborhood are completely abandoned, illuminated only by the fuzzy, amber glow of the occasional streetlamp. You keep to the shadows, the cool wind whipping through your hair as your pace quickens from a fast walk to a frantic, excited jog. Your chest rises and falls with a potent mix of adrenaline and sheer anticipation.
You and Michael had planned this hours ago over a hurried, whispered phone call, his voice crackling through the telephone receiver as he promised heâd meet you at the old playground the exact moment the clock struck twelve.
As the dark, iron outline of the parkâs chain-link fence comes into view, your eyes scan the gloom. And then, your heart leaps.
Michael is already there. He is a silhouette of pure 70s cool beneath the silver glow of the moon, leaning against the tall metal frame of the swing set. Heâs wearing a soft, vintage ringer tee that clings to his lean frame, frayed denim flares, his afro catches the moonlight like a halo. He looks so effortlessly handsome it makes your stomach do a dizzying flip. The moment your sneakers crunch against the gravel of the playground, his head snaps up.
That bright, blinding smile of his splits across his face, instantly cutting through the midnight gloom and melting every ounce of your anxiety.
"You actually made it," Michael laughs softly, his voice a sweet, melodic whisper that seems to vibrate in the quiet night air. He takes a seat on one of the rubber swing seats, his long legs stretching out as he gently pushes himself back and forth. "Oh boy, I was starting to think you got caught, Mama."
"And miss this?" you whisper back, your chest heaving as you jog across the woodchips toward him.
The playground is entirely yours, an isolated kingdom of shadows and silver light. As you reach him, the temptation to be close to him overrides any sense of caution. With a mischievous grin, you move forward and try to clamber right onto his lap while the swing is still gently swaying.
The heavy metal chains groan loudly in protest. The swing wobbles violently sideways, and you both immediately devolve into a chaotic mess of flailing limbs, tangled elbows, and breathless, suppressed laughter.
"Dude, hold on! Stop, stopâweâre gonna break the swing!" Michael gasps, a high-pitched, giggly wheeze escaping his throat. His long arms wrap securely around your waist, his large hands anchoring you to keep you both from falling face first into the dirt.
Itâs so awkward at first. Your knees digging into his thighs, your hands scramble for purchase on his shoulders, and youâre both shifting and squirming, trying to find a center of gravity on a seat meant for one person. But Michaelâs laughing so hard his entire chest is heaving against yours, his eyes crinkling at the corners in that beautiful, familiar way.
"Okay, okay, I think we got it," he whispers, his breath warm and sweet against your cheek as you finally settle into his lap.
Michael plants his sneakers firmly in the dirt, pulls back until the chains tauten, and then pushes off with all his might. The swing lifts, and suddenly youâre soaring through the night air together. The cool wind rushes past your ears, lifting your hair and carrying the sound of your shared, childish gigiggles into the dark. Itâs pure, silly, unadulterated blissâtwo young adults playing like kids in the dead of night.
But as the momentum naturally begins to slow, the playful energy in the air starts to thicken.
The wind dies down. The swing grounds to a crawl, and the silence of the night rushes back in. Michaelâs sneakers drag heavily into the dirt, stopping the motion completely. Suddenly, you are acutely aware of how close your faces are. The silly, giggly boy vanishes in a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, electric heat that makes your breath catch in your throat.
His breathing turns shallow, his chest rising and falling heavily against yours. Michael's large, warm hands slide down from your waist, his long fingers gripping your hips securely, anchoring your body against his. His gaze drops, locking onto your lips with an intensity that burns.
When his lips meet yours, the innocence of the playground is entirely scorched away.
The kiss is heavy, needy, and desperate, fueled by the thrill of the midnight air and the intoxicating danger of being caught. You wrap your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the soft, springy curls of his afro. Michael groans softly against your mouth, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates against your lips. His hands tighten on your hips, pulling you flush against his lap.
The friction of your bodies, the rhythmic, heavy grinding into each other on the cramped swing seat sends a jolt of pure fire straight down your spine. It isn't subtle anymore. It's desperate and hungry. Your hearts are hammering frantically against each other's ribs, both of you breathless, dizzy, and consumed by a heavy, needy passion youâve never allowed yourselves to explore until this exact moment.
Then, a cool, sharp drop hits your bare shoulder. Then another.
You pull apart, both of you panting heavily, your lips swollen and wet. "Is it... raining?" you whisper, blinking up at the dark sky.
