Michael was absolutely buzzing with excitement today. This evening, he’d be sleeping over at his girlfriend’s house for the very first time. The best part? The two of you would be completely alone.

He honestly didn’t know why he was so excited about the alone aspect of it all, though. It’s not like he was brave enough to do anything more than hold your hand.

The two of you had fooled around before, you mostly taking charge, but his brain got so fuzzy around you. Any sense of self or right and wrong would go out the window as soon as he smelled your honey glaze scented lipgloss.

He’d spent the day driving around and shopping with his brother Jermaine, making sure to pick up things you’d mentioned liking the last time the two of you browsed through retail catalogues. The fuzzy white comforter you imagined sprawled at the end of your bed, the cute pajama set he couldn’t wait to see you in, and the stunning golden charm bracelet from your favorite jewelry store, were all carefully strewn across Jermaine’s backseat, a cute enveloped note written to accompany them sitting on top of the pile.

“Mike, this girl’s got you whipped! You droppin’ 3 thousand on a lil’ bracelet?” Jermaine asked with an incredulous laugh after the two settled into his car, driving along the Santa Monica Pier.

“Maine, she’s not just some girl. She’s the love of my life,” he said with a wistful sigh. “Besides, 3 thousand is nothin’. I’d hang the moon and stars for her,” Michael responded earnestly. He’d do a lot for you for no reward at all; just the thought that it was something that convenienced you even a fraction was enough.

“See, this exactly what I mean. Doin’ all that for her and you haven’t even laid down with the girl yet.” The older brother laughed at Michael’s ‘yes man’ attitude toward you, finding the idea of his superstar brother being a total worm for you hilarious.

“We’ve done plenty!” he defended, not enjoying the idea of his older brother seeing him as less experienced for what he’d allowed himself to explore regarding his sex life.

“Like what?” Jermaine questioned, raising a disbelieving eyebrow.

“It doesn’t matter! And I don’t see relationships as transactional anyway. The fact that she even likes me is enough.”

A beat of silence settled over the car as Jermaine drove away from the boardwalk, pulling up the car’s hood as they approached a crowd of teenaged girls dancing to one of their older songs, not wanting to be recognized.

When they finally hit the freeway, Michael spoke.

“What do you do?”

“Whatchu mean?” Jermaine pressed.

“Like, how do you…start? Making love, I mean.” Michael cleared his throat.

“We’ve done stuff before, I wasn’t lyin’ about that. But we haven’t gone all the way. She makes me too nervous, ‘n I’m scared of…I don’t want it to end so fast,” he rambled on, realizing Jermaine wasn’t going to interrupt him and was actually giving this some thought.

“You gotta just let it happen, man. I mean, I usually lay the girl down ‘n start kissin’ up on her, but I don’t see you bein’ the type to…” he trailed off in thought. “Just build up tension. Start givin’ her the eyes, ya know? She’ll get the hint.”

“The eyes? Maine, I can barely get close to her in the moment without goin’ dumb.” Michael wiped his hand across his face, trying to cool himself down before he started blushing.

“Here, how’s this?” Jermaine exited the freeway and began demonstrating what he meant at the red light.

“Take your hand, place it on her shoulder like this, look her up ‘n down from her lips to her eyes, and give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.” He accelerated on the gas pedal as the light turned green.

“O-okay. Yeah that seems easy enough,” Michael responded shyly.

“Don’t bring this up to anyone else, Maine. I’ll kill you,” he added, realizing how vulnerable he’d gotten. He’d never hear the end of it from Marlon if this got out.

At exactly half past 5, Michael was ringing at your doorbell, your gifts and his belongings in tow. He told Bill he was spending two nights at your place, reminding him not to be seen by your neighbors during his patrols, and basically flew to your doorstep.

You opened it almost immediately, seeming just about as excited as he was, and plastered your lips onto his in an intimate kiss- too intimate for your front door.

“Hi, my pretty boy. Let’s get you inside, yeah?” you greeted him, noticing the way he flustered up at the nickname.

“Yeah…” he said with a ditzy grin across his face.

“O-oh! I got you these gifts!” he announced with pride. He was carrying them and all of his belongings for the sleepover in one hand, determined to not let you help him carry anything.

You pushed the door wide for him to come in, knowing better than to offer to help him. He seemed to be moving without thinking, just taking steps by pure instinct. As he neared the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms, you could see the defeat dawn across his face.

“C’mon, baby. Lemme at least just carry one bag. I’m a big girl.” You took his duffel bag, presumably with his belongings, and led the way, not giving him a second to stop you.

He sighed dramatically and trailed up the steps behind you, his fingers that were straining under the heavier duffel bag feeling relief from the absence of its weight.

As you pushed into your bedroom, the scent of fresh linen and cinnamon wafted into his nostrils, a sudden comfort settling into his bones at the now familiar scent. You shrugged your robe off your shoulders, and Michael realized you were already in your pajamas. He took his duffel bag from your hands, sat down his belongings, and handed you your first gift.

“I’m realizin’ it’s probably too late for this now, but here! I have a feeling you’ll love ‘em.” He was practically vibrating in anticipation.

“I can’t believe you brought me gifts, Mikey. You’re so thoughtful.” You gave him a quick peck and opened the gift box. Inside sat the pj set you fawned over with Michael 2 weeks ago at your kitchen table. It was a red and white gingham two piece set with strawberry pockets on the butt of the mini shorts. The top was a lace-trimmed camisole that stopped just above your hipbone and was see through around the flowy skirt of it. And it was perfect.

“Oh, Michael! I’m putting this on immediately, are you kidding? This is perfect! Thank you so much.” You grabbed him with both hands by the face and littered his burning cheeks in kisses.

“It was nothin’. Here, open the others!” He was eating up your reactions. You jumped up and down at the blanket and tried to pick him up and spin him once you saw the bracelet.

“Hey, let go!” he’d declared in protest with a surprised chuckle at your strength.

“Put it on me, baby,” you told him, breathless, as you let go of his torso.

With a shy smile, he followed your demand mindlessly.

“Do you like it?” he asked, knowing you did. He just wanted to hear you say it.

“I adore it. The first charm I’m gonna buy will be a little ‘M’ just for you. Wouldn’t that be so cute?” you asked him, twisting your wrist around in the warm lighting of your bedroom.

“You’d do that?” he asked you, genuinely surprised by the act of possession.

“Of course! I’d tattoo your name across my chest,” you responded with a quick kiss to his lips as you made your way to your restroom with your new pajama set in hand.

The idea of you tattooing his name on you filled him with a sickening amount of pride.

You stepped back into the room almost as quickly as you left it, and you looked unreal. The cups in the top held your breasts up in just the right way, and the sheer, flowy bottom of it put your torso on full display for him. The shorts were no better. You gave him a twirl, and when his eyes met your backside, he nearly fell at your feet. Your strawberry-adorned ass was sitting prettily in the fabric, the bottom of your soft cheeks on full display for his greedy eyes. You turned back around and sauntered over to him.

“You look perfect,” he complimented you with a dumb smile.

“Hmm, do I?” you teased him as you unzipped his jacket for him.

“Yes, perfect…” he said, losing his train of thought as his eyes fell to the barely-there neckline of your top. He absentmindedly let you pull the jacket off, completely distracted by the view in front of him.

“Get comfortable, baby. I’m gonna go get us popcorn and oj. Then I’ll pick a movie. How’s that sound?” you asked him, knowing he was barely even paying attention.

“Hmm? Yeah, sounds great…” he responded, not able to find more words.

“Michael. Shower. Now.” You turned on your heel and walked with an extra bounce in your step, purposely doing so to make your ass move a bit more as you stepped. He drank it all up and unpacked his stuff in a daze.

He realized he forgot to bring his own body soap, and reveled in the idea of using yours. He couldn’t wait to smell like his girl. It was all he thought about during the 15-minute shower as he lathered up, scrubbed his body, and rinsed off. He brought his own lotion and toothpaste, disgruntled by the idea that he had no excuse to use yours. After he finished moisturizing, he left the room with a small smile, and placed his clothes into your hamper.

He saw you sitting comfortably on the soft carpet at the foot of your bed, your robe on your shoulders and a deck of cards sat in front of you alongside your snacks. You’d brought 2 big slices of homemade pizza, a bottle of tobasco, wet wipes for your hands, and two water bottles, alongside the share-size bowl of popcorn and two glasses of orange juice you’d mentioned. Bambi was in your VCR displaying the main menu, waiting to be played.

He approached you quietly while holding his breath, his mind going crazy at the sight of your legs crossed in front of you. They were making him nervous. He loved your legs.

You looked up at him and a cocky smile spread across your lips.

“You found a matchin’ shirt, huh?” you pressed your index finger to his torso as he sank down next to you, finding the idea of him searching for something to go with your sleep set cute.

“Oh…Yeah, is the matchin’ too much? I just wanted to…” he trailed off, unable to find any excuse that didn’t expose his intentions.

“I love it, baby. We look cute together.” You wrapped your arms around his neck and gave him a kiss on his jaw. A shiver ran down his spine.

“Eat. I just got this out of the oven, so it should still be hot.” You picked up his plate of pizza and handed it to him, watching with a devious glint in your eye as he obeyed your command. He said a quick prayer, blew the slice, and took a hearty bite while looking deep into your eyes.

“Thank you so much. It’s really good,” he said earnestly, covering his food-filled mouth as he spoke.

“Thank you. Now eat up. I’m gonna start the movie and we can play cards while we watch, when we’re done with the pizza.”

You did just as you said and so did he, eagerly at that. You’d think he didn’t have a brain for his own with the way he just did whatever you told him to. He was wrapped tightly around your pinky finger, just how you liked him.

After you beat him for the fourth time at Go Fish, the movie long having ended, you had him help you bring down your empty dishes and soiled wet wipes downstairs to clean and get rid of.

“I have a game I wanna play,” you stated casually as you handed him the soapy pizza pan you just washed. He rinsed and dried it immediately.

“What is it?” he asked with a little too much enthusiasm. He would do anything if it meant being in your presence.

“It’s…not really an official game. Just somethin’ I sorta made up. You’re gonna like it though.” You said the last sentence as an order, not an assumption. His stomach turned with excitement at the sternness in your voice. “Finish rinsing and drying these and I’ll go brush my teeth ‘n set it up for us. You also brush your teeth when you’re done.”

You left him to the task and hurried up the stairs. You were much more excited than you were letting on tonight. You’d went on a little shopping trip yourself, earlier, spending spent the day at different makeup and department stores meticulously picking out an assortment of flavored lipglosses and chapsticks. You wanted to try them all on and have Michael guess what each flavor was after kissing you. The thought came to you after a particularly vivid dream of him begging you to wear your honey glaze scented gloss while you fucked. You decided you wanted him to be like that after any scent he ever smelled from there on out.

After brushing your teeth, you took off your robe and then laid all of the lip products evenly on your fluffy carpet, and placed your black eye mask beside them, waiting patiently for your boyfriend to leap up the stairs.

As he made it inside your room from your bathroom, having entered it from the hallway, he took in your position and the random scene in front of you, lifting an eyebrow.

“What kinda game is this?” he asked, sounding almost frightened.

“It’s a chapstick challenge. I put on a layer of one of the glosses or lip balms, and you guess the flavors by french kissing me,” you responded with a dazzling smile.

“K-kiss…Okay.” He was already losing it by the mere idea of the game. “And I wear the blindfold?” he inquired.

“Yep. No peeking, understand?” you said, faux seriousness laced into your voice.

“Yes, ma’am,” he responded, only half jokingly with the honorific, with his left hand to his temple in a fake salute.

You placed the blindfold over his thick afro, leaving it up just above the eyes, before giving him a kiss. You pulled away and bit your lip at the dazed look on Michael’s face.

You got up- slightly bouncing your ass again- to turn on the record player sitting on your bedside dresser, and adjusted the volume to a comfortable background hum, setting the ambience.

You plopped back down in front of him, and he looked at you hungrily, licking his lips and trying to ignore the lust growing in his abdomen.

“Can I know the flavors, please? Or am I going into this blind?” he inquired.

“We’ll do 7. They’re pretty easy to guess, so I’m making you go in blind. You’re fine with that though, aren’t you baby? You’ll be the best guesser ‘cuz you’re just so smart, right?” you cooed at him, knowing the way you spoke to him would get him to move a mountain for you if you told him to.

“Y-yeah I’m…It’ll be easy.” Bingo.

You pulled the mask over his eyes and opened the first chapstick, the pop of the lid unsealing catching his surprise since his non visual senses were heightened. Cherry. Easy. You applied a generous layer and rubbed your lips together as you inched toward his face.

You pressed your lips to his harshly and he got to work immediately. His tongue explored your lips much longer than it should’ve. This was one of the easiest flavors to guess, by far. He was being greedy. You pulled away with a pop, smirking at his neediness.

“Ch-cherry?” he asked, like it wasn’t obvious.

“You sure you don’t wanna search some more? That was one of the easiest. You could’ve been more sly about it,” you said teasingly.

“‘M s-sorry. I just love your lips…” he trailed off, embarrassed.

“I’m just teasin’. Of course it was cherry. One point to you! Good job, Mikey.” His lip twitched at the praise.

Peach was next. It wasn’t too hard, but the scent threw off the flavor; it smelled like mango. That was the exact reason you chose it. The ambiguity left room for more.

You repeated your earlier ministrations of application, and kissed him again, this time scooting a little closer to his body. You even cupped his jaw with your hand, eliciting such a soft whine, you were almost convinced you misheard it.

The kiss was longer this time, but purposely. You even took the opportunity to pull at his hair the tiniest bit, smiling against his lips as he made a surprised sound at the back of his throat. He pulled away this time, out of breath.

“That one stumped me. It smells way different than it tastes. I’m gonna guess somethin’ fruity…Peach?” he guessed.

“You got it!” you responded, genuinely surprised. “That one was one of the hardest ones. Didn’t it smell like mango?”

“Yes, that’s what that smell was! It confused me bad.” He chuckled softly, as he reached his hand out toward you, searching for your waist. You reached out to his hand and guided it to where he wanted it, biting your lip at the contact.

This flavor was watermelon. You applied the sticky balm to your lips and smacked them loudly, warning him of your impact this time. He met your lips with ease and immediately got to sucking and licking. His free hand cupped the back of your neck and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue past your lips and into your mouth. He moaned when your wet muscle met his, then pulled back, chest heaving.

“Just been waitin’ to do that. I know it was watermelon,” he announced proudly.

“Someone’s gettin’ a lil antsy, huh?” you responded, trying to conceal your bated breath. His lips faltered at the teasing, trying and failing to find an excuse.

“It’s okay, baby. I like when you get desperate.” He bit his lip and covered his face with his hands.

You reached for the next lip balm, this one being cinnamon flavored. He loved cinnamon, which was the reason you bought it. You lathered it on and pulled his hands away from his cheeks, meeting his lips once more. You decided to turn it up a notch by placing his hands right under your breasts and sliding a hand onto his chest, feeling his heart hammering pathetically under your touch, and throwing one of your legs over his. He gasped slightly and pulled you closer, his fingers holding you with a firm grip.

You led the kiss this time, almost forgetting you were playing a ‘game.’ You bit his lip and sucked his tongue just enough to make him squirm, and pulled away.

“What flavor?” you asked him smugly, staring at the slight sheen of lipgloss scattered about his chin and mouth. He didn’t respond, mouth still slightly hanging open with a dazed grin.

“What’s the matter? Cat gotcha tongue?” you continued teasing.

“No, I…You make me forget things,” he admitted sheepishly.

Scratching his neck while keeping one of his hands on your body, he continued.

“Well, I definitely know that was cinnamon. That’s my guess.”

“I knew you’d get that one. I thought of you specifically when I bought it,” you admitted. You poked his nose and absentmindedly applied the next gloss. It was one you already owned and the two of you absolutely adored. Honey glaze.

You smacked your lips one more, letting yourself taste the flavor as you did so, and settled yourself fully on top of his lap now. You felt how hard he was and ground against him languidly once. He whimpered at the contact immediately.

“Aww, my baby’s getting this turned on just from kissing? What am I gonna do with you?” you cooed at him, your breath fanning over his lips. His dick jumped immediately.

“Oh. You’re wearing my favorite…honey glaze.” His knowledge surprised you.

“You peeked, didn’t you?” you questioned him suspiciously.

“N-no! I just…I love the smell of this one. I can recognize it anywhere. Please kiss me,” he whined.

You leaned in at the kiss turned sloppy immediately.

He gripped your waist hungrily with both of his hands, and rocked up into your crotch desperately. You moaned against his tongue as he licked your mouth inside and out, drool sliding down your cheek.

The both of you got incredibly lost in the moment, allowing your need for each other to bubble up sporadically. You ground harshly against his erection and sucked his neck, leaving a bruise in its wake. He moaned once really loudly, and his hips jerked against yours. Then, his hands flew from your waist and ripped the blindfold off of his face.

“‘M sorry. I need to use the restroom,” he quickly mumbled out. He gently slid from underneath you, then made a beeline for your bathroom door.

“Mich-” you called after him breathlessly as the door shut.

“Damnit,” he mumbled as he pulled down his pants. His cum sat proudly against the fabric of his boxers, much to his annoyance. He grabbed a wet wipe and cleaned his crotch wildly, the cold wetness making him shiver. He couldn’t believe he let himself go like that. Sliding his underwear off, he internally cursed himself for being so embarrassing. He washed his hands and entered the room again, his head hanging low and his underwear balled into his fist. He put it inside your hamper and then sat on the edge of your bed without a word, avoiding your gaze.

You knew exactly what happened, and it made you cocky.

“Mikey, baby. I know you came your pants,” you announced crudely. You sat down next to him with a wicked smile tugging at your lips.

“It’s embarrassing. We didn’t even do anything…” He sniffed in shame.

“Baby, it’s flattering. I’m glad to know that you get that horny for me,” you replied. You gripped his jaw, forcing him to look you in the eye.

“It’s not…Well, yes. I do get…aroused by you. But it’s your lipgloss. The smell…It makes my brain numb,” he admitted.

You removed your hand and bent over right in front of him to pick up the honey glaze scented gloss from the carpet, purposely nudging your butt against his knee as you reached down. You turned back around and waved it in his face tauntingly.

“This lipgloss? My favorite one?” You opened it and applied another layer. Setting it down on the bed, you placed your hands on either side of his legs and inched toward his face.

“The smell turns you on?” you ask, letting the scent waft around his personal space. He whimpered loudly.

“Yes,” he spat out, shoving down a heavy gulp. He could already feel himself getting hard again, and his eyes trailed down your torso, straight to the curve of your breasts, which were more visible due to you being bent over.

“You checkin’ me out?” you asked him mockingly.

His eyes snapped to your face as if he got caught doing something wrong. You sat back down next to him and stared at his bottom lip, which was being cradled between his teeth.

The way you were looking at him, like you were a predator hunting its prey, made Michael’s heart hammer so loudly against his chest that he swore you could hear it.

Then, a voice echoed in his head.

Start givin’ her the eyes…Take your hand, place it on her shoulder…look her up ‘n down…

He followed each direction as it played in his mind, his sudden confidence faltering your own in its track. Then, he gave you the sexiest smirk you’d ever seen.

…Give her a lil’ smirk. She’ll know.

