🍎 🎀 𝒶𝓃𝓎𝒶 🎀 🍎

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"You could have picked literally any other movie.” You hid your face in Michael’s shoulder, wincing at the sound of a shark attack on the screen.

The two of you were laying in his bed, a VHS tape of Jaws playing in the background. Next to you was a bowl of popcorn, which Michael was enjoying but you no longer had an appetite for after watching a girl get dragged underwater and eaten on screen.

Michael just laughed, finding your horror more entertaining than the movie itself. “Man, you sure do scare easy.” He teased. “I do not!” You protested. “I just don’t like sharks. Y’know, like a normal person.”

“I dunno.” He said thoughtfully. “Sharks are such misunderstood creatures. I kinda feel bad for Bruce.”

“Who is Bruce?” You pull away from his shoulder enough to peek up at him with one eye.

“The shark.”

“I thought his name was Jaws.”

That made Michael laugh again—a bright, cheery sound that made you forget about the scary movie for a moment. He put the popcorn bowl aside on the nightstand and pulled you into his lap, positioning you so that you could see the screen while his arms wrapped protectively around you.

“I won’t let ‘im get you, promise.” 

You rolled your eyes and gave his chest a playful shove. “I’m not five years old. I know it’s just a movie. It’s just… I don’t know, couldn’t we have watched Peter Pan again?” The two of you had seen that movie a hundred times, but anything was better than this.

“We can watch that one later. But Jaws is a classic! And it has one of the greatest scores of all time.”

“Here we go.” 

“I’m serious. It’s genius. That theme… it’s instinctual. Restless. Unstoppable. Just like a shark. And don’t get me started on the classical influences. The composer was insp—” You cut him off with a kiss, and Michael shut up, startled.

“What was that for?” He asked, and you shrugged. “I like it when you talk music. It’s very sexy.”

“Sexy?” He repeated, laughing a little nervously, like the word didn’t sit right on his tongue.

“Yes. Very.” You turned in his lap to face him. “You light up when you talk about it. The way it sounds. The way it feels. I wish I could hear music the way you do.”

He blushed at that, like you’d just given him a very high compliment. 

“I can’t help it. I think sometimes I sound crazy.” You shook your head, kissing his nose. “It's not crazy. What’s crazy is the fact that you enjoy watching people get mauled by giant fish.”

“Okay, okay.” He grabbed the remote, switching the TV off. He’d stopped paying attention when you sat in his lap, anyway. “Better?” “Much. Thank you.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss him. Michael met you halfway, resting his hands on your lower back. Very gentlemanly.

Of all the pastimes in the world, kissing him was your favorite. He’d been so hesitant and shy about your first kiss, but once he got comfortable, it was like he couldn’t get enough. He was always giving you little kisses—your lips, your cheek, the back of your hand.

But anytime it seemed like it might go further than that, he stopped.

Like right now.

“What’s the matter?” You murmured when you felt him go stock-still beneath you, your eyebrows furrowing with concern. Your hands had shifted to hold his face as you kissed, and you brushed your thumbs against his cheeks, eyes searching his for an answer to the unspoken question: What did I do wrong?

“Nothin’s the matter.” He said, unconvincingly enough that it made you frown.

“You’re a terrible liar, Michael Jackson.”

He smiled sheepishly, tilting his head back against the headboard and looking at the ceiling like he was embarrassed, but you weren’t having that. You pulled his face back down so that he had no choice but to look at you, his cheeks reddening.

“‘s really nothin’. Just…” He shifted a little uncomfortably. “The way you’re sittin’ on my lap like that.”

Oh. Oh.

He was hard. And apparently the realization was plain on your face, because his own went from simply embarrassed to downright mortified.

“I’m sorry. It’s… it’ll go away. If you just—” He started to ramble the way he always did when he was panicking, and you shook your head, leaning down to press a firm, reassuring kiss to his lips.

“It’s okay, Michael. Let me help you.”

He didn’t say anything, just gave you a deer-in-the-headlights look that would have been comical if you hadn’t felt so badly for him. Poor baby.  

“Please?” You tried a different approach.

“N-no.” Michael shook his head like the idea itself was horrifying to him. “No. No, you don’t have to do that.”

You didn’t move a muscle besides your hands, thumbs rubbing soothing circles on either side of his lower jaw. 

“I want to.” You said simply. “I mean—if you really don’t want me to, I won’t. I’ll never ask you to do something you’re not comfortable with, but… I don’t think that’s what’s happening here. Is it?” 

He stared at you for what felt like a very long time before shaking his head. It was a tiny movement, almost imperceptible. “No.”

“Then talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He tipped his head back to look at the ceiling again, and this time you let him. If avoiding eye contact was what he needed to be honest with you, that was okay for now.

“That. That would be wrong.”

“What does that mean? You’ve gotta use your words, Michael.”

“You know. Us doing… that.” He was thinking hard, grasping for another word, but they all felt too vulgar to be said out loud.

You quirked an eyebrow. “We don’t have to have sex. Just let me take care of you.”