Michael blinks, his eyes dazed, heavy-lidded, and hooded with desire as he glances up. "Ah, it'll probably pass. Just a little cloud," he murmurs, his voice deep, raspy, and stripped of its usual softness. His hands tighten on your hips again, trying to pull you back down to resume where you left off.
But the sky has other plans.
In a matter of seconds, the gentle drizzle erupts into a violent, roaring summer downpour.
"Oh my god!" you shriek as the freezing rain drenches you both instantly. The water plasters Michael's thin ringer tee to his chest, completely flattening his hair, water streaming down his face in sheets.
"Come on, run!" Michael yells over the deafening roar of the storm, instantly hoisting you off his lap. He grabs your hand, his grip tight and warm despite the freezing water. "My house is closer! I can sneak you in!"
You bolt toward the edge of the park together, laughing hysterically, your eyes blinking rapidly against the blinding sheets of water. But the grass has instantly turned into a slick, treacherous mud pit. Your sneaker slips on a hidden tree root. With a sharp, sickening twist, your ankle gives way beneath you.
A cry of pain escapes your lips, and you tumble hard into the wet grass.
Michael, running a few paces ahead, suddenly realizes your hand has slipped from his. He spins around, but the sudden combination of the pouring rain and a thick, heavy fog rolling across the grass makes it impossible to see a thing.
"Y/N?! Where are you?!" he calls out, a sharp edge of panic piercing through his voice, stripping away his composure.
"Michael! Down here!" you cry out, clutching your throbbing ankle as the cold rain beats down on you.
He materializes through the gray, blurry fog like a ghost, his eyes wide with terror as he drops to his knees in the mud right beside you. He doesn't care about his clothes or the mud soaking through his jeans. "Are you okay? What happened? Sweetheart, talk to me."
"My ankle," you gasp, pushing yourself up to try and stand, but the moment you put weight on it, a white-hot flash of pain shoots up your leg. You collapse back into his chest. "It hurts too bad. I donât think I can walk."
"I got you. Don't worry, I've got you," he says instantly, his voice fierce, deep, and protective. Without a second thought, he turns his back to you and crouches low in the mud. "Get on. Wrap your arms around my neck tight."
You climb onto his back, wrapping your arms around his neck, and Michael hoists you up with a grunt of exertion. His powerful legs drive through the mud and slick grass. He runs the rest of the way through the blinding storm, carrying you on his back as if you weigh absolutely nothing, his lungs burning and his chest heaving as he navigates the pitch black streets toward the Jackson home.
When you finally reach his backyard, you are both shivering violently, soaked to the bone and completely miserable from the cold. Michael carefully unlocks the back door, slipping inside with the practiced stealth of someone who knows exactly which floorboards to avoid.
He freezes in the dark kitchen, his eyes scanning the hallway, listening intently over the sound of your loud shivering. The house is completely quiet, but the stakes are incredibly highâif his father Joseph wakes up, or if one of his brothers stirs in a nearby bedroom, you're both dead. Holding his breath, he guides you down the hallway and slips into the sanctuary of the bathroom, shutting the door with a soft, barely audible click.
You sit on the porcelain edge of the bathtub, your teeth chattering so hard they click. The pain in your ankle is duller now, replaced by the sheer, biting cold of your drenched clothes.
"I'm freezing," you whisper, wrapping your arms around yourself. "Can... can I take a shower to warm up?"
"Yeah, of course," Michael whispers back immediately, his voice filled with concern as he reaches into the shower to turn on the hot faucet. "I'll go grab you a dry towel from the hall closet, and I'll wait out in the bedroomâ"
"Michael," you interrupt softly, reaching out to catch the hem of his soaked shirt. "Take it with me."
Michael freezes dead in his tracks. He turns around slowly, his dark eyes widening to the size of saucers. A deep, dark flush instantly creeps up his neck, staining his cheeks a brilliant, burning red under the dim bathroom light.
Youâve been dating for a while, but youâve never done anything truly sexual, never even seen each other naked. The innocence of your relationship has always been fiercely guarded, making this moment feel incredibly heavy with vulnerability. A sudden wave of shyness washes over you, but you keep your gaze steady on his.
"Y-you mean... together?" he stammered, his voice cracking noticeably as he swallows hard. "Like, both of us? In there?"
You look up at him, your eyes pleading as you squeeze his trembling hand. "Please. I just want you with me."
The anxiety and shock in his eyes melt away, replaced by a wave of profound, protective tenderness. "Are you sure?" he whispers, searching your face. When you nod, he takes a slow, steadying breath. "Okay. Okay, let me help you."
