Unstable Whore

Alcohol often does incredulous things to people.

And right now, you finally understood why.

Waking up with a pounding headache, throat dryer than the Sahara, eyes squinting almost painfully from the bright light that shone through the ajar curtains, and an unsettling bubble of nausea growing in your stomach — all roads led back to alcohol.

What didn’t lead back to alcohol was a noticeable sting between your thighs, and a dull ache from blooming bruises on your hips.

In the shape of fingers..?

And the puzzle piece only started slotting into place when your head turned to the side, eyebrows neatly furrowed into your forehead, as a hand came up to rub your tired eyes—Ouch!

Your hand retracted instanetously when something cold, hard and metallic scraped along your eyelid — your eyes blowing wide open at the jewellery clad on your ring finger.

Your wedding ring.

One you had taken off over a year ago — was now firmly pressed back onto your ring-finger like it hadn’t left at all.

And oh! If that wasn’t enough to remind you of your previous night.

Your stark naked ex-husband, Michael, littered in lovebites and smudged lipstick, sleeping soundly next to you, in his bed, at his house, was more than enough to do so.

Looking down, reality hit you like a ton of bricks — you had evidently had sex with your ex-husband. Plain and simple — and embarrassingly clear. The deep, indented, slowly forming bruises now adorning your hips were, painfully obviously, in the shape of the hands of the man deep in slumber next to you.

Eight years together makes things like that easy to spot.

And that daunting fact, slowly, but surely, let the ever-so-wonderfully reminding thought that you were in fact divorced, creep back up into your pounding brain.

You were divorced. Split up. Not together anymore. Legally binding from February 2003.

But, this didn’t look very divorced right now.

“Oh, God.” You mumbled, voice hoarse and croaked as you sat up, stomach churning and the relentlessly thumping in your head never letting up, as you sighed, running a, wedding ring free, hand over your face.

Your hands fell lazily and defeated into your lap as you shook your head at your heedless actions — vision locking on the diamond-encrusted wedding band that fit like a glove on your finger, and was twinkling in the morning light.

The divorce had been messy, and rushed for that matter. A meticulous, devastatingly, continuous stamp on your heart every time you had to appear in court — bags evident under your eyes, the same ones that were glassed over in constant tears, and hands shaking from adrenaline and sheer emotion over having to recount the same story of your marriage over and over again to the Judge.

It wasn’t as though anything particularly nefarious had happened in your marriage that would cause such a divorce, something horrible like infidelity or abuse, no, far from it, Michael was the perfect husband — until he started slipping.

He slowly, but nevertheless painfully, turned from the doting, present husband — to so brutally consumed in his career that it felt as though you were a single mother. Late nights at the studio, events that stretched long into the night, tours all across the States, even going as far as globally — all of it added up. Pushing you further and further into a lonely pit of despair — begging for the man you once knew.

Michael never did this maliciously, and that was quite possibly worse, he didn’t even realise what he was doing. Nor the damage he was causing. And every time you’d bring it up to him, whenever you finally got a night just to the two of you, cuddled up in bed, a hand on your small, growing bump — he would act none-the-wiser, as if the pain you were feeling didn’t exist. Promising that he would be home soon, be around more, that things would change — but, alas, they never did. If anything, he only got busier.

Having three kids was difficult, especially so when a fourth was on the way, and even more so when you have a career like Michael Jackson does — having to juggle recording, then interviews, then tours, then gala’s, and award shows, then signings, and then coming home to help look after three children and your pregnant wife.

But, none of it phased him — at the start. He was, and is, an excellent father. Spending every last second he could with his children before leaving for an eighteen hour day, or coming home at three-AM and kissing his children on their foreheads as they slept, and then retreating slowly into his bedroom, where his pregnant wife slept, and pulling her close, and holding her all night.

It came naturally to him — he was made to be a lover, and a father. And he adored every minute of it.

But, where the waters got muddied was when he began to blend those two separate aspects of his life — music and family. And when music seemed to become a higher priority than his family.

A house polluted with the noise of three screaming, giggling kids, a children’s television show blasting throughout the living room, or toys screeching out nursery rhymes from a plastic, worn out speaker that was staticky and stuttered pathetically, fighting against the electrics of the old mechanism — was now also filled the noise of demo’s, loud business men laughing, inappropriate jokes and guitar strings, plugged into an obnoxiously loud speaker.

In August 2002, you’d had enough.

It was the hottest summer the 2000’s had seen yet — the sun was beating down relentlessly over California, and the humidity was at its highest. Mixing the warmest weather you’d ever experienced in your lifetime with having a five-year-old, Prince, with the energy of a wild animal, a four-year-old, Paris, who was constantly screaming for her Father, and a clingy six-month-old, Blanket, who daren’t not be on your hip or else he’d wail the place down, all the while being four-months pregnant, wasn’t a good cocktail.

You silently cursed yourself for having such an attractive husband and being so horny only two-months postpartum that now led you to this mess.

And on top of all of that, Michael had so kindly, not, invited some friends, musical and not, round to work on some new demos he’d been cooking up late in the studio recently.

But, it wasn’t the fact that he’d invited people over, that you didn’t care about, you could handle the kids, to an extent, on your own just fine — it was the noise.

Michael was shy, and often quiet anyways, but with his pals round, his infamous loud laughter, mingling in with the loud strums of a guitar and the deep, rumbling voices of men you’d never even met before, was now sounding throughout the house like thunder. All that jovial, unnecessarily high in decibel, laughter blending with the screams and squeals from your children had now manifested itself inside you in a blinding headache.

This headache, now bordering on a migraine, wasn’t just your average Joe — it was a deep, dark thud of pain that stretched from behind your eyelids to the nape of your neck. Any noise was a shrill, blood-curling scream in your head — grating through your bones like nails on a chalkboard.

It had to stop.

And it forced you to reach that extent

Usually, whenever Michael and whoever he had brought round for the umpteenth time this week, would make noise and near enough trash the house with cans of beer, cartons of orange juice (For your Michael) and boxes and bags of devoured KFC, you’d let them be — let the boys have their fun.

But, today, enough was enough.

“I know, baby, but Mama’s feelin’ a little sick right now, okay? We can play outside later when Daddy’s not with his friends, how does that sound?”

“Noooo! ‘Wanna to go outside, now!” Prince, tears now forming in his lower lash-line, demanded, stomping his little foot onto the carpet of his bedroom, now pushing your hands away abruptly as you attempted to change his shirt which was smothered in his lunch.

You sighed, your patience beginning to wear thinner and thinner as you repeated yourself for the thousandth time that day about not going outside as Prince refused to let it go.

You raked a hand over your face, a noise of frustration leaving the back of your throat as you met Prince’s eyes — whose were now streaming with tears as he cried violently, cheeks flushed and stained with the evidence of his upset.

“Baby, please, stop crying for Mama, please? I promise—Mama pinky promises we can go outside later, okay?” You tried one last time, trying to put on the most motherly, comforting voice you could as you forced the irritation down your throat.

Just as Prince began to consider diminishing his resolve and abandoning his tantrum, Paris ran into the room, “I wanna play outside, too, Mommy! Please, please, please!”

The groan that left you was failure of suppression — your eyes fluttering shut as the two small children now teamed up against you, both now chanting in their high-pitched voices to go outside. And if that wasn’t enough to send you over the edge, baby Blanket began wailing at the sudden loud noise of his siblings screaming to do what you distinctively told them not to repeatedly over the past morning — his screeches and cries of displeasure colliding with the sound of Paris and Prince begging loudly.

You scurried to your feet, a lump in your throat forming, as you took Blanket in your arms, rocking him gently in your grasp, cooing softly into his ear as you attempted to nurse him to silence.

No avail.

For once, baby Blanket wanted nothing less than to be in your arms — you tried every rocking sensation you knew he liked, but no luck. He continued to scream — tears staining his cheeks now flushed a dark shade of crimson, as his little fists bawled up tight at his sides.

You had reached your wits end.

You only realised your feet were moving until you reached the stairs — turning on your heel to watch as your two younger children ran after you as you exited Prince’s room. Their relentless chanting to go outside had been, finally, abandoned — but, now replaced with ‘Where are you going, Mommy?’ ‘Why is Blanket crying, Mommy?’ ‘What’s wrong with Blanket, Mama, is he okay?’ ‘Mama get Blanket to stop crying! It’s hurting my ears!’

It was incessant.

You absolutely adored your children — but moments like these you wished you could just run away.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You stormed down the stairs, checking back every so often to make sure Paris and Prince weren’t on the brink of falling, before heading directly towards the loudest area of the house. If that was even remotely possible with the screaming baby in your arms.

You marched into the room — eyes landing on Michael who was sat on the couch, surrounded by at least twelve other men, not that you even had the brain capacity to count in the moment, all laughing and shouting as they recounted former memories.

“Baby.” You spoke, voice trembling.

No answer.

The conversation continued, as if you weren’t even there, the loud laughter only worsening the pain that consumed your brain.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael!”

For the first time in weeks, the room fell silent.

The sound of your distraught, wrecked shout of his name even sent your wailing baby in silence — for about three seconds, before his screeches of discomfort sounded throughout the room once more. Everyone’s eyes were on you, including your confused husband, whose were now wide with shock at the sight you — eyes now also streaming with tears, lip wobbling, hands shaking with a screaming Blanket in your arms, and Prince and Paris at your feet, now also babbling about the garden and tugging at your clothes.

“I can’t—I can’t take this.”

Michael rose to his feet, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t you ‘What’s wrong?’ me!” You exclaimed, “Look at me!”

He was lost, and quite frankly, worried — he had never seen you so wrecked, a silent plea for help as you shook where you stood.

“Ta—Take him.” You extended your still wailing baby out into the air, eyes fluttering as droplets of tears you didn’t even realise had fallen, drooped from your eyelashes.

Michael rushed over to you, instantly taking Blanket into his embrace — rocking him slowly in his arms as the crying slowly fading into soft whimpers as Michael comforted him.

You let out a scoff of a laugh at the irony of the situation — Michael, who got to sit around and play with instruments like toys with his friends all day, soothed your crying baby in three seconds as if you hadn’t been dealing with it all day with no prevail.

“I’ve gotta go. I actually can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Michael.” You started, voice rapid and racing, buzzing with emotion, “You—You can’t sit around all day and do nothing, and expect me to deal with this all day—I can’t, I just can’t.”

“Baby, please, what are you talking about?” Michael questioned, concern and confusion laced in his tone, “What happened?”

