angel in disguise

SMUT(꩜) FLUF (𑣲) ANGST (✦)

THE JACKSONS



jackie

can't leave you alone ꩜, fuckn problem ꩜, kitchen confessions, meanie ꩜, thee ms jackson, groupie ꩜ 

jermaine

kissing game

latoya

the secret, just princess 𑣲

marlon

soon as i get home ꩜, distraction 𑣲, oh baby! 𑣲, eater ꩜

michael

caught ꩜, wedding crasher

janet

love scene, you and i 𑣲

randy jr

that's hot, feel better ꩜, pretty pink princess, accidental distraction ꩜, lady in my life 𑣲, project pink, calling on you ꩜

jaafar

i need her ꩜, favorite part ꩜, caramel ꩜, liquor ꩜

jermajesty

sunday dinner ꩜, a funny intrusion ꩜ phone calls 𑣲, private matters, serving face ꩜, surprise 𑣲, daddy’s girl 𑣲 out of luck ꩜, who?! ꩜, it's time 𑣲, lil girl, fussin and fighting ꩜, brothers best friend, bedtime ꩜, payback ꩜, alone with you, won't bite ꩜, got to town ꩜, close isn't close enough ꩜

OTHERS

jude bellingham

messin around ꩜

“Michael take them off,” you whispered sharply, having already had it with his funky ass attitude today.

He begged you to be his date to the CBS Awards because he didn’t want to be anxious due to being the guest of honor for the night. Said he’d missed you at events with him. That you were his comfort and it’d be oh-so boring without you. You told him the only way that was happening is if he took off his sunglasses in at least one of the photos you posed in with him.

The glare from the flashes bouncing off of them made your makeup look ashy in pictures. And when he wore them, it looked like you were meeting him, like a fan. You’re his girlfriend.

Of course, that demand already irritated him.

“Y’know why I wear them, baby,” he’d complained.

“I do. But you also know why I want them off. It’s only for the ones with me in ‘em, okay? At least one? I just wanna see your pretty eyes, baby. When you wear ‘em, I feel anxious n’…disconnected from you. Like some fan,” you’d pouted, giving him your very best puppy dog eyes. It succeeded in getting a “Fine, just a few,” out of him, and you thought that was it. Well…The whole event had passed and he was still wearing them while you walked the carpet on your way out.

What pissed you off further was that he knew better. The way your dynamic went was simple: you said to do something, and he’d do it. He’d sometimes do it before you told him to. He’d even willingly trail behind you like a puppy, your finger—hooking into his belt loops or the collar of his shirt—being his unspoken leash.

People loved to poke fun at that; fans, family, and the tabloids alike. They called you a maneater. But Michael was exactly where he wanted to be, and so were you.

Although you’d never really…spoken on the workings of your dynamic—everything honestly came naturally—it was pretty much an unspoken rule that you talked and he listened. You commanded and he obeyed. You’d throw and he’d fetch. Both of you liked it that way.

It gave him a sense of peace, being bossed around and guided everywhere. At work and honestly even in his daily life, he had too many people just doing anything he said and telling him things they thought he’d want to hear. He had such a strict image for himself in public, too, that he was afraid of ever complaining, even if he wanted to. A people pleaser through and through. So, he loved having someone that could be mean for him when he was too scared to. Or having someone be mean to him because they weren’t scared to.

It gave you a sense of ease as well. You enjoyed not being treated like some docile little princess that had to say “Yes, please” and nod your pretty little head at everything the “big man” in charge wanted you to. It was enough putting on that front for hours on end at work. You weren’t going to pretend to be your boyfriend’s submissive little doll at home as well.

So, once the two of you fell into the step of things on your very first official date, it seemed like the both of you sighed out a breath of silent relief when you—having been so comfortable that you hadn’t had the time to check yourself—told Michael to pick up a fork that you’d knocked over and couldn’t reach by his feet. As soon as that “Pick that up for me,” left your mouth and he did it without hesitation, almost looking ecstatic by the way you spoke to him, the both of you knew this was meant to be.

And sure, he’d slip up a few times. He wasn’t really used to being so directly told what to do constantly…That, and he secretly enjoyed when you’d get all worked up and put him in his place. But he’d never acted like this.

