adore

requested　﹒　@hawtstreet ♡

He is a creature of habit, your Michael. The world outside may be a chaotic, swirling vortex of speculation, paparazzi, and perpetual production, but here, in the quiet sanctuary of this rented New York apartment, he has carved out a small, sacred pocket of routine. And every night, like a prayer, ends with tea.

The television flickers, its bright, garish colors painting the room in strokes of neon and pastel. The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is on, Will Smith’s face filling the screen, a whirlwind of 90s fashion and rapid-fire punchlines. You can hear the canned laughter, the familiar rhythm of the theme song a distant echo. But your attention isn't on the TV. It's on him.

He's curled up beside you on the plush, cream-colored sofa, a soft, afghan blanket thrown over his lap. His feet are tucked up underneath him, a posture that's both boyish and endearingly vulnerable. He's wearing one of his own oversized t-shirts, the one with the glittery HIStory logo, and a pair of loose, silk pajama pants. He's sipping his chamomile tea, his long, elegant fingers wrapped around a simple, white ceramic mug. His eyes are half-closed, a look of sleepy, contented bliss on his face.

You finish your own tea, the warm, liquid gold a soothing balm after a long day. You place your mug on the glass coffee table, the soft clink of ceramic on glass a quiet, final sound. Your eyes land on the small, glass jar of honey sitting on your nightstand, a gift from a local farmer's market. You pick it up, the cool, smooth glass a welcome weight in your palm. You don't really want more honey; you're just fidgeting, your hands needing something to do. You read the label, your eyes tracing the elegant, looping script. "Wildflower Honey. Raw and Unfiltered." The words are a quiet, simple poem.

You glance back at him. A single, perfect droplet of tea has escaped, rolling down the side of his mug and pooling on the polished wood of the end table. He doesn't seem to notice. He sets the mug down, but before he can grab a napkin, he does something that makes your breath catch.

He lifts his hand, his index finger extending, and slowly, deliberately, wipes the droplet of tea from the edge of the cup. Then, without a second thought, he brings the glistening finger to his lips, his pink tongue darting out to lick away the sweet, amber liquid.

It's an unconscious, almost childish gesture, but it's also incredibly intimate, incredibly erotic. The simple, uninhibited act of tasting a stray drop of tea sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated desire through you. The air in the room suddenly feels thick, heavy, charged with an unspoken electricity.

"Michael," you say, your voice a low, husky whisper that cuts through the canned laughter of the TV. He looks at you, his dark eyes wide and innocent, a flicker of confusion on his face. "Yeah, baby?" he asks, his voice a soft, gentle murmur. "Put th’ tea down," you command, your tone leaving no room for argument. He looks from you to the mug, then back again, a flicker of understanding, of dawning awareness, in his eyes. He slowly, deliberately, places the mug back on the table, the soft clink a deafening sound in the sudden, tense silence.

"Now," you continue, your voice a low, hypnotic purr. "Give me y’hand." He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his brow furrowed in a mixture of confusion and intrigue. He doesn't understand, but he trusts you. He always trusts you. He extends his hand, palm up, a gesture of quiet, willing submission.

You take it, your fingers closing around his wrist. His skin is warm, soft, almost fragile. You can feel the faint, frantic pulse beating against your thumb. You bring his hand closer, your eyes fixed on his. You can see the questions swimming in their dark depths, the nervous anticipation. You can see the way his breath hitches in his throat, the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. You unscrew the cap of the honey jar, the soft pop a sharp, decisive sound. You tilt the jar, a slow, steady stream of the thick, golden liquid pouring from the spout. You watch, mesmerized, as the honey pools on the knuckles of his index and middle fingers, a glistening, amber jewel against his pale skin.

He lets out a soft, sharp gasp, his eyes widening as the cool, sticky fluid makes contact with his skin. He tries to pull his hand away, a reflexive gesture of surprise, but your grip on his wrist is firm, unyielding. "Shh," you soothe, your voice a soft, hypnotic whisper. "Jus’ trust me." You lift his hand to your lips, your eyes never leaving his. You can see the raw, undisguised desire in his gaze, the way his pupils dilate, the way his lips part slightly. You can see the flicker of fear, of vulnerability, of a man willingly surrendering himself to your whim.

You slowly, deliberately, take his honey-coated fingers into your mouth. The taste is a sweet, floral explosion on your tongue, a heady, intoxicating mix of wildflower and Michael. You swirl your tongue around his knuckles, a slow, languid rhythm that is both teasing and possessive. You can feel the texture of his skin, the hard, smooth plane of his knuckles, the delicate ridges of his fingerprints.

A choked, strangled sound escapes his lips, a raw, primal cry that he immediately tries to stifle. He throws his head back, his free hand flying to his mouth, his fingers pressing against his lips in a desperate attempt to muffle the moan that is threatening to tear from his throat. His whole body tenses, a beautiful, agonizing arch of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"Baby…" he gasps, the word a muffled, breathy thing against his palm. You pull back, releasing his fingers with a soft, wet pop. A thin, glistening strand of honey and saliva connects your lips to his skin, a delicate, shimmering thread in the dim light. You break it with a flick of your tongue, a slow, deliberate gesture that makes him shudder.

You look at him, really look at him. His face is flushed, a beautiful, rosy blush spreading across his high cheekbones. His eyes are squeezed shut, his long, dark lashes fanned out against his skin. His chest is heaving, each ragged breath a desperate, silent prayer. You lean in, pressing a soft, sticky kiss to the pulse point on his wrist. You can feel the frantic, fluttering beat of his heart against your lips, a frantic, hummingbird rhythm that speaks volumes. He's so responsive, so beautifully, exquisitely sensitive.

He opens his eyes, a slow, languid movement. He looks at you, his gaze hazy, unfocused, drunk with pleasure. He reaches for you, his hand trembling, his fingers sticky with honey and your saliva.

"Please," he whispers, his voice a raw, broken thing. "Please." You smile, a slow, predatory curve of your lips. You have no intention of stopping. You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, your fingers hooking into the soft, worn fabric. He lifts his arms, a silent, willing offering, allowing you to pull the shirt over his head. You toss it aside, your eyes roving over the expanse of his bare chest.

He's so beautiful, a study in pale, perfect skin and lean, wiry muscle. His chest is almost completely hairless, a smooth, flawless canvas that is just begging to be marked. You can see the faint, blue veins that trace a path beneath his skin, a delicate, intricate map that you long to explore.

You take the honey jar again, tilting it. This time, you aim for his neck. A thin, golden line of honey trickles down the column of his throat, a glistening, amber river that disappears into the hollow of his collarbone. He gasps, his body arching, a silent, involuntary reaction to the cool, sticky sensation. You lean in, your tongue darting out to follow the path of the honey. You start at the base of his throat, a slow, deliberate lick that makes him whimper. You can feel the vibration of his vocal cords, the frantic, stuttering beat of his pulse. You can taste the sweet, floral flavor of the honey mixed with the clean, salty taste of his skin.

You trace a path up his neck, your tongue a slow, lazy spiral. You can feel him trembling, his body a taut, quivering bowstring of tension. His hands fly to your shoulders, his fingers digging into your skin, a desperate, anchoring grip. "Oh, God," he moans, his head falling back, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. "Oh, God, baby, that feels… that feels s’good."

You reach the base of his jaw, a final, lingering lick that cleans the last of the honey from his skin. You pull back, admiring your handiwork. A glistening, sticky patch remains, a beautiful, shimmering mark of your possession.

You move lower, your eyes fixing on one of his nipples. It's a small, tight, dusky bud, a perfect, rosy peak against the pale expanse of his chest. You pour a small, perfect dollop of honey onto the sensitive nub, a glistening, amber bead that makes him cry out. You lean in, your lips closing around the honey-coated nipple. You suck gently, your tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm. The taste is intoxicating, a heady, sweet, and salty mix that makes your head spin.

He cries out, a raw, ragged sound that is half pleasure, half pain. His back arches, a beautiful, agonizing curve, pushing himself deeper into your mouth. His hands are in your hair now, his fingers tangled in the strands, a desperate, pleading grip.

"Baby," he whimpers, his voice a broken, breathy thing. "Please, s’good. Please, you’re s’good." You release him with another soft, wet pop, a thin, glistening strand of honey and saliva connecting your lips to his chest. You look up at him, your eyes dark with desire. He's a mess, a beautiful, sticky, writhing mess, and he's all yours. "Open your mouth," you command, your voice a low, husky purr. 

He obeys, his lips parting in a silent, willing offering. You lean in, not to kiss him, but to share the sweetness. You let a drop of honey fall from your tongue onto his, a glistening, amber bead that he catches instinctively. He moans, a low, throaty sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

You lean in further, your tongue finding his. It's a slow, deep, sensual kiss, a sharing of taste, of breath, of essence. You can taste the honey on his tongue, a sweet, floral flavor that is mingled with the unique, musky taste of him. You can feel the soft, wet texture of his tongue against yours, the gentle, insistent pressure.

The kiss deepens, becoming more frantic, more demanding. It's no longer just about the honey; it's about a raw, primal need. Your tongues dance a slow, sensual tango, a wet, messy, beautiful symphony of spit and desire. You can feel the vibrations of his moans in your mouth, a low, rumbling sound that makes your toes curl.

You pull back, a thin, glistening strand of saliva connecting your lips. You both gasp for air, your chests heaving, your bodies slick with sweat and honey and something more.

You look down, your eyes fixing on the growing bulge in his silk pajama pants. His hard, insistent length strains against the loose fabric. You can see the dark, wet spot of pre-cum that has soaked through the material, a telling evidence of his arousal. You reach for the waistband of his pants, your fingers hooking into the elastic. He lifts his hips, a silent, desperate plea. You pull the pants down, freeing him.

His cock springs forth, a hard, beautiful, glistening shaft of pale, perfect flesh. The head is a deep, angry pink, a glistening, bead of pre-cum already welling at the tip. He's long and slender, a perfect, elegant work of art that makes your mouth water. You take the honey jar again, this time pouring a generous amount over the tip of him. The thick, golden liquid coats him, a slow, deliberate trickle that runs down the length of his shaft.