“What didn’t happen!” You exclaimed, not caring that thirty pairs of eyes were all on you as you blew up what you’d been holding in for weeks, “Prince threw his lunch everywhere, all over the floor and his clothes, and then refused to change, and then begged and begged and begged to go outside even after I told him no.” You breathed out a laugh, despite finding none of the situation amusing, “And Blanket barely slept last night and neither did I, and he will not stop crying—it’s been on and off all day, and I’ve got a pounding headache and I’m tired, and I just can’t take it anymore.”

Your rant ended with a loud sob, one that echoed throughout the room as your Nanny, one that had failed to be absent while all of the commotion from your children had occurred, took a concerned looking Paris and Prince away from the room by their small hands, as you ignored the way they stared at you worriedly as they exited.

“And don’t even get me started on you.” You spat, pointing an accusatory finger at Michael, “You’ve been at this for weeks! You’re a father too, y’know! I need help, I’m pregnant for fuck’s sake and doing everything while you sit around and fiddle with guitars like children and laugh at a fucking thousand decibels.”

“Honey, wait—calm dow—“

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me to calm down.”

He could tell you were serious. To your core. You had never ever spoke to him that way, ever. You looked absolutely destroyed — like the world had literally come crashing down on you all at once.

“I’ve had enough. Enough, Michael.” You exclaimed, watching as the Nanny returned to pry a now sleeping Blanket from Michael’s arms, before scurrying out of the room once more, “Whether it’s phone calls at three-AM, or late nights at the studio, or events that end you up in the club until early hours, or inviting God knows into our house—you’re not here!” Tears were now streaming down your face with no sign of stopping, every word now a silent sob as you broke down, “I feel like you’re not—sob—not even here anymore! I feel like I’m doing this all alone, and we’ve got another one on the way for fuck’s sake! I can’t—I genuinely cannot do it anymore, Michael, I’ve had it up to here.”

As your hand raised to demonstrate the intensity of how thin your patience has deteriorated — Michael couldn’t help notice the way your hand shook aggressively.

It all finally rained down on him.

Like violent meteorites — all his wrong-doings came crashing down in an abrupt realisation.

Every point you made was correct, and that’s what hurt most. You weren’t exaggerating or overreacting — you were speaking the plain, distasteful truth. A truth that flooded guilt and heartache throughout his system harder than he’d ever felt it. His subconscious absence had pushed you over the edge — without him even realising he was doing it.

You had promised him, the day you started dating, that you would always be there despite his demanding career — but, you, nor him, imagined it would get this bad. So bad to the point you were considering walking away from the family you had built from the ground up. A family you had literally created in utero — and formed from a lousy blind date your friend set you up on, now blossomed into a committed marriage with three, nearly four, children.

In your romantic pledge, you didn’t ever mean this. Never meant that you’d let yourself be humiliated and abandoned so brutally to the point where you were metaphorically, and nearly literally, tugging your hair out.

And Michael’s flabbergasted silence only made things worse.

He couldn’t even find the words to claw himself out of this grave that he’d dug — mouth opening and then closing as he stared at you, eyes still blown wide open as he watched you heave, still sobbing violently.

Instead of waiting for an apology you knew wouldn’t fix things now, you scoffed and turned on your heel, storming out of the room as another sob wracked through you. Michael instantly chased after you, ignoring the tension that had settled from the uncomfortable audience behind him, his longer legs catching up to you as you made it to the front door.

“Hey, hey, stop—baby, wait!” He reached you, hands grabbing your arms and stopping you in your tracks, “Baby, wait, please, don’t do this, please.”

Another loud, distraught gurgle of tears left you, your head shaking as you stared at the ground, “I—I can’t take anymore, Michael”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry.” He started, “I’m so so sorry, baby. I’ve been the worst husband in the world, I’m so sorry.” His heart clenched as another sob left you, “I should’ve been there, I’m sorry, I know better, I do. Things—Things have been hectic with the new album, and I just—I don’t even have a reasonable explanation, I should have been around, there’s no excuse.”

At the sound of his declaration of wrong-doing and his utmost apologies — your loud cries turned into soft sniffles and hiccups. You finally lifted your head, bloodshot and glossy eyes meeting his worried ones — lip quivering as you settled.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Michael whispered, voice breaking ever so slightly, “Please, don’t leave. If it’s not for me, please don’t leave the children. They need you.” He went silent, “I need you.”

“I needed you, Michael. But, where were you when I did?”

The words hit him directly in the chest.

It wasn’t because they were hurtful, or disrespectful, or offensive — it was because they were true.

When they said the truth hurts — he never imagined he’d experience it this way.

Watching as his wife, mother to now four of his children, literally begging for his presence for weeks, and subconsciously taking no notice, had broken his heart — but, not nearly as much as he broke yours, which made things twice as bad.

“Baby..” His voice trailed off, quiet and broken, a beg for you, not that he was even in the place to do so right now.

You shook your head, another silent cry leaving your mouth, tears cascading down your cheeks in a slow, aching reminder to Michael of exactly what he’d done — a twang vibrating through his heartstrings.

“I’m sorry, I just—I need some space.” You spoke, a loud, huff of a shaken breath leaving you as you stepped back, retreating from his embrace.

“Baby, please,” Michael begged, “Please, don’t go. What about the kids?”

“Only for a little while. I’ll be at my Mom’s, just for a few days while I think.”

“Think? Think about what?”

“Whether or not I can take anymore of this.”

Michael didn’t think it was possible to feel anymore heartbroken and scared — but your final sentence before turning your back to him and walking out the door exceeded that. His heart ached, a hand coming up to rest against his chest, as he watched you climb into the back of a car and whizz out the driveway — the last evidence of you being dust and dirt that flew up into the air at your exit.

That night Michael called your Mother’s house phone twenty-seven times — each time going straight to answerphone, as you begged your Mother to just ignore it as she held you while you cried into her lap. And each time, Michael would leave a message on her answer machine.

‘Baby? I don’t know if you can hear this but I love you, and the babies love you. I miss you already and I’m so so sorry. Please come home soon.’

Beep!

Riiiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother, I know you’re upset, and I know it’s ’cuz of me, but I just—I can’t leave you there knowing you’re so broken and it’s all my fault. I wish there was something I could do to turn back time. I love you, baby, please come home.’

Beep!

Riiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘Please, call me back, baby. I need you. I’m so sorry I let things get to this. I’m sorry I let things get so bad. I’m sorry for everything. Please, baby, please, I love you so so much, I can’t do this without you. And that quite possibly makes it so much worse, as that’s exactly what you needed from me and I subconsciously denied it from you for so long. I’m such an idiot, a total, complete and utter idiot. I should’ve been better, I’m so sorry. Please, honey, please.’

Each time the answer machine would beep and another message would come through, now late into the night as you curled up on the couch and drifted off to sleep, Michael’s voice grew more and more wrecked, now laced with silent sobs and broken whispers to prevent waking the children. And each time, you would continue to cry — face smushed into the cushion, now soaked with your tears, until the answer machine finally went silent at four-AM.

The next morning, your chest sported a dull, deep ache of emotional distress as you awoke — eyes swollen from the relentless crying. The headache had subsided, thankfully, but now replaced with an intense heartache that you knew would never diminish.

Not after everything that had happened.

After a few days to allow the dust to settle, you decided returning home was a reasonable idea — letting your Mother lecture you about ‘not putting up with anymore shit’ before you left her house, a bag full of dirty over-night clothes and an old toothbrush slung over your shoulder.

The drive back to Neverland was unusual — you weren’t quite sure what the forefront emotion you were feeling was.

Worry? Sadness? Hurt? Confusion? — it wasn’t clear. But, the waves of anticipatory nausea that flooded through you were enough to show that you were definitely concerned about where this left your relationship with Michael.

You had spent the last three days at your Mother’s pondering on what to do. The much needed space, despite calling your children every night to remind them that Mommy still loved them and was coming home soon, allowed you to think about whether or not your marriage was still fulfilling anymore — whether you could continue to live in a house that, despite being full to the brim of people, felt so unbearably lonely.

The walk up to the house felt longer than usual. Like you were moving in slow-motion as you reached the door, hands trembling, not only from the lack of sleep you’d gotten over the past seventy-two hours, but increased anxiety for what you were about to walk into.

And if you’d known what came forth — you never would’ve stepped back into the house at all.

Your heart stopped as you pushed open the door, vision locking on the scene before you — face scrunching into a look of undisguised shock and despair, an array of swirling emotions buzzing round your body in a brutal battle to become the forefront.

But, the one that took the cake was disgust.

There, stood in foyer, laughing, smiling, joking, and holding your baby was Lisa.

Lisa Marie Presley.

Your husband’s ex-wife.

When you described to people after the divorce what really happened, when they pried for answers to their personal, probing questions, you claimed you struggled to find a time where you knew the marriage was over.

But, you knew the truth.

You knew that this very moment before your eyes was that time.

And you knew Michael knew it too.

His eyes instantly shot towards the door, smile still pressed on his face at something she had said — before it fell faster than a brick to the ground. The sheer altitude of how swift the grin wiped itself off his face was almost cartoony — like the main character in a corny, children’s TV show had just had a nanosecond change in expression in the freeze-frame.

Alas, this wasn’t a show nor fictional — this was your life. And the extent of the situation was becoming all too real for the both of you.

“Baby?”

Michael’s voice sounded out first, breaking the atmospherically intense atmosphere that had skyrocketed from thin air — the squeaked sound of his surprised, scared voice filling the room.

At first, words failed you — all of the thousand things you could’ve screamed or yelled or cried lodged themselves in your throat like a hard piece of candy swallowed too quickly. It felt as though you’d been punched by world-class boxer in the stomach — knocking all the air from your lungs in a brutal, nefarious blow.

“I—I swear—I promise it’s not what it looks like.”

The classic one-liner.

You scoffed, the sound almost coming out gurgled as the lump in your throat formed — eyes glassing over in tears.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

He took one slow step forward, hands out in front of him, creeping like a man to a provoked bear, in attempt to keep you where you were. Your eyes darted between them — Michael, who looked as thought he was attempting to save million-dollar porcelain china from falling off a thousand foot drop, and Lisa, who looked like she’d been caught in the act, an expression of bewilderment and shock plastered across her face.

“Honey, please, calm down. I swear there’s an explanation.”

A breathless laugh left you as a single tear slipped down your face — cheeks flushed with exceeding adrenaline as your nervous system went into overdrive.

