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The room was large and bright with lighting equipment. Rows and rows of chairs and the monotonous hum of camera equipment and its crew bustling about filled the room. Journalists murmured to each other quietly, discussing Michael Jackson’s newest project. 

You were seated off to the left side in a small press section. Eyes roaming the room as you tapped your pen on your notepad, legs crossed one over the other. The room smelled of coffee and faint cigarette smoke, and something sickly sweet like hairspray. 

Patiently, you waited for your turn to interview Michael. He was in the process of completing his previous one, and then you’d be next. Your eyes wandered over his physique. He was dressed down more than usual today. But in a way that only Michael Jackson could manage to make look polished. A cobalt blue overshirt hung open over a soft white V-neck t-shirt. The bright color made his complexion glow under the studio lights. His sleeves were rolled up just enough to expose the veins in his forearms. Loose black slacks draped cleanly over his long legs, cutting neatly above his signature loafers.

No matter how hard you tried to ignore it, you kept feeling the thrumming heat of his gaze fall on you. He was trying to focus on the interviewer in front of him. He really was. But he couldn’t help the way his wandering eyes kept gravitating in your direction.

“So, Michael,” The interviewer started, leaning in close as if he was about to share a scandalous secret.” “A young woman says to you, “Come over, I’m gonna make love to you,”

Instantly, Michael visibly cringed, shoulders drawing in slightly. He was a bashful man. Then— a look so quick that almost anyone would have missed it. Michael’s eyes flickered over to you, and a faint knowing smile ghosted over his lips. Just as quickly as you saw it, it vanished. 

He was about to start his shit. You shifted in your seat, preparing for the show. 

In a dead pan tone, Michael responded “Yes, I’m scared”. Immediately, the interviewer was roped in. His eyes lit up as he leaned in even further.

“Really? That’s fascinating. Tell me more—” the interviewer continued to prod at Michael’s answer.

He was such a smug asshole. He knows that isn’t true. And he looked right at you while he said it, because you knew better than anyone in the room just how untrue it was. 

Your eyes fell to his fingers that were tapping against idly his knee. A nervous habit you’d observed a hundred times before. Intrusively, an unwanted memory slammed into you.

“Just like that—p-please don’t stop”

Michael’s hand was fisted in your hair, gaze holding yours intensely in the mirror as he stroked into you deep and deliberate, cock stroking your overstimulated walls and making you see stars. A sharp crack of his palm came down on your ass.

A sharp voice startled you from your daydream.

“You’re on in 5, ready?” 

“Always” You stood smoothly, shoulders back and radiating unshakeable confidence that had come from years of practice. You made your way to the powder room, praying that it wasn’t obvious you were flustered. Inside, you brushed your hair away from your face before touching up your lip combo, studying your reflection. You took a deep breath. Showtime.

Michael’s amusement was evident from the time you came back in the room. Hips swaying to an invisible rhythm as you made your way to the seat across from him. He stood up, adjusting his collar. He extended his hand outward to you. He didn’t offer a standard, business-like grip. Instead, his large hand closed gently over your fingers. Thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle over your knuckles before he allowed your fingers to slide away.

He said your name softly, teasing the syllables. It rolled off his tongue like a familiar melody he’d been humming in the dark. His doe eyes were bright, studying you.

“Good to see you again. It’s been a while”

Pulling your hand away, you sat down as if unphased by the soothing gesture. You settled into the seat before replying,

“Mhm, what’s it been? 3 or 4 months?” You pretended not to remember the last time you had crossed paths with the popstar. Truthfully, you remembered the exact date. Michael continued observing you with quiet curiosity.

“Something like that.” He sat back down; eyes fixated on you. He glazed over your features with warm scrutiny. Your eyes, your hair, your lips. Like an art collector confirming every detail of a priceless painting is exactly as he remembered. He lingered on your lips for a moment. A grin made its way across his features as he realized you’d worn it. A specific lip combo you only wore for him. Michael was certain. He’d watched plenty of your interviews, and this specific combo was a rarity for you. However, you always seemed to adorn the look when he encountered you. 

