Unstable Whore

And at first, you blamed circumstances.

Eventually, you started blaming yourself.

The following weeks were a disaster, diva.

You changed your hair, changed it again. Then you became convinced the first version had actually looked better and spent three days mourning it. You switched nail colors so many times that your nail tech eventually stopped asking questions and just started staring at you with growing concern because you were starting to work her nerves. Long nails! Short nails! Red! Pink! Nude! French tips! Nothing seemed helped. Every appointment had the optimism of a woman who was genuinely convinced that the solution to her problems might be hiding inside a bottle of acrylic powder. It never was.

You bought new clothes.

You rearranged your makeup routine.

You spent a ridiculous amount of (his <3) money on skincare products advertised by women who were so obviously professionally done in makeup.

At one point, you became convinced that a boob job would somehow save your relationship.

A boob job would not save your relationship but mostly because your relationship wasn’t actually in danger. But to be fair, you just didn’t know that yet.

The problem was that once insecurity took root, it became impossible to think normally. Suddenly every mirror was an enemy, every picture of yourself fueled your dilemma and every minor flaw you found turned into a very big one. You stood in front of mirrors turning your head from side to side like a confused puppy.

Maybe it was your hair.

Maybe it was your body.

Maybe your skin looked weird.

Maybe your face looked weird.

Maybe you needed botox?

The theories became increasingly unhinged.

By the end of the second month, you had somehow managed to convince yourself that Michael no longer desired you because of a collection of microscopic imperfections that literally nobody else on Earth had ever noticed. The longer Michael avoided sex, the easier it became to convince yourself that there had to be a reason. A person didn’t simply wake up one day and stop wanting someone they loved.

So naturally, the explanation had to be you.

There was simply no other possibility.

Certainly not Michael Jackson, like.. thee Michael Jackson? Get real. A man who instinctively apologizes to inanimate objects after bumping into them. A man who asks you to send his food back because he doesn’t want the staff to feel bad. A man whose default response to conflict is both palms up and hoping the issue is resolved without much confrontation.

No. Clearly the issue wasn’t him.

By the time Michael finally came home from the studio that night, you’d already prosecuted the case, delivered the verdict, and sentenced yourself accordingly. The only problem was that nobody had bothered informing the defendant.

Michael knew something was wrong the moment he walked through the front door.

And not because you said anything weird. In fact, the opposite. You greeted him with a bright smile and an enthusiastic, “Hi, baby!” before immediately returning to furiously wiping down a perfectly clean kitchen counter. The surrounding area smelled aggressively of purple fabuloso. Every surface sparkled pristinely, the furniture had been rearranged—there wasn’t a single thing out of place.

Michael glanced at the clock on the stove. It was nearly two in the morning and exhaustion lingered in the slope of his shoulders. The Bad sessions had been consuming him lately, turning days into nights and nights into mornings. Normally he returned home looking drained, tonight however, the fatigue seemed to disappear the second he got a proper look at you.

He smiled to himself.

Stress cleaning.

He’s learned this quirk of yours long ago. Stress cleaning only happened when something was deeply upsetting that pretty little heart of yours. Normal people cried. Some people yelled. You wanted to flip houses. And that was okay.

“How was the studio?” you asked cheerfully, already moving on to a cabinet door that did not need cleaning. Michael slowly set his bag down on the kitchen island. The smile on your face looked.. suspiciously forced and assembled in a hurry, your eyes red and puffy.

“It was real good.”

“That’s good.” You continued scrubbing.

For a few moments, Michael kept watching you. The way you moved from one task to another without actually accomplishing anything. The way you wiped surfaces that were already spotless. The way your smile appeared and disappeared depending on whether you thought he was looking. A lesser man might have missed it. Michael didn’t.

Slowly, he crossed the room. “Baby love.” The nickname was soft, gentle. And it usually made you look at him.

This time, it didn’t.

Michael’s smile faded slightly. He’s worried.

“Hey.” His hand settled lightly against your arm, stopping your endless circuit around the kitchen and only then did you glance up. The concern in his eyes nearly made you cry all over again. After spending weeks convincing yourself that Michael no longer wanted you, it felt deeply unfair that he still looked at you like that. With that stupidly beautiful face like your sadness mattered.

“You okay?” The question was simple.

And you hated it because it would’ve been much easier if he’d been cold. So much easier if he’d actually done something wrong. Instead, here he was. Standing in front of you after a fourteen hour day, still more interested in your feelings than his own exhaustion.

You nodded too quickly. “I’m fine, Mikey.”

Michael tilted his head. Patient. Skeptical. And entirely unconvinced. “You’re not.”

His statement wasn’t accusatory, it wasn’t even challenging. Just super matter of fact like noticing rain through a window.

You laughed weakly and turned back toward the counter. “I am.”

“This spot is about sick of you wipin’ it..” Your hand froze and Michael’s mouth twitched. “You wiped it about five times.”

The laugh that escaped you sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Immediately, the hint of amusement vanished from his face. Without saying anything else, he gently took the rag from your hand and set it aside. And he reached for you, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against his chest.

Michael rested his cheek against the top of your head, one hand slowly smoothing over your back as he held you there. Waiting. Patiently. The way he always did. Because Michael had never been the sort of person who demanded answers.

The problem was that once you finally opened your mouth, you weren’t entirely sure you could stop.