“Why the fuck is your ex-wife here, Michael?” You snapped, voice a harsh, bitter spit of venom.

Michael sighed, eyes wrecked as he attempted to piece things back together helplessly, “I—I just—I got overwhelmed with the kids, and Blanket was crying and Prince was crying—all for you, they wanted you, and I didn’t know what to do.” He let out a broken breath, “I didn’t know what to do, so, I called the first person I thought of who had children and would know what to do.”

Your heart sank.

No, no, more like violently plummeted — straight to your stomach, mingling with the growing nausea that never let up, concocting together in a ruthless cocktail.

“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice came out shaken and depleted, tears now streaming down your cheeks in a merciless storm, “You—You called your ex-wife for help with our children? You called your fucking ex-wife instead of the Mother of those children?”

You were shouting now — pointing and yelling as your voice hit a higher decibel than you knew it even could, sobs croaking from your throat in wrecked, consuming wails.

“I didn’t know what to do! I was a mess—A total mess, I—I was scared and worried, and you had left, and I—“

“I only left because of you!” You roared, “All of this—this fucking mess—is because of you, Michael! You!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I—I’m so sorry.” The curse left him before he could even stop himself. In another scenario, if your brain wasn’t total mush, you would’ve realised Michael’s apology was sincere due to his usual lack of using curse words, but you were too far down the rabbit hole of despair to notice.

As Michael began another spout of meaningless explanations behind his reckless decision, your glassy eyes landed on Lisa, who stood awkwardly by the stairs, vision locked on Michael’s apologetic frame and your angered own — eyes refusing to meet your own.

But, upon further inspection, your stomach dropped again — as if on a never-ending rollercoaster that relentlessly dropped you from high heights, toying with your body like a game of cat and mouse.

“Did she fucking sleep here?”

The room fell silent — that was all the answer you needed.

You’d figured that distressing fact out by paying close attention to Lisa’s clothes — her body sporting one of Michael’s pyjama t-shirts, one that you had bought him at Disneyland on one of your anniversary’s.

“Baby, please, I swear, we didn’t sleep in the same bed.”

Michael’s frantic plea for you to listen went on deaf ears as you stumbled back out the door — heart hammering nearly medically worryingly fast as you clutched onto the doorframe for support.

“Oh, my God, I’m gonna be sick.”

And that you did.

Hunching over and vomiting violently into the grass that adorned the front yard of Neverland — stomach churning as you emptied your guts from the sheer panicked and distraught truth that came before you.

Michael rushed to your aid, calling your name in a frenzied, worried manner as he pinned your hair behind your head, making sure none of your aggressive release got into it.

You instantly shoved him away — standing upright, and wiping your mouth, “Don’t fucking touch me, Michael.”

For the first time in his life, Michael truly understood what it was like to not be the heartbroken, depressed, wrecked person, and finally be the one to be inflicting the pain — a feeling he never, ever, in his deepest, darkest nightmares, thought he’d be giving to someone.

Let alone his loving, devoted wife.

A loud wail sounded out through the room, this time not from you, but from Blanket who writhed in Lisa’s arms.

Anger became the fore-front emotion rapidly.

You stormed past Michael, barging past his shoulder harshly as you went, and marched straight up to the woman who was curating this argument. The sound of her comforting Blanket sent shockwaves of coursing fury through you — as if you’d been struck by lightning as you pried the baby from her arms.

“Don’t you fucking dare come near any of my children again, do you hear me?” You yelled, face like thunder as you grit your teeth, not caring how deluded and psychotic you must’ve looked covered in tears, spit and vomit, as you came face to face with her.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, breathlessly as a single tear slid down her face.

You laughed a bitter, choked, unamused laugh, “What the fuck are you crying for? Realising you’ve broken up a marriage? Oh, boohoo, poor Lisa, always the victim.”

“Wait, what?”

The room fell silent as Michael’s devastated voice hit your ears.

“Broken up a marriage?” He sounded windless and confused, eyes now brimming with tears as he locked onto your gaze, “So, you—you’re leaving me?—“

“Prince! Paris!”

You ignored him as you shouted your children’s names, refusing to listen as Michael stumbled over his words at your insinuation.

Soon, two pairs of pattering feet came storming through the house, innocent giggles and squeals of excitement masking the sound Michael’s broken stutters. Prince and Paris screeched in excitement as they clung to your legs, exclaiming their adoration for you, as they tugged at your clothes.

“Mama, why are you crying?” Prince asked, a pout forming on his face as he took in your devastated expression.

You knelt down to his eye-level, pressing a kiss to both his and Paris’s cheeks, “Mama’s okay, baby, I’m just a little sad, but Mommy will be okay, I promise.”

“Don’t be sad, Mommy.” Paris chimed in, resting her cheek on your knee as she mimicked her brother’s pout.

“I’m not, baby, don’t worry.” You smiled at her as maternally, and convincingly as possible, “Go get in the car for me, okay? We’re gonna go stay with Grandma for a while.”

“No, baby, please.” Michael’s voice cut through the discussion, “Please don’t do this.”

As Prince and Paris, now in the care of the Nanny, with a baby Blanket in her embrace, taken from your arms, were escorted out of the home, you stood back up to face him.

Anger had been replaced by unadulterated, hopeless anguish.

“Why, Michael?” You whispered, another sob threatening to wrack from your throat, “Why would you do this to me?”

Michael finally let himself break — a miserable, wretched wail escaping from his mouth, streaks of unstoppable tears falling from his eyes.

His hands reached for you as you stepped towards the door, “Please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me, baby, I beg of you. Please let me make things right, I—I swear things will be better, I—“

“I thought you loved me, Michael?”

I thought you loved me.

Those were the last, non-legally binding words you spoke to Michael, one’s that rang in his head every-day since, before you left for good. Turning on your heel in a slow, wobbled movement, and scurried down the driveway, letting yourself cry for a few seconds more, before you hopped into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes, wiping your eyes and putting on a brave face for your children. You blocked out Michael who chased after the car in a screaming, dejecting protest as it sped off, leaving him in a cloud of dust, and a swarm of tears.

He was served the divorce papers the next morning.

From then on, it was everywhere — every news, radio and TV station was covering it, plastering pictures of you and Michael over the front cover with a taunting, exaggerated headline. You tried to block it out, like you always had done, but reading ‘Not even this one could hold Jackson down for even a decade’ definitely had a negative effect on you.

After a long, mentally-depleting five months of court, the divorce was finalised in February, and you were now nine-months pregnant and over it. Your large belly had dropped — signifying you were creeping nearer to labour. You knew the stress of the break-up and the gruelling divorce wasn’t good for the baby, so you took time after court steady.

Back in December, right before Christmas, you moved into your own place. It was a beautiful house, not as large as Neverland, nothing ever could be, but it was home. Unfortunately, or not, the home had been plagued before you even stepped foot into it.

As Michael had paid for it.

You had told him a thousand times that you weren’t together anymore, that you were no longer ‘Mrs Jackson’, so therefore paying for such lavish things like a whole house, wasn’t necessary. But, as he always did, he insisted — and demanded you never attempt to give him even a cent back. Whether it was a sly con to get you back, you didn’t know — but it certainly didn’t work.

In the midst of the divorce, you settled for shared custody — that was a given. Michael was a fantastic father, and you’d never deprive him of his children. You thought just because your relationship broke down, didn’t mean his with your kids had to. So, every week, Bill would turn up outside your front door in the same black Mercedes he always did, with an excitable Michael in the front seat — grinning like a Cheshire cat, opening the door before Bill had even stopped. He’d race out the door and scoop up the children in his arms, kissing their faces all over and letting them ramble on about what they did with you that week. You’d stand in the doorway, watching with a soft smile as Paris would instantly cling to Michael’s clothes like she was scared he was going to disappear while Prince would pinch his cheeks, and a now nearly one-year old Blanket, nestled into the crook of Michael’s neck.

If he couldn’t be a husband, he was definitely going to be a dad. And a good one at that.

But, the damage had been done. And whenever Michael would approach you, letting Bill scurry the children into the backseat, clipping them into their car-seats, the awkward tension would arise. The conversation would be polite and acquainted, as if you’d never met before, with a simple ‘How are you?’ and ‘Were they good?’ or ‘How many weeks left?’

The last question always made your chest ache, not only because you knew you’d soon be a single mother, and having to accommodate your now ex-husband into your routine after the baby was born, but because you knew he already knew — he had kept a strict track of your pregnancy, knew every trimester, how many weeks, your cravings, discomforts, how you liked to sleep, how many kicks you’d had that day, he knew it all. So, every time he’d ask, you knew he was trying to be polite, and come across as nonchalant — like he didn’t know you like the back of his hand.

But, the nonchalance melted into nothingness once the baby came.

It was a cooler day in February, clouds settling over the skies of California, and your back had been aching from the moment you woke up. Luckily, a lazy morning was in order as it was Michael’s week to have the kids — so once eleven-AM rolled around, you forced yourself out of bed.

Unlike at Neverland, where personal chefs were at your beck and call whenever you so pleased, you had to grow to love cooking for yourself. Luckily, you often cooked for your children, even when you lived with Michael, and even more so now you lived alone, so cheffing up a quick breakfast wasn’t too taxing.

But, trying to ignore the dull, relentless ache that settled itself in your lower abdomen was growing harder to do so, gritting your teeth as you scrambled eggs on the stove. This wasn’t a usual cramp or crotch pain like you’d experienced — it was a familiar feeling that you’d felt three times prior.

And your suspicions only came fact when you turned on your heel to fetch salt from the pantry when a flood of liquid gushed through your shorts and onto the floor.

Contractions started simultaneously — growing more and more frequent from the car-ride to when they situated you into a private hospital room. You had been attempting to pace your breathing, the sharp, brutal pains of labour sending you into tachycardia as pain consumed you, the minutes between them decreasing quicker than you remembered they were supposed to, giving you no time to recover.

You were alone in the room, figuratively rather than literally, as dozens of nurses swarmed you, but no loved ones were present. And that was quite possibly worse, your anxiety was sky-rocketing, important people were asking important questions you didnt have the brain power to answer, and hands were all over you, attaching a cannula — it was all too much.

“Mrs Jackson, I’m going to have to ask you again to sit down, you’re bordering on seven centimetres, so baby could come at any time soon, and it’s important you’re in a sensible position.”