The scent of Michael’s cologne enveloped you as you tried to gather your question cards. It was warm and smelled expensive. He waited patiently, seemingly enjoying how you seemed to be fumbling with them, nearly dropping them at one point.

Aw. She’s flustered. Michael thought to himself.

After a final sound check, cameras started rolling. And instantly, you stepped into your persona.

“Michael, it’s good to be here with you today. We’re celebrating the start of the second leg of your Bad world tour for those who don’t know. Congratulations.”

Michael nodded humbly, “Thank you”. His hand rested against his knees, long fingers relaxed. His shirt fell open at the collar, exposing the smooth skin of his chest. You hated that you noticed.

“The album has been doing excellent, five hit singles from one album is an incredible feat. I have to ask. When you’re creating a visual piece for an album like this, do you hear the music first or see the details of the visual?”

There it was. The reason Michael always picked you to do his interviews whenever he did a press run. His face lit up and he began explaining his creative process, talking with his hands and making expressive faces. You tried to ignore the flutter you felt in your tummy as the passion continued to build in his tone.

“Sometimes it’s a sound I’ll hear. Other times it may be a color. Sometimes… it’s a face I can’t stop seeing.” The words settled between you two, crossing an unspoken barrier. 

You had been scribbling notes down for the article you planned to write until that last sentence. Recovering quickly like the professional you were, you cleared your throat and moved to the next question. A little too quickly, and unfortunately for you Michael noticed. 

“You’ve often said you think of your music videos as short films. How much creative control do you have over the final product?”

Questions about his craftsmanship. That was your angle. While other interviewers focused on salacious, invasive details, you focused on what was important. 

Michael pondered the question for a moment before answering. 

“Usually, the idea comes to me and immediately I can see it playing out in my head. The music comes to me, and I see it come to life, it’s a gift really.”

Foreplay. That’s what this was for you and Michael.  

As the interview continued, Michael became more detailed with his answers. His posture became more relaxed, and the flow of the conversation became a tennis match of sorts. Not competitive. But steady in rhythm. You were picking his brain, and he loved it. 

Behind the scenes, a producer leaned over to an executive.

“He never usually gives this much. This girl’s really lucky.”

Michael found his gaze wandering down to your lips as you spoke, flowing effortlessly from question to question. They were lined with a chocolate brown and filled in with a blush-colored gloss. So pretty. And distracting. 

“Sometimes,” he said, “the smallest thing changes the whole picture.” His eyes dropped to your lips again. Your cheeks warmed. You hated that your next question came out a fraction softer than you intended.

“That sounds like a lot of control,” you said. “Do you ever get tired of paying attention to everything?”

Michael’s smile turned up slowly.

“No,” he said. “Not when it’s worth looking at.”

He’s doing this on purpose, reading me in front of everyone. you thought. 

After your last question, you’d stood to shake Michael’s hand. This time, he pulled you in for a hug by the small of your waist, lips brushing your cheek as a departure greeting. Despite the heat you felt creeping up your neck, you allowed the gesture. Gotta be professional, right?

When it was all over, you packed your things. Quickly. Usually, you were in control of your interviews. No one phased you. And you did not like being out of your element. Your get away was made clean by Michael’s manager pulling him aside as soon as the two of you had finished your polite departure.

Making your way through the rows of chairs and still cramming your things into your purse, you tried to tune out your assistant editor.

“That was amazing. How did you get him to open up to you like that? I know you’ve interviewed him before, but wow.” The editor continued bumbling about the best parts of the interview as you made your way to an empty lounge area.

“Thanks. Did you make sure to get extra candids at the end? I need a cover for the article.” The editor nodded eagerly, chirping about how natural the chemistry between you and Michael had been. Her rambling was interrupted by the door of the lounge opening slowly. 

Michael’s eyes had trailed you from the moment the interview ended. He heard his manger talking, but every word went in one ear and out the other. There was no chance he was letting you get away that clean. And that was why he knew exactly where you’d gone in an effort to escape him. 

