⋆·˚ ༘ * 𝘚 .

.❧ to say it had been a long two weeks was an underestimation. your mirror had reflected the tension that had been simmering between you and jackie the last two weeks. you understood being with a jackson meant sharing him with his work duties but the last fortnight had made you ache for him.

you were currently getting ready for dinner, not date night but a dinner with producers and publicists. this was your last try before you were gonna resort to silent treatment. you weren't usually verbal when you were needy but jackie was always good at picking up in cues. key word, usually, this time no matter how many times you'd try he wouldn't budge.

it started somewhat subtle at first, he'd get ready to go to the studio and you'd hug him from behind. hands travelling over his abs feeling up on him then subtly tracing his v-line- no reaction. you let that go, later that week while he was writing in his song book you'd straddle him, slightly moving your hips, that resulted in a "not now baby."

your next attempt was a short skirt no panties bending over to grab something you dropped. you hadn't dismissed the groan or how tight his pants looked afterwards but that was as far as he went.

you resorted to walking around the house in lingerie, but when that didn't work you tried full nude and still nothing. so now here you were, removing the curlers out of your hair getting ready for a dinner that wasn't even a date with you and him.

the last plan you had in your pocket, you bought a short black lace dress not too long ago. if the thought of you wearing something like that in front of producers, executives and any other people who get thoughts about you travelling to who knows where, wasn't gonna push anything then you were gonna snap.

he leaned against the doorframe watching you. that doorframe was another problem itself, when you both originally bought the house the other doorframes were made of stable wood with strong and steady structures.

the master bedroom doorframe looked like it had been made of cheap, fake wood that even the wind would break it. they hadn't seen it as a major flaw it was something easy they could fix. but much like the current state of the relationship it had been put off for too long.

"ready yet baby doll?" he adjusted his cuff links- looking a little too good that you would probably cry if this plan didn't work.

"mhm," you responded plainly, you tried to hide your frustration but you weren't doing a good job.

you took the last curler out styling your hair to satisfaction, then getting up showing off the dress. the length, the tightness and the exposure of it.

"ready," you half smiled getting your purse and dabbing some perfume over your pulse areas.

"how do i look?" he hadn't responded, of course he was looking through loose papers in his song book.

"jackie?"

"hmm?"

now you were losing it, you rolled your eyes letting out a sigh indicating how done you were.

"sigmund." he whipped his head around, now with the government name he knew something was up.

"what's wrong baby? ouuh-" he let out yet another low breathy groan before continuing his eyes dark, grazing over the lacy dress, hugging you in all the right places.

"is that the dress you're wearing?" he asks voice low, eyes everywhere on you but your frustrated gaze.

"yes sigmund." you responded

"why you upset?" he finally meets your gaze. you scoff in response, stupid question meant a stupid answer.

"im upset because i've been telling you about this stupid door frame. how many times i need to tell you "jackie please fix the damn doorframe", you know how annoying it is to have you ignore something so obvious! please just fix it's right there so please fix the damn thi-"

rolling his eyes as you went on a full on rant and he realises this was not about the doorframe. before you could finish the rant he cuts you off pinning you to the nearest wall by the same damn doorframe.

"are you done yet?" he asks with barely any space between the two of you. your breath hitches at the act.

"you were so confident talking before go on," he says lowly, the pent up tension of two weeks ago slowly evaporating. his hand running down your waist to your hip.

"the do-"

"forget the doorframe we both know this isn't what it's about," his eyes remain dark and serious but a smirk still manages to seep through. "you think i hadn't noticed your little stunts, the lingerie, no panties, and now here you are dressed up in a tight black dress knowing very well im going to have to endure a dinner with others staring at you like you the full course meal," he whispered kissing your ear sending shivers down your spine.

"you ignored me," you protested

he then let's out a half chuckle half scoff, "i had managers and publicists breathing down my neck i was trying to be good," he pulls you flush against him both hands on your hips, you can now feel the effect the dress is having on him your breath hitches again.

his lips then travel down the sensitive skin on your neck, "you wanted my attention baby doll?" he continues to kiss soft moans escape your lips.

"this was what you wanted isn't it?" he whispers against your neck, you move your allowing him more access.

"now you have it. every single bit so tell me baby where and how badly you want me before I lose my damn mind." he reaches your sweet spot, teasingly grazing over it allowing small moans to fall from your lips

"use your words," he adds lowly grazing your ear.

"i need you jackie, need you over here," you let out a whimper, wasting no time in bringing his hand down to your clothed core. jackie's gaze turned dark faint smirk appearing pleased at how needy you sounded.

he engulfs you into a hot passionate kiss once again, he then trails sloppy kisses down your neck to your collarbone. your straps fall allowing the top of your dress to follow along, his lips giving attention you to your bare chest sucking your left nipple while grabbing the other.

meanwhile his opposite hand crawls up the hem of your dress working its way to your leaking core. jackies fingers daintily ran over the clothed slit teasing you.

"jackie," he smirked watching your reaction, your eyebrows knit together at his teasing touch. "i'm jackie now am i? so needy," his eyes stayed glued to her reaction as he pushes the lace panties aside sliding two slender fingers in. his fingers slide easily in and out thanks to your slick, he feels you clench around them.

"fuck, daddy's neglected your pussy for too long, huh baby?" he questions fingers picking up their pace on purpose, your moans continue to fill the room as thumb applies pressure on your clit. your hips meet his hand as he adds more pleasure

jackie continued to skilfully work his fingers as you squirmed against the wall, he curled his fingers against your sweet spot. your high approaches and you release onto his fingers. jackie pulls his glistening fingers away as you gasp slightly, placing them in his mouth licking them clean, your eyes never leaving his.

"forgot how good this pussy tastes," he remarks lowly.

"i want you baby," you whimper. he replies, unbuckling the belt on his slacks.

"yeah? tell daddy what you want," your eyes were now glued to the large tent in his boxers. knowing damn well you were watching he letting his dick spring free from his boxers.

"i want you daddy," words coming out almost as a moan. his smirk grew wider.

"what do you from daddy?" you knew exactly what he was trying to get you to do and you hated how desperate you sounded. jackie teased the tip between your folds before pulling away.

"i want your cock," those four words themselves would've made him cum. he pushes inside you the moment the words leave your lips.

he adjusted for five seconds hands finding their way to the back of your thighs, hoisting you against the doorframe, before ramming into your pussy. you don't hold back on your moans as his dick filled you up. he had already set a fast pace.

"is this what you wanted?" he groans, feeling how tight you were after the past two weeks, his thrusts increasing speed and strength each time.

"walking around with your pussy on display like a little whore," his pounding continued, when suddenly you heard the doorframe creak. "this is what you wanted isn't it?" the pleasure made it hard for you to respond.

"daddy to fuck your pussy senseless," he continues, but so does the slight creaking that the two of you ignore. he groans as you clench around his length. you attempted to form a sentence but the only thing that made sense that moment was how good his dick felt.

"so greedy, gripping me so hard," his pace never faltered. jackie kept your against the doorframe, the veins in his muscular arms popping. your moans grew even louder along with his groans. you leaned your head back against the doorframe legs wrapped around his legs like jelly- full belief if you stood up you'd fall- no intention of letting go.

the pleasure increased each thrust pushing you to your high. "fuck baby im close," you exclaimed head still against the doorframe, his lips latch to your sweet spot on your neck. your hands found his hair running through his tight curls.

much like your legs the doorframe wasn't gonna let up much longer. you don't know how but you weren't complaining, he continued harder and deeper as a broken squeal left your lips. "my needy girl, cum all over my dick baby" he growled low in your ear.

one thrust was now equivalent to one creak from the doorframe but none that mattered at the moment. that also meant you coming undone on his girthy length, his thrusts began to grow sloppy catching up to his own high. "just like this huh baby?" he groans his forehead against yours.

"mhm" wasn't necessarily an answer but the small hum from your lips was enough to make him undone, all self control lost.

"so." - [thrust]

"fuckin." - [thrust]

"needy." - [thrust]

"fuck jackie!" you squeal

a loud crack races with the sound of your moans. just like that the doorframe too had given out, doorframe been given a makeover. neither of you had noticed yet, your chest rising and falling as he held you catching his breath forehead resting against yours, placing small kisses on your face.