He cries out, a sharp, strangled gasp, his hips bucking involuntarily. "Ngh, God," he moans, his head falling back against the couch cushions. "Can you, baby, please… please…"

You lean in, your tongue darting out to catch the drop of honey that's about to fall from the crown. You swirl your tongue around the head, a slow, lazy spiral that makes him whimper.  He tastes divine. The floral sweetness of the honey is an immediate, bright shock on your tongue, but it's the salty, musky taste of him that lingers, a deeper, more primal flavor that makes your core clench with a sudden, fierce ache. You take your time, tracing the delicate, flared ridge of his crown with the very tip of your tongue, feeling the subtle change in texture, the way the skin is softer here, more sensitive.

You can feel every minute shudder that racks his body. His thigh muscle jumps beneath your free hand, a frantic, involuntary spasm. His breath hitches in a series of short, sharp pants, each one a desperate, ragged sound. He’s trying so hard to be still, to let you control the pace, but his body is betraying him, writhing with a need that is almost painful to witness.

You flatten your tongue, a broad, slow lick from the base of his shaft all the way to the tip, gathering the honey on your tongue. The motion is deliberate, a claiming. You're savoring him, memorizing the taste and the texture. He makes a sound deep in his chest, a choked, broken noise that's half a sob, half a moan. His hands fly from your hair to the sofa cushions, his fingers digging into the plush fabric, a desperate attempt to ground himself.

"Baby," he whimpers, the word a ragged, breathy plea. "Oh, please, mommy… don't… don't tease me…"

You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his face a beautiful, agonized mask of pleasure. His lips are parted, slick and swollen, and a single, perfect tear traces a path through the sticky honey on his temple. He's a mess, a beautiful, broken, sticky mess, and the sight of him, so completely undone by your touch, is the most powerful aphrodisiac you've ever known.

You decide to show him mercy. Or maybe it's cruelty. You're not sure anymore.

You lower your head again, but this time, you don't use your tongue. You part your lips, letting the hot, wet cavern of your mouth engulf the very tip of him. The heat is a shock, a sudden, intense sensation that makes him cry out, a raw, primal shout that echoes in the quiet room.

You take him deeper, inch by slow, deliberate inch, letting your lips glide down the honey-slicked length of him. The combination of the sticky honey and the warm, wet heat of your mouth is a sensory overload, a friction so intense it must be agony. He's babbling now, a stream of incoherent praise and desperate pleas, a litany of "Oh, God," and "Please," and "S’good, so, s’good."

You begin to move, a slow, steady rhythm. Your head bobs, your lips and tongue working in a tandem, a wet, messy, beautiful symphony of suction and pressure. You can feel the way he throbs against your tongue, the frantic, fluttering pulse of the vein that runs along the underside of his shaft. He's close. You can feel it in the tension that coils in his thighs, in the way his breathing becomes more erratic, in the desperate, pleading way he murmurs your name.

You move one of your hands to his hip, your fingers digging into the soft, warm skin, holding him down, anchoring him to the sofa. You're in control here. You are the one who decides when this ends.

You pick up the pace, your movements becoming faster, more demanding. Your tongue swirls around the head on every upstroke, a maddening, flicking motion that makes him whimper. You can feel the honey on your lips, on your chin, a sticky, sweet mess that you're making of him, of yourself, of this moment.

And then, he breaks. "Baby," he gasps, his voice a high, thin whimper. "Baby, stop… stop…" Your movements still, your head lifting slightly. You look up at him, a question in your eyes. He's panting, his chest heaving, his body a taut, quivering bowstring of tension. "What is it, Michael?" you ask, your voice a low, soft purr. "What's wrong?"

"I'm… I'm all sticky," he whimpers, his words a jumbled, breathy mess. "You're… you're making me all sticky, baby. It's… it's everywhere… on m’legs, m’stomach… on th’ couch…"

He sounds so genuinely distressed, like a child who's spilled juice on the carpet. It's so absurdly, endearingly Michael that you almost laugh. You can feel the tension coiling in your belly, a mix of amusement and a fierce, overwhelming love.

You pull back, releasing him from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. A glistening, sticky strand of honey and saliva connects your lips to the head of his cock, a delicate, shimmering thread that you break with a flick of your tongue.

"Okay," you say, your voice a soft, gentle murmur. "I'll stop." You start to sit up, a gesture of acquiescence. You're going to get a warm, wet cloth, to clean him up, to take care of him. "No!" The word is a desperate, ragged cry, torn from his throat. He shoots up, his hands flying to your shoulders, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulls you back down, his body a frantic, pleading weight against yours.

"No," he repeats, his voice a broken, breathy whisper. "Don't… don't stop. Please, God, don't stop. I was wrong. M’not… m’not sticky. M’not. Please, baby, please…" He's babbling, his words a frantic, jumbled mess. He's kissing you, a desperate, messy, honey-sweet kiss all over your face, your neck, your shoulders. He's clinging to you, a drowning man clinging to a life raft.

You can't help the soft, triumphant chuckle that escapes your lips. He's so wonderfully, beautifully transparent. His need for you, for this, overrides everything else—logic, comfort, even the very real stickiness that's now gluing his ass to the sofa cushions.

"Shh, shh," you soothe, your hands running down his back, feeling the frantic tremors that still rack his slender frame. "M’ here. M’ not going anywhere."

He collapses against you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His body is still humming with tension, a live wire of unspent energy. You can feel the sticky warmth of him against your skin, the mingled scent of honey, sweat, and Michael's own unique, clean musk filling your senses. You gently cup his face in your hands, tilting it up so you can look at him. His eyes are dark, wide pools of desperation, his lashes clumped together with honey and unshed tears. A small, perfect droplet of the golden liquid has escaped, clinging to the side of his cheek, right next to his full, parted lips. A stray glisten.

You bring one of his hands up to your face, your fingers closing around his wrist. You guide his hand to his own cheek, positioning it so that his thumb hovers just over the errant drop of honey. "Look at me," you whisper, your voice a low, hypnotic command. His gaze is hazy, unfocused, but he obeys, his dark eyes locking onto yours. You guide his thumb, using it to gently wipe the honey from his skin. The gesture is slow, deliberate, incredibly intimate. He watches you, his breath catching in his throat, a silent, captive audience to your every move.

Then, you bring his thumb, the one now glistening with the sweet, amber liquid, to your own lips. You hold his gaze, your eyes dark with a predatory softness, as you take his thumb into your mouth.

You close your lips around the digit, your tongue swirling in a slow, deliberate circle, lapping away the last of the honey. You can feel the slight tremor that runs through his hand, the way his fingers twitch against your palm. You can see the raw, undisguised need that flares in his eyes, the way his lips part on a silent gasp.

You release his thumb with a soft, wet pop, a flicker of a smirk on your lips.

"More," he whimpers, the word a ragged, breathy plea that is barely audible. "Please, baby… more." You lean in, your lips hovering just a breath away from his, close enough that you can feel the heat of his skin, close enough that you can see the frantic flutter of his pulse in the hollow of his throat. "Only because y’asked nicely" you murmur, your voice a low, teasing purr.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett

requested　﹒　@prettyangeliczz (not req! but ib)

You don't realize how exhausted you are until you hear the click of the front door latch behind you. The sound echoes in the quiet entryway, a final, definitive punctuation mark on a day that has felt like an endless, run-on sentence. The drive home had been a blur of taillights and radio static, your mind a jumble of to-do lists and half-finished thoughts. But now, standing in the familiar sanctuary of your own home, the weight of the day crashes down on you all at once. Your shoulders sag, your purse feeling like a leaden anchor in your hand, your feet aching a dull, rhythmic protest against the unforgiving hardness of the hardwood floors.

The world outside the windows of your Encino home has faded to a deep, bruised purple, the last vestiges of sunlight clinging to the horizon. Inside, the house is a warm, welcoming embrace, the air scented with the faint, clean smell of lemon polish and the lingering aroma of the coffee Michael had made that morning. It's quiet, save for the gentle hum of the refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets. It's the kind of quiet that feels like a balm, a soothing salve on your frayed nerves.

You kick off your shoes, not even bothering to untie the laces, your toes curling into the plush, thick wool of the entryway rug. You leave your purse on the floor, a messy heap of leather and receipts, a testament to the chaos you've just escaped. All you want is a hot shower, the steam clouding the bathroom mirror and seeping into your tired bones. You want clean pajamas, the soft, worn fabric a comforting second skin. You want to crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and let the darkness swallow you whole before your thoughts have a chance to catch up, to dissect every awkward interaction, every perceived failure, every little thing that went wrong.

You trudge towards the master bedroom, your steps slow and heavy. The hallway is a familiar journey, a path you've walked a thousand times, but tonight it feels like a marathon. Each step is a monumental effort, your body protesting with every movement.

And then you see him.

He's sitting on the edge of your shared bed, a silhouette against the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp. He's still dressed down from the day, a simple, white t-shirt and a pair of faded, worn-in jeans. His feet are bare, his long, elegant toes curled into the plush carpet. He's leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, a posture of quiet, patient waiting. He's been waiting for you.

As you get closer, you see the smile that tugs at the corners of his lips, a slow, easy curve that somehow makes everything feel lighter, brighter. It's not the bright, megawatt smile he gives the world, the one that's all teeth and perfect, practiced angles. This one is smaller, more intimate, a private little secret that he saves just for you. It's a smile that says, I'm here. I've been waiting. I'm so glad you're home.

"Hey, you," he says, his voice a low, soft murmur that's like a warm hug. "Hey," you breathe, your own voice a tired, weary thing. You barely have the energy to greet him, to return the warmth of his smile, before the dam breaks. The words come pouring out of you in a frantic, jumbled rush, a verbal avalanche of pent-up frustration and exhaustion.

"You wouldn’t believe the day I've had," you say, dropping your keys and a handful of loose change onto the dresser with a loud, clattering rattle. "First, the bank was a nightmare. I swear, I was in line for an hour, and then they tell me I need some form I don't even have. And then I went to the grocery store, and they were out of everythin’ I needed. I swear, it's like they knew I was comin’."