“Hi…” He spoke softly, hoping he wasn’t intruding on your conversation. The editor squeaked in response, literally. She glanced between the two of you, and sensing the change in air in the room, quickly dismissed herself. 

The lighting in the room was dim, and it was silent, with the exception of the hum of the press suite which was only a few feet away. 

“Why you runnin’ from me?” He teased, stepping closer and working to close the gap between the two of you. “You know I can’t let you get away that easy.”

“I’m not running. Just got a busy day, that’s all.” Your fingers fidgeted at your sides, having nothing to do.

Michael tutted, a smirk gracing his lips. “Don’t tell me you got plans more important than me”

His smugness both irritated you and stirred something in the pool of your stomach. You rolled your eyes, arms crossing over your chest.

“Don’t you have another interviewer to play with? Scared when you get a booty call? Really? You know damn well you’ve been gettin’ panties thrown at you since you were 17.” You were all too aware of the enjoyment Michael got out of toying with journalists. Most were leeches who would latch on to the most salacious detail they could find to make a dollar. And Michael knew it. Honestly, he thought it was funny to troll them.

Michael’s lips shifted to one side, trying and failing to hide a laugh. 

“You didn’t like that one, huh?” He stepped closer again, further decreasing the gap. “I had to find some way to keep myself entertained 'til I could get to you. The only reason I agree to do these things is so I have an excuse to see you. You’re hard to get a hold of, girl.”

Another step.

“What do I gotta do? Drop another album for you to agree to see me?” His eyes stayed on you, tender and containing something else you couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe yearning. Maybe lust.

Michael was no fool. You were about your business. Initially, you despised interviewing him. But no journalist in their right mind would ever turn down the opportunity to interview Michael Jackson. Besides that, Michael genuinely enjoyed your interviewing style. Before he had ever met you, he’d watched a plethora of your interviews. You were truly a credible journalist. A rarity in your field. And this— was why you were his top pick whenever he decided to give the press the time of day.

“I haven’t seen you since that awards show out in Vegas. And you barely gave me the time of day.”

“Michael, you said you wouldn’t do this.” Bottom lip caught between your teeth, you continued to keep your arms crossed tightly. “Last press run was just that. Last press run.”

Something dark flickered in Michael’s eyes that resembled disappointment. 

“Don’t tell me that baby, you quittin’ me already?” He was right in front of you now. One hand rose to rest on the wall on the side of your head. “Is there somebody else? You can tell me” He eyes wandered over your features, lingering on your lips before flickering back up to your eyes.

With a pointed finger at his chest, you began your tirade. “I’m not the one traveling the world and disappearing for months at a time, Mr. Fishes. What do you want me to do? Sit around waiting until you call? I have a career and a life too, Michael.”

Michael’s eyebrows rose at your directness, still maintaining closeness. Enough that the sweet scent of your perfume could invade his sense, taking him back to his last encounter with you.

“Hey, I write you. You never write me back. And tour has been non-stop lately...” You rolled your eyes again, this time looking away from his intense stare. Then, softer, “You’re the one who told me you didn’t want anything serious. You basically avoided me for weeks when I asked you to go steady. I thought this was what you wanted. Space.”

That, you couldn’t deny. You had outwardly rejected the idea of anything legitimate with Michael. Mostly due to a desire to protect your career. You worried about what the title of "Michael Jackson’s girlfriend" would do to your credibility, especially amongst your peers. Most of whom were men. Who you definitely didn't want to say you got the best gigs because of your relationship with him. For that reason, you’d refused Michael.

Stubbornly, you held his stare. Refusing to admit, and refusing to secede. God, you were so stubborn. Michael didn’t know if it was just your professional training or a trait you’d honed over the years, but he just couldn’t get you to give in to him. For anything. 

“Okay how about this. You’re here. I’m here. Come see me tonight. Spend some time with me. My chef’s making dinner. It’ll be quiet, just us.” His doe eyes searched yours, hope dancing in them. You continued to stare, raising an eyebrow. Still unimpressed. Michael rolled his eyes. Shaking his head at your refusal to submit, even when he was putting his best foot forward. “Please, come see me tonight? I miss you.” The hand next to your head came down to your face, backs of his fingers caressing your cheek. At this, your lips turned upward.