The first sound that escaped you wasn’t a sentence.

It was a wail.

A loud, ugly sob that seemed to surprise even you.

Michael immediately froze.

Because one second he was rubbing slow circles into your back and the next he was staring down at you with wide eyes, completely confused. “Hey..”

“I’ve been tryin’ to fix it!” You managed to get out through your cry.

“Fix what?”

“Whatever’s wrong with me!” You wiped your nose. “I changed my hair. I changed my nails. I bought all those dresses!”

Michael looked bewildered. “Why? Why would you think you need to fix somethin’? There’s nothing wrong with you, pretty girl..”

“Because!” You cry again. “You won’t fuck me!”

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Complete, suffocating silence.

You watched the realization arrive in stages. First confusion, as he tried to understand what you were actually saying. Then understanding. Then immediate, unmistakable embarrassment. His entire face went red so quickly it was almost impressive. The color climbed from his neck to his cheeks and straight into the tips of his ears. Michael looked away at once, suddenly finding the refrigerator, the cabinets, the floor, and quite possibly the structural integrity of the kitchen tiles more interesting than making eye contact.

“Oh.” The word emerged strained.

You sniffled miserably. “’s what I've been talking about this whole time..”

Another pause followed. Michael rubbed the back of his neck, his expression growing more flustered with every passing second. He looked like a man desperately searching for an emergency exit that didn’t exist.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“No, not okay,” He corrected immediately. “I mean..” His voice trailed off and the poor man looked completely mortified.

“That's what this is about?”

You stared at him in disbelief. “Yes, Michael!”

Michael squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment.

Because he was embarrassed.

Utterly, completely embarrassed.

For months you’d apparently been carrying this hurt around by yourself, blaming your hair, your nails, your clothes, your body, your face, your existence. Meanwhile, he had been operating under an entirely different misunderstanding. Now he had to explain himself, which unfortunately required discussing a subject that already had him blushing so hard he looked overheated.

The heat spread further down his neck.

“Michael.”

“I’m trying..”

”You’re making me anxious!”

He groaned softly and covered part of his face with one hand. “’m trying to figure out how to say it..”

You would’ve laughed if you weren’t actively fighting back tears because the sight would’ve been funny under different circumstances. Here you were having the emotional breakdown while Michael looked seconds away from dissolving into the floorboards.

“Baby,” he said quietly.

“What is it, Michael?”

His gaze dropped again. “You really thought I didn’t want you.. like that anymore?” The sheer disbelief in his voice almost offended you.

“Well, what was I supposed to think!” The question seemed to connect the dots for him because from your perspective, the conclusion made perfect sense. And suddenly his embarrassment gave way to guilt.

Deep, genuine guilt.

Because now he understood what these past months had looked like through your eyes. You hadn’t been obsessing over your hair or your dresses because you were vain, not that he would even mind anyway. You’d been trying to solve a problem, trying to fix something you believed was wrong with you.

When in reality, it had never been about you at all.

Michael swallowed then looked down at the floor. “It’s spreading.”

Your brow furrowed. “Huh?”

There’s long pause. “The vitiligo.” His voice had dropped almost to a whisper. “It’s spreading.” It seemed like he might stop there, he’d already said more than he wanted to but he forced himself to continue.

“On..” He swallowed. “Those parts.” The blush returned.

“Oh.” Your expression was unreadable.

Michael laughed softly, humorlessly. “It looks different now.” His eyes remained fixed on the floor. “I know it shouldn’t bother me.. but it does.” The words came out small as he continued. “I just..” He shook his head. “It’s ugly.”

You just stared at him and then stared some more. Blinked.

Because you were furious.

Absolutely, incandescently furious.

Months?

You had spent months without his dick, crying in bathroom, changing your hair, buying new clothes, and conducting increasingly deranged investigations into your own appearance while this man had been convincing himself that you would somehow stop loving him.

First of all, you didn’t even play like that.

“Ugly?” You repeated.

Michael visibly shrank. “Lovey, I—”

“Ugly?”

His eyes squeezed shut.

Before Michael could start apologizing, you grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him. Hard. And the sound he made was mostly surprise as you felt it more than heard it.

When you finally pulled back, Michael looked thoroughly stunned, curls slightly disheveled, cheeks still hot.

“You are ridiculous.”

“Okay.” Its all he can say, really.

Another kiss. “You are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever met.”

Somewhere between your outrage and Michael’s flustered attempts to explain himself, the conversation dissolved completely. Every time he tried to apologize, you interrupted him with a kiss. Every time he attempted to look away, you guided his attention back. By the time you found yourselves stumbling toward the bedroom, Michael looked overwhelmed in the particular way he always did whenever he realized he was being loved much more aggressively than he’d anticipated.

Michael lingered at the edge of the bed, still looking uncertain with the traces of insecurity that had brought the two of you here in the first place. You could see it in the way his shoulders were drawn tight, the way he avoided your gaze.

You moved closer as you sat between his thighs on your knees. “Michael.”

He glanced up at you. “Show me.”