You don't even wait for a response, turning your back to him as you continue your rant, your movements sharp and jerky with frustration. You start to remove your jewelry, your fingers fumbling with the small, delicate clasp of your necklace. "‘N then the post office was a zoo. I had to send off that package for Mama Kathy, and the line was out the door. And this woman, she was trying t’mail a live chicken, I swear t’God. A live chicken, Mickey! And she couldn't understand why they wouldn't let her."

You finally manage to unclasp the necklace, letting it fall into the small, ceramic dish on the dresser with a soft, metallic clink. You move on to your earrings, your movements still stiff and agitated.

"And then I had to go t’that fabric store, the one you liked, and they didn't have the right shade of blue for th’ curtains. Not even close. And the woman who worked there, she was s’unhelpful. She just looked at me like I was speaking a different language."

You turn and walk into the adjoining bathroom, leaving the door open. You can hear him following you, his footsteps soft and silent on the carpet. You lean over the sink, splashing cool water on your face, the shock of it a welcome, grounding sensation.

"And then, on the way home, I got stuck behind th’ slowest driver in th’ history of th’ world. I swear, they were goin’, like, ten miles an hour. And they kept brakin’ for no reason. No reason! I almost lost my mind."

You grab a cotton pad and a bottle of makeup remover, your movements rough and aggressive as you wipe away the foundation and mascara that you'd put on that morning with such hopeful optimism. You're scrubbing at your face, trying to wash away the day, but it feels like the stress is seeped too deep, a permanent stain on your soul.

You can feel his eyes on you, a steady, calming presence. He hasn't said a word. He's just standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, his arms crossed over his chest. He's watching you, his expression a mixture of amusement and deep, unwavering affection.

You finish removing your makeup, your face feeling raw and clean. You pick up your toothbrush, squeezing a blob of minty toothpaste onto the bristles.

"And then I get home, and I realize I forgot t’buy milk. Milk! And now I can't even have a cup of tea because there's no milk. And I really, really wanted a cup of tea." You start to brush your teeth, the rhythmic, brushing motion a small, mindless comfort. You're still ranting, your words a muffled, garbled mess around the toothbrush. "I'm just so… so… over it. I'm over everything. I'm over banks and grocery stores and post offices and slow drivers and fabric stores that don't have the right shade of blue. I'm over it all."

You spit, a loud, forceful sound, and rinse your mouth with a swig of water. You look up, catching your reflection in the mirror. Your face is pale, your eyes wide and tired. You look like you've been through a war. He's still there, watching you with that same, steady gaze. He's a silent, reassuring presence, a rock in the storm of your own making.

You walk back into the bedroom, pulling one of his oversized t-shirts over your head. The fabric is soft and worn, smelling faintly of him—a clean, familiar scent that is more comforting than any hug. It's a white v-neck, the one he'd worn to the studio yesterday, and it hangs on you like a short, loose dress. The sleeves are too long, the hem falling to mid-thigh.

You finally finish your story, the last of your frustrated energy spent. The room goes quiet, the only sound the soft, distant hum of the air conditioner. You're standing in the middle of the room, feeling small and lost and utterly drained.

And then he moves.

He reaches out, his hands finding your waist, and he pulls you towards him. He guides you between his knees, settling you on the edge of the bed, a soft, warm weight that grounds you. He looks up at you, his dark eyes soft and full of a tenderness that makes your heart ache. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, lingering kiss. It's not a kiss of passion or desire, but of comfort, of reassurance. It's a kiss that says, I'm here. I hear you. I've got you.

His lips are soft and warm, a gentle, soothing pressure that melts away the last of your tension. You can feel the stress, the frustration, the anger, all of it, dissolving under the gentle, insistent pressure of his mouth. You sigh, a soft, contented sound, your body relaxing against his, your arms wrapping around his neck. He pulls back, just enough to look at you, a small, sad smile on his face. He reaches up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, a soft, comforting gesture.

"I'm sorry you had such a bad day, angel," he says, his voice a low, gentle murmur. "I wish I could’ve been there to fix it all fer you."

"You're here now," you whisper, your forehead resting against his. "That's all that matters."

He leans in again, kissing you once more, a soft, sweet press of lips that's full of unspoken promises. He kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth, a series of soft, gentle touches that are a balm to your soul.

"Come on," he says, his voice a soft, gentle command. "Let's get you t’bed."

He stands up, pulling you with him. He lifts the covers, the crisp, cool sheets a welcome invitation. You slide into bed, the soft, plush mattress a welcome embrace. He climbs in beside you, the bed dipping under his weight. You immediately curl against his chest, your head finding its home in the crook of his shoulder. His arm wraps around you, a warm, heavy weight that is both comforting and protective. His other hand comes up to rest on your hip, a slow, steady rhythm that is more calming than any lullaby.

You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear, a slow, reassuring rhythm that lulls you into a state of sleepy contentment. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his skin, a familiar, comforting aroma that is more intoxicating than any perfume. This is it. This is the thing that makes it all worth it. The long days, the frustrating errands, the endless, demanding world. It all fades away in the face of this simple, profound truth: you are home. You are safe. You are loved.

Some days don't need grand gestures. Sometimes, coming home to the person who loves you is enough to make even the longest day feel worth it. "Better?" he asks, his voice a low, soft whisper against your hair. "Mmm," you hum, a contented, sleepy sound. "Much better."

"Good," he says, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. "Get some sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up." You close your eyes, a feeling of deep, abiding peace washing over you. The events of the day, the frustrations, the annoyances, they all seem distant, unimportant. All that matters is this. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, the quiet, profound comfort of being held by the man you love.

The world outside can wait. In the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom, wrapped in the arms of the man you love, everything is finally, perfectly, right.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @neverstreett @camillemonroe

requested　﹒　too many 2 count!! (check taglist)!!♡

The roar of the Roman crowd is a physical thing. It’s a living, breathing entity that presses against you from all sides, a hot, vibrating force that hums deep in your bones. You’re tucked away in the shadows of the wings, a world away from the spectacle but completely immersed in it. From here, you can see the magic and the machinery. The frantic scurrying of stagehands, the precise, almost balletic movements of the dancers, the stark, utilitarian scaffolding that holds up a fantasy.

But your eyes are only for him.

Under the glare of a thousand lights, Michael is a force of nature. He’s a comet, a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated energy. Every hip thrust, every kick, every spin is executed with a breathtaking precision that borders on the divine. He owns this stage, this stadium, this city. He owns the hundred thousand people who are screaming his name. You’ve seen him perform before, on grainy VHS tapes and on the small screen of your television, but it’s nothing—nothing—compared to this. Seeing him like this, up close, is like witnessing the birth of a star.

He’s in the middle of “Smooth Criminal,” the iconic white suit a stark slash against the dark stage. He leans forward, defying gravity, and the crowd erupts. A grin splits your face, a fierce, proud, proprietary thing. That’s your best friend up there. The boy who used to build forts with you in your living room, the boy who cried when you gave him a black eye with a wayward baseball swing, the boy who called you from a payphone just to hear your voice before a big show. He’s all of that, and he’s also this. A global phenomenon. A legend.

The song ends, and he strikes a final, dramatic pose, chest heaving, head bowed. The lights go down, plunging the stadium into a sudden, expectant darkness. For a beat, there’s only the sound of a hundred thousand people catching their breath. Then, a single spotlight finds him, sitting on a stool at the center of the stage, a fedora pulled low over his eyes.

He’s going to sing “Rock With You.” Your heart does a familiar little flutter. He always says he dedicates this one to you, even if he never says your name out loud. He starts to sing, and the raw, emotional rasp in his voice sends shivers down your spine. It’s a different kind of performance now. Stripped of the pyrotechnics and the dizzying dance moves, it’s just him, and the microphone, and the sheer power of his voice. He’s pouring everything into it, every ounce of love and longing and gratitude he feels. And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your soul, that he’s singing to you.

When the final note fades, he’s off the stool and running, sprinting towards the wings. He’s a blur of white and sweat, a kinetic missile aimed directly at you. You barely have time to register his movement before he’s there, in front of you, pulling you into a bone-crushing hug.

He’s soaking wet, his t-shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin. He smells of sweat, and that expensive, clean cologne he loves, and something else… something uniquely him. It’s the scent of adrenaline, of pure, unadulterated joy.

“You were incredible,” you breathe into his hair, your arms wrapped tight around his neck. “Absolutely incredible.”

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin. His eyes are shining, impossibly bright, a frantic, beautiful energy thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. He’s still high off the rush, a live wire buzzing with an electric current.

“You think so?” he asks, his voice a low, happy rumble.

“I know so,” you say, standing on your tiptoes to press a quick, firm kiss to his sweaty cheek. You taste salt and the faint, ghost of a stage makeup. “They loved you, Mikey. They really, really loved you.”

“They loved it,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eye. “But I love you more.” Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You’re about to say something, to tease him, to deflect, but he’s already pulling away. “Gotta go,” he says, dabbing at his face with a towel a stagehand shoves into his hands. “Makeup’s a mess. They’ll have my head for lettin’ myself get so sweaty.” He winks, a quick, mischievous gesture that’s just for you. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you call after him as he disappears deeper backstage, a whirlwind of white energy and purpose.

You lean against a stack of road cases, letting the post-show chaos wash over you. The roar of the crowd has subsided into a dull, expectant hum, a thousand conversations happening at once. The stage is a flurry of activity, a well-oiled machine resetting for the next leg of the tour. You’re an island of calm in the middle of it all, a quiet observer in a world that’s not your own. But it doesn’t feel alien. Not with him here. With him, this strange, chaotic world feels like home.

The rest of the show passes in a blur of light and sound. You watch from the wings, your eyes never leaving him. He’s a dynamo, a force of nature, a whirlwind of pure, unadulterated energy. He’s in his element, a king on his throne, and you’re the queen of his shadow kingdom, a silent, supportive presence in the wings.

When the final curtain falls, and the last of the pyrotechnics fades into the night, the stadium is plunged into a sudden, jarring silence. The energy of the crowd dissipates, replaced by a collective, exhausted sigh. The stage lights come up, revealing the messy, chaotic reality behind the fantasy.