“That’s right papa, talk to me nice” And with that, you slipped out of his grasp, hips sashaying as you exited, a sweet trail of perfume following you. 

Michael felt a stir in his pants as he watched you leave. He loved to watch you coming, but damn, he really loved to watch you leave. Michael swallowed thickly, adjusting himself subtly before taking a deep breath.

That was good, right?

That night, Michael changed his outfit three times. He was standing in front of the mirror in a burgundy silk button up he wasn’t sure about. Catching the time on a nearby clock, Michael mumbled a curse under his breath. He ran his hands over the material, and looked in the mirror, fixing his curls one last time. He sprayed the lightest touch of cologne at his throat just as the knock came at the door.

Everything was perfect. His private chef had made your favorite cuisine, and he made sure someone picked up your favorite candles. He was wise not to make a fuss. He knew the more extravagant he went, the more he would inadvertently push you away. So, this was good.

When he opened the door and saw you standing there, his whole face lit up like a Christmas tree. A rare, unguarded smile. 

“You came” He breathed, voice soft with relief. “I wasn’t sure you would… after the letters. And with how we left things on tour, I thought maybe you’d change your mind”.

You stepped inside, allowing him to close the door behind you. The suite smelled like garlic and herbs, and something rich and buttery from the chef. A small table by the window was set for two, candles flickering and two glasses of red wine. Your fingers trailed gently over the tablecloth as you noticed what type of candles were lit.

“Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was gonna come either….” a small smile touched your lips at his thoughtfulness. Cashmere and vanilla candles were one of the small comforts you always tried to bring with you on the road. “Told myself I was only coming to clear the air. Not because you asked.”

There it is. That unrelenting stubbornness. Michael shook his head, laughing to himself at your refusal to soften. His hand hovered near the small of your back as he pulled your chair out for you. “Still glad you’re here”.

Dinner started off easy. The chef had gone all out; seared salmon, roasted vegetables, and a dish of pasta that tasted suspiciously like the one you’d mentioned once in passing. Michael watched you take the first bite, something quietly pleased in his eyes. 

“You remembered my favorite pasta too?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I remember the important things” He admitted shyly.

You nodded, deep in thought. You took another bite and then set your fork down.

“Michael, this is nice. The dinner, the suite. All of it. But I meant what I said on tour. I’m not looking to go steady. Not when it could mess with my job. I’m a woman and I’m one of the top earners in my field. I don’t need people saying I only get the good assignments because I’m sleeping with Michael Jackson.”

Michael set his fork down too now. He nodded slowly, eyes not leaving yours. “I know,” he said softly. “I hate that you felt like you had to choose. That’s why I wrote you instead of pushing. I was scared you’d leave, but you did that anyway…” he trailed off, thumb tracing the stem of his wine glass. 

You felt your guard lowering for half a second from the guilt. Recovering quickly, you responded,

“Distance was safer. For both of us. I’m not some girl who’s gonna drop everything because you’re looking at me like…”

Michael’s eyes raised to yours, mischief twinkling in them. “Like what?” his tongue trailed his bottom lip lightly. Eyes trailing from your rose petal lips up to your eyes.

“Like that, Michael.” You give him an agitated look, but your lips twitched. “Don’t push it.”

The conversation stayed charged after that. Both of you had relaxed into it, flowing from topic to topic naturally. He asked about the cities you’d done stories in since the first leg of tour ended. You asked him about his new songs from Bad that were added to his setlist for the second leg. Every time his fingers brushed yours reaching for the wine, the air got a little heavier. Every time he licked a drop from his lower lip, your eyes followed.

By the time the plates were mostly cleared, the tension had become a living thing between you two. 

Michael leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers through yours. “I missed this. Missed you. The way you argue with me even when your eyes are telling me something else”. 