“It’s—that too. ‘s just as bad.” He groaned, trying to cover his face with his hands. “You shouldn’t touch me like that.”

You frowned again, wrapping your hands around his wrists and gently prying them away from his face. “Michael. Look at me.”

He did, but he looked pained.

“There is nothing wrong about me touching you like that. I mean… there’s nothing bad or dirty about it. It’s only wrong if it stops feeling good. Do you understand me?” He swallowed thickly, then gave you the slightest hint of a nod.

“Okay, then. Can I please make you feel good?” You asked. 

Another tiny nod.

“Thank you.” You leaned back in, kissing him until you felt him beginning to relax underneath you again.  You took it slow, nothing you hadn’t done before—just sweet, tender kisses that eventually trailed down his jaw.

His breath hitched when you reached a particularly sensitive spot at the edge of his jaw, just behind his ear. “Is this okay?” You murmured, breath warm on his neck.

“Uh-huh.” He nodded a bit more enthusiastically this time. “Feels good.” 

That made you smile. “Good. You tell me if it stops feeling that way, alright?” You kissed that spot one more time before pulling back, reaching for his shirt.

“I’m just gonna unbutton this, okay? I won’t take it off.” Your fingers lingered on the first button until he gave you confirmation that it was okay, his nods beginning to come a little more naturally.

You could practically feel his heart thumping out of his chest as you undid each button, stopping when your hands reached his stomach. “You’re so pretty, Michael.” You trailed one finger from his stomach, up his chest, then his neck, and finally underneath his chin, tipping it up to kiss him again.

“You’re doing such a good job for me.” 

That made him blush furiously, and his brain seemed to short circuit for a second. “‘m… not doin’ anything.” He stammered, and you grinned like you’d just uncovered some great secret. He’d liked that.

“But you are.” You insisted. “You’re trusting me with something you’ve never trusted anyone else with, right?” “Y-yeah.” He whispered.

“That means a lot to me. And I think you’re doing a very good job of it.”

You trailed your finger back down the path it had traveled up, this time stopping at the waistband of his jeans. You could tell he was painfully hard now, even through the thick fabric.

“Can I take these off?” “Please.” That word was music to your ears. You carefully undid the buttons and slid his zipper down, helping him get them off his legs. That left him in just his underwear, which wasn’t leaving much to the imagination.

For a moment, you just stared, your mouth actually beginning to water, but you quickly snapped out of it and reminded yourself to have some decorum. You were supposed to be the composed one here.

“Tell me how you make yourself feel good when you’re alone.”

You looked at him, and watched his brain short circuit again before your eyes. When he finally spoke, it was in a voice so small you almost couldn’t catch it.

“I… I don’t.” 

That answer actually took you aback.

“You don’t? Like… at all?” 

He shook his head helplessly.

“Then what do you do when you get like this?” You asked, brushing your fingertips over his length through his underwear. That made him suck in a sharp breath between his teeth.

“I pray it goes away.” 

You weren’t sure if he meant that literally or figuratively, but the idea of Michael on his knees praying to Jehovah for his boner to go away made you feel remarkably sorry for him.

“You poor baby.” There was nothing condescending in your tone, just pure sympathy that he had gone so many years being ashamed of something so natural. 

“I’m gonna take these off, okay?” You slipped your fingers beneath the waistband of his briefs. Words seemed to fail him, but nods were easier now. When he gave you the okay, you pulled them down, freeing him from the last remaining piece of fabric.

“Oh, God.” He couldn’t look at you looking at him. He flung an arm over his eyes, hiding his face, while his other hand grasped for the bedsheets. You weren’t even touching him yet, and he looked like he was already holding on for dear life.

“Pretty.” You drank in the sight of him, hard and leaking precum. He made an embarrassed sound behind his arm. 

“Get used to me calling you that, pretty boy.” You teased, laughing lightly to diffuse some of the tension, which had suddenly become very thick in the room. You became aware, briefly, of how out of your depth you were right now. It wasn’t like you’d had loads of boyfriends before Michael. But you were relying on instinct here, not wanting him to sense any uncertainty from you.

“You’re doing so good.” You reminded him again, remembering how sweetly he’d responded to that the first time. “You don’t have to talk anymore. Just grab my hand if you want me to stop.”

He muttered something into his arm that you interpreted as “okay,” and with that, you wrapped your hand around him—or, as much of your hand as you could. Even without much to compare it to, you knew he was big. 

You gave him a few experimental strokes, and he let out the prettiest whine you’d ever heard in your life. “That feels good, doesn’t it?” It was a rhetorical question—you didn’t expect a response. You didn’t need one. The noises he was making and the way he was throbbing in your hand before you’d really even done anything was confirmation enough.

Curiously, you slid your hand up and circled your thumb around the head of his dick, noting the way his grip on the sheets tightened. 

“I wanna taste this.” You murmured, feeling the wetness seeping out beneath your fingers. Michael whimpered, and nope—you’d lied, that was the prettiest sound you’d ever heard.