“Do you wanna fuck me?” you asked him straightforwardly. He flinched a bit at how direct your words were.

“Yes,” he sighed. “B-but only if you wanna! I don’t…It has to be your choice.” What he really wanted to say was that he wanted you to use his body like he only existed for your pleasure.

“Then fuck me, Michael. Rip my clothes off and plow me into my sheets.” You slid your thumb across his bottom lip and tugged it down. He stared at you like a deer in headlights.

“You gonna touch me, or what?” you asked, cocking your head to the side in fake confusion. You knew your words were scrambling his brain, and you loved it.

“Y- sorry. Um.” He fumbled with his hands, not knowing where to touch you or place them. He felt like an idiot. You’ve engaged in sexual acts before, but he felt out of his league now, the looming state of his virginity making everything much more serious.

“Go get a condom from my dresser. Top drawer,” you ordered him. He obeyed and picked a small foil wrapper from the unopened Trojan box. He secretly thanked God at the sight, realizing you hadn’t recently been using them with anyone else, although he already knew that.

He held the foreign object in his hand and stood between your parted legs.

“C’mere,” you said before pulling him down by his neck and making out with him like you hadn’t been allowed to for a century.

He cautiously explored your body with his large hands, continuing certain gropes and squeezes when you gave him louder whines.

His body was now hovering yours, propped up by his forearms, and you could feel his heavy dick slap against your crotch through his pants as he went to kiss tenderly on your neck.

“I’m not wearing any underwear either. Wanna feel how wet I am for you?” you asked him lewdly.

“Please,” he begged, letting you take his hand and place it square on top of your clothed pussy.

He could feel you pounding beneath his palm, and he felt that familiar slimy substance connecting his hand to your core. He rubbed two of his fingers into you a bit, collecting some of your arousal. Detaching his mouth from your neck, he looked down at you with a dazed expression. With his free hand, he gently gripped your face, making you look at him.

Without a word, he removed his hand from your sex and sniffed his fingers greedily. He bucked his hips into yours, and shoved those fingers into his mouth with a loud groan.

You were in awe.

“I had no idea you were this filthy. Thought you were a good boy, but I guess you’re way dirtier than I thought,” you told him with surprise etched into every word. Your statement only made him needier. He shoved his fingers farther into his mouth and pulled them out, searching for your cunt again.

“Please, let me take these off. Wanna feel you,” he begged, a mixture of drool and your arousal collecting at the corner of his parted lips.

“Go ahead baby. Show me how much you want me.”

With a whimper, he crawled down your body and landed on his knees with effortless agility. He hooked his fingers into the top of your pajama shorts and froze.

“I-i’m a virgin,” he stated, voice barely above a whisper.

“Michael, I know. We’ve talked about this plenty of times,” you responded patiently. You knew he was nervous, but you also knew he wanted this.

“I know, it’s just that…I’m not gonna know how to do everything. I don’t wanna embarrass myself,” he replied meekly.

“Baby…I know you think I’m some sex god, but I’m still a virgin too.” You sat up and looked down at him, forcing him to meet your intense gaze. He looked stunned.

“It’s okay if you’re not. You don’t needa lie to me to make me feel bet-” You interrupted him by clamping your hand over his mouth.

“Michael, I’m not lying. When I told you before we ever did anything sexual that I had experience, that wasn’t a lie either. I’ve just never trusted anyone to go all the way. But I trust you and I want this with you. Don’t you wanna give it to me?” you asked him with a faux-sad pout.

“Of course! I wanna be your first…I want you to be mine. And my last. I wanna give my soul to you,” he rambled, inching your shorts down your thighs as he leaned in closer.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me..” he spoke quietly, mostly to himself, drifting off once he unclothed your lower body. He threw the damp shorts onto the floor and looked up at you with so much gratitude that it made your heart swell.

“Taste me,” you said, as you watched him lick his lips like he was starving.

He placed your thighs atop his shoulder and delved in, immediately grinding against nothing at the scent of your pussy.

“Mmm, th-that’s right. Just how I taught you before,” you spoke to him. He was circling your clit with his tongue with expert precision; just enough to feel like you were floating, but not enough to feel like you were grinding against a rock. Then he did something else you taught him, but with his own twist. He scratched up and down your thighs, the familiar sensation making you feel like music. But then, he slid his tongue down to your entrance and stuck it in, your arousal pooling around it in the act.

“F-fuck. Where’d you learn how to do that? Been seein’ someone else?” you inquired, only half joking. He pulled out and looked up at you with an earnest fire in his eyes.

“Never.” Then, he continued his actions, fucking his tongue into you as far as both of your anatomies would allow.

You pushed his head into you, grinding down with need. His afro acted as a protection against your brutal shove. He slid his tongue back out and worked your clit again, feeling confidence settle into his demeanor. So much confidence, he took two fingers, collected your arousal into them, and slid them into you. You cursed loudly.

“O-oh my god…F-Yeah! Curl them like that,” you mewled, your brain not knowing how to compute your pleasure into words. You’d only felt your own fingers inside there, once or twice, and you didn’t enjoy it. Your fingers couldn’t reach as far as his currently were, though.

You fell back against the bed as you felt your orgasm sprinting toward you faster than you anticipated, gripping onto your sheets and locking your ankles around Michael’s neck in an attempt to hold on.

“M-mikey, ah. Stop. Stop, stop, stop,” you breathed out to him, feeling the knot in your stomach almost unravel. He immediately withdrew his mouth and fingers, you arousal leaving a string of connection to his chin as he did so.

“Did it start to hurt? Sorry, I just thought you were gonna have an or-”

“I was gonna have an orgasm. I just don’t want to yet. I wanna suck that pretty dick of yours first. You’re gonna let me, right?” you asked him, not really leaving space to take no for an answer.

Michael never let you suck him off, to your own disappointment. He’s eaten you out so many times that you’d run out of positions for it, he’s let you grind against his dick with clothes, he’s even let you jerk him off, but he’s never let you get on your knees and put your mouth on it. His exact words were that it was ‘degrading and useless.’ He didn’t wanna hurt you. But you wanted to see him let go. You wanted the proof of your lewd acts with him physically etched into bruises to the back of your throat.

“Baby, I can’t let you do th-” You clamped your hand against his mouth once more.

“You’re gonna let me suck you off. Right?” you asked, slowly moving your hand away from his mouth.

“Ok-kay,” he responded with resignation in his voice.

He stood up and you slid his bottoms off, licking your lips at the sight of him. He was holding out on you because god was it pretty. And big. You thought he was just being a modest gentlemen when he told you he didn’t want to hurt you, but it was more than just that. He was really long, and he knew it.

“So you knew how big your dick was huh? That’s why you never let me do this. Betchu imagine me sucking that pretty thing off all the time.” You reached for it greedily and spit onto his tip, watching it slide down the base slowly.

“Stop- d-don’t talk about it like that..” he said weakly.

“Oh but you like it, though. I could practically feel you getting harder, baby. No need to be shy about it,” you egged him on. Before he could protest any longer, you wrapped your hand around his base and began tugging upward. You reached for your lipgloss with your free hand and applied a thick layer to your swollen lips. You blew a taunting kiss at him. He was visibly holding back his moans, much to your disapproval.

“Nuh-uh, let me hear those pretty moans. Sing for me, Michael,” you directed. He obeyed, and not even on purpose. The way you were touching and talking to him made him forget who he was.

“Feels s- you feel so good. I love you..” he blabbered.

“I love you too, baby.” You leaned forward and gave his shaft an open-mouthed kiss, maintaing eye contact with him. His whole body went rigid in shock as he saw the sticky mark your lip product left in its wake.

“Oh, god,” he groaned, jerking his hips up into your hand. You started twisting it whenever you got closer to his tip.

Without warning, you took it into your mouth, eyes focused on his, and sunk down on it. His eyes rolled back and his hands flew to the back of your head, holding it for composure. You began slowly moving up and down, flattening your tongue and sucking him like he was the best popsicle you’d ever tasted.

“Pl-ease, I don’t wanna cum yet. Plea-, please, please,” he begged on and on, turning please into a chant.

You hummed around his length, ignoring him, and continued to work. Tears stinged at your eyes, and drool dribbled out of your mouth. The sinful sight of you made him do something he swore he wouldn’t do. He rocked into your mouth roughly, just once, but it was enough to make you falter and gag against him. You moaned lustfully and your eyes lolled to the back of their sockets. He removed his hands from your head and scooted back from your mouth with a pop.

“‘M so sorry! I should’ve contained myself better. I know better. Did it hurt? If course it hurt, you’re crying and you gagged. Oh, God I’m so sorry prett-” You gripped onto his dick harshly, cutting him off.

“Michael, I want you to do that. I love it. Fuck my mouth, angel face. I can take it,” you reassured him with a devilish grin.

“N-no, I shouldn’t’ve let you touch me like that. You’re too precious…I can’t hurt you agai-”

“Michael. For the love of God, shut the hell up. I want you to hurt me and bruise me and make me cry. Is that not okay? Am I too dirty for you?” you asked him, feigning hurt. You secretly enjoyed tricking him into getting what you wanted because he somehow always gave it to you, and this time was gonna be no different.

“Not at all! You could never be too dirty for me…You’re perfect. I just don’t wanna degrade you like that. But since it’s what you want, okay. I’ll give you anythin’ you want.” Bingo.

“M’kay, now you gonna fuck my throat like a good boy, right?” you asked him with puppy dog eyes, tears still sitting in your waterline.

“Y-yes,” he responded hesitantly.

“Yes, what?” you asked him, enjoying working him up like this.

“Yes, angel. I-i’m gonna fuck your face…like a good…boy?” he responded, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself than he was you.

You gave him a soft hmm and pulled him back towards you, spitting a glob into your hand once more. You jerked him slowly 4 times and then looked him in his face.

“Don’t worry about me, ‘kay? If I want you to stop, I’ll make you stop. But, I trust you,” you said earnestly. “C’mon, stand up and give it to me, baby.”

Then, you opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out in anticipation. He hesitantly stood up, jerked himself twice, and then pushed into your mouth. Holding the back of your head gently, but firmly, with both of his hands, he set an inexperienced pace with his thrusts. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked harshly whenever he would drag his hips back, causing his legs to shake.

“Th-this is so, AH, wrong. You shouldn’t look this pretty like this. With my…thing in your mouth.”

You scrunched your brows into a pout and moaned loudly, forcing him to unconsciously fuck your mouth harder.

“B-baby you can’t do that, ‘m gonna finish if you do.” You continued moaning and sucking loudly, noticing his breaths shorten as his climax neared.

“God, you’re so pretty d-down there. Ngh- wait-” You forced yourself away from his crotch and crawled to the center of your bed, positioning yourself on all fours. You turned around and coaxed him over to you with a teasing finger.

“Baby, I need you. See how wet I am?” You arched your back and swayed your hips side to side, letting the light catch your arousal. “I need you to make me feel better. It’s aching,” you pouted. His feet were moving before his conscious mind could register your words, and he joined you in bed. He picked up the condom he mindlessly dropped earlier and unwrapped it.

“I-i’ll make you feel better,” her says as he pulled the rubber from its foil packet.

You turned around and took the contraceptive from him.

“Let me put it on you, daddy,” you smirked as you said the nickname.

“Don’t call me th-that,” he pouted.

You placed it on his tip with unnecessary friction and rolled it down his shaft, raising your eyebrows and smirking at the pathetic boy in front of you.

“Mmm, but you like it when I tease you with it,” you told him.

“Okay.” He gulped audibly and leaned down to press a hot kiss to your lips. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Michael. Now fuck me like you need it,” you said as you went back to your position on all fours. You were almost scared that he’d be too big, or that you’d need lube that you didn’t have, but as soon as he pushed his tip in, your pussy sucked him in. It was an unfamiliar feeling, being stretched like this, but your body didn’t register too much pain. You were drenched.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” he called out as your sex squelched around him, forcing him in deeper. You moaned out as he stretched and filled you. As soon as he bottomed out, he laid on top of your back, already feeling overwhelmed.

“M-michael! Oh my god, ‘m so wet. Needed your dick inside me so bad, fuck,” you inched forward and slammed back against his length forcefully, arching your back in the process. He sat up immediately and gripped onto your hips.

“The way you talk…” he trailed off as he started thrusting into you slowly.

“You like m-my dirty mouth, baby? Want me to talk to you through it, pretty boy?” you asked him, feeling his tip hit your g-spot with ease.

“Yes, please,” he whined, speeding up slightly in anticipation.

“F-fuck me harder, baby. Feels so good.” You pushed your head into your mattress, arching your back up higher, allowing yourself to take him deeper. He followed your instructions and snapped his hips into you harshly once, gauging your body’s response to the action. You pushed your ass further into his crotch, and he took that as silent permission.

“Mikeyyy. You’re so bad, taking my virginity in my bedroom like this. Mmm-fuck,” you whined, your vision going blurry with tears of pleasure.

“Y-yes, so bad. ‘M so bad,” he repeated, slamming into you faster. Your bed was creaking with his thrusts. He could already feel himself losing it again.

“Mmm, mmm, Mikey p-push my head into the mattress baby. Be rough.”

He obeyed immediately, leaning over and pressing his palm to the side of your head. He took one look at your face and felt his orgasm creeping up. Your mouth was wide open and there was a huge wet spot where your mouth leaked drool onto your sheets.

“You’re so pretty, baby. You look so good like this,” he complimented.

“With you plowin’ me into m-my own sheets? Thank you, baby boy.”

Your tongue licked at his thumb that was near your lips, and you sucked it into your mouth.

“OH! I’m g-onn…I’m cumming. Shit, I’m cumming!” he cried out as his hips stuttered. He buried himself into you deeply and filled the condom with his seed. He collapsed his torso onto your arched back and you bit his thumb. He clutched it after you spat it out of your mouth.

“I didn’t say to stop, did I? I thought you were a gentleman. Make me cum,” you demanded.

“Yes, baby. ‘M sorr-y…” he apologized in between whines of overstimulation.

You reached your hand down to your clit and started playing with it needily, overeager to cum on him. He pounded into you again, his dick half hard, as you started babbling into your bedsheets.

“Mikey, ‘m s-so close. Keep fuckin’ me like that, baby. You’re doin’ so well for me. You’re fillin’ me up so good.” The sound in the room was so unmistakable. The noise of creaky box springs, skin slapping and sticky arousal drowned out the hum of music leaving your record player.

He leaned down and hovered over your ear, whimpering into it. He sounded like an undiscovered instrument. The sound made your pussy squeeze against his shaft, signaling your orgasm.

“Y-yeah be louder. Love your filthy little whimpers, Michael. Gimme more,” you said with the last of your breath. He pounded harder and fully moaned into your ear, causing you to completely come undone.

You reached behind you and dug your nails into his sides as your legs shook and your pussy spasmed around his spent dick, already hardened again. You screamed his name like a prayer and Michael wished that was the only sound his ears would ever be subjected to again.

As you began going limp, Michael slid his arm underneath you, wrapping around your waist, and pulled out of you. He rolled into his side and pulled you on top of his chest, ignoring how hard he was again.

“I’m so glad it was you,” he said after he caught his breath.

“Hmm?” you asked him, looking up to the side of his face.

“My virginity. I’m glad you took it. It feels like you were exactly who I was waitin’ for whenever I would tell my brothers I was waitin’ on the right girl. No, you’re even better,” he said bashfully.

“Well, I’m glad you took mine too. You were absolutely perfect. I’m so glad we get to share this memory with each other. We fit so well together, don’tcha think? Like two halves of a puzzle,” you mused with a faint smile.

“I’d say so,” he said with a gulp loaded with a double meaning.

“Whatcha mean by that, baby?” you questioned him.

“Just…It’s like your body was swallowin’ me whole. It was incredible.” He bit his lips as he looked you in your eyes. You felt a pulsing at your abdomen, finally noticing how hard he was.

“Ohhh, my baby’s ready for round two? You have stamina…Good ta know,” you teased him with a giggle.

“‘M sorry, you just look ‘n sound so pretty when you’re tellin’ me what to do…”

“It’s okay, baby. Here. Let’s go take a quick shower, yeah? Then we can sixty-nine,” you said as you sat up on your knees. You gave him a wink. He gulped both audibly and visibly.

“Oh, yes please. I’d love that,” he responded with unconcealed enthusiasm. You pulled him behind you and led him toward the restroom, the excitement of round two noticeable in your light steps. You discarded your shirt and pulled Michael’s over his head for him.

“Take off that condom, baby. I’m gonna wash you up.”

He threw the soiled condom into your tiny tin trash can, and trailed after you like a puppy.

You turned on your shower and faced him, your tits on full display to him now. He swallowed loudly and gave a kiss to each of your nipples, surprising you in the act.

“I love you,” he whispered, and then leaned in to give you an intense kiss. His tongue slotted between your lips before you pulled away.

“Uh-uh. Don’t start something you can’t finish in here, needy boy. I’ll make it worth the wait.”

You stepped into the shower, him immediately after you, and the two of you let a comfortable silence settle in the air, washing yourselves and then each other’s backs.

With the two forgotten lip balm flavors lying lazily on the floor, the promise of your newly broadened sexual history etched into the empty house with a faint trace of a sweet scent. The scent of honey glaze.

Tags: @simp4eshal @urbanfunkchild @gothicmj @lil6uapa @yenvixx @cndybliss

It kept you up at night — how can a man so infatuated not want to strip you bare and ravish you till the sun came up. Not want to see you, stark naked, in all your glory, writhing and whining underneath him as he took you.

Michael had his reasons.

Timidity. Inexperience. Insecurity.

But, the largest factor of all — religion.

Michael was a raised as a devoted Jehovah’s Witness — something his Mother had instilled in him from birth. A religion built on morality and modesty. A religion that forbid sexual intercourse before marriage.

Michael wasn’t as devoted as his Mother — ever since his album Off the Wall, he had slowly began parting ways with the religion. Distancing himself as the connotations of his album were subtly frowned upon due to mentions of sensuality and infidelity — however, his personal beliefs about a higher power still remained.

He still, after his parting, believed that sex was something marital and holy — something to be worshipped and protected, performed with someone you truly love and trust.

And he did. He did, wholeheartedly, love and trust you — with every fibre of his being. But, every time your hand would trickle down his body, grazing over the painfully obvious bulge that clad him beneath his slacks — he would stop you. The guilt that washed over him far greater than any aching pleasure he so desired.

As time progressed, and your relationship blossomed — that guilt diminished. Grower smaller and smaller with each tentative touch or pleading look you’d give him. Each one cracking the glass dome of restraint he had locked himself in.

You knew tonight you’d finally shattered it.

Michael was sat comfortably next to you on the sofa at Hayvenhurst, a gentle hand resting on the curve of your clothed knee, television blabbering in the background as you watched him. He looked gorgeous in every aspect, but right now — calm, relaxed, content, it took the cake.

“Watch the movie, lovey.” His voice soft and bashful, a blush creeping onto the round of his cheeks after catching you staring.

“I think my view is better.”

Michael breathed out a huff of timid air — your quick-witted flirting always got to him. “Stop. Y’know I’ll get shy.”

You giggled next to him, shuffling closer to his warm body, “I know y’beautiful, Mike.”

He laughed, turning his flushed face away from you in embarrassment, “Can’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause..” “‘Cause, what, angelface?”