You groaned loudly, choosing to ignore the way the nurse referred to you as ‘Mrs Jackson’, as your head hung low, eyes squeezed shut as you hunched over the bed once more, legs wobbling from the sheer intensity of the contraction.

“Ma’am, I going to have to—“ “Enough.”

You breathed a loud sigh of relief, one that your more mentally stable being would’ve kept to yourself, as Michael’s voice sounded throughout the room.

The room fell into hushed silence as he stepped forward, ignoring the eyes on him and shared glances between nurses, and pressed a hand on your back, glistening in tiresome sweat.

“Do you want all these people in here, baby?”

The familiar pet-name fell from his lips before he could even stop himself — an all too welcoming feeling spreading across your chest as you shook your head, mumbling an almost inaudible ‘No’ that mingled into a loud whine of agony.

“You heard my wife, if you’re not going to be delivering our baby, please leave.”

Michael was never rude to workers, but right now he was stern and he wasn’t apologetic about it — he wanted nothing more than your comfort in one of the most important moments in both your lives.

But, even in your pain consumed state, you still managed to pick up on his words, “I’m not your wife anymore, Michael.”

He shushed you gently, rubbing soft circles into your back, before leaning down to press a tender kiss into your hair, “I know, but, just for today, baby.”

You would’ve scolded him if you had the ability, tell him off for acting so husbandly and loving even though only a mere few weeks ago your divorce was finalised — but you hadn’t the energy. And secretly, you needed all the love and support you could get right now.

Luckily, shortly after Michael ordered the dozens of nurses out of the room, your baby was born. You had decided to keep the sex a secret to you both for when it was born, a surprise meant to be then shared and celebrated once the two of you went home together — it was beautiful, but bittersweet, as you knew you would both go off to your respecting homes afterwards instead.

It was a boy — your third boy of the family, and now the littlest. Age and weight, he was, unlike most babies born after their siblings, smaller than your others — weighing seven pounds, three and a half ounces, all of beauty and wonder.

The birth was tiring, but luckily short, not diminishing your energy as much as the others had, and left you unscathed of any tearing. You liked to believe it was the universe giving you a little luck after the heartbreaking few months you’d had to endure.

Once you’d settled in your bed, blanket pushed up to your chest as you held your little boy in your arms, body aching nonetheless, Michael entered the room, pushing the door open quietly.

“Is he asleep?” He whispered, popping his head through the crack in the doorway.

You smiled, “No, come in.”

Michael did so willingly — creaking the door open fully before stepping inside the room, and closing it gently. He walked softly, with a proud smile on his face as he approached you, taking a firm seat in the chair next to the bed with a sigh.

“He’s perfect.” He spoke tenderly, voice cracking ever so slightly as he brushed a delicate finger over his son’s cheeks.

You giggled as you watched your son’s eyes darting around the room, totally entranced by the lights and noises surrounding him, “He is, isn’t he?”

“Have you thought of a name yet?” He asked quietly, eyes still locked on the way his son’s nose twitched and his lips smacked as he became accustomed to life.

“What do you think about Mickey?”

Michael could’ve sworn his heart had grown twice the size already today at the birth of his third son — but this moment was slowly tripling it.

His eyes flicked up to yours — a raw, deep, utterly loving expression crossing his face.

“Y’know, ‘cause you love Disney and Mickey Mouse so much..” You trailed off your explanation, “He can still be Michael Joseph, but, I don’t know, I just thought it was sweet.”

“Baby..”

Your expression softened at him for the first time in nearly a year — he was wrecked. Slow, overwhelming tears trickling down his cheeks that flushed crimson, lip wobbling and eyes full of adoration at your idea of his son’s name — chosen solely from his love for Disney.

“Do you like it?”

“Honey, I love it.” He whispered, sniffling, a hand coming across to rest over your own that cradled the baby’s head, “I love it so much, baby, thank you. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“‘S okay,” You whispered, smiling softly at him, “So, Mickey it is?”

“Mickey it is.” He confirmed, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss known to man-kind to the top of Mickey’s warm head, “Mickey Jackson. Heh, kinda sounds like Michael, huh?”

You chuckled, “Bad or good?”

“Good. Real good.”

You noticed the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked over your knuckles — a romantic display of his utmost adoration and gratitude for you for bringing his fourth baby into this world. And in that moment, your heart had never felt so full — even after the worst pits of hell you’d felt you’d crawled into over the past few months after everything that had occurred, none of it mattered in that room, holding your baby as he drifted off into a slumber, with the father of said baby holding your hand as he did so.

The overwhelming hormones and emotions from birth hit you like a truck as tears began to fall — cascading down your cheeks just as Michael’s did.

“Hey, what’s wrong, honey?” Michael question, a tight knit in his eyebrows as he glanced at your upset expression.

“Nothing, nothing, I’m—I’m okay, I just—I’m just happy.” You sniffled, “Happy you’re here.”

You looked up from peering at Mickey’s sleeping face and meet Michael’s eyes — ones that were full of devotion. His hand left the embrace of your own, and reached up to wipe the tears that slipped from your waterline.

“Me too, baby.” He spoke delicately, his hand coming across to cup your flushed cheek, “Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward or forced like it had been recently since the divorce, no, it was raw — a subtle demonstration of overpowering intimacy that needed no words, only a look of sheer joy at the miracle that had been brought onto this Earth from the love you both shared. The intensity of the soul-baring, vulnerable, cherished sensation that flooded both of your systems became overwhelming — the sound of both of your hearts hammering in your chests blasting in your ears as you remained locked in a sincere gaze.

“Michael.”

He didn’t even need confirmation — he leant forward before he could stop himself and connected your lips in a gentle, warm, deeply devoted kiss that send shockwaves of electricity throughout your body. You gasped into his mouth, hands tightening ever so slightly around Mickey to steady yourself as he moved his mouth slowly against your own. You kissed back immediately — a sound almost like a sob leaving your throat as more tears spilled from your eyes, as your lips collided together in a scared, dreamlike connection.

You pulled away to catch your breath — panting softly as your head lolled forward to rest your forehead against his own, the scent of his cologne becoming intoxicating from the closeness.

No words were spoken about that kiss ever again.

Not when yours and Michael’s family came to see the baby, especially so when your three children came to do the same, and even more so when you returned home and went about your lives. And there was definitely more than enough time to discuss it, even though it never was, especially when Michael was at your house practically every day to come check on you and help out with Mickey.

Some nights he’d even sleep on the couch downstairs, and take the night shifts to let you rest, or he’d take the kids out into the garden or back to Neverland to play, with Mickey, while you showered and cleaned the house, or took everyone out for dinner to save you cooking — he was always there. And instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like you assumed it would’ve been while you were still pregnant, it was surpisingly pleasant. And felt like old-times.

But, once Mickey reached the four-five-six month old mark, you didn’t need as much help — and your old routine went back into motion. And with all things considered, everything between you and Michael was jovial.

Until Wednesday.

Today, Friday, thirteenth of February 2004, the day of your son, Prince’s, seventh birthday — you had to battle showing a brave, excitable face for your son, who was buzzing in joy over all the presents laid out in the living room of your home, with the undeniable fury that flamed inside you at what Michael had done.

On Wednesday, Michael had been spotted out at a lavish, fancy restaurant in Manhattan with his ex-ex-wife, Lisa Marie Presley.

Oh, yes! The same woman that helped break up your marriage two years ago — that Lisa!

Why Manhattan? Why that restaurant? Why the secrecy? Why two days before his son’s birthday? Why Lisa?, most importantly — a million questions swirled around your head, and you knew it’d be difficult to keep them there, and not spewing out of your mouth.

Especially when you were seeing him in an hour.

Michael had decided to host a massive gathering for Prince’s birthday at Neverland, inviting all of his family over to celebrate — and obviously, being Prince’s mother, included you. And you definitely weren’t going there looking like you usually did, oh, no, you had to make a statement. Remind him of who gave him four children, who stayed even though the marriage was failing, and carried his baby all through an exhausting divorce — you.

So once Paris was in her prettiest dress, Blanket and Prince in their finest dress shirts, and baby Mickey in an ironic Mickey Mouse t-shirt, you slipped on the most eye-catching, jaw-dropping dress you could find appropriate for the occasion.

It was black, Michael’s favourite colour on you, and figure-hugging — clutching your hips and curves in all the right ways, and showing just enough cleavage to make Michael sweat. It was perfect — and just enough to make him realise what he was missing.

Not that you were intending to make him come back, or so you thought.

The drive was boisterous — nearly one-year old Mickey was, unusually, wide awake, most likely from all the noise his siblings were making as they chatted loudly in the backseat. Paris, now six-years old, and Blanket, two nearly three, were old enough to engage in playful conversations as Prince recounted to you, and Bill who chuckled in the drivers seat, all of his favourite presents, which, surprise surprise, was all of them.

“Thank you, Bill. Nice to see you.” You spoke kindly, offering him a sweet smile as you pulled Mickey onto your hip, as the others clambered out the car.

“And you.” Bill replied, “Tell Michael I said hi.” You smiled thinly, knowing there was nothing you wanted to do less than speak to him, “If he’s still surviving after seeing you in that dress, that is.”

You laughed loudly as Blanket took your hand, now old enough to walk, “Well, if you don’t hear from him, then you know why.”

Bill chuckled softly as he waved goodbye to the children, before driving away. Paris and Prince instantly took off towards the door, squealing as they went. Blanket, although confident and more than capable of running, was still the clingy baby you birthed nearly three years ago, and liked it better by your side, as Mickey nestled his face into your collarbone, sucking his thumb.

You took a long, precise, deep breath as you reached the door, collecting yourself and pushing your anger further down your nervous system before pushing the door open.

The room erupted in excited laughter and shouts of your names as they locked eyes on your presence entering the home. Prince and Paris, of course, had sped off in the direction of where all the noise was — jumping into the arms of their uncles and aunts, and accepting countless kisses from their Grandma Katherine, Michael’s mother.

Blanket’s hand slipped from your own as you shut the door as he jogged towards an all too familiar face that emerged from the crowd.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Applehead!”

The hilarious term of endearment Michael had given all of his children rang in your head as Blanket jumped into Michael’s embrace — instantly wrapping his short little arms around his neck as he cuddled into his shirt.

“You okay, buddy? How was your morning at Mama’s?” Michael asked, smoothing his hair across his forehead.

“Good, Prince got loads of presents.” Blanket revealed, as you fought the urge to laugh.

“Well, that’ll be you in a few weeks, bud.”

