effie

with his dark shades on, you couldn't see his eyes. he looked unreadable and so devastatingly handsome.

you'd been shamelessly staring ever since he'd buckled that slutty little belt on back at the hotel. you couldn't help it, and you certainly weren't doing anything to hide how worked up you'd gotten just looking at him. 

and michael hadn't missed a single look.

you watched as his hand came down to rest on your leg. michael had beautiful hands — large and broad, with long, slender fingers. but today, they were covered in sleek black cotton gloves. his hand moved slowly, slipping past the hem of your dress to find the open slit running up your thigh. he lightly brushed the pad of his middle finger up and down the bare skin of your inner thigh, his finger light as a feather.

your eyes followed every movement of his hand. the teasing touch almost tickled, leaving goosebumps in its wake and making you squirm against the leather seat. your thighs shifted together instinctively at the feeling, but it did absolutely nothing to ease the growing ache between your legs. 

slowly, that long middle finger drifted higher, dragging agonizingly close to the edge of your panties. you let out a quiet sigh, your breath catching in your throat as you arched ever so slightly into his touch. 

but then his hand was completely gone.

your head snapped toward him. michael was leaning back against the seat, trying to hide an impish grin and failing miserably.

"michael," you whined. you didn't even care if you sounded desperate. you were.

before you could complain any further, his large hands wrapped firmly around your waist. with one smooth tug, he pulled you out of your seat and onto his lap.

"tell me what y'want, pretty," he murmured, his voice so soft.

"you know what," you breathed, shifting closer to him.

michael leaned in, peppering slow kisses along your cheek. a shaky sigh escaped you as his lips wandered down your jaw, lingering before trailing lower to the sensitive curve of your neck. when his mouth closed over the spot just beneath your ear, drawing a slow suck, your lips parted around a silent gasp. 

the rush of pleasure made your body go soft. as his lips kept working over your skin, his hands remained firm on your waist as he adjusted you on his lap, settling you more securely against the solid muscle of his left thigh.

the movement forced your inner thigh to brush against the raised ridge of his leather strap. the contact made you freeze, a breath catching in your throat. it felt incredible, and right where you needed it. your hips twitched, your body instinctively tilting forward to seek out that pressure again.

your gaze dropped between your bodies, landing on the black leather wrapped around his thigh and the silver buckle catching the afternoon light. michael's head tipped down a fraction behind his sunglasses, following your line of sight. he didn't say a word, but he watched as realization spread across your face. 

slowly, almost cautiously, you shifted your weight forward.

the movement dragged you over the stiff leather, and your jaw dropped, a shaky sigh escaping your lips. your fingers tightened around the heavy fabric of his jacket as the raised edge pressed exactly where you wanted it.

it was just a tiny movement, but it made michael's chest tighten.

"oh, jesus," michael rasped as his large hand hovered just inches from your ass, his fingers twitching. 

"you're a bad girl, y’know that? goin’ to an event for the president, and this is how you're behavin'?"

your face flared hot at his words. and fuck, seeing yourself in the reflection of his glasses was only spurring you on even more.

you couldn't see his eyes and you couldn't read his expression. he was usually so expressive, but right now, all you could see in the black lenses was the reflection of your own face — your cheeks flushed and eyes blown out.

you rolled your hips forward again, slower this time. a quiet moan slipped free before you could stop it, your grip tightening on his jacket as you tried to find the perfect angle again.

michael didn't stop you. his hands hovered beside your hips as he watched you work yourself against his thigh. he bit his lower lip.

if he was being honest, he was stunned by how shameless you were being. 

but he was also far too turned on to do anything about it. 

another sound left you as you rocked forward again and again, until your underwear was soaked through, clinging to your folds. you picked up the pace, fully rutting against his thigh until your body started to shake from the effort.

the friction was slick, your soaked panties sliding against the belt, the wet sounds of fabric rubbing together mixing with the soft whimpers and gasps leaving your mouth.

"look at you," his voice husky against your ear, his hand finally grabbing your ass, guiding your pace. "yeah, keep rubbin' on it," he muttered, his fingers digging deep into your skin to take control of the pace. he forced your hips into a deeper grind that made you whimper. "it feels good rubbin' you right there, huh? y’like my belt? tell me, baby.”

he squeezed your ass and bounced his knee to grind up on your cunt, catching your swollen center perfectly against the leather. he was somehow expecting you to respond while you were making yourself feel so good while he watched. you could only nod as your head fell against his shoulder.

"noddin' ain't gonna do it, baby," he whispered against your neck. "talk t'me. lemme hear y'say it. tell me how it feels havin' my leg between your thighs."

you let out a broken cry as his knee jacked up again. "michael— feels so good."

"mhm, does it?" he murmured, his thumb rubbing circles into your hip through your dress, keeping you pressed against his thigh. "know you're gettin' so wet f'me."

his hand tightened on your ass, guiding you firmly against his belt strap. he was moving his own leg, his thigh meeting every single one of your frantic strokes. the thick leather band rolled perfectly across your swollen clit.

"ah, god, michael—" you choked out, your eyes fluttering shut.

"don't close your eyes. watch what you're doin' to my suit." he rasped.

you looked down through a blur of tears, your gaze landing on the dark fabric of his trousers, now visibly stained by your dampness. the slick sound of your body rubbing against his leg filled the back seat. every lift of his thigh sent another devastating jolt straight through you, the heat in your belly coiling tighter and tighter until your breaths broke into short, shaky gasps.

“y'close, baby? y’gonna cum? right on my leg?" he teased, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his tone still so gentle.

"please," you whined, your head dropping back, your throat exposed as his mouth came down to bite gently at your collarbone. “fuck… i-i can’t.”

"yeah, y’can," he cooed softly, his thumb digging into your waist to guide your final grinds. "go 'on. do it f'me. i wanna feel y'leak right through these pants."

the buckle caught on your clit perfectly one last time, and your body broke. you let out a loud cry, your hips grinding down against his thigh as the first wave of your orgasm hit, pulsing against the leather. 

"mhm, that's it... yeah, right there. right on my belt, yeah?" michael whispered, his voice a soothing purr against your ear. "there y’go, baby."

even as you shivered and cried out into his neck, his hand kept pressing your ass down hard, forcing your oversensitive, soaking pussy to rub through the tail-end of your release. 

once he stopped, you slumped against him, your forehead buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of his cologne as your heart hammered wildly against his ribs. 

outside the tinted windows, the bright camera flashes of the press started to blink through the glass. the car was pulling up to the main entrance. 

the reality of where they were hit you all at once, making your eyes fly open.