Michael groaned, finally returning his gaze back onto you, a smile he failed to suppress adorning his ethereal face, “‘Cause y’makin’ me think things that I shouldn’t.”

Ting!

The lustful lightbulb sparked so bright in your brain you almost saw stars.

There was your green light.

“Like what, sweetie.” Your voice now hushed, darker, deeper — an undertone of temptation that had Michael reeling inside, “Tell me.”

“B-Baby.” He was cracking — you were certain. The way he twitched as a calculated hand fell into the tense of his lap, stroking languidly along his clothed thigh, the denim scratching along your manicured nails — paired with a small knit in his eyebrows that made him look so deliciously adorable.

“What’s up, honey?” You teased, face now inches from his own bashful one, “Tell me what’s goin’ on in that pretty lil’ mind of yours.”

Michael whined, deep from his throat, as you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Your mouth moved slowly — trailing to his warm cheek, to the sharp of his jawline, and ending on the smooth of his bare neck. The gentleness of your lips against his burning skin had him fluttering his eyes shut — basking in the sensation. His hands moved subconsciously, once against your knee, now hesitantly holding the curve of your waist as you pressed yourself against him.

“Wanna hear it, Michael.”

He whined again, ever so louder this time, a statement of his timidity, “Baby, please.”

Your lips left his skin to move upwards, meeting his gaze once more. He looked wrecked — torn between honouring his devout innocence or letting his dirty mouth reveal his secrets.

You made the decision for him, clambering over him to settle in his lap, legs either side of his twitching hips. His eyes shot open in surprise.

“Honey, I-“ “It’s okay, sweet boy, I know what you’re thinkin’, anyways. Someone else is doin’ all the talkin’ for ya.”

Michael knew exactly what you were on about.

His embarrassingly obvious hard-on pressed into the softness of your clothed cunt — your skirt ridden up your thighs so perfectly that the cotton of your panties now resided directly on top of the boner he was attempting to hide. Despite never seeing his gracious cock with your own eyes, you knew he was big — every ridge now digging into the slick of your covered folds, hugging his length through his pyjamas bottoms.

“Let me make you feel better, handsome.”

Heaven and hell. That was the only thought that plagued Michael’s mind in this moment. Did he remain pledged to his beliefs, or was the way your drooling cunt wrapped around him, despite the barrier of clothing, enough to make him crack?

With one flex of his grip around your waist, and a breathy whine from your lips — the restraint shattered.

His lips met yours in a feverish connection — sloppy and messy. Spit coating your lips and chin as he forced his eager tongue into your mouth — hands now splayed across the small of your back, pushing you closer. His mouth met yours in a frantic motion, quick and rushed, like he was afraid someone, or something, would stop him at any moment. Your hands slipped up his body, resting on the lean of his shoulders, before sliding into the sweetness of his curls.

He truly crumbled when your hips began moving.

A slow, tantalising rock against him — movements so precise and languid he was certain one harsh buck and he’d fill his boxers right then and there. You had played this game with him before — being in this compromising position wasn’t new to you and Michael. You had once, in a state of pleasure, picked up your speed as you rocked against him, but he quickly shut it down. Telling you, bashfully, he was soon to finish and felt wrong about it — paired with a pout and blush.

This time, though, when your hips picked up a swifter pace — he daren’t stop you.

He’d been agonisingly hard and denied an orgasm for months now — every time he’d nearly get there, the devil on his shoulder telling him to carry on and make a mess of his shorts, the angel on the other side would force him to halt your hips to a stop, apologising at the way you’d whine in disappointment.

Michael let you take what you needed — back arched, hands threaded through his curls as you fucked yourself on his clothed cock, the prettiest noises falling from your swollen lips.

“Y’look so beautiful like this.” Michael revealed quietly, hands following the liquid movements of your hips, eyes trailing over your frame, focusing on your erect nipples poking through your tank-top, the curve of your breasts becoming more visible with each bounce.

With every drag he guided along the ridge of his cock that relentlessly nudged against your puffy clit — your whines got louder, only forcing his cock to throb beneath.

Michael, all too familiarly, held you to a stop.

“Michael.” His name fell past your lips in a desperate plea, the pleasure depleting as you stilled against his crotch.

“I know, I know, sweet girl.” He reassured, leaning up to press a gentle peck to your pouting lips, “M’not stoppin’, don’t worry that pretty head. Just wanna try somethin’.”

He lifted you off his lap with strong precision — settling you down to a place you’d not explored with the temptation between your legs.

His thigh.

“There y’go, pretty.” He whispered, smoothing down the back of your hair in kind strokes, “Go’head, baby, take what’cha you need.”

Your head reeled at the sudden change in his disposition — the once shy boy had magically been transformed into a confident man as the remains of his restraint settled around you.

His new attitude sent a pulsation so strong between your thighs you ground down on his — the tense of his muscle rolling against your nub in the most sensual way. Something you’d never quite felt before.

“Oh, God.” You whined — ignoring the way Michael tched at the name used in vain, not once stopping as he dragged you along his leg, lip caught between his teeth as he ogled at you.

“D’ya feel good, pretty?” Despite his switch in confidence, he was still desperate for your praise, his voice cracking slightly as he met your glossy eyes.

“Mmhm—s-s’good, Mikey.” Your voice hit him right where he needed you most — the place between his twitching legs that had been denied touch for so long.

You didn’t miss the way his hips bucked ever so slightly upwards, chasing a grasp he undeniably craved. Your hands soothed that ache — reaching forward, ever so hesitantly, to palm the bulge in his slacks.

Michael gasped, hand flinching at your side, frantic eyes meeting yours once more, “This okay, angel?” You questioned.

Michael’s lip sucked between his teeth once again, glance flickering from your gorgeous smile to your manicured hands hovering over his crotch. An act he would once deny — but not this time.

He hummed, his voice high-pitched and needy, nodding quickly, “Please, mama.”

A curse fell from your swollen rosebud at the sound of his despair — your hand enveloping around his length beneath his bottoms.

“Oh, my Lord.”

He was done for — head falling back against the plush of the sofa, eyes rolled to his skull as the pleasure washed over him. You wasted no time in pleasing the man beneath you, never once stopping rocking your hips against him, as you slowly stroked him.

The scene was erotic — a dirty array of arousal in the way he bucked his hips unapologetically into your hand, cock throbbing under your palm, as you continued to hump the meat of this thigh, your slick staining the blue denim that had trickled from your soaked panties. It was enough for him — no direct physical contact, but just the right amount of pleasure to satisfy you both.

When your thumb swiped over the oozing head of his cock, Michael lost it. Whining so loud like he didn’t care who heard — the sudden boldness depleting faster than it had come around, now replaced by uncontrollable desperation.

“O-Oh, s-shit,” The curse fell from his mouth before he could suppress it, “G-Gonna cum, lovey.” His hips now fucking up into your hand pathetically, chasing a high he’d been yearning for for so long.

In your own state of blinding pleasure, your only response was a melodic whimper, his tensing thigh hitting the ridge of your clit that had your own orgasm building. Michael, with no prior warning, came with a cry, his milky white release soaking the material of his boxers — the neediest whines of lust filling the room. You soon followed — an exclaim of his name hitting his ears, only furthering his pleasure, as you came undone on his thigh, humping him at such a speed you were almost a blur in his glassy vision.

Michael heaved as he came down from a high that had been lingering on his mind since the moment you met him — an orgasm so strong he was twitching uncontrollably. You stilled against his leg, catching your breath simultaneously, peering down at his fucked out state.

“Thank you, pretty.”

“Ah, ah, I’m not done with you yet.”

Michael swore he died and went to heaven as you dropped to your knees beneath him — eyes hungry and dark, agenda unclear to him.

It was only when you lay your tongue flat against the rough of his jeans, the ones you had once fucked yourself on, licking up your essence that clad the denim, that Michael realised how much of a sex-hungry slut you were. The tang of your seeping arousal lingered on your tongue as you lapped up the mess you’d made on him — glancing up at him through your lashes at his knitted eyebrows and agape mouth. His suspicion that you were a cock-slut only deepening as you retracted your tongue back into your mouth, savouring the taste of yourself, and kissed your way up his leg, getting dangerously close to where he was pulsating.

“Mama, I—“ “Shhh, just gonna clean y’up, baby.”

Michael saw stars when you shoved his pyjama bottoms down his thighs and latched your greedy mouth to the wet spot that clad his boxers, a crackled groan ripping from his throat as you hummed around him. Your lips, settling right against the softening tip of his cock, suckled the cum straight from the cotton — his salty release flooding your tastebuds, colliding with the tang of your own essence in a delicious blaze on your tongue. His hand flew down to cradle your cheek as you lapped up the cum that stained him — his cock throbbing once more as your hands gripped his thighs, jeans now even more wet from your eager mouth.

“Baby—fuck, I-I’m gonn—“ With a strangled cry, another irrepressible spurt of cum shot from him once more, hands tightening ever so slightly around your flushed cheek as you greedily sucked up what he blessed you with — lapping up his second orgasm like you were dying of thirst.

Only when you pulled away, satisfied with your salty refreshment, did Michael’s breathing level out — blissed out expression meeting your devilish one.

And he knew — he had never loved you more.

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The air in his Encino bedroom was thick with the scent of orange blossoms from the garden, trapped by the drawn velvet curtains. 

It was past midnight, a rare pocket of stillness in Michael’s cacophonous life. It was almost pitch black in the room, except from one of his old multicolour light up disco toys shining on the opposite side of the bedroom.

The house, a sprawling monument to success, slept around him. Only the faint, persistent squeak of the pool filter from outside breached the silence.

He lay on his back atop the oversized bed, its pale sky blue comforter cool against his skin. 

He wore silk pajamas, a gift from Latoya when he had turned 19.  

His mind, a relentless projector, had been replaying the day’s studio session—the synth beat on “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” the way his own voice had soared on the playback, a sound of pure, unleashed joy that felt separate from the boy laying in bed.

That feeling, that electric surge up his spine when the music finally clicked and finally made sense, it was still there, buzzing under his skin like a trapped bug.

But now, alone, the energy had nowhere to go. It pooled low in his stomach, a warm, restless ache. He shifted, and the friction of the silk against his thigh sent a small, shocking jolt through him. He went very still.

It’s just tiredness, he thought, the words forming in the cadence of his mother’s voice. You need to pray and go to sleep.

He tried. 

He folded his hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling above. 

“Oh Jehovah, thank you for this day. Please help me to be a better person tomorrow and watch over my family. I ask this in Jesus' name, amen.” he whispered, quietly.

But the warmth didn’t subside. It pulsed, softly, insistently, in time with his heartbeat. 

He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, exacerbated.

A memory, unbidden, flashed: a dancer from the last tour with his brothers, a girl with a laugh like wind chimes, the way her sequinned hip had brushed against his as they passed in a crowded hallway. 

The memory was hazy, but the phantom sensation was sharp, a brand on his side.

A small, frustrated sound escaped his lips—a quiet “Mmh!” 

He turned onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. The new position pressed him into the mattress, and the ache intensified, transformed from a whisper to a clear, demanding shout. 

His breath hitched. This was the feeling. The one the elders warned about. The “sin that dwells within.” He was supposed to flee from it.

But his body felt heavy, magnetized to the bed. He gave a tentative, almost imperceptible roll of his hips. The pressure was a lightning strike of sensation, so intense it blurred his vision for a second. A gasp was torn from him, sharp and ragged in the quiet room. “Ah—!”

Guilt thundered in immediately, hot and sour. No. No, this is wrong. He was a good son. A Jehovah’s Witness. He sang about love, pure love. This was… this was base. Animal.

Yet, his hips moved again of their own volition, a slow, searching grind into the yielding satin of his pyjama pants. 

The friction was better this way, more complete. A low, shuddering moan vibrated in his throat, “Nnnggh…” He muffled it in the pillow, his fingers clawing at the fabric. He couldn’t let his brothers down the hall hear him, nor his parents.

The conflict was a physical pain in his chest, a vice tightening around his ribs. Every sinful surge of pleasure was answered by a psalm of condemnation in his head.

For the flesh lusteth against the Spirit…

He rocked harder, his legs tightening. The silk of his pajama bottoms was a maddening barrier. 

The pleasure was building now, like a copper wire, pulling tighter and tighter in his core, a sensation so profound it felt like fear.

Like standing at the edge of the stage before the lights hit, that terrifying, exhilarating void.

…and the Spirit against the flesh…

With a sudden, frantic movement, he shoved a hand down, fumbling with the drawstring. 

His breath came in short, wet pants now, “Hah… hah…” The knot gave way. 

He pushed the fabric down just enough, the cool air a shock against his heated skin. The direct contact with the soft material of the comforter made him cry out, a short, sharp “Ungh!” that was too loud. 

He froze, listening for any sign of movement in the hall; a creak, a footstep. Nothing but the annoying pool filter and one of his light up gadgets in his room occasionally creaking from its twisting mechanism.

The pause broke the dam of his hesitation. The need was too urgent, too all-consuming. He surrendered to the rhythm, his hips developing a frantic, jerking cadence against the bed. He wasn’t thinking of the dancer anymore, or of anything concrete. 

The frantic, muffled humping against the satin comforter wasn't enough. The friction was diffuse, maddeningly indirect, building the pressure but refusing to focus it. A sob of pure frustration caught in his throat, a heavy, choked sound.

His left hand, still tangled in the pillowcase, released its clawing grip. It drifted down, trembling violently, as if moving through water against a powerful current. 

His mind was a shattered mirror: one fragment showed the earnest, wide-eyed boy on the Andy Williams Show, another the gangly, hormonal teenager he’d turned into – touch starved and relentless in his want.

His mind was trying to grapple with the young, innocent he used to be and now the sought after heartthrob he had become. Girls throwing themselves to be used at his feet. 

He loathed the thought of them thinking he’d merely have his way with them. He’d be gentle if he could, sensual, ensuring their beautiful bodies get the attention they so deserved – his hands ghosting over their perky breasts and their gorgeous curves. 

The thought of his hand sliding under a tight waistband, of sly little lace panties, soaked through; wanting him. Needing him.

The thoughts were driving him wild now; crazy with desire.

His fingers brushed his own heated skin. The touch was so electric, so alien and yet intimately familiar, that he convulsed, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. A high, thin whine escaped his pressed lips. 

This is the line, a voice, clear and cold, stated in his head. You cross this, you can't go back. He flipped his body over, now on his back.

His body was a runaway train, every nerve screaming for the destination. His fingers, slick with a nervous sweat, curled. The first tentative stroke, from root to tip, was a revelation so profound it bordered on terror. 

His back arched clear off the bed, a silent scream stretching his mouth wide. He was so concentrated and overstimulated, that his throat was dry – his lips cracked.

The sensation was nothing like the grinding. It was tactile, exquisite, a direct and fused line to the storm gathering in his belly. His hand was soft and warm – just like he’d imagined the inside of a woman he had taken to bed.

He began to move his hand, the motion clumsy at first, all jerking wrist and frantic pressure. It was too much, too intense. 

He slowed, experimenting. A softer, slower glide. A twist at the top. A thumb brushing over the slick, weeping crown. Each variation sent new shockwaves through him.

The sounds he made were no longer attempts at words or even moans. They were raw, phonetic expulsions of feeling, lost in the fortress of his pillow.

His right hand fisted in his own hair, pulling sharply at the roots of his afro, the sting a bright counterpoint to the drowning pleasure below. His hips stuttered, still pushing up into his own grip, a desperate, seeking rhythm. 

The sheet beneath him was soaked, a cool patch against the small of his back when it made contact. 

The world telescoped down to this: the slick, rhythmic sound of his hand, the hammering of his heart against his ribs, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.

He thought of the recording booth, the absolute silence before he opened his mouth to sing. 

That moment of poised potential. This feeling was its dark twin; a silence filled with the roar of his own blood, a potential about to violently, messily become.

His pace became punishing, relentless. He was chasing it now, chasing the echo of that studio high, the feeling of being perfectly, utterly free. His breath came in ragged, hiccuping gasps. 

He’d wound himself to breaking point. Pleasure and terror were fused, indistinguishable. 

The religious imagery crashed over him not as condemnation, but as sensation: it was a falling, a drowning, a being consumed by a holy fire that felt anything but holy.

"I’m— I’m gonna—" The words were a pathetic, broken whisper, lost.

His whole body locked. For a second, he was suspended in a silent, breathless void. Then it detonated.

It wasn't a single wave, but a series of brutal, wracking pulses that tore through him like internal lightning. A guttural, punched-out cry was ripped from his very core, a raw, open-throated yelp that the pillow could not hope to contain. 

His vision whited out, speckled with violent colors, a kaleidoscope of pleasure. His hips jerked erratically, helplessly, as his hand kept working, milking every last, shuddering drop of sensation until it tipped over into a sharp, almost painful sensitivity.

He collapsed.

The stillness that followed was absolute, profound. The only sound was the ragged, torn-up sawing of his breath and the distant, indifferent hum of the filter. The warmth spread across his stomach, a sticky, shameful reality.

The guilt didn't wait. It descended instantly, a heavy, smothering blanket. 

The verses from Galatians completed themselves in his head with cruel clarity: "…so that ye cannot do the things that ye would."

Tears, hot and sudden, welled in his eyes. He didn't move. He lay there, a spent, trembling wreck on the stained, wet sheet, feeling the pleasure evaporate and leave behind the cold, hollow shell of transgression. He had reached for a moment of the divine and clutched only his own weakness.

Slowly, mechanically, he pulled up his silk pajamas. The fabric felt disgusting against his soiled skin. He rolled onto his side, curling into a tight ball, facing the grand, empty expanse of his bedroom. The afterglow was just a physiological ghost; the real residue was a deep, aching loneliness.

He would pray tomorrow. He would pray harder. He would throw himself into the music, into the work, until he was too tired to feel anything at all.

But for now, in the deep California night, Michael lay very still, the ghost of his own ecstasy a sharp, sour taste in his mouth, and the only rhythm left was the slow, beat of his own heart.

fin.

tag list;

You walked through the hallways, that were startlingly still.

The air itself seemed to hold its breath, a thick, dusty silence that swallowed the sound of your own footsteps on the worn parquet. Your flashlight beam cut a wavering path through the gloom, illuminating motes of dust that danced like agitated spirits. The dictaphone in your other hand felt both absurd and necessary, a tiny, plastic tether to the rational world you’d left beyond the iron gates.

“Log entry… seven,” you whispered, your voice hushed not just for recording but out of a deep, instinctive reverence. The house demanded quiet. “Time, approximately 10:47 PM. I’ve entered the main hall of the property known colloquially as the abandoned L’Estaque Manor. Initial impressions… the decay is theatrical. 

Deliberate. 

It feels less like neglect and more like a stage set waiting for its principal actor.”

You panned the light upwards. A grand staircase swept into darkness, its banister adorned with intricate, cobwebbed carvings. The wallpaper, once a rich burgundy damask, peeled in long, languid strips, revealing the skeletal lath beneath. It was cold, a damp chill that seeped through your jacket and settled in your bones. Yet, there was no malevolence in it. Not yet. It was the cold of emptiness, of a vast space long devoid of warmth.

“No standard paranormal signatures yet,” you continued, moving slowly toward a pair of towering oak doors. “No EMF spikes, no temperature fluctuations beyond the ambient chill. But the atmosphere… it’s heavy. It isn’t threat, maybe expectation?.”

You pushed open the doors to what must have been a music room. A sheet-draped grand piano dominated the space, a hulking white ghost in the center. Tarnished candelabras sat on the mantle. 

Your light glinted off the glass of a large, gold-framed portrait above the fireplace, but the face within was too shadowed to make out. You stepped inside, your boots whispering on the Persian rug, its patterns faded into vague, blood-like smudges.

“This room,” you murmured into the recorder. “There’s a… resonance here. Auditory? Maybe. A memory of sound. If I listen…”

You stopped. You closed your eyes, letting the silence press in. And then, beneath the sound of your own nervous system, you heard it. 

Or felt it. It wasn’t quite a melody, but the echo of one. The faint, phantom vibration of a piano chord—a minor, unresolved, hanging in the air like a question. Your eyes snapped open. The sheet over the piano was perfectly still. No dust had been disturbed.

“Did you hear that?” you asked the empty room, the dictaphone catching your quickened breath. “A chord. C minor, perhaps moving to… no. It’s gone.”

But it wasn’t. 

As you moved back into the hall, it followed you. It wasn’t only just a sound, but a presence. The back of your neck prickled. The air, once uniformly cold, now seemed to stir with a faint, impossible current. 

You entered a long gallery, portraits lining the walls, their subjects’ eyes seeming to track your progress from faces blurred by time and shadow.

Then you felt it. A breath. Not on your neck, but inside your ear. A cool, gentle exhalation that carried with it the faintest sound—a wordless, melancholic fragment of tune, the same one that had haunted the piano chord. It was intimate, paralyzing. You froze, your blood turning to ice water.

“Who’s there?” you breathed, not daring to turn. The dictaphone, still recording, captured the tremor in your voice.

There was no answer. Only the returning, absolute silence, now feeling like a held secret. 

You forced your legs to move, driven by a compulsion that was equal parts terror and desperate curiosity. 

The master bedroom was your goal. In these old houses, it was often the epicenter of residual energy.

You found the door ajar. Pushing it open, you were met with a spectacle that stole what little breath you had left.

The room was vast, dominated by a canopy bed whose curtains hung in tattered shreds. But it was the far wall that commanded attention. 

The enormous windows were naked, their curtains ripped away or decayed. 

They were thrown wide open to the night, and the wind poured through in a silent, powerful river. 

The moon, nearly full, cast a slab of pewter light across the floorboards, illuminating the dust swirling in the turbulent air. The curtains that remained on the sides billowed and snapped like the sails of a ghost ship, soundless in the vacuum of the room. 

The night itself seemed to be invading, a cool, black ink flooding into the tomb of the house.

You stepped into the lunar wash, drawn to the windows, to the view of the overgrown gardens and the skeletal trees. The wind played with your hair, kissed your feverish skin. This was it. The heart of the strange stillness. You raised your dictaphone.

“The master bedroom. The windows are open. There’s a… a violent peace here. The wind, but no sound. The moon, is so creepy. I feel…”

You felt watched.

The sensation was so intense it was a physical weight between your shoulder blades. You slowly, so slowly, turned from the mesmerizing night.

He stood in the doorway.

You hadn’t heard a thing; footfall or rustle of cloth. He was simply there, having coalesced from the very shadows of the hall. Your mind, trained to document and analyze, short-circuited, overwhelmed by sheer aesthetic shock.

He was beautiful. It wasn’t in a modern way, but like a painting by a Romantic master who believed in the tragic allure of the sublime. Tall and imperially slender, he was dressed in an anachronism of elegant decay: a white poet’s shirt of fine linen, its ruffles at the chest and cuffs pristine, the top buttons carelessly open to reveal a expanse of pale, smooth skin that gleamed like marble in the low light. 

It was tucked into tailored black trousers that emphasized his long legs, and over it all, a sweeping black velvet cloak rested on his shoulders, not quite touching the floor. His hair was a cascade of raven-black waves, stirred by a wind that didn’t touch you, framing a face of heartbreaking symmetry—high cheekbones, a strong jaw, lips that seemed carved from something both soft and cruel. 

His eyes were the most alive thing about him, a burning, intelligent dark brown, with a glimmer of mischief in them.

And he was opaque, but only just. You could see, faintly, the outline of the doorframe behind him, the subtle suggestion of moonlight passing through the solidity of his wrist where he held the doorjamb. A ghost. A spectacular, gorgeous ghost.

Your legs gave out. The dictaphone clattered to the floor, but you didn’t hear it. The world tunneled into those dark benevolent eyes, and then into black velvet nothingness.

Consciousness returned without a jolt, but as a slow, cold seep. You were on the floor, but not on the hard wood. 

You were cradled in an impossible chill, a sensation like being held by a statue carved from winter moonlight. Your head rested against the crisp linen of his ruffled shirt, and through the thin fabric, you registered a profound, deep cold, the utter absence of living heat.

“Open your eyes.” The voice was a melody all its own, low, cultured, vibrating with an old-world accent and a current of simmering anger. “I did not grant you the courtesy of my solitude only for you to escape into unconsciousness.”

Your eyelids fluttered open. His face was above yours, inches away. Up close, his beauty was even more devastating, and more unnerving. His skin had a faint, pearlescent sheen, and the cool air around him smelled of old books, dried lavender, and something metallic, like distant ozone.

“You…” you croaked.

“I,” he agreed, his tone icy. With a grace that was both effortless and unsettling, he shifted you, helping you to sit up. His hands on your shoulders were like brands of ice, a shock that cleared the last cobwebs from your mind. He didn’t release you. He knelt before you, his stormy eyes pinning you in place. 

“Now. You will explain. Why do you trespass in my home? Why do you shuffle through my halls with your little machine, speaking to the silence as if it owes you answers?”

He was furious. It was not the rage of a monster, but a deep, personal offense of a scholar whose library has been invaded and ripped up by a vandal.

“I… I’m a paranormal investigator,” you stammered, your professional pride flickering weakly. 

“This house… it’s famous. I thought it was empty.”

“Thought it was empty?” He released you as if burned, rising to his full height in a fluid motion. The white ruffled shirt he wore, flapped in the wind.

“You thought. Or you assumed? And on that assumption, you violate my peace? For twenty years I have curated this silence. Twenty years of moonlit rooms and echoing chords, and you believe you can simply… walk in?” He turned his back to you, a gesture of supreme disdain, looking out at his billowing curtains.

“Your world is so loud. So bright. It forgets what lurks beyond it. It bulldozes. And now it sends its curious little children to poke at what it has forgotten.”

You scrambled to your feet, your legs still unsteady. The dictaphone lay at your feet, its red recording light a tiny, accusing eye. “I meant no disrespect. I’m just… trying to understand.”

He turned his head, his profile a sharp cut against the moonlit window. “Understanding is not yours to take. It is mine to bestow. And I am not inclined to be generous.” He faced you fully again, his anger seeming to settle into a colder, more calculating resolve. 

“However. You are here. You have seen me. That… complicates things.”

A new kind of chill, one of primal fear, trickled down your spine. “What are you going to do to me?”

A ghost of a smile, bitter and beautiful, touched his lips. “The traditional tropes? Frighten you to death? Haunt your dreams? How pedestrian.” He drifted closer, his movement so smooth on the rotten floorboards. The cold around him intensified. 

“I am a man of intellect. Of passion. Trapped. For two decades, I have been a curator of memories, a prisoner of sensation I can only recall. The taste of wine. The warmth of a fire.” His eyes raked over you, not with lust, but with a desperate, hungry curiosity. 

“The touch of a living hand.”

He stopped an arm’s length away. You were captivated, utterly. The fear was still there, deep in your veins, but it was subsumed by a terrifying fascination. He was a masterpiece of sorrow and anger.

“I will let you go,” he said, his voice dropping to a intimate murmur that seemed to reverberate in your very bones. 

“I will unlock the doors and watch you flee back to your noisy, bright world, and I will return to my melodic silence. But you will have given me something in return. A… experiment.”

“An experiment?” you whispered.

“A confirmation,” he corrected, his gaze holding yours. 

“A sensory recollection,” he added, with a whimsical tone.

“I have wondered, in my long solitude, if the memory of pleasure is a lie the mind tells the soul. If the mechanics of passion are lost to a form such as mine.” He lifted a hand, and his fingers, pale and slightly translucent, hovered just beside your cheek. 

You felt the chill, a thrilling ache. 

“I wish to know if, after twenty years, I can still… feel. In the most primal sense. I wish to know if I can still make a living woman sigh, and in doing so, remember what it was to be a mere mortal man.”

The meaning crashed over you, not in a wave of horror, but in a surge of electric, reckless understanding. He wasn’t asking for your life. He was asking for your body. As a test. As a sacrament. Your mouth was dry. Your heart hammered against your ribs. You should run. You should scream.

You looked into his eyes, saw the centuries of loneliness, the artistic fury, the haunting, fragile hope. 

You saw the pale column of his throat above the open ruffles, the elegant line of his shoulders under the worn white shirt. His hair fell shoulder length, and was beautiful - an almost blue hue shone off of it in the moonlight. 

He was the most beautiful, terrible thing you had ever seen.

“Yes,” you heard yourself say, the word leaving your lips on a cloud of breath in the cold air.

His eyes widened, a flicker of surprise, then a dark, triumphant fire. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

The word hung between you, a pact sealed. The anger in him seemed to transmute, melting into a fierce, focused intensity. 

He closed the distance. Where his body met yours, there was no solid impact, but a gradual, chilling immersion, as if you were stepping into the shadow of a glacier. 

His hands came up to frame your face, and the cold was piercing, exquisite. He leaned in, and his lips met yours.

They were soft, and colder than anything you could imagine, but not inert. They moved with a practiced, desperate skill, and a strange thing began to happen. 

As the kiss deepened, a sensation bloomed within the cold—a memory of warmth, a phantom heat that seemed to generate from the very friction of your living spirit against his spectral one. 

A low, shuddering sigh escaped him, a sound that was half moan, half sob, and it vibrated into your mouth.

The dictaphone was forgotten. The investigation was forgotten. There was only the Maestro and his experiment.

He pushed you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours, until suddenly he was gone. All that was left was a whisper of the feeling of him on your lips. You brought your fingers up to your lips immediately, missing the touch there. 

All of a sudden he appeared behind you, as if by magic and grabbed your other hand and pulled you onto the bed. 

With unseen force, the tattered remnants of the bed curtains fell away completely. He laid you down on the cold, silken coverlet, following you down, his form settling over yours with a weight that was more pressure than mass. His cloak enveloped you both, a dark tent against the moonlit room.

“Tell me you can feel that,” he murmured against your throat, his lips trailing icy fire down your pulse point. His fingers, deft and chilling, worked at the buttons of your jacket, then your shirt. “Tell me I am not just a dream touching you.”

“I feel it,” you gasped, arching into the shocking cold of his hands on your bare skin. It was a paradoxical feeling—the cold was so intense it burned, and within that burn, pleasure sparked, sharp and shocking. 

“You’re real.”

You nearly yelped at the force in which he pulled off your jeans.

He made a sound, a raw, hungry thing, and his own clothing seemed to dissolve into mist and shadow at his will; revealing the pale, sculpted plane of his chest, the elegant taper of his waist. He was slender, graceful, beautifully made, and glowing with that faint inner luminescence. 

His skin, when it met yours fully, was a shock—a deep, penetrating cold that made every nerve ending sing a desperate, alert song.

He explored you, focused, like a connoisseur rediscovering a lost art. His mouth, a brand of ice, traced the lines of your collarbones, the curve of your breast, his tongue swirling in a pattern that left behind a trail of goosebumps and fire. 

Your voice gave out, the sound swallowed by the billowing curtains and the silent night. Your hands clutched at his back, feeling the powerful muscles shift under skin that was smooth and cold as polished alabaster. 

You could fully feel him now, the reality of his form, even as your fingers sometimes seemed to sink into him a fraction too deeply, meeting a core of thrilling, empty cold.

“I crave the warmth between those legs,” he breathed, his voice ragged with wonder. He was between your legs now, his storm-cloud eyes holding yours, his dark hair cascading around his face, stirred by his own spectral energy. 

“You are... A delicious, living thing. Something I have not been close to as of late. Let me… let me remember this.”

He prepared himself by using his index finger to rub the precum on his cock, and then entered you in one slow, relentless glide.

The sensation was beyond anything you could have conceived. It wasnt the friction of flesh, but something stranger, more profound. It was a bone chilling cold, a possession that reached into the very marrow of your bones and clawed up to your heart from below.

It was like being touched from the inside out by a icy winter river, shocking and pure and terrifyingly intimate. 

Another choked and wordless sound of shock and overwhelming pleasure came from you; your back bowing off the bed, crazily, as if you were possessed. Maybe you were.

He stilled, his face a mask of agonized ecstasy. “Ah… it is… better than I remember….the memory is true. It is… worth the waiting.” 

He began to move, and each movement was a study in contradiction—the solid, rhythmic pressure of him, coupled with the eerie, chilling diffusion of his essence spreading through you. 

The feel of him became a drug, a stimulant. It sharpened every sensation, made every nerve raw, every pleasure point on the edge of falling apart.

You felt everything with a hyper-clarity: the silken slide of the coverlet beneath you, the rush of the moonlit wind over your heated skin, the exact, perfect angle of his hips as he drove into you, seeking his own forgotten culmination. His rhythm was diabolically good, you did not know that these feelings could overcome your body.

He was not silent within this endeavour. He whispered in a mix of broken words and song, fragments of poetry, curses, prayers. You couldn’t tell what was which - your brain unable to concentrate for the unbelievable pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Warm — you are so extraordinarily warm — I had forgotten — god, the scent of your skin alone is enough to have me—" He stopped. The sentence didn't finish. For the first time since you had met him, the Maestro had run out of words.

His hands were everywhere, icy points of contact that ignited wildfires under your skin. The juxtaposition of this feeling in your brain was hard to comprehend. 

One hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat to his marauding, freezing kisses. 

The other gripped your hip, his fingers pressing in with a desperate strength that should have bruised, but only left a thrilling ache. You were unraveling, your own moans and pleas becoming a constant, ragged soundtrack to the act unfolding in this old gothic home. 

The pleasure built not in a warm wave, but in a cryptic crescendo, a pinnacle of sensation so sharp and cold and brilliant it felt like nothing you’d experienced before..

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice guttural, his form seeming to flicker with a stronger inner light. “Look at me when you fall from the precipice.”

You forced your eyes open, meeting his. They were no longer just stormy, but lit from within by lightning, wide with a shock of feeling so long denied. 

The sight of his beautiful, haunted face, hovering over you in the throes of a passion both otherworldly and devastatingly real, was the final trigger. 

The world dissolved into a ridiculous gothic black and white film. You felt like you’d fallen through the bed and into a whole other dimension - your body experiencing such extreme sensation it had never felt before. 

Your climax was not a release of heat, but a vacuum of sensation, a pulling inward of all the cold and the pleasure into a single, singular point of absolute zero ecstasy. You convulsed around him, a wordless scream trapped in your throat.

It triggered his own orgasm. He threw his head back, the veins of his pale neck standing out in stark relief.

His climax was silent, a seismic event contained within the shimmering outline of his form. He grunted mercilessly at first.

A visible shudder wracked through him, a wave of distortion that made the moonlight behind him bend and warp. 

His head still thrown back, his mouth opened in a soundless cry of pure, unadulterated release, and for a moment, he became almost fully transparent, a mere sketch of a man lost in feeling.

Then he solidified again, collapsing forward, his weightless form half-covering you, his face buried in the tattered pillow beside your head.

You both lay there, entangled in the wreckage of pure sensation.

You could feel the echo of him inside you, a fading, delicious chill. His skin, where it touched yours, was no longer just cold; it was thrumming with a low, resonant vibration, like a plucked cello string.

He was the first to stir. He pushed himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. The storm in his eyes had calmed to a dazed wonder. He looked… younger. The lines of ancient despair had softened.

“The hypothesis,” he whispered, his voice scraped raw, “was correct. I’m still able to make a woman come undone.”

A breathless, hysterical laugh bubbled in your chest. “Glad I could be of service… for your research.”

The ghost of a real smile, less bitter now, touched his lips. He traced one icy finger from your sternum down to your navel, making you shiver. 

“Service implies a transaction completed. I find myself slightly… unsatisfied. The experiment had a singular parameter. Intercourse. It was a blunt instrument.” 

His gaze drifted lower, down the trembling plane of your stomach. “I wish to get closer.”

The air, still crackling with the aftermath, grew thick with a new, focused tension. “Closer?” You asked.

“I want to taste you,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that intimate, bone-resonating register. “I felt your heat before. A glorious, enveloping feeling. But I was a clumsy guest, storming the gates.” He began to move, sliding down your body with a serpentine grace that left a trail of gooseflesh. 

The silken coverlet whispered beneath you. “I wish to map the source. To taste the joys of your pleasure. To see if I can elicit the same symphony with my tongue as I did with… other means.”

He settled between your thighs, at the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders pushing your legs further apart. The moon cast him in stark relief—the fall of his dark hair, the elegant line of his back, the pale curve of his buttocks. 

“I wish to break you open, in your pleasure. Make you question everything you have ever known about your sensory receptors in your body. It needs to be precise”

He was kneeling on the floor, and as he did, you saw his hand move. He took himself in hand, his length already stirring again, impossibly, from the aftermath. 

It was graceful like the rest of him, and he gave himself a slow, thoughtful stroke, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs with the concentration of an artist contemplating a fresh canvas.

“You are watching me?” he said, without looking up. His thumb swept over the head of his cock, a slow, circular motion. 

He sniggered at your lack of response. 

“Good, I suppose. This is part of the process. The anticipation. The visual study.” He stroked himself again, a long, languid pull, his breath hitching with a soft, frosty sigh. 

“I am reminded that women of this day like to watch solo performances…. However, you’ll be so overcome you won’t even remember I am touching myself too.”

The sight was mesmerizingly obscene. This beautiful, beyond the living man, kneeling in worship between your legs, casually pleasuring himself as he prepared to devour you. It shattered any last pretense of a normal encounter. This was a ritual. Unlike any intimate moment you had shared with a partner before - it was as if they never even existed outwith this moment.

He leaned forward then, and his breath washed over you first—a cold, damp gust that made you jolt and gasp. He didn’t touch you with his mouth yet. He nuzzled, his cheek and the bridge of his nose sliding through your curls, inhaling deeply.

“Extraordinary,” he breathed, the words a vibration against your wet cunt. 

“The scent… alive. Musk, salt, sunlight trapped in flesh. I have missed this more than wine, more than music.” He finally looked up, his black thunder-cloud eyes glinting in the dark. 

“Tell me to stop if you are frightened?”

You couldn’t. Your voice was gone, stolen by the spectacle of him. You could only manage a frantic shake of your head.

A dark, pleased hum escaped him. “Then we continue.”

His tongue was not like a living man’s. It was cooler, smoother, and yet impossibly deft. He didn’t attack; he was calm and slow when he devoured you. 

A long, slow, flattened stroke from bottom to top of your centre, soaking in the feel and taste of you. You cried out, your hands flying to your mouth to cover the obscene sounds coming from you.

“Such a pretty and shy girl,” he murmured against you, the words almost indistinct, felt more than heard. 

“Let me hear you,”

He continued to just marvel at your sex; you looked down at him, bewildered that this could even be really happening.