You wait for him, a patient sentinel in the dimly lit wings. You can hear him before you see him, a familiar, happy hum that cuts through the noise of the crew. He appears a few moments later, a towel draped around his neck, his hair still damp from the post-show shower. He’s changed into a pair of black jeans and a simple black t-shirt, but he’s still buzzing, a live wire humming with a residual energy. “Hey,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Ready to go?”

“Go where?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “It’s after midnight. I was thinking we could order some room service and watch bad Italian TV until we pass out.” He chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “That sounds nice,” he says, taking your hand. “But I have a better idea.” He leads you through the maze of backstage corridors, past a sea of exhausted-looking crew members and half-dismantled equipment. He nods at a few people, a quick, easy gesture of acknowledgement, but he doesn’t stop. He’s a man on a mission, and you’re happy to follow him, a willing accomplice in whatever adventure he’s planned.

You emerge into the cool night air, the smell of exhaust fumes and distant garbage a stark contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned world of the stadium. A black car, sleek and unassuming, is waiting for you, its engine a low, purring rumble. He opens the door for you, a gentlemanly gesture that never fails to make your heart flutter. “Where are we goin’?” you ask, sliding into the plush leather seat. “It’s a surprise,” he says, sliding in beside you. He closes the door, and the city disappears behind the tinted windows. The car pulls away from the curb, merging seamlessly into the flow of late-night traffic.

Rome at night is a different creature. It’s a city of ghosts, of echoes, of memories. The ancient ruins are bathed in a soft, golden light, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cobblestone streets. The usual throngs of tourists have vanished, replaced by a handful of late-night revelers and the occasional stray cat. The car winds its way through the narrow, winding streets, the city a blur of color and light. You lean your head against the cool glass, watching the world go by. Michael is quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence, a shared understanding that needs no words. He’s just happy to be here, with you, in this beautiful, ancient city.

The car finally pulls to a stop in a small, secluded piazza. A single fountain, its water glinting in the moonlight, stands in the center, its gentle splash a soothing, rhythmic sound. The surrounding buildings are old, their stucco walls a patchwork of faded colors, their windows dark and shuttered. “C’mon,” he says, opening the door. “There’s someone I want you t’meet.” He leads you towards a small, unassuming door tucked away in a corner of the piazza. A single, flickering lantern hangs above it, casting a warm, inviting glow. He knocks, a soft, rhythmic beat. A moment later, the door creaks open, revealing a tiny, ancient-looking man with a shock of white hair and a kind, crinkly face.

“Michael!” he exclaims, his face breaking into a wide, toothy grin. He pulls Michael into a tight, affectionate hug, patting him heartily on the back. “S’good to see you, my boy. It has been too long.” “It’s good to see you, too, Enzo,” Michael says, his face split into a wide, brilliant grin. “I brought someone with me. Someone special.” Enzo turns his attention to you, his eyes twinkling with curiosity. He takes your hand, bringing it to his lips for a soft, courtly kiss. “A pleasure,” he says, his voice a thick, melodic Italian accent. “Any friend of Michael’s is a friend of mine.”

“Enzo owns this shop,” Michael explains, gesturing towards the door. “He’s the best shoemaker in all of Rome. Maybe the world.” Enzo chuckles, a modest, dismissive wave of his hand. “I am a simple craftsman,” he says. “But Michael, he has an eye for beauty. He knows a good shoe when he sees one.”

“He’s bein’ modest,” Michael whispers to you, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He’s made shoes for popes and kings. But he makes the best loafers for dancing.” He turns back to Enzo. “We’re here for a little midnight shopping, if you’re not too busy.” “For you, my boy, I am never too busy,” Enzo says, stepping aside to let you in. “Come in, come in. The night is young, and the leather s’fresh.”

The shop is a magical, olfactory wonderland. The air is thick with the rich, earthy scent of leather, of polish, of old wood and history. The walls are lined with shelves, each one overflowing with shoes of every shape and size, from delicate, bejeweled heels to sturdy, well-worn boots. The workbench in the center of the room is a chaotic masterpiece of tools and half-finished projects, a testament to a life dedicated to the art of shoemaking. “You see?” Michael says, his voice a low, happy murmur. “It’s like a museum.” “It’s more than a museum,” Enzo says, a proud, happy smile on his face. “It’s a sanctuary. A place where beauty is born.”

Michael starts to browse, his fingers tracing the delicate stitching of a pair of velvet loafers, the smooth, worn leather of a pair of well-loved boots. He’s in his element, a connoisseur appreciating fine art. You watch him, a soft, contented smile on your face. You love seeing him like this, so passionate, so alive. It’s a side of him that the world never gets to see, a quiet, intimate glimpse into the soul of the man behind the legend. “What do you think?” he asks, holding up a pair of black patent leather loafers, the leather so shiny it reflects the single, flickering lantern. “I think you have enough shoes,” you tease, a playful glint in your eye. “You could open your own museum.”

“A man can never have enough shoes,” he retorts, a smug little smile on his face. “Especially when they’re this beautiful.” Enzo chuckles, a low, throaty sound. “He is right,” he says, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “A good shoe is like a good woman. Hard to find, but once you do, you never let her go.”

Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You can feel Michael’s eyes on you, a heavy, lingering gaze that makes your skin tingle. You clear your throat, turning your attention to a nearby shelf, your fingers tracing the delicate, beaded embroidery on a pair of satin slippers. “These are beautiful,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “Who are they for?”

“They were for a princess,” Enzo says, a wistful look on his face. “A long, long time ago. She never came to pick them up.” “Her loss,” Michael says, coming up behind you. He’s so close, you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his cologne. He picks up one of the slippers, holding it in his palm like a fragile, precious thing. “They’d look good on you.” You laugh, a light, airy sound that does little to dispel the tension in the room. “I don’t think I’m quite princess material.” “Sure you are,” he says, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “My princess.”

The words hang in the air between you, a quiet, unspoken truth that’s as beautiful as it is terrifying. You want to lean into him, to close the distance between you, to let the current that’s been humming between you for years finally pull you under. But you’re scared. Scared of ruining the perfect, fragile thing you have. “You’re ridiculous,” you say, your voice a strained mix of affection and deflection. You gently take the slipper from him, placing it back on the shelf. “Now, are you going to buy somethin’, or are we jus’ here to admire the craftsmanship?”

“Alright, alright,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, a playful glint in his eye. “You win.” He turns back to Enzo, a serious, business-like expression on his face. “I’ll take th’ patent leather ones. And the ones with th’ silver buckles. And…” He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And the slippers. For th’ princess.” Enzo beams, a happy, proud smile on his face. “Excellent choices, my boy. Excellent choices.” He disappears into the back of the shop, returning a moment later with several boxes, each one a work of art in its own right. He carefully wraps the shoes, his movements precise, practiced. It’s a ritual, a sacred ceremony, and you feel like you’re witnessing something special, something that few people ever get to see.

Michael pays him, a quick, discreet transaction that’s handled with a quiet, mutual respect. As he’s signing the receipt, you find yourself drawn to the workbench, to the chaotic, beautiful mess of tools and half-finished projects. You pick up a small, intricately carved wooden last, the surface smooth and worn from years of use. “My father made that,” Enzo says, appearing at your side. “He was a shoemaker, too. And his father before him. It is in our blood, you see? To make things that are beautiful, that last.”

“It’s a dyin’ art,” you say, your voice soft.

“Not as long as there are people like Michael,” Enzo says, a fond, paternal look on his face. “He understands. He knows that beauty is not a luxury. It is a necessity. It is what makes us human.” You look over at Michael, who’s now laughing with Enzo, his face lit up with a joy so pure it’s almost painful to witness. And you know, with a certainty that settles deep in your soul, that Enzo is right. Michael is a collector of beauty, of moments, of memories. And tonight, in this tiny, magical shop in the heart of Rome, he’s collecting another one. “You’re a lucky man, Enzo,” you say, your voice a quiet murmur. “To have a friend like him.”

“I am a lucky man,” Enzo agrees, a knowing twinkle in his eye. “But I think he is the lucky one. To have a friend like you.”

The words land with the weight of a confession, a quiet, intimate truth that hangs in the air between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the stuffy, leather-scented shop. You’re about to say something, to thank him, but Michael’s already at your side, a small, wrapped box in his hands. “Ready to go, princess?” he asks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Don’t call me that,” you say, but there’s no heat in your words. “Why not?” he asks, a playful whine in his voice. “It suits you.”

“It does not,” you retort, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Does too,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He turns to Enzo, pulling him into another one of his bone-crushing hugs. “Thank you, my friend. For everything.” “Always, my boy,” Enzo says, patting him heartily on the back. “Now go. Go enjoy the city. Go live a little.”

“We will,” Michael says, taking your hand. “We will.” The cool night air is a welcome relief after the stuffy, leather-scented shop. The car is still waiting for you, a silent, black shadow in the moonlit piazza. Michael opens the door for you, a gentlemanly gesture that never fails to make your heart flutter.

“So,” he says, sliding in beside you. “What’s next on the midnight adventure tour?” “You’re the tour guide,” you say, leaning your head against the cool leather of the seat. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Good,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Then I’m taking you to get the best gelato in Rome.” The car winds its way through the narrow, winding streets, the city a blur of color and light. You’re quiet, but it’s a comfortable silence, a shared understanding that needs no words. You’re both just happy to be here, in this beautiful, ancient city, together.

The gelateria is a tiny, unassuming shop tucked away on a quiet side street. A single, flickering neon sign illuminates the window, casting a soft, colorful glow on the cobblestones. There are no tourists here, no lines of people waiting to be served. Just a sleepy-looking teenager behind the counter, and a handful of locals, their faces illuminated by the soft light of the fluorescents.

Michael orders for you, a rapid-fire string of Italian that’s surprisingly fluent. The teenager nods, a sleepy, unimpressed expression on his face. He scoops a generous portion of pistachio gelato into a cone, the color a vibrant, unnatural green. He follows it up with a scoop of chocolate, so dark it’s almost black. He hands the cone to Michael, who pays him with a handful of colorful euros.

“Here,” he says, holding out the cone. “Try this. It’s life-changing.” You take the cone, your fingers brushing against his. The gelato is cold, a welcome relief in the warm, humid night. You take a tentative lick, the flavor a burst of intense, nutty sweetness. It’s unlike any pistachio you’ve ever tasted, rich and creamy and impossibly flavorful. “Oh, wow,” you say, your eyes widening in surprise. “That’s… that’s really good.”