He knew better because you’d had this conversation the very last time you went out together. So, that only made his response worse.

“Mama, c’mon everyone’s starin’. Just smile real quick n’ it’ll be done,” he whispered back, smile tightening and voice shaking with nervousness once he registered your tone.

But no. You were already on one. Because he was on one.

You’d been patient all night. When you walked the red carpet before the ceremony, you gave him a pretty little smile and eyes that said, ‘Remember our agreement,’ and he proceeded to take those photos with his onyx Ray-Bans sitting atop his nose bridge. Any time a flash went off, your smile would falter infinitesimally at the idea of the photos making you look like a hot ass mess.

The thing was, Michael didn’t really enjoy how his makeup turned out today. His artist decided to experiment with a new eye look instead of letting him go with his tried and true, so he wanted to cancel on showing up completely. Of course, he couldn’t do that because that would be unprofessional and vain. Plus, he was being awarded that night. So, he decided to wear the darkest pair of shades that he owned—ones that swallowed up the entirety of his expressive eyes and his upper cheeks—and make sure to never take them off, no matter what.

He knew that he’d be met with some complaints after begging you to join him, especially since he’d want you to join him in pictures. But he missed you. The two of you were always so busy these past few months—your shared label decided it was a great idea to have you drop albums within a week of each other. That left no time for you to be together at events since you were being invited to different ones constantly.

He understood that you loved looking into his eyes and that you felt connected to him when you did. And, although he was still shy, he loved the feeling he got when your eyes warmly met his. Even when it was in public. Especially so, because it felt amazing to be loved so openly in that way.

Michael knew that you hated feeling like a fangirl whenever you were with him, especially because he was so established in the industry, and tabloids tried to paint you as such when you first started hanging out romantically. They’d tried their hardest to call you anything from a gold-digger to Michael’s ‘luckiest fan,’ and you’d spent countless phonecalls ranting to him about the demeaning articles and begging him not to believe them.

One time, shortly after the two of you decided to make your relationship publicly official, a tabloid wrote a particularly nasty piece on you, using a photo the two of you took together at a carpet the previous night. Both of you were dressed to the nines, obviously, but Michael was wearing his Aviators. In the article, the author wrote:

“POP PRINCESS AND POP KING MAKE IT OFFICIAL! BUT WILL IT LAST?: The bright, young star looks like any other fan who just so happened to get lucky enough to lay down with their idol. I mean, look at them! He won’t even take off his sunglasses to look at her. Let’s give it a week before she starts to bore him or she announces a new project—riding off the MJ hype. Hopefully she has enough self confidence to not let the heartbreak ruin her, because she clearly has enough to flaunt this hot commodity of a man to the world—as if he even truly loves her.

See page 2 for all the dirt on how the pair came to be, their first failed attempt at dating, the list of demands the Pop Princess has for the Pop King, and an exclusive story from a hotel maid; she heard them going at it for 4 hours one night on their secret vacation in Cabo!”

You’d explained to him that when he was posed up with you in sunglasses that hid his expression and you looked all lovesick and excited to be there, it looked to people like you were a fan and idol. The relationship dynamic was already hard enough as is, with all the speculation and comparisons, but this one particularly struck a nerve deep within you.

Something that he never truly understood was when you’d said that you “looked like a mess” in photos with him, because that sounded absolutely ridiculous. You were nothing short of perfection, not even just in his eyes, but to everyone.

But today he was insecure, so he thought it was a good idea to give you false hope, like a dumbass.

Michael had a hard time admitting to his insecurities or heing vulnerable right before he had to go in public because he had a front to put on. It’s not like he was being fake or anything, just more guarded. So, he hadn’t told you the full truth and agreed to remove his glasses in photos you were in, even when you double-checked with him on the way there.

It’s not like you were pretending to be okay with it and said nothing, either. When you were taking a photo where he had his arm wrapped around your waist securely, you leaned up and planted a feather-light kiss to his cheek, and sneakily whispered, “Baby, take the shades off for this one. I wanna look into your eyes.” He had the nerve to say, “Next one, lovey,” and leave them on for the next set as well.