“The texture… the give… the heat is not a wall, it is a tide. And it welcomes me.”

He began to work in earnest, and it was clear he was, as he said, a maestro. His tongue was a precision instrument, tracing lazy circles around your clit before focusing on it with a pinpoint, icy pressure that made you see what felt like the expansion of the universe. 

He alternated—broad, lapping strokes that cooled your entire core, then sharp, flickering assaults on that one hypersensitive node. His pace was deliberate, experimental, listening to every hitch of your breath, every twitch of your thighs.

And all the while, his right hand moved on himself. You could hear the soft, slick sound of it, a counter-rhythm to the wet, hungry sounds his mouth was making. He stroked himself in time with the flicks of his tongue, a slow, consistent pumping motion, his own pleasure feeding back into the attention he lavished on you. 

It was a feedback loop of sensation, a closed circuit where his cold arousal and your burning need amplified each other.

“You taste of the world,” he groaned, lifting his head for a moment. His lips glistened. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his face flushed with a phantom of color. His hand never stopped moving on his cock. 

“You taste of summer grass and night rain and… and life. It is an addiction.” He dove back in, his hunger less controlled now, more ravenous. He added his fingers, one, then two, sliding into you with that same shocking, perfect cold, curling upwards as his tongue lashed at your clit.

You felt obsencely overestimulated, the deep, filling chill of his fingers, the maddening, icy pinpoint of his tongue, and the visual, audible proof of his own mounting pleasure as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, frosty pants against your skin. 

You were babbling, pleading, pulling his hair, your hips rolling uncontrollably against his face. 

The cold was no longer just a sensation; it was the fuel, the catalyst that made every nerve scream twice as loud.

“Is this the way?” he asked, his voice muffled, desperate for confirmation. “Tell me, my living beauty… does this path lead to the same peak?”

“Yes—God—yes, please, don’t stop doing whatever you’re doing, please—” you sobbed. “I am so close”

He redoubled his efforts. His tongue became a blur of cold, relentless motion. His fingers pumped, crooking just so, and his thumb pressed hard, circling your clit. His other hand was a piston on his own length, the rhythm frantic now, the soft slapping sounds filling the air. He was chasing it, chasing your climax with desperation; starving for proof of his own existence.

The build was different this time. Not a shatter or a falling apart that you’d have been used to, but a slow, inexorable melt. The cold he was pumping into you seemed to meet the core of your heat and create a thermal reaction, a swirling vortex of sensation that pulled everything you were into its center. 

Your muscles locked. Your breath stopped. The world narrowed to the freezing, brilliant point between your legs and the sight of his beautiful, obsessed face buried there, pleasuring himself as he drove you mad.

It broke silently, a vast, wave-like submersion. Your climax washed over you profoundly, a drowning release, a slow-motion unfurling of every tense wire in your body. 

You pulsed around his fingers, a long, shuddering series of contractions, a silent scream locked in your throat.

He felt it. He let out a choked, triumphant cry against you and his own rhythm stuttered, then broke. His back arched, a perfect, taut bow, and he spilled over his own fist with a ragged, gasping groan, his release pearlescent and faintly glowing in the moonlight, striping his own pale stomach and the dark coverlet beneath him. 

He trembled violently through it, his mouth still pressed against you, drinking in the final aftershocks of your pleasure as his own wracked him.

Slowly, he pulled away. He looked wrecked, glorious. His hair was wild, his lips swollen and slick. His eyes, when they met yours, held a look of stunned, satiated reverence. 

He looked down at the evidence of his own pleasure on his hand and stomach, then back at you, as if he couldn't quite believe either.

"The data," he whispered, his voice utterly spent. "Is... overwhelming. The hypothesis is not only confirmed... it is expanded upon. The variables are infinite."

He moved then, fluid and weary, coming to lie beside you. He didn't pull you into the full, chilling embrace of before, but he slid an arm beneath your neck, his body a line of cool pressure against your side. He was still stroking your hair with his other hand, his touch now almost gentle.

"You have," he said to the canopy above, "given a ghost a memory that does not hurt to hold. That is a rare gift, little trespasser."

You turned your head on his arm. The dictaphone was still on the floor, its red light a steady, distant pulse. The investigation was over. Something else had begun.

"What now?" you asked, your voice hoarse.

He was silent for a moment, watching the curtains dance with the night. "Now," he said finally, a new, contemplative note in his voice, "we discuss the parameters of further... experimentation. And you tell me your name. One should know the name of a beautiful, living creation, should one not?"

fin

You were in your apartment getting ready when the phone rang. You were halfway through your makeup, focused on getting your eyeliner just right, and you let it ring out. Whoever it was could call back. Lay All of Your Love on Me by ABBA blasting out from your turntable speakers, loud enough to shake the vanity beneath your hands.

It went to the answering machine.

His voice came through on the speaker phone, over your noisy room, a little rushed, like he'd called without thinking it through first:

"Hey, um, it's Michael. Jackson. Michael Jackson– umm. I know we were supposed to meet up later but I—"

There was a pause. You could hear him breathing.

"Can you just come over? To the house, to Hayvenhurst? Like, this afternoon? I don't want to meet you somewhere public. If we go out they'll mob us and I can't— put you through that. I just need to see you without all of the annoyances. Without people watching. Just come straight to the gate and I'll—I'll meet you there, okay? I couldn't stop thinking about you all week and I don't want to wait any longer. Please? Ok. Goodbye."

There was the sound of him hanging up, then the mechanical beep of the machine.

You stood there in your half-done makeup and stared at the phone, music still blasting in the background.

You grinned almost manically as the crescendo built on the last chorus of the ABBA song, the entire apartment suddenly feeling too small to contain the electricity buzzing beneath your skin.

“Don’t go wasting your emotion…”

The words crashed through the room like they were meant specifically for you, like the universe itself was laughing at how impossible it would be to stay calm after that phone call. Your pulse was hammering so hard you could feel it in your fingertips. Michael Jackson had just called sounding desperate; he didn’t sound like the untouchable megastar the world saw on television. Just Michael. Breathless. Impatient. Wanting you there now.

You looked at yourself in the mirror, one eye lined perfectly, the other unfinished, lipstick still uncapped on the vanity. The song swelled louder. Dramatic. Hungry. Urgent. You did one finally layer of eyeliner to even it out.

“Lay all your love on me…”

God. The way he’d said I couldn’t stop thinking about you all week. The way his voice caught slightly on please.

Your stomach flipped violently.

Every second you stayed in the apartment started to feel unbearable, like wasted time. Like he was pacing somewhere inside Hayvenhurst waiting for you already. Maybe looking out the windows. Maybe replaying the call in his head wondering if he sounded too eager. Maybe counting the minutes until you arrived.

You snatched up your keys so fast they nearly slid from your hand. The eyeliner pencil rolled forgotten across the vanity. ABBA kept roaring through the speakers behind you as you rushed for the door, heart racing faster and faster with every thought of him waiting there alone, hidden away from the world, wanting you before anyone else could take another piece of him first.

₊˚°⊹˚

The taxi pulled up to Hayvenhurst Avenue around four o'clock. The gates were impressive even from the street, black and imposing, and there were people standing outside them. Not a huge crowd, but enough to be weird; three or four girls in their twenties, one older woman with a camera around her neck, all of them just... waiting.

Watching.

When you stepped out of the taxi they all turned to look at you at once. Their expressions shifted from hopeful to dismissive in about half a second — you weren't anyone they recognized, so you were nobody. One of them actually rolled her eyes.

You felt a bit small under their gaze, and wrong, like you didn't have the right to be here. But you straightened yourself, your 60s shift dress flowing in the wind slightly, and you shrugged it off.

You walked toward the gates despite the numerous eyes on you. Toward the buzzer.

You buzzed and waited. Then, all of a sudden, rapid footsteps. 

Michael appeared almost running down the drive, but you could tell he was still trying to act casual. You bit your lip to stop yourself from giggling - what a sight. The butter yellow shirt and bright orange wooly jumper against his skin made him look almost otherworldly — like he'd stepped out of a dream. His hair dark was shorter than you thought it'd be, but still very curly. His skin was gorgeous, like smooth caramel in the California sun. He looked pretty enough to devour.

He was moving fast, purposeful, and when he saw you through the bars of the gate his whole face did something that made the fans' heads whip around in aching unison.

He unlocked the gate from inside and let you step through it, closing it behind you so the other girls couldn't follow, and then he was standing in front of you and you couldn't breathe properly.

He was real. In front of you. Not a voice on the phone or a picture in the newspaper or in a music video on the television screen. He was tall and he smelled like powdery cologne and something sweet, his hair was falling into his face perfectly and he was looking at you with a worshiping, adoring look.

"Hi," he said softly, a great big wide grin on his face. His teeth were impossibly white and straight.

"Hi."

"Now…Your dad showed me your picture," he said, almost immediately, like he'd been holding it in. "The one on his desk at Epic. But you're so much more beautiful in person."

Heat bloomed across your chest. You didn't know what to say to that and before you could even think to reply, he’d moved on from it.

"I'm sorry about them." He glanced at the fans behind him, at the way they were staring. "They're always here. I don't usually—" He stopped himself from explaining their stares. "Can I hold your hand?"

"Yeah. Yeah, of course."

He reached out and took your hand, and his palm was warm and his grip was gentle and he looked at your joined hands like he couldn't quite believe they were connected. He brought you closer to him. 

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," he said quietly. "All week. I needed to see you."

"Michael, I—" You didn't know what to say. 

"Come on." He pulled you gently away from the gates and prying eyes. "Let's get inside."

He turned and gave a brief nod to the security guard stationed at the small entrance building on the estate. The wealth that this family had, genuinely was incomprehensible to you. Michael didn’t have that air about him, he seemed like he was down on earth in some ways, and high in the sky in others.

He kept your hand the entire walk up the drive. You could see the house getting bigger as you approached, could see details you'd only ever glimpsed in photos, and it was surreal — this whole thing was surreal. You were here. You were actually here.

It was crazy, you didn’t even know what compelled you to call him that night. Boredom mostly, and the thought that it would ring a few times and he’d not answer. 

Your father had told you all about Michael, his charisma, the spectre of his talent. How he could command a room when he was singing, but also the hushed conversations over the console when Michael was laying down vocal in the studio. The producers and executives at Epic were always fed information on the young star. He seemed lonely in a room of people; someone who needed direction, away from all the ‘yes’ men, merely in his orbit for his money. Your father always stuck up for Michael, you felt a strange longing to do the same.

You felt a need to make him feel something other than adoration from fans, you wanted him to have some sense of normality - you were, for the most part, living a normal life in LA. You could bring him up to speed, let him see that his fame doesn’t need to hold him back from absolutely everything.

He squeezed your hand, like he was checking you were real to him. 

₊˚°⊹˚

Michael guided you through the doors of Hayvenhurst, through the hallowed halls of the infamous Jackson family. It smelled oddly sweet, like cookies and flowers. You ogled in awe at the entryway and the hallways until you started hearing chatter and television static down the luscious, pristine hall.

The living room was chaos.

"—I'm telling you, he was out of bounds, the whole play was—"

"Randy, you can't just make up rules—"

"I'm not making up rules, those ARE the rules you moron—"

The petite girl on the sofa with big hair, you assumed after seeing pictures, was Janet. She sat on the couch with her legs tucked under her, half-watching the basketball game and half-reading a magazine.

When you and Michael came through the door she looked up and her eyes went straight to your joined hands, to the way Michael looked at you like you might disappear if he let go.

She didn't say anything, but Marlon, who was leaning against the doorframe of the opposite door that led to another hallway, caught it too.

He and Janet exchanged a look that was loaded with information.

"Oh, heyyyyy," Marlon said, drawing it out like he was tasting the word. Like he hadn't been expecting you. 

Like he hadn't heard Michael practically vibrating with nervous energy all afternoon.

"This is Y/N," Michael said quickly. "Her dad's part of my team at Epic."

"Right," Marlon said slowly. He was looking at your hand in Michael's hand. "The producer's daughter."

"Oh, THIS is the girl Mikey was drooling over at the receiver earlier," Randy said, finally sitting up from where he'd been sprawled on the floor with a pillow. "Wait, isn't this your first time meeting her in person?"

Michael's grip on your hand tightened slightly. "Yes. It is. And we're going to use the studio, so please do not disturb us. Or you'll get clapped around the head, you schmucks."

"So this is like a first date situation," Randy continued, totally ignoring what Michael said, his grin spreading. "That's bold, Mikey. Bringing a girl back here on the first try — she'll probably run away screaming when she meets Joseph."

"Don't joke about that," Michael said, but there was an edge to his voice now. You felt him tense up, felt his hand grow slightly sweaty in yours.

Marlon slowly made his way from the threshold of the room and plopped himself down beside Janet, who'd gone back to her magazine with a smirk plastered across her face.

"Y'all better be sneaky if you don't want caught by the parentals," Janet piped, her voice muffled behind the magazine. "They'll have ALL sorts of smothering questions. Mother will want to know your entire family history, Y/N."

"And Father will want to know your intentions with her, Mikey." Marlon added with mock seriousness. “That man is gonna be setting up lawyers; locked and loaded with a prenup, just like he did with good ol’ horny boy, Jermaine”

"Dad is gonna freak when he realises half of his fortune is at stake," Randy said, cackling at his own joke.

"Randy, shut up," Michael said, but there was no heat in it. He was already flustered enough.

Randy jumped up from watching the game and darted over to Michael, clearly trying to dap him up. Michael let go of your hand to shove him away, but Randy just grinned wider.

"My big bro FINALLY got some game," Randy announced to the room like he'd just made a major scientific discovery.

"Man, you guys are the worst," Michael said, shaking his head and nervously running his hands through his hair. "I was trying to play it cool and you all start acting like complete idiots."

"JANET," came a painfully loud, high-pitched voice from the echo-y hallway. "Mother wants your opinion on new patio furniture from the catalogu—"

LaToya walked into the living room, stopping dead when she saw everyone standing there. She looked at you, then at Michael, her eyes wide with shock.

"Oh," she said, her eyebrows raising in an exaggerated arc. "I'm interrupting something, aren't I?"

"No," Michael supplied almost immediately. "We are going to the studio so I can let her hear the song that I’ve been working on, for the new album."

"Mmm-hm," LaToya said, and it was the most loaded 'mmm-hm' you'd ever heard. "Of course. Working on the song."

Michael grabbed your hand again and started dragging you toward the hallway. "C'mon, Y/N, let's leave these Neanderthals behind before they say anything else mortifying."

"Too late," Janet called after you both,

You followed along, your arm outstretched in front of you as he pulled you through the house and then out another door onto the driveway. The evening was cooling down, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky.

"Our studio is just across here," he said, turning back to look at you as he walked, his excitement finally breaking through the embarrassment. "Fully kitted out. State of the art."

He was already pulling you toward a separate building, this sleek modern structure that looked like it had been added on recently. When he pushed the door open you stepped into controlled chaos; equipment everywhere, soundproofing on the walls, a mixing board that looked like it cost more than a car. 

Interestingly, there were post-it notes covering most of the felt walls. Sketched drawings, yellow paper scrawled with black or red sharpie. You realised you were seeing a map of Michael’s internal monologue whilst he worked. It was just as chaotic as you imagined.

But Michael went straight to the tape machine, his entire demeanor shifting. The nervousness fell away. This was his space. This was where he was in control.

"Okay, so—" He was already threading a tape in, his hands moving with an understanding not many people have of that apparatus. " I have been working on this for about three weeks.” He grinned back at you.

“All thanks to your Dad for helping green light this new project” He supplied after. 

“Jackie, my older brother, has been helping me hone in on the tone of the lyrics I was writing for a concept song I am working on. I wanted to lean into something a bit more synthesized. Much darker than Off The Wall”.

You chewed your lip in anticipation of being able to be one of the first people to hear this demo. 

The tape finally stopped rewinding with a short ‘Click’ and it was ready to go. You got a bit of fright when the demo started playing, a sharp creak of a door opening and shutting, and then all of a sudden, Michael howling like a wolf in the background. It was clearly a rough cut up of his vision.

You side eyed him after hearing this, not fully trusting his process on this one, and he was already staring at you, his eyes large, hopeful, saying ‘give it a chance.’

Then the beat kicked in, strong horns in staccato, blaring over the track, and then finally the Michael you had listened to over and over again on his first separately produced solo album. His tenor was smooth, he was an expert in being, not only a soulful singer, but also able to be the rhythm as well through his adlibs, and his beatboxing. The song was almost fully realised just with him making sounds with his mouth. Good with his mouth, you thought.

He played the rest of the song, and bopped and beat boxed along to it, whilst holding eye contact with you. It was really intense. You could not believe the change in him — the way his whole body moved with the rhythm, the way his voice could shift from vulnerable to commanding in a single breath. 

This wasn't the boy who'd been mortified by his siblings upstairs. This was someone else entirely. Someone creatively dangerous in the best way possible.

When it ended, the tape spooled to silence and Michael turned to you, breathless, his chest still moving with the energy of what he'd just performed along to.

"That's called 'Thriller,'" he said quietly, straight back to his airy speaking voice.

"Thriller," you repeated. It fit. Everything about it; the wolf howls, the darkness underneath the pop production, the way his voice became almost predatory in places… it all made sense now. "Michael, that's..."

"Tell me honestly."

"Honestly?" You shook your head. "I think that's its the most sophisticated thing you've ever done. The production, the concept — it's not like anything on the radio right now and that’s a fact."

He smiled, but it wasn't his shy smile. It was something more confident, more sure of itself. He reached over and rewound the tape again.

"I want to play you something else," he said. "There's a bridge section that I wanted to take out, as it felt a bit too sexual, the innuendo. Jackie suggested I just let lose and try it, and I wasn't sure but now I think—" He stopped himself, looking at you. 

"Actually, before I do that, I need to ask you something."

"What?"

"Do you feel it? What I'm trying to do here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like, do you understand what I'm going for? Because most people don't get it. They hear the pop hooks and they think it's just a dance record. But it's not. It's supposed to be scary. It's supposed to make you uncomfortable but also, elated, make you feel thrilled." 

He was animated now, his hands moving as he talked. "I want people to feel hunted when they listen to it. I want them to feel like something's chasing them and they can't escape it and whether that's a zombie or a crazed crush in the night… that’s up to who’s interpreting."

You thought about the phone call. About how vulnerable he'd been, how exposed. And then you thought about this — him in his element, confident and commanding, talking about his art with you like you’d always been in the room with you. He had no ego though, completely stripped of one, he spoke as if he knew that you would be able to understand everything he was talking about. 

You couldn’t, but with the way he looked and spoke at you - you might just be able to figure it out. His vulnerability was what gave that little bit of darkness in him,  its teeth.

"Yeah," you said. "I feel it."

He looked at you like you'd just given him the most important compliment of his life. Then he turned back to the mixing board and started adjusting levels, his fingers moving over the knobs with practiced ease.

"Tell me honestly if the innuendo was too much, because I don’t really have a reader on these things, if I am completely honest," Michael said, not looking away from what he was doing. "But it's said that the best artists are the ones who aren't afraid to show people the parts of themselves that scare them or that they have not tried to utilize yet. The parts they usually hide."

"It’s hard to hide from your inner monologue, it's why I journal." You supplied, feeling nervous that you weren’t getting it.

He smiled at you. 

The tape that changed and rewound started playing, a muffled static and hum of the mic and then his isolated vocal - “all through the night” his strong vibrato lingering in the otherwise empty and quiet studio, “I’ll save you from the terror on the screen, I’ll make you see, that this is thriller, thriller night.” 

Then he grabbed your arm, and signalled to listen to the next line, ‘cause I can thrill you more than any ghoul would ever dare try”.

The line hung in the charged silence. 

His eyes were wide, vulnerable, waiting for your judgment on the lyric, on the boldness of it. You didn't answer with words. You stepped forward, closing the distance, and kissed him. It was a soft, firm press of your lips to his, an answer in itself.

He froze, a startled little "Mmph!" caught in his throat. Then he melted, his hands coming up to hover near your shoulders before finally settling, trembling, on your upper arms. The kiss was achingly chaste, closed-mouthed, lasting only a few seconds before he broke it, pulling back just enough to look at you, his breath coming in quick, shallow puffs.

“I really am glad you decided to call me, because this is what I have been needing… what I have been missing” He said, quietly.

This time, he pulled you in with confidence. His lips moved tentatively against yours, and when you gently coaxed them apart, he sighed—a surrendering, warm sound—and let you in. The kiss deepened slowly, becoming wetter, hotter. His hands slid down your arms to your waist, clutching the fabric of your dress.

You walked him backward until his legs hit the low, wide leather listening couch. He sank down, pulling you with him so you were straddling his lap. The position made him gasp into your mouth. 

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"I want to..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. 

"I want to touch you. So much. But I can't... you know, I can't go all the way. It's not right. Not yet. Maybe not ever, I don't know, it's all so confusing..." He sounded genuinely distressed, torn between desire and deep-seated doctrine.

"Shhh," you soothed, running your hands through his soft curls. "We don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. We can just... fool around."

He looked up at you, his eyes liquid with gratitude and pent-up want. 

"Can I... can I see you?"

You nodded, reaching back for the zipper of your dress. His hands were there first, fumbling clumsily. 

"Let me, please," he murmured, his fingers shaking. He managed it after a few tries, and helped you shimmy out of the simple 60s style shift dress. It pooled around your hips on the couch.

He stared, his lips parted. You were in just your bra and underwear now. His gaze was one of pure, reverent awe. "You're so beautiful," he breathed, almost to himself. "Like a little painting."

He leaned forward, burying his face in the valley between your breasts, nuzzling the soft skin there with a soft, desperate sound. His arms came around you, holding you tightly. 

You could feel the hard length of him, trapped in his trousers, pressing against you. You rocked your hips against him, a slow, deliberate grind.

He moaned, a long, low, helpless "Oooohhh..." and his own hips jerked up to meet the motion. 

"Oh, wow," he gasped, his voice strained. "That feels... that's okay, right? Just... just like this?" He jerked his hips again, and rolled, like the motion of a dance he was familiar with.

"Just like this," you affirmed, continuing the slow, rocking rhythm. 

It was dry, and a bit frantic at times, though still incredibly intimate through the layers of fabric. 

His hands clutched at your back, his fingers pressing into your skin. He was panting, little hot breaths against your chest.

"Can I... take this off?" he asked, his fingers hooking under the strap of your bra.

"Yes."

He undid the clasp with surprising dexterity, and when the garment fell away, he made a small, choked sound. He didn't touch at first, just stared, his eyes dark. 

Then, hesitantly, he reached out and cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. 

A full-body shiver wracked you.

"You're so soft," he whispered. He leaned in and took the peak into his mouth, suckling gently, then with more pressure when you arched into him with a soft cry. His hips were moving in a frantic, grinding counter-rhythm to yours now, the friction maddening for you both.

After a few minutes of this, he pulled his mouth away with a wet pop, his face flushed. "I'm... I'm gonna… go too far… I can't stop myself like this," he confessed, his voice thick with shame and arousal. "It's too much, to feel you up this way. I’m so tempted."

You stilled your movements. "What do you want to do, Michael?” You whispered. “I don’t want you to feel pressure to actually go through with this if it will hurt you mentally or have…reprecussions"

He wouldn't meet your eyes. His brain ran off for a minute, clearly trying to brainstorm ways to keep this going.

"I've... I've thought about it. What it might be like. If you... if you used your mouth." The words came out in a rushed, guilty whisper. 

"But that's probably worse, isn't it? And you wouldn't want to, we aren’t going steady, and it's dirty, I'm—"

"Michael," you interrupted softly, tipping his chin up so he had to look at you. "I want to. Very much. I don’t really care that we aren’t going ‘steady’."

His eyes searched yours, looking for any hint of deception or pity. Finding none, he bit his lip, a war playing out on his face. "Really? You... you want to?"

"Oh, yes."

A tremor went through him. He nodded, a quick, jerky motion. "Okay. Okay. But... can we... not all the way? I mean, I'm still dressed, you're... you're mostly dressed. It's less... it's less like that."

You understood where he was going with that statement. A slight barrier to his fervent sexual intention. His religion was stepping in the way of the raw desire he had burning up through him, it was clear to see. 

You could see it, raw and held back in the way he danced on stage, even in the way he sang. This strain…a fight against the odds. 

The layers were a psychological barrier as much as a physical one. 

"Of course." You said.

You slid off his lap and knelt on the plush carpet between his knees. He watched you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Your babydoll shift dress was still sitting just above your hips, so your whole chest was on show to him.

You reached for his belt, and he flinched, then forced himself to be still. You undid the buckle, the button of his trousers, the zipper. He lifted his hips to help you push them down just enough, along with his underwear, to free him.

He was fully erect, beautiful and flushed. He was quite big - a bit bigger than you initially expected, from his wiry frame. 

The sight of him though, combined with his utterly vulnerable expression, sent a jolt of pure heat through you. You wanted to make him feel good. Inform his art, his craft and allow him to draw on real life desire.

You leaned forward, but he suddenly put his hands over his face, peeking through his fingers.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice muffled. 

"I'm so embarrassed. I shouldn't be letting you do this. You must think I'm not strong, for being so easily swayed."

"I think you're beautiful, and very normal" you said firmly. You reached up and gently, but insistently, pulled his hands away from his face. He resisted for a second, then let you, exposing his blush-red cheeks and worried eyes. 

"And I want to do this. Look at me, Michael. See that I want to."

He held your gaze, his own wide and trusting. Slowly, you lowered your head and took him into your mouth.

The sound he made was unlike anything you'd ever heard—a high, shattered gasp that broke into a choked-off sob. "Ah! Oh—gosh... Y/N..."

His hands flew to your head, not to guide, but to simply hold on, his fingers tangling in your hair. 

You started slow, using your tongue, your lips, finding a rhythm. He was vocal, helplessly so, filling the studio with a stream of breathy, broken praise and disbelief.

"It feels... oh, it feels so good... how does it feel so good? You're so warm... your mouth is so soft... I shouldn't... I shouldn't like it this much..."

His hips began to move in tiny, aborted thrusts, a subconscious seeking of more depth. You took him deeper, relaxing your throat. He moaned, long and loud.

"God, I am so close... How can I be so close, I can't... I've never felt anything like this..." His voice was taut with panic and pleasure. 

His grip in your hair tightened unconsciously as you took him deeper and deeper, teetering on the edge of hitting your gag flex he was so big. "Please... don't stop... I'm gonna..."

His rhythm became more urgent, his thrusts into your mouth less controlled. He was losing himself, the conflict drowned out by sheer sensation. "Oh, I'm gonna cum... where... where should I...?"

You didn't pull away. You looked up at him with only your eyes, meeting his desperate gaze, and took him as deep as you could, your message clear.

That was his undoing. 

With a cry that was half-anguish, half-ecstasy; his hips snapped upward, his hands on your head holding you firmly in place as he spilled himself down your throat. 

He wasn't rough per se, but there was a surprising, instinctive strength in his grip, a complete surrender to the climax that forced you to take every last pulse. He shuddered violently, his whole body bowing off the couch.

When it was over, he went limp, his hands falling from your hair to hang uselessly at his sides. 

He was panting, staring at the ceiling with a dazed, shell-shocked expression. You pulled back, swallowing, and rested your cheek on his inner thigh.

For a full minute, there was only the sound of his ragged breathing. Then, slowly, he looked down at you. 

His expression shifted from a somewhat post-coital blankness to dawning horror. He saw your lips, your chin, the evidence of what he'd done.

"Oh, no," he whispered, his voice small and shattered. 

"Oh, no, no, no." He scrambled back on the couch, pulling his trousers up with frantic, clumsy movements, covering himself. He covered his face with those big hands again.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I made you do that. I lost control, I hurt you, I— just wanted you so badly. It felt so much better than just using my hand."

"Michael," you said softly, climbing onto the couch beside him. You reached out and touched his arm. He flinched. "You didn't hurt me. I wanted to. Every second of it."

He peeked out from behind his hands again.  His eyes were so honest - this was not an act. He really felt this internal battle, of what his body wanted, what it called for and what his religion told him was right. 

"Really?"

"Really. It was beautiful. You are beautiful. I don’t mind being slow, as long as I get to spend more time with you" You said, now tracing circles on top of his thigh.

The tension slowly bled out of him. He uncurled slightly, letting his legs drop from where they had tense. 

He looked at you, his boyish vulnerability returning in full force, replacing the tortured guilt. He reached out a trembling hand and brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, wiping away a stray drop.

"Your mouth," he said, wonder in his voice. "It was… so… addicting." A faint, disbelieving smile touched his lips. It was gone in a second, replaced by shyness. He couldn't hold your gaze. 

"I... I liked it. A lot. More than I've ever liked anything. Does that make me terrible?"

"It makes you human," you said, leaning in to kiss him, a soft, chaste press of lips. 

He tasted himself on you, and he sighed into the kiss, a sound of pure, sweet surrender.

He pulled you up to lie beside him on the wide couch, arranging you so your back was to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you. He nuzzled his face into your hair.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"For what?"

"For being patient with me. For being so sweet. For... for letting me feel normal for a little while." He paused. 

You smiled in the dim light. "It was thrilling." You let your dirty sense of humour come out to play again, as he didn’t seem as vulnerable.

He giggled then, a soft, silly, boyish sound, and squeezed you tighter. "Good." He was quiet for a long moment. 

"Jackie is going to freak when I confirm I added that little line to the song." Michael said. “He’ll want to know why I changed my mind.”

"Maybe it can be our secret," you suggested. “Just be friends, but fool around like this?”

He pressed a grateful kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah. Our secret." He yawned, a huge, unguarded yawn, and snuggled closer. 

"Don't go yet, okay? Just stay for a little while longer, I don’t want you to go back to being a voice on the phone or an image in my head.” 

You smiled with genuine excitement in your heart.

The phone rang at an odd hour, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of his bedroom. Michael picked up the receiver, his voice soft and uncertain. "Hello?"

"Hi... is this Michael?" Your voice came through the line, slightly breathless, like you'd been working up the courage to make this call for hours.

He blinked, sitting up straighter against the headboard. "Yes. Who is this?"

"Hi Yes, well, I'm sorry, I know this is strange. My name is Y/N. My father—he's a producer at Epic—he gave me your number. I promise I'm not some fan who broke into his office or anything." You let out a nervous little laugh, and something about it made the corner of his mouth twitch upward.

"Oh.. Well hi. And yes, I know your father quite well. He’s a great man." His tone was cautious but curious, not angry, his voice airy and highly pitched. Even more so than you had heard before in interviews.

"I know, he’s great, and he’s crazy about working with you," you admitted. "I just—I told him I felt like I needed to talk to you. He probably thought I was crazy. Maybe I am. But yeah. You know my dad, so don’t worry about me being a stranger, I guess."

There was a pause like he was mulling over putting the phone down, and then Michael asked, "Why… did you need to talk to me?"

You swallowed. "Because I saw that interview you did last month. The one where you talked about growing up in the industry and how it felt like you never got to just... be a kid… or a young adult. I feel the same, my dad moved us around a lot for his job, so i never got the childhood i deserved."

Silence on his end. Not quite the uncomfortable kind—the kind that said you'd struck something true in his heart. You had heard he had quite an old fashioned soul, really spoke from deep within.

"I've never had anyone say that to me so plainly before," he finally said, his voice even quieter than before. "Not someone who actually understood what I was talking about when I said i missed out on my childhood. Its odd to hear someone agreeing, actually."

"Then I'm glad I called." You smiled, curling the phone wire giddily in your hand.

The conversation flowed like water finding its natural course. You talked about childhoods that weren't really childhoods—yours spent hovering at the edges of your father's world, his spent at the center of a spotlight so bright it cast shadows everywhere else. 

You discovered you both loved old Cary Grant films, that neither of you could sleep before midnight, that loneliness felt like a second skin, a skin, you both needlessly tried to shed but couldn’t.

"You know what I think?" you said, curled up on your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. 

"I think the universe put us in each other's path. Too many coincidences for it to be random."

Michael laughed—his real laugh, breathy and bright, and you’d never heard it before. "You believe in fate?"

"Don't you?"

A pause. "I think I'm starting to. If I have my producer's cute daughter calling me this late. I’ve seen your pictures..." He said. “Your dad is proud of you, Miss training-to-be-a-nurse”

Your chest warmed at that. It was strange to think your father had sat across from this person — this boy who'd just spent twenty minutes debating the correct order to experience Fantasyland — and watched him become someone else entirely in a recording studio. A beast, your dad had called him. The kind who walked into a room and knew immediately when the string quartet had played their last note, who could hear a synth line once and tell you exactly why it was wrong. Someone who agitated his own vocal until it sat right, not because he was told to but because he simply knew.

You'd turned that over in your head for weeks after your father told you. The contradiction of it. Because nothing about Michael Jackson suggested beast. Everything suggested careful, considered, a little fragile around the edges; and tonight had confirmed it. 

He'd been so clipped at first, his answers arriving in small careful portions like he was rationing himself. You'd talked about The Shining, which he'd been watching alone in the big quiet house while his family were out, and somewhere in that conversation something had loosened. 

Then Disneyland, and he'd come fully alive, telling you about a replica Walt Disney World train set he kept, his voice losing every last trace of caution as he described it. He'd sounded like a kid. Like someone who'd never had to perform for a train set.

That was the contradiction your father hadn't mentioned. That the beast in the studio and the boy on the phone were the same person, separated by something you couldn't quite name.

By now his guard had come all the way down. You could hear it, the way he'd settled deeper into his pillows, the quiet rustle of silk against sheets, his voice sitting lower and easier than it had two hours ago.

"What are you doing right now?" you asked.

"Lying in bed. You?"

"Same." You smiled to yourself. "What are you wearing?"

A surprised little huff. "My pajamas. Why?"

"Hmm. What do they look like?"

"They're... blue. Silk."

"Sounds nice." You let your voice drop, just slightly—enough to shift the air between you. "I bet you look nice in them."

Michael's breath caught audibly. "That's—you don't have to—"

"I want to. Can I tell you something?"

"Yes. You may."

"I've been thinking about what you might look like up close and in person. What your hands might look like. The way your voice sounds right now, how low it's gotten." 

You rolled onto your back, staring at your ceiling. "Is that okay that I am thinking along those lines?"

The silence stretched. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "Yes." he almost whispered.

Your pulse kicked. "Good. Can you do something for me, Michael?"

"Maybe."

"Make yourself feel good, in this moment"

You heard the sharp intake of breath. "I—I don't—"

“You’ve never touched yourself?” you asked, shocked and incredulous. You found it hard to believe someone so sensual on stage and in recording had never been intimate with himself.

“No, I absolutely have, a lot - I mean, I can’t find a girlfriend the normal way so its hard.” He said back, almost stuttering over his words nervously.

“Well, I am a girl and I want to make you feel good. Even if it is over the phone. I feel compelled to” you said, a blush starting to form on your face.

Michael never replied, but you could hear his breathing quicken

"Okay, move your hand for me. Just put it on your chest. Over your heart. Can you feel how fast it's beating?"

A rustle of fabric, then a soft exhale. "Yes."

"That's because of me. Because I'm talking to you in this way. Which I doubt any other woman has yet?." You let your own hand drift down, fingertips tracing your collarbone.

 "Does it feel good? Having someone tell you what to do in a sexual way?"

Another long pause, but this one was weighted differently. He was thinking, not retreating. "I... no one's ever asked me that before or spoke to me so plainly"

"Ask yourself. Right now. Does it?"

His answer came out barely above a whisper: "Yes."

"Okay. I want you to slide your hand down. Slowly. Over your stomach."

Fabric rustled. His breathing changed, became shallower. You could picture him—long, beautiful fingers tracing his own skin, that honey skin tone and his beautiful face flushed in the dim light of his bedroom.

"Are you doing it?"

"I am." The word was almost a sigh.

"Keep going. Until you're touching yourself over your pajamas. Don't go underneath yet."

A strangled sound escaped him—half protest, half something else entirely. You heard him shift, the creak of his mattress, then the distinct rhythm of his breath turning ragged.

"There you go," you murmured. "Feel that? That's for me. You’re doing this for me."

"Y/N—" His voice cracked on the syllables. "This is—I shouldn't—"

"You can stop whenever you want. But you don't want to stop, do you?"

Quiet. A shaky exhale. "No."

"Tell me."

"I don't want to stop."

The admission hung between you, electric and trembling. You slid your own hand lower, fingers dipping beneath your waistband, finding the heat that had been building for the past hour.

"I want you to go under now," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Take yourself in your hand. Don't stroke yet—just hold. Feel how hard you are for me”

The whimper he let out sent a jolt straight through you. You heard him obey—the subtle sound of silk being pushed aside, his breath hitching as he wrapped his fingers around himself.

"Good," you breathed. "Now I want you to stroke. Slowly. Just the way you like when you're alone in bed, when no one can hear you."

He groaned, and the sound was exquisite—raw and unguarded, nothing like the polished performer the world knew. This was him, stripped bare. "Ahh—"

"Does it feel good?"

"Yes— It feels more dirty doing it with someone on the line" His hand started moving faster, and you could hear it now—the slick, rhythmic sound of him pleasuring himself, punctuated by those desperate little gasps he couldn't seem to control.

"Slower," you commanded. "I didn't say you could go fast."

A frustrated noise, but he obeyed. You could picture his hand moving in long, deliberate strokes—him biting his lip to keep from crying out.

"Y/N, please—" The word was ragged, almost pleading.

"Please what?"

"Tell me—tell me what you're doing. I want to imagine it.”

Your fingers moved inside yourself, your slick warmth clenching around your slim fingers, and your voice came out shakier than you intended. 

"I'm touching myself too. Thinking about your hands on me instead of my own."

"Gods—" The profanity startled you both, spilling from his lips like he couldn't hold it back. 

"Are you—inside?"

"Mmhm. Two fingers. Wishing it was you, filling me up"

The sound he made was somewhere between a moan and a whine, his restraint crumbling audibly. "Want to feel you—want to be inside you so badly— I’d fill you up"

"Then earn it. Keep stroking. Faster now." you said, your hands moving faster on your heat. “And don’t be quiet, Michael. I want to hear that voice of yours.”

His rhythm picked up immediately, desperate and uneven. You could hear the wet sound of his fist sliding over himself, the slap of it, his breath coming in sharp bursts. "Hahh—ngh—I'm—gonna come on myself if you keep talking to me like that. So- so dirty and honest"

"Not yet," you whined, even though your own body was trembling on the edge. 

"Y-you don't come until I say so, Michael."

A full-body shudder seemed to pass through him, audible even over the phone. "Ugh, Please, I can't—you're making me—"

"You can. You will." You pressed deeper, your thumb finding that spot that made your vision white out. "Tell me how badly you want it."

"I want to be inside you so deep—want to hear you say my name when you come—I- god, I—want to fill you up and watch you fall apart for me—" The words tumbled out like he'd been holding them behind a dam, dirty and raw and so at odds with the shy man who'd answered the phone two hours ago.

Your back arched, your fingers working furiously. "Michael—oh—"

"That's it, say my name—let me hear you—"

"Michael—oh—" The orgasm ripped through you without warning, your walls clenching hard around your fingers, your thighs snapping shut as you rode out the waves. You couldn't hold back the moan that spilled from your lips—guttural and uncontrolled and so, so loud in the quiet of your bedroom.

You heard him make a sound like he'd been punched—broken and desperate. "Oh god—d-did you just—did you come? Did you actually just—"

"Mmhm," you managed, still trembling, your voice wrecked. "So hard, Michael. Came so hard for you."

"Oh f-fuck—" The word came out stuttered, reverent, like he'd never said it before in this context and wasn't sure he was allowed. "I've never—no one's ever—that was the most intense thing I've ever heard in my entire life, I—"

He was still stroking, you could hear it—the slick, obscene sound of his fist working his shaft, faster now, more urgent. His breathing had gone completely ragged, punctuated by these tiny whimpering moans he seemed to be trying to swallow.

"Don't stop," you breathed, coming down slowly, your body still pulsing with aftershocks. "Keep touching yourself. I want to hear you finish."

"I've never had anyone listen to me before," he admitted, his voice thin and strained. "When I'm alone I have to be so quiet, my brothers are always in the next room and I—ngh—I always imagine someone wanting to hear me, wanting to know what I sound like when I lose control and I—"

"And what do you sound like, Michael?" You rolled onto your side, pressing the phone tight against your ear. "Let me hear the real you."

A broken gasp. His hand sped up, the wet sounds growing louder, more rhythmic. 

"I sound like—hahh—like this. Like I can't breathe. Like I'm losing my mind over someone I've never even met and it's—it's driving me insane—"

"Tell me what you're thinking about. Right now. What's making you so turned on?"

"I'm thinking about—" He broke off with a whine, and you could hear him struggling, his shyness warring with the pleasure coiling tight in his belly. "I'm thinking about your fingers inside you. How wet you must be. That you are a complete stranger. That I am unraveling for.” You could hear him gasping for breath, the phone was so close to his mouth. 

“I want to—I want to taste it. I want to put my mouth on you and lick you until you're screaming my name again and again—"

"Michael—"

"No one's ever let me—" His voice cracked, raw and exposed. "I've thought about it so much. Going down on a woman. Having her grab my hair and use my face and I just—oh god, I'm so close, Y/N, I'm so close—"

"Then tell me what else you'd do to me." You slipped your fingers back inside yourself, still slick and sensitive, and the sensation made you gasp. 

"Tell me everything. Don't be shy anymore."

A shuddering exhale. "I want to—I want to push into you so slowly. Make you feel every inch." 

He was babbling now, the words tumbling out faster than he could filter them. "I want to watch your face when I first enter you, when you feel how hard I am for you. I've never—I've never been inside anyone before and I want it to be you, I want you to be the first pussy I ever feel clenching around my cock and I—"

He stopped abruptly, and you could practically hear him blushing through the phone. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said—that word—I—"

"Don't apologize. We’re in the moment" You were grinding against your own hand now, impossibly turned on again. "Say it again."

"I want to—" He swallowed hard. 

"I want to feel your pussy around me. Is that—is that okay to say? It feels so dirty when I say it out loud. Dirtier than when I think it alone in my bed. It makes me even harder, knowing you're hearing me say these words."

"Good. Keep going. What else would you do?"

"I'd—I'd flip you over." His voice dropped lower, gaining confidence even as it shook with need. "Pin you down. Take you from behind so I could watch you—watch your body move every time I thrust into you. Would you like that? Would you let me be a little rough with you?"

"Yes," you moaned. "God, yes."

"I've never been rough before. I've never even had the chance to find out what I like but I think—I think I'd like that. Holding you down. Making you take it. Feeling you get wetter and wetter every time I—every time my hips snap against your ass and I can hear the sound of our skin slapping together—"

"Fuck, Michael—"

"Am I doing this right?" he asked suddenly, his voice turning vulnerable again, that sweet uncertainty creeping back in. 

"Am I—am I being sexy enough? I don't know what I'm doing, I've never talked to anyone like this and I—"

"You're perfect," you gasped. "You're so fucking perfect, don't you dare stop."

"Really?" The word came out like a prayer, awed and disbelieving. 

"You really think—no one's ever told me I was—I'm always too quiet, too soft, too weird but when you say it like that I almost believe I could be—"

"You could be what? Tell me."

"Good at this." His rhythm faltered, growing erratic. 

"Good at making you feel good. I've imagined it so many times, practiced in my head what I'd say if I ever had a woman who wanted me to talk to her while I touched her and ahh—hahh—now that I'm actually doing it I can't stop, the words just keep coming out and they're so filthy but it feels so right when you're listening—"

"Because you were made for this." You pressed your palm against your mound, grinding in tight circles. 

"The shy boy who says the filthiest things when the lights go out."

"Oh god—oh god oh god—" His breathing had reached a pitch of desperation, each exhale a miniature moan he couldn't seem to contain. 

"I'm gonna—I can't hold it anymore, please, Y/N, please let me come, I'll do anything, I'll say anything you want, just please—"

"Tell me something you've never told anyone."

"I think about—ngh—I think about someone watching me. While I touch myself. I want them to see how desperate I get, how pathetic I look when I'm chasing my release and I can't find it and I'm whimpering and begging and—I want them to see what you've done to me. I want you to see what you've done to me."

"Michael, come for me."

The sound he made, this raw, transcendent keen that seemed to tear itself from somewhere deep in his chest, would stay with you forever. You heard the rhythm of his hand stutter, then seize, then stop entirely as he let out a strangled series of moans, each one higher than the last.

"Oh—oh fuck, I'm—Y/N, I'm coming, a-all all over my stomach, it's so much, you made me come so much, I—ahhh—mmph—" It sounded like the receiver dropped for a moment

"Michael," you whispered, and you came again too, your second orgasm rolling through you softer but no less devastating than the first.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe. 

His gasps were ragged and uneven, yours shaky and light, and the silence between you felt sacred somehow.

Then, so quietly you almost missed it: "That was... that was my first time. Doing that with someone."

"Really?"

"I've never trusted anyone enough to let them hear me like that." You could hear him shifting, probably reaching for something to clean himself with. "I can't believe some of the things I said. It felt good to do it though.  Did I really call it my—my cock?"

You laughed, warm and genuine. "You did."

"Oh god." A soft thump, like he'd dropped his head back against the pillow. "I've never even said that word out loud before. Not in that context. I’ve heard it in porn films. And… I said I wanted to feel your—your—"

"Pussy," you supplied helpfully.

He made a noise like he was dying. "Please don't say it again. I am going to die of embarrassment when I wake up in the morning and realise how vulnerable I have been with you on the phone tonight.”

"Don't you dare be embarrassed." You rolled onto your stomach, pressing the phone against your ear like you could somehow get closer to him through it. 

"Michael, that was beautiful."

"Beautiful?" You heard the skepticism in his voice, the way he couldn't quite believe you meant it. "I sounded like... I don't know. Some kind of animal."

"You sounded like someone who felt good. Someone who let himself feel good for maybe the first time." You traced idle patterns on your sheets, your body still humming. "That's not embarrassing. It's normal to want release Sometimes you just need a good excuse to get it."

He was quiet for a moment, and you could hear him moving—probably pulling his pajamas back into place, wiping his stomach with whatever he'd grabbed. The domestic reality of the aftermath, the part they never showed in movies.

"I can't believe my father's BIGGEST artist just came while thinking about me," you said, a smile in your voice. "The Epic and CBS executives would have a heart attack if they were somehow to know."

"Oh, stop." But you could hear him smiling too now, that shy little laugh escaping him. "You're going to give me a complex. I'm never going to be able to look your father in the eye again."

"He'll just think you're being your usual quiet self. Little does he know his star performer has quite the mouth on him when he wants to."

"Y/N!" The indignation in his voice was undercut entirely by the laugh he couldn't suppress. "You're terrible. You're absolutely terrible and I—"

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened. "I really liked talking to you. Before the... you know. And after. I like your voice."

"I like yours." You hugged your pillow closer. "Even more now that I know what it sounds like when you fall apart."

A soft groan. "You're not going to let me live this down, are you?"

"Not ever."

You heard him shift again, settling back into his pillows, and the intimacy of the sound struck you—how domestic this was, how comfortable, for two people who had never even seen each other in person.

"When can I see you?" The question slipped out before you could second-guess it.

Michael went still. "You want to see me? After... I mean, you've heard me now. You know I'm not exactly—"

"Michael." You cut him off firmly. "I want to see you. I want to sit across from you and watch your face when you talk. I want to know if you gesture with your hands when you get excited about something. I want to see your Walt Disney World toy train set in person. I want to feel what its like to cuddle up next to you on the couch whilst we watch a scary movie. I want to see what you look like when you blush, because I have a feeling you're blushing right now."

"I am not," he lied, his voice pitching higher in that way that told you he absolutely was.

"Liar."

"Maybe a little." A pause. "I'm free this Saturday. If you wanted to—maybe we could get coffee? Or tea? I don't really drink coffee. It makes me jittery."

"Tea sounds perfect." Your heart was pounding again, but this time with anticipation, not nerves. He’d finally see you in the flesh and not just in picture, or your voice on the other end of the receiver.

"There's a little place in Studio City. Very quiet, very private. No one would bother us." You spoke up after a brief moment of silent thought.

"How do you know I don't want people to bother us?" His tone was teasing now, surprising you both. "I'm a superstar, you know. I have an image to maintain."

"Is that right? Because from what I just heard, superstar, you—"

"If you finish that sentence, I'm hanging up this phone and changing my number and telling your father you're delusional."

You laughed, bright and real and full of something that felt dangerously close to hope. "Fine, fine. I'll be good."

"I sincerely doubt that."

Saturday felt impossibly far away. You had three days to get through, three days of classes and shifts at the hospital and pretending you were a normal person when all you could think about was the boy with the honey voice who'd whispered filthy things in your ear like he'd been waiting his whole life for someone to listen.

"Y/N?" His voice pulled you back to the present.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For calling. For removing me from my mundane and lonely reality. It isn’t all its cracked up to be… being famous." He said it so earnestly, so sweetly, that your chest ached with it. 

"I've never felt this comfortable with someone. Usually I'm so worried about saying the wrong thing, or being too weird, or making people feel awkward—"

"You could never make me feel awkward, Michael."

"No?" You could hear the smile in his voice, that tentative hope blooming again. "Not even when I said I wanted to—"

"Okay, goodnight, Michael!" you half yelled, feeling embarrassment gurgle in your belly once more. You didn’t want to rehash just how dirty you had both been.

His laugh was your favorite sound now—bright and breathy and completely unguarded. You wanted to bottle it. You wanted to fall asleep to it every single night.

"Goodnight, Y/N." A pause, weighted with everything neither of you knew how to say yet. 

"Dream of me?"

"Only if you dream of me."

"I already know I will." And then, softer: "I think I started the moment you said hello."

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“Jimin—”

Jimin!

Jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin.

—Jimin jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin… jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin.

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“Jimin.”

Jimin jimin.

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Jimin jimin jimin.

—Jimin.

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“Jimin…”

Jimin jimin.

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“Jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin.

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Jimin Jimin. Jimin jimin.

“Jimin…”

Jimin.

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“Jimin.”

Jimin jimin jimin.

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Jimin… Jimin jimin jimin

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“Jimin… jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

“Jimin?.”

Jimin jimin.

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin. “Jimin… jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin… jimin?”

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin.

Jimin.

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin. Jimin jimin. Jimin. Jimin… Jimin. Jimin!

“Jimin… jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin, jimin jimin.

… Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin jimin jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?” Jimin. “Jimin?”

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin… jimin, jimin jimin jimin.

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin. Jimin… Jimin?. Jimin jimin jimin jimin. Jimin. Jimin. Jimin. Jimin… Jimin?

“Jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin!”

Jimin!

Jimin. Jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin.”

“Jimin… jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin…”

Jimin, jimin jimin.

“Jimin! Jimin. Jimin… jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin. Jimin— jimin?”

Jimin.

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin. Jimin jimin jimin jimin. Jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin jimin jimin jimin.”

Jimin… jimin.

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin.

—Jimin, jimin jimin.

“Jimin… jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin.”

Jimin.

“Jimin jimin jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin?.”

Jimin.

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin. Jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin. Jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin.

“Jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin!”

Jimin!

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Jimin.

“Jimin… jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin…”

Jimin, jimin jimin. Jimin. Jimin, jimin jimin.

“Jimin. Jimin jimin, jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin— jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin.

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“Jimin.”

Jimin… jimin.

Jimin.

Jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin, jimin jimin jimin jimin—

…Jimin.

“Jimin… jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin jimin?”

Jimin.

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Jimin jimin.

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“Jimin.”

Jimin.

Park Jimin.

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… Jimin.

“Jimin… jimin.”

Jimin.

Jimin.

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“Jimin—”

Jimin.

“Jimin.”

Park Jimin.

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Shelves crowd the walls, filled with labelled jars that don’t all have honest names. Dried herbs hang upside-down from strings, and there’s wax melted into every possible surface, and a faint shimmer in the air that makes the whole room look a bit dream-like.

You stir clockwise twice, and whisper a few words under your breath, watching as the surface of the potion shifts from deep crimson to a lazy pink. “There we go,” you mutter to yourself with satisfaction. “Finally behaving.”

From the couch behind you comes a loud, bored groan.

“You talk to that thing more than you talk to me,” Jungkook says, his voice muffled by what sounds like a mouthful of chips.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s sprawled across your old couch, one leg hanging off, a crisp bag balanced on his chest. His hair’s a little messy, and there’s an open sketchbook somewhere near his feet that you know he hasn’t touched in an hour.

“Because that ‘thing’ isn’t annoying and doesn’t interrupt me every five seconds,” you say, turning back to the cauldron.

“I’m helping,” he insists, lazily pointing a finger at the bubbling mixture. “What is that one for again? Love spell? Truth serum? Anti-aging for the rich lady downstairs?” His voice drops a tone. "I swear she's older than this building."

“Not telling,” you reply. “Client confidentiality. And she’s not older than the building, she just acts like it.”

Jungkook laughs, the sound soft and genuine. “You’re probably making a love potion or something, selling fake feelings for money.”

“Not fake,” you correct him, arching a brow. “Just chemically encouraged.”

“That’s worse.”

You shrug. “Pays better.”

He throws a chip at you. It lands in the cauldron, dissolving instantly with a hiss. You both freeze.

“That wasn’t important, right?” he says.

You stare at the surface, waiting for any catastrophic reaction. When it stays calm, you exhale. “You’re lucky this brew’s forgiving,” you say, pointing the wooden spoon at him. “If that had been wolf's bane—”

“—I’d be dead,” he finishes, grinning. “Yeah, yeah, you say that every time.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to your work. The potion has settled into a faint shimmer, its colour brightening toward a delicate, rosy pink.

Behind you, Jungkook shifts, the couch creaking. “Hey, you got water or something?”

“On the counter,” you say, not looking up. “The one with the blue cap.”

“Cool.”

You hear him get up, his socks dragging against the carpet on the floor and you cringe at the sound. You don't think twice as he twists the bottle cap open and gulp down the liquid; your attention’s on the delicate timing of the final stir.

Well, at least until the cap hits the counter with a soft click.

“Why’s your water kinda pink?”

You freeze mid-stir. The spoon hangs above the cauldron, dripping a slow ribbon of potion back into the mix. You turn your head slightly, dread settling in the pits of your stomach.

“What?”

Jungkook’s standing by the counter, bottle in hand, squinting down at it. “Your water. It’s a bit pink.”

The spoon clatters onto the counter as you spin around. “You drank it?”

He blinks. “Yeah? You said it was water.”

"Why, on God's green earth, would you drink water that is pink?"

“I mean, it’s your kitchen,” he says defensively, voice rising a key to match your own. “Didn’t think you kept poison next to the bread.”

“Oh my god, you absolute—” You cut yourself off, running a hand down your face. The scent of sugar and herbs cling to your skin. “Kook, that wasn’t fucking water. That was a philtre.”

"I have no idea what a philtre is."

After almost a decade of friendship and constant lingering around your house while you cook up different solutions, it astonishes you how little he truly knows about your line of work.

You let out an exasperated sigh.

"It's like— it's basically a drug that induces love, and desire and stuff." The last few words roll off your tongue as a mumble.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not in the mood to joke.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence. “So what now? I’m gonna fall in love with the next person I see?” An incredulous grin spreads across his lips and it makes you want to slap it off.

“Technically, yes,” you say, voice flat. “Except it's not gonna be as strong because you’re not supposed to drink it in that form, you were supposed to dilute it, so now I have to make an entirely new batch, which, by the way, costs time and ingredients that aren’t cheap.” Jungkook lets out a small sigh of relief as you gesture at the cauldron, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. “I had that one perfectly balanced. Do you even know how hard it is to get powdered rose quartz to dissolve evenly?”

“Tragic,” he says, clearly holding back a laugh.

“Don’t,” you warn.

He raises his hands. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s the universe’s way of testing your product. Quality assurance.”

“Uh-huh,” you mutter, snatching a rag to wipe the counter. “How do you feel?”

“Fine."

“Any dizziness? Warmth? Sudden need to write me a sonnet?”

He snorts. “Do people still write sonnets?”

You shoot him a look. “Jungkook.”

He scratches the back of his neck, thinking about it for a second. “No, nothing. Maybe a little thirsty still, but I think that’s just because you yelled at me.”

You stare at him a moment longer, trying to decide if you’re relieved or suspicious. His face is relaxed, eyes steady, no sign of pink tint in the irises, which is usually the first giveaway.

“Guess I must’ve screwed something up,” you mumble. “That potion was supposed to hit instantly. Subtle, since you didn't do it properly, but instant.”

“Wow, so you’re not just a witch,” he says. “You’re a bad one.”

You grab the nearest spoon and point it at him. “You’re not allowed to mock me while you’re potentially under a spell, understood?”

He smirks. “Oh, so you do want me to be in love with you. Noted.”

“Don’t make me curse you.”

He laughs and props himself up onto one of the few free and clean spaces among your counters.

You go back to stirring the cauldron, trying to remeasure ingredients in your head. The potion isn’t ruined, exactly, but it’s useless now that you can’t replicate the exact ratios. You’ll have to start over. The thought alone makes your jaw clench.

Jungkook hums a tune you don’t recognise. He’s tapping his fingers against the side of his leg, the rhythm lazy.

“You’re way too calm for someone who might’ve just lost their free will,” you mutter.

“Maybe I trust you,” he says.

“Yeah, well, don’t,” you reply. “Clearly I’m not as good at this as I thought.”