Michael was right, Blanket’s birthday was only around two weeks post-Prince’s, thankfully, not, for your bank account. Michael looked up from Blanket’s smiling face to meet your gaze, and he folded instantly. He didn’t even try and hide the expression that spread across his face — jaw slack and eyes blown as his vision trailed along your frame, clad in a gobsmacking dress and heels.

However, your stare was ice-cold, and he noticed — watching as you daren’t smile as you sauntered near him, heels clicking against the floor.

“Hey, you okay?” He spoke, clearing as throat as he attempted to regain some composure.

You hummed in response as you stopped next to him, watching as he gulped thickly.

“Hey, little man, how’s my littlest boy, hm?” Michael turned his attention the smallest son your hip, who now blabbered and kicked violently in your arms at the sight of his daddy — now slobbering all over himself.

Michael reached over and used his free hand, the one not holding up Blanket, to use his bib to wipe his mouth clean, “How was he this morning? Prince didn’t wake him up with all the noise, did he?”

“No, he’s been good. They’ve all been good.” You forced out jovially through gritted teeth, eyes only focusing on Mickey who giggled as Michael squished his cheeks.

“So, Prince had a good morning, then? I’ve been so busy recently, I can’t believe how fast his birthday has rolled around.”

“Busy, huh?” You fired back as Blanket wriggled from Michael’s grasp and ran towards his Auntie Janet who beckoned him over, “You been really busy, Michael?”

You knew you didn’t need to say anymore, as you walked away, from the look on Michael’s face — he knew you knew now and it was obvious in his expression. His jaw twitched as it fell ajar ever so slightly, his eyes squeezing shut as you walked away, muttering under his breath, shaking his head.

“Hey, girl!” Janet called, her voice excitable as she smiled at you, waving you over as she just did Blanket, who was now playing with her hair.

“Hey, Jan.” You smiled, leaning over to kiss her cheek, as she did the same “How have you been?”

“Oh, yeah, good, good. What about you?”

The conversation flowed from there as if you saw one another yesterday — laughing wildly and joking playfully about all of her brother’s and sister’s, who fawned over your kids dramatically, while discussing her relationship with American rapper, Jermaine Dupri, who she’d been with for two years at this point.

“Yeah, he’s so good to me, it’s so refreshing.” Janet told you as you settled on the couch, shortly after saying hello to the rest of Michael’s family, “We’re going away to Hawaii in April, I’m convinced he’s gonna propose.”

Although you smiled and gasped in joy, grasping her hands and asking a thousand questions about her possible engagement, you couldn’t help but let your heart ache at the mention of the start of a new beginning — your mind instantly jumping to the memory of Michael proposing, and then your wedding, and into the start of your marriage.

“Girl, I know that look, talk to me.” Janet cut herself off, raising her eyebrows at you as she took a sip from her glass of red-wine.

You groaned, rolling your eyes with a playful smile— Janet knew you nearly as much as Michael did, playing the part of a real sister, even if you weren’t married to her brother anymore.

“It’s just—Please tell me you saw it too.” You started, not even wanting to say it out loud.

Janet instantly knew what you were referring to, “Honey, everyone saw it.” She scoffed, “I think he’s a complete idiot for doing that.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Well, it’s not like we’re together anymore, so there’s no loyalty there, but, why her, y’know? Out of everyone he could’ve chosen to take out, or even date, it had to be her.”

“She’s a vulture.” Janet spat, “I never forgave her for going on vacation with her ex while they were together. Totally unforgivable. And I will support Michael till the day I die, and I did when he didn’t speak to her for six weeks after that, but this? This is a big no.”

You sighed, “Yeah, me too. He’s the father of four of my children, so, I’ve gotta keep the peace for their sake—but, fuck, Jan, I’m livid. I didn’t think I could even get this angry anymore.”

Janet rest a soft, comforting hand on your knees as you let out another audible breath, “Honey, I don’t blame you. Not after what she did before you broke up. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” Janet leant in, “But, I doubt Michael had such, how do I put this?, devious intentions. Like you said, he is technically single and can date whoever he likes, but I doubt he’d ever do it to hurt you. He’s just too polite for his own good and it ends him up in bad situations. But her? She’s got an ulterior motive — ‘cause she’s a bitch.”

You chuckled again, harder this time, “No, I know. I know he would never intentionally hurt me, but I just get more irritated when it’s her, y’know? Especially after everything that happened between us three.” You let a breathless laugh escape you, “I mean I’d rather it be Diana.”

Janet cackled, “Girl, I reckon that’s ten times worse.”

The two of you shared more laughs and glasses of wine as you changed the subjects quickly — discussing vacations, work, your children, fashion, family, everything. Janet had always been your favourite, after Michael of course (not that you’d ever admit that to him now), and then Marlon, who was now approaching you from across the room.

“There she is! My favourite girl!” He called, arms out wide as he entered your orbit.

You snorted in laughter as you stood up to hug him, “What the hell, Marlon? What about your own wife?”

“Shhh.” He winked, nudging your shoulder with a playful grin, “Hey, later on, all of us are gonna have some drinks once the old fogey’s leave and the kids are asleep — just like old times. You in?”

What Marlon referring to was when you and Michael first started dating, you would often go with him to Hayvenhurst when he visited his parents, alongside his siblings. And once Katherine and Joseph went up to sleep, all the siblings and their partners, including you, would all huddle in the living room and drink to your heart’s content — the house getting increasingly more loud as the group of you got more and more intoxicated. Michael never got that drunk at that age, and especially so when he felt a responsibility to take care of you — which he did. More often than not after one of those evenings, carrying you to bed once you returned home, undressing you and taking your makeup off while you babbled and kissed him all over, before passing out, which often amused him.

“Uh, duh.”

Marlon laughed, clapping his hands together in anticipatory excitement to his future drinking, before Katherine’s voice sounded out into the room.

“Cake time!”

Prince practically exploded with excitement as he raced over to you, squealing like a little piglet as he clabbered onto your lab. He sat with his small back facing your chest, legs kicking wildly against your shins as he radiated with joy — little hands grabbing at the material of your dress in anticipation.

Soon, the room fell into silence just as Blanket and Paris climbed next to you, nestling into your sides, as the lights flicked off before Michael arose from the darkness, a large buttercream frosting covered cake with seven ignited candles standing atop — as his melodic, sweet-symphony of a voice sounded out into the room.

Everyone soon joined in, even your two little ones next to you, for the famous Happy Birthday song, even Katherine. You knew birthdays and Christmas weren’t celebrated amongst their family due to Katherine’s religion — so, you felt an extra splash of gratitude for the Jackson’s when it came to celebrating the day of your son’s birth without their faith in mind. But, you knew Kate would do whatever her grandbabies.

Just as Michael reached you, crouching down to Prince’s level as he giggled, the song came to an end, and the birthday boy blew out his candles, with a slight struggle from his little lungs. And as the room enclosed into darkness and cheers of ‘Hip-Hip Hooray!’ echoed in your head, your eyes landed on Michael’s, whose were already locked on you.

The look in his eye was a familiar one — a glint that he wore four times previously, and on this day seven years ago when his first baby was born, was one of pride and intense adoration. The same look he also sported before the intimate lock of lips you shared in the hospital last year when Mickey was born — the look of love.

It was undeniable — the way his lip wobbled as his eyes glassed over in proud tears, cheeks flushing a sheer shade of burgundy, and the raw shine of adoration in his vision.

You soon adorned the same look, a simple, unspoken expression that said a thousand words, as well as one more plain sentence of ‘That’s our baby boy’.

But, the lights flicked on and you both snapped out of it — clearing your throats and swallowing thickly as you looked away from one another, forcing your attention onto Prince who demanded a slice of cake that had to be bigger than Paris’s. And soon, the night continued as it had done, now with bellies full of cake and, for the adults, wine.

However, as ever, Michael’s intense and noticeable gaze was hard to ignore — every conversation you slotted yourself into was always dragged away by a subtle eye movement behind said person, and catching the locked stare of Michael, who watched you like a hawk, often letting his bottom slip between his teeth before looking away. Every time your stomach would jump — a flare of burning electricity coursing through your veins like wildfire.

And, as it always does, the party began filtering out — offering hugs and kisses to cheeks before heading out the door. Even including Joseph, who grumbled a good-bye, and Kate, who engulfed you in a tight embrace, kissed your cheek and thanked you for bringing her beautiful grandchildren into this world, before leaving with Michael’s eldest sister, Rebbie, who had to send her children off to bed.

You did the same — sending your four babies up the stairs of Neverland, and into their respecting bedrooms, cooing each little one to sleep with a sweet, hushed bedtime story or a recount of their day, before they all succumbed to a much needed slumber. And as Mickey, who fell asleep in your arms, was laid carefully in his crib-like bed in Michael’s room, you shut the door and head back down the stairs to where the party awaited you.

And then, there were nine — You, Janet, La Toya, Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and, of course, Michael.

The dozen of you situated yourselves in the living room adorning three large couches — all spreading across the furniture in equal numbers. Michael, tactically, sat across from you. You knew exactly why — he wanted to keep staring. But, you’d let him — what else was the dress for?

Marlon took a firm seat before letting three bottles of wine clatter onto the small table that sat in the middle of the room — before grabbing one himself and pouring a large glass.

“Let’s get the real party started.” Jermaine laughed as he took the bottle from Marlon, and topped his one glass of.

“Hey, that’s my baby’s birthday party you’re dissing.” You quipped, chuckling as you thanked La Toya for passing you the bottle after she’d finished with it.

“I am not!” Jermaine defended with a smile, taking a sip of his wine, “I’m just saying, isn’t this way more fun?”

“Love Prince, but absolutely.” Marlon joked, sending the room into laughter.

The room settled into a comfortable buzzed environment — everyone quietly conversed with those nearest to them, occasionally engaging in a large group discussion, as the multiple glasses of consumed wine took over everyone’s blood-streams.

“Oooh, you know what we should play,” La Toya squealed, “‘Never have I ever?’!”

Jackie laughed, “Seriously? Are we fifteen?”

“What? It’s fun!” Toya defended, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I mean,” Marlon started, grinning playfully, a joke clearly pending, “We are in Neverland.”

“You are so corny.” Randy shot with a chuckle, “I’m down.”

“Yeah, me too.” Janet said with a grin, “Why not?”

As everyone, including yourself, agreed, all eyes landed on Michael — who had remained deliberately quiet.