When you were being seated at your designated tables, a photographer came up to the two of you, excited to see you both accompanying each other to the same event for the first time in months. “Ahh, let me snap some photos of the world’s most darling couple!” the French man gushed.

You’d given Michael a sharp side-eye and a soft nudge to his ribs as the two of you leaned into each others’ sides for a complimentary embrace. He gave you a side-eye back, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled at the photographer, shouting out a, “Ready!”

At one point, having downed your flute of champagne a bit faster than usual due to nerves and irritation, you made Michael help you find the restroom during a commercial break. You scolded him in the hallway as you exited, your cold, slightly damp hands roaming up his shoulders to adjust his collar and pick something out of his curls.

You pointed your acrylic finger all up in his face, whisper-yelling at him to “Fix your fuckin’ attitude,” and “Stop bein’ difficult or I’m leaving,” and he did nothing but sit there with an unreadable expression. Looking like a puppy getting in trouble for chewing on shoes he knew better than to chew on. He said he was sorry and that he’d have them off next time. He told you that he was just scared of everyone seeing into his soul.

Then he let you scold him some more for lying and embarrassing you in front of so many people. You chewed him out for giving you a dirty look instead of saying no or explaining himself further. Instead of just letting you stay home without looking like a loser.

On your way back, after reassuring him that you only wanted to see his eyes for one photo because you missed him—not to make the paps see them—and sharing an impassioned makeout session, you were stopped by another photographer.

One that wanted to snap photos of the hot couple with lipstick smudged all over their lips. You’d laughed, a real, hearty, lighthearted laugh, and brought your hands up to remove Michael’s glasses. Because you’d come to an agreement that he would.

He’d immediately backed away from your touch, shoving yours arms away, and mumbled out a “Stop it,” between a clenched smile.

You’d decided to muster up enough strength to take the stupid photo and stare blankly down the barrel of the camera, a PR smile drawn all over your face. Then the photographer left. You’d started to complain again and he got snappy with you, telling you to “Just leave it alone, already.”

With a smile so emotionless it was terrifying, you’d dragged Michael back to your seats by his stacked belts and he walked with his head hanging low. Anyone could see he was in trouble. He thought cracking a few jokes throughout the rest of the night would help. When he was awarded, he gave you a sweet shout-out in his speech and pointed at you lovingly, and you played along for the crowd. Even when he rejoined you at your seats, he tried to initiate a game of footsies underneath the table. You turned away from his embrace just enough to stop him, but not enough to look obvious to onlookers. You weren’t having any of it.

Maybe too hopefully, you’d anticipated him finally acting right after the mood shift. Hoped that he’d just take a singular photo without his glasses for you like you wanted. You just wanted one. Your entire mood was counting on it.

Still, through a terrifyingly convincing smile, you urged him again. “This is my last time repeating myself to you tonight. Off. Now.”

“I said no.”

Clearly that wasn’t him. Clearly he wasn’t speaking to you in that tone. Clearly, you’d lost your mind.

“M’kay,” you responded monotonously, and his entire body stiffened. A flash of something dark came over your features that only he would be able to pick up on. You finished your little photo-op and then headed to the SUV stretch limousine, Michael trailing behind you nervously trying not to trip over his own feet.

He so graciously shrugged Bill, his driver, away from the passenger door, making a show to open it for you himself, and lifted the train of your fancy gown as you stepped inside, while you held onto the crook of his elbow lazily.

You said not a word to him.

“Baby, please speak to me. ‘M sor—”

You cut him off with a yawn, asking Bill in your sweetest voice to roll up the vehicle’s partition. Not for privacy, but because if he looked at you close enough, he’d eventually see your facade crack and the anger slip through.

When you get irritated, that’s one thing. When you get annoyed, that’s another. But when you get disrespected, though? And this personally? You’re not the easiest person to be around. Especially in a suffocating vehicle.

The ride was unbearably quiet.

Time and time again, Michael tried to get you to speak to him. Tried to kiss on you. Tried to lighten the mood. Each time, you stonewalled him, pushed him away, or looked straight past his figure as if he wasn’t even there.

You suddenly found all the architecture and street lights outside to be the most fascinating thing your eyes had ever laid upon, as if you’d never seen them a day in your life.

Periodically, Bill would knock on the partition window for permission to crack it, letting you both know how far you were from home. Each time, Michael would let you speak first. Both from fear of cutting you off, and for the yearning to hear you speak at all. He knew he fucked up. Bad.

Bill knew it was serious when you opened the car door for yourself before either of them could get to it, and all you said to him was, “Thanks. Night.”

He looked at Michael and whispered, “Fix it,” before he was off, leaving Michael standing awkwardly in the driveway for a belated moment. He replayed the tone you used on him today. The way you had disappointment written all over your face as you finally gave up. The pout on your pretty lips when you thought he wasn’t looking. One that he’d only ever seen in much more intimate settings—moments filled with the scent of lust and the visual of abandoned clothing.

Then, begrudgingly, he stepped through the front door into the foyer of your now shared home—one that he insisted the two of you lived in for privacy. A cage of his own making.

You were already upstairs, either preparing his doom or getting ready for a shower, and he walked up the stairs as slow as possible without the chance of you rushing down them to hurry him up. When he entered the silent bedroom, he saw that you were sitting at your vanity, removing your makeup. You looked heartbreakingly stunning. A melancholic beauty.

“Um. Hi,” he spoke in a hushed tone, like you were a deer on the edge of running away at the slightest of sounds.

“Mm,” was all you responded, with a jut of your chin.

“Are you okay?” he asked. A bit stupidly, you thought to yourself. Because of course you fucking weren’t.

And you lost it. Well, only a bit.

“Okay? Really, Michael? Do I seem okay to you?” you asked, raising your voice a bit more than you wanted to, but not quite yelling.

“No, that was a dumb question. I mean—well. I’m sorry?” he said, more like a question. Which only irritated you more.

“No, don’t just stand there n’ tell me what you think I wanna hear. What the hell was all that today?” you asked, slamming down your moisturizer. “Embarrassing me like that in front of all those people? You couldn’t take them fuckin’ glasses off for one photo?”

“I—My makeup’s horrible!” he argued, sounding lost on words. He’d definitely seen you mad before, but never at him like this. And never so…avoidant. He was usually the avoidant one. A taste of his own medicine, perhaps.

“Are you serious?” you scoffed, meeting his face in the mirror. His almost comically tinted sunglasses perched atop his nose, as if to cruelly mock you. “Your makeup?” You stood up from your soft chair and pushed out of it, walking over him and concentrating on not slamming your feet into the soft carpet. His heart pounded in a pace he’d never felt before. Equal parts guilty and attracted to you. Then even more guilty for even thinking like that at this moment.

“Well, I’m glad you were willin’ to ruin my night over some goddamn makeup, which actually looks fantastic, by the way! Meanwhile, mine’s gonna come out all ugly and ashy in the photos. I bet the tabloids are already writin’ their lil’ think pieces on it!” you exclaimed hysterically.

“No, my eye makeup…It’s–it’s bad. And different…” he countered, the weakest argument he could’ve had.

“Well I’m sorry, but I’m not sure how you’d think I care about that over bein’ embarrassed and anxious all fuckin’ night. Everyone there heard me ask you countless of times to take ‘em off. Those photographers saw you shove me away when I tried. And worst of all?” you nudged his shoulder with your pointer finger, poking it with your nail. “I was nervous bein’ out together after all that time n’ all I wanted was to look into your eyes for one moment for some reassurance. And you couldn’t even give me that because of some damn makeup. You’re ridiculous,” you rambled, getting more hysterical with each sentence you spoke.

Michael had no idea how to fix this. Because you were right. You’d never make him feel bad about his appearance, because somehow you truly loved him. You were the only person he allowed to see him completely bare—clothes, makeup, and all—and all you did was make him feel…beautiful. Even if he was anxious by onlookers, he knew that all he’d have to do was look over to you and see the love in your eyes. And he had been able to do that all night, because yours were visible. He’d miserably failed to be there for you in that way over an experimental eye look that’d only gone wrong to him.

He still hadn’t said a word. His face was displaying every attempt at consolation, and every time he shot it down, realizing what he was attempting to say sounded terrible each time.

“I’m going the fuck to bed,” you announced, breaking him out of his reverie. He reached out for your retreating figure, and his fingers brushed along your bare arms. You shrugged away from them and headed to the bathroom to shower all your stress away.

And Michael? He spent the entire time pacing back and forth, seemingly determined to wear a hole into the carpet. He still couldn’t figure out how to fix this.

You didn’t want to talk to him, clearly. And even when he tried explaining himself, it was stupid. So that was a no go.

Would you maybe want to cry? You didn’t do that much, but you seemed hurt enough to.

Or should he just leave you alone? Somehow, that seemed like the worst option, no matter how much he wanted to run away from the situation…that he caused.

You returned to the room in your robe, pointedly ignoring him as you went into your closet to change into a pair of undies and a thin tank top. When you exited, you walked straight past him, mumbled out a, “Take a shower before you even touch that bed,” and walked downstairs to make some tea.

Really, to anyone else you might’ve been overreacting. But it was the lack of consideration of it all. The fact that it was due to his makeup. The pit that arose in your stomach when he’d rejected you and spoken to you in that tone. All of that, paired with the inevitable snark pieces you’d see on the news or on magazine covers the morning after, made you feel…small.

It hurt more because it wasn’t like Michael to be this way. You’d been so grateful that such a sweet man had fallen into your lap, and you took that kindness at face value. You naively hadn’t realized that he could eventually hurt your feelings. That he could get mad and snappy, too. So you were reconciling with that realization as you stirred your sleepytime tea, which did nothing to help you fall into slumber anyway.

You could’ve felt bad about the cold shoulder you were giving him, and maybe you would eventually, but this hurt. Sure, he hadn’t known every complexity of the situation and why it’d affected you so deeply, but he knew enough. He knew the reasons behind why you’d be uncomfortable in the first place, which is what prompted him to agree to your condition initially. He also could’ve just let you stay home!

Going against your normal nighttime routine, you drank the cup of tea downstairs, prolonging having to face the inevitable tension of sharing a bed with Michael tonight. The two of you never ever went to bed angry, something you both lived by even before meeting one another. But, you couldn’t see yourself getting over this easily, and you were too tired to have a flushed out conversation about the deeply complex inner workings of your mind that made you react like this.

As you trudged up the stairs, you reassured yourself that he’d be receptive. That maybe he’d apologize on his own. He was probably standing in the middle of the floor, waiting on you to return so he could drop to his knees and kiss your hands in sincerity. But, when you pushed past the threshold, he was still in the shower, and that false hope leaving your body took away the rest of the emotions you’d had that night, leaving you completely numb in its glaringly loud wake.

You laid in your bed, its comforter ironically cold, and faced the bathroom door longingly before turning back around, trying to let sleep entice you.

Less than a minute later, you heard the shower turn off and rustling about the bathroom before he stepped out, the pads of his feet meeting the carpet as silently as he could.

He disappeared into the closet—presumably changing into his signature sleep attire of boxer briefs and a white tee—and emerged shortly after. Then, his side of the bed dipped, his scent lapping through your lungs in familiarity.

“You still awake?” he whispered into the dim bedroom.

You took a belated moment to respond, turning over the possibility of pretending to be, until you decided you didn’t care enough to do that. “Mhm.”

“I miss you.”

Ouch.

Silence.

“Please. Just look at me. Baby?” He laid a gentle hand atop your exposed shoulder and rubbed tenderly. “I just want a hug.”

“I don’t.” Ice. Your voice was like hard, cold ice.

“You do,” he retorted. “I can see by the way you’re huggin’ yourself. Just lemme do this for you. You can be mad at me through it all, I just don’t want you to feel the need to comfort yourself when I’m layin’ in bed right next to you.”

Your blood simmered as you felt a sense of embarrassment suffocate you; you’d never been so exposed. You’d never had someone pay so much attention to you that they’d notice that yes, although you weren’t the most affectionate person ever, you hugged yourself as a sense of comfort because you’d never felt entitled to ask for one.

But then that nasty little voice in your brain that always seemed to ruin everything good you had going for yourself grew louder. Because if he could notice something this small, then why didn’t he notice how glaringly uncomfortable you were earlier? Or did he?

You sat up, your body feeling like a live wire as Michael’s warm arms wrapped around yours. He squeezed you tightly, and hot, heavy tears dripped onto them. Yours.

You weren’t sad. That wasn’t why you were crying. You cried because you were frustrated and at war with yourself. Had this been any other time, any other person, a mistake like this—especially so early on in the relationship—would’ve made you retreat, and eventually eat away at you until you left altogether.

“You were so inconsiderate. Do you know that?” you asked him into his chest, your arms still wrapped around your torso as if the hug wasn’t enough.

“Yes.” He smoothed down the fabric of your tank top. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m so frustrated, Michael. All you had to do was communicate! You can’t do something like this again. I’m serious,” you mumbled through angry tears.

“I know. I’m sorry, bubble,” he whispered again, tears threatening to sneak their way into his own eyes. “I—I truly screwed up. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought it was okay to lie. I just…” he sniffled, and your body stiffened slightly. Because although you were upset at him, you hated being the reason for anyone’s tears.

“Mich—”

“No, ’m okay. Really, I just.” He took a deep breath and started over, something…heavier laced into his words. “For some reason, I just get so into my own head in public that I forget you do the same. I forget you haven’t been in this life for as long as I have, so things effect you in a different way than they do to me, and…” he gulped, his rubbing coming to a halt as he squeezed your torso again, seemingly for his own comfort.

“…I—I dunno how to say this without soundin’ like a terrible person,” he whispered, hesitance swirling into every syllable.

You waited, your body too spent and your mind too busy comforting you the way it knows how to—by making you so numb that you don’t care enough to speak anymore.

“I just didn’t think it was that serious to you.” He gulped and then froze as he felt your own body stiffen up more. “I’m not sayin’ I didn’t believe you were ever upset or anythin’, I just…I thought the tabloids issue was somethin’ that only bothered you a long time ago. I figured you’d eventually get over it or that you already did.”

The more he spoke, the more he felt like he was digging himself a deeper grave.

“I’m not—this is all comin’ out wrong. Shit—pardon my language.” He took in a greedy lungful of air, determined to get his point across in one way or another. Tried again.“There’s nothin’ I can say that’ll make what I did today better, because there’s no excuse. I was fully bein’ selfish, and in the process, I completely ignored your feelings. Even though you warned me multiple times n’ I knew you were gettin’ upset, I was more worried about my own in the moment. When, you’re right. All I had to do was communicate, or just take off the damn sunglasses for one photo. I’m sorry.”

As much as you wholeheartedly appreciated the raw honesty—truly, you did—the fact that he admitted to purposefully pushing your feelings to the side hurt. The fact that he acknowledged that he remembered your anxiety-induced feelings towards this exact issue before, but he thought you’d “eventually get over it” hurt.

You sat in silence without intending to, because the entire monologue stunned you to silence. Nobody had ever been so openly raw with you, and you didn’t know whether to cradle and appreciate that or tuck away the uncomfortableness his words choked you with into a pocket with all of your other most hurtful memories.

“Please, baby. Say somethin’…” he begged, pulling back just slightly to catch a glimpse of your face. He wished he didn’t. Because you didn’t look sad or angry. You looked…empty.

Another suspended moment of silence cradled the dim bedroom, save for the sound of the two of you taking in breaths; yours coming in even drags, and Michael’s in clumsy ones.

“Do you take me seriously?” you asked, your voice cracking through the deafening silence like a whip.

“Of course, lovey. Hey, of course I do,” Michael cooed, his hands sliding up to cradle either side of your face. He looked deep into your distant eyes, trying to coax you to just…look.

“No, I mean am I just…someone to have fun with? Do you see yourself marryin’ me and settlin’ down?” you asked, and a flicker of…life flashed through your eyes. Michael caught that and held onto it, using that slight lapse to fuel his determination further. He needed you to see. To believe him. To feel better. To forgive him.

“Baby. Please look at me? Yeah? Yeah, I’m right here, bubble,” he cooed some more, once he saw you actively trying your hardest to follow his guided instructions. “Baby, I knew I wanted to marry you before I even told you ‘I love you’ out loud. We both knew this would be hard, right? Remember our talks about this industry? All the times I came to you explainin’ how I’d never been in a long term relationship because bein’ with me came with a lot? It’s not an excuse, I know that. I also know it’s better said than done, but I’m learnin’, because I care.”

You looked back at him with ferocity, now. You were allowing yourself to feel this hurt. You welcomed it, along with his truth.

“It’s so hard…I’m—I’m not as established as you are and the press can take any little thing n’ turn my entire career upside down from just one moment. They’ve already tried! And you made me look desperate out there, bugs.” Your eyebrows knitted together tightly as your facial muscles remembered that they existed, and your eyes flicked between his and briefly to his pouty lips.

“You can’t do anything like that ever again, do you understand me?” He nodded his head fervently, and you brought your hands up to cradle his face, a mimic of his own. “I’m so fuckin’ serious. I never want to feel like this again. Because it’s one thing for strangers to upset me, but I can take that. I can use that as fuel. I can’t be hurt like this from the love of my life,” you spoke again, louder this time.

“I understand. I’m sorry,” he apologized again, a warmth bubbling in his chest at your words. You hadn’t necessarily forgiven his actions, but you forgave his intentions.

You stayed in each other’s hold like that for a few minutes, taking in the deep pools of your eyes staring back at one another. Because you meant it when you said you needed his to ground you. Eyes—they really were the window to the soul, and his was bared to you. In them, you saw regret, apology, love, lust, promises, sincerity, and warmth. It was all you needed.

And then you realized his breath was fanning straight across your nose.

You were a millimeter away from a kiss. His softer gaze flickered between your parted lips and back to your eyes, and then the heaviness in the air dissolved into a thin mist of untamed feelings as you pressed your lips to his.

His voice came out in a surprised gasp at the back of his throat, and you pulled his face into yours with a heavier grip, desperate to pour everything you felt into the action.

Michael’s hands and body were frozen in uncertainty—should he reciprocate? Would you end it if he didn’t? But would this be taking advantage of your vulnerability? Were you forcing yourself to do this for his own sake—

“Michael? Kiss me back,” you whispered, pulling away slightly and slotting your arms around his neck.

At that, his posture loosened and he melted—truly dissolved—into the kiss. He let out a sigh of content and tiredness and something else you couldn’t quite place. All of the stress of the evening molded around your bodies and wrapped around your limbs as if it were a puppeteer and you two the marionettes—guided by its emotion and desire.

You climbed over to him, not breaking the kiss. He welcomed the warmth of your embrace as you slotted against his lap, hugging yourself closer to him as he clasped his arms around your half-clothed torso.

“I missed you,” he whined between heated pecks, and you sighed contentedly.

“Me too, Mikey.”

He then deepened the kiss, and you couldn’t tell if it was natural or if he was determined to prove something, until he spoke again.

“I’m sorry. Please, let me show you.”

And then your heart nearly collapsed. Because those last five words were enough to break down your walls.

“We can just kiss, baby,” you stated softly, pulling back to catch your breath and lay your forehead against his. Also feeling the need to stop for fear of him doing this because he felt obligated to.

“I want to. Please. I want you to feel how sorry I am, mama. You deserve it,” he pleaded, his voice cracking at the edges.

And the sheer desperation in his voice caused a white heat to bloom in your lower belly. He almost sounded like he needed it more than you did. Then you felt the proof of his words growing against your backside.

So you reconnected your lips to his, and they fit like two complementary puzzle pieces—like they were made to be there.

He softly slid his body from underneath your own and flipped you over onto your back. A surprised gasp caught in your throat as his warm fingers roamed your body in a way that made you feel like he’d studied you. He trailed the most sensitive parts of your skin, areas that would only be known by practice.

He grazed the tiny fold of skin on the backs of your thighs. The area just above your hipbone that only had feeling with a specific level of pressure. His nails slightly scratched on your left collarbone—the one he knew was more sensitive—and it was then that you felt a physical tether form between the two of you. Because no matter what hurt—past, present or future—nobody would ever learn you like this.

And he did it all while kissing you with the passion of every great poet of the past, and the passion of the modern poet that he currently lived as. His lips and tongue were writing a love song into your own, and you could practically hear the melody whisper into your ears as the bed creaked beneath your bodies.