“Told you,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He leans in, taking a quick, playful lick of your cone. “Hey, not bad,” he says, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I should’ve gotten that.”

“Hey, get your own,” you say, swatting him lightly on the arm. But you’re laughing, a light, airy sound that does little to dispel the easy, comfortable warmth that’s settled over you. You walk together, the gelato a sweet, sticky mess in your hands. The city is quiet now, the usual throngs of tourists replaced by a handful of late-night revelers and the occasional stray cat. The ancient ruins are bathed in a soft, golden light, their shadows stretching long and thin across the cobblestone streets. “It’s beautiful here,” you say, your voice a soft murmur. “It’s like… like a movie set.”

“It’s real,” he says, his voice a low, intimate whisper. “All of it. That’s the crazy part. People built this, thousands of years ago. They lived here, they loved here, they died here. And we’re just… walkin’ through their ghosts.” He leads you towards a small, secluded park, the trees a dark, shadowy canopy against the moonlit sky. He finds a bench, a simple, wrought-iron thing that’s been worn smooth by years of use. He sits down, patting the space beside him.

You settle in beside him, the silence stretching between you, a comfortable, familiar blanket. You finish your gelato, the last of it a sweet, sticky memory on your tongue. You can hear the distant sound of a siren, the soft, rhythmic chirping of crickets, the gentle splash of a nearby fountain. It’s a symphony of the city, a lullaby for the sleepless. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, his voice a quiet, fragile thing. “I don’t think I say that enough.” “I’m glad I’m here, too,” you say, your voice a soft echo of his.

He turns to you, his eyes searching yours. In the dim, moonlit light, they’re dark, impossibly deep, a universe of unspoken feelings and shared memories. He’s so close, you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint, clean scent of his cologne. You can see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the tiny, almost invisible laugh lines around his eyes.

You’re leaning in before you even realize you’re doing it. It’s an instinct, a reflex, a magnetic pull that’s been humming between you for years. Your heart is a frantic, hummingbird beat against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm that drowns out all other sounds. His gaze drops to your lips, a slow, deliberate gesture that sends a jolt of electricity through you. He leans in, too, closing the small distance between you. The air is thick with anticipation, with the unspoken promise of a thousand missed opportunities, a thousand almosts. This is it. This is the moment.

“Michael!”

The voice is a sharp, intrusive crack that shatters the delicate, fragile bubble you’ve both been living in. You both jump, pulling apart as if you’ve been burned. A figure is striding towards you across the grass, a silhouette against the moonlit sky. It’s Bill, his face a mask of stoic professionalism, but you can see the faint, almost imperceptible line of worry etched between his brows.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, his voice a low, neutral rumble. “But it’s late. And we have an early flight tomorrow. It’s time to get back to the hotel.” Michael lets out a frustrated sigh, a sharp, angry puff of air. He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture of pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Yeah, okay, Bill,” he says, his voice tight, strained. “We’re comin’.”

“Good,” Bill says, a curt, professional nod. He turns and walks away, disappearing back into the shadows, a ghost in the night. “Well,” you say, your voice a little too bright, a little too brittle. “That was… fun.” “Yeah,” Michael says, a grim, tight-lipped smile on his face. “A blast.”

He stands up, holding out a hand to help you to your feet. You take it, his fingers closing around yours, a warm, firm grip. You’re both awkward, stiff, the easy, comfortable intimacy you shared just moments ago replaced by a tense, self-conscious silence. The unspoken words hang in the air between you, a heavy, suffocating weight. The ride back to the hotel is a study in quiet tension. The car is a silent, plush bubble, the city lights a blurry, colorful smear outside the tinted windows. You sit close, but not too close, a careful, deliberate distance between you. Your knees are almost touching, a whisper of space that feels like a vast, uncrossable chasm.

You can feel the heat radiating from him, the familiar, comforting warmth of his body. You can smell the faint, clean scent of his cologne, a ghost of a memory that makes your heart ache. You want to reach out, to close the distance, to bridge the gap, but you’re frozen, a prisoner of your own fear. He’s just as tense. He’s staring out the window, his jaw set, a muscle working in his cheek. His hands are clenched into fists in his lap, a white-knuckled grip that betrays the calm, indifferent facade he’s trying so hard to maintain.

You arrive at the hotel a few minutes later, a grand, imposing building that’s all gleaming marble and hushed, reverent silence. A team of discreet, efficient-looking bellhops descends upon the car, their movements a well-choreographed ballet of silent service. They open the doors, they take your bags, they lead you towards the private elevators, their faces a mask of polite, professional anonymity. You ride the elevator in silence, the soft, instrumental music a grating, intrusive soundtrack to your shared discomfort. The numbers on the display climb higher and higher, a slow, agonizing ascent to your own private purgatory. The elevator doors slide open with a soft, whooshing sound, revealing the penthouse suite. It’s a palace of opulent excess, a sprawling space of gleaming marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, and plush, oversized furniture. The city lights twinkle below you, a breathtaking, glittering panorama that should feel magical, but just feels empty.

“I’m gonna… I’m gonna take a shower,” you say, your voice a strained, awkward thing. “I’m all sticky from the gelato.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice a quiet, hoarse echo. “Me, too.”

You retreat to your bedroom, a beautiful, spacious room with a king-sized bed and a bathroom that’s bigger than your entire apartment back home. You close the door behind you, a thin, flimsy barrier that does little to muffle the sound of your own frantic, hummingbird heart.

You strip off your clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. You turn on the shower, the water a hot, pounding spray that you hope will wash away the tension, the awkwardness, the unspoken words that are clinging to you like a second skin. You step under the spray, the water a scalding, cleansing force that soothes your aching muscles and calms your frayed nerves. You stand there for a long time, letting the water cascade over you, your eyes closed, your mind a blank. You can hear the distant sound of Michael moving around in the other room, the soft, muffled thud of a door closing, the faint, almost imperceptible sound of the shower in his own bathroom starting up.

The thought of him, just a few feet away, naked and wet, sends a jolt of something hot and sharp through you. You push it down, a desperate, futile attempt to maintain a semblance of control. You’re not ready. You’re not ready for this, for the inevitable, terrifying collision of your two worlds. You finally turn off the water, grabbing a thick, fluffy towel from the heated rack. You dry yourself off, the rough terrycloth a welcome, grounding sensation against your skin. You pull on a soft, silk robe, the fabric cool and smooth against your still-damp skin. You take a deep breath, a fortifying, desperate attempt to brace yourself for what comes next.

You open the door, stepping out into the quiet, dimly lit suite. The only light comes from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city a glittering, silent spectator to your private drama. He’s there, standing in the middle of the living room, a silhouette against the glittering backdrop of the city. He’s changed into a pair of black silk pajama pants, his chest bare, his skin still damp from the shower. He looks… vulnerable. Stripped of all the artifice, all the performance, he’s just Michael. Your Michael.

And he’s looking at you with an expression that makes your heart ache. It’s a look of raw, unadulterated longing, a look of a man who’s been waiting for this moment for a lifetime.

“You’re still here,” he says, his voice a low, hoarse whisper. “Where else would I be?” you ask, your voice a quiet, fragile echo. He takes a step towards you, then another, until he’s standing in front of you, so close you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but you can feel the current humming between you, a live wire of unspoken feelings and shared memories.

“I was so scared in that park,” he says, his voice a low, intimate confession. “Not of Bill, or of the fans, or of the world. I was scared of this. Of us. Of what would happen if I finally told you the truth.”

“What truth?” you ask, your voice a strained, breathy thing.

“The truth that I’m in love with you,” he says, the words a quiet, devastating blow. “That I’ve been in love with you since I was fifteen years old, and you helped me pick out the right tie for my first award show. That I’ve been in love with you through every bad date, every broken heart, every failed relationship. That I’ve been in love with you every single day for the last fifteen years.” The words hang in the air between you, a beautiful, terrifying confession that changes everything. You can feel the tears welling up in your eyes, hot, stinging tracks that trace a path down your cheeks. You’re not sad. You’re… overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated weight of his love, by the sheer, unadulterated weight of your own. “I’m in love with you, too,” you whisper, the words a quiet, desperate prayer. “I’m so in love with you it hurts.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief. He reaches up, his thumb gently stroking your cheek, wiping away your tears. His touch is electric, a spark that ignites a fire deep in your soul. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that,” he says, his voice a low, happy rumble.

And then he’s kissing you. It’s not a frantic, desperate kiss. It’s a slow, deliberate, soul-shattering kiss. It’s a kiss that says, “I’m home.” It’s a kiss that says, “I’ve been waiting for you.” It’s a kiss that’s fifteen years in the making. His lips are soft, warm, tasting faintly of mint and the lingering sweetness of gelato. He’s gentle, at first, exploring, learning. But then the kiss deepens, a slow, deliberate burn that consumes you both. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your chest, a slow, reassuring rhythm that matches your own.

You lose all track of time, all sense of self. There’s only the feel of his lips on yours, the taste of his mouth, the warmth of his body. The world outside ceases to exist, the glittering city lights a distant, irrelevant memory. There’s only this. Only him. Only us. When you finally pull apart, you’re both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. The air is thick with the aftermath of the kiss, a heavy, heady thing that’s as intoxicating as it is terrifying.

“Wow,” you whisper, your voice a shaky, breathy thing. “Yeah,” he says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. “Wow.” He takes your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, a perfect, familiar fit. He leads you towards the bedrooms, a silent, unspoken agreement passing between you. He stops at your door, a hesitant, questioning look on his face. “Stay with me,” you say, your voice a quiet, confident plea. “Please.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice. He follows you into your room, closing the door behind him. He pulls you into another kiss, a quick, sweet thing that’s full of promise and possibility.

He pulls back, his dark eyes searching yours in the dim light of the city that spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A slow, contented smile touches his lips, a genuine, unguarded thing that you’ve rarely seen, and only ever when he thought no one was looking. Now, it’s just for you. “Let’s go to bed,” he whispers, the words a soft, simple promise.