Michael blushed as he slowly unbuttoned his jeans, hesitating before lifting his hips an inch to slide them down along with his boxers in the hooks of his thumbs. His initial reaction when he settled back down was to cover himself, for his big hands to hover protectively over his cock to shield your pretty eyes but he knew better. His hands trembled slightly as he revealed his semi hard cock, glancing up at you with eyes that look like he’s maybe expecting rejection or laughter. But he’s not met with any of that. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes because you’re staring at it and maybe if he closes his eyes, it would make him invisible. Michael knows it won’t but, it makes him feel a little better about exposing the dick he’s hid for months.

He hesitantly reached down, his beautiful fingers trembling slightly as he wrapped them loosely around his length. He gave it a gentle tug upward, his breath hitching at the soft sound that escaped him. The motion was tentative—careful he was unsure if he should even be doing this in the first place. Was this even a good idea? What was he thinking? What are you thinking?

Michael opens his eyes a little, to peek at you. Wait. Why were you looking at him like that? Like you.. like this or something? His cheeks burned with embarrassment and he kept his gaze lowered, unable to meet your gaze.

Because.

The look in your eyes was genuinely humiliating. Women had fought for your right to vote and own property only for you to sit there staring at Michael like you’d never had a coherent thought in your life. The look in your eye wasn’t remotely mysterious. There are novels worth of yearning written across your face.

You looked at him with shameless affection and a viseral need that would’ve embarrassed a lesser woman. Every thought seemed to be written plainly across your face. A very obvious: oh my God, it’s so fucking pretty. I need this in my throat.

Your hands slid slowly up his thighs, feeling the slight tremor in his muscles beneath your touch. He let out a shaky breath as you gently pushed his hands away, replacing them with your own. His hips twitched instinctively at the contact and he squeezed his eyes shut again, face burning as you slowly wrapped your fingers around his length instead.

Fuck, its been so long since you had his dick in your hands.

You could see what he’d been referring to. What he’s been so insecure about enough to hide from you and lose sleep over.

It’s different than what it was the last time you saw it. Yeah.

But his vitiligo had created a beautiful, unique pattern across his cock. His shaft was like a piece of abstract work of art; creamy ivory petal shaped patches mixed with brown and pink sections in a way that reminded you of neapolitan ice cream. His balls sat beneath with the same splashes of paler pigment.

“It’s so pretty, Michael.. You were hiding this from me?” you murmured softly, leaning in close. Before he could stammer out a response, your tongue darted out to taste him, starting at the base of his beautiful marbled shaft. You dragged your tongue upward along one of the paler patches, earning a sharp, breathless gasp from him.

Michael’s thighs trembled under your hands as your tongue traced the intricate patterns across his sensitive flesh. “You—you think it’s still pretty?” he breathed, voice cracking with disbelief as he finally looked down at you through lidded eyes. His hips bucked forward instinctively as you swirled around his tip, his shyness melting into need. ”I always thought it was ugly..”

“So pretty, baby..” You murmured against his cock. “Can’t believe you were worried about me not liking it.. God, Michael, he’s gorgeous—can’t wait to feel him cum. Missed him so much, did he miss me?”

“Don’t—don’t talk like that about it..” He manages to say.

The pattern continued across his pelvic area, lighter patchwork breaking through some of his deeper skin tone like poured cream, soft patches drifted across his mons pubis into delicate maps of contrast. Further down, his thighs bore the same mesmerizing pattern, ivory splashes dancing along the inner and outer legs that stretched down toward his knees.

Michael had gotten very good at hiding it. The lower half of his body was easy enough. He rarely wore anything that revealed much skin anyway, so long pants, socks, loafers, and layers concealed most of the areas the public never saw. It was the visible places that required the real effort. His face. His hands. His arms. The parts constantly photographed, filmed, and scrutinized. Topical treatments and makeup helped even out some of the discoloration there, making it easier to step in front of cameras without drawing attention to every new change.

The areas hidden beneath clothing were different. There was no makeup artist touching them up before an appearance. No careful lighting or tricks to soften what he saw. They existed entirely in private, which somehow made them harder to ignore. Michael knew his body intimately and because he spent so much time looking for changes on his face and hands, he noticed every new patch everywhere else too. What most people never would have thought twice about became impossible for him to overlook, leaving him alone with insecurities nobody else even knew he carried.

Standing at its full size, Michael’s cock was a sight—thick and long but it wasn’t.. overly large. He had perfect boyfriend dick, a dick big enough to stretch you out but not so big it would hurt every time you attempted to just sit on it.

He looked down at himself, then at you and his cheeks flushed deeply as he realized how hard he was and just how good you were sucking his dick. He’s not going to last long.

Your mouth closed around him, taking him deep into your throat while your fingers gripped the sparse curls of his pubic hair. Michael let out a broken moan, head falling back and surrendering completely as your warm mouth overwhelmed his usual hesitance.

You pressed your tongue flat against the sensitive underside of his cock, dragging it slowly from base to tip. The broad and smooth surface of your tongue applied pressure against a particular throbbing vein, earning a deep and guttural moan from him. His hips jerked involuntarily, his knuckle in between his pearly whites as he watched you with furrowed brows.

It was filthy.

“M gonna—finish, gonna—’M gonna..” He whined, voice strained. ”Where do you want it? In your m-outh? On your face? Don’t know where to put it..” His hands gripped the sheets tightly, tugging just slightly as his body coiled with impending release.

You pulled back, wrapping your hand around his cock instead, jerking him off fast and tight just how he liked it. ”Cum on my face, baby.” You urged, looking up at him with lust glazed eyes. “Paint me so pretty, just like this fucking dick..”