“But not yet. I’m gonna go slow, okay?” You assured, going back to stroking him, all the way down, then all the way back up. 

“O-okay.” 

It was another rhetorical question, but you were pleasantly surprised by his reply. 

“Good boy.”

You didn’t mean to say it, honestly. The name just sort of…slipped out. But the way Michael responded—his body trembling, his teeth digging into his forearm to muffle a moan—let you know that he’d liked it. So you kept going.

“I’m so proud of you, pretty boy. You’re taking this so well.” You knew he was close to cumming already, and part of you felt bad for pulling away. But you’d meant what you said about wanting a taste.

The second your hand released its grip on him, Michael let out a desperate, pathetic noise, his arm flying away from his face, looking so wounded that you almost laughed.

“Shhh, sweet boy. I told you I wanted to taste you.” 

You slid down and settled yourself between his legs, and this time, Michael didn’t hide away. He stared at you with his mouth agape, like he couldn’t believe what was happening to him. Like it didn’t make sense why his girlfriend, who was so ladylike in day-to-day interactions, was currently half an inch away from his dick in her mouth.

But he wasn’t complaining.

You parted your lips and took him in just an inch, feeling out this new territory. Michael’s hand flew back to his mouth, but he kept his eyes on you, mesmerized by the sight of you taking him further and further.

He was too big to fit comfortably, and there was no way he was going to give in and let you deepthroat him—no matter how much his restraint was wavering at the moment—so you took what you could and wrapped your hand around the rest, stroking and sucking at the same time.

Michael was biting his knuckles, doing anything he could to keep himself quiet, and you were secretly pretty damn proud of how you were the only one who had ever made him feel like this.

It wasn’t until he let go of the sheets and slipped a hand into your hair, pulling you off him, that you froze, looking up at him like maybe you’d done something wrong.

“You— y-you’ve gotta stop.” He breathed out, panting like he’d just run a marathon. “’s too much… ‘m gonna…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, so you finished the sentence for him.

“Cum?”

He nodded miserably, and you kissed the pulse point on his upper thigh. “That’s okay. I want you to.”

“In… your mouth?” 

His horror almost made you laugh again. But he was so sincerely freaked out that you kept your composure and nodded.

“Yes, please.”

He tossed his head back against the pillow with a groan, like there was nothing he could do but give in when you asked so nicely.

“Thank you.” You smiled and took his dick (which looked even prettier like this—all wet with precum and spit) back in your mouth. 

You so wished you could talk him through it while he came, but watching his face contort with pleasure while your mouth was full of him was a close second.

You didn’t stop until you’d swallowed every drop of cum that he gave you, swirling your tongue around and around to make sure you got it all. And when you finally did pull away, breathless, Michael looked completely spent.

“Was that okay?” You asked, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, suddenly feeling timid. 

He looked at you like you’d lost your damn mind. “C’mere.” 

You let him pull you into a kiss, surely tasting himself on your lips and tongue. “That… was the most incredible thing that has ever happened to me. Ever.” He admitted when he finally pulled away, resting his forehead against yours.

“Really? ‘Cause you’ve won a Grammy.” You laughed, but Michael nodded solemnly. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“Night swimmin’, huh?” Michael quirks an eyebrow. 

“Sure. Why not?” You shrug, fiddling with his fingers. “That way you won’t have to be in the sun.”

It’s such a small thing—the bare minimum of consideration—but Michael’s face softens into a look so full of adoration that it hurts. 

“That would be fun, yeah.” He nods, smiling like you’ve just offered him a million dollars.

“Then it’s a date.” You kiss the back of his hand again, swiping his sunglasses and putting them on. 

Michael lets out a low whistle. “You look good in those. Wear ‘em better than me.”

He’s talking about the sunglasses, but his eyes are elsewhere, like he’s really able to get a good look at you now that the shades are no longer in the way.

From the pool, Marlon splashes water in your direction. “Get a room, you two!” He calls, and Jackie puts a hand on his head, dunking him underwater. 

Jermaine whistles too, loud and obnoxious. “Leave Mike alone. I’d be lookin’ at her like that too, if that was my girl.” 

That earns him a dunk from Tito, and you laugh. You don’t need to look at Michael to know he’s blushing furiously. 

“Shut up, Jermaine.” He grumbles, putting a hand on your thigh. It feels less possessive and more like he’s afraid that you’ll get up and throw yourself at one of his brothers if he lets you go. As if you had eyes for anyone but him. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

Later, after everyone else has gone home or to bed, you and Michael sneak back down to the pool. He’s changed into swim trunks instead of jeans, but he’s left his shirt on. You never took your swimsuit off, but you’d put on shorts and a big shirt that you stole from him. 

The two of you creep barefoot down the stairs, giggling like two kids sneaking out of the house for a wild party instead of two grown adults going just a few feet from the back door. 

It’s a beautiful night outside. The stars are twinkling overhead, and the lights around the pool cast just enough of a glow for you to see what you’re doing. You slip out of your shorts and Michael’s shirt, tossing them over the chair you’d been sitting in before. 