With extreme reverence and trembling fingers, Michael steps closer. He reaches down, his hands shaky but incredibly gentle as he helps you peel away your soaked, muddy clothes. He keeps his eyes firmly locked onto your face, a beautiful show of modesty, giving you whatever privacy he can even as his gaze burns with a raw, undeniable attraction.
When itâs time for his clothes to come off, you reach out with shivering hands, helping him pull the heavy, wet cotton of his shirt over his head.
There is a breathless, sacred pause as you stand before each other completely bare for the very first time. The thick steam from the shower cascades over you both, cloaking you in warmth. Michael looks at you with pure, unadulterated awe, a soft, reverent gasp escaping his lips as his eyes map your frame, looking at you like you are the only beautiful thing left in the world. There is no judgment in his eyes, no objectificationâonly a deep, consuming adoration.
Michael steps into the warm spray first, then reaches out his long arms to gently guide you in. The moment your foot touches the wet tile, you wince, unable to balance on your hurt ankle.
"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs, stepping in close.
He wraps one strong, muscular arm securely around your waist, pulling your front flush against his chest so you can rest your weight entirely on him. The feeling of his bare, warm skin pressed against yours, combined with the hot water rushing over your shoulders, makes your heart race a mile a minute.
He reaches for the bar of soap, lathering it between his washcloth until it was covered in thick, warm suds. Then, with absolute gentleness, he begins to wash your body.
There are no urgent, lustful undertones here. His touch is slow, careful, and filled with a profound, consuming love. He washes the dirt and mud from your shoulders, strokes down your back, and mindfully avoids putting any pressure on your swollen leg. He treats you like something incredibly fragile, something sacred that he has been trusted to protect.
Tears of pure warmth prick your eyes. You lean up on your good foot, pressing a sweet, lingering, deeply grateful kiss onto his wet lips. "Thank you, Mikey," you breathe against his mouth.
Michael smiles, that soft, dimpled look returning to his face as he kisses your forehead. "Always."
You lather your own washcloth and begin to wash his shoulders, mapping the smooth, elegant line of his collarbones and running your fingers through the damp, softened curls of his hair. The mutual trust between you feels unbreakable, solidifying into something far deeper than anything youâve ever shared before.
Once you are both thoroughly clean and warmed to the bone, Michael turns off the water. The bathroom is a haven of thick, heavy steam. He steps out first, grabbing a large, fluffy towel and wrapping it securely around you. Before you can even attempt to step out, he hooks his arms under your knees and back, lifting you into his arms once more.
He carries you across the dark hall, slipping into the dark sanctuary of his bedroom and closing the door with his foot.
He gently sets you down in the center of his mattress, leaving for a brief moment to rummage through his dresser. When he returns, he carries one of his oversized, incredibly soft vintage t-shirts. He sits beside you, carefully helping you slide your arms through the sleeves and pulling it over your head. It swallows you whole, cascading down to your thighs and smelling perfectly of his sweet cologne and cedarwood. After throwing on a pair of dry sweatpants himself, Michael moves to the foot of the bed.
"Let me look at that ankle," he whispers, his voice low and serious in the dark.
He gently lifts your swollen leg, resting your foot in his lap. His large thumbs begin to massage the skin around the joint with incredible, practiced tenderness, his face pulled into a tight frown of focused concern. "Does it hurt right here?"
"A little," you murmur, leaning back against his pillows.
Michael leans down, his afro brushing against your shin as he presses a soft, lingering kiss right to the side of your swollen ankle. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, a soft, dimpled smile playing on his lips. "To make it feel better."
Your heart melts completely.
He climbs under the heavy, thick blankets beside you, instantly opening his arms. You slide into his embrace, burying your face in the crook of his neck as he pulls the covers up to your chin. Outside, the summer storm continues to rage, the rain beating furiously against the windowpaneâa chaotic, violent contrast to the perfect, absolute peace inside his room.
You lay together in the dark, your limbs tangled, listening to the steady, calming beat of his heart beneath your cheek.
"We really almost broke that swing, didn't we?" Michael whispers into the dark, a sudden, quiet giggle vibrating in his chest.
You laugh softly, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "We definitely did. You're a dork, Michael Jackson."
"Yeah, but I'm your dork," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you, pulling you as close as humanly possible. He plants one last, sacred kiss onto the crown of your head, his voice drifting off into the cozy warmth of the room. "I love you so much."
"I love you too," you whisper back, closing your eyes as the rhythm of his breathing safely guides you both into a deep, dreamless sleep.
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