It only took three more rough strokes before he was cumming, a strangled moan escaping his throat as thick ropes of cum spilled across your face. It landed on your cheeks, dripped down your chin, splashed across your lips and even some hitting your forehead and hair. His hips stuttered against your fist as he emptied himself completely, trembling as the waves of pleasure crashed through him. “Baby.. baby..”

As the last few drops dripped onto your face, Michael slumped forward slightly, breathing heavily as he looked down at you with gratitude. He gently moved to cup your face, thumbs brushing away some of the cum that coated your skin. “Thank you..”

You smiled sweetly. “My turn.”

Your legs were locked tight around your man’s waist, heels digging into his lower back while his cock pressed almost cervix-deep inside you with each ruining thrust. His torso was flush to yours, bodies entirely entwined as you moved in a messily erotic rhythm. Michael’s bicep was just beside your face, where he had one arm resting around the silhouette of your upper body on the pillows, so that a hand cradled your dazed out head. Every time you made love, he held you this way.

“Oh Mikey, baby, s’good—” you gasped and whined, tugging at his dark hair as he hit your sweet spot upon thoughtful direction of every single stroke. He’d started off achingly slow, but now you were both reaching your climax, therefore unconsciously Michael had picked up the pace.

“Mama, y’so tight, oh—” he moaned right beside your ear, and your eyes rolled into the back of your head at the pretty sound and the sensations in your nether region at once.

“Michael, they’re gonna hear,” you stressed, although you didn’t do so very quietly, as with the prior moans.

“Don’t care no more—not thinkin’ ‘bout nothin’ but you, baby,” he said through grunts, pounding you with precision as the headboard knocked against the wall in rhythmic force. It had been making that repetitive noise for the last ten minutes, together with the sound of Michael’s childhood bed squeaking and the sound of skin slapping.

Each sound protruding from those four walls, including the pornographic noises elicited from your throat, were contributing together to make a lewd sort of song. For anybody in the house, it was incredibly obvious what Michael was getting up to in his locked bedroom. It was a warm summer evening, and Michael’s brothers had been out playing basketball all afternoon—on one of those days where they all reunited back home—but now they were inside messing around, and there was no way they couldn’t hear the two of you.

Yet despite that knowledge, neither of you could even attempt to slow down or lower the noise. The present moment was much too heavenly to be reduced. And you’d been doing this a lot lately—fucking in his bedroom even though you both knew his mother despised sex out of wedlock. She hadn’t caught you both yet, but the risk was of course always there.

Writhing against the sheets, you mentally praised the otherworldly evidence of how well Michael could use his thick, well-endowed cock, but on top of that, his moans alone were ethereal. When he wasn’t whispering praise in your ear, you relished in the beauty of the desperate mewls he shamelessly spilled out above you, and especially this evening, where the snap of his hips was making him breathless.

“Baby girl, y’ body’s everythin’… so magical,” he murmured, kissing and biting at your neck while fiercely maintaining pace. “So soft ‘n sweet. All mine…”

With each nip to your skin, he let his tongue dart out to taste your scent, in heaven at the indulgence but altogether wishing he could somehow eat your pussy and make love to you at once.

Without meaning to, your moans only grew louder. “Baby, I love you—mm, harder, oh, you’re so deep—”

“Yeah, I got you, mama,” Michael whispered, pressing one hand down on the mattress to get better control of his movements, those skilful thrusts picking up even more pace. Meanwhile, the activator in his Jheri curls was mixing with the constant production of sweat that dripped down his forehead, and together the liquids amalgamated and trickled onto your shoulder and chest. You truly could feel every inch of him everywhere, and you kept attempting to tighten the weight of your legs around him, to tighten the security of your arms around his neck, except there was no getting any closer than your current position.

“How y’feelin, honeybaby? Want me to pull back a little and rub y’ sweet clit?”

Obviously you did want him to use his fingers on you, but at the same time you didn’t like the prospect of his thermal body being detached from yours, even if there was to be a replacement of sensation. Because really, you didn’t necessarily need his slender fingers over your bundle of nerves in order to bring you to orgasm. The cosy weight of his body, the intimacy of your locked-in positional dynamic, too with the feel of his bicep on your shoulder and his tender hand at your head—all those elements accompanied by his girthy cock pistoning in and out of you was more than enough already. You could feel every vein, every ridge, brush against your walls with each stroke, each squelch of your juices coating his shaft.

“No, Mikey, want you just like this, don’t move—oh, don’t stop, honey, you fuck me so good, ’m gonna—oh fuck, baby, yes!”

“Aw, my baby—nnghh—sweet girl… Lemme get you there…” Never slowing the relentless force of his cock, he took one of your hands and gently placed a kiss over the knuckles, and you really could’ve died right there. How perfect was Michael Jackson in bed, that he could fuck you into oblivion while equally being so tender and soft? That oxymoron was your boyfriend summed up in a nutshell.

The two of you were being way too loud now—truthfully you in particular. It was a good thing Katherine and Joseph weren’t home, but as clarified previously, every single brother was. How on earth had they all managed to end up back at Hayvenhurst for a stupid reunion on the night you and Michael desperately needed the most alone time?