There is no more hesitation, no more awkward dance of proximity. He leads you to the bed, not with passion, but with a quiet, settled rightness. You slide under the cool, crisp sheets, and he follows, settling beside you. He doesn’t pull you into an embrace or demand more. Instead, he simply takes your hand in his, your fingers intertwining on the pillow between you. It’s a small, simple gesture, but it feels more intimate, more profound, than anything that has come before.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @mikaylajacksonnn @ghosteras @angelfacemj07 @kuinnoaa @michaelsbabymother @urdeftones-grrrl @plan3tch1ld @ag1rllikeyou @shamonemjshamone @thatpettyho @neverstreett @feenin4dietcoke @skibidicutepreppy @eternal-life94

requested　﹒ @3leni (not req, but inspired by) ♡

The world outside the windows of your apartment had faded to a dull, distant hum. Inside, the only sounds were the frantic, synthesized score from the television and the wet, soft sounds of your mouths meeting, parting, and meeting again. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre played on, forgotten, its screams and buzzing chainsaws a bizarre, irrelevant soundtrack to the kiss that was slowly consuming you.

Michael’s hand was warm on the back of your neck, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic rhythm against your skin. He tasted of peppermint tea and the faint, lingering sweetness of the chocolate he’d been nibbling on earlier. His other arm was wrapped tight around your waist, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, a tangled mess of limbs and shared body heat on the plush, cream-colored couch.

“You’re not watching the movie, angel,” he murmured against your lips, a low, happy rumble that vibrated through your entire body.

“I’m watching something much more interesting,” you breathed, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made your toes curl. “Is that so?” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes soft in the flickering light of the television. They were filled with a warmth, a gentle affection that made your heart ache. He was so beautiful like this—unburdened, relaxed, with the faint shadow of a day’s exhaustion beginning to soften the sharp angles of his face. The hard, public mask of Michael, the superstar, had melted away, leaving only Mikey. Your Mikey.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, leaning in to press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Much, much more interesting.” He smiled, a genuine, easy curve of his lips that was reserved only for you. He shifted, his movements fluid and deliberate, disentangling himself just enough to turn off the television with a click of the remote. The room plunged into a sudden, intimate silence, broken only by the soft patter of rain against the windows. “Good,” he whispered, his gaze heavy on yours. “I’ve had enough of everyone else for one day.”

And then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. It was deeper, slower, a deliberate exploration. He wasn’t just kissing you; he was claiming you, branding you, staking a possession that was as comforting as it was thrilling. His tongue swept against yours, a soft, insistent pressure that made a soft moan escape your lips. He swallowed the sound, a low growl of approval rumbling in his chest.

His hands began to wander, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the swell of your hip. His touch was a slow, deliberate fire, searing through the thin cotton of your t-shirt and leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. “You feel so good, my love,” he murmured, his lips trailing a path of hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. He nipped at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone, a sharp, pleasurable sting that made you gasp. “S’perfect.”

Your head fell back, giving him better access, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Mikey…” you breathed, his name a prayer on your lips. “Shh, sweetheart,” he soothed, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. “Just let me take care of you.”

He shifted again, his movements strong and sure, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing. He settled you back against the couch cushions, positioning himself over you, his knees bracketing your hips. He caged you in, a comforting weight that anchored you to the world. He looked down at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and tender reverence. “You’re s’beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “All mine.”

And then he was pulling your t-shirt over your head, the cool air of the room a shock against your heated skin. His eyes roamed over you, a slow, appreciative gaze that made you feel more beautiful, more desired, than you had ever felt in your entire life.

He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of your throat, then another to the swell of your breast. His hands were on you again, tracing the lacy edge of your bra, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. He was teasing you, drawing out the anticipation, building a slow, burning fire deep in your core. “Please, Mikey,” you whimpered, arching your back, a silent plea for more.

“What do you want, angel?” he asked, his voice a low, smug purr. “Tell me.”

“You,” you gasped. “I want t’feel you.” He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “You already can, my love. All of me.” And with that, he unhooked your bra, his fingers deft and sure. He tossed it aside, his eyes darkening as they took in the sight of you, naked from the waist up. He lowered his head, his tongue darting out to flick against one pebbled nipple. A jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you, and you cried out, your hips bucking involuntarily.

He did it again, this time taking the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently, his tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm. His other hand came up to cup your other breast, his thumb and forefinger rolling the nipple between them, mirroring the rhythm of his mouth. You were a mess of sensation, a symphony of pleasure that was building to a crescendo. Your hands were everywhere, tangling in his hair, gripping his shoulders, digging your nails into his back. You were lost, adrift in a sea of sensation, and he was your only anchor.

He released your nipple with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips to your skin. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “You like that?” he asked, his voice a low, husky rumble.

You could only nod, your breath caught in your throat. “Good,” he said, his eyes gleaming with a predatory light. “Because I’m not even close to being done with you.” He began to kiss his way down your body, a slow, deliberate path of hot, open-mouthed kisses. He traced the curve of your ribs, the dip of your navel, the soft swell of your belly. His hands followed, stroking, caressing, learning every inch of you.

He reached the waistband of your pajama pants, his fingers hooking into the elastic. He paused, looking up at you, a question in his eyes. “May I?” he asked, his voice a soft, respectful whisper. “Yes,” you breathed, your heart pounding in your chest. “Yes, Mickey, please.”

He slowly, tantalizingly, pulled down your pants and your panties, baring you to his gaze. He tossed them aside, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of you, completely and utterly vulnerable before him. He settled between your legs, his shoulders pushing your thighs apart. He looked up at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and tender reverence.

“You’re s’beautiful,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “And you’re all mine.” And then he lowered his head, and the world fell away. The first touch of his tongue against your core was a shock, a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that stole your breath. He was hesitant at first, exploring, learning. But then he grew bolder, his tongue moving with a confidence that was both thrilling and terrifying.

He found your bud, that sensitive bundle of nerves, and began to circle it with the tip of his tongue. A soft moan escaped your lips, your hips bucking involuntarily. He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound, and then he took the sensitive bud into his mouth, sucking gently. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands. He growled, a low, approving sound, and began to suck in earnest, his tongue swirling in a slow, maddening rhythm.

He released your button with a soft, wet pop, a thin strand of saliva connecting his lips to your skin. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. “You taste s’good, angel,” he said, his voice a low, husky rumble. “S’sweet.”

He then brought one of his hands up, his long, elegant fingers tracing a path up your inner thigh. You shivered in anticipation, your breath catching in your throat. He paused, his fingers hovering over your entrance, a silent question in his eyes. “Please,” you whimpered, your hips arching off the couch. He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “Patience, my love. Good things come t’those who wait.”

He slowly, deliberately, slid one finger inside you. A low groan escaped your lips as your body stretched to accommodate him. He was so long, so slender, and he felt impossibly good. “You’re s’tight for me,” he murmured, his voice a low, hypnotic whisper. “S’precious.”

He began to move his finger, a slow, in-and-out rhythm that was both maddening and exquisite. He was teasing you, drawing out the anticipation, building a slow, burning fire deep in your core.

He added a second finger, the stretch a delicious, ache that made you gasp. He curled his fingers, finding that sensitive spot deep inside you, and a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure shot through you. “Mikey…” you gasped, your back arching off the couch. “Oh, God, Mikey…” “Right there, my love?” he asked, a smug, satisfied smile on his face. “Right there,” you panted, your hips bucking against his hand.

He added a third finger, the stretch a sharp, pleasurable burn that made you cry out. You were so full, so stretched, and it felt so good. He was a master, a virtuoso, and you were his instrument, and he was playing you with a skill that was both humbling and awe-inspiring. “You’re taking me s’well, angel,” he praised, his voice a low, husky rumble. “You’re such a good girl.”

His words were a potent aphrodisiac, a balm to your soul and a spark to your desire. You felt a surge of confidence, of power, and you began to move your hips, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper. He growled, a low, approving sound, and then he added a fourth finger. The stretch was intense, a sharp, stinging burn that teetered on the edge of pain. You cried out, your hands gripping the cushions of the couch, your knuckles white.

“Shh, sweetheart,” he soothed, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Just relax. Breathe for me. Y’can take it. I know you can.” His voice was a calming balm, a hypnotic anchor in the storm of sensation. You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to relax, to trust him. He was patient, giving you a moment to adjust before he began to move again.

He started with a slow, gentle rhythm, a slow, in-and-out motion that was both maddening and exquisite. He was stretching you, opening you, claiming you in the most intimate way possible. The sounds were wet, slick, a obscene, beautiful symphony of your shared desire. “Look at you,” he murmured, his dark eyes fixed on the place where his body disappeared into yours. “So beautiful. So perfect. All mine.”

His praise was a powerful drug, and you were addicted. You felt a surge of pride, of a deep, primal satisfaction at being able to please him, at being able to take all of him. He began to move faster, his thrusts becoming deeper, more demanding. The pleasure was building, a slow, burning wave that was threatening to crash over you. You could feel the tension coiling in your belly, a tight, hot knot that was waiting to be released.

“Please, Mikey,” you whimpered, your hips bucking against his hand. “Please…” “What do you want, angel?” he asked, his voice a low, smug purr. “You gotta tell me you want.”

“To come,” you gasped. “I want you t’make me come.” He chuckled, a low, triumphant sound. “As you wish, my love.” He lowered his head, his tongue finding your clit again. He began to suck, a hard, demanding rhythm that matched the thrusts of his fingers. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, a sensory overload that sent you hurtling towards the edge.

The wave crested, a tsunami of pure, unadulterated pleasure that crashed over you, stealing your breath and shattering your world. You cried out his name, a raw, primal scream that was torn from the depths of your soul. Your body convulsed, your back arching off the couch, your inner walls clamping down on his fingers in a series of powerful, rhythmic spasms.

He rode you through it, his mouth and fingers never ceasing their relentless assault. He was drawing out your orgasm, prolonging the pleasure, pushing you to the brink of overstimulation.

Just as you thought you couldn’t take any more, he slowed his movements, his touch becoming softer, gentler. He lapped at you, a slow, tender rhythm that was as comforting as it was erotic. He was cleaning you, worshipping you, a silent, reverent tribute to your shared pleasure.