"shit, michael," you whispered, a wave of panic hitting you as you tried to smooth down your dress. "i probably look like a mess." 

he reached up, his gloved fingers gently brushing a few stray hairs back into place, his touch incredibly careful. "y’look beautiful."

he leaned in, catching your lips in a dizzying kiss that made your knees weak all over again. when he finally parted from you, his thumb came up, lightly wiping around the edge of your mouth to clean up your partially smeared lip combo. he rubbed the smudge away with the soft cotton of his glove, his hidden gaze locked onto your mouth until it was perfect.

"there," he whispered, a grin creeping right back onto his face.

the car came to a final halt. michael slid you off his lap and back onto the leather seat, giving your waist one last reassuring squeeze. "c’mon, baby. time t’go meet the president." 

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───

I LOVEEEEEEEEEE this outfit sb hes TOO fine

The ride home was a cocoon of tense silence. The streetlights shimmered in the night a silent parade past the tinted windows.

Michael sat in the far corner of the plush limousine seat, a beautiful statue carved from desire and anxiety. 

He’d been radiant at the 1980 American Music Award presentation, his neat afro, a soft light-brown cloud, his smile shy but genuine as he spoke to peers about Off the Wall.

And for the entire three-hour affair—from the first sip of prosecco to the final standing ovation, he’d been visibly, achingly hard.

You had whooped and cheered for him as he won in three separate categories. He made sure to point and thank ‘his girl’ for being the perfect muse. You couldn’t even comprehend the wins, as you were pointedly looking at his crotch, how he was trying to hide himself. 

You’d borne witness to it all. 

The subtle, tortured shifts in his wide-legged trousers. The way his elegant hands would flutter to his lap, pressing down, trying to angle the thick, insistent line of his erection against the lean plane of his stomach, or try to keep it in the waistband of his pants.

It was a futile, beautiful struggle. A faint sheen of perspiration had highlighted his forehead, and every time he leaned in to whisper a thank you, his breath was hot and unsteady. When he spoke with you, his eyes were alert, fervent, and his breath carried the scent of mint and sweet juice. He was coming apart at the seams.

Last night had been his first time. The loss of his innocence. A decision arrived at with trembling anticipation. Three whole years of held hands, of kisses that never deepened, of him whispering, "Let's do it when it’s perfect, baby. When it’s right.”

He’d finally decided it was right. “I love you,” he’d breathed into the darkness, his body taut above you. “I know I’m going to marry you—so why should I wait any longer?”

It had been a burst of frantic, bewildered sensation, over almost before it began, leaving him curled around you afterwards, whispering “thank you” over and over like a sacred vow into your skin.

You’d thought it a one-time gift, at least for a while, while he grappled with the guilt of stepping outside the bounds of his religious past.

The limo purred to a stop on the familiar Hayvenhurst driveway. He was out before the engine died, opening your door with a hand that trembled violently.

“Night, Mike. I’ll pick you up again tomorrow morning at nine sharp—you’ve got that radio show interview–” Bill called after him.

Michael wasn’t listening. He didn’t even take your hand up the path like he usually did.

He walked ahead, as if on a warpath, his posture rigid, his stride a careful, stiff thing meant to disguise the persistent, telling bulge in his trousers.

The house was a sleeping giant. You both climbed the grand staircase at speed. You struggled slightly in your heels, your long silk dress pooling at your feet. He led you away from the guest room you used to frequent, down a quieter hall lined with framed gold records and awkward school portraits. He stopped at a familiar door and pushed it open.

His childhood bedroom.

It was a sanctuary of preserved innocence. A smaller double bed with a faded blue comforter. 

Shelves bowed under the weight of countless Disney figurines: Cinderella’s castle, a parade of Seven Dwarfs, a lonely-looking Dumbo. A mobile of the solar system, coated in a fine layer of dust, hung motionless from the ceiling. The air was a blend of old paper, the faint sweet smell of vinyl, and the crisp, clean scent that was uniquely, essentially him.

You smiled as you took it in; it looked exactly as you remembered from when you first started dating. He had insisted you both use the guest room because he didn’t want to face moving any of his memorabilia. It just so happened his childhood bedroom was furthest from his family, his parents in the opposite wing, Randy down the stairs and Janet three doors down.

He went to the bed and sat down, his back to you. With a concentration that was borderline funny, he bent and began untying the laces of his polished dress shoes.

The act was so simple, so boyish; a child in his refuge, shedding the costume of the outside world, that it made your heart ache. 

In public, he was poised, adult, a persona he wore like a tailored suit. But here, he was the boy who believed in magic, who trusted too easily, whose curiosity was your favorite thing, the way he’d absorb everything about a subject, a time period, a movie, just as he did with music.

You stood by his old wooden desk, your fingers brushing the cool plastic of a model rocket. A ceramic figurine of Bambi watched with wide, glassy eyes.

“I saw it all night,” you said, your voice a soft intrusion in the quiet.

His hands froze on the second lace. He didn’t turn. “Saw what?”

“How hard you were. During the speeches. While you were eating. You kept trying to hide it, but you couldn’t. It was all I could think about.”

A visible tremor ran through him. He straightened slowly, but kept his back to you, head bowed as if in prayer. “It wouldn’t go away,” he confessed, his voice thick. “My body… it wouldn’t listen to me. The more I remembered last night, the harder it got. It was getting… painful.”

“I noticed your frustration,” you whispered, taking a step closer. The floorboard sighed beneath your weight. “And it made me wet. Drenched. Every time you adjusted yourself, every time you got that look in your eye… I could feel myself getting slick for you.”

He turned then.

His face was flushed, his beautiful lips parted. The need in his eyes had taken over; the shyness was a thin veneer over a bedrock of hunger.

“Wet?” he breathed, as if deciphering a complex lyric. His gaze dropped to the front of your gown. “Tell me what that’s like.”

You closed the final distance.

You took his right hand and lifted it. You placed his palm firmly against the damp silk covering your mound.

He gasped—a sharp, startled sound.

“Feel,” you instructed, your voice low.

His fingers trembled against you. You guided his hand down, under the heavy fabric of your gown, past the delicate lace of your stockings, until his cool fingertips met the soaked, feverish silk of your panties.

A choked, ragged sound escaped him.

“I can make you feel this way?” he stammered, his voice full of awe. “So warm… so… wet…”

“That’s for you,” you said, holding his wrist, making him feel the undeniable truth. “All night. That’s what the thought of you did to me.”

He was shaking now.

You hooked your fingers into the lace at your hip, drawing the fabric aside. Then you guided two of his long, elegant fingers inside of you. He was good with his hands; he had a rhythm like no other, skilled and precise. It was ironic that he knew how to play instruments so well, and now you wanted him to learn to play your body like one.

He went perfectly still. His eyes widened, the dark pools swallowing the light from the nightlight.

He was still feeling the intimate, velvet clutch of your body.

“Ohh…,” he whimpered, the sound pulled from his soul.

“Curve them,” you breathed, your own composure fraying. “Like you’re reaching for something.”

