the ultimate fangirl

requested　﹒ snoopyreincarnated3 ! ♡

July on Tybee Island was a thick, soupy blanket of heat. The air, heavy with the smell of salt and coconut sunscreen, shimmered above the sand, making the distant dunes look like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. You were propped up in a nest of brightly colored towels, your swollen, ripe belly a heavy, warm anchor on your lap. You were due in three weeks, and this trip—this last, gasping breath of freedom before your world irrevocably changed—was Michael’s idea.

“It’s for us,” he’d insisted, his dark eyes earnest and pleading. “Jus’ us. No schedules, no cameras, no nothing. Jus’ you, me, n’ th’ ocean.”

And it had been perfect. For two days, you’d existed in a lazy, sun-drenched haze. You’d left Prince and Paris in the capable hands of their nanny back at Neverland, a decision that had felt like a small, delicious act of rebellion.

From your perch under the wide-brimmed straw hat, you watched him. Michael was in the water, up to his waist, the waves lapping gently at his chest. He was trying, and failing, to bodysurf a languid, rolling wave. He’d run, stumble, and then be unceremoniously dumped by the surf, emerging a moment later, spluttering and laughing, slick with saltwater. His hair, free of its usual tight curls, was a halo of dark, wet ringlets clinging to his neck and forehead. His body… you smiled to yourself. It wasn’t the taut, dancer’s physique you’d fallen in love with. The last few months of domesticity, of late nights in the studio followed by even later nights with you, had softened him. There was a new, comfortable roundness to his stomach, a softness to his chest that you found irresistibly, intoxicatingly appealing. He wasn’t Michael Jackson, the King of Pop. He was Michael, your husband, a goofy, beautiful man playing in the ocean like a kid. He was a dad. He was going to be a dad again.

A sharp, sudden pang of affection tightened in your chest. You shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and felt it. A strange, internal pop, followed by a sudden, warm gush between your legs, soaking through your maternity sundress and the towel beneath you.

You froze. For a heartbeat, the entire world seemed to stop. The cries of the gulls, the crash of the waves, the distant laughter of other beachgoers—it all faded into a dull, meaningless roar.

Oh. So that’s what that feels like.

A strange, serene calm settled over you. No panic. No fear. Just a quiet, knowing certainty. It was time.

With a grunt of effort that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with the sheer physics of it, you pushed yourself to your feet. You abandoned the soggy towel and started your slow, ponderous journey across the sand. You walked with the awkward, rolling gait of a woman carrying a watermelon under her shirt, a gait you’d come to know as the pregnant waddle.

Michael saw you coming. He’d just been dumped by another wave and was standing up, shaking the water from his hair like a dog. A wide, beaming smile spread across his face when he saw you. He started jogging towards you through the shallow water, his movements long and graceful. “Hey, beautiful! Come t’join me? Th’ water’s—”

“Michael,” you said, your voice placid, even. You stopped where the wet, packed sand met the soft, dry dunes. You looked down at your dress, now plastered to your legs with a mixture of ocean water and… something else. “My water jus’ broke.”

His smile vanished. The joyful, boyish energy was instantly replaced by a wide-eyed, stark terror. His brain, usually so quick, so nimble, seemed to short-circuit. He took a step towards you, moving too fast on the uneven, sandy ground. His foot caught on an unseen divot, and he went down with a spectacular, ungraceful flail, landing hard on his side in a foot of water with a loud SPLASH.

And you laughed. It wasn’t a giggle; it was a full-throated, body-shaking laugh that felt so good, so right, in that absurd, perfect moment. The sight of this legendary performer, this global icon, flat on his ass in the Atlantic Ocean because you’d announced you were in labor, was the most ridiculous, most wonderful thing you had ever seen.

“Ow,” he grumbled, pushing himself up, spitting out a mouthful of saltwater. He looked at you, indignant, but the sight of you doubled over, shaking with laughter, was infectious. A small, sheepish grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

And then another sensation hit you. A tightening in your lower back, a deep, band-like pressure that wrapped around your entire abdomen, squeezing the air from your lungs. The laughter caught in your throat, turning into a sharp, involuntary gasp. Your hands flew to your belly, your knuckles white. You leaned forward, bracing yourself against the sudden, intense cramp.

The grin on Michael’s face evaporated, replaced by a renewed, and this time fully justified, panic. The absurdity of his fall was forgotten. He scrambled out of the water, rushing to your side. “What? What is it? Are y’okay? What’s happenin’?”

“It’s okay,” you panted, squeezing your eyes shut as the contraction peaked. “It’s jus’… a contraction. Jus’ breathe.”

“Breathe? Breathe?! You’re havin’ a contraction! We need t’go! We need to—” He was vibrating with a frantic, nervous energy, looking wildly around the empty beach as if he expected a maternity ward to just magically appear. “Our stuff! We need t’get our stuff! Where are th’ towels? Did y’bring your bag? Oh god, we’re not prepared!”

“Michael,” you said, your voice firm as the wave of pain subsided, leaving you breathless and shaky. You grabbed his arm, your grip surprisingly strong. “Look at me. Breathe. With me. In… n’ out.” You demonstrated, a slow, steady inhale and exhale. He mimicked you, his chest rising and falling in a jerky, uncoordinated rhythm.

“Okay,” he said, nodding, trying to get a grip. “Okay. I’m good. I’m calm. I’m the husband. I’m in charge.” He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked at you with a new, determined resolve. “Let’s go. La Perruque is waiting with th’ car. Let’s have this baby.”

The short walk back to the beach house was a blur of frantic activity. Michael was a whirlwind, grabbing towels, your bag, your forgotten hat, all while keeping a hovering, anxious hand on your back. Mike La Perruque, Michael’s ever-present security guard and driver, was leaning against a rented SUV, his face a stoic mask, though his eyes held a flicker of amusement at Michael’s flustered state. He opened the back door without a word.

Michael helped you in, climbing in beside you as Mike slid into the driver’s seat. “Savannah Memorial Hospital, Mike,” Michael said, his voice tight with command. “N’ step on it.”

The ride inland was a chaotic symphony of Michael’s nerves. He held your hand through two more contractions, each one stronger than the last, wincing every time you squeezed his fingers.

The room was a sterile, white box, the smell of antiseptic heavy in the air. You were on the bed, your legs in stirrups, a whirlwind of doctors and nurses a blur of blue scrubs around you. Michael was by your head, a pale, wide-eyed specter in a paper mask. “You’re doin’ s’good, baby, just push! You can do it! PUSH!”