He watches you and hesitates for a second, like he’s trying to psych himself up to do the same. You notice immediately and close the space between you, standing on your tiptoes to give him a quick, sweet kiss. “You want me to help you?” You ask softly, your fingertips finding the hem of his shirt. 

Michael nods, and you pull his shirt over his head. It’s too dark to get a really good look at him, but you don’t give him a chance to get self-conscious before taking his hand and dragging him towards the pool. 

Any trace of nerves disappears as he jumps in with you, coming up from the water laughing and pushing his hair back off his forehead. “It’s cold.” He gasps, but he looks as delighted as a kid on Christmas morning. Even in the dim light, his smile practically lights up the whole backyard. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You swim for hours, sometimes laughing and splashing, sometimes treading water while you talk, and sometimes floating lazily on your back. 

You’ve been floating in silence for a while when Michael speaks up. “It’s gettin’ awful late.” He’s giving you an opportunity to go inside, but you know he doesn’t really want to. He seems perfectly content to stay out here all night. 

“It is. But I’m not tired yet.” You respond. It’s a sweet relief to see him this happy, doing something he loves to do that doesn’t involve working. There’s no way you’re ending it until he decides he’s done.  “You’re not tired, are you?” You flip over, swimming to him, and he turns himself upright. 

“Nope.” He grins at you, so precious that you can’t help but kiss him. It’s soft at first, almost chaste, but then his arms wrap around your waist and pull you close, and suddenly you’re really kissing him. 

“I love you.” He whispers. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything.” You laugh, but if that’s how he wants to show his thanks, far be it from you to stop him. 

“You did, though.” He insists, one hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Nobody’s ever done somethin’ so thoughtful for me before.”

“Then you need to get some better friends.” You tease, nudging him with your knee underneath the water. 

He smiles again, but not a face-splitting smile like before. This one is soft, a little shy, and so full of love that it makes your chest well up with emotion.

“I do like having you all to myself, though.” You admit, wrapping your arms around his neck, your fingers curling in the hair at his nape. “No brothers around to bother us…” 

He takes the hint and slides his hands down your lower back and the curve of your ass, holding you up as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“You look so pretty like this.” He murmurs reverently, like you’re something truly holy. “Moonlight suits you.”

“I think you’re pretty. Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen.” You kiss him again, your lips lingering on his for a few seconds before they travel lower, kissing his jaw, then his neck, then his collarbone. 

He sighs contentedly, pulling you impossibly closer. He doesn’t seem in any big hurry to go further, happy to let you press languid kisses wherever you want. 

“You wanna know my favorite part of you?” You whisper into his skin, the taste of chlorine on your tongue. 

He nods, letting out a noise that sounds something like “mhm.”

“I like right here.” Your breath is warm against him as you move one hand to the side of his neck, fingers delicately tracing the outline of a spot where the pigment has faded. “And right here.” You trail one finger down to a similar spot on his shoulder. 

For the first time in a long time, Michael doesn’t look ashamed. He tilts his head back and lets you touch and kiss all the places you can reach that you know he’s insecure about. 

You don’t pull away until the pool water and the position you’re in make it impossible to keep going. Then you rest your forehead against his, your nose and lips brushing each other’s. 

“I’ll show you the rest when we get out.”

“Then I think I’m ready to go inside.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You’re doin’ it again.”

Michael’s voice was soft, close to your ear as you laid on his chest, playing absentmindedly with the fingers on one hand while his other hand combed through your hair.

“Doing what?” You asked, peering up at him. 

“Starin’ at my hands.”

Your cheeks flushed a rosy shade of pink. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it.” One corner of Michael’s mouth curled slightly upward into an amused smirk that made you feel warm all over. 

It was no secret that you had a thing for his hands. They were one of the first things you’d noticed about him—deft and strong and almost twice as big as your own. You found yourself staring at them more often than you’d ever admit, thinking about how his fingers would feel wrapped around your neck (never choking, only holding you), grabbing your chin to make you look at him, teasing between your legs until he finally, finally slipped them inside you… 

You were beginning to daydream again, but Michael’s gentle voice snapped you out of it. 

“Hey. Pretty girl. You still with me?”

He wasn’t laughing at you, not quite, but his eyes were twinkling with amusement. He loved that such a relatively small part of him had such a big effect on you.

And admittedly, he was good with his hands.

“You’re making fun of me.” You pouted, and he let out the laugh he’d been holding in, shaking his head. “I’m not, I swear! Scout’s honor.” He held up the hand that had been in your hair like he was making a pledge, and you rolled your eyes. “Since when were you a Boy Scout?”

“‘s just an expression, pretty girl.” He grinned, his voice as smooth and sweet as honey. 

When you didn’t respond, he pulled away the hand that you’d been holding, wiggling his fingers in front of your face. He was taunting, trying to get a rise out of you, and you were falling for it hook, line, and sinker.

“Show me how much you like ‘em.”

