Mikeyy

Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.

It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.

The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.

All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.

Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.

As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.

Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.

Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.

You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.

And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.

Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.

Michael.

He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.

You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.

It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.

But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.

And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.

Literally and figuratively.

You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.

You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.

But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.

In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.

And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.

You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.

And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’

The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’

But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.

And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.

Like I said — always doting.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.

Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.

“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.

Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.

“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.

Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“

“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.

She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.

“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.

You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”

The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”

Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.

“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.

“In what way?”

“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.

In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.

With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.

One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.

Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.

“Beat that, fucker.”

The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”

“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.

Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.

Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”

Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.

“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.

“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.

“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”

“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction

“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.

Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”

You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.

Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.

You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”

The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?

That theory was soon diminished.

An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.

As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.

You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.

The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.

Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.

Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.

Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.

Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.

“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.

“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”

Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.

“Fine, we will.”

You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.

Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.

Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.

You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.

The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.

Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.

“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.

You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.

But, this—this—was different.

His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.

This was the alcohol talking.

But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.

“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”

Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.

“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”

He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.

“Please.”

The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.

His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.

“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.

In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.

In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.

“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.

“Michael, pl—please.”

The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.

You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.

“Oh—Oh, God—“

The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.

Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.

As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.

He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.

Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.

And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.

Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.

He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.

“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”

You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.

“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”

You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.

“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.

Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.

Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.

“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.

Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.

You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.

“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."

You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.

His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.

“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”

Now, that did it for you.

Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.

“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.

He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.

The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.

His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’

It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.

His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.

Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.

“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”

A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.

You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.

“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“

He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.

Then came the silence.

The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.

But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.

Then, it hit you.

Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.

You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.

You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.

Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.

Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.

The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.

You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.

For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.

Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.

“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.

“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”

The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.

“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.

“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”

You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.

You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.

Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.

“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”

You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.

Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.

“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”

and your ass— how the rough, not yet broken-in denim held your ass cheeks together, slightly jutting them up, like two halves of a perfect heart. it had his mind working overhours.

that day, he wasn’t able to keep his hands to himself. you bending over when slipping on your kitten heels, his hand lazily swatting at your ass as he walked by. “you look good, miss thing.”

from that moment on, michael forgot about all the useless trinkets, and bought you all different kinds of skirts instead.

his favourite skirt is a denim one, low-waisted and always wrapped so prettily around your plush hips. there are two little pockets decorated with two heart-shaped stud buttons — like little envelopes, michael teased when he gifted it to you.

there’s a cute little customised “ℳ” with bedazzled gems on one pocket, brandishing your ass as his. and a butterfly on the other. michael thought it was so adorable, so you, when he bought it, and he couldn’t wait to see you eventually wearing it for him.

now, michael looks at how the soft denim strains over your ass as you grind against his stomach. every line, every ridge is slippery and sticky from the amount of times you came all over his abs.

michael’s head is propped against the headboard, eyes low and fixated on your ass, on the glistening letter in the moonlight, fingers pushing into the soft of your thighs under the tight denim to keep you in check.

“you’re so soaked, baby, dragging yourself all over me,” he mutters, pushing all of your weight down on his stomach, pussy spreading out like a flower. “y’like being nasty for mikey?”

“yes— yes, i’m nasty for you. only you, mikey—” you babble, the desperate push and pull of your core not letting up. you’re not wearing any panties, and your clit rolls deliciously over michael’s abdomen, your entrance spurting out transparent goo.

you’re leaving a trail of white wetness behind every time you drag yourself back and forth over him. your core muscles move up and down, and michael’s greedy fingers push up the hem of your skirt, revealing the plump globes of your ass.

“look at whatch’a hidin’, baby,” michael says, enthralled. “such a pretty ass. ‘s that all f’me?”

in the corner of your eyes, you feel tears gather when michael tenses up his abdomen, suddenly every ridge ten times more pronounced. “‘s all for you, fuck— a-all yours.”

“that’s a sweet girl,” michael praises back, his hand flatly coming in contact with one cheek, a wet thud ricocheting through the room as your flesh jiggles from the impact. he uses both his hands to knead your ass like two soft balls of dough, squeezing and pinching. pulling them apart slowly.

the pleasure, michael’s touch becomes too much for you. you fall over, right between michael’s bent legs on the bed, while he simultaneously pulls your ass closer to his face. “gonna reward you for having such a pretty ass. and this—”

he traces the “ℳ” with one tentative finger, his touch weirdly intimate and obscene at the same time. “means this—” he licks a slow stripe from your fluttering hole up between your ass cheeks, “‘s aaalll mine, baby.”

you tense up when you feel his wet muscle in a place you’ve never felt it before. you let out the most disgusting moan ever at that, ass cheeks closing around his slippery tongue. “don’t fight it, pretty baby. gonna lemme in.”

you don’t care about how ridiculous you sound. about how you’re basically grinding your ass into his face. you’re chasing the friction, the dip of his tongue altering between your soppy hole and soft asshole.

“look at all that lube you’re makin’,” michael mutters, two fingers plunging into your glistening hole to pull out a thick layer of white. “pretty pussy’s workin’ overhours. don’t need anythin’ else. you’re so wet f’me already.”

he separates the two digits in front of your face, fingers connected by sticky, white strings. part of you expects him to feed you your own cum, but he pulls his fingers back at the last minute as your heart drops in disappointment.

he traces your cum from your entrance all the way back to your ass, his touch deliberate and gentle, but so dizzying. you’re all disoriented, all the blood rushing to your head.

“look at that now,” your boyfriend tells you, circling his tongue around your gushing hole, his big hands holding you open and accessible to slurp up your gooey cum trickling into the crease of your ass cheeks. “gonna show you how pretty that cunt is.”

a/n: when lil wayne said “i put her on my plate, then i do the dishes” he meant this btw. also i can go nastier on the ass eating part but idk if the world is ready for that 😖 based off this post!

Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.

It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.

The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.

All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.

Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.

As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.

Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.

Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.

You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.

And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.

Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.

Michael.

He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.

You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.

It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.

But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.

And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.

Literally and figuratively.

You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.

You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.

But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.

In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.

And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.

You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.

And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’

The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’

But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.

And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.

Like I said — always doting.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.

Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.

“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.

Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.

“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.

Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“

“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.

She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.

“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.

You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”

The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”

Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.

“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.

“In what way?”

“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.

In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.

With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.

One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.

Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.

“Beat that, fucker.”

The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”

“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.

Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.

Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”

Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.

“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.

“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.

“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”

“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction

“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.

Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”

You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.

Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.

You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”

The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?

That theory was soon diminished.

An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.

As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.

You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.

The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.

Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.

Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.

Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.

Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.

“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.

“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”

Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.

“Fine, we will.”

You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.

Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.

Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.

You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.

The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.

Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.

“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.

You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.

But, this—this—was different.

His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.

This was the alcohol talking.

But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.

“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”

Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.

“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”

He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.

“Please.”

The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.

His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.

“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.

In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.

In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.

“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.

“Michael, pl—please.”

The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.

You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.

“Oh—Oh, God—“

The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.

Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.

As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.

He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.

Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.

And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.

Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.

He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.

“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”

You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.

“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”

You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.

“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.

Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.

Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.

“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.

Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.

You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.

“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."

You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.

His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.

“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”

Now, that did it for you.

Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.

“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.

He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.

The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.

His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’

It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.

His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.

Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.

“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”

A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.

You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.

“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“

He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.

Then came the silence.

The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.

But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.

Then, it hit you.

Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.

You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.

You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.

Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.

Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.

The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.

You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.

For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.

Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.

“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.

“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”

The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.

“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.

“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”

You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.

You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.

Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.

“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”

You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.

Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.

“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”

ever since the night of the 1980s grammys, your relationship had been rewritten into something insatiable.

you had both come home riding the high of the awards and lost your virginities to one another, and god, did that unlock a monster.

they always say that once you finally cross that line, it changes your body completely.

it was true.

giving your innocence to one another didn't satisfy the craving; it only made the hunger twice as bad.

now that your bodies knew exactly how good it felt to fuse together, the physical need for each other had become an actual addiction.

it was like a switch flipped, and suddenly neither of you could get enough of each other. you were just as obsessed with him as he was with you, but michael was so much worse at hiding it.

he would literally whine and beg to take you, his voice cracking with a needy pitch that left him embarrassed afterward – yet he just couldn't help himself.

he got hard the absolute second you crossed his mind.

sometimes that desperation got so overwhelming – so violently thick between you, that there wasn't even time to pull your clothes off. he’d get so needy that he would grab you by the waist, dragging you onto his lap to straddle him.

you’d both start humping against each other like animals in heat, grinding together with a feverish friction that left you both mewling into each other’s necks as you chased the relief. 

your underwear would already be drenched, soaked through with your slick arousal. michael would lose his mind at the wetness of it, his hips jerking uncontrollably against yours, fucking you harder and harder until he’d choke out a broken cry as you both came, soaking right through your clothes.

it was a constant, beautiful torment for him.

frequently, you’d wake up in the dead of night to the heavy press of his weight. he’d be trapped in the grip of a vivid wet dream, his long fingers subconsciously wrapped around your waist to anchor you tightly against his hips.

hearing his frantic breaths and the desperate whines vibrating against your neck, you'd reach up to gently run your fingers through his messy curls, softly whispering his name to pull him out of it.

he’d wake up with a shudder, his movements coming to an abrupt halt. the second he realized he’d been dry-rutting you in his sleep, he’d squeeze his eyes back shut and bury his face deep into your shoulder, his skin burning hot.

"’m sorry," he’d mumble, sounding embarrassed.

“‘s okay, baby” you’d whisper, stroking his hair to settle him as you reached back down between your bodies, your fingers slipping under his waistband.

michael would let out a gasp at the contact, his body locking up tight. he’d be too embarrassed to say anything else, just letting out a small, needy whimper as his hips instinctively jerked forward into your palm, his body quivering as he shot his cum straight into your hand.

and it didn't matter how public or innocent the setting was; his mind was entirely corrupted by you.

just a few weeks ago, during a particularly hot day by the pool, the backyard had been full of his siblings laughing and playing music. you had been sitting on the edge of a lounge chair, completely oblivious, casually eating a blue popsicle to stay cool.

across the pool, michael had been completely hypnotized.

he watched the way your lips wrapped around the popsicle, his chest tightening as his mind drifted to how good it felt when you hollowed your cheeks to suck him just like that, or how incredibly filthy it would look to see his creamy white cum dripping against the bright blue stain on your tongue.

his eyes dragged down, eyeing just how good your body looked in that swimsuit, fiending over the sight of you.

he couldn't stop staring at your soft curves, his gaze locked onto how plump your ass looked pressed against the lounge chair. 

he felt so dirty – so guilty for thinking that way about his sweet, precious girlfriend, but the blood rushed straight to his dick so fast it made his head spin. he just couldn’t seem to look away.

it could be something as sweet as you running your fingers through his curls, absentmindedly tracing shapes on his chest while cuddling under a blanket, or even just the mere scent of your perfume. all of it – every single little thing you did – had him losing his mind.

whenever you caught him like that – feeling the thick length of him pressing against you during a simple hug – you couldn't resist teasing him.

you’d shift just enough to grind subtly against it, whispering a soft, teasing comment about how bad he wanted you, even though the sheer sight of his needy state made your own thighs rub together, completely soaked with the knowledge that the slightest thing you did could turn him like this.

which was kinda how you ended up in this predicament tonight.

you were standing by the edge of the dining room, just listening to the loud chatter of the family gathering, when you felt the unmistakable warmth of michael hovering right behind you. without speaking a word, he leaned over your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss against your jawline before trailing a slow path down the sensitive skin of your neck.

your stomach flipped. you quickly looked around the crowded room, your heart hammering against your ribs as you tried to make sure no one was watching.

"michael..." you whispered, your voice a nervous warning as his mouth sank right into the crook of your shoulder.

he didn't care.

he didn't even look up at the crowd, engulfed by the scent of your skin. his fingers slipped down to lock tightly with yours, his palm burning hot as he gave an insistent tug and started guiding you away from the room. you obviously didn’t object. you wanted him just as bad.

so you swallowed hard, letting him lead you quickly past the noise of the hallway and straight up the steps.

the second you crossed the threshold of his bedroom, the door clicked shut, wasting no second to lock it.

michael didn't even give you a second to breathe before he was pressing you back against the wood. he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that started out deceptively gentle. it made you melt against him, but it only lasted for a heartbeat. you let out a soft sigh, and his tongue took advantage of that, pushing past your lips. he completely consumed your mouth, his tongue deep and demanding as it slicked over yours with an uncoordinated hunger.

you could hear the wet, sloppy friction of your lips sliding together, the heat of his saliva slicking your chin as he tilted your head back to get a deeper angle. he swallowed your quiet gasps as his mouth tasted you, his tongue stroking yours with heat. you mewled into his mouth as your thighs shifted together, trying to relieve the ache between them.