“One more! One more big one, I can see the head!” the doctor shouted. You were screaming now, a raw, primal sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. Michael had tears streaming down his face, whispering encouragement, his hand gripping yours so hard you thought it might break. “They’re almost here, our little sunshine, they’re almost here…”

And then, a sudden, blessed silence, followed by a thin, reedy cry. A squalling, indignant wail that was the most beautiful sound you had ever heard. The nurse held up a small, purple, writhing creature, covered in vernix. “‘S a girl!”

You were propped up in bed, the adrenaline and pain fading into a warm, hazy exhaustion. The sterile white room was quiet now, the chaotic energy replaced by a profound, gentle peace. In your arms, wrapped in a soft, pink blanket, was a miracle. She was tiny, her features a scrunched-up, perfect miniature of a person. Her skin was still a little blotchy, and she had a shocking amount of dark, wispy hair plastered to her tiny head. Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over you, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other hovering over the baby, afraid to touch, unable to look away.

“She’s perfect,” he whispered, his voice thick with an emotion so profound it was almost painful. He reached out, his long, elegant finger gently stroking the baby’s petal-soft cheek. “Absolutely perfect.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes shining with tears. “She has y’nose.”

You smiled, a tired, watery smile. “And y’eyes.”

“We did it,” he breathed, leaning in to press a soft, reverent kiss to your forehead. “We made her. Our little Sunshine.”

Just then, there was a soft knock on the door. Mike La Perruque poked his head in, a rare, gentle smile on his usually serious face. He held up a large, clunky Nokia phone, the screen lit up. “Sorry t’interrupt. The nanny has the kids on the phone. They’ve been beggin’ t’say hello t’their new sister.”

Michael’s face lit up, a whole new kind of joy washing over him. He took the phone carefully, pressing it to his ear. You watched as he listened, his expression softening into one of pure, unadulterated love.

“Hi, my babies,” he cooed, his voice a soft, gentle murmur. “Yes, I’m here. Mama’s here too… N’ guess what? You have a new baby sister… Yes! She’s here! She’s so, s’beautiful… Her name is Sunshine… Yes, like th’ sunshine in the sky… Do you want to say hello?”

He turned the phone, angoring it so the small, hopeful voices on the other end could drift into the quiet room.

“Hi, baby sissy!” Prince’s small, clear voice chirped, full of a big-brother pride that made your heart ache.

“Baby?” came Paris’s tiny, sweet lilt, a question full of wide-eyed wonder. “Hi, baby.”

Michael held the phone closer to the baby’s bundled form, and for a moment, the four of you—you, Michael, and the two small voices crackling through a phone miles away—were all together, a family, welcoming its newest member into the world. He looked at you, his eyes full of a lifetime of promises, a silent, breathtaking affirmation of everything you had just created, together.

— 𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄

𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐃 ♡ tagged: @angelofmikes @mjssolocup @king-mila @pheebsglow @camillemonroe @neverstreett @imeatingheehee @cottonkhandyy @loveposiie @khxna @luvs4harrington @snoopyreincarnated3

the interview process was long and tedious and happened over a few weeks as michael personally reviewed over applications, made the phone calls to let which applicants will be getting interviewed where and when, and conducted the interviews process with various questions;

"during times of stress how do you handle the chaos of the children?"

"what was the reason for leaving the last family you works for, and what made you interested in caring for my family?"

"do you have any formal education in child care, child education, or child development?"

"are you ready to take on not just my children's schedules but my own, and what that entails?"

he wants the best for his children and you just happen to be that. you're one of two of the last applicant who progressed to the very last interview, and watching the other applicant go first and leave with an unreadable expression only worsened your worries. and when you think everything is going good your nerves are on edge and heart pounding against your chest when michael rose from his seat across from you and extending his hand out to you. placing trembling hands on the edge of the conference desk to push your seat out and away so you can also stand, wiping your sweaty hand on your slacks before extending it to meet michael's firm grip, "congratulations, you're hired."

you didn't formally meet the children until your second day, you're first day was just you getting acclimated. already having signed every form of paper possible upon getting hired, all michael requested of you for your first day was to show up to neverland ranch at 7 a.m sharp. giving you a proper tour of neverland ranch before returning back to the house and to his office to go over the kids routine.

michael's eyes follow where your body bends to reach inside of the bag you brought with you, eyes widening just a bit when you pull out a dark green journal and pen. flipping the journal open and clicking the pen to jot down the small bit of what he had said about their schedules before he went silent, only the sounds of pen on paper filling the office.

when there's nothing more left to write down you peer your gaze up just a bit, but michael's eyes are trained on the journal in your lap, mouth slightly agape. "you can continue, mr. jackson."

the sound of your voice pulls his eyes back up to meet your own, licking his lips, "right," he continues, coughing lightly, "'nd it's michael, no formalities."

and he gets amused when you give him a curt nod before moving your pen to the very top of the page and write something down, probably something along the lines of no use of formalities.

only further getting amused by you when just before you leave you pull a container full of various cookies out, "i don't know what they're favorite is so i just made small batches of chocolate chip, snickerdoodle, and sugar cookies with sprinkles," you explain, fingers gripped around the nice container you bought specifically for this, not wanting to hand michael jackson a tupperware container.

hand it over, feeling uneasy when all he does is start at the container now in his hands, "you and the other staff can have some too of course, they're not just for the children," rambling on.

when michael looks up there's a small smile on his face, "thank you, we 'ppreciate it. they're are going t'love them for dessert."

introductions with the children go well, michael makes them thank you for the cookies, and it really doesn't take too long for them to warm up to you. it only took prince a few hours to approach you to ask if you would play with him, and if there's one thing about childcare that you will never get over is their small voices when they're still a little shy, which didn't last long with prince once he got comfortable with you.

and with blanket it took no time. the five of you sat around the dinning table as the kids ate their breakfast, with prince and paris sat next to each other, paris next to michael who is at the head of the table, you were in the seat right in front of paris while blanket was in his father arms, already having had a bottle. when michael was nursing his glass of orange juice that's when you feel it, a chubby hand lightly against your forearm.

taking blanket's smaller hand in yours, the natural movement he's making seem like the two of you are shaking hands. "hi, blanket," you muse, grinning when the infant begins to coo and show off his gummy smile. his arms now fully trying to reach you.

"he's tryin' t'escspe my arms, d'you wan' him?" the question has you thinking for a second, but you do agree.