“You in, Mike?” Tito question, placing his nearly empty wine glass on the side table, peering over at his brother next to him.

Michael let out a breathy laugh, eyes flicking up to you before he nodded, “Sure.”

Everyone cheered before putting one hand in the air as La Toya cleared her throat, before stating the first prompt.

“Never have I ever spent more than $50,000 in one day?”

The room chuckled as Jermaine, Michael and Janet put a finger down — but, Michael was a given. He was Michael Jackson after all.

“That’s so tame, Toya.” Marlon laughed, “Never have I ever had sex in a pool?”

“Ew, Mar, what the hell?” Janet scrunched her face up, as Marlon cackled with laughter.

La Toya, Tito, Jackie and Jermaine put a finger down, succumbing to the teasing that soon followed from their siblings as the room erupted into laughter once more.

“Alright, alright, if that’s the route we’re going down, Never have I ever had sex more than ten times in one day?”

Well, shit.

Your eyes locked on Michael’s as the room fell into silence as everyone’s visions darted towards everyone’s hands — but, soon chaos ensued as you and Michael’s fingers slotted down.

“Oh, my God, Mike.” Jermaine cried, clutching his stomach, “You dog.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you recounted the memory clearly in your head. It was the night, and more so day, after your wedding — and you spent the whole twenty-four hours after tying the knot making love. So much so, you both slept for at least fourteen hours that night, both covered head to toe in sweat, spit and cum — and completely spent.

“We’d just got married, what did you expect?” You giggled, the deep smile on your face on deepening as Michael dropped his head as he laughed breathlessly, clearly embarrassed from such intimate talk.

A few more intimate, hilarious and interesting rounds followed — memories from the siblings childhood, as well their respecting relationships and embarrassing moments all being revealed with each breath. As well as more wine.

“I can’t believe you peed on Randy, you two.” Janet gasped for breath as she laughed.

Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head, as he recounted the memory of sharing a bed with his brothers, “He’s such a liar.” He spoke, his words slightly slurred as the alcohol took over.

“I am not!” Randy fired back.

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Michael giggled, raising his eyebrows in Marlon’s direction who screamed with laughter.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go, little brother.” He winked, ignoring the way Randy cursed at him, “Alright, if you wanna come for me, Never have I ever got caught having sex by Mom?”

Randy groaned as he put a finger down, just as you gasped, “Oh, fuck’s sake, that includes us!”

“No way! When?” La Toya gasped as the room bustled with questions at your drunken revelation.

“Oh, come on, girl, why’d you tell them?” Michael whined, his voice drawled as his cheeks flushed, as he slotted a third finger down.

The alcohol had clearly hit everyone, including you, as your cheeks flushed pink and your body buzzed with a heavy, noticeable daze of intoxication, as you began retelling the story. It had been a night just like this, five years ago, when Paris was still young, and your Mother had been looking after her and Prince while you had a party-night at Hayvenhurst with all the siblings. But, this time, Michael got equally as drunk as you, and was too under the influence to attempt to get home, so opted for spending the night at his parents. And, as most couple’s do when drunk, you began having sex, albeit much louder than you intended to. But, you hadn’t let Kate know you were staying over — so, when she marched into the room, wondering if there was a burglar, she witnessed you, naked, atop of her son, riding him.

Michael’s hands enclosed around his face as Tito shook his shoulders with a laugh, teasing him, as you added Kate had a stern talk with you the next day, like you were irresponsible teenagers, about safe sex, especially after having a baby.

“That was your fault.” Michael pointed at you, a lazy grin spread across his face, as his eyes drooped slightly.

You giggled, “Me? You came on to me.”

“More like into, but sure.”

“Oh, good, God, Michael!” La Toya squealed, covering her ears as everyone laughed.

“I always forget how he gets when he drinks.” You slurred with a chuckle, “As the story reveals.”

“Oh? You wanna go there?” Michael fired, “Never have I ever broke a mirror during... it?”

You gasped, folding a finger down as the memory of your legs giving way, and falling forward when Michael was fucking you from behind in front of the mirror, and it smashing from the weight of your tumble, hit your brain.

“Alright, Never have I ever fell asleep during sex?”

Marlon cackled as Michael pursed his lips together, “It was after the tour, girl, I was tired!”

“Put that finger down, Michael.”

“Fine, speaking of fingers, Never have I ever broke a finger during sex?”

As you slot a finger down, recounting the way you jumped on Michael from the edge of the bed, in between switching positions, and broke his pinky finger, you shot back, “Never have I ever slipped in the shower during sex?”

Michael cursed with a laugh as he put a finger down — the tension of his previous actions melting into nothingness as your teasing continued.

“Never have I ever been pregnant?”

“Oh, that’s playing dirty.” You gasped, putting a finger down until one was left, “Never have I ever woke the kids up from how loud you were being?”

“Fine, Never have I ever argued with me during sex?”

“Never have I ever been an asshole that it required an argument?”

Michael’s jaw clenched as the room fell into uncomfortable silence, “Never have I ever divorced the one man who actually put up with you?”

Oh, now he was pissed — and so were you.

“Oh, fuck you.” You spat, the tension rising back up as you dropped your hand, now not caring about the game, “Never have I ever ruined my marriage by letting my ex-wife sleep over at my house and take care of my loving wife’s kids while she was crying at her Mom’s house because of what I’d done?”

“You know it wasn’t like that.” Michael spat through gritted teeth, his hand also abandoned.

“Oh, really? So maybe, Never have I ever took my other ex-wife out for dinner who ruined my marriage, two days before my son’s birthday, is more fitting?”

Before Michael could even get another word out, you slammed your wine glass onto the table and stormed out of the room — heels clicking wildly against the floor, covering the sound of your quiet sobs as tears slipped from your eyes.

You soon found one of the many downstairs bathrooms, slotting yourself inside with a stumble due to your intoxication, and locking it shut. You hunched over the sink, letting tears drip onto the cold tiles that surrounded the basin as you choked out a sob.

‘Divorced the one man who put up with you’ rang in your head like a blasting speaker in your mind — circling around in your drunken thoughts. Michael had never been cruel, even when drunk, but his words had been harsh, which allowed your slurred brain to run away with itself, believing that it was true.

After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded onto the wood of the door, “Honey? It’s me.”

Janet’s quietened voice hit your ears from behind the door, as you stood up with a huff and unlocked the wooden barrier, pulling it open. She sighed sadly at the sight of your crying frame, before pulling you into a tight hug, rubbing your back as a few stray tears fell from your waterline.

“I’m sorry, honey, I—I have no idea what happened back there, but, I think you two have a lot to discuss.” She spoke gently as she pulled away, offering a small smile, “We’re all heading home now, do you need a ride?”

You let out another long sigh, “No, I’m okay. And you’re right, we should probably talk. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t stress it, sweetie. Call me if you need, okay?”

And with quiet goodbyes with his brothers at the front door, who teased you carefully about your dispute with Michael, letting the tears dry and soft laughter erupt from your chest, the house fell into loud silence — the kind where you could move one step and it would echo.

You breathed out again, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, before heading back to where the group had once been. Your chest ached at the sight of Michael — head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, body unmoving, now in dim lighting, the main light dialled down to a softer array of light across the room.

Michael’s head lifted at the sound of your heels clicking as they had done all day, your footing still unstable from the lingering alcohol, as you approached him. You took the high road, sitting firmly next to you with a huffed breath, hands settling on your thighs as you got comfortable.

The room, if it was even at all possible, fell into deeper silence, the only sound radiating between you was the sound of your slurred, slow breaths.

“I’m sorry.” Michael finally spoke, voice croaked and quiet as he sighed, “I—I don’t know why I said that.”

“Why did you?” Your voice a near whisper as tears threatened to brew at the reminder of the sentence that was haunting you, “Was I really that bad?”

“Not at all.” He spoke quickly, turning towards you briskly, his eyes meeting your own, “I was just angry and I blurted it out.” He ran a hand across his face, “I don’t know why I did.”

“That really hurt, Michael.” You breathed, “And, when you—sigh—when you, y’know, with Lisa the other day.” You swallowed down the lump in your throat, “Why?”

Michael grew quiet, pursing his lips together as he breathed out once more, “I don’t even know. I was bored, and in Manhattan for a gala, and she called me asking if I was free. I just—I just wanted to catch up.”

“Catch up with your ex-wife? After all that happened?” You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, I hear it, I do. I don’t even know why I agreed really, but, we didn’t go home together, or kiss, or nothing if that’s what you’re thinking, ‘cause I bet you are.” You let a soft chuckle at his words, which were undeniably true, “It was harmless, to me at least. I definitely see how it looks.”

“Looked real bad, Mike.” You laughed breathlessly, “Jan said you were probably just being polite, and I guess she was right. But, it still hurt, Michael, seeing you with her, it was like opening an old wound that I worked so hard to heal.”

Michael didn’t reply right away, just stayed locked in your gaze, eyes a sunken display of his upset — hurt in the way he’d caused you pain. The look in his eyes was a watered down version of the way he looked at you when you caught him with Lisa the day you split up — the vision sending shockwaves of irrevocable pain coursing through your traumatised veins.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled again, a hand coming down to rest over yours that crumbled together in your lap, “The last thing I want is for us to fall out when we have kids. It’s not fair to you, as well as them. That’s the last thing I want for us.”

The latter word hung heavy in your head the second it left his lips — a spike of a familiar adoring feeling spreading through you.

“Us.” A smile drifted onto your face, as you glanced down at your connected hands, “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Michael watched as you toyed with his fingers, rolling the digits between your own, rubbing the soft skin with the pad of your thumb so delicately his heart skipped a beat at the touch.

“We were pretty good together.” He admitted softly, “You made it perfect.”

Your smile deepened, “So I wasn’t hard to put up with?”

Michael chuckled softly as you reciprocated, “No, not at all.” He confirmed, “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, and that’s a positive thing. I mean I’m a dad of a four now, and I love being a father, and I love our kids, and I love yo—“

He cut himself off, visibly tensing, before he could finish the sentence — but, it was too late. The way you gasped softly revealed you’d heard it — his casual revelation for his love for you, even after all this time.

“Michael.” You whispered, peering up from your entwined hands to meet his gaze, “What did you say?”

You had heard, loud and clear, but you needed confirmation before you let your heart burst, while it hammered violently in your chest.

“I said I love you.” Michael sighed, accepting defeat and owning it, “I do now, as I always have done, even after everything. The break-up, the divorce, the kids, Lisa — everything.”