“michael–” you tried to gasp out, your hips jerking forward to grind against his cock.

he interrupted you, muffling the sound of your voice under another kiss, his mouth sliding hungrily over yours. you managed to pull your mouth away from his, your breaths coming in ragged pants.

“michael, wait– they’re gonna notice we’re gone,” you breathed out, your head tilting back against the door to look up at him.

he didn’t care though, his eyes were glued to your mouth. instead of answering, his lips dropped to your neck. he sucked hard, bruising the sensitive skin under your jaw, leaving a mark that will definitely darken later. his tongue lapped at your skin as a moan escaped your lips, which only drove him crazier. your moans alone were pulling guttural groans from his chest.

his hands were all over you. his long fingers dug bruisingly into your waist, anchoring you tight before his palms slid down, his large hands roughly cupping the plump flesh of your ass through your clothes and lifting you slightly to grind his thick, rock-hard cock right into your dripping center. a breathless whimper tore from his throat into your mouth, his grip tightening as his hands slid back up your torso, his palms slipping hungrily under your shirt to map out every inch of your bare skin. he was squeezing your waist, his thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, utterly fiending for the feel of you as the kiss grew messier.

“oh god, baby, please– need y’so bad,” he gasped out against your lips.

michael's hands slid down your sides to hook firmly under your thighs. he hoisted you right up off the floor, your legs locking around his waist. keeping you anchored against his chest, he stumbled away from the door, his long legs moving quickly across the room towards the bed. he leaned forward, laying you down flat on your back as he climbed over you, his frame crowding over yours. he was breathing like he’d been running, his fingers shaking as he hooked them into the hem of your shirt.

"take it off, baby. lemme see you," he rasped.

he yanked it up and over your head in one clumsy motion, tossing it onto the floor. you didn't wait either, your hands scrambling to take his shirt off, peeling the fabric off his shoulders. you planted your open palms firmly against his bare chest and gave him a push, catching him off guard just enough to roll him over onto his back, shifting your weight so you were the one straddling his lap. your hands flew down to your waist, quickly peeling your bottoms and underwear off your legs and kicking them away entirely.

sitting bare on top of him, you felt his throbbing cock pressing perfectly against your soaking core through his jeans.

“need to be inside you,” he rasped.

you reached down to unbuckle his belt and pop the button of his pants, shoving the denim down his hips just enough to let his length spring free. his cock was obscene—flushed dark, with veins raised under the skin, the tip slick with precum.

you leaned your weight forward, holding yourself up with your hands as you ground yourself over him, a slow slide from the base of his cock all the way to the wet tip. the friction was dizzying. the contrast of his searing heat rubbing directly against your sensitive, soaking folds felt completely overwhelming, sending a sharp wave of pure electricity to the pit of your stomach.

michael looked like he was losing it beneath you. his head rolled back into the pillow, his jaw locked tight as his chest heaved for air. he could feel every single ridge of his cock being squeezed and slicked by your wetness.

"baby, please... you're killing me," he choked out, his voice strained with desperation. his fingers dug bruisingly deep into the flesh of your hips, his knuckles turning white as he completely lost his grip on his self-control. "i can't... i can't take it–need to feel you..."

before you could grind against him a third time, his large hands clamped down hard on your waist, halting your movement. with an upward thrust of his hips, he guided his tip and buried himself all the way inside you in one deep push.

your head snapped back, a loud, high-pitched moan ripping from your throat that michael quickly caught by throwing his hand over your mouth, his own body trembling violently as he filled you completely. he let out a shuddering groan against your neck, his eyes squeezed shut in ecstasy.

"y'have to be quiet, sweetheart" he choked out, his hips twitching inside you as he adjusted to the overwhelming heat of your core.

the sensation of being buried deep was too much to handle. a broken whine tore from his throat as his body took over, entirely overriding his brain. he completely lost control of his hips, his lower body jerking up against yours in frantic, uncoordinated twitches. his cock pulsed within your gummy walls before he could even find a rhythm.

"can't– baby, i can't stop," he panted, his eyes completely blown out.

michael gripped your waist and pushed you backward, forcing you flat onto your back. you let out a squeal as his large hands slid down to hook under your knees, lifting your legs high and draping them over his broad shoulders. he let out a high, pathetic mewl at how incredibly tight you felt from this angle, his face flushing a deep red. he didn't waste another second. gripping your hips for leverage, he began fucking into you, slamming his pelvis against yours with a frantic urgency.

the bedroom filled with a symphony of filthy noises. loud schlick, schlick, schlick sounds echoed with every thrust, his cock dragging a creamy ring of mixed precum and your own arousal out before plunging right back inside. the lewd sound of skin slapping against skin was deafening. every single time he slammed flush against you, his pelvis hit perfectly against your clit.

both of you were miserably failing to muffle your noises. the force of his desperate ruts was so intense that the headboard began slamming violently against the wall.

any thought of staying quiet was completely forgotten. despite his own warning, michael was far too gone to care anymore, letting out loud, unbridled whines with every slam of his hips.

"ah... god, you're soakin' through the sheets, baby," he rasped. "milkin' me so hard... it's so wet, makin’ such a mess."

hearing those vulgar words come out of his usually polite mouth made a hot blush rise to your cheeks. a thrill shot through you, causing your walls to instinctively squeeze around him.

"m-mike, michael," you stammered out, your voice cracking, completely breathless as your head thrashed against the pillows. you were so overwhelmed by pleasure that you could barely mutter coherent words. "you feel so fucking good–"

the words dissolved into a high whine as he gave a particularly deep thrust right into your sweet spot.

it felt so heavenly, the pleasure so overwhelming, that hot tears slipped from the corners of your eyes and dripped down your temples.

his pace sped up even more, his curls damp with sweat as he looked down at you like you were his entire world.

"’m so close, mikey," you whined, your hands tightly clawing at his bare shoulders.

michael let out a broken moan at your begging, a breathless sob tearing from his throat. he looked so overwhelmed – almost in pain from how good it felt.

"gonna give it all t'you, baby. every single drop," he choked out.

he didn't slow down for a single second. the headboard battered against the wall as he buried himself to the hilt.

michael went rigid after he gave one final thrust. a high, broken cry tore from his throat, his head dropping onto your shoulder as his eyes squeezed shut.

the first rope of his cum shot out of him with a pulsing force, flodding your womb. michael let out a trembling sob against your neck, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your thighs as his cum spurt inside you in heavy ropes, painting your insides, filling every single fold and crevice until you were completely overflowing with his seed.

the volume of it felt endless, a continuous flood that coated the walls of your pussy, sending a wave of pleasure straight to your spine that triggered your own crashing climax.

"baby, baby, baby," michael whimpered as his hips continued to twitch helplessly against yours. he was completely spent, his chest heaving heavily against yours as he melted into your weight, ruined by the release.

even as the spurts slowed, he didn't pull away. he collapsed entirely into the crook of your neck, his face buried deep as his skin burned hot and his damp curls stuck to your face. he let out small, shuddering breaths as the creamy mixture of his cum and your slick slowly began to leak out from between your thighs, cementing the mess you had made together.

michael shifted slightly, lifting himself up on his elbows just enough to look down. his gaze drifted to where you two were still joined, staring right at the thick white mixture slowly oozing out onto the sheets as he pulled out.

"you're so nasty, michael," you teased, though you couldn't take your eyes off it either.

michael huffs out a breathless laugh, biting his bottom lip as a deep blush rushes to his cheeks.

"you're lookin' too," he mumbled softly.

"but you looked first," you countered with a soft laugh, fingers gently tracing at the nape of his neck as he shook his head at you.

once the silence of the bedroom settled over you both, the house suddenly felt terrifyingly quiet.

michael shifted slightly, his cheek pressing against your shoulder. he blinked for a second, the fog in his brain clearing just enough for the stillness of the house to register.

"christ..." he breathed out. "do y'think they heard that?"

you let out a weak laugh, your hands playing with the ends of his hair. "michael, you literally slammed the bed into the wall for like fifteen minutes straight."

he raised his hands, hiding his face as his skin burned a bright red. "don't say that... oh, god, please don't say that. we're never going back downstairs."

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

sorry i get carried away w/ sub!michael

also i edited this like 8 times n i got sick of rereading so if anything sounds off PLEASE let me know n ill take a look

thanks for reading :pp

“And in my estimation, the true ‘King of Pop’, rock, and soul… Mr. Michael Jackson!” Elizabeth Taylor announces, the crowd erupts in whoops and screams for the man who influences all. He erupts onto the stage, the black suit he wore embroidered with the tiniest gold accents, a red silk dress shirt underneath to match the hemming on his sleeve, and a sparkling diamond statement piece decorated on his chest. He wore black slacks with shiny metal going down along his legs. He looked good. Great, even.

He was so humble, too. He always made sure to thank those who supported him and his journey, and that’s why so many people fell for him. Why you fell for him. He gave his thanks to Elizabeth, and began the short speech he actually rehearsed with you a couple nights ago.

“Thank you,” he started, that one ringlet curl falling in front of his nose, and the spotlight beaming bright on his face. His face—one of the many things you adored about the man standing a couple seats in front of you. He had the voice of an angel, and the face to back it up, too. You never feed into what the tabloids said about him, how they make fun of his complexion, or how they spew crazy amounts of hate towards a man who would (and most certainly could) pay all of their bills in a heartbeat.

“Thank you very much, Elizabeth Taylor,” Michael continued, bending down at the small microphone presented in front of him. He had to do this very often, for a man standing at five-foot-nine, he was all legs, which gave the illusion that he was much, much taller than he actually was. He kissed Elizabeth on the cheek to show his gratitude, then proceeded to thank Eddie Murphy, who accompanied the two of them on stage as well.

Eddie Murphy was always a tease towards Michael, poking at his stomach and constantly trying to tickle him, causing him to let out a deep chuckle. His laugh sounded like the definition of magic, the sound was the type to bring tears to your eyes. It sounded so pure and real, and he never had to fake it—only times he did were when an interviewer asked him the most awkward questions known to man, and he had to force it for the cameras.

“First, I’d like to thank God, who makes all things possible,” Michael started back up again, the cheers from the crowd growing louder.

“I’d like to thank my mother nd’ father, who I love very much,” Michael pointed, and you glanced over at Katherine and Joseph Jackson, who weren’t sitting too far away from you. Your admiration for Michael ran deep, because despite what Joseph put him through his entire life, he still thanked him. He still showered him with love and appreciation, because that’s how honorable his character was.

“I’d like to thank… Quincy Jones, he’s in the audience… I don’t see him… he was somewhere—oh, he was right there, thank you, Quincy.” Michael scanned the second row for Quincy, and locked eyes with you for a little over two seconds. The missing seat next to you was reserved for Quincy, who was handling something backstage the last you could remember.

Michael ushered out the rest of his thanks, ended it with an “I love you”, per usual, and looked out onto the crowd before him. He blew a kiss to the crowd, and found your eyes again. His doe eyes scanned you as quick as he could, your black floor length gown was glistening under the light, and your shimmery red bottoms were barely peeking out. Your hair was pinned up, your subtle blonde highlights showing in the very delicate and tedious bun sitting atop of your head.

One thing he really loved though, was your eye makeup. Your eyeshadow was natural, but still managed to pop every move you made. And your lips—God, your lips. He couldn’t get enough of them. The brown lip liner, blended into the plush of them, a beautiful nude lipstick giving it all a lovely push.

He stepped back from the microphone, glancing at you once again—smiling, and biting his lip. You prayed nobody could tell that his action was directed towards you. Especially the man next to you, your boyfriend, Reese. His claps were a lot slower than yours, his face showing signs of repulsion while Michael was on stage.

The only reason Reese was here was because you needed a plus-one for the award show. Michael invited you, and only you, but Reese just couldn’t shake the fact that Michael wanted you to come alone. Did it annoy you? Of course. Was his reasoning valid? You wished that it wasn’t. What Reese didn’t know is you were the reason that Michael’s reward winning jitters weren’t being displayed on the stage he stood upon today.

FLASHBACK

A couple nights before, when he offered to give you the tickets, there was a catch. There was always a catch when it came to anything Michael gave to you, just because he thoroughly enjoyed watching your face when you got annoyed, knowing you’d do anything he asked for anyway.

He told you in order to get the tickets from him, especially with Reese tagging along, you had to kiss him. Just once, and he’d be satisfied. You showed up to his hotel, but with all his fame and the crazies willing to track his every move, you had to be specially escorted. It felt wrong to come see him in the moment, but once you saw him, all of that weariness faded. He was getting ready for another event prior, straightening up his silky black tie before opening the door. You stood before him, your casual dark wash Levi’s jeans adorned on your legs, a black blouse tucked into them, and some subtle, yet fancy kitten heels on your feet.

He took a whiff of your signature scent, one that could pinpoint you in any crowd, ‘Estee Lauder Beautiful Eau De’. One smell, and his grin immediately shined through. You walked past him, letting the air fill with your scent, before sitting down elegantly on his hotel bed. There was a cup of orange juice on the nightstand, half full–and you silently chuckled to yourself.

Michael didn’t say a word to you, just stared at you in awe. He had no shame in looking you up and down, taking in not only your scent, but the outfit you had on. Your blouse was tight-fitting, and the gold cross necklace sat perfectly between your cleavage. Your chest was so shiny, all the firming body oils and lotion you used made your collarbone pop, and your perfume lasted all day and night. Michael blushed, and that happened every time he stared at you for too long. It was times like this, he wished he could have you alone all the time–but he knew that wasn’t possible under your circumstances.

The two of you went over his speech, and you portrayed a big crowd of people to help give him the reality of the ceremony. It was fun, Michael was a goof—so it was never an awkward moment between the two of you. After a while, he started to blatantly stare at you again, fiddling with hands.

“Michael,” you blurted out, snapping your manicured nails at the man before you. He jumped a little bit, blinking a couple times to snap him out of his trance.

“Hmm?” He started, tilting his head while he devoured his bottom lip. His breathing seemed unsteady, and if he was being honest with himself at all, he forgot the reason he invited you. You looked so good, it was silently turning him on.

“The tickets, Michael. Reese is gonna go apeshit if I’m out too long.” You argued, trying to put up a front as if you cared about Reese’s feelings, but in reality, you hated being confronted. Reese had a million questions a minute anytime you went somewhere that wasn’t with him, and he was so, so, insecure. It made you sick–but your parents were under the influence that the two of you were going to make it to marriage. You didn’t think so.

“I wish his name would stop escaping those lips,” Michael chuckled, searching in one of his duffle bags for the tickets he reserved for the two of you. “Shoot, you’re lucky I’m even giving him a ticket.” He grins, handing you two slips of paper marked with the arena’s name on it, as well as your seats.

“I got you in one of the front rows, and you can thank me later.” He winked, sending a chill down your spine. An actual chill, too–your body suddenly twitched, and of course, Michael noticed it. As you were about to head out of his hotel room, he grabbed your forearm and dragged you back inside.

“You forgettin’ about our deal?” He said, his voice dropping an octave deeper, and furrowing those beautiful eyebrows of his.

“Alright, alright. I’ll kiss your cheek, and that’s it, Michael. Nothing more, nothing less.” You demand, grabbing his jaw and turning it to the side. He fights your gesture, and slowly puts your hand back down.

“C’mon, beautiful. A little innocent peck on my lips isn’t gonna hurt nobody.” He pulls you in, and you take a moment to admire his features. You love his smile, his teeth were pearly white and straight as a ruler–it made you melt. And those eyes, they’re to die for—literally. They had the kind of sparkle that would convince you to do whatever he wanted, which is why you were stuck in this situation in the first place.

“Y’know this is wrong, Michael. What if Reese finds out?” You argue, using a little strength to push him back and away from your lips. One thing you know, is that if he gets too close, all hell will break loose. And unfortunately for you, you’re not going to fight it either. He was a sex icon, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t turned on.

“One kiss, and I’ll let you get back to him. I just wanna thank you, y’know.”

You threw your head back, a smile slowly creeping on your face. “S’nothing, Michael, it’s what friends do. Now let’s get this over with, I gotta head back to the house.” You walk towards him, the click of your heels silent while you strutted across the hotel carpet. You looked up at him, and his eyes were filled with hunger. You puckered your lips, and kissed him once. The two of you pulled away, and the expression on his face was showing he wanted more. You needed to get away before things went downhill, but it was like an invisible rope pulling you closer, because before you knew it, you were kissing him, over and over again.

“You can’t leave me, right now.” Michael whispers after pulling away again, slowly backing you towards his hotel bed.

“But, Reese–” You start, but Michael quickly cuts you off.

“Shh…shh. Focus on me, don’t worry about him right now.” Was the last thing Michael muttered to you, before completely stripping you naked and watching you take three of his fingers at once.

To this day, Reese knows nothing about the entanglement the two of you indulged in, and you wanted it to stay that way.

PRESENT TIME

“He’s kind of overrated, in my honest opinion.” Reese starts, his claps stopping. He was the only one in the crowd who wasn’t clapping anymore, and in all honestly, you were embarrassed to be around someone so disrespectful, let alone be in a relationship with them.

“Overrated, how? Reese, this man has well over one hundred rewards, that’s far from overrated.” You argue between claps. The crowd gave him a standing ovation, including yourself, getting up to whoop and clap louder for one of the most brilliant men in the music industry. You straightened your dress to sit back down, and was met with a very annoyed and frustrated Reese.

“Damn, seems like you like him more than me.” Reese argues, rolling his eyes. You didn’t want to start a fight, not here, not right now–but Jesus, was he irritating. It was always something with him, this was never a one time thing. Reese has no shame throwing a fit everywhere the two of you went–whether it was another guy complimenting you, anyone being nice to you for that matter–it was all a threat to him.

“Will you lighten up, Reese? Enjoy the ceremony that you didn’t have to come to.” You scoffed, brushing off his attitude to continuing enjoying the program in front of you. And to your surprise, that wasn’t the only reward Michael won that night–so in a way you were winning, because being able to see that beautiful smile of his made your evening so much brighter.

“Don’t even know how you got tickets, anyway.” Reese mutters under his breath, hoping you didn’t hear the remarks escaping his lips.

You pretended you didn’t hear him, but all you could think about was the night you made the mistake of sleeping with Michael Joseph Jackson. Do you regret the decision you made? Hell no—that man was a damn drug to you. But now you were faced with the dilemma of continuing your affair with this man who wouldn’t escape your mind, or submitting to your boyfriend who treated you like shit.

After another hour or so, the program ended, and everyone was starting to pack their purses and clutches to exit the building. You wanted to get out of there as fast as you could, but once again, you felt that invisible rope constantly pulling you towards him. Reese didn’t even bother hooking arms with you, carrying your clutch, or even holding your hand. It was so bad, you got used to his behavior. No flowers, no dates–the honeymoon phase was over for the two of you. He clearly didn’t care as much as you did, though.

After a minute of trying to get past everyone, all the celebrities were met with paparazzi outside. That’s when you ran into him. All the shiny accents on his pants were a dead giveaway–and those eyes. Those bambi eyes that seemed to take up his whole face, eyes contacts could never recreate. You stopped in your tracks, when you noticed how he was starting to jog to get to you.

You heard Reese mumble something under his breath, but Michael was the only thing on your mind at the moment.

“Hey! I’m so glad you came.” Michael expresses, embracing you for a hug, and you let him in. In front of Reese.

“Wouldn’t miss it, y’know this. I’m really proud of you.” His hug gradually got tighter, and it felt like heaven. Being able to take in his scent again, and just being able to feel on his body gave you more joy than you could’ve imagined. Reese on the other hand–it was like a switch went off in his brain, because not only was trying to actively pull you away from Michael, now he wanted to hold your waist.

Michael looked down at the image before him, and just simply nodded his head. He looked back at you, your face showing clear signs of awkwardness and discomfort, but he was your boyfriend–you couldn’t make a scene in front of all these people.

“I’ll see you around, m’kay? There’s an afterparty if you’re down to come.” He rested his hand on your bare shoulder, since the sleeves of your dress were designed to cascade a little off your shoulder. His hand was a little chilly, and the touch of his soft fingertips made you twitch once again.

“Nah, we ain’t time for an afterparty.” Reese speaks up, attempting to drop his voice a couple notches to sound more dominating–but in reality it embarrassed you. You sighed and rolled your eyes, kind of disappointed because any moment with Michael was a moment you needed to have.

“I wasn’t talkin’ to you, though.” Michael retorts, looking back at you once again. This act of retaliation turned you on, but if you showed an ounce of that in front of Reese, you’ll never hear the end of it. It’s like his mouth did nothing but argue, while Michael’s did everything you needed it to. The silence grew loud, and Michael wanted to get you out of this situation.

Reese didn’t even know what to say after Michael checked him, but that’s how most were–Michael was good at silencing people, making them shut up before him, and he didn’t even have to be crazy rude about it. He just made people speechless.

“Anyway, don’t be scared to call about that afterparty.” He said, arms out to embrace you again. You melted in his arms, taking a deep breath so his cologne could ignite your body once more. Reese looked like a child too scared to ask for a piece of candy while he stood behind you, watching as another man swooned you, just that easy.

“I’ll see. It’s late, but I’ll let you know.” You reassured, and he gave a simple nod and smile in return. He stuck his hand out to shake Reese’s and surprisingly, Reese shook his hand back.

‘He shook Michael’s hand’. You thought to yourself. That same hand that’s smacked on the fat of your ass, the fingers that have felt the walls of your pussy, those same veins you watched pop as he was thrusting his digits inside of you.

But that was all in the past now, it had to be. You had to put an end to this before something bad happened to the both of you, because Reese wasn’t necessarily an emotionally stable man. He had his moments and his tantrums, where his voice would get louder and louder, until it overall brought you to tears. You hated yelling–you were a reasonable girl, you liked to solve things with simplicity–a nice conversation always did the trick with you. But Reese was raging now, especially after this little moment with Michael.

His blood was boiling.

The two of you didn’t speak in the car—he never took his eyes off the road. His grip on the steering wheel was crazy tight, his knuckles were white. His face seemed to be stuck in this permanent frown, and you didn’t dare utter a word to him while he was like this–but you knew he’d run his mouth all night long until he made you feel bad.

You made it to your apartment, Reese’s movements urgent. He didn’t open the car door for you, (not like he did that anyway), and he stormed to the front door of the apartment you two shared. Your name was on the lease, so really it was your apartment, but you felt bad for the dude. He had nowhere else to go, and unfortunately, he was still your boyfriend. He waited for you to get to the door to unlock it, with his fists bawled up at his sides.

The two of you walked in, you sat your clutch on the couch, looking at the angry man standing in front of you.

“Do you think this is a game?” Reese speaks up, finally. He brings his hands to his sides, profusely shaking his head.

Before you can speak, he blurts out of turn again.

“Y’gonna let some poser take you from me? Is this what this is? Huh?” He’s yelling now, and all you can do is stare at the mess that’s in front of you. Your own boyfriend.

“Poser is crazy, Reese. You don’t know that man from a can of paint.” You retaliated, searching through your bag just to find something to distract you. You did it every time someone annoyed you–you started looking for stuff, you cleaned up, it was the distraction that mattered.

“And you do?! Seems like you’re real close with him, embarrassing me like that tonight.” He tuts, stomping towards the bedroom.

“Embarassing you? You don’t even claim me in public, Reese! You wanna touch on me when you feel threatened. I get sick of that stupid shit.”

This statement alone made Reese see red. He turns around, storms towards you, and gets real close to your face. You could smell his sweat from under his suit, and the remnants of that gross, super woodsy cologne you hated. He stared into your soul, and finally opened his mouth to speak to you once again.

“Y’nothing but a lil’ skank anyway. Sex was good, but you’re nothing to me.”

He didn’t matter to you anymore honestly, but hearing something like that–and hearing someone you’ve given your life to, given your body to–it hurts. Bad. You were crushed at his words, but the last thing you wanted was Reese of all people, to see that he hurt your feelings. It wasn’t in your nature.

“Pack your shit, then.” You demanded, standing ten toes down to the man who thought he’d get into your head, make you believe you needed him. But the only thing you needed right now was Michael, and as soon as Reese got his disreputable self out of your sight, Michael was the first person you were calling.

“And where the fuck am I gonna go, huh?” Reese argues.

You put your hand in his face. “Figure it out. You’re not my problem, Reese. And for the love of God, go get a job.” You added out of frustration. He had basically been living off of your checks, driving your car, and lounging around your house all day. If we’re being honest, you were doing him a huge favor putting him out. He needed to grow up.

Reese could only put on a fake smile and shake his head, dragging his feet towards your bedroom and grabbing whatever duffel back that was in his range of sight. He went through your drawers, stuffing his underwear and clothes into the bag, leaving a mess all over the floor. You didn’t even care at this point–you were just glad he was leaving. He then went to the bathroom, gathered all of his soaps, his toothbrush, his razor. He grabbed his three pairs of shoes, stuffed them into the bag as far as he could, and failed at zipping the duffel.

He took one last look at you before leaving.

“Hope you have a good life without me.” He says, holding his head up high like his words actually meant something to you.

“Trust me, I will.” You replied, shooing him to walk out of your front door. You locked the door behind you, and went to your bedroom window to watch him walk into the darkness of the street, where he had to motion a taxi down to come pick him up. You didn’t care about what happened to Reese at this point–all the memories and problems with him were out of your orbit now. Michael was the planet that surrounded your sun, and the only thing on your mind was calling him at the very moment.

You walked over to your phone, dialing the number he gave to you back at the hotel. You played with the cord, twisting it between your fingers, the anticipation of him answering the phone killing you.

‘That afterparty is probably over by now.’ Was all you thought to yourself, disappointed at the things that could’ve occurred if you were there.

The ringing suddenly came to a halt.

“This is Michael.”

Truly, you missed his voice. You sat in silence for a second, the sound of him speaking to you again leaving you a little stunned.

“Hello?” He asked, chuckling a bit.

“Oh, God. Sorry, Michael, it’s me.” You started, closing your eyes at the embarrassing moment you just presented.

“Hey, you.” It was almost like you could hear his smile.

You cleared your throat and began to speak. “Am I still invited to that afterparty we talked about earlier?”

“What afterparty?” He questioned.

“T-the one you talked about at the award ceremony… Michael–”

“Oh, that? I was lying.” He chuckles on the other line–another sound that was music to your ears.

In your head, you thought you were getting played–messed with. Was this a scheme all along? Did Michael just want to toy with you, and laugh it off after?

“So it was a joke..?” You question, the disappointment laced in your voice.

Michael heard your tone change, and immediately realized how this might’ve been blown out of proportion.

“No, no, not like that, angel. There’s no afterparty because I just wanted to see if you’d call. I wanted you to come over, that’s all–I wasn’t tryna’ play with you, beautiful.” He reassured, his voice automatically getting softer and softer after each word, soothing your heart ever so slightly.

You perked up, regaining your smile again.

“Can Bill come get me in thirty?” You asked him, and of course he said yes with speed. All he wanted was to see your beautiful face again, feel on you, and most of all–talk to you.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER

“Thanks, Bill.” You nodded, giving the older, burly man your gratitude for picking you up at such a late hour. He gave you a head nod and a smile, and closed the Rolls Royce door behind you. You’ve never been in a car this fancy, the red leather interior, that new car smell, it was all so much to take in.

You watched out of the window, as the neighborhoods gradually started to look more and more expensive. Around fifteen minutes passed by, and you arrived at Michael’s hotel. When Bill opened the door for you, it felt like the wind breezing through the night sky hit you extra hard. Your stomach was in knots, and you hadn’t even seen him yet. You walked up to the hotel door, Bill not too far behind you. You made it up the elevator–and there was his room.

Bill walked to his own room right across from Michael’s, and nodded at you once more.

“Goodnight.” He said. His voice was stern, but somehow loving at the same time.

“Goodnight, Bill. And thanks, again.” He disappeared into his hotel room, and now you were all alone, standing in front of Michael’s door.

You took a deep breath, and knocked softly three times.

You could hear the top lock being unhooked, and then the next one, and then the next one. The doorknob twisted, and you were met with that smile. Michael stood before you, and he looked so casual for once in his life. He had on just a plain white tee, with a pair of plaid pajama pants that left too much for your imagination.

“You made it,” He smiles, pulling your arm to come inside of his hotel. He closes the door behind you, but sees the smile on your face slowly start to fade.

“What happened, angel? Where’d that smile go?” He taunts, lifting your chin to look at him.

“Me and Reese are over, Michael.” You tell him, your voice confusing him.

“And this is a bad thing?” Michael laughs, but clearly there was more upsetting you. Sometimes Michael was oblivious to reading a room, better yet reading emotions–but it was something he promised himself he’d work on.

“It’s not that I care about, the sleaze called me a skank–said I meant nothin’ to him anyway. It’s my fault, really–I should’ve ended that a long time ago.” The tone in your voice signaled that you were in the slightest bit heartbroken–not because of the breakup, but by the hateful comments being made about you.

Michael knew that all too well–the hate, the rude remarks. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to embrace you, and he left a soft kiss on your temple.

“You’re a beautiful, bright, young woman. He’s not a man, anyway. He didn’t know how to take care of you. Not like I can.” Michael snuck in that last part, hoping to God you’d catch it.

“Not like you can, hm? Elaborate, Michael.”

He got all shy, hiding his face in his hands, and he turned the slightest bit red. “Yeah, not like I can. I know you haven’t forgotten about it.”

“‘Cus I can’t stop thinking about it.”

“It” was what went down a couple nights ago, and he was right, it was like a ticking time bomb in your mind, ready to go off if you didn’t have him again. You stared up at him, never breaking eye contact between you two. His lips parted slightly, and your gaze slowly aroused him. He loved looking into your eyes, he thought they were just as beautiful as your mind, body, and soul. So when you cupped his jaw and reeled him back in for a kiss–he was going.

He melted into it, the sort of whininess that you heard with each moan in your mouth was leaving your lace thong soaked. You were glad this was all happening again, because of how passionate you knew this was bound to be. Michael learned your body so quickly, just from a few nights ago–and despite what they say about him in the paper, calling him a virgin and inexperienced–he knew exactly how to please a woman.

“I’m glad I–mm… get you all to myself now.” Michael admits between kisses, grabbing at your hips to straddle him. He places you on his lap with ease, his grip on your ass becoming more firm and intense.

He pulls away from you for just a second, and gets really close to your ear.

“I need you, y’know that?”

That was enough for you. You swiftly brought his lips to yours again, your hands pulling lightly at his curls. His hands were exploring your body once more, feeling the plush of your ass through the material of your Nike sweatpants you received as a gift from your sister last Christmas.

“I want…mm–I want it all off, angel.” He muttered, “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded profusely, having absolutely no hesitation when he asked you to do something. But that wasn’t enough for Michael. He wanted to hear that sweet voice of yours, he wanted to hear you submit to him. He wanted that permission from you, he needed that verbal approval to do whatever he wanted to you.

“Don’t just nod at me, honey. Tell me what you want from me.” He whispered, toying with the hem of your sweatpants. “I won’t touch y’ til’ you give me permission, angel.”

He was messing with you, his cold fingertips already taking a dip into your sweats. He wouldn’t touch you all the way until you spoke.

“Fuck, Michael. Fuckin’ touch me, baby.”

And that was his green light.

He pushed his fingers past your panties, and rubbed circles along the delicacy of your clit. You pulled his hair just a little bit harder, making sure not to actually hurt him. “Shit–mhm, rub it like that, Mikey.” You moaned out the nickname, and it only encouraged him to rub faster.

You kissed him with so much passion, and you felt so grounded. He wanted to please you.

You pulled back out of your kiss, the wet sound echoing through the hotel room. You stared at him, his eyes already drinking you up.