He leans his head back on the counters, eyes half-closed. “If you want, I can tell you if I start to feel any romantic inclinations. I’ll keep a journal or something. ‘Day one: still hate her cooking.’”

“Please do. It’ll make great marketing material.”

“‘Day two: uncontrollable urge to compliment her potion skills.’”

You throw a dried lavender stem at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands in the folds of his hoodie.

He grins again. You hate how he knows exactly how to push you to the edge of your patience. Honestly, you almost admire it — almost.

“Go drink some actual water,” you tell him. “From the tap. No bottles. No jars. Nothing glowing.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gives you a mock salute before shuffling toward the sink, humming as he goes.

You turn back to your cauldron, watching the potion roll lazily against the edges, the pink surface reflecting soft light across your worktable. You should be focused — you want to be — but your attention keeps drifting to the sound of him moving behind you.

You tell yourself you’re only watching to make sure he doesn’t break anything else.

At first, it’s quiet again. Just the steady burble of the cauldron and the low hum of the air conditioner fighting a losing battle against the heat. You’re weighing dried petals into a small brass bowl when Jungkook starts talking.

It’s not unusual for him to fill the silence, but this time there’s something relentless about it.

“So,” he says, voice a little too quick, “when you make these potions— do you ever test them yourself first? Like quality control? Or do you just trust your math?”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s pacing now, hands moving as he talks, the energy rolling off him in little waves. “Depends on what it is,” you say cautiously. “Why?”

“Just curious,” he says, still moving. “Because that one looked kinda cool, actually. The colour, I mean. Like those galaxy drinks people used to make. Remember those? The ones that were supposed to taste like stardust or whatever?”

“Vaguely.”

“I tried to make one once,” he says, half laughing. “Ended up staining the kitchen counter blue for a month. My mom said it looked like an alien crime scene.”

You arch a brow. “You good over there?”

“Yeah, yeah, just—” He stops pacing, pulls at the collar of his hoodie. “Is it just me or is it really hot in here?”

You blink. “It’s always hot in here.”

“No, but like— really hot.” He fans himself with one hand. “Do you have the heat on? Because if you’re trying to turn this place into a sauna, it’s working.”

“It’s the cauldron,” you say, frowning. “It’s giving off heat.”

Jungkook drags his palm down his face, muttering something under his breath. There’s a flush climbing his neck, and a sheen of sweat beginning to build at his temples.

“Maybe sit down,” you suggest. “You’re looking kind of—”

“I’m fine,” he cuts in quickly, but he doesn’t sound convinced. He moves toward the couch, then changes his mind halfway and walks back the counter instead. His movements are restless, like he can’t quite settle. “I don’t know what’s up, though. My heart’s going a mile a minute. It’s not— it’s not the potion, right? Because you said it didn’t work.”

You set your spoon down carefully. “I thought it didn’t.”

“Well, I’m definitely feeling something.”

You study him, trying to read the signs. There’s no pink hue in his eyes, no glazed look — none of the typical philtre markers. But there’s no denying he’s flushed, his skin warm enough that you can almost feel it from across the room.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “Describe it.”

He gestures vaguely. “Just… hot. My chest feels weird.”

“That’s not how a love potion works,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. “You’re supposed to feel drawn to someone. Emotionally. Not whatever this is.”

“Maybe I am feeling drawn,” he says, almost laughing at the absurdity. “To the fridge. Because I swear I could drink all the water in there right now.”

You snort despite yourself. “Not the bottled ones.”

He gives you a half-hearted glare and drops onto the couch again, running his hands through his hair. “This is insane. Are you sure you didn’t accidentally poison me?”

“I don’t poison people,” you reply automatically. “On purpose.”

He laughs weakly, but the sound edges into a groan. His head tips back against the couch cushion, eyes closed.

You wipe your hands on a towel and cross the room. “Let me see that bottle.”

He gestures vaguely toward the counter. You pick it up and hold it up to the light. The faint blush of colour along the glass doesn't look right. It's not pink, but a deeper, almost reddish-purple.

You stare at the bottle for a long moment, your brow furrowing as the colour shifts under the light, until your face twists, halfway between disbelief and horror.

“Oh, for— Jungkook, you idiot!”

His head snaps up. “What? What’d I do now?”

You lift the bottle, squinting at it. “This isn’t pink, it’s magenta.”

He blinks. “Okay? And that means what exactly?”

You hesitate, your mouth opening and closing once before you manage, “It— uh— it means you didn’t… you didn’t drink a philtre.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” You don’t reply. He tilts his head, wary. “So then what did I drink?”

You clear your throat, your voice coming out a little higher than intended. “An— uh… an aphrodisiac.”

Jungkook's eyes widen for a split second as he processes your words. Then he lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he shifts on the couch. "Oh," he says. "That actually makes a lot of sense now."

You curse under your breath, the word slipping out sharp and frustrated as you set the bottle down harder than intended. The glass clinks against a jar of dried lavender, echoing in the quiet hum of your kitchen. "Shit, Kook, I'm sorry. I should've labelled everything properly— pink for the love stuff, something else for this mess. I got caught up in the brewing and just fucked up." Guilt coils tight in your stomach.

He waves a hand dismissively, though his movements are a little jerky. "Nah, it's fine. Really. I'll just head home, you know? Deal with it there until it passes, or something."

He stands up from the couch, grabbing his jacket from the armrest, but even as he says it, his voice wavers, lacking the easy confidence he usually pulls off so well. The grey sweats he's wearing — ones he threw on earlier when he crashed at your place after a long day — do nothing to hide the way his body is betraying him. The fabric tents obviously at his crotch, the outline of his hard-on pressing against the soft material, impossible to ignore now that he's on his feet.

You shake your head quickly, stepping forward to block his path without thinking, your hand hovering like you want to grab his arm but aren't sure if you should. "Wait, no. That's not how this works. You can't just go home and jerk off or something. This stuff is potent. I'll amp everything up, make it worse if you try to ignore it or push through alone. Trust me, I had to read about it a lot before making it." Your words tumble out, laced with worry, but your eyes flick down involuntarily, catching the full evidence of his arousal.

Heat rushes to your face, but you force yourself to meet his gaze again, determined not to make this more awkward than it already is.

Jungkook pauses mid-step, his jacket dangling from one hand, and you can see the internal battle playing out on his face — the flush deepening on his cheeks, the way his free hand clenches at his side. He glances toward the door, then back at you, his breathing a touch uneven. 'Then what? You gonna brew me a cure or something?' There's a hint of hope in his voice.

Your mind races to the antidote idea, fingers itching to dive back into your shelves of ingredients. You've got the basics — valerian root for calming, maybe some willow bark to counter the heat — but the exact ratios? The incantation to bind it without side effects? It's fuzzy, half-remembered from an old book you haven't cracked open in months.

Brewing it now would be a gamble, especially with him standing there, looking more uncomfortable by the second. One wrong herb, and you could leave him nauseous or worse, zapped out for days.

Fuck.

You watch him for a beat longer, noting how he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. It's distracting, stirring a mix of concern and something warmer, more complicated, that you've shoved down for years under the safety of friendship.

But this is your fault, and walking away isn't you.

"Jungkook, just sit back down for a second, okay?' Your voice comes out softer than you mean, almost pleading, as you gesture to the couch. He hesitates, eyes searching yours, but he drops the jacket and sinks back onto the cushions, thighs spreading slightly in a way that only accentuates the problem.

The room feels smaller now, the air almost thick enough to cut. You perch on the edge of the coffee table, close enough that your knees nearly brush his, and take a steadying breath.

You have an idea, but it's stupid. So incredibly stupid and unprofessional and everything you know you shouldn't be doing. But really, what else is there you can do besides the obvious solution?

"Look, we're best friends, right? Have been forever. And this is partially my screw-up— I put you in this spot. So, I could help out, if you want. You know, take the edge off. Make it easier until it wears down naturally."

Your heart thuds against your ribs as the offer hands in the air, but you keep your expression steady.

Jungkook stares at you, his dark eyes wide and unblinking, the dilated pupils making them look almost black in the low light. His mouth parts slightly, then closes, and you can practically see the conflict flickering.

"Fuck, ___," he finally breathes, voice rough and low, dragging a hand down his face as if to clear his head. "You're not making this any easier, you know that? Talking like that... shit." He shifts again, wincing as the movement sends a jolt through him, his hand hovering near his lap before dropping away.

But you're not backing down, not when you can see how much he's struggling, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster. "I'm serious," you say quietly, leaning in just a fraction, your hand resting lightly on his knee to ground him. "Obviously, I'm not going to force you to anything. But if it helps, then I want to. For you."

He pauses, the silence stretching taut, his gaze locked on yours with an intensity that makes your pulse skip until finally, he mutters, "Fuck, yeah okay. O-only if you're sure."

Almost as if to prove that you genuinely don't mind, you move forward to press your lips to his.

Immediately, his hands cup your face as his lips press firm against yours. It's hesitant at first, and you can taste the faint salt from the chips, but it deepens quickly. His tongue slips past your lips as a low groan rumbles from his chest. The aphrodisiac might be driving him, but the way he holds you, careful even in his need, feels entirely like him.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his hoodie as you steady yourself. He's trembling slightly under your touch, and coils of guilt in your stomach slowly slip away, replaced by desire.

Jungkook pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded with need. His hands slide from your face to your arms, gripping lightly as if to anchor himself. You can feel the heat radiating off him, his body pressed close on the couch, that insistent hardness in his sweats brushing against your thigh. It's impossible to ignore, especially as he shifts to seek some sort of friction.

You gently push him back against the cushions. He goes willingly, thighs parting as he leans into the corner of the couch, watching you with wide, expectant eyes. The grey sweats cling to his hips, the bulge there even more pronounced now. A small damp spot has formed at the tip, evidence of how worked up he already is. Your mouth goes dry at the sight, but you swallow it down.

"Let me take care of you, yeah?” you whisper, your hands trailing down his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath your palms. He nods, a soft sigh escaping his lips as your fingers hook into the waistband of his sweats.

You slide the sweats down slowly, inch by inch, revealing the dark trail of hair leading down to his erection. He lifts his hips to help, a whimper slipping out as the cool air hits his skin. His cock springs free, thick and flushed, the head already glistening with pre-cum.

You pause for a second and he shifts restlessly, thighs tensing on either side of your shoulders. "___, please," he breathes, the whine in his voice more pronounced now. His eyes lock on yours, pleading silently as another bead of pre-cum wells at the tip and slides down.

You lean in, hands gripping his hips to hold him steady. You start slow, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of his thigh, feeling the muscle jump under your lips. He gasps, head falling back against the couch, and you trail higher, lips brushing the sensitive skin near his base.

Your tongue darts out, licking a slow stripe up the underside of his cock. He tastes salty, warm, and you savour the way he shivers, swirling your tongue around the tip.

"Oh fuck," Jungkook moans, his voice cracking into a whine as his hips buck involuntarily. One hand snakes it's way into your hair while the other lazily presses over his mouth.

You hum in acknowledgment, the vibration making him shudder, and wrap your lips around the head, sucking gently. Your cheeks hollow as you take him deeper, inch by inch, your tongue pressing flat against the vein running along the bottom. He's thick enough that your jaw stretches, but you relax into it, bobbing your head slowly.

Your saliva builds, slicking him up as you work, and you pull back with a wet pop, only to dive down again, taking more this time. His cock hits the back of your throat, and you swallow around him, the constriction drawing a long, drawn-out whine from his chest.

"Shit, you're so good at this,' he pants, voice high and breathy. You glance up, attempting to meet his gaze, but his eyes are squeezed shut now, brows furrowed in pleasure. The aphrodisiac has him hypersensitive; every swirl of your tongue, every suck, pulls another soft whimper from him. You set a languid rhythm, not rushing, letting the tension build gently.

You move your hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm, feeling them tighten under your touch. He groans louder. "Please, don't stop— feels too fucking good."

You oblige, hollowing your cheeks again as you take him fully, nose brushing his pubic bone. Your own arousal builds at the desperate noises he makes and you squeeze your thighs together.

You pull off for a breath, strings of saliva connecting your lips to his cock, and stroke him with your hand, twisting at the head.

You know that the potion makes every sensation electric and at least five times more amplified, but seeing it in person is almost fascinating.

Your free hand digs into his thigh as you take him into your mouth again, nails leaving faint marks, grounding him as he starts to thrust shallowly into your mouth, unable to help himself. "Gonna... oh fuck, your tongue," he whines, the words tumbling out between gasps.

The room fills with the sounds of wet slurps and his moans that echo off the walls. You can feel him swelling thicker against your tongue, and your movements grow faster, determined to push him over the edge. His hips stutter upward, chasing the heat of your mouth, and you hum encouragingly.

But just as you sense he's teetering on the brink, Jungkook's voice cuts through, ragged and urgent.

"Wait— no," he gasps, his body tensing sharply under your hands.

You pull off his cock immediately, concern flooding you as you lift your head, saliva-slick lips still tingling from the taste of him. His cock bobs free, flushed and glistening.

You wipe your chin quickly, eyes searching his face — his brows are pinched, eyes wide and glassy with arousal, but there's something pleading in them now, not just need.

"What's wrong?" you ask softly, your voice a little hoarse from the effort.

He swallows hard. "I... I wanna feel you," he murmurs, the words tumbling out in a whine that's equal parts desperation and vulnerability. His gaze locks onto yours, dark and intense, pupils blown wide, making him look utterly wrecked. You'll admit, it's a hell of a pretty sight. "Not just this. Please, ___, let me touch you."

Your heart stutters, the weight of his stare making resistance impossible. How can you say no when he's looking at you like that with that fucked out expression?

"Okay," you whisper, nodding as you shift back on your knees.

Jungkook moves like he's been holding back a storm. His fingers cup your face immediately, palms warm and slightly rough against your cheeks, pulling you into a kiss that has your knees weak. You melt into it, hands bracing on his shoulders for balance, the kiss turning sloppy and heated as your breaths mingle in short, needy pants.

He doesn't let go as you break for air, his grip sliding to your neck, thumb stroking your jaw. "C'mere," he breathes against your lips, voice husky and commanding in its softness. You rise slowly, knees aching from the carpet, and he guides you onto his lap.

Your thighs straddle his as you settle over him. The heat of his bare skin seeps through your clothes, his hard cock pressing insistently against your core through the fabric of your pants. It sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine that you desperetly want to chase. You rock forward instinctively, grinding down just once, and he hisses, hands tightening on your hips.

Your fingers find the hem of his hoodie and tug it upward slowly, savouring the reveal — the way his muscles flex under your touch, the faint sheen of sweat making his skin glow. He lifts his arms to help, the thick fabric peeling off over his head in one fluid motion, leaving him almost fully bare.

His chest is broad and defined, nipples pebbled from the arousal coursing through him. You trace your hands over the planes of it, feeling his heartbeat thunder beneath your palms. Jungkook watches you with hooded eyes, a soft sound escaping as your nails drag lightly down his sides.

You press a kiss his collarbone, tasting the salt of his skin. But he's impatient now, hands roaming up your back under your shirt, bunching the fabric as he tugs at it.

"Off," he says, voice a low plea, and you oblige, pulling your top over your head and tossing it aside. The air hits your bare skin, leaving your breasts exposed to his hungry gaze. His eyes darken further, a flush creeping up his neck as he stares, then reaches up to cup them.

You arch into his touch, a quiet moan slipping out as he rolls your nipples between his fingers, pinching just enough to make you gasp. Jungkook's breath hitches, his cock twitching against you, and he pulls you closer.

His mouth latches onto one breast with a reverence that borders on worship. His lips seal around your nipple, sucking gently at first, tongue flicking in slow, wet circles that send sparks straight to your core. You thread your fingers into his hair, holding him there as he works, pulling deeper until it borders on ache.

He hums before switching to the other side, giving it the same lewd attention. His hips shift beneath you, grinding up in shallow rolls that press his length along your clothed slit. The friction is fucking maddening.

His hands roam lower, gripping your ass to pull you flush before slipping his fingers past the waistband of your pants.

You let out a shaky sigh of pleasure as he slowly circles your clit through your panties. The fabric is already damp, clinging to your folds, and every gentle stroke sends fresh sparks racing through you. Jungkook's breath is hot against your neck, his lips grazing the skin there as he murmurs, "God, you're soaked already. Are you sure you didn't drink some of that shit too?"

"Shut u— oh fuck."

He's your best friend, the guy who's pushed past the limits of your patience constantly over the years, but right now, all you can think about is how badly you want him to push those panties aside and give you more.

And almost as if he can read your mind, he finally hooks his fingers into the edge of your panties. His fingers slide through your wetness with ease. He traces your slit slowly, coating himself in your arousal before dipping one finger inside, stretching you open inch by inch.

"Fuck," he breathes, adding a second finger without waiting, pumping them in and out with a steady rhythm that has you moaning openly. His thumb finds your clit again, flicking it lightly at first, then pressing down in tight circles that match the thrust of his fingers. The dual sensation is overwhelming, your walls clenching around him as he curls his digits just right, hitting that sensitive spot deep inside that makes stars burst behind your eyelids.

You rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. His cock presses insistently between your bodies and your hand snakes down, wrapping around him with a small squeeze.

Jungkook hisses through his teeth at the sudden touch, his hips jerking forward into your palm. But his fingers never falter inside you. He drives them deeper, and your hand matches his pace on his cock, twisting slightly on each upstroke, feeling the veins pulse under your fingers as he throbs in your hold. The shared rhythm builds the tension inside both of you, his free hand digging into your hip to steady you both.

The coil in your stomach doesn’t take long to tighten, before snapping like a rubber band. Your pussy clamps down hard on his fingers, spasming as the orgasm rips through you in rolling waves. You cry out, back arching against him, juices flooding over his hand while your grip tightens on his dick.

Jungkook follows seconds later, a deep groan tearing from his throat as his cock swells in your fist. Hot spurts of cum erupt over your fingers and squirting against your stomach. He thrusts into your hand, riding out the pulses until he's spent.

Slowly, his fingers ease into gentle strokes inside you, taking you both down from the high before stopping.

His eyes stay glued to yours as he brings his slick fingers to his mouth and closes his lips around them.

His lashes flutter slightly as he sucks them clean, cheeks hollowing faintly, and the sight sends a slow heat curling through you all over again. When he pulls them free with a small plop, they leave his lips glossy.

His lashes flutter slightly as he sucks them clean, cheeks hollowing faintly, and the sight sends a slow heat curling through you all over again. When he pulls them free with a small plop, they leave his lips glossy.

You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until your mouth brushes his.

The kiss is slow, softer than everything that came before. His lips are still warm, still swollen, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.

You pull back to look at him again. His hair is a mess, messy strands sticking to his forehead, cheeks still flushed, lips pink and bruised. How he still manages to look so good while being wrecked, you have no clue.

A few seconds of silence pass before he finally speaks. "So... I should be fine now right?"

You can't help but laugh. "Yes, probably," you say nodding.

"Probably?"

You hum. "I actually don't know much about it's effects after its— well, intended use. But, hypothetically, if you feel like the effects aren't cooling off, then..." You trail of with a shrug, a small, sly smile spreading across your lips.

"I could just come to you again, yeah?" He presses his lips to yours and smiles into the kiss. "Hypothetically, of course."

"Yup."

"Mhm." Another kiss. "Noted."