You met his gaze, allowing him to stroke his thumb over the hand that was currently laced with yours.

“I’m not giving in just because you made my favorite pasta and wore that shirt.”

At this, Michael was genuinely tickled. You hated how your tummy flipped when he tilted his head back and covered his face, erupting into giggles. He stood and came around the table, still laughing. He pulled your chair out and held his hand out to you. Reluctantly, you stood. His hands settled at your waist and drew you in until your bodies were flush against each other. 

“Tell me to stop” he murmured. Voice low and raspy. “And I will. But if you don’t, I’m not letting you walk out of here tonight without reminding you how good we are together. How good I am for you.”

You opened your mouth, trying to think of something to say to push back. Some type of quip about boundaries and your career. But then, his lips were against yours before words could form. It started slow and deep, almost like he was testing to see if you’d pull away. You didn’t. You kissed back harder, tongue sliding against his. 

He walked you backwards into the next room. The backs of your calves made contact with the bed, and that’s when your palms raised to his chest, fingers curling in the silky marerial.

“Michael— we shouldn’t. This is what I was afraid—” He kissed you again, swallowing the protest. One of his hands slid under your dress to grip your thigh, thumb brushing it gently. 

“Then tell me to stop” He whispered against your mouth. His fingers found the edge of your panties, gently pushing them aside. The pads of his fingers slid through your folds, already slick with your arousal. Your head tipped back with a gasp,

“I—fuck — I’m not giving in to you Michael. This doesn’t mean I’m giving in.” But your hips rolled toward his hand anyway. Michael groaned softly, fingers finding the bundle of nerves between your legs that made your thighs shake.

“There she is,” he cooed, voice warm. He brushed his lips over your cheek near your ear as his fingers continued to toy with the bundle of nerves. “My stubborn girl. Still fighting me even when you’re this soaked.” You tried to glare at him, but it melted into a moan when his fingers began teasing your entrance.

“Michael—I’m serious. My job—”

“I know baby,” he breathed. “Let me have you tonight. Just tonight. Please?” His kisses grew needy and desperate, trailing from your jaw to your lips. His opposite hand cradled the back of your neck.

“Just tonight.” You gasped and his fingers continued their torment.

The bedroom was bathed in soft, amber light. A tall mirror rested against the wall, catching your every movement. A soul record hummed lowly from the corner of the room as Michael guided you onto the bed. He stripped you completely bare with slow, deliberate hands until there was nothing left between his skin and yours. 

He turned you gently, kissed down your spine, and murmured against the back of your neck, “On your knees, baby. Face down. Arch that pretty back for me… right here where we can both see everything.” You moved into position without hesitation — cheek and breasts pressed to the cool sheets, knees spread wide, back arched deep so your ass lifted high and presented. The mirror gave you both the perfect view: your body open and vulnerable, glistening already from how badly you wanted him.

Michael knelt behind you, large hands smoothing over your hips before gently spreading you apart so he could see every glistening inch of you. He leaned in without warning and buried his face right between your thighs from behind. His tongue dragged flat and slow through your slick folds, from your clit to your entrance. He tasted you deep before he sealed his mouth over your clit and sucked. 

A low, cracked groan tore from his throat as he buried his face deeper, nose pressing against you, tongue working your swollen clit in relentless circles while he sucked like he was starving for you.

The sounds were obscene in the quiet room — the wetness of his tongue against your sopping folds, his muffled groans vibrating straight through your clit. The slick noises every time his tongue fucked shallowly into you. 

Your pussy drooled fresh arousal onto his tongue and he lapped it up greedily, sucking your clit back into his mouth with another hungry moan that made your thighs shake. You couldn’t keep yourself from pushing your hips backward against him. His hands roamed over your ass, squeezing gently.

He rasped against you, voice wrecked and muffled. “Taste so good like this… I missed you so much.”

Only after he had you shaking and leaking did he finally pull away, lips shiny and chin wet. He dragged two fingers through your soaked folds first, spreading you open, then gently pushed just his thumb inside. A soft moan, almost a whimper escaped his throat the second your walls fluttered around the digit, immediately suckling and clenching like they were trying to pull him deeper. “Oh baby…” he breathed, thumb stroking slow and shallow, feeling every tiny ripple and squeeze. “Already so needy for me, princess.”