Finally, he pulled away, a slow, deliberate withdrawal that left you feeling empty and aching. He looked up at you, a slow, satisfied smile on his face. His chin was glistening with your essence, a messy, beautiful testament to your desire.

He crawled up your body, his movements fluid and graceful. He caged you in, a comforting weight that anchored you to the world. He lowered his head, his lips finding yours in a slow, deep kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, a heady, musky flavor that was both foreign and familiar. It was a primal, intimate act, a sharing of the most fundamental parts of yourselves.

He broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you, angel,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I love you, too, Michael,” you breathed, your heart swelling with a love so intense it was almost painful.

He settled back against the couch cushions, pulling you into his arms. You rested your head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart a slow, reassuring rhythm against your ear. He picked up the remote, turning the television back on. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre flickered to life, its screams and buzzing chainsaws once again filling the room.

You watched the movie for a few minutes, but your mind was elsewhere. You could still feel the ghost of his touch, the lingering ache of your pleasure. You wanted more. You wanted all of him. You shifted, your thigh brushing against the hard, insistent length of his arousal. He was still fully clothed, the rough denim of his jeans a stark contrast to your naked skin. “Michael,” you whispered, your voice a soft, pleading murmur. “Hmm?” he asked, his eyes still fixed on the television. “You’re… you’re still…” you trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made your toes curl. “I know.”

You shifted again, a deliberate, inviting pressure against his hardness. “Don’t you want to…?” you asked, your voice a hopeful, breathy thing. He finally looked down at you, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. His eyes were dark, but they were filled with a warm, tender affection, not the raw desire from before. “Not now, my love,” he said, his voice a soft, gentle command. “Let’s just watch the movie.”

“But…”

“No buts,” he said, a firm but playful tone in his voice. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I just spent the last hour giving you exactly what you needed. Now it’s my turn to just hold you.” He laughed, a light, airy sound that was full of genuine amusement. “We’ll get there.” You pouted, a childish, petulant gesture that you knew would make him laugh. He did, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your entire body.

“Don’t you give me that look, angel,” he said, a mock-stern expression on his face. “You know it doesn’t work on me.” “It works a little,” you mumbled, a sullen pout still on your face. He laughed again, a full, rich sound that was like music to your ears. “Oh, angel,” he said, his voice soft and full of affection. “What am I going to do with you?”

“You could do a lot of things,” you said, a suggestive glint in your eye. He shook his head, a slow, deliberate gesture. “Nope,” he said, a smug little smile on his face. “We’re watching the movie. And you’re going to like it.” You settled back against his chest, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips. You knew he was right. This was what you needed, too. Not the frantic, desperate passion, but the quiet, settled intimacy. The simple, profound comfort of being held by the man you loved.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett

requested　﹒　n/a ♡

The knock on the door isn’t polite. It’s a rapid, staccato beat, full of restless energy, the kind of knock that could only belong to one person. You grin, setting your glass of sparkling water on the bathroom counter. The tub is almost full, steam curling in the soft light, the scent of lavender and chamomile filling the air.

“Comin'!” you call out, wrapping a towel around yourself. You pad through your small New York apartment, the floorboards cool under your feet. You swing open the door to find him leaning against the doorframe, a chaotic masterpiece of New York night and post-concert adrenaline.

His hair is a mess of curls, still slightly damp from sweat, the matching initial necklaces you shared shining from the light. He’s wearing black jeans, a bit worn at the knees, and a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing a couple of thin, silver bracelets. His eyes are wide and impossibly bright, a frantic, beautiful energy thrumming just beneath the surface of his skin. He looks exhausted, but electric. Alive.

“Hey, girl,” he says, a wide, brilliant grin spreading across his face. It’s the kind of smile that could light up Times Square, a private, unguarded thing he saves only for you.

“Hey, rockstar,” you reply, your smile just as wide. You pull him into a quick, tight hug, smelling sweat, and that expensive, clean cologne he loves. He’s solid and real against you, not a pixelated face on a screen or a staticky voice over the phone. “Long distance no more.”

“For tonight,” he agrees, his voice a low, happy rumble. He pulls back, but his hands stay on your arms, grounding you. “God, it’s good t' see you for real. My face's startin' t' get tired of lookin' inta cameras for pictures.”

“I know the feelin',” you say, your hands resting on his chest. You can feel the rapid, steady beat of his heart against your palm. “You're a mess, y'know that?”

“A happy mess,” he corrects, winking. “Adrenaline's a helluva drug.”

“So I see,” you laugh, gently pushing him inside and closing the door. “I was just about t' get in the bath. You caught me at a good time.”

His eyes flicker towards the bathroom, where the steam is now gently billowing out into the hallway. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across his face. “A bath, huh? Don’t start without me,” he teases, a playful glint in his eyes. You roll your eyes, swatting him lightly on the arm. “Down, boy,” you tease back. “I was gonna invite you t' sit in with me. We can catch up. If you can behave yourself.” “I can behave,” he says, raising his hands in surrender, though the sparkle in his eyes tells a difforent story. “Scout's honor.”

“Good,” you say, nodding towards the living room. “There's clean stuff for you in the top drawer of the dresser. the ones you left last time. Go get changed. I'll grab you a drink.” “You're a saint,” he says, pressing a quick kiss to your cheek before disappearing into the living room.

You retreat to the kitchen, the cool tile a welcome relief against your bare feet. You pull a carton of orange juice from the fridge, the bright, citrusy scent a stark contrast to the calm lavender of the bath. You pour him a tall glass, the liquid a vibrant, sunny orange. For yourself, you top off your sparkling water, the bubbles fizzing gently against the sides of the glass. You grab both glasses and head back to the bathroom.

Michael’s already there, leaning against the counter, looking domestic and like yours. He’s changed into the gray pajama bottoms you’d gotten him, soft and worn, and a simple white t-shirt that clings to his lean frame. His feet are bare, and he’s fiddled with one of the silver bracelets on his wrist, a nervous, restless energy still radiating from him. He looks up as you enter, a grateful smile on his face. “Thanks for this,” he says, taking the glass from you. He takes a long swallow, a happy sigh escaping his lips. “Gosh, that's good. I'm so thirsty.”

“You were probably sweatin' out about ten gallons of water up there,” you say, setting your own glass down. You slip off your towel and slide into the tub, the hot water a blissful embrace. You sink down until the water’s lapping at your chin, a soft, contented sigh escaping your lips.

“It was somethin' else tonight,” he says, sliding down to sit on the floor, his back against the wall opposite the tub. He pulls his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “the crowd was just... electric. you could feel it all the way up on the stage. Like a livin', breathin' thing.”

“I wish I could've been there,” you say, your voice soft. “T'see it. T'see you.” “You were there,” he says, his eyes meeting yours, a strange intensity in their depths. “I always look for you. Even when I know you ain't there, I still look.” Your heart does a little flip-flop, a familiar, dizzying sensation that you’ve learned to live with over the years. You’ve been best friends for so long, your lives intertwined in a way that feels both natural and utterly profound. But there are moments, like this one, where the line between friendship and something more blurs into a beautiful, terrifying, undefined space. “Did you find me tonight?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“Every night,” he says, his gaze never wavering. He takes another sip of his orange juice, the silence stretching between you, comfortable and easy. He’s still buzzing, a live wire, but here, in the steam-filled quiet of your bathroom, he’s starting to unwind. The frantic energy is softening, melting away.

“So,” he says, setting his glass down. “Tell me everythin'. What've I missed in the life of a normal New Yorker? Any good gossip? Any disastrous dates I need t' save you from?”You laugh, a light, bubbly sound that echoes off the tiled walls. “Well, let's see. I discovered a new coffee shop that makes a disgustin'ly good latte, I finished that book you told me t' read, n’ I had a date with a guy who spent theentire night talkin' about his collection of vintage staplers.”

Michael’s eyebrows shoot up. “Vintage staplers? Seriously? What is wrong with people?” “I ask myself that question every day,” you say, shaking your head. “But it makes for a good story, at least.”

“Definitely,” he agrees, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Though I think you need better standards. I mean, vintage staplers? C'mon. you can do so much better.”

“Like who?” you tease, splashing a little water in his direction. He yelps, ducking away from the spray.

“Hey! Watch it! You'll get my shirt wet,” he protests, but he’s laughing. “That’s the point,” you say, a wicked grin on your face. “you need t' cool down. You're still hummin'.”

“I can't help it,” he says, running a hand through his tangled curls. “It's the best feelin' in the world. Up there, with all those people, singin' along... it's like bein' plugged inta a socket. An' then comin' here, t' you... it's like the whole world just... quiets down.” He says it so casually, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to say. But it lands with the weight of a confession, a quiet, intimate truth that hangs in the air between you. You feel a warmth spread through your chest that has nothing to do with the bathwater.

You reach for your sparkling water, your fingers brushing against his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Instead, he turns his hand over, lacing his fingers with yours. His hand is warm, calloused in places from years of playing guitar, a comforting, familiar weight. “Remember that one time,” he says, his thumb stroking the back of your hand, “we stayed up all night watchin' old movies, an' you fell asleep on my shoulder?”

“I remember,” you say, your voice soft. “My neck was sore for a week.” “Mine, too,” he says, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. “But I wouldn't've moved for the world. It was the best night's sleep I'd had in months.”

The air crackles with unspoken words, with years of shared history and suppressed feelings. You’re so close to the edge, so close to saying something, to doing something that would change everything. But you’re both too scared to make the first move, too scared to ruin the perfect, fragile thing you have. “So,” you say, pulling your hand back and clearing your throat. “'Sides the stapler guy, what's new with you? Any groupies I should be jealous of?”

He laughs, a short, sharp sound that breaks the spell. “You know me. I'm a one-woman man. Even if that woman is just my best friend who lives three thousand miles away.”

“Lucky me,” you say, a little too quickly. You dunk your head under the water, rinsing the soap from your hair. When you come up, slicking your hair back from your face, he’s watching you with an unreadable expression. You lean your head back against the cool porcelain of the tub, the water swirling gently around you. “Alright, Mr. World Tour, your turn for gossip. What's happenin' on your block? Or, y'know, your heavily-guarded compound.”