Well, that was honestly a silly question, because Michael made love to you like this almost every night, if he wasn’t at your place to do it instead. The brothers weren’t exactly to be blamed. Perhaps you and your man just needed to calm down where sex drive was concerned, but one couldn’t help the nature of their biology. Here were two individuals deeply addicted to each other, and an addiction to that degree was impossible to override.

“Now what in the hell is goin’ on in here?” you suddenly heard Jackie say from outside the door.

You froze, but Michael was unfazed. It was an unexplained phenomenon, but whenever Michael had sex with you, his usual shy, cautious inhibitions would lose their place in his line of focus. All he cared about was you, and making sure you reached your orgasm quickly, while his was very much nearing too.

“Man, you know exactly what they up to,” Marlon chuckled, in response to Jackie. “Can hear that shit from downstairs. Oh, Michael, harder!”

“Mikey, stop,” you said quickly, tapping his shoulder.

Immediately he did as instructed, pulling his head up from your shoulder a little to check you were okay.

“Too much, baby?” he asked, a little out of breath, as he brushed his thumb over your cheek to soothe you.

Outside the door, the boys were still laughing. Randy and Tito had joined them now from downstairs.

“No,” you giggled bashfully, holding the back of his neck and wiping some of the ever-dripping Jheri curl-sweat mixture from his jaw. “Your brothers are literally outside.”

“Huh?” Michael’s face scrunched up in confusion, and in part frustration at the way he’d been made to pause inside your throbbing, weeping cunt all because he’d been cursed with a million bothersome brothers.

“Michael, how the hell did you not hear them?” you chuckled, playing with his damp hair now.

He rolled his eyes. “Go back downstairs!”

“We’re not doin’ nothin’, Mike!” Tito shouted.

“But y’know what I’m doin’, right? And y’ still up here!”

“No? What are you doin’ in there, Michael?” Marlon teased sarcastically.

You were literally squirming at this point, mentally praying that they’d just go away, because you needed Michael to continue.

“You makin’ love?” Jackie sung playfully. “Don’t get her pregnant, lil bro.”

“’m not gonna get her pregnant,” he protested in annoyance. “Will y’ just leave us be?”

“Alright, alright,” a few of them laughed in unison. “Just keep it down—Joseph’s comin’ back in a few minutes.”

“Oh no,” Michael squinted anxiously. Footsteps began, then faded as the boys skipped off downstairs again.

“Baby, it’s fine,” you reassured, stroking his upper back. “We’ll be quick—I’m almost there.”

“Um,” he stammered, rubbing at his eyes. “No, I uh… don’t feel well.”

Slowly and carefully he sat back on his knees and slipped his cock out of you, it now standing flushed up against his stomach, messy white streaks painting up and down the shaft from base to tip, but the flesh was beginning to soften.

“Hey, what do you mean?” You sat up too, expression one of sheer confusion. “What’s wrong, honey?”

“I’m really sorry, I just…” Michael turned, picking up his boxers from the floor and slipping into them, seated on the edge of the bed, facing away from you. “It’s Joseph. I really made him mad this mornin’ and I’ve not seen him since. Until, um—well, he’s comin’ back now.”

Feeling incredibly awkward, Michael then jumped up off the bed, searching for some comfortable clothes to quickly dress into. Meanwhile, you sat anxiously in the messy sheets, your sex still glistening with arousal, but the inner sensations were fading with Michael’s. You didn’t mind that he’d had to stop so abruptly, because you understood. Sometimes he would even projectile vomit at the thought of his father returning unexpectedly. His body went into fight-or-flight mode at the mere mention of the man’s name, and so there was no way he could sustain an erection and enjoy the rest of your lovemaking in that state.

“C’mere, baby,” you sighed sadly, outstretching your arms.

When he turned around, he didn’t smile. There were hints of anxiety splayed all over his face, and it broke your heart.

“Michael. Come back to bed—you can just get up again when he knocks.”

Michael took a deep breath, clamping his eyes shut as a signal of the constricting pain he felt in his chest. “Okay,” he said quietly, a real switch in temperament as opposed to just minutes ago. Now he took the appearance of a sad little boy, the one you knew had never left him.

He climbed into bed beside you, and immediately you pulled him into your chest, letting him nuzzle against your bare breasts.

“There ya go, honey…” you whispered to him, cradling his head. Without the need for instruction, he latched his mouth onto one of your nipples, beginning to suck over the sensitive nerves.

“’m sorry for cuttin’ things short,” he muttered against your skin. “I was close but… I can’t really, y’know, sustain it when I get anxious.”

“No, baby, I understand,” you said back, running your hands through his hair, uncaring how damp the strands were. “Listen to me, angelface,” you kissed his forehead, “you don’t have to explain yourself to me. Ever. Just wanna take care of you, make you feel safe… That’s everythin’ you deserve.”

Michael nodded, though he didn’t respond, because he never knew what to say to such intimate talk. He couldn’t stop worrying about Joseph, who would come through the door any minute now, and so you spent the remaining minutes with him cuddled up close, whispering sweet nothings and praise in his ear, telling him how he only ever needed to listen to your words, and never Joseph’s jealousy-fuelled ones.

He ended up approaching his father with much less anxiety than he’d initially been feeling, but indeed he was berated, defined as worthless, and hit with an iron cord—all because he had expressed a different opinion that morning.

When Michael slipped back into bed beside you after night had fallen, you kissed over the growing bruises, and again held him to your chest until he fell sound asleep. Oh, how you wished life would be kinder to your sweet angel boy. He hadn’t done a thing wrong in his entire existence.

omg i just started writing a lil drabble and ended up with this >:) also i literally have to end every smut fic with michael being soft because of course?!♥︎

FEBRUARY 25, 1986

you stand backstage at the 28th annual grammy awards with the soft hum of the audience drifting through the curtains like a warm tide, the air buzzing with the kind of electricity that only nights like this can hold, and you breathe in slowly as you go over your lines for the third time, whispering them under your breath while your fingers trace the cue cards even though you already know every word by heart, your pulse steady but alert because you want everything to be perfect, not just for the show but because you know he is somewhere out there in the crowd watching you with those dark eyes that always make your stomach flutter, and the thought alone sends a quiet warmth through your chest as you straighten your posture and prepare to step into the lights.

the stage manager gives you a gentle nod and you walk out into the golden glow of the auditorium, the applause rising like a wave that washes over you as you smile at the sea of faces, the cameras, the glittering gowns and tuxedos, the shimmering set pieces that catch the light like jewels, and you let your voice carry with practiced grace as you welcome everyone, your tone warm and confident even though your heart is beating a little faster than usual because you know he is somewhere in the audience listening to every word. "good evening everyone and welcome to the twenty eighth annual grammy awards, we are so excited to celebrate the incredible music and artistry that defined this past year, thank you all for being here tonight."

you hold the microphone with both hands as the applause settles, the lights softening just enough to let you see the first few rows of the audience, and your gaze flickers instinctively toward the spot where you know he is seated, catching only the faint outline of his silhouette, the familiar tilt of his head, the quiet stillness of his posture that always gives him away, and even from this distance you feel the invisible thread between you tighten, a secret connection woven through months of stolen moments and whispered conversations and careful glances that no one else has ever noticed.

you continue with your lines, introducing the first categories of the night, your voice steady and smooth as you guide the audience through the ceremony, and each time you step offstage you feel the adrenaline settle into your bones like a soft hum, the backstage crew moving around you with practiced precision, the sound of applause rising and falling like a heartbeat behind the curtains, and you take a moment to breathe, to center yourself, to remind yourself that you are here to work even though your heart keeps drifting toward him like a compass that cannot help but point north.

when it is time for you to present the next award, you step back into the lights with a smile that feels natural and warm, the audience greeting you with another wave of applause, and you read the nominees with clear, confident rhythm before opening the envelope with a practiced flourish, your voice lifting as you announce the winner, the crowd erupting as the popular male artist makes his way toward the stage with a bright grin and an energy that fills the room, his excitement contagious as he climbs the steps and approaches you with open arms.

you expect a handshake or a quick hug, something simple and professional, but instead he leans in with a warm smile and presses a friendly kiss to your cheek, his hand resting lightly on your arm as he murmurs his thanks for your support on the charity project you worked on together, and you feel your breath catch in surprise as the audience reacts with soft laughter and applause, your cheeks warming as you laugh awkwardly and try to keep your composure, reminding yourself that it is harmless, that it is friendly, that it is nothing more than a gesture of appreciation in front of a room full of people.

you step aside to give him space for his acceptance speech, your smile polite and steady even though your mind is still catching up with the unexpected moment, and as the lights shift to focus on him you let your gaze drift toward the audience again, searching instinctively for the one face that matters most, and when you find him your breath catches because michael isn’t just tense, he’s wound so tightly he looks like he might snap if anyone so much as brushes against him. his jaw isn’t only clenched, it’s locked, the muscle ticking beneath his skin as if he’s fighting every instinct in his body not to get up and drag you off that stage, his eyes don’t just stay on you, they burn into you, dark and sharp and unblinking that sends a shiver down your spine as his fingers curl harder against his knee, knuckles whitening, breath tightening in his chest.

he tries to hide it, he really does, but you know him too well, you know the way his emotions flicker beneath the surface like sparks waiting to catch fire, and you can see the jealousy simmering in the tightness of his shoulders, the way he shifts in his seat as if trying to shake off the image of another man’s lips on your cheek, the way his gaze keeps darting between you and the artist onstage as if replaying the moment over and over in his mind, each repetition tightening something inside him until he looks like he might burst from the pressure alone.

the artist continues his speech, completely unaware of the storm brewing in michael’s chest, thanking his team and the fans and the people who supported the charity project, his voice warm and enthusiastic as the audience applauds again, and you keep your expression calm even though you can practically feel the jealousy radiating off him, thick and hot, filling the space between you even from across the room. it’s in the way he won’t blink, the way his lips press into a thin line, the way his foot taps once, twice, three times before he forces it still. he’s trying to stay composed for the cameras, for the crowd, for the moment, but his eyes give him away completely. they’re dark with something possessive, something wounded, something that says he didn’t expect to see another man’s mouth anywhere near you tonight.

when the segment ends and you walk offstage, your heart is still fluttering from the intensity of his stare, your mind replaying the moment in the same way you know he is, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway you press a hand to your cheek where the kiss landed, not because it meant anything but because you know it meant something to him, and the thought alone makes your chest tighten with a mix of affection and worry as you wait for the next cue, the distant sound of applause echoing through the walls like a reminder that the night is far from over.