He withdrew his thumb slowly, watching the way it glistened, then lined up the thick head of his cock with your entrance, pushing inside you with one long, steady glide that stretched you open around him. Your walls welcomed him with the same fluttering, rippling grip that he remembered, and a helpless whimper slipped from your lips as you stared into the mirror.

Michael’s hand wrapped around your ankle, thumb brushing the heel of your foot. The delicate gold anklet you wore caught the light with every movement. He held you steady as he started to stroke. Long, deep strokes that dragged every inch of him along your sensitive walls. His eyebrows furrowed in concentration, jaw tight, eyes flicking between the mirror and where you were joined.

You couldn’t look away. In the reflection you watched everything: the way his cock disappeared into your soaked pussy over and over, the sticky strings of your essence mixed with his pre-cum stretching and snapping between your bodies every time he pulled back. Filthy and glistening. Your pussy looked puffy and greedy around him, clenching visibly with every thrust.

He kept stroking, rolling his hips smoothly with immense control from years of dancing, making every grind deep and precise. Then he looked up in the mirror, dark eyes heavy-lidded, and found your gaze already locked intensely on him.

He continued rocking his hips into you, drawing the prettiest moans from you. The cockiest grin slowly spreading across his lips as the thought hit him. 

She’s enjoying watching herself like this — all submissive and spread open for me in the mirror. 

He kissed his lips at you in the reflection, slow and sensual, and winked, never breaking the rhythm of his hips. Then he brought his hand down in a sharp smack to your ass, the sound cracking through the room as pleasure jolted straight through your cunt.

Your tummy fluttered hard at the way he looked at you — that slow, heated stare like he could devour you whole, and your pussy creamed around him in response. You were hypnotized by the way he rolled his body into you, sinking deep with a smooth, wave-like grind that made every inch of him fill you up in a way that made your eyes flutter and roll back.

“Look at you, baby,” he rasped, voice low and rough as he kept those long, deep strokes going. “Watching yourself get fucked like this. So pretty, mama.” 

"T-thank you. J-just like that" You squeaked through your moans.

He glanced down at where you were connected in the mirror, admiring the mess. The way your pussy clenched and leaked around his cock, creamy and slick, painting his abdomen with your arousal. He was stroking you so deep your walls were milking him, a glossy white ring formed at the base of his cock with every thrust.

“Fuck, baby… look at how deep I’m buried in this pretty pussy,” he groaned, eyes coming back up to meet yours in the mirror. “Filling you up so good... making you cream all over me. You getting off on watching yourself give in to me like this? Watching me fuck you open… good girl.”

You couldn’t talk if you wanted to. Non-sensical babble fell from your lips as he continued to dig deeper into your walls.

The filthy words and the sight of him, eyebrows furrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth now as he watched himself stroke your arched body in the reflection — pushed you right to the edge. 

Your eyes rolled back in the mirror as the first orgasm crashed over you. Your cunt clamped down hard, gushing around him while you sobbed into the sheets, drool soaking the fabric under your cheek. Your thighs shook violently, walls fluttering and milking him through every wave.

Michael didn’t stop. One hand stayed wrapped around your ankle while the other slid under your belly, palm pressing firm and steady against the lower swell where he was buried so deep. He kept stroking, long, deep, relentless. Even as you came.

“Please— Michael, you’re gonna make me squirt,” you whimpered, voice broken and desperate, thighs already quaking.

His mouth fell open at your vulgarity, eyes darkening with raw hunger in the mirror. For a split second he just stared at you, lips parted, like the words had short-circuited something in him. Then he pressed his palm a little firmer against your belly and kept stroking. He ignored your pleas, grinding his thick cock so deep the head kissed your cervix and brushed over the sensitive ridge of nerves deep inside you. 