“Lay back,” you breathed out, pushing him onto the bed, his sheets already coming undone. He obliged, ready to risk it all for the woman atop of him.

You grinded against his bulge, feeling how girthy it was even under his pajama pants. The last time you two were in this predicament, it all seemed to happen kind of fast. Now you could really study his body, learn all about what he liked, just as he did with you.

“Yeah, mama. You feel it, don’t you?” He teased. “It’s aching for you, baby—ah—it needs you.”

You were at a loss for words. You needed more. You needed him inside your body, stretching you out.

You placed your hand on his bulge, lightly stroking him through his pants. His face scrunched up, and you found it to be the cutest thing.

“Angel…mm, don’t—nngh, tease me like that. Mmph—fuck. C’mon, take it out and do it right, baby. Please?” Michael begged. Something about how he could come undone with your touch drove you crazy.

You stood before him, sliding his pajama pants off of his body slowly. His v-line was something serious, and very overlooked. His body was absolutely gorgeous from head-to-toe, and his happy trail made you excited. And to your surprise, Michael wasn’t wearing any boxers.

You slid the remains of his pajama pants down, his dick popping back up once they fell. His dick was huge. Like, really big. It was beautiful, too. His shaft was long and girthy—and kind of intimidating. It was nothing you couldn’t handle though, because you wanted to handle Michael, so damn bad.

You took your hand, your slim and feminine fingers toying with his cock, stroking all of his length and watching him squirm at your touch. You kissed his lips while you continued your handjob, and he stuck his tongue right down your throat.

“You keep…nngh—touchin’ on me like this—mm—I might cum, baby.” He warned you.

Michael wanted to cum so bad. He wanted all of his sperm to leak all over that delicate hand of yours.

“No cummin’ yet, handsome. Need you inside to do that.” You teased, bringing your stroking to a sudden halt.

“Angel… baby, why’d you stop?” He whined, trying to hold your hands to convince you to start back up.

“I need you inside, Mikey. Please…?” You begged, sitting on your knees, giving Michael competition when it came to your puppy dog eyes.

He was convinced, and instructed you to get on all fours. He snatched your sweatpants off from this angle, your thong submerged completely with the fat of your ass, the entire fabric soaking wet.

Your tank top was slowly falling off, and to your luck, you weren’t wearing a bra. Your tits pooled onto the mattress, and you arched your back for the man behind you.

He slowly hooked his lengthy fingers through the sides of your panties, pulling them down only to see the string of cum that decorated them. Before you knew it, he held them up to his nose and sniffed them with pride.

He was enjoying this.

“Got you this wet, huh, baby? You been thinkin’ about me?” Michael egged on. He loved validation, especially when it came from you. He didn’t even want to admit that when you said you were proud of him after the ceremony, he was hard for twenty minutes.

But now he had you right where he wanted you—ass up and ready for all of him.

You shook your ass in front of him to tease, and he slapped it one good time. You yelled out in pleasure, his hand print slowly fading on your skin.

Michael puts the bottom of his shirt into his mouth, because he wants to watch. He wanted to watch his cock stretch you wide—and he wanted to watch all of him leak out of all you.

He lines his dick up with your entrance, letting you feel his tip tease your pussy. The head of his dick was already huge, and you had to mentally prepare yourself for the rest of it. He slides in, going inch by inch, watching how your body reacts just to make sure he’s not hurting you.

“Mikey…oh, fuck, baby…” You moaned out, gripping his arm from behind you.

“Just wait til’ it’s all inside, mama. Want you screamin’.” He muttered, sliding the rest of his length inside your pussy. “Shit, pretty mama…” He stroked, feeling your walls slowly open up for him. God, you were so wet—it was driving him insane. It was like your pussy was talking to him, it was doing nothing but squelching beneath him.

His teeth grips his shirt tighter, and he grabs your hips. At first, his strokes are steady—slower. But once he gets a feel for your insides, he can’t help but speed up. He was obsessed with the smacking sound your ass made once it hit his hips, this was his motivation.

“Awwgnh, shit! Mikey—mmm, fuck! Givin’ it to me good, baby. Right there…” You cried out, both of your hands gripping at the hotel bed sheets. In your head you looked disheveled, but Michael thought you were the most gorgeous thing under him right now.

“Right there, huh, angel? M’ fuckin’ you good…mmm.. I know, baby. I know.” Michael grunted, his eyebrows furrowed. He was concentrating—the only thing on his mind right now was making you cum on his cock, marking that you were now his.

“You still want me t’ cum inside, sweet face?” Michael asks, leaning on your back to whisper in your ear. “It’s wherever you want it, angel.”

“Y-yes…nngh—inside, Mikey.”

He sped his strokes up, your ass clapping against him more aggressively now.

“Rub your clit f’ me, beautiful. Need you t’ let it out.” He demanded, his grip on your hips leaving tiny moons from his short fingernails digging into the flesh of your ass.

You rubbed circles on your throbbing clit, aching for your release.

“Wish I could get you—nghh… pregnant. Just to… mm, make em’ mad.” He chuckled, a moan escaping at the same time.

“Cum inside and see what…fuck—happens.” You teased, as you began to fuck yourself on his shaft. He let go of your hips and let you do your thing, his legs starting to shake at the incoming feeling.

Michael was about to cum under your touch, and so were you.

“About to cum, aren’t you, handsome?” You giggled. Your voice was shaking while trying to tease him, and both of your moans started to get more and more aggressive.

You grabbed his arm, and looked back at him, his eyes locked on your glistening pussy.

“Cum with me, Mikey. Mmm… Show me how a real man does it.”

He grabbed your hips, and slammed you against his dick. You cried out, burying your nails into his arm—your grip so tight he was damn near bleeding.

“Gonna give you my kids, sweetheart. Fuck—finna plant this real man seed inside you, honey.”

With a couple more strokes, the both of you came. It felt like bliss—a high that took forever to come down from. You became obsessed.

He collapsed on top of you, and all you felt was his cum spewing inside of you, filling you up. You felt complete—felt whole again.

A couple minutes went by, and the two of you were laying in his bed, limbs tangled together. He caressed your body, and rubbed your back, and planted butterfly kisses on your face.

“What would happen if I did get you pregnant?” Michael asks, half-jokingly.

“I guess we’d have to find out.” You shrug, nestling your face into his chest. He started talking your ear off about his tour, and when he noticed how sleepy you were, he sang sweet songs to you.

He was a man. A real man—who gave you more in one night than you ever had in your entire life.