you lean against the backstage wall for a moment, letting the cool surface steady you as you go over your next lines, your voice soft as you rehearse under your breath, and even though you are alone for now you can still feel the weight of his gaze lingering on your skin, a silent promise that the night will only grow more intense from here, and you close your eyes for a moment, breathing in the charged air of the grammy awards, knowing that the real storm has only just begun.

you stay backstage for a few minutes after your last presentation, letting the noise of the audience settle into a distant hum as you breathe in the dim hallway, the soft glow of the backstage bulbs warming your skin while you rehearse your next lines under your breath, your voice low and steady as you try to shake off the lingering awkwardness from earlier, your fingers brushing your cheek again even though you keep telling yourself it was nothing, just a friendly gesture, just a moment that should not matter, yet you can still feel the ghost of michael’s stare like a hand closing around your ribs, tightening with every breath you take.

the stage manager calls your name again and you straighten your shoulders, smoothing your gown as you step toward the curtain, your heart beating a little faster because this category is bigger, heavier, more important, and you want to deliver it perfectly, especially knowing he is out there somewhere watching you with that quiet intensity that always makes your pulse skip, and as you step into the lights again the applause rises like a warm tide, the golden glow washing over you as you smile at the audience with practiced grace.

you hold the microphone with both hands, grounding yourself in the familiar weight of it as you begin to speak, your voice steady and warm as you welcome the audience back from the short break, the cameras gliding across the room like silent birds while the crowd settles into their seats, and you let your gaze sweep gently across the front rows, your eyes catching the faint outline of his silhouette again, the soft shimmer of his jacket, the stillness of his posture that tells you he has not relaxed since the moment he saw that kiss.

you inhale slowly, letting the moment settle before you continue, your voice carrying clearly through the auditorium. "it is my honor to present one of the most meaningful categories of the night, a category that celebrates the power of music to move us, to unite us, and to change the world. these are the nominees for song of the year." the screens behind you light up with clips and audio, the audience reacting with soft murmurs and applause as each nominee appears, and you stand poised and elegant, your heart thudding quietly beneath your ribs as you hold the envelope in your hand.

when the final nominee fades and the applause settles, you open the envelope with careful precision, your breath catching for a moment as you read the name printed inside, and you lift your gaze to the audience with a soft smile that feels both warm and electric. "and the grammy for song of the year goes to… we are the world, michael jackson and lionel richie."

the room erupts into applause, cheers rising like a wave that shakes the floor beneath your feet, and you look toward the aisle where he stands, his expression unreadable for a moment as he rises from his seat, but then his eyes lock onto yours and everything inside you stills because he is not looking at the audience, he is not looking at the cameras, he is not even looking at the stage itself, he is looking only at you, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he begins to walk toward you with a new calmness that feels too controlled, too deliberate, like a storm holding itself together by sheer force of will, and beside him lionel richie rises as well, moving with him up the aisle like it’s the most natural thing in the world, smiling at the crowd but clearly aware of where this is going, and as they reach the steps lionel goes first, pulling you into a warm, effortless side hug that makes you laugh softly through the shock of it all, his hand patting your shoulder in genuine pride as he murmurs something you barely catch before he steps back with an approving grin.

you swallow hard as he moves toward you, each step drawing the world in tighter until everything else fades into a soft blur. your fingers clamp around the envelope, the paper bending under the tension, but his eyes stay fixed on yours with a steady focus that makes the crowd feel distant and unimportant. the air seems to shift as he gets closer, warm and dense, settling over your skin like something quietly electric.

when he reaches you, he slips an arm around your waist with a certainty that steals your breath. his touch isn’t forceful, just sure, like he’s anchoring you in place without needing to say a word. he looks down at you with his head tilted slightly to the side, studying you with a softness that makes your chest tighten. his teeth catch lightly on his lower lip, a small, unguarded gesture that gives away how much this moment matters to him. and even through all that tenderness, you can still sense the jealousy flickering in his eyes, a faint shadow beneath the warmth. it is not harsh or angry, just a quiet ache he cannot hide, something that tightens his hold on your waist for a heartbeat. his hand squeezes gently, not enough to hurt, just enough to let you feel the emotion he is trying so hard to keep contained.

then he leans in and kisses you.

not a quick peck, not a shy brush of lips, but a soft, sure, deliberate kiss that melts the entire room into silence for a heartbeat before the audience explodes into gasps and cheers and applause, the sound crashing over you like a tidal wave as your eyes flutter shut for a moment, your heart racing wildly as his lips linger just long enough to make it clear that this is not a mistake, not a slip, not a friendly gesture, but a declaration, a reveal, a claim spoken without words in front of the entire music industry.

when he pulls back, he gives you a small, playful wink that makes your stomach flip, his hand brushing your waist one last time before he turns to accept the award from you, his fingers brushing yours with a warmth as he takes the grammy into his hands, the crowd still roaring with excitement as he steps toward the microphone with that soft, shy smile that always makes people melt.

he waits for the applause to settle, his posture relaxed but his eyes flicking toward you every few seconds with a quiet possessiveness that only you can read, and when he finally speaks his voice is gentle, warm, and full of gratitude. "thank you, thank you so much." he pauses as the applause rises again, his smile widening before he continues. "i want to thank lionel, first of all, for being such an incredible partner in creating this song. he is a true friend and a true artist, and i am so grateful for everything we were able to do together."