“What?”

“Show me.”

He cupped the side of your face, his thumb brushing lightly back and forth across your bottom lip. Without thinking, your eyes fluttered closed, and Michael stopped, clicking his tongue. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby.” 

You opened your eyes to find him staring at you intently, his big, brown eyes full of adoration. 

“Open up.” He pressed the pad of his thumb down on your bottom lip, prompting you to open your mouth. “Now, show me how much you like ‘em.” He repeated his request (that was really a demand). 

With your eyes still on his, you took his thumb in your mouth, and he let out a pleased sigh. “Good girl.” 

It was like his voice was hardwired directly to your clit. As soon as he started to praise you, his voice dropping an octave, you started throbbing. Desperate to show him how good you could be, you swirled your tongue around his thumb, sucking it deeper into your mouth.

“Atta girl. There you go.” It was embarrassing, how worked up he could get you without really touching you at all, but you’d passed the point of shame now. You released his thumb with a quiet pop, pleading with him with your eyes.

“Michael… I need you to touch me, please.”

He smiled, but shook his head. He’d never been one to say no to you, but it was just so much fun to play with you when you got needy like this.

“Not yet, pretty girl. Gotta make sure you’re ready for me first.”

He teased your lips with his pointer and middle finger, silently asking for permission before he slipped them in your mouth. That was Michael—always respectful, always a gentleman, even when he had you doing something as lewd as sucking his fingers.

“There you go.” He lowered his voice impossibly further, his tone reverent. 

You couldn’t have formulated a coherent sentence if you wanted to. Not only was your mouth occupied, but the way he was talking you through it while he pumped two fingers gently in and out of your mouth had made your brain go all fuzzy. The only thing you could think to do was to lick and suck his fingers until they were completely wet, a thin string of saliva connecting them to your lips when he finally pulled them out.

“Look at you.” He all but cooed, sliding his hand down to the waistband of your shorts, unbuttoning them and pulling them off with practiced ease. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” He whispered, feeling you through your underwear. “So wet for me already.”

That was the understatement of the century. You were soaked. Shifting your hips impatiently, you did your best to get some kind of friction against his hand. Anything to give you some relief.

His fingers stilled, and for one brief, horrifying moment, you thought he was going to pull away. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d punished you for your impatience—dragging out your pleasure until you were a begging, pleading mess for him. 

But apparently Michael was in a generous mood today. Instead of stopping, he leaned forward to capture your lips in a sweet, tender kiss, muffling the moan you let out when he finally pushed the fabric aside and touched you properly. 

“Michael. Michael, please—” You mumbled pathetically, wriggling and lifting your hips to try and coax his fingers inside you. He tutted. “Shhh, baby.” He murmured against your lips, hushing you so, so gently. 

“You just lay there and look pretty for me, alright? You don’t gotta do anything. You let me do all the work.”

It took some serious effort to stop your shifting on the bed, but you did your best, wanting nothing more than to please him. You were rewarded with more reverent murmuring as long fingers teased your opening, oh so close but not quite where you needed them.

“There she is.” He slipped one finger inside—just barely—and then pulled back, tearing a frustrated noise from your throat.

“You’re doing so good, baby. ‘m so proud of you. So, so proud.” He kept murmuring, and kept teasing. 

“Michael…” Your eyes were beginning to well with tears, a testament to how easy it was for him to make you come completely undone.

“Hm?” He looked at you innocently, like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. That bastard. “What is it, angel?”

“I need to feel you. Please?” You asked as nicely as you could manage, giving him your very best attempt at puppy dog eyes.

“Where, baby?” You wanted to scream. “Inside me.”

“Like this?”

After what felt like an agonizingly long wait, he finally slipped a finger inside you fully. You let out a cry and covered your face with your hands, but he used his free hand to pull them away.

“None of that. I want to see what I do to you.” Michael always wanted to look at you during sex. It was overwhelming at times—the eye contact while he was unraveling you with his fingers or his mouth or his dick—but you were too desperate to argue, so you just nodded, forcing your eyes to stay open and on him.

He rewarded your obedience with another finger, the pair of them stretching you out so much it was hard to believe it was only two. 

He paused for a second, letting you get used to the full sensation. “You okay, pretty girl?” He asked softly, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, your neck—peppering tiny kisses in all your most sensitive spots. 

“‘m okay. Just want you to move.”

“Whatever my girl wants.” He grinned wickedly, beginning to pump his fingers in and out of you. He was slow at first, gentle, but when he was sure you were comfortable, his pace became relentless. Which was exactly what you wanted.

“Tell me how that feels, baby. Use your words.” He coaxed you, even though your brain had basically turned to mush and the concept of words was becoming exceedingly difficult.

“Feels… so, so good, Michael. Please d-don’t… don’t stop.” You stuttered, and he didn’t. He used his thumb to circle your clit, knowing exactly how to touch you to get the sweetest, most delicious sounds out of your pretty mouth.