His voice was lazy and slurred, and strong smelling of alcohol as it drifted over your nose from his breath.

“Michael, I—“

“You don’t need to say anything. I know you left for a reason, and a valid one at that. I know I fucked everything up, before and after we split up, I just—I don’t think I can go another day without you.” He let out a broken, shaken breath as a single tear slipped down his face, “I still love you so much, so much it physically hurts whenever I see you leave when you pick up the kids. I can literally feel my heart breaking in my chest whenever we talk like we didn’t spent eight years together. Eight years learning routines, and favourite dinners, and—and little quirks. Eight years of sleeping next to one another, washing together in the shower, and rubbing each other’s feet after a long day, or taking off your make-up when you’re too drunk to do it.” You laughed softly at his words, “Eight years of marriage, seven of being parents to the most wonderful children on the planet, I just—I can’t bear that they think their Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore, when that’s not the truth.” He finally took a breath after he rambled, “At least it isn’t for me.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until salt lingered on your tongue from where your tears trickled onto your lips — eyebrows tucked deep into the crease of your forehead, lip wobbling as you let him pour his heart out, a raw, vulnerable display of his adoration.

“I never stopped loving you, Michael.”

The sound that left Michael was a broken choke, half a sob as his hands enclosed tighter around your own.

“I was mad at you—fuck, so mad at you. So mad and distraught and lonely, and you saw none of it. You were just so busy and cooped in your own insanely demanding career that you took me for granted. Assumed I’d always be there, that I’d never leave, that I’d always put up with it.” You sniffled, wiping the tears that dripped from the tip of your nose, “But, I just couldn’t. I let you push me closer and closer to the edge, until I willing jumped off, y’know? I just couldn’t take anymore.” You continued, “But, that never meant I stopped loving you.”

As you finished, you let out a deep, trembling breath that released all of the past two years of stress from your body — your shoulders slumping ever so slightly as more tears slipped from your eyes.

“I could never, ever stop loving you, Michael.”

Michael didn’t waste a beat — hands flying from your enclosure to cup your cheeks, and connect your lips.

You gasped into the kiss, your own instantly taking a hold of his shoulders as he moved quickly against you. He was making up for lost time — his hands moving from your face, to your neck, to your waist, pulling you closer to his body radiating pulsing heat, as he hummed into your mouth. A low, deep grumble left him as you crawled onto his lap, lips still connected, instantly finding a familiar comfortability as your legs settled either side of his. Your tongue swiped his bottom lip, requesting entry, as your hands splayed across his panting chest, as he let you in. The kiss only got frequently more frenzied, hands running across one another’s bodies, as if attempting to remember the shape, as your tongues glided together — the kiss growing warm, wet and messy.

If alcohol wasn’t in the equation, you most likely would’ve left it there — pulling away from the kiss and continuing the conversation about your relationship, maybe even attempting to reconcile or rekindle, but not now. Not when your hips slowly began grounding down on the obvious tent in his slacks, moaning into one another’s mouths as his hands cupped the curve of your behind through your dress. The same one that had ridden up your thighs, now revealing your delicate, lace panties that sported a wet patch from where you drooled from anticipatory arousal — now rolling against Michael’s crotch.

“Oh, God, I missed this.” Michael panted, lips leaving your own, revelling in the way you whined into the air, as his mouth trailed down your jaw, to your exposed neck, as your head lolled back, “Missed you, shit, I missed you so much, baby.”

His mouth licked and sucked the skin of your neck, erupting in red-hot heat from the alcohol, and the ecstasy his mouth was providing — littering your skin in dark, blooming love-bites, ones he soothed with his tongue afterwards.

“Michael, please.”

Michael groaned at the sound of your needy plea — a hand guiding your rocking hips against him as he leaked into his boxers at the sensation, “Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

“Need—fuck, need you, baby, Oh—“

Your breath caught in your throat as Michael lips reached your breasts — pressing open-mouthed, spit-stricken kisses against your cleavage as a hand crawled up to cup your left breast, kneading one in his palm.

“Yeah?” He breathed, voice panted and wrecked, mouth now covered in your lipstick, “What do you need, baby?”

You whined, loud and desperate, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he grazed your erect nipple with his teeth, your back arching at the feeling, “Make love to me, please.”

How you ended up in Michael’s bedroom was a blur — a rushed, hushed and stumbled run up the stairs, shedding clothes before you even made it to the room, stealing kisses and subtle touches in the dark, in quietened voices to not wake your sleeping children.

But, once you made it, Michael pounced like a lion on its prey — guiding you backward as he kissed you until your legs hit the bed, before laying you down gently. Michael had always been a tentative, doting lover in the bedroom, making sure you always finished first, and had the most pleasureful, comfortable experience possible — and even after all this time, he was the same.

He had already rid his shirt outside the room, and managed to pull your dress halfway up your legs, so when he fell to his knees in between your bare thighs, he only had to push your dress the other half of the way off, before you were bare before him, aside from your panties.

He shimmied your soaked underwear down your legs and shuffled back on his calves — eyes trailing over your stark naked, trembling frame.

“Wow.” He breathed, “My beautiful lady. God, the things you do to me.”

“I think I have somewhat of an idea.” Your voice was teasing and tantalising as a bare foot, your heels left to rot on the stairs, pressed firmly onto the bulge in his trousers.

Michael cursed under his breath, head falling forward to rest against your knee as his hand gripped your ankle at the sensation — he hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with a woman, besides hugging, since you split up a year ago, and by God, was he desperate now.

As your foot retracted and he gained composure, he pressed swift kisses up from your knee and along your thighs — before two large slowly parted your legs as he slot his face between them.

Before he delved in to where you needed him most, he peered up at your panting frame, eyes blow at the anticipation of his mouth, “Can I taste you, baby?”

“Oh, God, please, ye—Oh, fuck, Michael!”

The cry left you before you stop yourself as his tongue flattened against your sex — a low rumble of a groan leaving his lips, vibrating against your core as he let the taste of you settle on his tongue. You writhed at the vibration, soft gasps and whines leaving your throat as he began slow, practiced figure-eights along your throbbing clit — your hands flying to capture his hands that rest against your thighs in a tight grasp to steady yourself.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I remembered, mama.” Michael mumbled against your sex, licking a long stripe from your weeping hole, to where your clit twitched violently.

He dove back in, but this time, slipping a slender finger inside you — revelling in the way your back arched and you cried his name, the pleasure you yourself too hadn’t felt in a year consumed you entirely. His fingers found that spot instantly — rubbing the part of your drooling cunt that made you cry out in overwhelming pleasure repeatedly as you saw stars.

With the dual sensation of his fingers and relentless mouth now suckling your clit into his mouth, releasing it with a pop! and then swirling his tongue around it — your orgasm approached quicker than you expected. And hit you like a freight train.

“Oh, my, God, I’m gonna—fuck, Michael, I’—“ You sounded awfully desperate and whiny as you panted, legs shaking as your first non-self-inflicted orgasm washed over you.

His name fell from your swollen lips like a chant — hitting his ears as he contained to stimulate you, his tongue and fingers never letting up as you rode the wave of your release.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” Michael coaxed, his fingers slowing as you slumped against the sheets, “Did so good for me, baby.”

Michael gasped as you sat up and grabbed him by the belt — dragging him to his feet as his crotch became level with your face from where you sat on the bed. Your nimble fingers worked open his belt with practiced ease, an action you’d performed thousands of times over your relationship, as you pushed his slacks and boxers to his ankles.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of him — you’d seen his cock, hard and soft, a million times before, but this time was different. He looked the hardest he’d ever been — twitching cock flushed a deep shade of pink against the mauve-coloured tip, pulsing veins painting the underside of his shaft, and sporting a drool of perfectly white pre-cum from the head that stained his abdomen as it slapped against it.

You pulled him down by his hips as you lay flat against the sheets — back hitting the bed as Michael crawled atop of you. He connected your lips instantly, but, this kiss was gentler than the previous — his mouth moved slowly and delicately against yours, as if savouring the taste of sweet red-wine and buttercream frosting on your tongue, mixing with the familiar taste of your saliva.

His hands moved quicker than his mouth — pulling your legs up into the air by the back of your knees, and slotting them onto his shoulders, as he nestled closer to your chest. With a spare hand that wasn’t cupping the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, Michael took a firm hold of the base of his cock and slot it between your folds with ease only a former husband of eight years would know to do, even in an intoxicated state.

“Please, baby.”

“Patience.” He whispered against your mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before sitting up on his knees, “I wanna do something first.”

He leant over to the nightstand next to the bed, ignoring how you whined from the lack of touch, and retrieved a small black box. He lodged himself back between your raised legs, and chuckled, opening the black box, as you gasped.

“Wanna be my wife again for the night, baby?”

There, in the black, velvet box, the same one he opened nine years prior on golden sands in Italy at sunset, held your engagement ring, and nestled neatly above it, your wedding ring, the same one you wore for eight years, and mailed back to him the day after you broke-up. One that he kept all this time in the drawer of his nightstand — a subtle way of holding onto you all this time.

Michael pulled the wedding ring out of the box, saving the engagement ring for safe keeping, and threw the box across the large bed. He slotted your legs over his shoulders once more, slithering his cock between your glistening folds, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth at the sound of your breathy whine — before guiding himself to your clenching hole.

With one swift, beautifully erotic jerk of his hips — Michael sheethed himself inside you, at the same time as he slipped your wedding ring back onto your ring-finger.

The sensation of not only being stuffed to the hilt of the cock you’d missed for two years, the one you touched yourself to the thought of every night since you left, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around the size of him, but also your finger now snug with your wedding ring around it once more had your pussy gushing and pulsating around the length of him.

Michael didn’t miss it — leaning forward, slotting himself only deeper with a huff, and pressing his mouth against yours, “Oh? You like that, huh?” He teased, lips ghosting against your own, “You like the idea of being my wife again, baby?”

“Mmh—fuck, yeah, baby—” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the tip of his cock nudged your cervix — a sensation that had you gasping for breath at the fullness.

“That’s right, darling,” Michael breathed, pulling back slowly so only the tip of him remained, “‘Wanna make you mine again so bad.”

And his relentless thrusts began — hips moving at such a pace that you lost your breath, eyes rolled so far into the back of your head you became dizzy, and noises of undeniable pleasure so loud you were certain at least one of your children were to wake. Michael always had insane stamina, especially so after your wedding, but right now it was unstoppable — so pent up for your body for over a year that you didn’t think he’d ever stop.