"yeah, i'll take him." opening your arms and reaching out to grab the infant. blanket instantly settling within your arms, resting his head onto your shoulder, his cheek squishing adorably against it that has michael bringing a finger to sooth at his other chubby cheek.

however, it's paris that takes some time to fully warm up to you. she still interacted with you, but she never sought you out like how prince would take your hand in his and guide you off somewhere, most likely somewhere with an elaborate toy set up or the makeshift fort he built. or how blanket started to naturally cling to you whenever you were around. but paris seemed to always longingly stare at you whenever you interacted with her brothers. you always tried to include her, making the space for her to join in welcome as you remember michael telling you that paris is interested in whatever prince has.

you didn't take it personally, you figured it would take time since during the first meeting she had clung to michael's leg, using it to hide and peek from as she'd like. and you related to her, being a shy yourself during childhood, knowing that within time and gentleness that she will hopefully get more comfortable around you.

and that she did. a few weeks into caring for them it was quiet time. blanket was down for afternoon nap and this was the time where you'd put on a movie for the kids, usually a disney one and they could choose from watching the movie, a quiet activity, or to take a nap as well. prince had insisted on watching tarzan just end up curled asleep on the couch before jane and tarzan even meet, while paris chose to do a quiet activity of coloring.

taking this time you'd often journal in the very same dark green journal about anything and everything, a habit you carried for middle school, through high school, through college, and now through adulthood. you used to journal right before bed when you were younger, but the hours of being a nanny are from the start of the morning to the end of night, so you often opt for any free time you have to do so.

"wha's that?" a small voice asks.

feeling startled you look you see paris standing in front of you, trying to peer into the journal on your lap, "oh, it's just my journal," you respond, showing her the outside of the cover that's a little worn at the edges and the inside of the lined pages where you write.

her eyes sparkle with curiosity as you show the journal off, "is it for coloring?"

you're eyebrows furrow as you look at it, flipping through its ages, "it can be," you don't see why it couldn't be, "but i use it to write."

it's then that paris moves from in front of you to now sit squished against your side, "'nd write what?"

the question makes you smile, remembering how michael and her were sat at the dinning table just being dinner with sheets of blank paper and different colored crayons as she practiced writing her name. "i write anything," you begin, moving the journal from your lap into hers and allowing her to flip through the pages, "mainly about how i'm feeling."

"oh," it comes out quiet, like she's thinking about something.

and as you watch her an idea comes to mind, "y'know, i could get you a journal like mine."

your words instantly has paris's head turning to look at you, eyes wide like saucers, "really?" she exclaims.

chuckling at her excitement and the fact that she's still at the age where r's still sound like w's as you nod, "really, and we could practice your writing in it too," you solidify.

that's when paris's arms shoot and wrap around your torso, hugging you and squeezing her eyes shut, "than' you."

the moment tugs at your heart, wrapping your arms around to embrace her, "you're welcome, sweet girl."

and when you left that night you returned the next morning with baby pink journal, a few pack of stickers, and a glitter pen set.

it's truly fate on how well you and michael work together. falling into an easy rhythm within no time between the two of you and the children. you'd arrive at neverland every morning at 6, which gives you just enough time to say your hello's to the rest of the staff around the house before the children need to be woken up. you've developed routine of swigging by the kitchen to see what the chef is cooking for breakfast and snag a small bite of whatever is available, usually fruit when the chef's back is turned. and more times than not it leaves you and michael enough time to do a debrief of what the day entails, which is something that isn't really needed since you stay a little later on sunday nights to go over the next week, but still happens regardless. and through time it developed from that, figuring which one was going to wake which child up to random small talk, you're often the person who catches michael up on whatever sitcom show is airing on tv while he's tells you something from the news.

just outside the kid's bedrooms michael and you play rock paper scissors, the both of you hitting your open palms with your first as you whisper the words. and when you go for your safety, the reliable rock, while michael just had to go for paper you groan, throwing your head back.

looking back at him he's grinning at the way your shoulders are slightly slouched, "out of three?" you attempt, wiggling your eyebrows at the father.

an airy chuckle passes from his lips, "i've woken the lil' dragon everyday this week, by time i've gotten to wake the princess."

you and michael started referring to prince as little dragon when it comes to waking him up in the morning. he's stubborn, and it's hard to get the boy up and out of bed without persistent gentle pats and rubs to the head or back and encouraging words. you two try to hold off on turning the lights on in the kids room to get the up, finding it too abrupt, so more times than not the only light is either from the hallway or the raising sun through the curtains. while little miss paris is a dream to wake up, all it takes is a warm hand circling her back that gets her up and stretching in bed.

everyone knows that michael captures everything when it comes to his kids. from home videos, sports events, recital, anything, he finds it worthy of being caught on film.

and that includes the hard days. blanket had come down with cold that had only made abnormally fussy, and you would be lying if you said you weren't relieved when michael returned home. because entertaining prince and paris while maintaining blanket's symptoms and staying on top of his doses and still making sure that the two old kids don't get too close to blanket as siblings do so they don't fall sick as well.

michael took over for the evening essentially, he was with blanket for a little bit before you thought about how if anyone can get sick from being in close proximity to blanket it should probably be you, so you two swapped while he wore down the older kids and got them settled for the night.

while he was handling bath and bed time you were able to give blanket some purée that michael request the chef to make in batches and a bottle along with a night dose of medication. and instead of retreating back to couch that you've been on for most of the day, you retreated to blanket's nursery. sighing when you're tired body hits the rocking chair, instantly getting into the subconscious movement of rocking the infant to sleep. and in doing so you're own eyelids get heavy with each blink.

unknowingly michael had been looking for you after putting both prince and paris to bed. it takes him returning to the hallway where the kid's rooms reside to notice you and blanket in the rocker, watching the gentle movements of the rubs you're giving blanket's back. he doesn't fully know how to process how or what he's thinking, and to be honest michael hasn't been able to form a full solid opinion on you since the day you met. not that that's bad, you just seem too good to be true, and the way at which you deeply care for his children only confuses him more. knowing what it means for them to reach their development milestones along with ensuring that they are healthily expressing themselves both identity wise and emotionally. and it doesn't help that you're smart, one of the old family you nannied for during high school being generous enough to fund you going to school for psychology, and beautiful, your go to outfit being jeans with either a loose t-shirt or sweater it's effortless but pull it off too well and often more times than not you opt to have your curls up and away from blanket's strong grip.

and he knows it isn't right to develop a crush? or a deep admiration for his nanny, it gets in the way of you being able to do you job and it gets in the way of michael being able to form coherent thoughts around you, not to mention that he's twenty years your senior. he's kept it at bay since you started working, but he can't help but have the reason of why you split with your previous family you worked for loom over her head, the reason being that the kids you cared for just got too old for a nanny, entering adolescence. and although it was a mutual decision between you and the family, he doesn't think he could ever come to the conclusion that him and his children won't need you.

pulling himself out of his thoughts he retreats and returns with his camcorder. catching the sweet moment as a forever memory, just in case there is every a time you decide to leave, maybe to leave to pursue further education (although michael would happily fund it and keep you employed at the same time) or to start your own family (which he secretly dreads), for the kids to have moments they can look back on with you in them.

you who start staying later than you need to. masking it in the disguise of wanting to help michael with whatever chore is left, which is true, but you also selfishly enjoy the alone time with michael. the nights where you stay and help pick up toys and put them back and arrange them, which sometimes turn into small fights between you and michael when either one of you throw a stuffed animal at each other and quickly turn your backs before the other turns around. or the quieter nights spent listening to the jazz station on the radio as michael washes the dishes while you dry them. it's chores that you and michael really don't have to do, he has cleaners.

prince can pursued anyone, including his father and you. which is exactly how sleepovers became a special occasion.

the hard bargaining wasn't even getting his father to say yes, it was michael having to tell blanket that you may have something you'd want to do for yourself or with friends instead of having a sleepover with them.

which was a hard pill to swallow for both, but prince still being young ran from his father and straight to you. collapsing into you arms with tears brimming in his eyes, "please have a sleepover with us," his small voice messing up the pronouncement of a few words from pushing his face into your sweater, smoothing a gentle hand through the boy's hair to regulate him.

upon looking up to search for michael, he's already there, a hand on his hip, "he wan's y'to stay 'nd have a sleepover, but i told him that y'may have plans," he explains, walking over and trying to pull the boy from off of you, but he clings to your waist.

looking down at only the peek of blonde hair, you frown then smile, looking back at michael, "'m free friday night so i really don't mind."

"you really don-"

"'s alright, michael. and besides, haven't you been wanting to build that jumbo fort, prince?"

the mention of a fort and his name has prince pulling himself back from where he hides his face against your stomach, hands still crumpled in the material of your sweater. "yeah," it's quiet and meek as he nods his head.

you hand falls from his head down to his rosy cheek to wipe his tears streaks, "then no more cryin', we've get to look forward to friday."

which is exactly how you spent a friday night building the biggest fort you have every built with michael and the kids, the night entailing movies and ice cream and books and flashlight shows.

michael who has selfish thoughts whenever you're around. often during mealtimes when the five of you intertwine hands to bless the food.

he knows it's wrong to fantasize about the five of you being a real family whenever you arrive extra early just because you promised the kids special pancakes.

michael shuffles into the kitchen, expected to see the chef, which he does, but they're off to the side chopping fruits while you're the one at the stove. the sound of your name falling softly from michael's tongue has you looking up.

and he knows he's beyond gone when the wide smile that spreads across your face gives him butterflies, because it shouldn't.

"want a pancake?" you ask, as michael moves closer, turning your head back to pan to pay attention.

"wha' are you doin' this for?" he's close enough to you for you to feel his breath on your neck and for him to smell the faint scent of your perfume mixing with the scent of your hair products.

"for the kids," of course it is he thinks, peering down into the pan to see various sizes of pancake shapes, "gonna turn them into designs, like a monkey or somethin'" you explain, flipping the pancakes once their tops get all bubbly.

and when that's done you turn your head again, as best you can with michael close in your proximity, he might as well be glued to your back. "d'you want a pancake?" asking the father again as the two of you lock eyes.

"yeah, i'll take a pancake."

your head swiftly nods and once again focuses back on the pancakes. hearing shuffles of michael's feet and no longer feeling the presence of his body close to yours, "gonna go wake up the kids for breakfas'."

michael who secretly refers to paris and you as his girls.

all three of his children are blessings, but there was nothing more exciting than to find out he was having a daughter. and now with you in their lives he's thankful to have such a positive and strong woman figure in their lives.

lingering around in the mornings, body pressed against the bathroom doorframe as he watches you do paris's hair for the day as she sits on the bathroom counter. he can do his daughter's hair, but mostly just in simple plates and ponytails, while you can do the more detailed hairstyles.

and he loves nothing more than to come home and notice that the two of you has a dress up day. either by the colorful marks on your face and the precise blends of color on paris's or by paris running into her father's arms right when he steps through the door to show off her nails that you painted while he later notices the messy marks of nail polish on your nails and the surrounding skin at dinner.

michael who keeps a polaroid of you and the kids in his wallet. one taken on blanket's first birthday that he cherishes whenever he's away. often tracing a too large finger over your faces, missing the cheerful chaos of the kids and you no matter he's at a buzzing event or a quiet hotel.

the four of you are all wearing tiny birthday hats for blanket's birthday party. the birthday sits calmly in your lap while michael attempts to direct the old two around.

"no, prince, on her other side," his voice already defeated as the young boy keeps wanting to pose his own way.

"i wanna d'it like this though," prince pouts, moving to stand right behind where you sit on the floor and throw his small arms over your neck and hook his chin over your shoulder.

"let him be," you muse through a small grin that you shoot michael, the two of you know that prince is going to win the battle either way.

"okay, paris," just when he starts paris settles against your side, removing a secure hand around blanket's belly and using it to wrap around paris and pull he snug under your arm, "good, good," clicking his fingers together to get blanket's attention facing forward.

"everyone say happy first birthday, blanket."

and when it's said and the four of you are all smiling at the end, there's a click, that encases the memory forever.

© yearlyjams , a reposted work from my archived blog

After the news broke last night, the first thing Michael did was call your landline from his hotel room in Bangkok. In a matter of a few hours, tickets have been bought and concert dates have been postponed a few days late because Michael specifically told everyone in a quiet, distressed manner, that the one thing he needed for just a fucking second is to come back to you to ground himself. 

You heave a deep sigh and start nibbling on your nail again, eyes staring a hole into the clock on the wall. The quick glance to the junk on the tabletop again, you bite back a sob and pinch the bridge between your brows. God, how did everything turn to absolute shit in such an abrupt way? It's been so difficult trying to avoid thinking of how Michael's faring right now.

Your Michael. The sweet, loving man who has been your favourite person for so many years. Remembering the phone call last night, you hold back another sniffle and manage to turn off the TV. 

The phone rings and your heart drops. You've only just ended a call with your friend, just learning about what had transpired hours prior from her. And you knew in your gut that this was Michael. Despite your wishes, you also knew he'd learned about what had happened as well.

Hurriedly picking up the telephone receiver, you squeak out in an urgent tone. “Mike?” 

From the other side of the telephone, a shaky breath follows. Then, a sniffle. And you could collapse from the ache in your heart at hearing the sounds he was making. A shaky intake of his breath makes you weak.

“Sweetheart… I…” 

“Mike, I know.” 

“I would… I would nev– God, I wouldn't dare to—” 

You interrupt him with a firm voice, trying to ignore the tears in your eyes. “Don't, Mike. I'm here with you, okay? I know you. Come home. You need to come home for just a bit. I don't want you there alone.” 

“Me neither,” he breathes out, another sniffle. “I've already told them. They're buyin’ a ticket for me and I'm comin’ to you tomorrow.” 

“Good,” you nod to yourself, worryingly gnawing on your bottom lip. Another moment of silence brews, and you clear your throat.

“Mike?” 

“... Hm?” 

“Everything will be okay. Alright? Believe me on this, honey.” 

His half-hearted hum of acknowledgement and the silence that followed brings an unwanted uneasiness in your chest. 

Ever since then, the feeling hasn't left. And all you could do is wait for his arrival. The ticking clock on the wall feels as if it's mocking you, repeatedly telling you how time passes by and with every second, everything inside you tears apart even further, helplessly unraveling. 

The front door opens, you hear. 

Your eyes immediately flick from the clock on the wall to the hallway, your own feet taking a few steps towards the sounds of the other set of footsteps. When Michael appears in your eyesight, the distraught expression on his face causes a twinge in your chest, and you instinctively hold out your arms. 

“Sweetheart,” he whispers with a crack in his voice, and the both of you rush towards each other and the hug he gives you is the most desperate he's ever given to anyone. 

Your hand gently strokes the back of his head, and you pull him closer, if even possible. “It's okay, Mike, it's okay,” you whisper, knowing those words mean nothing to him at the moment but clueless on how else to get his mind to become less of a mess. 

“Hello,” he greets you with an effort to sound stable, and you only hug him tighter in response. 

*Long flight, hm? Why don't you go wash up? Are you hungry?” You bombard him, trying to bring some sense of normalcy to the situation, lying to yourself as well as him. Reaching a shaky hand to cradle the side of his face, you're met with a gaze of a tired, resigned man. 

“I'll go take a shower,” Michael replies with a soft voice. “I'm not hungry, sweetheart. Thank you. Can we just rest? Are you… are you busy tonight?” 

The hesitation in his voice and question makes your frown deepen. Shaking your head, you reassure him with a small smile. “Nothing tonight, Mikey. I'm right here with you, okay? Always.” 

He nods along to your words, biting his lip nervously. Nudging for him to head to your bedroom, you help him with his bags, despite his protests. The walk to your room is slow, timid. Dropping the bags with a thump on the carpet, you move to the drawer and pull out a pair of his silk pyjamas. Michael observes this as he unbuttons his shirt, his gaze unreadable. Soft, tender… almost terrified. 

Glancing his way, you lock eyes with him, and you tilt your head questioningly. Asking him with a gentle voice, “What is it, honey?” Putting the clothes on the foot of your bed, you step closer to him, holding out your hands. 

Responding immediately, Michael grips onto your hands as if they're his lifeline. 

And maybe for him, at this very moment, they might as well be. 

“I…” he trails off, shaking his head. “I'm not sure.” 

Detecting the unwillingness to explore his feelings just yet, you only nod and leave a gentle peck on his cheek. “Go ahead, Mike. I'll be here,” you whisper to him. The man nods again before leaning in to kiss you on the forehead. Shifting away, your hands pull apart ever so slowly. The last thing either of you wants is to part right now, the need for comfort almost overtaking everything else that needs to be done. 

As he shifts away to the bathroom, you quietly decide to make yourself busy and reheat some light dinner for Michael. Heading to the kitchen, you take your time as the sound of the shower running echoes from your bathroom. You know he's still trying to gather his thoughts, registering the events that had led up to him standing here instead of preparing for the show in Bangkok. You're also sure he's trying to simultaneously think of ways to handle this. Expecting it would be practically impossible for him to have a good rest tonight, your heart twists even further at the thought. 

About twenty minutes later, Michael finally walks out of your bedroom. His voice calls for you timidly from the hallway. “Sweetheart?” 

When he appears in the kitchen, his eyes soften at the sight of you carefully plating what he assumes is dinner for him. Walking up to you, Michael gently rests his palm on your back, pressing a kiss on your temple. He whispers in your ear, “You didn't have to do this, my love.” 

You turn to him with a soft smile, reaching to stroke the apple of his cheek. “I wanted to. You need to eat something, honey.” 

He wants to say no. He wants to tell you he's tired and wants to sleep and forget the world, preferably with you next to him. But at the look of your worried gaze on his body, his resolve weakens. And at the sight of your smile becoming more dire, it completely disappears.

“We're sharin’, okay?” He asks after a moment's thought, not letting you answer as he pulls you to sit next to him. 

Nodding your agreement, you only stare at him as his whole figure relaxes just a smidge, the tension from earlier dissipating as he stares off into space, chewing on the food absentmindedly. You wish it didn't take zoning out for him to relax, but when his mind is a mess and there's nothing that can be done to fix it instantly, this is the next best move. 

You let Michael feed you, seeing his withdrawn gaze nonetheless. Tightening your grip on the back of his chair, you could only hope the helplessness brewing in between the two of you lessen with time. 

•

It doesn't take much for Michael to agree with you over heading to bed after dinner. His tiredness didn't only come from the events from the day before; he's been touring for months, the traveling as well as the third leg of the tour taking a huge toll on his body. He usually doesn't mind, the noise and cheering from the fans keep him sated and motivating him to push harder and forget about the fatigue. But as he was forcefully and cruelly dragged back down to the humble ground, postponing the shows and faced with a jarring reality, the only thing Michael wants to do is sleep. And he thanks everything in the stars that you're there with him. 

You're tucking him in now, not unlike a mother comforting a child. He misses being taken care of by you, and he constantly wishes for it every night. But to have this whole thing happen for it? He doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. 

As you slowly pull away, Michael's hand shoots out and gently grips your upper arm, stopping you from moving any further. 

“Where are you going, sweetheart?” The mild panic lacing his words breaks your heart. 

“I'm just changing, Mikey. I'll be right back in a second.” 

Letting out a low sigh of relief, Michael nods and throws you an apologetic look. You hush him and leave a kiss on his temple before parting fully away. 

Changing into a simple T-shirt and silk pants, you return to the bed and switch off the bedside lamp. The room goes dark, the only source of light coming from the moon through the thick curtains heavily pressed against the glass window. The quiet isn't very quiet, when the sounds of Michael's breathing as well as yours fill the silence, comfort in its wake. 

In spite of this, you're wide awake. And it doesn't take much to know how awake he is, too. Turning to the side, you face him in the dark. Following the outline of his figure swallowed by shadows with your gaze, stopping when it reaches his face. Some of it is exposed by the soft light from outside, and gives you the terrible help of seeing his eyes filled with hurt and mild frustration.

“Mike?” You ask him gently. 

His breathing hitches.

“Mike,” you ask him again, desperate this time. “Please talk to me.” 

Michael closes his eyes tightly, as if shutting out everything. His brows furrow, but it lessens when his hand reaches slowly to take yours, resting in between the two of you on the center of the bed. 

“You believe in me, don't you?” He asks with a crack in his voice, after a few moments of painful quiet. 

“Of course, I do,” you reply in a firm tone. “There's nothing else to believe. Not a damn thing.” 

Swallowing harshly, he opens his eyes and looks at you, expression filled with understanding and deep affection. “I was just thinkin’ of how when this gets worse, and how I might lose you.” 

Your heart stops. You look at him with the most offended look you could muster before nudging his chest, speaking brokenly. “Mike, stop. What are you talking about?” 

He shakes his head and turns to lay on his side properly, gripping onto your hand and kisses it feverishly as he keeps his gaze locked onto yours. With a soft whisper, he says, “Sweetheart… this is gonna get worse. You know it. I know it, too.”

You're about to protest when he continues, his voice becoming more sullen and words lacing with a deepening ache. “These people are going to do everything they can to get what they want… and it might hurt you in the long run, too. I don't want that, baby. Not with you. And I don't want anything to change the way you look at me. I can't take that. Not when others will do– do the same,” he breaks off with a sob, and your heart breaks into a million pieces. 

You shift closer and hush him, wiping his tears and kissing his forehead, cheeks, and every bit of his face your lips could reach. “Honey, please, don't think that.” 

Michael shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, pressing his trembling lips to your skin. Sobbing quietly, he speaks. “I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I never thought they would— that he would—” he cuts himself off, shaking away his thoughts urgently.

“Baby, it's going to be alright,” you whisper to him desperately, softly stroking his back up and down. “We're going to have so many people supporting us, you’ll see. I know the truth, and so do others. Nothing will change that.” 

He slightly pulls away, and your chest throbs at the sight of tears running down his cheeks. His eyes remain closed, and he bites back another sob, making you cradle his face softly and press your forehead against his. 

“Mike… Baby, can you look at me?” 

He opens his eyes ever so slightly, meeting your gaze. The wisps of his shaky breaths can be felt on your skin, and your thumb strokes the apple of his cheek. You continue, voice quiet against the fire burning underneath your skin and the agony brewing under his. 

“Do you remember all those years ago, when we hit a rough patch, and I promised you that I wouldn't ever leave you? Unless you tell me to?” 

Michael only nods, eyes welling up again. 

“Well, are you telling me to leave now?” 

“God, no, sweetheart,” he instantly replies with a hoarse voice, horror and heartbreak marring his face. “I would never do that.” 

“Then with all that's coming out way, I'm not fucking leaving. Ever,” you emphasize, nodding reassuringly at him. “Not when they're throwing those tabloid junk at my face about your supposed secret scandal, not when the fans go crazy at me, and certainly not when a good-for-nothing piece of shit decides to rain hellfire on the sweetest man I know.” 

The man in front of you stays quiet, his laboured breathing calming down. You continue on. “Mikey. You're not defenseless. You're strong. You've been surviving through so much bullshit since forever. You got people behind you, and most especially you will never have to worry about me. Not when I'm with you.”

You let out a shaky breath, heartstrings tugging at the sight of the man you're in love with looking so defeated, and added quietly. “I'm always okay when I'm with you.” 

Michael's face crumbles, and he pulls you into a hug again, not letting any chance of space in between your bodies. Melting at his warmth, you quietly hold him just as tightly. 

“This is big, baby,” he whispers softly. “It'll only grow bigger from here.” 

“And so will we,” you immediately respond in a firm manner. “We can handle this, Mikey.” 

It's quiet for just a second, before Michael swallows and nods. Closing his eyes, he sighs out as he pulls you closer. 

“I believe you.” 

•

Michael's eyes open a little before sunrise, and he sees you already awake, staring off into space as you stroke his chest slowly. The room feels warmer, and though it's still dark, it feels as if he could see you better. His heart lightens up at the sight of the domesticity you're presenting to him, with him. For a few glorious minutes, he's forgotten everything outside the sanctuary you've made for him. 

“Baby?” He slowly speaks with a hoarse voice from the night of crying, intruding on the lull of the dawn and the quaint sanctity he's made up in his head.

Your eyes flicker to his face, softening up at his half asleep expression. “Morning, honey… how are you feeling?” 

Staying quiet for a moment, he feels the warmth of your palm running up and down his chest, focusing on your breathing and the way your worried gaze lands on his face. Michael clears his throat. The fatigue from last night catching up to him. The shock, disbelief and terror are slowly creeping up his back.

But he feels something else too. 

“Angry,” he says, almost thoughtfully. Your face contorts into a surprise, and your hand stops its movements on his chest. 

“Can I know more?”

His eyes are swollen, and there are remnants of hurt and pain in his eyes, but even as the both of you are laying down, he holds himself in such a way as to reassure you, that he's long past the ache taking over his soul. 

Biting his lip, Michael sniffles and reaches out to take your hand, ghosting his breath against the skin. He replies to your question with a soft voice, tender. “I could have never expected this… not from people that I'd cared about. I don't think I've ever done anything to warrant this kind of… contempt. I truly hope I didn't.”

You shake your head in response, murmuring softly. “You didn't.” 

Michael exhales shakily, “Maybe if we'd just have a talk, with all parties involved—” 

“They're past talking, Mike,” you interrupt him, guilt gnawing at your chest for  denying his hopes for a more peaceful approach. “Not with what's been said and done. They knew it would take, and the news fell for it hook, line, and sinker. They're fucking animals.” 

A sigh escapes him. “Yeah, sweetheart,” he sniffles again. “You're right. But I can't blame the news crowd… it's headline material, for sure,” he chuckles mirthlessly. “And once again, when it's me, it's not anything good.” 

“Baby…” you softly call for him, at a loss for words on how to tell him otherwise. Because that would've been a lie, and the both of you know it. 

“I'm so tired, sweetheart,” Michael whispers against the cold breeze. Holding back a stilted sob, he continues. “Everything I do, it just never lands right on these people. And here they are, the minute a false attempt at bringing me down happens, they're bendin’ over backwards to fan the fire. Always perceivin’ me, always snaking around my life.”

Staying silent, you let him express his frustration, wiping away the tears brimming in his eyes. 

“I just…” he shakes his head, his frown deepening. “I just thought they'd come to care for me the way I do them.”

The ache in your chest expands and clenches your heart painfully, its weeping at the unjust of it all consuming your whole being. You cover up a sniffle and clear your throat, “I think nobody is as much of a loving person as you are, Michael.” 

He looks at you then. “There's you,” he whispers. And your ache lifts just a little, recognizing the familiar look of adoration in his eyes. 

You shift, digging your elbow onto the bed and resting your head on the free hand. Gaze locking with his, you ask him softly. “Have you thought of what you're going to do?” 

Michael absentmindedly presses a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes having that faraway look. With a voice finding its strength, he answers. “A public statement. And I'm continuing the tour. They're not stoppin’ me from that. And when it gets blown out of proportion…” 

“Which you think will happen,” you remark, looking at him carefully. The man nods and tightens his grip on your hand. 

“Yes. And when it does, I'll… I'll be ready, I guess. I know the truth,” his gaze flickers to yours, desperation resurfacing in the depths of the brown of his eyes, “And so do you, right?” 

“Of course, Mike,” you whisper, nodding incessantly. 

He sniffles again, eyes welling up. “Then, that's enough for me.” 

You take your hand and place it against his cheek. With a quiet, trembling voice, you tell him. “Michael. Bad things happen to good people. But no matter how bad it gets, there's always a light in you that's bright– and bright enough to help you out of anything. All I know is that, and how much I love you. And how much I wish you're in the better hands of fate.” 

Michael manages a half smile, but the genuinity shines through. He shifts and you pull him into your arms properly, his head resting on your chest. Letting out a deep and heavy sigh, he speaks into the quiet. 

“You're my strength, sweetheart. Thank you for being that.” 

The both of you hold each other through the dawn making its way through the curtains. His body firmly pressed against yours, the warmth shared filling every crevice of his heart. He's absolutely downright terrified of what's to come. He knows there will be a moment soon, where anxiety, fear and crippling melancholia will come creeping in and knocking on the doors of his mental state. 

But in this room, on this particular day? 

Just the presence of you is enough to tell him that he'll be alright. 

thinking about otw!michael who’s been working up the courage all afternoon to ask y/n the question that’s been lingering at the back of his mind.

“just ask, michael,” he whispered to himself, eyebrows drawn together in frustration at his own hesitation, “the worse she can say is no,”

instead, he ends up following y/n round the house like a lost puppy, opening his mouth every few seconds, before snapping it shut promptly, unable to force the words out.

“you okay?” she finally asks, eyebrow raised.

his head darts up, eyes wide like a deer in headlights, like he’d just been caught doing something bad.

“hm?”

“michael, i know there’s somethin’ on your mind,” she says, hands on hips. sometimes he cursed how well she knew him.

otw!michael who plays with the friendship bracelet on his wrist, before looking to her shyly, unsure how to approach the topic.

in his mind, he imagined taking her to the garden, or maybe sitting in the living room, holding her hands, and asking it sweetly.

“can i ask you somethin’?”

y/n nods.

“would you…teach me how to kiss?” he blurts out. nothing like he imagined.

she blinks at him, words struggling to form in her throat.

“‘cause-,” he starts, the words rushing out of his mouth, “i don’t mean-it doesn’t have to be you, i just…i dont really know how and…i trust you,”

otw!michael who somehow finds himself sat on the edge of his bed, hands on his lap.

he looks up for a split second, his gaze on her lips, before he looks back down to his hands again, the tips of his ears burning hot.

”just relax,” y/n says, her voice soft as she looks to him, “you’re stiff as a board,”

“can’t help it,” he mumbles back, shoulders curling in on themselves as y/n sits on her heels, taking one of his hands in hers. that makes him go a little looser.

“my heart’s beatin’ so fast,” he whispers, eyes wide, “look,” he takes her hand, spreading her hand flat against his chest.

“it is,” she says, “just relax, baby,”

otw!michael who just nods, and he swears he can feel his heart stutter at the nickname. baby.

he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, his entire focus on y/n as she leans forwards, her breath hot against his lips.

she’s gentle with him at first, her hand cupping his cheek, thumb brushing over his pretty, heart shaped lips.

he goes less tense as she pouts at him, nodding for him to copy.

and when their lips meet?

it’s almost like he doesn’t know what to do, frozen as she pressed her lips to his, her tongue hot and wet against his lower lip.

“…oh,” he says, when she pulls back.

“close your eyes,”

his lashes flutter against his cheek as he does what she says, her lips on his once again.

she’s soft, she’s gentle, she’s perfect.

y/n moves a little more faster this time, her tongue pressing to his lips until he parts them to give her way, his hands sliding up her waist.

it felt…good.

really good.

otw!michael who doesn’t push her back when she moves forwards, settling on his lap, instead helping her get comfortable, hands trailing along her thighs, under her skirt.

it’s like a sense of confidence came over him, his fingers splayed against her hot skin.

they both pull back - not because they want to, but because they need air - before their lips are back on each other’s.

it feels more sensual this time, their heads at opposite angles, tongues moving in tandem.

otw!michael who’s hands moved further up her skirt, his fingers tips brushing the cotton of her panties as her hands come to his shoulders.

he pulls back at the next gasp for air, y/n’s hands twisted tight into his shirt.

he looks so perfect, lips coated in her salvia, his heart-shaped lips glossy. his eyes are dazed too, blurry and out of focus.

so damn beautiful.

“…michael?”

his attention snaps onto her almost embarrassingly fast.

“y’ever had sex?”

otw!michael who’s face heats up at the question, fingers pausing under her skirt, before he shakes his head. he hadn’t expected that of all things.

“who?” he doesn’t know how to explain it, the twist in his stomach at the idea of some other guy being intimate with her like that.

“doesn’t matter,” she just shrugs, “don’t remember anyways,”

before he can question it, she presses her lips firmly back onto his lips, a rough kiss that he returns immediately.

“teach me,”

otw!michael who can’t even explain where the confidence to say those two words even came from, but he doesn’t have time to wonder anyways.

y/n watches him for a split second, before she nods.

he barely has any time to register what’s going on, before she kisses him again, but this time, she grinds her hips down onto him, just enough to make him squirm.

he’s not quiet, either.

he lets out a sharp gasp, before a mix of a moan and a whine leaves his pretty lips, humming against her lips.

“my baby’s hard f’me already,” y/n coos, her voice soft, melting into his mouth, “barely even did anything,”

the way he looks at her, like she’s a goddess, his lips parted softly, and pupils blown wide.

otw!michael who drags his lips desperately down her neck as she rocks her hips against him, feeling him hardening underneath her, his hips twitching to meet hers.

his eyes darted to her chest, the swell of her breasts, visible beneath her cotton top.

“like what you see?” she leaned back so he could get a better view as he swallowed, his teeth sinking into his lower lip.

“michael?” y/n said, his eyes jumping to her face, face heating up again as she moved her hand to his face, pulling his lip free.

otw!michael who felt like an absolute idiot, the prettiest girl he’d ever met on his lap, and he didn’t even know what to do with himself or her.

she notices his hesitation too, the way he looks so unsure, nervous as hell.

“jus’ let me take the lead, okay?” she says, watching as he nods.

he’s so cautious with her, hands moving gently over her body, groping and squeezing, seeing what made her moan louder, or what made her gasp.

“y’gotta touch me more, mike,” y/n leans forwards, her voice almost taunting him before she moves off his lap, his boner painfully obvious in his pants.

he watches with baited breath as she lays back on the sheets, legs parted.

he can see her panties were wet, a little patch on her core from where she’d been rubbing against him.

“gonna touch me?” she pulls her legs obscenely apart as he swallows. he felt so wrong for looking.

y/n takes his hand, guiding his hand between her legs. her arousal was sticky as he pushes his hand under her panties, collecting the sweetness on the tip of his finger.

“that’s it, baby,” she whispers, voice thick, “be gentle with me,”

she let out a soft mewl as he traces a finger through her wet folds, before she pulls her underwear down to her ankles, letting him pull them off fully.

otw!michael who pushes his fingers onto her with a bit more force this time, the pad of his finger on her clit, as her head tips back.

he watches with wide eyes as she moves her own hands to her pussy, spreading her sweet lips apart for him.

the sight is heavenly.

he can feel his own dick hard in his pants, throbbing, aching. he could’ve finished right there just at the sight of her.

he almost feels disappointed when she moves up, sitting on her knees on the bed, but that feeling quickly fades as she tugs his waistband forwards so she can slide her hand down his trousers.

he moans, a lewd sound, as she wraps her hand round his dick.

he’s hard, thick, and long, twitching against her hot palm.

“y-y/n…” he whines, pathetic as he stands in front of her, “feels s’good, i love you, please,” he babbles.

she uses her other hand to tug his trousers out the way, his dick springing hard against his abdomen.

“so pretty,” she coos, pretty a hot, wet kiss to pretty tip, a gorgeous shade of maroon, “didn’t know it was so big, mike,”

otw!michael who’s face heats up at that, one large hand covering his face.

“don’t,” he mumbles, only for his hand to jump to the back of y/n’s head when she sucks hard on his tip.

“oh god,” he chokes, “don’t-don’t do that,”

“sorry,” she bats her lashes up at him, wrapping both hands round his thick dick, stroking long up and down his length, “so pretty ‘n’ big…gotta use both hands,”

“stop,”

“but y’like it, don’t you? can feel you gettin’ hard in my hands right now,” y/n hums as he groans.

he wishes it wasn’t so obvious.

she watches him for a second, before she leans back.

“c’mere,” she beckons him over with one movement of her hands, and he goes immediately. god, he’d do anything she’d tell him.

he sits right where she asks him too, dick still hard against his abdomen, as she moves onto his lap.

his thighs are thick and muscular, hot beneath her as his dick twitches, so close to her heat.

“gonna give it t’you, don’t worry, m’kay?”

otw!michael who just nods desperately as she hovers over hip, his tip so close to her wet heat, before she sinks down slowly.

“i’m a virgin,” he blurts out, eyes blown wide as she freezes.

“…i know,”

he pauses for a second, and then he nods. god, why did he say that?

she hisses at the first few inches, only noticing the panic on his face when he stops her, hands tight on her waist.

“did i hurt you? i didn’t mean to, i’m so sorry, pretty-,”

“michael,”

he stops.

“it’s okay, it feels good, alright? just stretchin’ me out to fit it in me,”

otw!michael who seems content with the answer after a soft peck from y/n on the lips.

they both moan in sync as y/n settles down, his dick fully inside of her, coated in her warmth.

“how’s it feel?” she whispers, leaning forwards.

“like heaven,”

his slurred, sweet words are all she needs, before she moves with a filthy little sound, her pussy wet round him as she lifts, settling back down.

otw!michael who could’ve finished right there, but y/n sets a pace on top of him as his fists scrunch into the duvet.

“oh god it’s s’good,” he gasps, head thrown back, his afro soft as she leans forwards, peppering kisses on his jaw and cheek.

her pussy sucks him in with every bounce, his hands coming to her chest and pulling her top off with newfound confidence, her breasts bouncing with every movement.

“oh michael,” she throws her head back as he cups them, squeezing just the right amount of pressure.

he lets out a whimper, moving his own hips to meet hers as she gasps, eyes rolling.

how he was a virgin, she’d never know.

“that’s it, pretty boy, jus’ like that,” she whispered, egging him on as he moaned again.

“oh god, oh god,” he chokes out, “this is so dirty, it’s so wrong, y/n, i can’t stop-,”

“don’t stop,” y/n was almost clawing at him, “i need you, okay? don’t stop f’me,”

otw!michael who just nods - he’d do anything for her.

“feels s’good, oh god, y/n- feels like heaven-,”

a few more bounces, and he can feel his cum burst inside of her, hot and thick as his hips stutter and come to a stop, eyes wide.

“y/n,” he says, voice almost panicked, “i finished, ‘m not s’pposed to finish before you,”

y/n slows down her bounces, his cum leaking from her pussy, thick and gorgeous, confused.

“what?”

“‘m s’pposed to make you finish first,” he says, voice quiet, “that’s what those articles all said. to make your girl finish first like a gentleman,”

“fuck them,” y/n waves a hand, “just make me finish,” she emphasises her teasing words with a bounce as he gasps.

otw!michael who nods again, lifting his hips to meet hers as she moans.

y/n grabs his hands, planting them on her chest as she rides his dick - she was so close.

a few more harsh bounces, and she gasps, head thrown back, lips parted as she clenches round him, making him hiss, his dick twitching inside of her.

for a few seconds, she’s silent, and he watches her pretty face, until she presses a soft, dazed kiss to his lips.

“best sex of my life,” y/n whispers, cupping his pretty face.

“‘m sorry i finished first,” he said, voice quiet, and full of genuine regret as she blinks again.

“don’t matter about that, there isn’t rules to it,” she said, her voice soft, “besides, if we keep practisin’, we can get better,”

“practise?”

“yeah. before y’know it, soon you’ll make me finish 3 times before you cum,”

“three times? it can happen multiple times?” his voice was full of wonder, eyes wide as y/n nodded, “i wanna try that,”

“soon,” she whispered, “let’s go clean up, okay, pretty boy? we can practise every day if you want,”

otw!michael who mumbles a gentle, “i’d like that,” and follows her to the bathroom, still living in the high of what just happened.

you guys don’t understand, i’m genuinely so proud of this one, oh my god.

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