The combination was intoxicating. Your second release hit like a wave breaking. You squirted hard around him, a hot, messy rush that soaked his thighs and the sheets beneath you. Your whole body jerked, thighs shaking involuntarily as you gushed and clenched. 

Overstimulation crashed into you hard and you tried to bury your face in the sheets to hide from it. But of course, Michael’s hand left your belly and slid up, wrapping firmly around your throat just under your chin. He held your head up, forcing you to keep your eyes on the mirror.

“Be a good girl and watch yourself cum for me,” he growled, voice thick with lust as he watched the way your face melted into raw, helpless ecstasy. Your features softened and twisted in pure overwhelming pleasure, eyes fluttering and rolling back as it completely took you. 

“That’s it. Give it to me. Good girl, baby. Don’t you dare look away. Look at how pretty you are when you’re taking it— mouth fallin’ open every time I hit that spot. I want you to see exactly how needy you look when I’m buried this deep inside you... How pretty you are with that fucked out look on your face”

You whimpered helplessly, voice stuttering, “M-Michael— I-I can’t— oh fuck, I’m— please—”

“I know, baby,” he rasped, never loosening his grip under your chin, still rolling his hips deep and steady while you squirted and clenched around him. “Watch yourself. Watch how perfect you look cumming like this for me. Say thank you, baby.”

Your voice came out wrecked and stuttering as another wave hit, “T-Thank you— fuck, thank you, Michael— thank you for fucking me like this—”

The sound of you thanking him while he held your throat and forced you to watch yourself come undone pushed him over the edge. Michael groaned deep and filthy, hips stuttering as he started pumping thick ropes of cum inside you, still holding your throat and forcing you to watch both of you come undone together in the reflection. His cum mixed with your squirt in messy, creamy pulses that leaked out around his cock with every thrust while he kept stroking through it.

You were completely overstimulated — thighs quaking violently, body twitching, broken little pleas spilling from your lips as another weak, shattering wave hit you while he filled you. Only when the last pulses faded did he finally ease his hand from your throat, both palms smoothing over your trembling hips and lower back as he slowed to lazy, shallow grinds.

When he pulled out, a thick, messy flood of cum and your squirt poured from you onto the sheets. He cooed contently at the sight, turning you carefully onto your side and pulling you into his chest. Immediately he wrapped both arms around you. One big hand found your lower back again, rubbing slow, soothing circles while he pressed soft kisses to your temple, your jaw, the corner of your drool-slicked mouth.

“I got you, princess,” he whispered, voice hoarse and full of awe, nose nuzzling against your cheek. “My good girl… You were so perfect. Looked so pretty squirting all over me like that.”

You were still floaty and twitching with aftershocks, voice small and wrecked. “Maybe I need to reconsider this "just one time" thing…”

He smiled against your skin, pulling the sheet over both of you and keeping that steady hand on your lower back. Mission accomplished. Make you cum so hard for him that you wouldn’t wanna leave him.

“Just rest, baby. We’ll talk about it later. I’m right here.”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

“No, no, no! Keep them on, please! Please.”

You grabbed Michael’s hands to keep him from pulling his glasses off, tears beginning to form in your eyes from how hard you were laughing. You were in his lap on the couch, kissing him—as you were wont to do—and the lenses kept getting fogged up.

This was the third time you’d had to stop because your laughter had spoiled the mood, but it was just too funny. And while you were in borderline hysterics, Michael was getting pissed, which only made you giggle more.

“Honey, this isn’t fu—”

“I’ll stop. I promise, I’ll stop.” You made a crossing-your-heart motion before putting both arms around his neck.

He groaned.

“Y’know I don’t like wearin’ them.” He made a face, and you took the opportunity to kiss his pouty bottom lip. 

“I know, but I love them. Please keep them on? For me?”

You were begging shamelessly because you knew he wouldn’t be able to resist. He’d put on that whole “I’m Michael Jackson, I can do what I want” schtick when you’d first gotten together—and still tried to play that card occasionally—but at the end of the day, you had him wrapped around your little finger. 