He obeyed; a slow, deliberate flexion. The pad of his middle finger found a spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. A low, throaty moan tore from you.

“Mmmhh—!”

The sound shattered his last restraint. A deep, guttural groan echoed in his chest. He began to move his fingers, it wasn’t really with skill, just a frantic curiosity. In and out, curling, exploring. The tops of his fingers were softly pressing against your G-spot. 

He watched your face, utterly captivated, as his hand worked beneath your gown, his expression one of rapt, hungry devotion.

“This… this tight, soft, warm feeling… is what I was thinking about at dinner,” he panted, his breath coming fast. “This is what I wanted… right there and then, but couldn’t have.”

He withdrew his fingers, staring at the glistening evidence. Driven by an instinct deeper than reason, he brought them to his lips and… tasted.

His eyes fluttered closed.

“Y’taste so good,” he mumbled, his voice thick and sweet. “You taste like heaven.” 

He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, slick pop. The look he gave you then was one of pure, pussy-drunk awe. The shy boy was submerged, replaced by a devoted lover.

“I need to feel you,” he said, the words rushing out. “I need to be surrounded by you. I need to have all of you.”

He fumbled with the buttons of his sparkly silver shirt and yanked off his bow tie, his usual grace abandoned. He shed it, let it fall onto a stack of comic books. The black trousers were shoved down, kicked away. He stood before you, naked in a room crowded with childhood dreams, fully, magnificently erect. You inwardly rolled your eyes at the fact he hadn’t worn briefs to the ceremony.

The juxtaposition in front of you, though, was devastatingly intimate. Him stood in this room, bearing himself, when a month prior he still struggled to get dressed in front of you.

He didn’t ask before diving in at you.

He gathered you in his strong, lean arms and laid you back on the blue comforter, pushing the skirts of your gown up to your waist, not even bothering to undress you fully because his need was too crazed, too immediate.

He settled between your thighs, his cock; thick, proud, flushed with wanting—pressing against your dripping heat. He looked down, his expression one of solemn, hungry wonder.

“I love you,” he whispered, but it sounded like a truth that made all this not only permissible, but necessary. 

“I need to feel this. Every part of it. I didn’t feel you fall apart last night. It was too fast. This time… I want to feel you come apart around me. I want to be inside you when you lose yourself.”

He pushed in.

It was a slow, inexorable claiming that made the breath hitch in his throat. He sank to his base, a long sigh escaping him. He was so deep it felt like he was pressing on your heart.

“Perfect,” he breathed, his eyes closing. “You are… so good, laying there all pretty for me.”

He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was less about thrusting and more about communion.

“You take me so completely… like you were made for me…”

But then his movements changed. His hands, which had been braced gently beside your head, slid down to your thighs. His touch, usually so tentative, became firm, purposeful. 

He pushed your legs apart wider, then hooked them, bending them sharply to the side, opening you to him utterly. The new angle was deeper, more exposing. A soft cry left your lips.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice taking on a darker, more resonant timbre. “Like this. I need to feel all of you like this.”

He began to move again, and this time, there was a new roughness to his rhythm. It wasn’t violent, but it was relentless, deeply possessive. Each stroke was a full, powerful drive, his hips meeting yours with a solid, wet slap-slap-slap that filled the quiet room. The bedframe began a steady, rhythmic protest against the wall.

He was lost in it. His eyes were open, watching your face, but they were glazed, seeing only the sensation.

“You’re so beautiful like this, how have i gone so long without this sight?,” he groaned, his words coming between panting breaths. 

“Surrendered to me. Letting me feel you. You’re my good girl, right?”

His dirty talk wasn’t crude; it was sensual, almost poetic, ripped from the core of his overwhelmed being. 

He drove into you, harder, his control slipping into something more primal. It became messy, clumsy—the way he gripped your thighs, the way he shoved into you—the want of his release overtaking his rationale. 

You knew there’d be bruises where he held you tomorrow.

He pulled out briefly, flipped both your legs to his right, then entered you with your legs together—the sensation for him even more distinct, squeezing his cock even tighter. 

His hands were on your sides now as he drilled into you. He leaned over as he pounded, his face so close to yours. 

You couldn’t look away, totally entranced by the primal look in his eyes. He’d been taken over by the sensation, totally overthrown.

“I want to drown in you… I want this feeling…” He thrust fast and deep now, as if he was fucking the sensual words into you. “Forever, let me have it forever—God—”

You could feel your climax coming in, a slow, tectonic pressure from the deep, relentless pounding. You moaned loudly, your fingers tangling in the blanket.

“Ah—ah—!”

“I feel it,” he gasped, his rhythm becoming more urgent, though no less deep. “I want to make you feel good… I want to see the pleasure blown out in your eyes.” He was muttering now between gasps of pleasure. 

“I’m going to write about how filthy and utterly ethereal you look in this moment,” he moaned, cupping your breasts with his hands.

His words; the romantic filth of them, spoken in that breathy, wrecked tenor were your undoing.

Your orgasm erupted, a deep, feeling within you; your whole body convulsed mercillisly.

You clenched around him in rhythmicly, uncontrollably. 

A broken cry was torn from your throat—“Michael—!”

you could feel how wet you had become from your orgasm, and by the slick, slapping sound of his slow, deep thrusting, it was driving him wild.

He cried out with you, a sound of pure, triumphant awe.

“Yes! that’s my girl. I have waited so long to see you so dirty like this, to see your face in agonizing heat…”

But he didn’t stop after your come down. 

He couldn’t. 

The feeling of your climax around him seemed to fuel a deeper, more desperate hunger. 

His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their measured pace, becoming a frantic, driving rhythm. The bed shook. A figurine of Mickey Mouse toppled from the shelf with a soft clatter.

“I can’t… I can’t stop,” he sobbed, his voice breaking. He was fucking you now with a pure, unadulterated need, the romantic poet consumed by the primal animal. “It’s too good… you’re too good… I need more… I need to be deeper…”

He was overstimulated, lost, chasing a feeling that kept escalating. He hooked your legs higher, over his shoulders, bending you nearly in half, and plunged into you with a force that stole the air from your lungs. His words dissolved into a litany of your name, interspersed with gasped, sensual fragments. 

His eyes roamed frantically, but then settled on the sight of his own motion, biting his lip as he watched the remnants of your undoing pool at the base of his cock.

“My heart… is in your skin… your taste is in my mouth…” he moaned, breathlessly inbetween pumps.

He flipped you over with ease, onto your stomach. You had a brief moment to prepare yourself before he settled over you, pressing you into the mattress, and drove back into your from behind.

“You’re mine, all mine, this is just for me, always—”

His own end took him by storm.

His body locked, every muscle straining. A raw, ragged shout was torn from him—“Fuuuu--GOD-- Y/N–” a sound that held no artifice, only pure, shattering release.

You felt his hot seed, pulsing into you, flooding deep within, a claiming that felt endless.

He trembled violently through it, his hips jerking with involuntary aftershocks, still buried to the hilt.

When the last tremor passed, he collapsed forward, but caught himself on his elbows, still sheathed inside you. He was panting, sweat dripping from his nose and afro onto your back. He looked down at you as you glanced back, his eyes wide, dazed, full of a wonder that bordered on fear. You both just started grinning at each other crazily.

“I think I got carried away,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and ruined. “In you. I completely… got lost.”

"mhmm," you noted back, "ya think?"

He slowly, carefully, withdrew, and rolled to the side, pulling you instantly against him. His arms wrapped around you, tight, possessive. His heart hammered against your back.

He was silent for a long time, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your stomach.

“I don’t know how I held off for so long,” he murmured finally, his lips against your shoulder blade. 

The scent of sex; musky, sweet, and profoundly intimate hung thick in the air of Michael’s old bedroom, a new perfume overlaying the old smell of books and toys. 

Minutes bled by, measured only in the gradual slowing of breath. You felt spent, hollowed out and filled up, drifting away on the aftershocks. 

Then, a shift in the energy beside you.

He lowered his arm.

In the soft gloom of the late evening, you saw his profile. His eyes were open, staring at the dusty mobile of the solar system behind your head. His lips, swollen and damp, parted. He looked so young like this, but he was grown now. The change you felt in him, even in the last few days was ludicrous. You fondly remembered how Michael would struggle to even hold your hand longer than 30 seconds, or he’d start madly blushing.

"Can I…" he started, his voice a ruined, raspy thing. 

He stopped, swallowed and then started again, the words tumbling out in a hushed, guilty rush. 

"Can I put my mouth on you? Right now?"

The question hung in the air, inappropriate, vulnerable, filthy in its innocent hunger.

You turned your head on the pillow. "Michael… you just… you finished in me. It's… it's mixed."

He turned his head too. 

His eyes found yours, and there was no shyness there, only a dark clarity. 

"I don't care," he whispered, the declaration simple and absolute. "I want to taste you for real. I want to taste where I was. Please."

He didn't wait for a final answer. The "please" was a formality. 

The decision was made.

He moved with a sudden, fluid grace that belied his exhaustion, sliding down your body like a man descending to an altar. He pushed your thighs apart with a firm insistence, his gaze locked on the glistening, spent evidence of your joining.

He hovered, his gaze fixed so intensely.

“So beautiful,” he breathed, the words barely a whisper, soaked in awe. “Like a rose that’s just… bloomed for me.”

His hands, which had been resting on your hips, slid inward. His touch was a little demanding, but still just as tender. His fingers came to rest on your outer lips, applying the gentlest pressure.

He began to part you.

It was a slow unveiling. The soft, swollen flesh, glistening with the combined evidence of your passion, yielded to his patient hands. He opened you like the pages of a cherished, secret book he was terrified to damage.

A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him. “Oh… wow.”

He was looking at the heart of you, fully exposed to him in the dim light. The intimate, intricate folds, flushed a deep, needy pink, the glimmering wetness that coated everything, the tight, hidden entrance that still pulsed gently from his recent possession.

"Look at you,” he murmured, his voice sounding almost deliriously drunk with pleasure.

“All pretty and pink and wet for me. Just for me.” He leaned closer, his nose almost touching you, inhaling deeply. The sound he made was one of a man tasting water in a desert; a low, guttural groan of pure, starving need.

"Oh, God…" he mumbled, his voice muffled against your flesh. "S'sweet… and salty…"

He was lost instantly. Any hesitation, any remnant of fastidiousness, was incinerated by the addictive, complex flavor. He ate at you with starving intensity. His tongue was blunt and demanding, lapping up every trace, diving deep to clean his own release from inside you with thick, curling strokes. 

The sounds were obscenely wet, sloppy, loud in the quiet room. He moaned continuously, a low, pleasured hum that you felt in your bones.

You writhed, oversensitive, a confusing mix of shock and overwhelming arousal knotting in your belly. "Michael… ah! Too… im so sensitive…"

He lifted his head, his chin dripping. His eyes were black pools of delerium. "No," he breathed, the word a gentle command. "I haven’t had enough. Sit on my face."

It was a desperate, worshipful plea.

He lay back flat, his hands coming to your hips, guiding you, pulling you up and over him. You braced your hands on the headboard, above his scattered pillows and plush toys, and lowered yourself, trembling, onto the waiting heat of his mouth.

Your world and everything in it, narrowed to sensation.

His mouth was a godsend; it was devoted hunger. As you settled your weight onto him, he let out a choked, blissful sound underneath you and his arms wrapped around your thighs, locking you in place. 

There was no escape, and in seconds, you didn't want any.

He feasted. His tongue speared into you, fucking into the tender, well-used channel with a rhythm that was all his own. He alternated between deep, penetrating licks and frantic, fluttering sucks on your clit, his nose buried against you, breathing you in like oxygen. His hips began to move in tiny, abortive thrusts against the empty air, the blanket beneath him.

You were in disbelief at what had gotten into him – the boy you once knew had well and truly been replaced by a man. A handsome, steadfast partner, who clearly didn’t have any thoughts of leaving you for anyone else; even in his fame.

You looked down at him from where you were perched over his face. And the sight… unwound you completely.

His eyes were squeezed shut in ecstasy, his beautiful face a mask of utter surrender. 

Your eyes roamed away, and then you saw against his stomach, his cock was already fully, achingly hard again, thick and flushed and leaking a fresh pearl of pre-come onto the skin just below his belly button. 

The sheer, wanton need of it and the fact that tasting you, servicing you, had him rock-hard and throbbing in seconds sent a violent, possessive thrill through you.

The power dynamic shifted on a dizzying axis.

You rose off his mouth, ignoring his grunt of protest. You moved backwards, straddling his hips instead of his face. His eyes flew open, confused, desperate.

"Wha—?"

You didn't let him finish. You wanted to show him that other positions were just as good. You remembered something you’d read, a way to take control…

You reached between your legs, took his hard, slick cock in your hand, and guided it to your entrance, still wet and open from his mouth and his seed. 

You sank down onto him slowly, sheathing him completely inside your sore, sensitive heat.

A dual cry tore through the room—his a sharp, shattered gasp of "God Damn–!", yours a long, low moan of exquisite, overwhelming fullness.

For a second, you both froze, impaled, connected. 

You saw the shock in his eyes, then the dawning, wild comprehension. You were in control. You were taking what you needed from him.

Then you began to move.

You rode him slowly at first, a deep, rolling grind, using the muscles inside you to clench his length. 

His head fell back, a string of broken, sensual praises falling from his lips. 

"Yess… ride me… use me… you feel so good taking your pleasure from me… only me baby"

But Michael was not a passive lover. He was jealous, stubborn and petty at times and this had to manifest in your sex life too.

The submission was a feint, a precursor to a different kind of power.

His hands, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to your hips. His grip was iron, his long fingers digging into your flesh. The gentle, curious boy was gone. In his place was a man consumed, only you on his mind and in his sightline.

"Harder," he growled, his voice darker than usual. 

He thrust his hips up to meet your downward stroke, a sharp, punishing impact that stole your breath. 

" harder. Take what you want. Use me."

He began to dictate the rhythm from below. He bucked his hips, meeting each of your descents with a powerful, upward drive, controlling the depth, the angle, the force. He was fucking himself into you from the bottom, his strength surprising, his need an inferno.

"Yes! Like that!" he chanted, his eyes blazing up at you, watching your breasts bounce, your face contort in pleasure. 

"Good. keep going. I wanna feel you tighten around me again whilst you come for me"

His physical domination from beneath you was the spark that lit the fuse. 

You cried out, your rhythm breaking into frantic, shallow bounces as the orgasm ripped through you, violently, your nerve endings completely shattered from what was going on.

He felt it. He saw it. And it unleashed the final, raw animal in him.

With a roar that was half-sob, half-triumph, he gripped your hips and lifted you off of him. In one violent, graceful motion, he flipped you onto your back and was surging over you before the cry could leave your throat. He slammed back into you to the hilt, hooking your legs over the crooks of his arms, folding you nearly in half.

"Mine," he said, the word a primal, guttural claim against your lips. 

His rhythm was brutal, perfectly aimed despite his inexperience, a relentless, piston-drive fucking that had the bed slamming into the wall with a frantic, wooden THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD.

He was everywhere, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his groans hot in your ear, his hands gripping your legs like vices. 

He was a beautiful, desperate machine, chasing his own end with fury, using your body to get there, giving you everything he had in the process.

"I think…m-gonna fill you up… again…" he panted, his rhythm fracturing into erratic, deep jabs. 

"Mark you… inside and out… so you never forget… whose girl you are… Ah—! Ah, God—!"

His release was silent. His body locked, every muscle corded and straining. His mouth opened but nothing came out, his eyes wide and unseeing as he emptied himself into you in hot, pulsing jets, deeper than seemed possible. 

He collapsed forward, but caught himself on trembling arms, still buried inside you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath sobbing into your mouth.

Slowly, he softened and slipped out. He didn't roll away. He collapsed onto you, a dead weight of satiated obsession, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His arms slid under you, binding you to him completely.

His lips moved against your damp skin, the words slurred, thick with exhaustion and a profound, drunken awe.

“They are gonna have to lock me up in a padded room to stay away from you now”

fin.. ;)

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JANUARY 8, 1979. Hayvenhurst, Encino…

It was always warm in California. You thought that the season of winter no longer felt in alignment with its purpose since you'd moved to Los Angeles almost nine years ago; but this winter was an unusually arctic one, a once in a lifetime kind of experience for citizens of the city. It had been icy, wet and windy for weeks, with the night temperatures dropping to almost freezing, and this week a crazily strong snowstorm had hit. The snow pressed into the ground up to six inches high, localised to Encino and the surrounding San Fernando Valley communities; and despite the conflict you faced in dealing with such unfamiliar weather, it had been quite a happy period. Living in LA meant you had to accept that snow was exceptionally rare, and that you'd never witness the beauty of it with snowball fights followed by cosy, steaming cups of hot chocolate, like so many millions of people could indulge in each year.

Michael hadn't seen snow since he moved from Indiana, and there it was much colder; therefore many a snowball fight was had, and many a cup of hot chocolate. He too yearned for such a comforting sight as the thick, ivory sheets that now blanketed the city of Encino. Each Christmas he and his girl had playfully prayed that one day there might be a glitch in the Arctic, or the Gulf of Alaska, to somehow intercept a Pacific storm and drag the freezing temperatures down to Southern California. And now, not merely a week after they'd begged Mother Nature again under the moonlight shining into Michael's bedroom, it appeared their dreams had been made true.

What a week it had been—two supposedly grown adults chasing each other through the sludge as more flakes withered to the ground from the gleaming blue sky, the two squealing and giggling as they playfully abused each other with the hit of one snowball after another, before coming down from that high to build figures that would decorate the outside of the Hayvenhurst mansion. And indeed the mugs of cocoa that followed, to pair with Charlie Chaplin and Fred Astaire movie marathons, bundled securely in heavy layers after having deliberately made each other even colder for the prior two hours out in the storm.

It was incredibly rare that you could both have such peaceful, childlike freedom together, that while even though you were now adults and could seemingly do whatever you liked, you were still slaves to your record labels. There was always something you needed to be doing for them. Whenever you planned a trip to Disney or whenever you decided you'd dedicate an afternoon to board games and baking cupcakes, these activities were almost always disrupted by some stupid authority figure.

It often felt like the universe was conspiring against you both, determined to make you miserable; but now finally, in this first week of January everyone had taken a few days off work due to the storm, and that meant that you had all the freedom you could ever wish for. Except, of course if you could truly wish for any type of freedom that could come true, you would ask for it to be eternal, and not to the deadline of the industry men who owned you.

You'd been pretty much living at Hayvenhurst through this storm, finding the wild weather to be the perfect excuse for you to attach yourself impossibly further to your beautiful boyfriend. Whenever you took a break from running around in the snow, your lips were warming each other’s, hands roaming whereby the comfort derived from oxytocin could manually heat up your bodies. You made out in each other’s arms softly on the couch by the fireplace, so peaceful in the quiet, but inevitably the quiet didn't always last too long, where you were made to deal with the unavoidable teasing and mock-kissing sounds from Michael's brothers by the door. It had been eight months since you started dating, but the Jackson brothers had been taunting you both with their coos and remarks since you'd first met, so they weren't about to stop anytime soon.

One evening, you were in Latoya's room, clad in a baby pink hoodie and blue jeans, where she'd been showing you her record collection for the last two hours. You weren't sure what Michael had been up to—probably hanging with his brothers, because they always eagerly took possession of him whenever you had finally become detached for a moment.

But now, you felt that it had been two hours too long without him. You loved Latoya, and you always enjoyed the time you spent with her, but no social interaction could stimulate you more delightfully than cuddling, kissing and talking with your sweetheart. So, after you were done testing out the look of Latoya's new eyeshadows and blushes together to the soundtrack of Minnie Riperton and Donna Summer, you got up off the plush wool carpet and made your way into your boyfriend's bedroom down the hall.

Except, he wasn't in there. He was actually stood in his bathroom, in a blue Bambi sweater and dark grey sweatpants, with a frustrated expression as he appeared to be examining himself in the mirror. His room was an ensuite, so the bathroom was attached, and there you found yourself stood in the doorway, eyeing him in confusion. You watched as he poked anxiously at his face.

"Hi baby," you smiled, and even though you spoke so softly and had walked up to the door casually enough, the sound of your voice startled Michael. He looked up at you with wide eyes, and then immediately resumed a neutral expression, as if trying to make sure you didn't notice the incredibly obvious anxiety those eyes had inferred.

"I was just in Toya's room," you added. "She was showin' me some of her records."

Michael only nodded, looking to his feet, then to the mirror again, and then to the faucets, unsure what to do or say. He hadn't been in the mood to talk—he'd been planning to spend the whole evening lonesomely berating himself over his appearance—but he also didn't want you to realise something was wrong.

Really, it was already too late for that.

"Hey... Baby, what's wrong?" you whispered softly, brows furrowing in concern as you noticed the red, watery eyes that his twitching, ever-altering gaze was trying its best to hide.

Immediately you walked over, gently throwing your arms around his neck and pulling him in for a slow kiss. "Honey, what is it?" you asked again, stroking his arm. You didn't want to overwhelm him or overstep the mark, because you knew how frequently Michael cried alone, for a multitude of reasons, and how much he never liked anybody to know.

"Nothin', what do y' mean?" he answered, shrugging casually as if you'd suggested toward something he had no knowledge of.

"Michael," you sighed, interlacing your fingers with his and pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. "You've just been cryin'. But why, angel?"

He squinted at the pet name, never able to understand why such a beautiful word came to the forefront of your mind when you looked at him. And then he averted his eyes again. You allowed him a few moments of silence, until he looked back briefly with a chest-aching sigh, then lifting a finger to point without a word at the pimples adorning his cheeks.

"Oh, Mikey," you whispered, pulling him into another hug, paired with another warm kiss. "Come to bed 'n lemme talk to you."

Michael was quick to reject that—as you'd expected. The two of you might have been attached at the hip as much as was possible, but there were times like these where he didn't want anybody at all to be in his presence. He felt guilty for feeling that way, but the guilt over his gorgeous lady seeing him so miserable and so supposedly 'ugly' was even worse. Michael had mainly suffered with acne prior to last year—it had cleared up in '78—but now this week he'd begun to witness the lesions dotting his cheeks again, those that he'd worked so hard to rid. Perhaps they wouldn't last, but they were a concerning sight, especially because the Destiny tour was beginning in just two weeks.

And aside from the issue of the acne itself, Michael's main concern was that because he'd suffered with this problem before you'd fallen deeply in love, he'd led himself to the incorrect assumption that you wouldn't like him otherwise, that if he'd still had the acne last year you definitely wouldn't have fallen the way you did. He believed that if the issue hadn't cleared up to begin with, he'd probably still be yearning ashamedly for you now.

Except, that belief was entirely misguided. Yes, you had noticed the pimples appearing slightly over the last few days, but you hadn't given the sight a second thought. And if you were to think about it, you knew how badly the issue affected Michael's mental health, especially because you also knew just how horrific Joseph had been about it back when he experienced it chronically—but not once did you ever think that it reduced his beauty in any way. It worried you that he always came to the opposite conclusion; whether about this issue, or the size of his nose, or whatever other feature Joseph had decided to pick on.

Your honey didn't like intimate conversations about himself—he always endeavoured to divert the focus to something else, so when you asked him to get in bed with you to talk, you knew what he'd say.

"Uh, no, it's really okay," he murmured, swinging your interlocked hands back and forth anxiously, evidently attempting to fight back more tears. "You can just go home—um, if you want? I'll see you tomorrow, maybe?"

Your heart felt as though it was breaking as you looked at him. Yes, he was having a bad acne flare-up, but why on earth should that mean you would all of a sudden be happy with leaving him and going home? You'd vowed to each other that during this snowstorm you'd have sleepovers every night, whether at his place or your house nearby, so unless he was planning to make a trip over to yours, you would not be leaving him high and dry.

But Michael thoroughly didn't want his angel girl to see him so up-close in such a vulnerable, hideous moment; the girl so naturally beautiful, so ethereal and undeserving of the love provided by what he believed to be a man so below standard. If his father hadn't already made his point enough times about how you were so far out of Michael's league, he'd turn that argument up to an even higher notch when he saw the facial lesions his son had been doing his best to hide from him all week. His brothers had seen, and therefore their old jokes had returned, because they always teased each other about their appearances in that way and never saw anything wrong in doing so. With that, the issue was how Michael was so much more sensitive than the others, and he was the one who bore the brunt of Joseph's attacks on top of the solely playful comments from his siblings.

Michael had been trying so hard for days to not let the issue bother him in regards to you, especially because he'd been continually reminding himself that you didn't seem to be bothered by it; but the nagging—underlying though overpowering—thought that you might be withholding your disgust kept bringing anxious tears to his eyes whenever he was alone.

You pulled a lightheartedly stern look at the man in front of you as he suggested toward your absence. "Nope. Michael Jackson, make yourself comfortable in that bed of yours right now, please. You and I made a promise that we'd spend every night of this storm together, and I'm not about to let you break that promise—especially not when it means leaving my boyfriend while he's upset."

Michael sniffled as he looked at you, unsure of what to respond. He always lost his protests against you.

"You got that?" You raised a brow, a comforting smile on your lips.

"Mhm," he mumbled, looking away again.

You reached your hand up to his jaw and nudged to make him face you properly. "So get into bed."

"But—"

"Michael," you warned, pushing him gently out of the bathroom and guiding him in the direction of where he needed to be. "Look—it's very inviting. It's practically begging us to enjoy its comfort."

He rolled his eyes with a chuckle, but his face still showed signs of worry. He took a step forward, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his temple. Michael's most favourite thing to do when he was sad or anxious was to cuddle away the negative feelings with the unwavering power of his girl's touch, but the contradictory element this evening was that he didn't want said girl to be so close to him that she would be able to see every little ugly blemish, with nowhere for him to hide.

You shook your head at his visible stalling in front of you, then decided to opt for the action that always got you what you wanted. Reaching your hands out to his waist, you began to tickle up and down, in the areas that only you knew would trigger the most sensation in Michael; and as you expected, that did the trick.

He let out the most adorable yelp, laughing breathlessly as he rushed over to his bed and finally got cosy beneath the comforter.

"Knew that would work," you grinned.

After you settled in too, cotton-clad legs entwined with his while you faced each other sideways, Michael immediately tried to conceal his face by smushing it into a pillow and pretending to be sleepy. Really, he knew there was no point, but he figured he might as well try everything.

"Nuh-uh. Not today, mister," you said firmly, with a playfully sharp tone in contrast to your gentle caress over his cheek—that which he squinted at the sensation of. "You're gonna look right at me, because when I signed up to have my very first boyfriend, especially one as beautiful as I got lucky with," you squeezed his cheek, "I don't recall that him being allowed to hide his pretty face away from me was in the contract."

Michael laughed shyly, turning his face to actually look at you properly for once. But immediately, a visible cringe crossed his face, and he attempted to 'casually' rest his hand over where the acne was at its worst.

In an instant, you moved his hand away. "Talk to me about how you're feelin', baby..."

At first he hesitated, but then decided it was probably in his best interest to confide in you, because it wasn't as if he could ever do so with anyone else.

"My brothers..." he started. "I know they're only jokin' but when Joseph's bein' so nasty about the same thing they're jokin' about, I struggle to just laugh it off. And I know I look real bad... That's the problem. He's not exactly wrong. And tour's startin' in just a few weeks..."

You played with the frizz of his afro as he talked, preserving your silence so that he had the freedom to explain what was on his mind. It had taken long enough to convince him to talk, so you weren't about to ruin it by interrupting.

"So," he continued. "You didn't start liking me in, uh... the way that you do now... when I had acne the last time—so that proves it. But just 'cause you're with me now, you have to reassure me, in order to make me feel better... 'Cause you're already with me."

Now, you couldn't be silent. Some tough love was necessary, because he wasn't about to spout entirely incorrect statements without your intervention.

"Nope, shut up," you said in annoyance, before suddenly moving to climb onto his lap and settle yourself in a straddle, hands at his abdomen where his skin peeked out above his sweatpants.

Michael's eyes widened in confusion, and he hissed as your manicured nails lightly scratched at his happy trail.

"Michael Joe Jackson," you began. "Y'know, you have a real serious issue with speaking for other people, with your own ill-informed assumptions on what they think, without actually askin' 'em first. Have you completely forgotten what I told you when I first explained my feelings for you last year?"

"Um." He started to knead over your ass, his eyes landing on your cleavage as a more comfortable choice in comparison to looking into your earnest eyes.

But you nudged his gaze upward by a finger to his chin. "Okay, this is real funny, because I know you wrote about it in your diary."

"Wh—? You read my diary?"

"Right after we first started dating. You left it on your pillow. I went in your room while you were downstairs with the guys, and because it was literally right there, I took a peek at a recent entry."

You smiled now, especially because Michael was rolling his eyes, cheeks heating up in embarrassment. He'd written all sorts of romantic mush in that book, before and during your relationship, and you'd known about the contents for this long without saying anything?

"My crush on you was overwhelming back in spring, I swear," you continued, and his heart began to race faster in hearing you gush over him in that way. "It was like everything I'd repressed for so long was all coming to the forefront of my emotions. I was obsessed with you. 'n I still am..."

Michael looked very flustered at this revelation (although trying to retain composure) even though to anyone else it was insanely clear just how much you were in love with him. Everyone around you had known before you'd even realised the truth of your emotions yourself.

"Not an excuse to read my diary,” he pointed out.

You sighed. "Well, what if I read you excerpts from mine in return?"

"You'd never do that."

"I'd do it if I got to pick the pages myself."

"But that's not fair because I never got to pick the pages you read of mine."

"Ugh, shut up," you groaned. "Anyway."

This wasn't supposed to turn into your typical petty argument. Two childlike best friends having fallen in love was really just two best friends behaving in the exact same manner as they did as kids, but with the added components of kissing and sex.

Michael laughed at your usual tendency to change the subject whenever he was winning at an argument, and your heart melted as you looked at him because finally, oh finally, there was a glimmer of happiness in his eyes. Real happiness. His anxiety was already beginning to slip away, and you hadn't even said anything of substance yet.

You pinched his pretty cheek, and he squeezed your ass in return. But without intending to, your throat gave a soft moan, to which Michael raised an amused brow.

"Y'like that, huh?"

"No, 'cause you're distracting me," you reminded him, striving to stay on topic. "And you really need to listen to me because—ugh Michael, you're still trying to cover your face from me, stop itttt!"

Still perched in your straddle, you leaned down, yanking his wrist away and peppering silly kisses all over his face.

"No!" he giggled, but he wholeheartedly adored whenever you did this to him. How could he not see that you really couldn't care less about the damn acne? You were determined to make him understand.

So, you crawled back under the comforter beside him, pulling him as close as possible so that your noses were now touching. But your sweetheart only squeezed his eyes shut, scrunching up his face in his self-consciousness.

"Baby," you said softly, trying to pry his eyelids open.

"No."

Michael was all quiet again, where the thoughts were hitting harder now, and he truly wished the ground would swallow him up. He looked so, so sad; your heart was aching. How many more years would he feel this way just because his father believed he 'had to be' a wicked bully to his own son? You despised the man. Not only was acne hard for any adolescent, but Joseph made Michael feel as though he was completely worthless whenever he looked this way.

And the irony was that he was fucking gorgeous no matter what.

"Baby, 'm serious," you sighed, taking hold of his cheek and running your fingers over his skin, cupping his jaw beneath the other cheek. You brought him into a kiss so soft, slipping in tongue as you hummed into his mouth.

But when you pulled away, Michael still didn't open his eyes. You couldn't have been any closer in proximity, and while he usually relished in this tranquillising intimacy, he never did when he was at his most insecure.

"Lemme talk to you, honey. Yeah?" you spoke gently. "You gonna listen to me? For real this time?"

He nodded just slightly.

While you delivered the following monologue, you continued to caress his beautiful face—his handsome nose, his perfectly soft lips, and all over each blemish that he stupidly believed could somehow ruin those features, that in his opinion would surely be no longer of any attraction to you. He hadn't even understood why you found him attractive in the first place, and that was a thought of his that had driven you insane with confusion. All this time spent looking in the mirror, and yet it seemed he saw nothing of what the world saw in him.

"Okay, this is what I was trying to say," you began. "If you remember correctly, I told you back in spring that I've always had feelings for you. It took me those few days of lone space to really come to terms with that, because I was just so confused with it all—I had no idea it was possible to repress something so much that you don't even realise it's within you. And I'd known you for so long, too... But as soon as you kissed me, as soon as you told me how you felt... it was like a light had been lit inside my heart. As if that was the trigger I needed—to alert my immediate emotions of what had always been only of my subconscious. Your kiss awakened something in me, baby."

Michael smiled softly, still with his eyes shut, and trying to conceal his flustered astonishment at your profound words. "You sound like you're writin' poetry aloud."

You laughed. "These words come naturally to me whenever I'm with you—or thinking of you. But that last part was in fact a line straight outta my diary. So there—you get a lil sneak peek."

He shook his head in amusement, snuggling into the pillow again. "You say that like I'm ever gonna be shown any of it."

"Shh," you chuckled.

Michael still had his eyes shut, but he looked so beautiful and peaceful like this that you could no longer complain. Although, of course it was only his mere appearance that was peaceful, because within his chest persisted that fire of discomfort.

"So, all those times Joseph beat you, called you ugly, made you feel horrible about yourself... and I'd come over, cuddle up with you and tell you how handsome you were... I didn't realise that the whole time I wasn't only meaning that in a platonic, reassuring way to help out a friend. I had butterflies on and off for years that never fully went away, but because I was so used to them I thought they were just the product of having fun with my best friend. The feeling I got with the guys I'd date was so different, and I never knew why—but in this last year I've understood. It was because I didn't ever feel anything real for them—they were just a hit of dopamine, y'know?"

The premise of what you were saying had already been part of the love confession you'd spoken to him eight months ago, but he needed to hear it all again. He needed the reassurance now more than ever.

"So..." You picked up his hand and kissed his wrist several times, before interlacing your fingers with his. "I'm saying, that I never once thought you were the slightest bit unattractive. It was literally the opposite. I think you know that all the girls at school were obsessed with you, but what you probably never realised was that while yes, they did want your money and your fame, they would also talk all day long about every little feature on your handsome face. I promise you. Baby, men on the damn television even talk about how good-lookin' you are."

Michael smiled a little, eyelids still concealing the emotion behind his orbs.

"My point is... I just didn't understand my emotions enough to be able to realise that they were the romantic sort. I'd look at you and think: 'oh, Michael's hair looks really nice today,' or, 'he looks so pretty, I wish he knew that..." and I'd think they were just normal thoughts to have about a friend. I thought I was just acknowledging what was in front of me. But some nights... more than I'd like to admit—but I'll do so for your sake," you paused to laugh quietly, "I would find your image appearing in my head while I tried to get to sleep. I never knew why those images were so insistent, but that day you kissed me and told me you loved me, everything made sense."

Finally, your baby opened his eyes, and a wider smile crossed his face.

Now, you completed your monologue. "So no, idiot—I did not only start finding you handsome after your acne had cleared up." You nudged his cheek playfully. "You hear me?"

"Yes," Michael grinned shyly.

"So, you're gonna stop shyin' away from me? Your beloved girlfriend who," you began to peck his nose over and over, "thinks you're the sexiest, most angelic man in the entire universe. A little bit of acne never destroyed a pretty face—don't be so stupid, Mikey."

Finally, he seemed content, that beautiful glint now prominent in his shining brown orbs. "Alright, I get it, mama..."

Your smile widened with his, as you kept your hands entwined, your other continuing to play with his thick afro. All you'd wanted was to get him to understand how much you adored him no matter what, and while you knew you'd be most likely having a repeated version of this conversation the next time he lost sight of reality and got caught up in his head, you were satisfied for now. Gazing at each other, pupils dilating with the infatuation you both felt within, Michael no longer felt as shy as he had done earlier, but as you understood, there was always an underlying insecurity that existed no matter what you said to reassure him.

You gave him a playful eskimo kiss, nose kneading itself against his while you both giggled quietly. Michael was attempting to create a butterfly kiss at the same time, his eyelashes fluttering against yours.

"And you know somethin' else?" you asked.

"Hm?"

"This pretty nose... so beautiful, baby..."

He shook his head, a small shyness returning. "Now you're just tryna flatter me, let's not go there..."

"No, I'm not just trying to flatter you,” you said firmly. "I think every single part of you is beautiful, and I've told you before that the only reason Joseph says all that shit is because he's jealous. That's it, Michael."

He was now playing with your fingers, looking down at them, so you nudged his chin up to face you for what felt like the millionth time that evening.

"C'mere, Bambi eyes," you smiled, bestowing on him your favourite nickname, and he smiled in turn. Coincidentally, he was wearing his Bambi sweater today too.

Again, Michael shook his head, but you pointed at the sweater passionately. "Look—that's literally you."

"No, it isn't."

"Yes, it is, Michael!" you insisted. "That's exactly what someone who was secretly Bambi in disguise would say. Michael Bambi Jackson... I think I prefer that to your real middle name. For obvious reasons.”

You both delved back in for more kisses—lips, nose, cheeks, jaw, eskimo, butterfly... while you giggled into each other's mouths and ran your hands all over each other's bodies. At one point, Michael tried to instigate a tickle-fight, but he was just as ruthless as you were, so you kicked his leg to stop that before it had a chance to start. Tickle-fights with Michael Jackson were only worth it when they led to makeouts, but you were already mid-makeout now, so there was literally no point. He'd have regretted it anyway, because no one was more ticklish than him.

Incredibly, you ended up lost in each other for at least two hours, doing nothing but loving on one another, and without the intention to even have sex. All you needed was to satisfy your constant craving of cuddles and kisses with the boy who was your safe haven, and that same boy contained the exact parallel amount of emotional desire toward the girl who made him feel safer than anybody ever could.

Eventually, Latoya walked in, pouting at the adorable scene before her. "Um." She cleared her throat to get your attention, where you were currently smiling and laughing between tongue kisses. Part of Michael's fro was getting flattened against the pillows, and you found it hilarious as always.

You both didn't hear Latoya at first, and especially not when Michael started poking at your side. You did the same back to him through your laughter, while smothering his face and neck in ticklish kisses.

"Hello?" Latoya called louder, in amusement.

Immediately, you both paused, and you buried your face in Michael's neck the way you always did whenever someone walked in on you both, in either an innocent or sexual situation. It was silly, really—the way you reacted—because you were always more than fine with PDA, but it was probably the startling nature of someone walking in on such an intimate moment that always made you stutter. You always got so lost in him that you often had a tendency to forget that other people existed—even in a house filled to the brim with loud adults.

Latoya laughed. "It's okay, girl. You left your eyeshadow palette in my room—the one I gave you—and I'm just about to leave now, so I thought I'd let you know in case you ended up forgetting to take it."

Finally, you retrieved your face from your boyfriend's neck. "Oh yes, thank you, Toya! Yeah, I totally forgot about that."

"I think you've been a little distracted, hm?" the older girl smirked.

You and Michael both grinned bashfully with an eye roll, mirroring each other's expressions endearingly.

"Not as distracted as we've been in the past," Michael pointed out. "Lucky for you."

Indeed, there had unforgettably been several occasions in the past where his siblings had walked in on the two of you doing much more than just cuddling and kissing. Latoya cringed at the memory, rushing out as Michael pulled you into his chest, laughing into your hair.

angelcrescent © 2026 ˖ ࣪🥡🥢⁺˖꙳◦🐚 ╱ this is one of my fav pieces i’ve written so far! my heart was melting while i typed because there’s nothing i fantasise about more than this exact scenario </3

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