he shifts the award in his hands, his voice softening with sincerity. "i want to thank every artist who came together for this project, everyone who gave their time and their hearts to something bigger than all of us. this song was made with love, with hope, and with the belief that we can make the world a better place when we stand together."

the audience applauds again, "and of course, i want to thank the fans, because none of this would be possible without your love and your support. you inspire me every single day, and i am so grateful for you."

he pauses, his smile turning a little mischievous, his eyes sliding toward you again with a glimmer that makes your breath catch. "and, um… i guess i should also say…" he lifts the grammy slightly, his tone light but unmistakably pointed. "some people should be a little more careful about kissing another man's lady."

the audience bursts into laughter, cheers rising as people clap and whistle, the cameras catching your face as your cheeks burn with embarrassment and surprise, your hand lifting instinctively to cover your mouth as you try not to laugh, and michael just smiles, that soft, cheeky smile that tells you he knows exactly what he is doing, exactly how flustered he is making you, and he is enjoying every second of it.

he finishes with a warm, humble thank you before stepping away from the microphone, and as he walks back toward you he gives you another small wink, his fingers brushing your waist again as he passes, the touch subtle but full of meaning, and you feel your heart flutter helplessly as he heads back down the steps, the audience still buzzing with excitement from the unexpected reveal.

you stand there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing as the cameras cut away and the stage manager ushers you offstage, your mind spinning, your cheeks still warm, your heart pounding with a mix of shock and affection and something deeper, something that feels like it has been waiting to surface for a long time, and as you step into the dim backstage hallway again you know he will find you soon, and you know the conversation waiting between you will be one you will never forget.

the hallway feels calmer than the stage, dimmer and softer, the noise of the grammy crowd fading into a distant echo as you step into the quiet. you’re still warm from the lights, still breathless from everything that happened, your mind replaying the moment he kissed you in front of everyone like a scene you can’t quite believe is real. you press your hand lightly to your lips, trying to steady yourself, when you hear him behind you, his footsteps slow and sure, carrying that familiar mix of confidence and emotion that always gives him away.

when you turn, he’s already watching you, his grammy tucked under one arm, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes still burning with that jealousy he hasn’t shaken off yet. he walks toward you with a softness that contradicts the storm you know is still swirling inside him, and when he reaches you he stops close enough that you can feel the warmth of him settle around you like a blanket. his voice is gentle when he speaks, even though his eyes are still sharp with emotion. "you okay baby?" he asks quietly, his hand brushing your arm in a way that makes your breath catch. "i didn’t mean to overwhelm you out there."

you nod, though your heart is still racing, and he studies your face for a moment, searching for any sign of discomfort. when he finds none, his expression shifts, softening into something warm but edged with that quiet, simmering jealousy he’s trying so hard to keep under control. "i just… i couldn’t sit there and watch that," he murmurs, "him kissin' you like that. i know it was friendly, i know it didn’t mean anything, but it still…" he trails off, shaking his head slightly, his jaw tightening for a moment before he exhales slowly. "it still bothered me."

you whisper his name softly, and he gives a small smile, one that’s both apologetic and a little proud, like he knows he’s being ridiculous but he also knows he’d do it all again. "i’m not gonna pretend i wasn’t jealous," he says, his voice low and honest. "i was. i still am." he leans in a little, his voice dropping to a softer tone. "but i’m glad everyone knows now. i’m glad they know who my woman is... the woman i get to love."

your cheeks warm instantly, and he notices, his smile turning a little smug but still gentle, still full of affection. "guess i made the night a little more interesting." he adds, his tone playful but certain. lifting the grammy slightly, his eyes glimmering with pride.

you roll your eyes at him, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his expression softening again as he cups your jaw with one hand, his thumb brushing your skin with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. "you did amazing tonight," he whispers. "i’m so proud of you."

you tell him you’re proud of him too, and his smile grows, warm and bright, the kind of smile that lights up his whole face. he glances down at the grammy in his hand, then back at you, and the warmth in his eyes deepens. "i got my award," he says softly. "and i got you. that’s all i wanted tonight."

he leans in closer, his voice dropping into something playful, something that makes your stomach twist. "c’mon," he murmurs, kissing your temple. "let’s go home so i can show you how jealous i was."

your eyes widen and you slap his chest lightly, your voice a shocked whisper. "michael!" he laughs softly, the sound warm and sweet, his shoulders shaking just a little as he catches your hand gently, his fingers curling around yours with an ease that makes your heart flutter.

"i’m teasing," he says, though the sparkle in his eyes tells you he’s enjoying every second of your reaction. "but i do wanna get you out of here."

you’re still flustered, still warm, but you’re smiling, and he sees it, his own smile stretching wider as he gives your hand a gentle tug. he leads you down the hallway toward the exit, his grammy tucked under his arm, his fingers laced with yours like he’s never letting go. when he pushes open the door to the cool night air, the limo waiting just outside, he glances back at you with a look so full of pride and happiness it makes your chest swell.

he’s got his grammy. he’s got his girl. and he looks like he’s floating.

you squeeze his hand, your smile soft and full, and he squeezes back, his voice low and warm as he whispers, "let’s go home."

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗˗ˏˋ ★