He chuckles, taking another sip of his juice. “Oh, y'know. the usual. Janet dyed her hair again, this color I think she's callin' 'autumn brown.' Mrs. Johnson down the street still thinks my garden gnomes are devil worshippers. An' Bubbles figured out how t' work the VCR, so now I can't find any of my tapes. He's got a thing for The Sound of Music.”

You laugh, picturing it perfectly—the chaos of the Jackson household, a bizarre, beautiful symphony of fame and family. “So, basically, the same as my building, but with more monkeys an' better security. Mrs. Henderson in 3B still thinks I'm runnin' a speakeasy because I have people over past nine p.m. Last week, she left a note on my door about the 'racket' from my 'flapper music.' She thinks I'm a bootlegger.”

“Flapper music?” he grins, a real, unguarded grin that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “What were you listenin' to?” “Your demo tape. the one you sent me. the one with the piano track that sounds like i’m floatin'.” You say it quietly, and the grin softens into something more tender. “I s'pose she's not entirely wrong. It does make me wanna dance n' drink illegal gin.”

“See? You're a menace t' society,” he teases. “A regular Bonnie Parker.”

“Only if you're my Clyde,” you shoot back, the words slipping out before you can stop them. The flirty banter is a familiar dance, a carefully choreographed routine you both know by heart, but sometimes the steps lead you closer to the fire than usual.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you, his eyes dark and serious, and for a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance between you. But then he blinks, and the moment is gone. He clears his throat, looking down at his empty glass. “We should watch that when you get out. The Sound of Music. See if Bubbles has good taste.”

“Okay,” you say, your voice a little too bright. “Okay, but I'm gettin' all pruney. Time t' evacuate the tub.” You stand up, water sluicing off your body in rivers, and grab your towel from the hook. Michael doesn’t move, just watches you, his expression unreadable. “You're just gonna stand there?” you ask, wrapping the towel securely around yourself. He shrugs, a lazy, comfortable gesture. “I'm comfy.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Michael. Turn around.”

“Seriously?” he asks, a playful whine in his voice. “It's nothin' I haven't seen before, y'know. Remember that time in the hotel pool in Tokyo when your bikini top came off?” “That was different, an' you promised you would never speak of that again,” you say, pointing a finger at him. “Now. Turn.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh of theatrical sufforing, but he does as you ask. He turns to face the wall, resting his forehead against it with a dramatic thump. “I'm turnin',” he calls out, his voice muffled. “I'm a perfect gentleman. I'm blind. I see nothin'.”

You laugh, quickly drying off and pulling on a pair of soft cotton shorts and an old, faded t-shirt of his that you’d stolen ages ago. The fabric is soft and worn, and it smells faintly of him—clean laundry and that expensive cologne. “Okay, you can look now.” He turns around, leaning back against the wall. His eyes scan you, a slow, appreciative glance that makes your skin tingle. “Much better,” he says, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Oh, shut up,” you say, tossing your wet towel into the hamper. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Do I wanna hear it?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“So, yes. you do.” you say, grinning.

“I'm listenin'.”

“Face masks,” you say, pulling a small jar from the cabinet. “An' then we're gonna raid my freezer for ice cream an' watch The Sound of Music.”

“You had me at face masks,” he says, pushing himself up from the floor. He follows you into your bedroom, sprawling out on your bed like a big, lazy cat, taking up more than his fair share of the space. You climb onto the bed, kneeling beside him. You open the jar, scooping out a dollop of the cool, green goop.

He obeys without question, a look of utter trust on his face. You start to apply the mask, your fingers gently tracing the contours of his face. You smooth the cream over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, over his high cheekbones. He’s so still, so pliant under your touch, his breathing slow and even. His skin is warm, soft. You find yourself getting lost in the simple act, in the intimacy of it. “You're good at this,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed. “you shoulda been an aesthetician.”

“Nah,” you say, your thumb gently stroking his temple. “I'd rather just do this for only you.” He doesn’t say anything to that, but you feel him take a sharp, quiet breath. You finish with the mask, sitting back to admire your work. He looks ridiculous, with green goop smeared all over his face, but he’s beautiful. He always is.

“Okay, my turn,” he says, opening his eyes. He sits up, taking the jar from you. He’s clumsy, less gentle than you were, but his touch is careful, deliberate. He scoops out a smaller amount of the mask, his brow furrowed in concentration. He starts to apply it to your face, his fingers tracing your jawline, your cheeks, the tip of your nose. His touch is feather-light, sending shivers down your spine. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin, can see the intense focus in his eyes. You’re so close, closer than you’ve been in months. You can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. You can feel the current running between you, a silent, electric hum that’s been there for years.

“All done,” he says, his voice a low whisper. He leans back, a small, proud smile on his face. “Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad at all,” you agree, a slow smile spreading across your own face. “We look like a couple of aliens.”

“A couple of very pretty aliens,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eye. You both dissolve into laughter, the sound filling the small room. It’s easy, comfortable, a familiar rhythm you both know by heart. For a moment, everything is simple. He’s just Michael, your best friend, and you’re just you. There’s no fame, no distance, no unspoken feelings hanging in the air. Just two friends, wearing face masks, about to watch a movie about a singing nun.

“We should let these dry,” he says, leaning back against the headboard. “Ten minutes, the lady at the store said.”

“Plenty of time t' pick our poison,” he says, sliding off the bed. “I have cookie dough, I have rocky road, an' I have... somethin' healthy an' green that my mom left here last time she visited. We will not be partakin' in the healthy an' green option.” He follows you into the kitchen, a green-faced specter padding silently behind you. You pull open the freezer door, a gust of cold air washing over you. You grab the cartons of cookie dough and rocky road, setting them on the counter with a thud.

“Alright, let's do this,” you say, grabbing two spoons from the drawer. But Michael has other ideas. He takes both cartons, a mischievous glint in his eye. He pries off the lids, grabbing a big bowl from the cupboard.

“Why choose?” he asks, scooping a hefty portion of rocky road into the bowl. “When you can have the best of both worlds?” He follows it up with an equally large scoop of cookie dough, swirling them together into a chaotic, delicious mess. “Michael Jackson, you are a genius,” you declare, watching him work. “A legend. An ice cream revolutionary.”

“I try,” he says, a smug little smile on his face. He grabs two spoons from the drawer, handing one to you. “Now let's go before our faces crack.”

You settle on the couch, the bowl of ice cream resting between you. The opening credits of The Sound of Music start to play, the iconic hills coming to life on your small screen. Michael shifts, moving to sit behind you, his long legs stretched out on either side of you. He leans back against the arm of the couch, pulling you with him until you’re nestled between his legs, your back resting against his chest. It’s a familiar position, one you’ve fallen into a hundred times before. It’s comfortable, safe. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your back, a slow, reassuring rhythm. “This is nice,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your ear.

“Yeah,” you agree, your voice a soft sigh. “It is.” He starts to play with your hair, his fingers gently combing through the damp strands. It’s a mindless, soothing gesture, one that never fails to make you feel calm, centered. You can feel the calluses on his fingertips, a rough, comforting texture against your scalp.

The movie plays on, but you’re not really watching. Julie Andrews is singing about her favorite things, but your attention is elsewhere. It’s on the feeling of Michael’s fingers in your hair, on the warmth of his body against yours, on the quiet, domestic perfection of the moment.

“So,” he whispers, his lips brushing against your ear. “Tell me more 'bout Stapler Guy. Was he at least a good kisser?” You laugh, a quiet, breathy sound. “I wouldn't know. He tried t' kiss me goodnight, an' I told him I had t' go wash my cat. An’ we both know I’m allergic.” He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest and into yours. “That's my girl. Always thinkin' on your feet.”

“You're one t' talk,” you retort, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “I've seen you dodge a question from Barbara Walters like it's an Olympic sport.”

“Hey, that's a survival skill,” he says, his fingers still stroking your hair. “you learn quick in my business. How t' say a whole lot of nothin' without ever actually sayin' nothin'.”

“It's an art form,” you agree. “But you can't do that with me. I see right through you.” “Yeah,” he says, his voice a soft, intimate whisper. “you do.”

The air between you shifts, the easy banter giving way to something more fragile, more honest. The spoon in your hand feels suddenly heavy, the melting ice cream forgotten. You can feel his breath on your neck, a warm, steady caress that sends shivers down your spine.” “Michael...” you start, but you don’t know how to finish. What do you say? How do you bridge the gap that’s been widening between you for years?

He doesn’t press you. He just holds you a little tighter, his chin resting on the top of your head. On the screen, the von Trapp children are learning to sing, but the only music you can hear is the frantic beating of your own heart. “I miss this,” he says, his voice barely audible above the sound from the TV. “Just... bein' normal. With you.”

“Me, too,” you whisper back. “It's the only place I feel normal anymore.”

You’re both quiet for a long moment, the weight of your shared reality settling over you. His gaze feels too heavy, too real. You feel a prickle of panic, a desperate need to break the tension before it shatters into something irreparable. Without thinking, you twist in his arms, grabbing a spoonful of the half-melted concoction—rocky road and cookie dough swirled together. Before he can react, you shove the spoon directly into his open mouth.

“Stop lookin' at me like that,” you say, your voice a strained mix of command and desperation. “'Fore I do somethin' stupid. Somethin' I won't regret.”

His eyes go wide, comically surprised. A smear of chocolate ice cream is on the corner of his lip. He freezes for a second, processing your words and the sudden intrusion of ice cream. Then, a choked sound escapes him. He starts to laugh. Not a small chuckle, but a full-bodied, deep, infectious cackle that makes his whole body shake. The sight of him—Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, with a green face mask and chocolate on his chin, laughing so hard he can barely breathe—is too much. The knot in your chest loosens, and you’re gone, dissolving into a fit of helpless laughter right along with him. You collapse back against him, both of you shaking, your gasps for air mingling with the sound of the von Trapps singing “So Long, Farewell.” The ice cream tub tips, spilling a little onto the couch cushion, but neither of you cares. In the midst of the laughter and the mess, the unspoken words are forgotten, for now, drowned out by the familiar, joyful sound of two best friends, two bad kids, sharing a secret in the dark.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @hawtstreet @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow