Soffxty

The bedroom was warm with late afternoon light, gold pouring through the gauzy curtains, and you'd had the house to yourself for hours. It wasn't often that all of the Jackson's were out at once.

Michael was working on something with Tito at a studio in the city, and he'd left you that morning with a slow, promisin’, sexually driven kiss against the doorframe; the heat of it had trailed you around all day like a hand, possessive, at the small of your back. It was infuriatingly annoying and it was riling you up.

By mid-afternoon you'd given up pretending to read your books. There was no patience for dense college textbooks. You'd read all you could take, but they were no longer serving as a distraction to your impending horniness.

You'd crept up to Michael's bedroom and fished the little pink vibrator out of your bag; a gift from your girlfriend weeks ago, after a conversation centered around 'spicing' it up in the bedroom. she pressed into your hands with a wicked grin and a: 

trust me, you'll thank me. 

Now you were sprawled across his pillows with your sweatshirt rucked up, chasing the ache he'd left you with, the low buzz of it lost under the record still spinning lazily on his turntable; Love Rollercoaster, loud and woozy in the glimmering afternoon light.

Thank god for new technology.

You were close. So close to it. You were almost sprinting after it deliciously, the music a backdrop of how you were feeling, building with intensity.

The song had warped into something dizzy and psychedelic, swelling in time with the heat low in your belly, and you pressed the buzzing toy harder against yourself, sprinting for the finishline.

Your head was full to the brim of him; his veiny hands, his wet, hot mouth, the weight of him on top of you, the way his rounded innocent eyes peered up over your pubic bone whilst he ate you out, the feeling of your hips rolling up into the line of his cock in his slacks on the couch, the sound of his breath coming fast and ragged whilst he neared his—

You didn't hear the car. You didn't hear the front door either.

You heard nothing until the bedroom door swung open and Michael walked in blazenly, peeling off his jacket, mid-sentence, totally distracted.

"—and Tito kept sayin' the bassline was fine but it was draggin', I could feel it draggin' the whole—"

You scrambled.

In one frantic, graceless motion you jammed the vibrator under the nearest pillow—that ridiculous Alice in Wonderland caterpillar cushion Michael adored—yanked your sweatshirt down to something less incriminating, and sat bolt upright against the headboard covering your naked bottom half with the duvet, heart slamming, face on fire.

"Hi!" you said, far too brightly.

Michael stopped. Blinked. He looked wrung out, curls sort of flat on top where the headphones had pressed against, dark smudges under his eyes where he'd messily drawn on his eyeliner; but something in him clicked the second he really looked at you.

"...Hi," he said slowly.

"How's the track?"

"A bit nonsensical, I guess." His eyes hadn't left your face, and you knew exactly what he was clocking: the flush down your throat, the sheen on your lip, your chest still going too fast.

He saw everything. He always did. "You okay? You're all—" He gestured at the entirety of you. "Red and sweaty."

"Well, uh, it's hot in here."

"It's really not that hot in here, Mother has the heat off because of the weather." He stared at you for a moment longer and then sighed dramatically.

He was clearly too tired to chase the reasoning as to why you seemed to be lying. He crossed to the bed with a low groan, toeing off his loafers.

"God, I'm wrecked. Eight hours arguin' with my brother about one silly line of sheet music." He flopped face-first across the mattress beside you, sighing into the duvet like he was lowering himself into his grave.

"Don't talk to me. Don't look at me. Tito has wiped me out. He really did it this time."

You bit down on a slightly hysterical laugh, painfully aware of the small hard shape buried in the bedding inches from his hands. "Poor baby."

"Mm." He stretched then, luxuriously, the way he always did—arms flung up over his head, hands sliding up under the pillows, his whole long body arching out with a contented little sound—

And his fingers closed around something.

He went still.

You stopped breathing.

"...What's this," he mumbled into the duvet, eyes still shut, his hand pawing at it. He dragged it out from under the pillow and lifted his head to squint; small, pink, smooth, faintly ridiculous in his long fingers. He turned it over and frowned. "What is this? Is this one of those gadgets—"

His thumb found the button.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.

The thing roared to life in his hand and he startled so hard he nearly flung it across the room, jerking up onto one elbow.

"Oh."

The single syllable hung there. You watched the realisation land on his face; the buzzing toy, your scarlet face, the rucked-up sweatshirt, the way you'd been sitting up bright-eyed and breathless when he walked in… every piece clicking into place at once behind his eyes.

His gaze lifted to yours. Very, very slowly.

"...Oh," he said again. Completely different. Low. Almost delighted??

A grin breaking across his exhausted face, the studio forgotten, all that quiet knowing focus kindling. He let it keep buzzing in his hand just to watch you squirm.

"You were busy," he said, "while I was gone."

"Michael—give it back—"

"What even is this?" He held it up out of your reach, examining it like he'd unearthed an ancient relic, fascinated and perturbed in equal measure. "I have never ever—where'd you even get this?"

"My friend gave it to me, okay, it doesn't matter—"

"Your friend..." He turned it over, thumbing it off and back on, jumping a little each time it buzzed. And then; because he was, underneath it all, just a guy, he brought it to his nose and sniffed it.

"MICHAEL."

"What!" He reared back, blinking, like he'd done something perfectly reasonable. "I wanted to know if—"

"Why would you smell it—"

"I don't know!" He was laughing now, scandalized at his own hand. "It's instinct! You see a thing, you wanna know—I wasn't thinkin'—"

You lunged for it; but he held it up out of reach, and then you were both gone with laughter, helpless, you behind your hands and him snorting into the pillow, the awful mortified tension breaking apart into something warm and giddy, the way it always did with the two of you. You could laugh in the middle of anything.

"Okay—okay—" He wiped his eyes, still chuckling, and thumbed it off. The sudden silence was louder than the buzz had been. The record was now scratching repeatedly on the plastic label.

He set the small bullet on the nightstand, deliberately, out of your reach, and turned the full weight of that focus back on you, all the tiredness burned clean out of him. "Very chill. Very normal. Nothin' to see here."

"Don't start," you warned, fighting a grin.

"You missed me that much, hm?" His voice had dropped now, gone soft and velvet, that teasing dark thread winding through it as he started crawling toward you across the bed, slow, all liquid grace, backing you gently into the headboard. His hand came to rest high on your thigh, thumb stroking. "Couldn't even wait for me to get home."

"You left me like that this morning," you accused, breathless, your laugh going unsteady. "Kissin' me like that and then just— leaving. What was I supposed to do?"

"Mm. I did do that, didn't I?" He didn't sound remotely sorry. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm, his exhaustion transmuted entirely into something low and hungry.

"So tell me, baby. Did you finish? Before I walked in?" His teeth grazed your jaw. "Or did I get home right in time?"

You couldn't answer. Your face answered for you.

A slow, knowing smile appeared on his face. "You didn't." He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the grin he gave you was pure wicked warmth.

"You got yourself all worked up with your little pink toy... and you didn't even get to finish," he said in mock horror.

"...No," you admitted, mortified and molten in equal measure.

"That's a shame, baby." He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow, his hand sliding higher, his thumb tracing the crease of your hip. "All that. And nothin' to show for it." His mouth moved to your throat, where your pulse was hammering. "Lucky for you I'm home now."

He kissed you then, and it wasn't with the claiming heat of some nights you'd shared together, but something slower, fonder, a smile still pressed into it, his tongue licking warm into your mouth as his weight settled over you and eased you back against the pillows.

You melted into it, your hands finding the hem of his t-shirt, sliding up the warm plane of his stomach—but he caught your wrists, gentle, and pressed them back to the pillows with a soft tut.

"Nuh-uh. Not yet." His grin was wicked. "You don't get to touch yet. You had your fun without me—now it's my turn."

"That's not fair—"

"Mm. Life's not fair, m'girl." He worked your sweatshirt up your body, his knuckles dragging over your ribs, baring you to the gold afternoon light, and the teasing softened into something rawer, his thumb skating the underside of your breast. "Look at you. Already all flushed up for me and I barely touched you."

"That's your fault—"

"you got yourself into this mess" He dipped his head, his mouth closing hot over your nipple, and your back arched off the bed. "Mm. I'm gonna fix it. Gonna take real good care of you. Make up for leavin' you all day." His hand slid down your stomach, down between your thighs, and the first brush of his fingers through how wet you already were drew a groan out of him, low and undone, his forehead dropping to your collarbone.

"God. Y/N. You're soaked."

"I told you—"

"I know. I know you did." His fingers slid through you, slow, finding the slick aching heart of you, circling, and your hips chased his hand helplessly.

"And you tried to hide what you'd been doing, too." He clicked his tongue, mock-scolding, his mouth curving against your skin. "We don't hide things in this house."

"Michael—" you gasped, as two of his fingers sank into you, his palm grinding against your clit, picking up right where you'd been left aching.

"I've got you, m'love," he breathed, his rhythm slow and sure and devastating, watching your face come apart with that dark, rapt focus.

"Got you now. You can finish for me this time." A soft, wicked grin. "Much better than that little pink thing, hm?"

He worked you slow, watching every flicker of pleasure cross your face, his fingers curling into that spot that made your hips jump while his thumb kept a lazy, maddening circle.

You were squirming, already close again; you'd been close for hours at this point—and he knew it, the little wretch, watching you climb and deliberately not letting you get there.

"You're doin' that on purpose," you panted.

"Doin' what?" All innocence, his mouth twitching against your skin where he was trying to pepper kisses along your neck.

"You know what—"

"I'm just bein' thorough." He lowered himself and pressed a kiss to your sternum, grinning against your skin. "I had a long day. I gotta concentrate on what I'm doing." And he eased off again, right as you tipped toward the edge, until you made a sound of pure outraged frustration and smacked his shoulder, and he laughed, totally elated, that bright real laugh, catching your wrist and pinning it gently to the pillow.

"Okay, okay," he relented, eyes dancing. Then a thought visibly arrived behind them, wicked and curious, and his gaze slid over to the nightstand. "...Hold on."

"Michael—"

"No, no, I wanna—" He reached over and plucked the vibrator up again, turning it in his fingers, that concentrated frown back on his face like he was studying a piece of equipment in the studio.

"Show me how you had it. When I came in. Where were you—" he thumbed it on, the buzz filling the room, and grinned at his own daring— "puttin' this?"

You buried your face in your hands. "I'm not—oh my God—"

"C'mon. Show me what you were tryna hide from me." He was laughing now, nudging your knee wider with his own, the toy humming in his hand. "I'm nosey, remember? I gotta know what I'm competin' with."

"You are not competing with it—"

"No?" He pressed it, soft, right where you needed it, and your whole body jolted, a cry breaking out of you. His grin went molten.

"Hm. There?" He circled it, watching you arch and grab fistfuls of the duvet, his own breath catching at the sight of you. "Oh, you like that. Look at you, baby. Okay. Okay, I see. I'm learnin'."

He was good at it, the teasing... that was the infuriating thing; of course he was, he was good at everything. he set that focus on reading you, easing the vibration against you and pulling it back, his face inches from yours so he could watch, his free hand pinning your arm to the bed so you couldn't intervene.

You were a mess, gasping, hips chasing it, and he was loving every second, soft little encouragements falling out of him;

that's it, there you go, let me see, you're so pretty like this

"Michael, I'm gonna—if you don't—pull it away—" you choked.

"I know. I know, baby, I've got you—" And this time he didn't pull back. He held it steady, his mouth on your throat, and you came apart with a cry, shaking, your hand flying to grip his wrist as it crashed through you. He worked you through it, gentling, murmuring into your skin, until your body felt like jelly and you were trembling against the pillows.

He clicked it off and set it back on the nightstand. Kissed your slack mouth, smug and tender at once. "There she is. M'beautiful dirty girl."

"I hate you," you breathed, with absolutely no conviction.

"Mm. You love me." He was still hard against your thigh through the blue denim, his own breath uneven despite all his composure. He pushed himself up off you and rose to stand beside the bed, looking down at the wreck of you; sweatshirt rucked up under your arms, skin flushed and gleaming, completely bare from the waist down, while he stood over you still dressed, disheveled, curls wild, eyeliner smudged. The contrast made you squirm.

"All day," he murmured, his fingers going to buttons of his white shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion to bare the lean plane of his stomach, the dark trail of hair below his navel and the little patches of white skin at his hip bones.

"I been thinkin' about you all day. Arguin' with Tito over one stupid line and the whole time I'm picturin' gettin' home to you." The belt came next, the metallic clink of it coming loose, then the button of his jeans. "And I walk in and find you already started without me."

"You left me like that—"

"I know I did." He shoved his jeans and briefs down and stepped out of them, unhurried, without a trace of self-consciousness, fully bare now and achingly hard while you were still half-tangled in your sweatshirt. He was magnificent, all long lines and elegant tension, the tip of him flushed dark pink.

"Lucky for you I'm home now. No more waitin'."

He leaned over the bed, his hands sliding under your hips, and dragged you bodily to the edge of the mattress until your ass was just off the side. He stepped between your splayed thighs, his hands rough and warm on the insides of your knees, pushing them wider.

"No more toys," he muttered, his eyes locked on where you were open and wet for him.

He grabbed his dick firmly and guided himself to your entrance and pushed in, slowly, so slowly, his eyes fluttering shut as your heat enveloped him. It was a deep, stretching, filling sensation that had you arching off the bed, a low moan dragged from your chest.

"That's what you needed," he breathed, sinking to the hilt and holding there, his head dropping forward.

He began to move then, with a rhythm all his own, not too eager, but devastatingly deliberate. Long, deep, rolling thrusts that struck something deep inside you on every stroke. His hands were on your hips, controlling the pace, holding you open for him. Deep, thundering thrusts.

"You feel that?" he grunted, his breath hot. "That's real. That's me."

You could only nod, your fingers scrambling against his sweat-slick back, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him deeper. He was everywhere, his scent, his weight, the sound of his skin against yours, the ragged puff of his breath.

But Michael's curiosity was a retched thing at times. It never switched off.

Halfway through a deep, grinding stroke, he stopped. His eyes, squeezed shut in concentration a second ago, snapped open; dark, hazy with pleasure, but a familiar glittering curiosity cutting clean through the fog.

His gaze darted sideways, landing on the pink vibrator where it still lay on the nightstand.

A slow, almost reluctant grin touched his swollen lips.

"Hold on," he rasped.

He pulled out of you abruptly, the sudden emptiness a shock. Before you could protest, he'd reached over and snatched the toy up. He stared at it in his hand, then at you, then at his own painfully hard cock, glistening with your wetness.

"I gotta know," he said, as if apologizing to himself. "Just… once. To see what all the fuss is about."

He thumbed the button.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzt.

He didn't hesitate. He pressed the buzzing head directly against the sensitive spot just under the swollen head of his cock.

The reaction was immediate and violent.

His whole body jerked as if electrocuted. A shocked, strangled sound—half-gasp, half-yelp—ripped from his throat. His knees buckled, and he had to throw a hand out to catch himself on the nightstand, knocking the lamp sideways. His head dropped forward, a shudder wracking his spine.

"Oh—Jesus—" he choked out.

He tried to drag it down the shaft, but his hand was trembling violently. The vibration was clearly too intense, too direct, overwhelming a body already wound past its limit from being inside you.

His hips began to stutter in tiny, frantic circles, completely involuntary. His breath came in ragged, punched-out pants.

"Too—GOD—it's too much—" he gasped, but he didn't let go. His curiosity was warring with sensory overload, and curiosity was losing.

His movements became jerky, uncoordinated. you witnessed a fine tremor run through his thighs. He was biting his lip so hard you thought he might draw blood, his eyes squeezed shut, his face a mask of agonized, over-the-edge pleasure. You'd seen him feel good so many times before, but this was borderline painfully pleasurable.

He was hovering on the brink, his body taut as a bowstring, controlled solely by the relentless, alien buzz of the vibrator. You could see the exact moment his control shattered.

His hand spasmed around the toy, holding it tight against him as his hips gave three sharp, abortive thrusts into the empty air above you.

"uhmhh—" The warning was a breathless, desperate unintelligible plea, but it was too late, he couldn't come back from it.

With a gut-deep groan that sounded pained, his body convulsed. \

He spilled in thick, hot pulses across your stomach and the rucked-up fabric of your sweatshirt, completely undone by it. His eyes had opened at that point, watching the ordeal happen in front of him, watching you and the shock at his premature release..

The vibrator fell from his limp hand, vibrating pointlessly against the carpet as he collapsed forward, catching himself on his forearms beside resting arms, his entire body trembling with the aftershocks.

He was panting, wrecked, his forehead pressed to the duvet beside you. A long moment of stunned silence hung in the room, broken only by the record scratching and the distant hum of the fallen toy.

You looked down at the mess cooling on your skin, then back at his bowed head. A slow, triumphant smile spread across your face.

"You," you said, your voice dripping with smug satisfaction, "are dead meat for that, Jackson."

He groaned, the sound muffled by the bedding. He didn't lift his head. "Shut up," he mumbled, utterly defeated. "It was a.... curious... inquiry."

"You inquired yourself right into an accidental finish," you teased, poking his heaving shoulder.

He finally lifted his head. His face was flushed, his eyes dazed and more than a little embarrassed, but a reluctant grin was tugging at his mouth. He glanced at the mess on you, then back at your face, his grin turning wicked. "Yeah, well." He glanced down again. "Looks like my curiosity made a mess of you, too."

He leaned in, his intent clear, and you laughed, kissing him lovingly on the mouth.

taglist:

Of course you were there. It’s impossible for him to picture a universe where you weren’t in his life, by his side, helping with every hardship he’s faced. You couldn’t imagine yourself holding any other title other than Michael Jackson’s best friend, because of how perfect the role has sat within you over the years.

However, Michael is beginning to disagree. Especially with tonight, losing count how many times his eyes have taken him to your direction.

How oblivious you are to the way his gaze undresses you from where he sits beside, soaking up every gussied feature on you. The way your dress hasn’t missed a curve of yours to hug, breasts being nicely lifted, wanting to see how well they would fit in the palms of his hands instead. The way he’s now realizing how stunning gold jewelry looks against the complexion of your skin, giving him an idea on what to gift you for your next birthday. The way the glossy red on your lips reminds him of freshly picked strawberries in the spring, wondering if it would taste like them too if he closed the distance.

The way he knew he accidentally let his fantasies run a little too long, a tent in his pants starting to form.

“Isn’t that right, Michael?” You bring him back to reality, surroundings no longer quiet. He’s quick to bring a hand to cover his crotch as subtly as he could make it look, forgetting just how many people are here.

“Uhm, sorry, what?”

You gave him a scolding look for not paying attention, nodding your head towards his mother. “I was bringing up when you came over for the first time, and didn’t know I had a dog.”

You and his mother start giggling as you both reminisce, even more so at the color leaving his face, thinking it’s because of the mortifying memory being brought up.

No, it’s actually because he got a whiff of your dreamy vanilla perfume scent, and it went immediately to his dick, pants getting tighter.

“Oh my gosh, the scream you let out when my tiny baby tried jumping on your lap to give you kisses! People down the road thought someone was dying.”

Your guys’ laughter is drown out as he mentally draws a plan to escape, needing to be anywhere but here.

Michael barely was discreet in the way he stood up so suddenly, startling you two, about to bring a concerned hand to his side.

“Michael? Are you alri—“

“Sorry, gotta pee.” Is all he said before speed-walking across the lawn, ignoring any family member trying to stop him for a quick conversation on the way.

In a blink of an eye, Michael found himself in his room upstairs, shutting the door with one hand and fumbling his belt open with the other. He’s painfully hard, no strength he can find within him to ignore it.

The edge of the bed dips as he sits, pants and boxers shoved only halfway to his legs, impatient to wrap his palm around his erection.

The memory of your appearance and smell sharpens as he begins to touch himself, quieting his breathing as best he could.

His strokes are slow, eyes slipping closed, attempting to ignore the first burn of guilt brewing deep in his stomach for having such thoughts about his best friend, while having a bunch of family over.

Having his eyes closed had him fail to see the way he forgot to lock the door in the hurry he was in to be alone, knob turning to reveal you entering.

“Michael? Are you in her—“

You didn’t finish your sentence. The words died on your tongue as soon as you saw him jump from being frightened, hard cock still in hand. You wanted to check up on him, because it’s been a minute since he left for the bathroom. You were worried bringing up that embarrassing moment of his with your dog might’ve been too far on your part, so you searched to comfort him.

Yet, this wasn’t the sight you were expecting yourself to see upon entering his room. You also weren’t expecting yourself to feel your stomach do a weird flip as he begin to struggle to find the right words to explain himself, breath held hostage in his throat.

He stutters out your name, brain lagging, trying to find a version of reality where this isn’t happening. “Wh— I—I’m so sorry, shit—“

Michael doesn’t hear the click of you locking the door, or see you slowly make your way over to him, too busy trying to get his pants back on and avoid your possible disgusted stare.

“I — I was just—“ his voice cracks, sounding like he’s about to cry, too humiliated to even breathe. “Please just forget about this and go back downstairs, this is so embar—“

You cut him off. “Were you thinking of me?”

His eyes now meet yours, because he isn’t sure if he heard you correctly. You don’t blink, holding his stare, a tilt of your head to urge him to answer you.

He flinches in surprise when you take a seat next to him, giving one look down then pinning him again with your gaze. “Did I do that?”

The air between you thickens, heavy with something searing. He sees the way your lips part, breath fanning warm against his cheek, watching how you’re savoring this moment rather than being embarrassed for him, like any other person would.

“What? N-No, I mean—“

You cut him off again. “Don’t lie to me, Mikey. I’ve seen the way you’ve been staring at me all night.”

Oh, so you weren’t oblivious like he thought.

You can see how afraid he was to speak, not too sure if this is truly happening or not.

“I’d be a terrible best friend to not help you out, wouldn’t I? After all, I did cause this.” You gently remove his hand that’s been hiding his cock from you, causing the heat to pulse through him like a wave.

Michael’s mind is in a battle of being convinced if he’s dreaming or not. He hates the way his legs instinctively open up for you, heart pounding like it’s trying to burst out of his ribs. Shame still clings onto his skin like sweat, but he doesn’t dwell on it any further as soon as your fingers curl around his thick length.

You give him a slow stroke, watching the way his jaw tightens. You revel in how he doesn’t know whether to stop you or take lead, resorting to just bunching the sheets beneath where you two sit.

“Do you know how many people downstairs are wondering where you are?” Your thumb circles the head and you let your hand linger there, not quite giving what he needs, not quite letting him have anything at all.

“Not knowing you’re hiding, touching yourself to the thought of me.” You finally hear him make a sound, the smallest of a mewl. You graze your mouth over his cheek, then to the corner of his mouth, careful not to give him the satisfaction of a real kiss. “How disrespectful, during a party thrown for you.”

He shakes his head, wishing he couldn’t hear how pathetic his tone is right now. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, just..!”

You blink through your lashes innocently, ignoring how his cock glistens in your fist. “Please just what? Please just keep moving my hand like this?” You tease as you drag your palm a little faster, just enough to make his hips jerk.

He nods, lips pressed tight, not wanting to hear the whine in his voice again. Yet you wouldn’t let that cross, strokes going back to slow, squeezing tight at the base. “It looks like you want something. You want to come, huh? Tell me. Tell me or I’ll stop.”

He swallows any drop of dignity left in him, brain completely turned to mush. He nods, pathetic as ever, a whimper evident through his words. “Yes, yes, I want to come.”

You smile, bottom lip caught between your teeth. You didn’t think how easy this would be, turning him into a babbling dumb mess under your touch. How long has he been yearning for this? As long as you have?

You continue working your hand but begin to hum in thought. “Hmm, I don’t know.” You tease the sensitive spot just under the head with your thumb until his hips jerk up again and swear under his breath. “Maybe if you tell me you’re sorry again for sneaking away to jerk off.”

He doesn’t even hesitate, the pleasure becoming too loud. “I’m sorry! Very, very sorry, I’m— oh!”

You flick your tongue to taste his lower lip, making him chase your mouth as you pull away, grinning. “I’m sorry to who?”

“Y-You…!” He shudders, heart pounding at the sound of your voice as you hold him right there. Your hand on his cock, mouth teasing him, the look in your eyes as you make him wait, make him admit how humiliating he made this situation become for himself.

You feign confusion, but your hand never slows. “Im sorry for what?”

God, you’re killing him.

“For t-touching myself!” He responds with a moan breaking out of his chest, hips bucking up into your hand without any sense of control anymore. You have your eyes meet his again, to have him see how much you love having him desperate beneath you.

“Say please again.”

His voice cracks, the knot of desire tightening in him until he can barely see straight. “Please— God, please let me come.”

And then you stopped. You pull your hand away, ignoring the way his cock twitches for its familiar warmth back. His gasp is filled with frustration punched deep in his chest, near orgasm snatched from him so quick it left him dazed and at a loss for words.

You go to stand, fixing your dress that rid up a little.

there was absolutely no way michael would be able leave the house.

y/n was sat at her vanity, spraying her perfume onto her wrists as michael sat on the bed, not even bothering to hide the fact he was watching.

she looked like she was in her own little world, picking up a small, black tube from the side - the one michael had bought for her.

the cherry red matched her nails to perfection, and complimented the black of her satin dress.

he could feel his breath hitch as she dragged it across the cushion to her lower lip, the pigment deep and bold.

he watched as she set it back down, admiring the colour.

“ready to go?” michael turned, adjusting his trousers slightly, his voice hoarse as she nodded, adjusting one of the waved she’d put into her hair.

“you look nice,” she smiled softly, admiring the bedazzled blue military-style coat and white glove.

“so d’you,” he nodded, turning his face away to hide the blush on his cheeks.

real smooth.

the grammy’s were a blur of wide smiled, flashing cameras and one huge, packed venue.

“alright stay close now, princess,” michael leaned down to speak into her ear as he guided her through crowds of photographers and other singers, their hands intertwined.

y/n nodded, her grip tightening on his hand to make sure she didn’t get lost.

(idk how the grammy’s work guys, im making shit up)

their seats were beside each others, right at the front of the venue, as michael held out a hand to y/n, helping her move round someone to get to the seats.

“it’s gonna be boring with speeches,” michael said, his gaze dropping for a second to her lips.

they looked so good painted that luscious red colour.

“well, you’re gonna win every category,” y/n said, her voice almost definite as michael rolled his eyes.

“im good, but not that good,”

“you’re the best in the world,”

“I’m not,”

“you are to me,”

michael smiled at that - she always knew how to make his heart flutter.

“don’t need any awards if you’re gonna sweet talk me all night, girl,” he smiled, resting his chin on one hand as y/n giggled.

“I’m proud of you no matter how many awards you get,” she turned to the side, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

“crap,” she whispered, moving her hand to smudge off the red lipstick mark she’d left on his jaw.

“leave it,” he grabbed her wrist gently, “i’ll wear it happily,”

y/n blushed at that.

“you sure?” she sounded half nervous as michael nodded.

he’d wear his girl’s mark with pride.

and he was right, the show was a blur of polite applause, speeches, standing up to get awards.

each time, she couldn’t hide the happy smile as he walked onto the stage, proudly showing off the kiss against his jaw.

it almost complimented the outfit.

his eyes would keep dragging back to her with every sentence he spoke into the microphone, unmistakably darting to her lips.

”c’mon,” michael walked away from the flashing cameras after they snapped all their pictures of him holding the eight awards, leading y/n away from the chaos.

she could still hear them yelling behind her.

who’s kiss is that michael?!

is it y/n’s?!

“im so proud of you,” y/n smiled, accepting his hand as he helped her into the back of the limo.

michael just smiled in response, doing her seat belt for her in for her, and sitting beside her, his hand coming to rest on her thigh like it was completely natural (it was).

“had my favourite person there watching me,” he said, as the car started towards their house, “made it easier,”

“you’re my favourite person too,” y/n smiled, head on his shoulder as his finger traced idle patterns across her thigh.

“michael,” she bit down on her lower lip as his hand moved a little too high up her thigh, dipping beneath the material of her dress.

the driver was right there.

michael didn’t move his hand, instead, he used his other hand to slide the door between the front and back of the limo shut.

“it’s sound proof,” he said, adjusting fully so he could trail a kiss down her jaw and neck, “and the windows are tinted,”

as soon as his lips pressed to her pulse point, any worry she had of being heard left her body.

“been thinking of nothing but you the whole night,” he groaned into her neck as her hands tangled in his hair.

fuck.

“those pretty lips, smiling at me the whole night,” he whispered, tilting his head to press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, “had me fighting for my damn life,”

y/n just whimpered in response, her body surrendering to the desire in the bottom of her stomach.

her hand trailed down his chest, that damn shining coat, right the way down to his thighs.

michael’s hand dipped between them both, fumbling for the buckle of her belt - just as the car took a harsh right.

“nevermind,” he muttered.

as much as he wanted her on his lap, maybe risking her safety wasn’t a good enough reason.

y/n just laughed, soft but half strained as she pushed her hair from her face, her hand still pressed to his thigh.

“it’s okay,” she said, undoing the button of his trousers as he hissed, taking in a sharp intake of breath, her hand palming him through the fabric.

michael held her hair from her face as she moved back, adjusting her body so she could bend forwards, wrapping her hand round the base of his cock.

her lips trailed along his thigh, leaving a smudge of dark red against his hot skin, pressing a kiss mark against his length.

“don’t,” he groaned, voice raspy.

they didn’t have time for teasing right now.

y/n just looked up at him through her lashes, moving her head so she could slide his tip into her mouth.

her tongue lapped at the pre-cum pooling from the top, michael’s head thrown back as she added pressure, pushing further, inch by inch.

his hand stayed twisted in her hair, slowly pushing her head further down as she gagged, her lips wrapped round him right to the base.

she pulled back, a string of salvia connecting her lips to his tip, a ring of red round the base of his dick.

“so beautiful,” he whispered, eyes hazy.

y/n’s lipstick was slightly smudged and her lips slightly swollen, michael’s finger wiping the messed up lipstick away, surprisingly tender.

“i need you,” he whispered, “please,”

it was his night. he’d just won 8 grammy’s. and she’d let him have it.

y/n wrapped her lips round his tip once again, sliding his length into her mouth and bobbing her head.

the back of the car was filled with the sound of her moving her mouth around him, wet and soft.

thank goodness the back of the car was sound proof.

michael groaned, his hand fisting in her hair again, twisting it round his hand as he pushed her deeper, the crimson ring round his his base darkening as she added more lipstick.

smudges of lipstick dragged across his length and over his tip as she pulled back, pressing a kiss to his head.

he could’ve finished just looking at her, the way her hand moved up and down his length, the red nail polish from a few nights ago still on her fingers.

“don’t,” he stopped her hand as she moved closer to gliding along the bottom of his dick, “i want it there,”

y/n looked down, the perfect ring still there.

she nodded, sliding him back into her mouth, working the middle of his dick with her hand as he groaned, his throat constricting.

he and close, so close.

“where d’you want me?” he whispered, voice tight as he got closer and closer, her hand moving faster, up and down.

“anywhere,” y/n barely pulled off, her lips back on him once again as he nodded, cheeks flushed.

he hissed sharply as she sucked down hard onto his tip, his cum spilling into her throat.

her tongue lapped it up as michael’s grip in her hair loosened, his breathing shaky as he came down from his high.

for a second, they were both quiet as y/n gently moved off of him, his softening dick heavy in her hand.

“god, i love you,” he threw a hand over his eyes.

he always did get embarrassed after they finished.

“i love you too,” y/n smiled softly, helping him button up as she rested his chin on his shoulder.

“as pretty as you look,” michael reached up a hand to wipe the smudged lipstick from her cheek, “y’should clean up, we’re almost home,”

y/n looked out of the window, recognising the familiar streets round them.

michael handed her the small mirror as she fixed up her hair and makeup as best as she could, michael’s hand still round her waist.

“and don’t think we’re done either,” he leaned down, his voice soft in her ear as they pulled up to the house, “you’re gonna sit on my face inside, alright?”

y/n could feel her thighs press together, her core heating up as he nodded.

she should’ve known, michael would never leave her unsatisfied.

❀❀❀❀

thank you to:

@sunshineyrosie for the idea for the lipstick 🤭

@miratate for the grammy idea!

You had crawled into bed with Michael one night, skin glistening from the expensive floral scented lotion you’d just delicately rubbed into your skin, settling comfortably in the sheets next to him. He was quieter that night — he mumbled at dinner, barely conversing with you, playing with his food. Michael didn’t have a large appetite, so his lack of eating hadn’t phased you as much as it did now. You didn’t expect him to be too chatty that night either, you had already had a heated disagreement a few hours earlier that remained unresolved — something that was becoming more frequent in recent times due to his demanding career.

So, when you nestled against him, his hands rigid at his sides, was when you noticed something was undeniably wrong.

“Is everything okay, baby?” You asked, peering up from his chest to glance at his pokerface.

“I think we should split up.”

The words hit you full-force, panic and shock instantly flooding your emotion — sitting up so frantically it made Michael flinch.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your voice was frantic and distressed, face forced into a scrunch of anxiety.

Michael stayed silent for a few moments, not daring to meet your eyes, just staring blankly at the wall next to him.

“Michael, don’t fucking joke with me. Fucking say something.”

“Stop cursing, please.” He forced out, voice hoarse and low, attempting to keep his dignity.

You scoffed in disbelief, “So, you blurt out that you wanna break-up, but all you care about is a curse? Are you fucking serious?” Anger was the emotion at the forefront of your brain now, utterly disgusted with his coldness towards you mixed with the cruelty of his words.

“Things are complicated right now.” He started, still facing away from you, “I’ve got the album and the tour, and we’re fighting too much already because of it. It’s not good for us especially if I’m away for long periods of time. You deserve someone who can be around for you. Someone better.” He sighed, shaking his head, “I don’t want to let this progress and then end up hurting one another more.”

“‘Let this progress?’ Michael we’ve been together for three years, nearly four. You didn’t think to end things three and half years ago if you didn’t wanna get hurt? Are you serious?”

“I still love you, I just want to protect us both from pain.” He spoke quietly.

“Love? This isn’t love, Michael, this is cruel. This is worse pain. Someone who loved me wouldn’t treat me like this. Why are you doing this to me? To us?”

His heart clenched as your voice cracked, not brave enough to look you in your eyes, now brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt faux as they left his lips — silencing encasing the room. You scoffed, standing up swiftly from the bed, rushing into the bathroom, slamming the door harshly behind you. You missed the way Michael flinched once more as the loud sound echoed throughout the quiet room, a single tear falling down his cold cheek — attempting to ignore your wails of despair from behind the door.

He saw you for the last time as you rushed out of the bathroom — bag full of your toiletries in hand as you raced towards the bedroom door, sobbing.

He called your name, but you cut him off, swearing brutally at him, along the lines of ‘Go fuck yourself, Michael’. Your memory of that night wavered thin now — your brain compartmentalising the pain to the back of your mind, pushing it the furthest away from to prevent you from punishing yourself with the hurtful memory.

You were packed and moved out the same night — moving back in with your parents, who comforted you for weeks on end as you experienced the worst heartbreak you’d ever felt in your life. The one person you loved and trusted the most in your life had been the one to hurt you the most, too. It was a strange phenomenon — to still love and yearn for the person causing you agonising misery.

At month one, you spent most days in bed — wallowing in your despair, reading old love-letters, staring at photos taken on your first tropical vacation, your anniversary, his birthday. You were torturing yourself — a bittersweet pain that you struggled to rid yourself of. Ending most nights by sobbing into your hand as you read the newspapers — headlines of your split plastered everywhere. Utterly devastated at how disgusting tabloids portrayed you as a deadweight on Michael’s blossoming career, that you were only dragging him down, that he made a good decision to free himself of you.

By month two, you got back to work. You had managed to find your new routine — working hard on your own music, pouring your damaged heart into each song, passion flowing from your lips with each lyric. You didn’t cry as much — only now and again when Michael would pop up on the television, his new album ‘Bad’ going world platinum again, just as his others did, his success booming. What irked you most was he looked perfectly fine — smiling happily for the cameras, performing on stage on tour with pure, irrevocable talent, adoration and excitement oozing off of him, like he didn’t destroy someone’s life two months ago.

By month three, you acted unaffected. You’d moved out into your own place — gaining some unwanted independence. You began going about your life like you’d never met him — going on a few dates, dancing at clubs with your friends with guys you were a stranger to, late night calls with men you knew deep down would never compare, but indulging in the fun of it nonetheless— heart fuelled by anger and frustration, desperate to get back at him. When you finally moved on sexually, you were irritatingly disappointed — no man on the planet could please you like Michael had. That’s what filled you with pure rage. Faking orgasms and pretending as though their cock’s even made half the stretch that Michael’s did had you furious — often pushing them away mid sex, ordering them to get out of your apartment.

You were now almost at month six and the ice in your heart towards Michael hadn’t let up.

You pretended, to your family and friends, that you were over it — that it didn’t affect you anymore. That you had totally moved on with your life. Wrong. You were still livid deep down — not a single day going by where you didn’t curl your fists up in fury at the thought of him. Fury that you still had an annoyingly large place for him in your heart — that no matter how bitter you tried to convince yourself you were about him, it did nothing to dilute the sickly sweetness that overpowered your heart.

And that lovesick heart of yours was pounding violently in your chest right now.

Sat in the back of a limousine, dolled up to the Gods — hair, makeup and outfit perfected to a T, you looked divine. So divine you were determined to make a statement — one just as bad his.

Ironic.

The man in question who you were dying to shock, self-proclaimed as ‘bad’, connotations to his new album, was someone you believed to be sweet, tender and loving. An album title you always thought was truly ironic as he was quite the opposite.

Not as of recent.

Diana Ross had been a thorn in your side since the day you and Michael met. Her relentless flirtatious energy towards the man you craved was angering — even before you called it official was she persistent with her teasing.

“So, you’re the girl Michael keeps talkin’ so much about.” She drawled, the day you met her, your handshake harsher than usual as you gripped her bony hand in your own, “Not his girl, yet though, right?” She laughed, “Better snatch that handsome thing up before I do.”

You confessed your love to Michael that night.

You did truly have intense feelings for him — but that old cow had given you the push you needed. No way in hell was she going to take him away from you — not on your watch.

So, rightfully so, you were anxious at the thought of her finding out about your split — wondering what her next move would be. You’d spend everyday reading the newspapers in a panic, skimming through a thousand words a second in an attempt to find any news of them being spotted together.

And the day came — a week before The 1988 Soul Train Music Awards. The very award ceremony you were heading to, looking so beautiful.

Michael and Diana were front page — pressed tightly against one another at a famous club. His smile was bright, wide and genuine — something you’d missed seeing in person, now adorning his captivating face because of that witch. She had looped her arm through his, the picture capturing her pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. The title read ‘MICHAEL MOVING ON ALREADY? — OLD FLAME REIGNITED’

Oh, he had really done it this time.

He knew how much you hated her — loathed her, actually. The older woman often getting in the way of your relationship throughout the years you were together — despite having a husband herself, she was betrothed with your man.

So, even if technically he didn’t owe you a thing as you weren’t his anymore, you silently felt fury at him for letting her kiss him for the cameras.

Therefore, your only response was to fight fire with fire — childish? Maybe. But, clever? Absolutely.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

The sound of Prince’s voice next to you in the limo tugged a devilish smirk onto your face as you nodded.

If Michael wanted to play dirty — you would play real dirty.

The car had rolled to a stop — flashes of the paparazzi’s intrusive cameras burnt into your vision as the driver pulled the door open. You stepped out, smoothing your dress, a wide smile on your face, waving sweetly as you waited for your date to exit the vehicle.

If you thought the flash was bright before, you were mistaken. Spots blurred into your vision as Prince stood next to you, instantly taking your hand in his own, confidence oozing from him as always, before smiling down at you. You turned to him — pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, lipstick now smeared across his skin, earning a knowing laugh from his throat.

Cha-ching!

Those pictures, dripping with revenge, were a real moneymaker — something that would put that sloppy, old hag’s attempt to make you jealous to shame.

Everyone knew of the musical feud between Michael and Prince — the two men battling for the title of ‘the biggest star in the world’. You knew that Michael took the cake — but, you also knew that seeing his biggest rival with his ex-girl would shut down any attempt of riling you up.

“Nicely done.” Prince whispered, lips close to your ear as you were ushered inside the building. He was aware of your vengeful plan — and more than willing to help aggravate his arch nemesis.

“You too.” You sent a wink his way, engaging in a childish, unison giggle, knowing exactly what you were doing was going to end messy, “I’ll see you later.”

You parted ways with your exes nemesis, not before letting him press a calculated kiss to your knuckles, peripheral vision burning as more cameras captured your (fake) romantic moment, before being ushered to your assigned seat.

You were fairly near the stage, around three rows in front, next to your favourite female pop-star and close friend, Whitney Houston. A real, genuine smile burst across your face when she seated herself next to you.

“Girl.” She breathed out a laugh, placing her clutch bag gently in her lap.

“What?” You laughed, smiling across at her in confusion.

“Honey, I think you know what.” She shook her head with a grin, “You made quite the entrance back there.”

Perfect.

The corners of your lips tugged up into a deeper smile, “Then my plan is working.”

Whitney chuckled, “I just know that poor man is beyond ticked off right now.”

“‘Poor man’?” You scoffed, “He is far from poor. You saw the papers, right?”

“Everybody did, sweetie.”

“Number one, not helpful,” You pointed a finger at her, ignoring the way she cackled, “And two, he had it comin’” You paused, “Everyone, including him, knows how much I hate her.”

“Hate who?”

You froze — the infamously familiar voice that once had you smiling like a damn idiot before, now had your face falling as your head lurched behind you.

And there he was.

Michael.

In all his annoying glory — sporting a dashing red button-up, a sleek tie around his neck, paired with a black suit jacket, that hugged the curve of the lean muscles in his arms in a way that your breath hitching in your throat.

It aggravated you that he looked so good.

But, you knew that he knew that you looked better.

Your irritation only blossomed as you glanced at the seat to your right — eyes rolling in annoyance as his name, scribbled onto a flimsy piece of paper on the chair right next to you, hit your vision.

Fuck award show assigned seats.

“Well, shit, girl.” Whitney mumbled, laughing under her breath as she turned away from the tension that was rising as Michael took his seat.

“Hello.” He spoke, voice soft and gentle, just like you remembered.

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Your voice came out harsher than expected, an angered frown visible on your face as a grin bloomed on his.

His mouth went to open, but you cut him off, hand shooing him away, “Actually, don’t even speak to me, please.”

“You look beautiful.”

“What did I just say Michael?”

You hated the way he smirked at your snappy tone, lip coming between his teeth as he obeyed your request, getting comfortable in his chair. You also hated the way your heart did an extremely noticeable flip in your chest at the compliment.

This night was going to be the death of you.

And it only got worse as Michael retreated to the stage, not once, but twice — each time looking more gracious and handsome as the next. He won Best Single and Album of the Year for Bad — the trophies enclosed around his beautiful, slender hands, ones that once gave you blissful satisfaction.

You despised your weak mind for the way you let it run away with itself — eyes trailing over his tall, elegant frame each time he’d take the stage. That infamous smile that had you weak at the knees did nothing to cool the desire that was overpowering your anger, the yearn for him only increasing.

Michael thumped into his seat next to you with a sigh, now two awards richer, running a hand through his long curls that cascaded down his shoulders.

You could sense he was looking at you — his smiling face visible in your side eye-line, but you refused to turn, your eyes fixated on the stage as the next category was revealed.

“Saw your little stunt earlier.” He whispered, “Real classy.”

You scoffed quietly, “That’s rich.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You knew that tone — that cocky, teasing tone that had you gritting your teeth.

You finally turned to face him, “Oh, right. I’m sure letting that old crow kiss you is a regular thing now, huh?”

“Saw that, did you?” He was testing you, it was evident in the way the knowing smirk on his face never faltered.

You were halfheartedly listening as your name was read for the nomination, not even bothering to care as you held your gaze with the man seated next to you — a brutal lock of eyes that said a thousand words. You were furious, failing to hide it miserably, and he, well, he was enjoying it.

“I did.” You started, “Nice to see a downgrade was my replacement.”

Michael’s smile flickered at your harsh dig at his life-long friend, “I think I could say the same about your date.”

“At least I have one.”

That sure wiped the smirk off his face.

“And definitely not a downgrade in the bedroom.”

You basked in his shock — the smirk he once sported now adorning your face, nearly missing the way your name was called from the stage, the room erupting in applause.

“Excuse me?” Michael’s voice was bitter, cold, mortified at your admission. A false one at that, but he didn’t need to know. Yet.

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” You shrugged him off, rising to your feet with a proud smile — at your award mostly, but also at your triumphant win in the petty disagreement, as loud cheers exploded in your ears.

You took the stage — a new found confidence oozing off of you, a gorgeous smile on your face as you took the award from the announcer’s hands, pulling them into a small hug. You thanked your producer, musical team, family and friends — humbleness evident in every word you spoke.

You looked perfect — utterly radiant under the bright lighting blaring down onto the stage, award glistening in your hands as your pearly white smile twinkled in the spotlight.

Michael, albeit still in an angered daze over your admission, couldn’t help himself but rake his eyes over your frame — breasts pushed perfectly up your corseted dress, the curve of the plush mounds visible to everyone’s eyes from the audience, eyes never leaving those perfect tits he’d once nestle his face into as he flung your legs over his shoulders and filled you to the hilt with his cock.

The thought had him readjusting his slacks — hard-on now painful against the restrictive clothing at the delicious reminiscing of your love-making.

It was your next words that had the sexual memories leaving his head.

“And I wanna thank my wonderful date for tonight— matter of fact, come up here! Prince, where y’at, honey?”

The room erupted into cheers once more — everyone but Michael, who attempted to drown out Whitney’s disbelieving laughter from two seats down from him, watching as you shielded your eyes from the light, searching for the man in the crowd.

Michael stared lethal daggers into Prince’s back as he sauntered up the stairs to the stage — his chest heaving in undeniable envy as he watched Prince pull you into a tight hug. Those gorgeous breasts now pressed up against Prince’s chest.

He was livid. Hands tightening around the material of his trousers, knuckles white as his grip turned taut.

“Not only is he a Pop King,” The room exchanged hushed gasps at the title, one that everyone knew belonged to your furious ex, “But, he’s also a fantastic plus one.” Laughs fizzled out the shock at your insinuation that Prince was only there with you, not for his own musical nominations.

Michael, however, had never felt fury quite like it.

That title was his.

One he worked so hard for — something him and that idiot, in his mind, up on stage with you had fought over for so many years. And you knew that.

He knew you were aggravating him deliberately.

Prince smirked, eyes finding Michael’s in the crowd, expression darkening, “Sorry, Michael.”

And with a smooth arm wrapped around your back, and a swift dip in the air — he kissed you.

Well, not actually.

His lips attached to the corner of your mouth, barely touching, but to the audience, and more importantly, the cameras, it looked as though your ex-boyfriend’s fiercest enemy was kissing the life out of you on stage.

And, boy, did everyone in the room eat it up.

Standing ovations and screams of joy sounded in the room as they clapped — basking in the pure drama of it all.

Prince pulled away from you with a smile, winking at you as you laughed, shaking your head. He took his hand in yours, guiding you backstage, the noise of the crowd dying down as you were ushered away.

“You’re evil.” You chuckled, chest heaving from the adrenaline.

“Well, maybe it’ll give him the push he needs to try get y’back.” Prince admitted, “Either that or to write ‘nother okay album.”

You shoved his arm playfully, “Oh, stop. Y’know it was a good album.”

“Sure, sweetheart, sure.” He teased, sending another smug wink your way, earning another giggle from your lips.

You’d barely made it ten steps backstage before an all familiar frame blocked your way.

You swallowed thickly as Michael’s cold, blank expression met your eyes, his hands curled at his side as he held your gaze — watching as the smile fell from your face.

He didn’t fail to notice how quickly you dropped Prince’s hand, either.

“Come with me. Now.” His voice was darker than his usual soft, gentle tone — not holding a deeper undertone of something that had a chill running down your spine.

“Oh, he mad now.” Prince spoke up, a soft, breathy laugh leaving his lips, “Don’t be jealous, brother, y’got ‘Ross don’t’cha?”

Michael’s jaw clenched, his gaze turning to Prince, eyes darkening into something icier, “I’d walk away if you know what’s good for you.”

Prince laughed once again, eyes flickering back towards you, “Good luck, girl.” He turned back to Michael, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Be sure to bring her back t’me when you’re done, yeah?”

Michael lunged, flinging his hand off his shoulder in a brutal shove, turning towards him with clear intent. You rushed in between a seething Michael and a laughing Prince, hands steadying the angered man on his chest.

“Enough. Both of you.” You hissed, “Just go.” You signalled to the amused man behind you.

Prince didn’t fight it — just turned to walk away with his hands in the air in surrender, chuckling as he went.

“Michael, what the hell was that for?” You snapped.

Michael didn’t speak — only grabbed your wrist in a firm, not aggressive, more so possessive, grasp, tugging you away, his longer legs moving swiftly with each stride, your own practically in a run as you fought to keep up.

He found a nearby bathroom, pushing the door open with all his strength, ignoring the way you winced at the sound of the handle harshly slammed into the wall. The door was shut and locked quicker than it had opened — before you were pushed against it.

“Me?” He started, answering your prior question, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, pupils blown in distress, “I think I should be asking you that question, sweetheart.”

The pet-name spat from his mouth with a curl of his lips — face contorted into a scowl.

You gained your pride, taking two hands to his shoulders and shoving him, your strength against his own doing as little as moving him a few steps backwards.

“Don’t get it twisted, Michael.” You retorted, “You started this with that bitch.”

Michael scoffed, “Go’head, baby, try and convince yourself I’m in the wrong here.” His tongue poked out from his inner cheek, “You’re insatiable.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” Your voice seeping with distaste at the familiar pet-name, “You lost that privilege the second you gave up on us like we were nothin’.” You shook your head, “Would’ve let you have it back if you didn’t let that old slut rub up on you like you’re a fuckin’ groupie.” You laughed darkly, looking him up and down, “Not now. Lost every fuckin’ chance with me.”

Michael looked taken aback by your disrespectful words — teeth grinding together as he never took his eyes away from your own.

“I never gave up on us willingly.” He revealed, ignoring the way you scoffed with a laugh, as he took a step closer to you, “And as for her,” He paused, attempting to find the right words.

“See? You can’t even convince yourself there’s nothin’ going on there.” You cut him off, hands flailing in the air as you spoke theatrically.

“Let me finish, woman.” He shot back, “As I was sayin’ — she means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. She’s an old friend. Someone who mentored me as a kid. We have history — but nothin’ more than platonic. Barely even platonic, just professional.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Michael. No ‘professional mentor’ kisses their ‘colleague’ like that.” You air-quoted the words that felt faux with your manicured fingers, shaking your head, “Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”

“Not in that sense, no.” He started, “For actin’ like that with him? Maybe.”

You laughed in disbelief, “You just love it, don’t you? Pretending to yourself that I’m the bad guy, that I went up there and acted like that just to hurt you with no real reason?” You looked him up and down with disgust, “You’re so blind.”

“How many times, girl? There’s nothin’ going on with me and Di.”

He regretted the use of the nickname the second it left his mouth.

“Di? That sounds real professional to me, asshole.” You turned on your heel, clicking the lock back open and twisting the handle, pulling the door open in an attempt to storm out.

Before you could even move, the door was slammed shut once again. The loudness blooming a new found silence in the room, one that failed to occur from the second you walked in there.

Michael’s hand, despite his burning anger, remained gentle as moved your body back to face him, pressing you back into the door.

“Don’t even think about it.” He whispered, “You are not walkin’ away from me.”

“That’s ironic.” You bit back, “If you hadn’t have done that in the first place, we wouldn’t be havin’ this argument.”

“Y’think I wanted to do that? Think I wanted to sit there and watch you panic? Listen to you cry? Hear you cuss me out because of pain and anger I caused? No. That’s where y’dead wrong, girl.” He let out a shaken breath, “I have always, from the moment I met you, till this very day, loved you. Loved you so much I had to give you the life you deserved. I had to let you go. Had to get you away from the pain I was bringin’. No one wants to be with someone who’s never there, and when they are, they’re always fightin’.” Then, he went silent, his eyes now softened as they met your glassy ones, tears threatening to fall as you let him talk.

You both stayed in deathly loud silence, louder than any door slamming or screaming argument — silence that spoke more words than any you’d ever said.

You swallowed thickly, your resolve cracking as his admission settled in your brain, “That wasn’t your decision to make, Michael.” Your voice was quieter now, still with the same stubborn sharpness, but less accusatory, now filled with evident upset.

Michael breathed, his head hanging low, his forehead a mere few inches from your own, “I regret that night every fucking day.” He whispered, a vulnerable string of words that hung heavy in your heart, “Letting you walk out that door was the worst mistake of my life.”

“Why her?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, a stray tear falling down your cheek as you met his gaze.

“It wasn’t a personal attack. She was just at the same club and approached me.” He revealed, “The picture was taken before I even had a chance to say no.”

You shook your head, breaking the eye-contact as you looked at your feet, hiding your rapidly falling tears. Michael’s trembling hand reached for your face, a tentative hand cupping your warm cheek, lifting your face to meet his eyes once more.

“Mama..”

“Stop.” You turned your head, pushing his hand away with your own, “I can’t even look at you.”

“Don’t act so innocent.” Michael’s tone, that had once softened, grew the all too familiar iciness that had been evident the whole evening, “I’m trying to fix things here despite your little ordeal earlier. D’y’know what it’s like to see you kissing him up there? That used to be me if you even remember.”

You let out a low laugh, “He didn’t even kiss me, fool, ‘was all an act. Unlike you and Di.” You barked, “Y’know you actually blow my mind, you’re so—Mmmph!”

Michael connected your lips in a frantic kiss, cutting off your incessant bickering, lips moving against yours quickly.

You shoved him back, gasping for air at the sudden loss of breath, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Puttin’ that bratty fuckin’ mouth to better use.”

He kissed you again — mouth sliding against your own in a feverish lip-locking, a hand now gripping the nape of your neck, the other on the curve of your waist.

And this time — you let him.

You melted into him, hands flying to his face, eyes fluttering shut as you caved, droplets of tears falling onto the tops of your cheeks — falling deeper into his mercy. His tongue slid across the surface of your bottom lip, still awaiting permission despite his frustration. You allowed it, letting his tongue slide into your warm mouth, humming in delight at the taste of his minty breath on the hot muscle, revelling in the way he pushed his body into yours. His hands wondered — now travelling down your body to grab a handful of your ass through your dress, continuing his oral assault on your swollen lips.

“Jump.”

You obeyed, leaving his lips to leap into his arms — his hands cradling your behind as he connected your lips once more, settling you on the sink, slotting himself between your ajar legs.

Michael detached his mouth from own, moving his lips down the curve of your jaw, and down your exposed neck — letting his hips rock into yours involuntarily, while he sucked possessive marks into your skin, at the sound of your breathy moans, head tilted back to allow him better access.

“Michael, please.” You whined, voice a needy plea, hands sliding up into his hair, threading through his tight curls.

“Please, what, angel?” He mumbled against your neck, breath hot against your skin, fresh lovebites forming as he spoke.

“Please—mmhm—Need you, fuck.”

Michael pulled away, hands flying to your dress, pulling down the zipper harshly — before pulling you to your heeled feet, pushing it off your body swiftly, leaving you in just a skimpy bare of lace panties.

Ones you knew were his favourite.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He breathed, eyes raking over your bare frame, glossy doe-eyes peering up at him as he towered above you, “Wore my favourite just for me?”

You nodded, “Just f’you, Mike.”

Michael turned you, with precise smoothness, pressing your stomach against the cold of the sink, your bare back now pressed against his chest.

He slid a tentative hand up your side, toying with the tiny string the thong that clad your bottom half, as he locked eyes with your own in the mirror before you, “How am I supposed to know you didn’t wear them for him, mama?”

You pushed back against him, rolling your hips into the statement of his arousal, “Shut up about him and fuck me.”

A harsh hand connected with your left ass cheek — a half-gasp half-moan ripping from your throat at the sudden contact, “Thought I told you to keep that bratty mouth shut?”

You, testing your luck, ground against him once more, smirking at the way his hand tightened against your hand-printed behind, “Give me what I want then.”

Michael shook his head behind you — one hand working on his belt, pushing his slacks down along with his boxers, his palm wrapping around his achingly hard cock, pumping himself slowly, while the other pulled down your panties, now morphed into the shape of your plush folds from your leaking arousal, to the side, “Be careful what you wish for, doll.”

With one swift, sudden thrust, Michael pushed inside you — bottoming out instantly. A scream erupted from your throat at the instant fullness, your tight cunt struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him as his leaking tip kissed your cervix. Your pussy betrayed you as it clenched around him, drooling around him, coating his cock in your slick.

His hand flew to your mouth, his large palm enclosing around your swollen lips, muffling the whimpers that left you as you struggled around him — eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of him throbbing inside you.

“Keep those eyes open, mama,” He ordered, sliding out of you slowly until the only thing that remained inside your quivering hole was his plump mauve cockend, “Want you to see how pathetically you fall apart on my cock. My cock. No-one else’s.”

He pushed in again with the familiar harshness from before as your eyes shot open — now starting a brutal, animalistic pace that had you clawing at the tense of his hand that enveloped your mouth, hiding the high-pitched squeals and whines of pure, irrevocable lust that took over your mind, body and soul.

Michael groaned into your ear, eyes locked on your own as he fucked into you with such a pace and lack of gentleness that you’d never seen before. During your companionship, Michael took his time with you — worked you open with his mouth and fingers, took his time to get you ready for the thickness and length of him. But, not this time — all the pent up rage brought upon him from the start of the night now being fucked into you with every harsh rock of his hips.

Keeping you flush against his chest, his free hand slid down to where you connected — rubbing tight figure eights against your clit that throbbed for attention. Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes rolling to the back of your head, ignoring any order he gave you to hold his gaze.

“Mmphmh—M-Mich—Michael, please!”

Words failed you as you cried against his hand, drunk on the way his cock dragged in and out of your gummy walls that sucked him in with each thrust — the sound of your feverish moans and your squelching cunt mixing with his breathy groans filling the air of the bathroom that now stunk of Michael’s intoxicating cologne and passionate sex.

“Take it, baby, take this fuckin’ dick.” He grunted into your ear, his words unlike his usual loving coaxes, “Make up for what’cha did.”

Michael hissed as you bit down on the skin of his palm, his hand pulling away from the source of pain as he meet your gaze in the mirror — your own expression now deepening into a scowl, “Fuck you.”

The words spat from your mouth, dripping with venom, at his words of blame, watching as his face scrunched up in frustration.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, ma.”

His pace never let up — if anything, since your oral stunt, it quickened. He forced you down, now completely bent over the sink as he created a new angle — his cock now driving deeper into your sopping cunt, abusing the sweet spot inside you relentlessly.

Now released from his grasp, your loud, incessant cries sounded throughout the small room — so voluminous that any passerby would hear every scream of his name.

His hand collided with your ass cheek again — cursing under his breath as the familiar feeling of a much needed orgasm crept up his abdomen. The lustful spark in your stomach blossoming much the same as he slid a hand into your hair, tugging your head upwards to look directly into the mirror once more. You were a state, completely, and literally, fucked — eyes streaming with tears that coated your hot cheeks, lips swollen and stricken with spit from his frantic kisses, and a small yet equally evident imprint of his fingers around your mouth where he held you harshly.

“‘M gonna cum so fuckin’ deep in this pussy that you can’t fuckin’ walk without flooding your little panties with my seed.” He grunted, never letting his thrusts faltering as you squirmed beneath him, “Who’s needy little cunt is this?”

Words failed you as you continued to cry — only desperate, eager whimpers falling from your lips.

Another spank connected with your ass cheek, coaxing a loud whine out of you, “Answer me when I ask you a fuckin’ question, woman.”

“Yours!—fuck, Michael, it’s all yours.” You panted, tears falling from your eyes faster than you could stop them.

“Say this pussy’s mine.” Michael spat, tugging hard on your locks of hair.

“My pussy’s all yours, baby, fuck—mmph!—Gonna cum!”

Michael hummed, clearly pleased with your response, his hips stuttering as he neared his own release, “Cum with me, beautiful, cum on my cock like a good girl.”

You cried out, loud and despairingly, as you finally broke — red-hot ecstasy taking over your body as you came, the flood gates of your pleasure breaking open to consume you. Michael followed, the tight clenching of your quivering pussy sending him over the edge, spurting his hot seed into your fertile cunt as he groaned lowly — the sensation of his cum filling your fluttering sex only furthering your own orgasm.

You slumped against the countertop — chest heaving as you attempted to catch your breath. Michael stilled behind you, swallowing thickly as he softened inside you. He leant down, pushing his chest against your back, coated with a sheen of sweat, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to your shoulder.

His kisses trailed up to your neck, beneath your earlobe, your cheek, before using a trembling hand to tilt your head to the side, and pressing his lips against your own. You sobbed into the kiss, more tears, now from overwhelming emotion, falling from your eyes. Michael’s hand cupped your cheek — deepening the kiss, that once held so much irritation, resentment and anger, now filled with undeniable attachment, deep love and compassion.

“I love you.” Michael breathed, disconnecting your lips, resting his forehead against yours — singular curl that stuck to his slick forehead tickling your own, “Please be mine again.” He whispered.

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his nose, head reeling from the overstimulating rush of emotions.

“But don’t pull that shit again.” He added with a playful smile.

“Yeah,” You sniffled with a breathy laugh, “You too.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･