Of all the music he’d ever heard, those sounds were his favorite. “Are you getting close, baby?” He asked, but he already knew the answer. You were clenching around his fingers, hips bucking into his hand, totally forgetting his instructions to stay still.

“Yes. Yes, yes, yes.” 

The last two coherent words you could think of were yes and Michael, and they both spilled out of your mouth over and over again as he fingered you through your orgasm, not letting up until you physically had to grab his hand and stop him yourself. 

“Oh, my girl.” He murmured, almost in disbelief as he pulled his fingers out of you, covered in your wetness. “You made such a mess for me.”

You blushed furiously, but Michael could not look more pleased with himself. He lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his fingers clean like he’d just finished the best meal of his life.

When he was done, he flopped back on the bed next to you, while you lay there too overstimulated to move. “That was fun.” He said cheerily, turning his head to look at you. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“This one is my favorite.” You grinned, clicking on a twenty-five minute video: Michael Jackson Unauthorized Interview, 1983.

“Oh, God.” Michael groaned when he saw the thumbnail, burying his face in your shoulder. He looked adorable even in the preview, with his curly hair and pearly-white smile. He was wearing a plaid shirt underneath a red sweater (red had always been his color), and his arms were stretched wide, his mouth open like he was in the middle of singing something positively gleeful. 

“Do you remember this one?” You asked, and he nodded, still hiding his face against your shoulder. “Then what’s the matter? It’s cute.” You nudged him playfully with your elbow.

“It’s embarrassing. And I’m shy.” He grumbled, his voice muffled by your upper arm.

“No, it’s cute.” You doubled down. “You’re cute. Watch.” You pressed play on the video, and a young Michael appeared on the small screen, leading a llama into the frame. “This is my llama, Louie.”

Beside you, your Michael sank further into the couch. “Can we turn it off, please?” 

You shook your head, already absolutely enamored with what you were watching. You’d seen it countless times already, but you wouldn’t tell him that. “No way. And sit up. I have questions.” You nudged him until he was sitting mostly upright next to you, and he covered his face with his hands instead. “I don’t wanna.”

“Too bad.” You said, not unkindly, but in a firm, end of discussion sort of way. On the screen, the younger Michael was explaining what a charming, sweet animal Louie was. “He eats alfalfa. They’re originally from South America. And, uh… they originally come from the mountains in Peru. They’re from the breed of the alpaca, as well as the camel.” 

Michael had begrudgingly removed his hands from his face, but he looked pained as he watched himself drone on and on about the wonders of South American camelids. “Why did they let me talk about that for so long?!”

You grinned again, resting your head on his shoulder. “Shhh. My show is on.”

He talked about llamas for a solid two minutes before stopping to ask the interviewer, “Are there any questions?” That made you laugh hard enough to press pause.

“I thought they were supposed to be interviewing you.” You teased him. Michael rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched, a telltale sign that he was trying not to smile. “I was very passionate about my pets.” He shrugged.

“I wish I could have met Louie.” You admitted, pressing play again. At about the three minute mark, Michael walked him off screen, and a beautiful fountain appeared in his place. Mike sat on the edge of it, looking longingly into the distance for several seconds, like he didn’t realize the camera had begun rolling again. 

“Pardon?” He cleared his throat and sat up straight when someone offscreen asked him a question about his schedule. You pressed pause again. 

“How old were you here?” You asked curiously, glancing over at him. Michael quirked an eyebrow. “I was twenty-four. Maybe twenty-five? I don’t know, I don’t remember what month it was filmed.” 

“Just a baby.” You cooed, which earned you a gentle elbow to the side. But that’s what he looked like—a baby. Nothing like the grown man sitting next to you, although the gentle voice and sweet, shy personality were unmistakably Michael.

“This video is going to take us two hours to get through if you keep pausin’ it like that.” He reached over you to press play again, but he seemed to have relaxed a bit. He actually looked a little eager to see what was coming next.

You let the interview play uninterrupted for a while after that, but every cute noise, every nervous lip bite, and every random burst of song endeared this version of him (that you had never even met) to you even more.

“It’s a wonderful day!” You sang along to one of your favorite parts of the video, a dead giveaway that you’d seen it before. Whoops.

This time, Michael was the one to press pause. “You’ve already watched this.”

“Once or twice…” You admitted. (Okay, maybe a few more than that. But that was private information.)

Instead of looking annoyed, Michael just shook his head and laughed. “Why?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I like hearing you talk about how magical the world is. Kids. Animals. Nature. It makes me see everyday things in a different light.” His expression went soft at that, and he put his hand underneath your chin, tilting it upwards to give you a kiss.

“Plus, you were like, really hot back then.” You added cheekily, spoiling the tender moment. Michael rolled his eyes again. 

“I was? And what about now?” He asked, raising a brow. 

“Still hot. But in an old man sorta way.” You replied without hesitation, and he pretended to look offended, but he was secretly enjoying this just as much as you. He liked the way you looked when you were watching his old videos—like you absolutely adored him at any age or stage of life. And you did.

“Now pay attention! My favorite part is coming up.”

You started the video again just as his sister La Toya shouted to Bill to close a door somewhere off camera. “Your voice is very irritating.” Younger Michael said. “You sound like Carol Burnett.” 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“What are you doing over there?” Michael peered at you over the top of the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose.

You didn’t answer, nearly doubled over with silent, hysterical laughter. 

He had been sitting in his chair reading a book while you sat on the couch, absorbed in a video on your iPhone. The volume was too low for Michael to hear, but apparently, it was hilarious.

“C’mon. I like to laugh.” Michael closed the book and put it down on the coffee table. 

“‘s nothing.” You giggled without looking up.

He frowned, getting up and walking towards the couch, holding out his hand like he expected you to give him the phone. 

“No way.” You shook your head, holding it tight to your chest so he couldn’t see what was on the screen, like a kid who’d been caught watching something they shouldn’t.

“Let me see.” He was getting whiny, which only tickled you more.

From your phone, a small, familiar voice kept talking: “Go on, sit down!” 

Michael’s eyes widened first in recognition, then his brows furrowed in confusion. “Is that me?”

When you didn’t answer, he finally snatched the phone from you, revealing the video you had been watching. “The Jackson Five Interview, 1970.”

On the screen, little Michael was sitting in a yellow chair almost the exact same color as his shirt, cup of orange juice next to him, flipping through a Playboy magazine. 

“Michael, they filming you!” One of his brothers called from the background, and little Michael sheepishly snapped the magazine shut. In front of you, the look on grown-up Michael’s face sent you from silent laughter into a full blown cackle.

“How did you get this?!” He looked so flabbergasted that tears started to form in the corners of your eyes. “YouTube, Michael.” 

“What is Youtube?” 

You reached for your phone and grabbed it back, straightening up on the couch and patting the spot next to you. 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

You were sandwiched in between Jackie and Marlon on the couch when Michael came home. That was your first mistake.

Your second mistake was laughing yourself nearly to tears while Randy demonstrated how he and Michael had learned to play the bongos, with a pencil stabbed between two containers of Quaker Oats.

“You have to take the oatmeal out first, you dimwit.” Tito rolled his eyes, watching his youngest brother make a mess on the carpet from his perch on an armchair. “Your mama is gonna kill you.”

That sent you, Jackie, and Marlon into another laughing fit. 

“She’s your mama too, Tito!” Randy pointed out unhelpfully, banging on the lids of the oatmeal containers like a little kid. Like he didn’t have a house full of expensive music equipment at his disposal. Like he wasn’t a Jackson.

“What’s happenin’ in here?” Jermaine poked his head in the living room, his slightly annoyed expression morphing into a charming grin when he saw you.

“Well, helllooo. Didn’t realize we were entertaining a pretty lady.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. That was classic Jermaine. He’d flirted with you blatantly since the first time Michael brought you home. You personally found it hilarious. Michael? Not so much.

“Hey, Jackie. There’s a phone call for you.” Jermaine strode over to the couch, gesturing back towards the kitchen with his thumb.

“There ain’t no phone call for him. You just want to get in on this.” Marlon called him out, wiggling his eyebrows as he nudged you with his shoulder.  

“No, I swear, I heard it ring!” Jermaine insisted. Jackie gave him a deadpan look and pointed towards the phone on the table next to him, which most definitely had not rang. 

“Aw, man, come on! It’s my turn. Let me sit there.” Jermaine didn’t give up, which unfortunately, just made you giggle harder. Especially when he tried to shove his way into Jackie’s spot, and the three brothers on the couch started wrestling over you.

This was the scene Michael walked in on—three of his brothers fighting (literally) over his girlfriend, one of them trying to impress her by blasting dry oatmeal all over the living room, and one sitting unbothered on an armchair, lazily tuning his guitar like the chaos around him was totally normal.

Honestly, that was one of your favorite things about visiting Michael at Hayvenhurst. The chaos. You were an only child, and you loved any chance you got to be around his big family. The constant noise, the play fighting, the buzzing energy… all of it. They’d made you feel comfortable and at home from the first day you’d walked through the door. 

Even the shameless flirting was endearing to you. But when Michael stepped into the living room, he looked anything but endeared.

It was Randy who saw him first. He stopped playing his makeshift bongos, one hand frozen in midair and an oh shit look taking over his face. Tito was the next to notice him. Then Jackie, who quickly sobered up. Last of all were Marlon and Jermaine, who had managed to wrestle each other to the ground. “She’s mine!” Marlon was insisting, while Jermaine elbowed him in the ribs. “No, mine!”

“Actually, she’s mine.”

Michael’s voice, quiet as ever, stopped the wrestling match in an instant. His older brothers scrambled apart, and Marlon at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed about it. “Man, you shouldn’t have left such a pretty girl alone if you didn’t want us to fight over her.” Jermaine flashed you another one of his signature grins, and you had to cover your mouth to stifle your laugh, because poor Michael was not amused.