“I don’t want to.” He threw his head back against the couch like a drama queen—which was good news for you, because all that did was expose his neck even more.

“Please, Michael.” You dropped your voice low, kissing down the column of his throat, and you could feel him swallow beneath your lips.

You were definitely winning this argument.

“Please?” You kissed back up towards his ear, gently tugging the lobe between your teeth. “Please, please, please?”

“...fine.”

You grinned victoriously. “Thank you, pretty boy.” 

The pet name was enough to make him cut out the grouchy act, and he let you pull him back into a kiss.

It went well for approximately thirty seconds.

Then his glasses fogged up again, and you burst into a laugh so suddenly you almost bit his tongue. 

“I’m not doin’ this.”  He growled with frustration, yanking them off his face and tossing them onto the coffee table. 

You’d never heard him growl before—that was hot, file that away for later—but right now, you were more concerned about the glasses clattering on the hard surface.

“Hey! If you break those, I’m breaking up with yo—”

He cut you off, taking your face in both hands and pulling you back down to meet his mouth before you could protest.

“Stop. And no more laughin’.” His voice was almost stern, and without the glasses in the way, you could see how dark his eyes had gotten.

Okay, maybe taking them off was just as sexy as having them on.

“Gettin’ me all worked up and then makin’ me stop like it’s funny.” He grumbled so low you thought he might be talking to himself. 

“I didn’t think you were actually—”

He didn’t respond with words. He slid his hands down to your waist and lifted you off his lap, laying you back on the couch beside him. 

Oh. He was really trying to shut you up.

“—mad.”

“Honey. Please be quiet for five minutes.” He looked as annoyed as he ever got with you—which wasn’t very—but that didn’t seem to discourage him from slipping off the couch and onto his knees on the carpet.

“Sorry! Sorry, I’m sorry.”

You pretended to lock your lips and throw away the key, watching him drag your shorts down your legs and kiss your inner thigh.

“But hey, Michael?”

“Hm?” His mouth was too preoccupied to talk anymore.

“Can you put the glasses back on when you’re done?”

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

His siblings always seemed to make fun of the two of you for acting like children, but it was like you couldn't help it. No matter how much you tried, you'd always end up awkwardly shifting around each other before laughing.

Take now for example: the two in the same room, sitting on the same bed, touching fingertips, trying your best not to look at each other, too nervous to even breathe, like the two of you hadn't been in this scenario countless times, in the same position. You took a deep breath before letting your fingers intertwine with his, the shock from the sudden contact nearly making him pull away, yet the warmth from your hand sent shivers down his spine, and his stomach twisting with excitement.

“Hm?” Michael lightly hummed as he looked down at your intertwined hands.

“What? I can't hold my boyfriend's hand now?” you playfully joked, rolling your eyes as you held his hands tighter.

“No! I didn't say that! You know I like holding your hand,” he spoke shyly, his eyes darting around the room.

“Wanna kiss me?”

“Huh?” The question somehow shocked him. Even after all this time, he still got all shy when it came to the warmth of your lips or the way your body pressed against his. It almost became overwhelming. “Of course I wanna kiss you,” he shifted, his body now completely turned to face you as he leaned closer, his face mere inches away from your own. The tip of his nose nearly touching yours, the flutter of his lashes looking so beautiful in the dim lighting of his room.

Slowly, you moved forward, letting your lips touch ever so slightly as you pressed your lips together, stealing the warmth that radiated from his body. Your eyes fluttered shut as you felt that familiar zeal, basking in the feeling as he let his thumb trace the plump skin of your cheek, leaning forward to deepen the kiss slightly.

Breathlessly you pulled away, that familiar boyish smile making its way onto Michael's face, making you smile yourself. “Why are you smiling?” you laughed, your face still close to his, the feeling of your breathing tickling each other's faces.

"You know, I like it when we kiss… it just makes me all shy and stuff," he laughed nervously as he spoke, letting his fingers intertwine with yours again. His head fell against the crook of your neck to hide the heat flushing against his skin.

Oh, really?"

"Yeah, really.”

©angelfacediary

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