His hands rest harshly on your hips, grip so hard you were certain it’d leave a mark, and that it did, as he fucked you back down onto his cock — the sound of your squelching cunt filling his ears.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Michael breathed, breath warm against your skin, “Listen to that—your pussy’s so wet for me, honey. Missed your husband that much, huh?”

“So—fuck—so much, Mikey—God.”

Your noises were whiny and needier than you’d ever heard them, not that your drunken brain was registering in the moment, as you buried yourself into the crook of his neck — lips instantly finding solace in his warm skin, covered in a sheen of sweat, that danced on your tongue as you sucked marks into the flesh. Michael groaned near the shell of your ear, hands tightening around your hip as you clamped down on him — now rutting impossibly faster at the sensation of your spasming cunt and your lips against his skin.

“Michael!—Holy fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—“

You only got louder, and therefore whinier, when he pressed your legs against your chest in a brutal mating press — now despicably deeper inside you, and relentlessly abusing the sweet spot, the one he previously curled his fingers against, as your second orgasm crept up your abdomen.

“God, baby, you feel—Jesus, just like how I remember.” Michael panted, moving his head to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss once more, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cried out indefinitely into his mouth, hands threading through his soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck, “I love—Mmh!—love you so much, Michael.”

He cursed under his breath, jaw hanging swiftly slack as his eyes squeezed shut — cock now twitching violently inside you as he quickened his thrusts swiftly. Your orgasm was dangerously close — now only a few ruts against your G-spot away as Michael continued to pepper kisses over your lips and face, groaning against your skin.

“Fuck, baby, I—“ He cut himself off with a whine, deep from his chest, “Wanna give you another baby so bad.”

His words sent you over the edge — cunt clenching him so hard his thrusts faltered ever so slightly as he cried out at the sensation. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks — your back arching and mouth falling open for frenzied pants and whines to escape your throat as the sweet, delicious familiarity of an orgasm coaxed out by Michael consumed your body. Irrevocable ecstasy coursed through you like buzzing electricity — setting you alight as you mumbled incoherently into the air.

“Jesus, is that what you want, baby? You wan’ a fifth? Oh, Jesus—“

Speaking the filthy words aloud, Michael threw himself into his own release — hips sputtering as he pushed himself impossibly deeper, spilling inside you with a loud groan, muffled by the safe haven of your collarbone, his teeth sinking into the skin to soften the noises. His pushed his incredibly, obviously, fertile seed further inside you — retracting his teeth and licking the marks in your skin in a soothing manner as his hands tightened around your hips, the jerks of his own slowing with each lazy thrust.

Soon came the silence — now this time not angered, or tense, or awkward, or saddened, but familiar. The ragged pants of breaths as you attempted to catch them, and gentle, loving, soft kisses stolen on necks, jaws, cheeks and lips — whispering heartfelt desires and thoughts into one another’s skin, promising love and devotion.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and crumbled next to you — instantly pulling you to his chest, and situating you under the blankets. His head hit the pillow with a sigh as you nestled onto his skin — both your brains swirling with alcohol and adrenaline-induced intoxication.

Just as your eyes fluttered shut, sleep threatening to take over, Michael pressed an adorably gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes squinted open, fighting sleep in a loosing battle, as you met his too sleepy gaze.

“Whatever happens in the morning,” He whispered, “Just know I love you.”

He didn’t expect a reply, especially so when your eyes fell back shut and you drifted off to sleep, as moments later he did the same.

And that’s the reality of the night that had hit you in this very moment — sat upright in Michael’s bed, more hungover than you anticipated, and swarming with dread as you stared down at the wedding ring on your finger.

The night wasn’t unpleasant — it was far from it. If anything, it actually fixed the main problem in your life — being a single mother of four, and having to pretend like you didn’t still have feelings for your ex-husband. But, fucking him drunk wasn’t exactly the route you thought you’d take to reconcile your relationship.

“Baby?”

Michael’s hoarse, croaky, morning voice hit your ears, making you jump as you gasped softly, breaking out of your train of through as you met his sleepy gaze. He mumbled softly as consciousness erupted in his system, rubbing his tired eyes as they settled on you — covered in love-bites, bruises and completely stark naked.

“Oh, Jesus, did we—?”

“I think that’s fairly obvious, Michael.” You forced out a scarce laugh, pursing your lips against one another as Michael slotted the puzzle pieces together, “Do you—Do you remember anything, or..?”

“I—I think so, I don’t—Is that your wedding ring?”

You peered down at the shining jewellery, as a soft chuckle escaped you, “Uh, yeah. I think we kinda got re-engaged last night.”

“Oh, my God.” Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands bashfully, “I’m so sorry, I just know it was me who instigated that.”

Another genuine laugh slipped from your mouth, mingling with Michael’s in the air of the bedroom, “Yeah, seems like it.”

Silence followed shortly — but, as it had been ever since you revealed your unspoken love for one another after everything, it wasn’t tense. Nor unsettling. If anything, the silence was calm and peaceful — like you both had so much to say, yet felt no pressured obligation to do so frantically.

“Well, you, um, you put it on.” Michael spoke shyly, “So, do you want to—do we, uh, shall I—“

You slipped the ring from your finger, and presented it to him, “I think we should have this discussion when we’re of more sound mind.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Michael replied quietly, taking the ring from your grasp.

You could tell from the way he spoke that he was disappointed — like you had shattered his heart all over again.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to discuss us, and what was said last night. I’m not closing that off for good, so, don’t worry. I just think getting engaged before we even discuss getting back together is a bit far-fetched.”

Michael chuckled, a real laugh escaping him as a smile danced onto his lips, “Yeah, you’re right, good idea, baby.”

You couldn’t help but let your heart flutter with fondness at the easiness of the nickname — the familiarity of it sending waves of butterflies through your stomach.

The rest of the morning was jovial — you washed and dressed yourself, in a pair of Michael’s old joggers and an old Victory Tour t-shirt, with light banter and easy conversations with him, both of you waking the children up together and curating breakfast for the whole family. You managed to shut down any probing questions Prince and Paris hounded you with, like ‘Mama, why are you here if you don’t live with Daddy anymore?’ or ‘Mama, are you and Daddy back in love?’ and ‘Daddy, are you gonna marry Mommy again soon?’

You diminished them all with a stern warning to stop asking, before exchanging hushed giggles and side-eyed glances to one another at the comedic timing of your two eldest.

But, all good things must come to an end, as Michael helped you with yours and the children’s belongings to Bill’s car, which awaited you out front. As Michael conversed with Bill, you ushered the children into the back seat, clipping them in like you had done the day previously, before turning to Michael.

“Come here.” He smiled, opening up his arms.

You chuckled softly, walking into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around your waist, as yours situated against his chest, the sound of his rhythmical heart beating making your heart flutter. He pressed a swift kiss, while the kids weren’t looking, to your forehead before you pulled away.

“Call me, okay?” He spoke to you, blowing a kiss to Paris as she waved at him through the window, “We can talk about everything, whenever you want.”

“Okay, Michael.”

You returned the smile he offered to you as he pulled the car door open for you, and pushing it gently shut once you’d climbed in. Michael waved theatrically goodbye as the car sped off out the driveway — his frame becoming smaller and smaller in the wing-mirror as Bill drove further away.

“The dress trick worked then, huh?” Bill teased with a playful smile.

You laughed, “Don’t even start.”

From then on, you contacted Michael frequently — calling him, even if it was just to ask him about his day, often, just to hear his voice. You didn’t know when you wanted to discuss that night, as you were the one who ended the relationship, and as dearly as you loved him, you had to be sure that things were going to change. You didn’t want to mess yourself around, as well as your children, by getting back into a relationship out of infatuation and attachment, rather than knowing for sure.

So, Michael would take any opportunity he could to show you just how much he meant what he said. He took you out anywhere and everywhere, just the two of you, dates like the old days when you first got together — dinners, theme parks, movies, bowling, dancing, all child-like and utterly ridiculous, but yet so meaningful. And he never once talked about work, unless you asked, never answered a phone call, or started mentally drifting away from the conversation as his mind slipped back into work mode — he was there. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He started making a real, true, genuine effort — and one that you never asked him to.

The first time you called him after that night was a few days afterwards — just to check in. And he asked you out — said he would love to take you out to dinner to the restaurant you both used to religiously go to when you were married. Your favourite Mexican restaurant in all of California.

And from that point on, he never stopped — never let up on his effort. He took you everywhere, and treated you like you weren’t his ex-wife whom he was attempting to get back. He was behaving out of pure love and devotion to you — proving himself and making up for lost time. Meanwhile, not once did he ask nor expect sex — your drunken night had been intoxicated led, and as much fun as he had, he strictly told you that the time you were spending together wouldn’t be sexual, as he wanted it to be meaningful. When you teased him that you thought he was saying your sex wasn’t heartfelt, he quickly shut it down — reminding you that although sex between you two is sacred to him, earning your trust and respect back was more so.

At the six week mark of you and Michael beginning to rekindle your relationship — you had never felt so high. Your children were let on to a ‘little secret’ that Mommy and Daddy are close friends now, and can be around one another — so dinners and trips out were spent as family again. Their adolescent brains didn’t question it for very long — but you could tell your eldest were secretly pleased. Especially Paris, who whispered to you one night while you coaxed her to sleep, with Michael stood in the doorway, watching happily, that she was happy you and her Daddy were friends again, and that she loved you both so much, before falling asleep.

That was all the confirmation you were making the right decision that you needed.

Michael had woken at his own house alone, this morning, for once — you had spent the evening out with his sisters last night, and requested a solo night at your house. A choice he respected — which led him to awake in his bed all by himself. He had the kids round, which meant his peaceful morning would probably be disturbed in a matter of minutes, with Prince, Paris and Blanket leaping on bed, before he fetched Mickey from his.

But, the first disruption was the loud sound of the phone ringing.

Michael jumped — body seizing as the sound rattled through him. He cursed under his breath as he reached for the phone, picking it up and bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Michael?”

The sound of your voice would usually bring a smile straight to his face, and flutters throughout his body — but, you sounded panicked. And he instantly noticed.

“Baby? Are you alright?”

“You better get that wedding ring out again, Mike.” You laughed, but clearly sounded unamused as Michael furrowed his eyebrows.

“Huh? What do you mean, honey?” He replied, confusion swarming his senses.

“I’m pregnant.”

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."

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