“I thought I could leave you alone for twenty minutes without the five of you actin’ like wild animals.” Michael muttered crossly, immediately crossing the room and offering his hand to you. 

“Maybe she likes ‘em a little wild, Mike! Ever think of that?” Marlon—always more amused with himself than anyone else—started to cackle again.

That earned him a glare that had the potential to freeze hell over.

“Uh-oh. He’s mad now.” Jermaine was still wearing a shit-eating grin, but Jackie, Randy, and Tito looked nervous. Like maybe this was the thing that was going to send their sweetest, most mild-mannered brother over the edge.

Michael’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t respond to Jermaine; he just looked at you. “Come on.” He took your hand and pulled you off the couch, away from Jermaine and Jackie, who had sat back down, and Marlon, who was still on the floor laughing at his own joke.

“They weren’t bothering me, Michael.” You tried to reassure him, but he wasn’t having it. 

“Come on.” His tone was impatient, but you knew it wasn’t directed at you. He was embarrassed; it was written all over his face, as plain as day. So you got up, mouthing a silent goodbye to the brothers, and let Michael lead you out of the room.

As soon as they thought you were out of earshot, the boys (minus Tito) began to argue again, but your attention was focused on Michael. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen him look this jealous before.  

“Hey, you okay?” You tilted your head, trying to catch his eye. 

“I’m fine. I just don’t like them messin’ with you like that.” He grumbled, looking at the floor.

“I told you they weren’t bothering me.” You reached out and put a hand beneath his chin, tilting it up and forcing him to look at you. “And you have nothing to be jealous about. I’ve only got eyes for you.”

“‘m not jealous.” He muttered, and you smiled. “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

“I’m not!” 

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“You can go swimming without me, y’know. ‘s not a big deal.”

Michael’s voice is soft, but it draws your attention away from the noise of the pool and to the chair beside you, shaded by a big umbrella. His offer was clearly genuine—not an “I’m telling you this is okay, but I’ll secretly be mad if you do it"—but an earnest attempt to make sure you were having a good time.

You smile and squeeze his hand, which is currently resting on your lap. “I’m sorry, are you trying to get rid of me right now?” 

A blush creeps onto his cheeks at your teasing, and he quickly shakes his head. “No, that’s not—no. I was just sayin’, you might have more fun.”

“I’m having fun here with you.” You insist, lifting his hand to your lips and kissing his knuckles. 

A few feet away from you, Michael’s brothers are all laughing and splashing each other in the pool, clad only in their swim trunks. He, on the other hand, is wearing his jeans and a t-shirt—and honestly, you’re surprised by how exposed he’s left his arms.

Days like this—the two of you relaxing beside the pool rather than inside of it—were becoming more and more frequent. 

And you don’t mind. Honestly, you don’t. You’re content to kick back in the shade, sometimes reading a book, sometimes talking to Michael, and sometimes just watching his brothers playfully taunt each other. It’s Michael that you worry about. He’s always loved to swim, and the wistful look in his eyes as he watches everyone else have fun without being able to join in makes your stomach twist itself into knots every time.

When his vitiligo had first appeared, it was subtle—small, pale patches of skin on his wrists and the backs of his hands. Barely noticeable, but you could sense his insecurity about it even then. He’d deny it if you asked, but you saw the way he started to avoid handshakes, and how he’d always shove his hands in his pockets when he was talking to someone new. He even started wearing a glove for his performances on stage, which he insisted was so that the fans in the back rows of his concerts could follow the movement of his hands while he was dancing, but you knew better.

After his hands and wrists came his ankles and feet, so Michael started wearing tall socks. 

When it appeared on his legs and forearms, he switched almost exclusively to long pants and long sleeves, even in the heat of the California summer.

And when it finally progressed to his face and neck, he began covering it with makeup. It was no big deal, he assured you—everyone in his line of work wore some sort of makeup, it was just to look good under the stage lights. 

You understood his self-consciousness about it when he was in the spotlight. You didn’t agree, but you understood. What really broke you was how he started to hide even when the two of you were alone.

No matter how much you tried to convince him that it was beautiful—something unique and special and distinctly him, Michael wouldn’t listen.

He wanted the lights off all the time. He never let you sit with him backstage while his makeup was being applied. He shrunk away whenever you found yourself absentmindedly tracing your fingers along an exposed patch of milky-white on the inside of his wrist.

And, of course, there was the whole no-swimming thing.

To be honest, you didn’t even like to swim all that much. But it had been one of Michael’s favorite things to do, and the idea that he might never do it again made you want to cry.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” That soft, familiar voice brings you back to the present, and you shake your head, smiling fondly at him. “Nothing.” You can tell from the look on his face that he doesn’t buy that answer, not even for a second, so you add, “Just you.”

That makes the rosy flush of his cheeks burn a little brighter. 

“What are you thinkin’ about me?” 

His concerned curiosity makes you laugh. “I was just thinking about how pretty you are.” You shrug, lifting his hand to your mouth again. But this time, instead of his knuckles, you kiss a light patch on the back of his hand.