"never neglecting my girl again," he whispers against her

"i love you baby."

"i love you more baby doll and i'm so sorry for not paying attention to you. don't know how i spent two weeks away from you like this" he apologised, pulling out as you whimper from the loss of contact. "i have been real mean haven't I?" he replies to the sound that left your mouth

"you've got no idea," you respond still clinging to him like a koala. "i know you work a lot baby, i respect that just don't shut me out in the process please i kinda of still wanna see my husband when i come home,"

"never again baby, i promise" he promises, kissing your forehead and walking you over to the bed to lay you down. "now let's get my girl cleaned up," before he could back away to grab a towel he turns taking the doorframe into account.

"oh shit," he remarks a partial grin forming along with pride. you lifted your head to see the door warped, the strike plate looked out of place the top half of the screws that held it now exposed, looking as though someone had pushed it back.

"i do that?" he questions closing the door seeing the very visible gap between the door and the frame, if anything the latch and strike plate looked more like a belt holding it together. the cheap wood had bent a little as well where he had you hoisted up

"shit," he adds eyes still locked on the door. "i didn't hurt you did baby?" he whips his head towards you now.

"no baby you didn't," you reply amused at the sight.

"you know what though," you add

"what?"

"my argument still stands it is that damn door," you replied partially serious and partially joking.

he shook his head laughing at your comment, "damn girl where would i be without you, i'll have it replaced on monday baby,"

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| 🏷 taglist: @yourleogf

Soft dom! Jackie who takes his time with you in the bed. He believes that relishing the moment would make things so much more passionate, and remarkable causing him to absolutely hate quickies due to the fact that he won't be able to treasure the time he has with you beneath him. He won't be able to admire your naked body, while also pecking your body from head to toe.

Soft dom! Jackie who intensively watches each reaction you make when pleasuring you to make sure he's not hurting you in any sort of way. He dislikes seeing you in pain especially, when he's the one causing it. As soon as he sees an ounce of agony in your face he stops immediately. "If I'm hurting you ma, please tell me" with pure concern in his face before going at it again once you have reassured him.

Soft dom! Jackie who constantly praises you. Groaning in your ear telling you how good you look taking his dick, when pumping in and out of you at a steady pace. "Hmm baby you look even more breathtaking when I'm deep inside of you," causing your hands to clench his him back already feeling your climax erupt in any moment.

Soft dom! Jackie who loves missionary because he's able to see everything. From the way your eyes roll back to the way you arch your back anytime he's inside of you. This low-key works him up even more, giving him a mission to make you orgasm like never before causing him to love this position further since it's a very intimate position that brings him closer to you than never before and that's all he wants.

Soft dom! Jackie who's aftercare is top tier. Cleaning you up with a damp cloth before cradling you towards the bathtub that's already prepared for you. Something about Jackie is that he'll take care of his woman, making sure she's not left unsatisfied. After all what type of man would he be if he weren't to put his woman's needs before his.

Soft dom! Jackie who talks you through it on the phone. "Be a good girl f'me and run a finger down your entrance" he says whilst unbuckling his belt. At times like these he absolutely hated being so far away from you, withdrawing him with nothing but frustrated desires that could only be achieved once he finally sees you.

Soft dom! Jackie who enjoys sucking your nipples, loving the sensation of your nipples hardening each time he rolls his tongue around them making him whimper at how good it feels. You bite your lips to hold back all the moans that were threatening to come out in any minute. When tightening your grasp on Jackie's hair, edging him closer.

⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖° ⋆˚✿˖°

Michael had tried to explain to you more than once that it had nothing to do with shame. He wanted to protect you from the tabloids, the photographers and the endless attention. He wanted your love to remain yours.

But no matter how good his intentions were, it didn't make your insecurities any smaller.

In the end, you decided to separate.

Not with shouting. Not with reproaches.

Only with tears, a long hug and the painful promise that you would never hate each other.

Because no matter how hard it was to admit ... You still loved each other.

But sometimes love alone isn't enough.

The months after your breakup had not been easy for anyone.

While you were trying to pick up your life again, Michael was already on his way for a new tour. Together with his brothers, he crisscrossed the United States for the Triumph Tour. Arena after arena filled with thousands of fans who wanted to see the Jacksons perform.

Every night the same deafening screams sounded as soon as the lights went out, followed by a setlist full of classics to which the audience sang along word for word.

For Michael, the stage had always been like a second home.

But since you were no longer part of his life, even that didn't feel the same anymore.

Tonight was the last show of the tour.

Inglewood, California.

A sold-out arena.

The perfect ending.

For you it felt strange to attend another Michael concert.

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" Your best friend Lily asked as you slowly walked towards the entrance, surrounded by hundreds of enthusiastic fans with tour shirts, posters and cameras.

You smiled weakly. "Yeah."

"Even when you see him up close?"

You took a deep breath. "I'm not just his ex, Lily." You looked at the huge poster depicting Michael and his brothers. "I'm a fan too."

That had always been true.

Even before you fell in love with each other, you admired his talent. His passion. The way he completely lost himself in his music.

That hadn't changed after the breakup.

"I just want to see how great he's doing." You said softly.

Lily squeezed your arm encouragingly. "Then we'll enjoy the show."

As you walked into the arena, you didn't become aware of the familiar eyes that were following you.

Randy Jackson.

He was talking to a member of the crew a few meters away when he suddenly recognized you. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "... y/n?" He watched you as you disappeared among the crowd with Lily.

Less than two minutes later, he hurriedly walked towards the dressing rooms.

Michael sat in front of the mirror while a make-up artist quickly touched up some make-up. His glitter jacket was already hanging over his shoulders and from the arena sounded the murmur of thousands of people who were impatiently waiting for the show to start.

He was quiet, much quieter than usual.

"Mike." Michael looked up when Randy came in. "I saw her."

His heart skipped a beat. "... Who?"

Randy smiled cautiously. "y/n." For a moment, the whole room seemed to fall silent. "She's here."

Michael blinked incredulously. "... Here?"

Randy nodded. "Just at the entrance. I think she's with her friend."

For a moment, Michael didn't know what to say. You had come, not because you had to, not because someone had asked you. But because you had chosen it yourself.

Slowly, a small smile appeared on his face. "That's..." He looked at the ground. "... good."

Randy knew his brother well enough to see that there was much more to that one word. "You still miss her."

Michael didn't answer right away, he sighed softly. "Every day."

He had tried to convince himself that he had to move on. That this had been the right decision. That you would be happier without all the chaos that his life entailed.

But not a single day had gone by without thinking of you. He missed how you got him to laugh, how you were always the first to realize when he was tired, how safe he felt when he was just allowed to be Michael.

Not the pop star.

Not the celebrity.

Just Michael.

"Have you ever considered calling her?" Randy asked.

Michael shook his head slowly. "She deserves someone who doesn't have to hide her all the time."

Those words made Randy frown. "That was never because you were ashamed of her."

"I know." Michael smiled sadly. "But maybe it felt that way to her." He had seen your pain.

Every time a female fan hugged him, when magazines photoshopped him on the arm of other women. When interviewers asked if he was in love and he changed the subject with an awkward smile.

He had thought he was protecting you. It was only when he lost you that he realized how much loneliness that secret had caused you.

A crew member stuck his head around the door. "Five minutes."

Michael nodded, his stomach turned. Not because of the show, but because of you.

The lights in the arena went out, a deafening screams filled the room.

You automatically looked at the stage while the first notes of the opening echoed through the speakers. "Here we go." Lily laughed.

Moments later, the Jackson brothers appeared under an explosion of light. The audience went completely crazy. And there he was. Michael.

Just as pretty as you remembered him. His smile, his curls, his energy.

You felt your heart get a little sting. He looked happy. At least... That's what you tried to tell yourself.

From the first minute, he gave everything. He danced as if his life depended on it, he sang with the same passion as always, he made the whole arena clap and sing along.

No one would notice that something else was going through his head in the meantime. But Michael noticed it himself, during almost every song his eyes wandered.

From one side of the arena... to the other. Over and over again.

He didn't know exactly where you were. Only that you had to be somewhere among all those thousands of faces.

Maybe left, maybe right, maybe at the very top.

After each applause he let his gaze glide over the audience again, for a moment he kept hoping that he would recognize your face. That your eyes would meet, that he would know for one second that you were still looking at him as before.

Not as a superstar, but as Michael.

Meanwhile, Lily noticed it too. She gently bumped against your shoulder. "Is it my imagination..." She looked at the stage again. “... Or is he constantly looking into the audience?"

You followed Michael's gaze as he slowly scanned the stands again, you smiled cautiously. "He probably just enjoys his last show."

But deep down you wondered why his eyes seemed to be searching all the time. As if he hoped to find someone he had lost far too long ago.

The show was now halfway through.

One applause followed another and the energy in the arena only seemed to increase. Yet Michael felt himself turning further and further inwards.

He had finally found you. Halfway up the stands, next to Lily.

Ever since his eyes had met yours, it was as if the rest of the arena had disappeared. Now he knew exactly where you were. And every time he got the chance, his eyes wandered your way again.

In the meantime, you tried not to look at him too much, you couldn't. Every time you looked up, he seemed to be looking at you first.

You didn't know if it was a coincidence, or if you were deluding yourself.

The lights dimmed slowly. A soft piano filled the arena. Even before Michael sang the first words, you felt your heart beating in your throat.

She's Out of My Life.

Of all the songs, this song of all things. Michael closed his eyes for a moment before he started singing.

"She's out of my life..."

His voice sounded softer than the rest of the evening, more fragile. As if every word took effort.

You felt goosebumps running down your arms, because even though thousands of people listened breathlessly... You felt like he was only singing to you.

His gaze found yours again, he didn't look away.

"She's out of my hands..."

His voice broke for a moment, a wave of emotions flooded him. The memories of you together; Your first date, the nights when you talked for hours without looking at the clock, the way you always laughed softly when he got shy.

And the day he let you go, because he thought it was the best thing.

He felt the familiar lump growing in his throat. The audience heard his voice begin to tremble.

And then it happened again, just like so often during this song. Michael barely got to sing the last words of the chorus.

A tear slowly slipped down his cheek, the arena became very quiet.

You felt how your eyes also filled with tears. You knew him, you knew he didn't cry because it was part of the performance. He cried because he could no longer hide his feelings.

During a short instrumental part, Michael suddenly turned around, he beckoned one of the security guards to him. The man leaned over to him while Michael whispered something in his ear almost inaudibly.

Then he pointed in your direction for a moment. "The girl in the blue shirt." The security guard nodded immediately.

Even before you realized what was happening, a large man appeared next to your chair. "Excuse me, miss."

You looked up in surprise.

"Mr. Jackson would like you to come with me."

You blinked a few times. "... Sorry?"

"Please."

Even Lily looked at you with wide eyes. "I think he means you..."

Your heart was pounding in your chest. "But... Why?"

The security guard smiled politely. "I think he'll explain."

You stood up with slightly trembling legs. Thousands of curious looks followed you as you walked behind the security guard through a narrow passage.

You felt like you were dreaming, or maybe like you were going to wake up at any moment. A crew member pulled open the curtain on the side of the stage. "Go ahead."

You swallowed and carefully took a step onto the stage.

A loud murmur went through the arena, Michael slowly turned to you.

For the first time in months, you were back on opposite sides.

Up close, his eyes were red. His cheeks still wet with tears.

When you looked at him, a small, fragile smile appeared on his face.

He slowly reached out his hand to you. After a short hesitation, you put yours in, his fingers gently closing around yours. As if he was afraid that you would disappear again.

The music continued. Michael never stopped singing, but now he only sang to you. Not to the cameras, not to the thousands of fans. Only to you.

Every sentence felt like a confession, every look told you everything he had swallowed for months.

You could feel the tears rolling down your own cheeks. You had missed him, more than you had ever dared to admit to yourself.

When the last note faded away, it remained dead silent for a few seconds. Then the arena erupted in deafening applause.

However, Michael didn't let go of your hand. He looked at the ground for a moment, took a deep breath and spoke into the microphone. "There's... there's something I need to say."

The audience immediately went silent, he looked at you again. His voice was still shaking. "Some people think that song is just another love song." He smiled sadly. "It isn't."

He squeezed your hand gently. "It's about losing someone you never wanted to lose." You felt your breath catch, Michael took a small step closer. "I loved you then..." He swallowed. "And I still love you now."

An audible wave of amazement went through the arena, he didn't seem to care. "I thought keeping us private would protect you." His eyes filled with tears again. "But all I did... was make you feel invisible."

You bit your lip. He understood, at last he understood.

"I'm so sorry." He fell silent for a moment. "If there's any part of you that still believes in us..." His voice broke again. "... I'd spend every single day proving that I can do better."

You felt thousands of eyes on you, your heart pounding so hard that you could hardly think.

You wanted to say something, but not a single word passed your lips. Michael immediately saw how overwhelmed you were. His gaze softened, he smiled cautiously.

"It's okay." He squeezed your hand gently one more time before slowly releasing it. "You don't have to answer now." He looked at you warmly. "When the show's over..." He pointed to the wings for a moment. "I'll be backstage."

A small silence followed. "I'll wait for you." He didn't say more.

He gave you a soft, hopeful smile, and for the first time that evening, the applause of thousands of people didn't feel like noise...

But as background music for a decision that only the two of you could ever make.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

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

Michael.

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

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

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

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

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

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

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

Literally and figuratively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like I said — always doting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In what way?”

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

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

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

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

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

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

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

“Beat that, fucker.”

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

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

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

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

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That theory was soon diminished.

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

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

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

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

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

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

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

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

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

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

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

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

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

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

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

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

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

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

“Fine, we will.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, this—this—was different.

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

This was the alcohol talking.

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

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

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

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

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

“Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Michael, pl—please.”

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

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

“Oh—Oh, God—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

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

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

Now, that did it for you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the silence.

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

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

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

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

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

Then, it hit you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s so funny?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The third time that you passed by Michael without letting him touch you, he knew something was off.

He was miserable.

It seemed like you were doing everything except speaking to him. As of right now, you were cooking dinner. Michael had followed you into the kitchen like a lost puppy. He had tried wrapping his arms around your waist while you stood at the stove. Kissing on you. Of course, you'd shrugged him off with a stern,

"Boy stop. I'm busy."

Sighing, Michael leaned back against the counter behind you, watching your every move.

"What did I do, baby?" he asked softly. "Why aren't you talking to me?"

The hurt in his voice almost made you give in. Almost. Until you remembered what started this whole mess.

Two days ago, it had been movie night. Michael had been upstairs on the phone with Frank while you rummaged through the cabinet beneath the television, searching for a VHS tape the two of you hadn't watched a hundred times already.

Your fingers landed on one labeled neatly in Michael's handwriting.

Michael with Fans — October 1990.

Curious, you smiled to yourself and slid it into the VCR.

Seeing Michael's public persona had always fascinated you because it was so different from the man you knew behind closed doors. The world knew Michael Jackson. You knew Mike.

The screen flickered from blue static to grainy camcorder footage. Michael stood in the middle of a shopping mall, absolutely surrounded by screaming fans. He laughed, signed autographs, hugged little kids, kissed grandmothers on the cheek. It was sweet.

Then he looked toward the cameraman and said—

"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."

You blinked.

"What the hell...fish?"

On the television, Michael immediately made his way toward another group of beautiful women, reaching for one of their hands before posing for a picture. Your eyebrows slowly rose in disbelief. 

"...Hold up."

You rewound the tape.

Click.

"Let's go over here... there's some more good fish over here."

You stared at the television.

"...Fish?"

Another rewind. Clicked play.

"...There's some more good fish over here."

Your jaw slowly dropped.

"Hell naw."

When the tape finished, you ejected it so hard it nearly flew out of the VCR. Absolutely not. Marching straight to the phone, you dialed the first Jackson brother that came to mind. The one who knew everything there was to know about Michael. They were practically twins.

The phone rang twice.

"Marlon speaking."

"What does fish mean? And don't lie."

Silence trilled through the receiver.

"...Marlon?"

More silence and then Marlon sighed.

"...Mike done got himself in trouble, huh?"

"What does it mean, Marlon?" Another pause. You were tapping your foot impatiently, growing tired of waiting.

"...It's what we used to call pretty girls."

Your eye twitched. Suspicions confirmed.

"...Excuse me?"

"I mean—"

"So he was fishin'?"

"No!" Marlon barked, already laughing. "No, no, not like that!"

"Then why was he walkin’ over there talking about, 'there's some more good fish over here?'"

Marlon had absolutely no defense. His brother was caught.

"...See... when you say it out loud like that..."

"It sound crazy, don't it?"

"...Lil bit."

You thanked your brother-in-law, hung up the phone, and walked upstairs without another word. No movie night. No cuddling. No goodnight kisses for Michael. Nothing.

Now, two days later...

Michael Jackson had absolutely no idea why his wife wouldn't speak to him.

Later that afternoon, Michael again sauntered into a room he knew you inhabited. He gazed at you quietly for a moment, large doe eyes watching you carefully and waiting patiently like a good boy to be acknowledged. 

Early afternoon glow began to settle over the room, highlighting your features with a soft golden warmth. You were seated at the kitchen table reading a new book. You sensed his presence. Like you always did. But you refused to raise your focus from your book.

You were a stubborn woman, he had to admit. Once you committed to something, you’d burn the house down with yourself in it. So, he brushed his lips against the back of your neck and gave a soft “I love you”, laying down your favorite flowers on the table next to you. 

You hummed in approval,

“Thank you, they’re beautiful.” The phrase came out simply. No kiss or smile attached. No reinforcement for Michael. Sulking, Michael silently retreated from the room.

He needed advice.

“She won’t talk to me for nothin’” Michael was exasperated, rubbing his hands up and down his face frustratedly. He hated being ignored. Especially by you. You were quite literally his favorite person on the planet, other than his mother. 

He was so desperate that he’d driven to his sister’s place, praying she had some insight. 

La Toya continued to organize her closet, bustling about as she listened to Michael’s woes.

“Women don’t give you the silent treatment for this long, Mike. Somethin’ happened.”

“I haven’t done anything! I’m so lost.” The poor man was needy for your attention, and he couldn’t get to the root of the problem. 

His sister was no help. So, he wandered to Marlon’s next. Really just bored and looking for companionship.

“What’s wrong Mike, you in the dog house?” Marlon pulled his brother in for a hug, patting him on the back gingerly. Michael rarely stopped by unannounced. Usually when he did, something had been troubling him. 

Michael sulked over to the couch, plopping down with a sigh.

“I don’t even know WHY”

Unbeknownst to Michael, immediately his brother became fidgety and nervous. Uh oh.

“She won’t even let me touch her.” Michael whimpered, dropping his face into his hands.

Marlon scratched the back of his neck and looked away, eyes growing wide. He remembered his last call with you. Very well.

“Soooo… hypothetically… if a man got caught calling women fish by his woman…”

Immediately Michael’s head snapped toward Marlon. 

“What you mean?” Michael’s eye contact never left his brothers, burning a hole in the side of his profile as Marlon feigned distraction and gazed in the opposite direction.

“I’m just saying. Hypothetically.”

Slowly, Michael’s eyes widened. He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

“She talked to you? And you didn’t tell me?” Under the pressure Marlon cracked. He immediately held his hands up in surrender as his brother shoved him.

“I ain’t say nothin’!” 

“You told her!”

“I didn’t tell her!” Marlon exclaimed, now dissolving into a fit of giggles.

Michael stood up, officially agitated. 

“You supposed to be my brother, and you’re telling my girl our secrets. Come on man” Michael rolled his eyes, of course this was Marlon’s fault. Marlon continued to explain himself through broken laughs. 

“I’m her friend too, Mike!”

“I’m leaving.” Michael grumbled.

“C’mon Mike, just apologize.” Marlon said, laughter dying down. “You did call them fish.”

“So did you, but did I tell Carol!” 

“Hey, this ain’t about me!” 

“Bye Marlon” Michael grumbled, finally making his way toward the door. His brother’s giggles followed him out the front door, further agitating him.

When Michael finally arrived back home, he closed the front door behind him silently. His head dropped against the door behind him as he sighed heavily. He was in trouble. 

He found you in the kitchen, he hadn't bothered to call out to you. He had grown used to your sweet voice not answering him when he was looking for you.

But when he found you, he felt a very familiar heat building in the pit of his stomach. There you were, standing at the kitchen sink and absentmindedly humming a tune. Michael’s eyes trailed up your figure, admiring the way the sundress you wore perfectly hugged your body, framing your hips and cutting just above your ankles to expose your pretty anklets. Your ass raised in the hair as you leaned over to grab more dish soap.

The kitchen smelled like lemon dish soap and the faint trace of the smothered greens you’d made earlier, the radio in the living room still playing Luther Vandross low and slow like it knew what was coming. You stood at the sink in that soft little yellow dress—the one that always made Michael’s eyes go heavy—scrubbing the last plate, warm water up to your wrists, hips swaying just a little to the music without even thinking about it.

You didn’t hear him at first. But you felt him. That solid heat sliding up behind you, chest to your back, the familiar weight of his arms wrapping around your waist like he’d been starving for the shape of you all day. His nose brushed the side of your neck, breath already shaky. 

This time, you didn’t pull away.

“Been watchin’ you all day, baby” he muttered, voice low and rough from hours of holding back. “All evenin’. Makin’ the bed, foldin’ clothes, standin’ here doin’ these damn dishes like you ain’t the finest thing I ever seen. Got me hard just lookin’ at you, girl.”

You felt it then—thick and insistent, pressing against the curve of your ass through his loose black slacks. He rolled his hips once, slow and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him already straining, already leaking. The grind was filthy, unhurried, like he had all night to ruin you right here against the sink.

“Mike…” you whispered, fingers still curled around a wet plate. He didn’t answer with words. Just another deep grind, cock sliding heavy between your cheeks. One big hand slid down to fist the hem of your dress and yanked it up over the swell of your ass in one smooth motion. The cool air kissed your skin for half a second before his palm was there, squeezing, spreading you open like he owned it.

“I missed you all day, baby…”

It was muttered on a sharp exhale as he bent you forward over the edge of the sink, your chest pressing into the counter, water splashing over your forearms. He made quick work of your panties, dragging them down to your ankles with one impatient tug. Two fingers pressed against your lips, tapping gently.

“Open,” he breathed. You obeyed immediately.

He slid them in, slow, letting you suck them wet and warm while he worked his zipper down with his free hand. You could hear the low, filthy sound of him pulling his cock free—thick, heavy, the head already shiny with pre-cum from hours of watching you move around the house like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing to him.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he groaned against your ear, pulling his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. “All soft and domestic. Got me thinkin’ about bendin’ you over every surface in this house.”

Those same fingers, still slick from your tongue, slid straight between your thighs and pushed deep into your cunt without warning. You squeaked, the stretch sudden and perfect, back arching as he curled them immediately, finding that spot like he had a map to get to it.

“If only they knew,” he whispered, voice dark and sweet at the same time. “How this smart, pretty girl turns into such a needy little thing the second I get my hands on her. How bad you love letting me play your pretty little body like an instrument. Am I right, mamas?”

You made a choked, gaspy noise when he started fucking you with his fingers—fast, precise, obscene wet sounds filled the quiet kitchen. Your knees nearly buckled. He allowed saliva to slowly drip from his lips down onto his aching length, slicking himself up with a low groan that went straight to your core, and then the blunt head of his cock was nudging at your entrance.

He pushed in slow. So slow you felt every thick inch stretching you open, the burn and the fullness making your eyes flutter. When he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, you both moaned, his deep and cracked, yours high and shaky.

“Say thank you, baby,” he whispered against your ear, one arm sliding around your waist, the other hand coming up to rest lightly at your throat. Not squeezing, just holding, owning.

You tried. The first sound that came out was nothing but a whimper.

His palm cracked across your ass, hard enough to make you jolt and clench around him.

“T-Thank you,” you gasped, voice already cracking. “Fuck—thank you, Michael—”

“That’s my girl,” he hummed, and then he started moving.

Not fast. Deep. Rolling his hips in those slow, grinding circles that dragged the head of his cock over sweet spots only he could touch on every pass, the faint swell of him pressing against your lower belly from the inside. You could feel it every time he sank in to the hilt, relishing in the way he flattened his palm there.

“Feel that?” he rasped, grinding deep, staying buried while his hips worked in tight, filthy rolls. “That’s me, baby. Stroking all those little spots only I can reach, ain't that right sweetheart?”

Your fingers clawed at the edge of the sink. Your thighs started shaking as you leaned forward on your tip-toes. The wet, obscene sound of him fucking you—slow and heavy, mixed with the low music and the occasional drip of water from the faucet you’d never turned off.

He felt you getting close, felt the way your walls fluttered and squeezed.

“There it is,” he cooed, voice going soft and dangerous. “Come on, mama. Let me feel it. Cum for me.”

When it hit, it was hard.

Your eyes rolled back so far your vision blurred. A needy cry tore out of your throat as your pussy clenched and gushed around him, sticky arousal sliding down your thighs. His hand around your throat eased its hold but stayed there, steady and warm, keeping you upright as the pleasure kept rolling through you in thick, helpless waves. Your eyes stayed rolled back, walls squeezing and fluttering tight around his thick cock while he pressed soft kisses to your temple and along your jaw, nose nuzzling gently against your cheek until your body went slack and heavy in his arms.

Michael didn’t stop though. He just adjusted his pace into long, lazy, deep strokes, grinding in slow circles while you came, letting you ride it out while he kissed the side of your neck, your temple, nuzzling his nose against your cheek like he was trying to crawl inside your skin. Saliva dribbled down your chin as you tried to gather your thoughts to no avail.

Michael couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, eyebrows furrowing at how your pretty face contorted with pleasure through his torment.

“Good girl,” he breathed, voice shaking. “Such a good fuckin’ girl for me. Look at you… droolin’ all over yourself. So pretty when you can’t even talk.”

You were still twitching, still fluttering around him, when it started building again, deeper, harder, the hand at your throat tightening just enough to make your head spin in the best way. 

Your second orgasm crashed into you before you were ready, thighs shaking so bad you almost collapsed. He caught you, arm locking tight around your waist, hips never stopping.

“Michael—fuck—too s-sensitive—oh my God—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, voice breaking into something raw. “I know. But you can give me one more, can’t you? My good girl can take it.”

He pulled out slow, the wet sound filthy, your essence combined with his pre-cum was dripping down your legs in messy strings. Before you could even catch your breath he was turning you, lifting you onto the counter like you weighed nothing, knocking a clean plate into the sink with a clatter. 

Your dress was bunched around your waist, panties still around one ankle, and he stepped between your spread thighs like he belonged there. He gently tugged the strapless dress below your breasts, cooing softly at how your nipples hardened when they touched the cool air.

You tried to hide your face, suddenly shy under the bright kitchen light, under the way he was looking at you hungrily—like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispered, catching your chin, making you look at him. His eyes were glassy, lips swollen, voice already raspy. “Wanna see those pretty eyes roll back again.”

He pushed back inside in one smooth thrust, and you sobbed, overstimulated, stretched so wide around him it burned in the sweetest way. He stayed deep, grinding in those slow, devastating circles, one hand on your lower belly again so you could both feel the way he moved inside you.

He rolled his hips in slow, searching circles, the thick head of his cock prodding gently at your insides as he tried to find that little spot. The one that always made you fall apart. He adjusted the angle with each careful roll, hips moving with focused intent until—oh, he found it. The second he did, your whole body jolted, a broken sound slipping from your lips, and he locked right there, grinding against it with every pass like he was trying to etch it into your memory.

Your third orgasm built slower, your whole body trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from how good it was, how much it was. You couldn’t even form words anymore—just incoherent little sounds, stuttering attempts at his name.

As he rolled his hips in those deep, filthy grinds, your voice came out small and shaky between gasps. “I love the sound of your voice… when you talk to me like that. God, Michael, it does something to me…”

He continued to roll his hips slowly, eyes darkening with fresh heat, a slow, wicked little smile tugged at his swollen lips at your admission. Music to his hears after being ignored for two days.

“Yeah?” he murmured, voice dropping even lower, rougher, the way he knew drove you crazy. “Then be a good girl… touch yourself for me and I’ll keep talking for you.” The words landed softly, touching something hot and sensitive deep in your core.

He would say whatever you wanted him to, hell he’d sing every word, if it meant you’d finally speak to him. And you did. You chanted his name like a prayer.

Your hand slipped down between your bodies without hesitation, fingers finding your swollen clit while he stayed buried deep, grinding in those slow, perfect circles that made your toes curl. He didn’t stop talking, he kept that low, raspy praise pouring right into your ear like he promised.

“That’s it, mama… rub that pretty clit for me while I’m deep inside you. Fuck, you feel so good squeezin’ me like that. My good girl. My perfect girl...Look at you, touchin’ yourself just ‘cause I told you to… so fuckin’ pretty when you fall apart for me. I could stay right here all night, just grindin’ in this sweet pussy, listenin’ to every little sound you make…”

Your fingers moved faster, the combination of his voice and the thick drag of his cock against your g-spot pushing you right to the edge again. Your thighs shook around his hips, free hand clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.

Michael’s own control was slipping. His hips stuttering every few rolls, breath coming in broken little groans against your neck, but he kept talking, kept praising, voice cracking with how good it felt for him too.

“Come on, baby… let me feel you. One more time, please? I got you. Always got you. That’s my girl…” When it hit, it wrecked you completely.

Your eyes rolled back hard, mouth falling open on a silent scream as your pussy fluttered helplessly, clenching down around him as you gushed again, soaking his cock, his thighs, the front of the counter. Michael grunted with approval. Your whole body shook like you were coming apart at the seams, fingers still working your clit through every pulse while he held you through it, whispering the whole time.

Michael followed you over with a low, guttural moan—hips stuttering and his cock jerking deep inside you as he came hard, flooding your walls with rope after rope of warm cum. The excess leaked and smeared around him with every trembling thrust. His voice cracked on your name and his face was buried in your neck. Arms locked around you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

He didn’t pull out. Just stayed buried to the hilt, rocking in these tiny, overstimulated grinds while both of you trembled through the aftershocks. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin. Yours was worse, little hiccuping gasps, tears still sliding down your cheeks, drool on your chin.

“Shhh,” he whispered eventually, voice hoarse, kissing your jaw, your temple, the corner of your mouth. “I got you, baby. Breathe for me. That’s it… my good girl. My everything.”

His hands moved slow and careful, rubbing your lower back in those deep, soothing circles you loved, thumbs pressing into the sore muscles from being bent over. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in like he needed it to live.

“I love you,” he murmured, over and over, like a prayer. “Love you so much it hurts sometimes. You don’t even know what you do to me… how you make all the noise in my head go quiet.”

You were boneless in his arms, still twitching around him, still full of him. He stayed inside you until the trembling eased, until your breathing slowed, until the only sounds left were the low music and the occasional drip from the faucet.

Then he finally pulled out, gentle, careful, watching with dark, tender eyes as his cum spilled out of you in thick, messy rivulets down your thighs and onto the counter. He felt his cock twitch at the sight, already ready to have you again.

He grabbed a clean dish towel, wet it with warm water, and cleaned you gently, murmuring soft apologies every time you whimpered from oversensitivity.

When he was done he lifted you off the counter like you were made of glass, guiding you into the living room with his arms wrapped around you, soft kisses pressed to the top of your head. He laid you down on the couch and stripped off what was left of your dress, pulled his own shirt over his head, and climbed behind you, pulling you back against his chest.

One big hand kept rubbing slow circles into your lower back while the other stroked your hair, your arm, anywhere he could reach.

“You okay, mama?” he whispered against your shoulder, voice soft and a little shy now that the storm had passed. “Was I too rough?”

You shook your head, nuzzling back into him, still too fucked-out to speak properly.

He smiled against your skin, pressed a kiss behind your ear.

“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t nowhere near done lovin’ on you tonight. Just… let me hold you for a minute first. Let me take care of my girl.”

And he did. For a long time.

A comfortable silence had settled over you both. Michael held your smaller hand in his, calloused fingers gently pressing into the muscles in your hand.

“So you been talkin’ to Marlon, huh?” he mumbled sleepily, amused.

“No” you said quickly. But Michael felt your body tense. You were never able to lie to him, and he loved it.

“You know… you’re my favorite fish baby.”

He erupted into laughter when you huffed and elbowed him. Unfortunately, you couldn’t help the giggles that slipped past your lips too at the joke.

“I’m kidding baby, only joking. Don’t be mad with me anymore.” His fingers continued to stroke your belly gently.

“You had me out here thinkin’ you’re shopping, and you out here fishing.”

“Baby, never. I wasn’t. I’m yours. All of me.” He murmured against your neck, lips lazily brushing the skin there.

You couldn’t help the cheesy grin that broke through. 

But now? You’re with him, by his side at all times, thriving off of your support alone. At the end of each show he’s racing backstage to be greeted by your proud smile, pulling him into a hug without a care of him being sweaty.

He would never have his career get in the way of parting you both.

husband!michael who has so many lovely nicknames for you, but nothing beats his favorite of sometimes calling you ‘my wife’. Yes, it’s simple, but it has you swoon the most out of all because it reminds you that you belong to him and no one else.

“How’s my wife doing?” He’ll whisper sweetly in your ear, coming from behind with arms wrapped around you.

“Is that what my wife wants?” He’ll say after you point to a cute purse in a magazine you’re flipping through, knowing it’ll be in your possession by tomorrow.

“My wife’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” He mentions when an interviewer asks a question about your guys’ marriage, not wanting anybody to forget.

He’ll continue calling you that as long as it keeps putting you in a flustered mess for him to see.

husband!michael who’s brain short circuits whenever he sees you wearing his clothes.

You discovered how your clothes for lounging isn’t as nearly as comfortable as Michael’s. Shirts engulfing your frame like a blanket, not to mention how they smell like him too? You’re not sorry for how many t-shirts you’ve stolen from his closet. He doesn’t mind one bit, leaving a peck on your cheek while he mumbles that you look better in them anyways.

husband!michael who pulls you into his lap whenever he can.

If he’s working on his music and you’re curiously looking over his shoulder, he’ll pull your hand to plop you down on his lap for a closer look.

If you two are relaxing together on the couch after a long day, cuddling up to his side, he’ll soon gesture for you to move on his lap and get more comfortable, rubbing soothing circles on top of your thighs.

He wants to be as close to you as possible.

husband!michael who loves to steal kisses from you.

How your lips attract him like a magnet, leaving quick pecks every time he lays his softened gaze on you. Doesn’t matter where you are, hell it could be in the middle of an interview you two are doing. It’s the one thing he isn’t shy about doing, which is publicly loving his wife.

Don’t even think about teasing him by turning your head away to avoid it. He’ll gently squish your cheeks to force your lips to pucker silly, turning you back to his direction and planting multiple while you giggle and squirm your head for freedom.

husband!michael who’s the most observant man you’ve ever been with.

“Did you do something with your hair?” You hear him say the second you walk in after getting a small trim to cut off your dead-ends, catching you by surprise on how he could see such a small difference.

“Is that a new dress?” He’ll comment during a date night, admiring how beautiful the warm color looks on you. “Wear it more often, I love how it looks on you.” Which has you roll your eyes at the request because sure, you will, if he can resist the temptation to rip it off of you after twenty minutes.

How he’s quick to signal his security to bring the car up front, because he can read the slight strain in your tone when greeting people at a red carpet after party that you’re not in the mood to be here, and he’s more than happy to leave if it means to put you at ease.

To marry a man who can understand what you’re feeling without ever needing to voice it? You count it as a blessing.

husband!michael who swears up and down jealousy is an ugly emotion that isn’t in his system, but you’ve caught little actions here and there that says otherwise.

When a male celebrity at an event strikes up a conversation with you that doesn’t go farther than just being polite, you still begin to feel Michael’s hand on your waist tightening ever so slightly. You don’t even have to turn your head to know he’s boring his eyes right at the guy, monitoring his every move to make sure he doesn’t try any subtle flirting.

How after a movie you two just watched you circle back to a scene from one of the guy characters that made you laugh, not thinking much when you state he’s your favorite in that entire film. A few seconds of silence goes by, looking over your shoulder to see Michael try to hold back his annoyance. “Hmm, well I didn’t like him. Something about him felt off.” Right, sure.

husband!michael who can’t wait any longer to start the family he’s been dreaming to have since the second he fitted the wedding ring to your finger.

And he made sure to show you exactly how much he’s been dreaming about it.

He flexes his hand, spreading over your stomach, pressing just enough to feel the way your body yields around him. Your mouth parts in a silent gasp with the way his cock pushes deeper each thrust, having your legs tremble.

“My sweet baby is going to be the best mother ever to my children, hm?” He groans, his control slipping from how tight you clench around him, wanting to feel every thick inch drag along your gummy walls.

You manage a nod, shuddering as the pleasure builds, finding the strength to form words for a reply. “Yes, yes, I will!” You grip onto his wrists that holds your hips steady to take every snap of his, claiming you completely. “Please come inside me, where it belongs, I-I need it so badly.”

“Shit,” He shakily exhales, eyes locked onto the reflection of his cock disappearing into you. “Talkin’ like that, I’ll make sure you take every last drop.”

And you do.

Thick, hot pulse of cum hits your deepest spot, filling you up so completely it makes you dizzy. You milk his cock dry, your own orgasm clenching around him. He pulls out, having you taste the cold emptiness until his digits replaces.

“That’s it, that’s it…” He breathes low, twisting his fingers, pressing his cum further inside, making sure it stays there. He’s unable to tear his eyes away from the way your body clings to his fingers, how you’re dripping from the mess he’s made of you.

If it’ll always be like this, him stuffing you so full, then you don’t care if he’s being serious when he mentioned in an interview that he would like to have 18 children.

He is incredibly attentive to your physical comfort as well. He’s the type of lover who will willingly leave the warmth of the bed for a moment just to bring you a warm, damp cloth to tenderly clean you up, followed by a fresh glass of water. He takes care of you with a quiet, reverent focus, ensuring you are completely comfortable before settling right back down next to you. He will pull you close, resting your head on his chest and stroking your back rhythmically until your breathing matches his.

B – Body Part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s): His hands and his lips are his most lethal weapons. His hands are famously large, warm, and incredibly expressive, featuring long, elegant fingers that can span your entire waist or completely pin your wrists above your head. He loves using that massive span to trace the entire length of your spine, applying just enough pressure to make you shiver, or firmly cupping your hips to guide your movements to his liking. There is an undeniable power in his grip, yet he manages to hold you with an innate gentleness.

His lips, by contrast, are incredibly soft but remarkably demanding when he’s deeply lost in the moment. He loves the stark contrast of his rougher, calloused fingertips dragging against your softest skin, marking his territory through touch alone without ever needing to leave a bruise. The way he uses his hands to frame your face during a kiss makes the entire experience feel deeply artistic, as if he is memorizing every single contour of your body with his touch.

C – Cum (anything to do with cum): Most of the time, he prefers to come inside you, craving that ultimate, uninterrupted sense of closeness and biological connection. For Michael, there is something incredibly primal and binding about filling you completely. He loves the feeling of your internal muscles pulsing around him as he releases, holding you entirely still against the mattress until the very last drop is spent.

If coming inside isn’t an option, he becomes very neat and deliberate about where he places his release, choosing to come on your stomach, breasts, or thighs while watching your face react to the heat of it. He takes immense pleasure in the visual aspect of seeing his mark on your skin, his dark eyes clouding over with pure satisfaction.

D – Dirty Talk (a dirty secret of theirs): He isn’t crude or vulgar, but he is surprisingly vocal and incredibly descriptive once the bedroom door is locked. His dirty talk doesn't rely on cheap insults; instead, it is breathless, dark, and deeply sensual. He loves to narrate exactly how your body feels to him, murmuring hushed, desperate phrases like, "You feel so beautiful around me, sweetheart," or "Look at me, let me see what I'm doing to you." Hearing his usually polite, soft-spoken voice drop an octave into a commanding whisper is enough to completely melt your resolve.

He also highly responds to your voice. If you try to stay quiet, he will deliberately press into you harder or tease you until he forces a gasp or a moan out of you, praise immediately tumbling from his lips when you comply. He will whisper sweet corruptions into your ear, telling you exactly how much you turn him on and how he's been thinking about this specific moment all day long. The combination of his deep, gravelly groans and his breathless praise creates an intoxicating atmosphere that leaves you utterly helpless.

E – Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?): He is highly experienced and possesses a deep understanding of standard anatomy and pleasure, but he is entirely devoid of any cheap arrogance or clinical detachment. Michael treats your body like a brand-new, beautiful musical composition, adapting his rhythm perfectly to what you specifically like. He doesn't just stick to a routine; he explores you with a genuine curiosity, treating every single intimate encounter as if it were the very first time he’s ever laid eyes on you.

He has a natural, intuitive rhythm and reads body language like an absolute professional. He knows exactly when to soften his touch into a feather-light caress and when to push a little harder based entirely on the pitch of your breathing, the arch of your back, or the way your fingers tighten in his sheets. You never have to explicitly tell him what feels good; he pays such close attention to the micro-reactions of your muscles that he can anticipate your needs before you even realize them yourself.

F – Favorite Position: Missionary with a dominant, flexible twist. Michael is a deeply romantic and visual person, so he absolutely loves looking directly into your eyes and watching every single micro-expression of your pleasure. He likes being on top because it allows him to completely loom over you, blocking out the rest of the world and making you the sole focus of his universe. To make it deeper, he’ll often drape your legs over his broad shoulders or prop your hips up on a stack of plush pillows.

This specific angle allows him to sink as deep as physically possible, filling you up completely while keeping his hands entirely free. He will use his freedom to pin your wrists to the mattress, stroke your face, or play with your clitoris while he pumps inside you. He loves the intense, raw friction this position provides, and he will look down at you with a mixture of fierce possessiveness and absolute adoration as he drives you both over the edge.

G – Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? Are they humorous? etc.): Yes, he can absolutely be goofy, but only in the most endearing and comforting way possible. Intimacy can sometimes bring awkward moments—a funny noise might happen, the bed might squeak in a weird rhythm, or one of you might awkwardly trip over a discarded piece of clothing in the dark. Instead of letting tension freeze the room, Michael will burst into that high-pitched, infectious giggle of his, his entire face lighting up with genuine amusement.

It never ruins the sexual tension or dampens the mood; instead, it completely breaks any lingering performance anxiety or nervousness you might have been holding onto. It makes the intimacy feel incredibly warm, safe, and deeply real, reminding you that beneath the larger-than-life superstar is just a man who loves you.

H – Hair & Grooming (how well groomed are they?): When it comes to personal grooming, Michael is meticulously, flawlessly clean. He is incredibly fastidious about his hygiene; his skin is always exfoliated and moisturized, smelling deeply of rich vanilla, expensive colognes, or mild soap. Down below, he keeps himself perfectly maintained—either entirely bare or trimmed incredibly neat and short—ensuring that there is never any discomfort, roughness, or stray hairs when you go down on him or when he presses closely against your bare skin.

When it comes to your hair, he has a massive fixation on it. He loves pulling it during sex, though he is always incredibly mindful of your comfort levels. He’ll wrap a fist near the roots at the nape of your neck just firmly enough to tilt your head back, exposing your throat for his teeth and lips while he works inside you. He loves the sheer control it gives him.

I – Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect): For Michael, sex isn't just a physical release or a basic biological urge; it is an intense emotional convergence. He is incapable of separating physical lust from deep, profound emotional devotion. If he is making love to you, it means he is baring his entire soul to you, trusting you with the rawest, most vulnerable parts of himself that the public never gets to see. He needs to feel your souls touching just as much as your bodies.

Because of this, his lovemaking is filled with plenty of intense, unblinking eye contact, interlocking fingers until your knuckles turn white, and sweet, lingering kisses between heavy, rhythmic thrusts. He will press his forehead against yours, breathing in the same air as you, treating the entire encounter like a sacred ritual. He wants to feel entirely consumed by you, completely erasing the boundaries of where his body ends and yours begins.

J – Jealousy (do they get jealous?): He has a deeply hidden, fiercely possessive streak that he rigorously suppresses while in public, but he lets it entirely loose once you are safely behind closed doors. Because he has to share so much of his life with millions of fans, he is fiercely protective of what is actually his. If he felt threatened, slighted, or jealous earlier in the day due to an executive or another man looking at you for just a second too long, that residual energy will entirely dictate how he handles you in bed.

He won't be cruel, but he will be much more dominant, demanding, and urgent. He will take his time pacing the encounter, pinning you down firmly and marking your skin with dark love bites to quietly remind you—and remind himself—exactly who you belong to. He will look down at you with a heavy, intense gaze, demanding that you say his name over and over again until any lingering doubt or jealousy in his mind is entirely washed away by your submission.

K – Kink (one or more of their kinks): Sensory deprivation and mild bondage appeal immensely to his psychological side. Michael is a deeply visual and highly analytical person who is constantly perceived by others, so turning the tables in the bedroom is a massive turn-on for him. Tying your wrists to the headboard with a soft, expensive silk tie or placing a velvet blindfold over your eyes allows him to completely control the environment, transforming him into the sole author of your experience.

He loves how sensory deprivation heightens your other senses, leaving you entirely dependent on the sound of his voice, the heat of his breath, and the sudden, unpredictable touch of his hands. He will tease your bare skin with a feather or his lips, listening closely to your ragged gasps as you try to guess where he will touch you next. Taking complete control of your pleasure in this manner makes him feel incredibly powerful and deeply connected to your reactions.

L – Location (favorite places to do the do): His private bedroom suite is his absolute sanctuary, representing the only place on earth where he can completely let his guard down without the threat of cameras or intrusion. The room is tailored for romance—soft lighting, heavy security doors, and a massive, comfortable bed. However, he isn’t against utilizing the absolute, sprawling luxury of a penthouse hotel suite while traveling on tour, finding a strange thrill in turning a temporary space into your private paradise.

If the adrenaline from a performance is running exceptionally high and the mood strikes, he’s even been known to look for excitement closer to his work. He will lock the heavy doors of a secure, dark recording studio or a private backstage dressing room, pinning you right against the mixing console or a velvet couch. The contrast of the high-tech, professional environment mixed with the raw, desperate intimacy of your bodies creates a memory that lingers long after you leave.

M – Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going): His primary motivation is your utter, complete undoing. Nothing turns his brain on faster or drives him wilder than realizing he has total control over your physical sensations. Hearing you whine his name in a desperate pitch, watching your chest heave, or seeing your back arch completely off the mattress when he hits the perfect spot is the ultimate ego boost for him. He derives his own physical pleasure entirely from the depth of yours.

Because of this, he is a massive teaser. He will purposefully slow down his rhythm, shallowing his thrusts or stopping his fingers right at the ragged edge of your orgasm, just to watch you squirm and hear you beg him to continue. He loves making you crave him, holding your climax hostage until you are crying out for relief. The moment he finally relents and gives you what you want, the look of pure triumph on his face is absolutely breathtaking.

N – No-go (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs): Anything genuinely painful, degrading, or unhygienic is a strict boundary for him. Michael views the human body—especially yours—as something inherently beautiful, elegant, and worthy of respect. Because of this, emotional cruelty, harsh name-calling, or any kinks that make you feel genuinely small, humiliated, or disgusted in a negative way are completely off the table. He wants to elevate you, not degrade you.

Similarly, anything involving blood, extreme pain, or heavy impact is something he will actively avoid. He doesn't want to see you in genuine distress; he wants to see you in a state of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. If he accidentally hurts you or pushes a boundary too far, he will instantly stop what he is doing, drop all sexual pretense, and comfort you until you feel safe again. For him, intensity must always be balanced with profound gentleness.

O – Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.): He is an absolute perfectionist when it comes to giving oral pleasure. Michael takes his sweet time down there, using his large, warm hands to firmly spread your thighs apart and stretch you out so he can admire you completely before leaning down. He genuinely loves the taste and scent of you, viewing this act as the ultimate form of submission and worship to your body. He will rest his heavy chin against your inner thighs, looking up at you from between your legs with a dark, focused gaze.

He is incredibly skilled with his tongue, using a combination of broad, warm strokes and sharp, precise pressure against your clitoris. He loves to slip a finger or two inside you simultaneously, mimicking the motion of sex to stretch you out and build the internal friction. He will deliberately drive you to the point of overstimulation and breathless tears, refusing to let you pull away until you have completely shattered against his mouth, swallowing every drop of your release.

P – Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.): The pace of his lovemaking is highly dynamic, theatrical, and deeply intentional. It almost always starts incredibly slow, agonizingly sweet, and full of heavy petting, deep sighs, and soft, lingering kisses that taste like a promise. He likes to build the tension gradually, taking hours just to undress you and appreciate every inch of skin, making you wait until the anticipation is practically vibrating in the air between you.

However, once he finally loses his composure and the internal friction builds, his gentle demeanor completely vanishes. The pace becomes fast, rhythmic, and intensely demanding. He moves with a dancer’s flawless precision and core strength, hitting every single angle with an exhausting, beautiful force that leaves you completely breathless. He will drive the pace faster and harder until the bedroom is filled with the frantic sound of skin against skin, matching the wild beating of your heart.

Q – Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.): While they are rare due to his preference for long, drawn-out sessions, quickies are absolutely thrilling when they do happen. Because of his chaotic schedule, massive entourages, and the constant, suffocating presence of security, your moments of true privacy can sometimes be cut short. If you two find yourselves with a rare five minutes of guaranteed privacy backstage or in an empty hallway, all his gentlemanly patience completely vanishes.

He will pull you into the nearest hidden space, lifting you up effortlessly and pinning you against the nearest solid wall. There is no time for romance; he will hike up your skirt, pull your underwear to the side, and take you with a quiet, desperate urgency that is completely intoxicating. His breath will hitch against your ear as he pumps into you hard and fast, leaving you both disheveled, flushed, and with knees shaking so badly you can barely walk back out into the crowd.

R – Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.): His risk level is carefully calibrated between low and medium. Because of his extreme, unprecedented level of fame and the constant threat of paparazzi or betrayal, he is incredibly paranoid about physical security. He will never risk doing anything sloppy that could compromise your privacy, lead to a public scandal, or make you feel exposed to the outside world. He protects your shared secrets like a fortress.

However, that doesn't mean he doesn't enjoy a thrill when he knows he can get away with it. He will risk a scandalous, lingering touch beneath the heavy tablecloth at a formal, private dinner party, watching you try to keep a straight face while his fingers move high up your thigh. He also loves sliding his hand beneath your skirt in the backseat of his private limousine, smiling innocently at the driver through the tinted glass divider while his thumb strokes your wetness.

S – Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?): His stamina is completely unmatched and genuinely intimidating. You have to remember that this is a man who sings and dances at a high-intensity athletic level for hours on end under heavy, burning stage lights; his cardio, lung capacity, and leg strength are entirely out of this world. He does not tire easily, and he can maintain a intense, punishing rhythm in bed for a remarkably long time without ever breaking his stride.

He is fully capable of going for multiple rounds across a single night. Just when you think he’s finally exhausted, dripping with sweat, and ready to fall asleep, he’ll catch his breath for a few minutes while holding you close. Then suddenly, he’ll flip you onto your stomach, and start all over again with the exact same level of energy and passion as the first round, leaving you completely spent by sunrise.

T – Toy (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?): He is highly intrigued by high-quality, sleek, and quiet adult toys. Michael is a man who appreciates mechanics, technology, and design, so introducing a small, powerful bullet vibrator or a luxury wand into the bedroom is a favorite pastime of his. He loves the contrast of the mechanical vibration against the natural heat of your skin, using the toy as an extension of his own hands to unlock new levels of pleasure for you.

His favorite method is holding a small vibe directly against your clitoris while he pumps inside you from behind. The double stimulation is incredibly intense, and he will lean his chest heavily against your back, watching your face completely crumble in the mirror as your internal muscles clench tightly around him. Hearing your voice break into high-pitched whines under the sheer power of the sensation drives him absolutely insane, pushing him to release right alongside you.

U – Unfair (how much they like to tease): The most unfair thing about Michael is how quickly he can transition from a shy, giggling, softly spoken gentleman into an absolute, unyielding predator the second the bedroom door clicks locked. In the outside world, he is polite, deferred, and incredibly gentle, often hiding his face or speaking in a quiet whisper. But the moment he has you in private, that public persona completely falls away to reveal a fiercely confident, dominant man.

The sheer shift in his energy is dizzying. The sudden darkening of his eyes, the deep drop in the pitch of his voice, and the firm, unyielding grip of his large hands on your waist can make your head spin. It is entirely unfair to your sanity how he can make you feel completely protected one minute, and then entirely consumed and overwhelmed by his raw sexuality the very next, leaving you utterly hooked on his duality.

V – Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.): Michael is a remarkably vocal and expressive lover. He does not believe in hiding his pleasure, so his sessions are filled with a symphony of high-pitched whines, heavy, desperate breathing, and deep, guttural groans that rumble from the chest. He moves with a lot of vocal emotion, letting out breathy gasps every time he sinks into you deeply, making it incredibly obvious just how good you feel to him.

If you are staying in a hotel suite where security guards are stationed right outside the main door, he will try his best to stay quiet, which only makes the situation hotter. He will bite down on his own bottom lip, or bury his face deeply into the crook of your neck to muffle his gravelly, frantic groans. Feeling the physical vibration of his stifled gasps against your skin while he tries to hold back his volume adds a layer of desperate intensity that makes the whole encounter feel entirely forbidden.

W – Wild Card (a random headcanon for the character): He has a massive, ongoing fixation on mirrors. Michael has spent his entire life performing in front of mirrors to perfect his choreography, so he is incredibly comfortable with the visual geometry of movement. In the bedroom, he loves capitalizing on this by placing you directly in front of a full-length mirror—either standing up or on your hands and knees—so you are forced to watch the entire act unfold.

He will lean his heavy upper body over your back, resting his chin on your bare shoulder so he can look at your reflection while he takes you from behind. He will use his large hands to pull your hair back or cup your breasts, whispering explicitly into your ear to look at what he’s doing to you. Forcing you to watch how perfectly your bodies fit together in the glass creates a highly psychological, intense turn-on that leaves you completely exposed to his gaze.

X – X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes): To put it plainly, he is incredibly well-endowed—blessed with both a length and a heavy girth that can be highly intimidating at first glance. Because he is fully aware of his size, he is hyper-conscious of your anatomy and physical comfort, never wanting to cause you actual pain. He approaches penetration with a careful, measured patience, ensuring your body is entirely ready before he attempts to slide inside.

He will be patient, taking his time to stretch you out slowly with his long fingers and using oral sex to make sure you are completely relaxed and wet. When he finally enters you, he will angle his hips with expert precision, moving slowly at first so your body can adjust to his size. He knows exactly how to fill you up to the absolute brim, creating a deep, stretching fullness that feels incredibly intense without ever crossing the line into discomfort.

Y – Yearning (how high is their sex drive?): When he is traveling the globe or isolated on a massive world tour, his yearning for you becomes a physical ache. Michael is surrounded by thousands of screaming fans daily, yet he suffers from an intense loneliness that only your presence can cure. To cope with the distance, he will initiate late-night, long-distance phone calls from his lonely hotel rooms, his voice dropping into a deep, raspy whisper stripped entirely of his public facade.

He will keep you on the line for hours, explicitly describing, detail by detail, exactly what he plans to do to your body the very second he returns home to you. He will guide you through your own pleasure over the phone, demanding to hear you sigh and touch yourself while he listens on the other end, his own breathing heavy in the receiver. By the time he finally gets back to you, the pent-up anticipation ensures that your reunion will be incredibly wild, desperate, and hours long.

Z – ZZZ (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards): After a long, passionate session and a thorough, loving round of aftercare, Michael falls asleep incredibly fast, completely drained of his usual racing thoughts and insomnia. The physical and emotional release of making love to you is the only thing that truly quiets his brilliant, chaotic mind. He cannot sleep unless he is touching you, so he will pull your body entirely onto his chest or spoon you tightly from behind.

He will wrap his large hands around your waist, locking you against his side so securely that you couldn't escape his grip even if you tried. As the room grows quiet, you can feel the radiating warmth of his skin and the steady, heavy thump of his heartbeat slowing down against your back. He drifts off into a deep, peaceful slumber, completely content and safe in the knowledge that the person he loves most is held securely in his arms.