A trail of opened mouthed kisses was placed onto every reachable spot of skin from your chest up, and you felt on the brink of tears. It felt like something deeper, something forgotten and broken, was being released into the care of a doctor. That shattered feeling or memory being mended and nursed one peck at a time.

Michael didn’t take your silence as insult. He welcomed it, knew you were processing his actions. The way your breath came out as sounds tilting on an axis between moans and gasps, the way your heart sputtered under your chest where he osculated you, the look he saw in your eyes when he met them. He knew he was doing what he intended to.

He was showing you.

Your arms balanced your torso by your elbows, hands suspended in the air because you weren’t quite sure where exactly you wanted them.

Michael never let up his display of devotion and apology. He pulled one of your legs apart from the other and bent it up, slotting his hot body between your thighs. You mewled out at the feeling of his warmth ghosting over you, and he caressed the expanse of your legs.

His lips traveled from the tender crook of your neck and spread open—darting his tongue out—as he slid down your collarbones with applied pressure, until he landed to the inner swell of your breasts.

“May I?” he asked, in reference to your shirt. He wanted to remove it.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your voice dipped in ennui despite how wild your brain felt.

He hummed to himself and lifted the cotton fabric from its hem, his large knucles tickling that tender part above your hipbone in the gesture. A hushed whine was threatening to sprint out of your throat as the shirt grazed your nipples while he continued to lift it up.

But he was truly taking his time, so he left it risen halfway.

He kissed every millimeter of skin possible, antagonizingly slow, and it was like his mouth was making love to you. You could feel every nerve in your body start to alert in anticipation for his next move.

As thorough as he was, he was also unpredictable. He slid a hand under the area of your shirt that remained atop your breasts and whispered his fingers over one of your awaiting nipples. In the same movement, ke kissed up and down the faint path of hair growing on your belly, stopping just above the hem of your visibly soaked underwear.

When he pulled back, he blew onto the wet skin with his breath, cooling the area and your flushed body. And he’d repeat this action to every part he could reach, switching hands to alternate his attention on each of your nipples.

And you laid there patiently, because you were absolutely captivated.

Then he traveled back up your torso, licking a line straight from the bottom of it to right between where your breasts were mounted, and then he made out with you there, sucking and bruising a lovebite into the skin.

Your hands fluttered nonsensically above his dark curls, because you didn’t really want to put them there, it was instinct drawing you to force him closer.

Michael looked up at you and smiled with the warmth of a thousand hearths, and pulled your tanktop up higher, using one steady hand to lift your torso up as he slid it off the rest of the way before you could even attempt to do it yourself.

Maintaining a sort of magnetic eye contact, he stuck his tongue out as he lowered his mouth down to your breast, licking and sucking everywhere but the most sensitive part. Just as he saw your eyebrows knit up in frustration, he flicked his tongue across one of the sensitive buds and then attached his lips to it, suckling from your nipple like it was providing him nectar.

You whined then—a broken, suprised thing—and your back aggressively parted from the mattress in a flexible arch, Michael’s chin hitting your sternum in the act.

He grabbed you by your sides and gently pushed you down, then held you down one-handedly with a firm grip as you writhed beneath his grasp, bringing a hand back to your unoccupied breast. He looked up at you from under his eyelashes and his eyes watered with tears of love. Because he was using his mouth to give actions to the words he couldn’t form.

A vision of you in white, him spinning you on a dance floor surrounded by family members, a lacy garter on your leg, flashed through his mind as your hand rested idly on his neck. A wedding. Your wedding.

Michael replaced the hand fondling your other breast with his mouth, and suckled with the same intent as he did to your other. His free hand massaged the swell of it, careful not to overwhelm and over-sensitize your nipple.

Then, he popped off of your nipple and straddled you, taking your face into his hands.

And he looked at you. Deeply and invasively, he looked into your very being through the blown out pupils of your eyes, and you let his gaze swallow you whole. You felt stripped bare in a way you didn’t think was possible. In a way you never thought you’d allow.

“You’re my future and you mean more to me than any n’ everybody ever has or ever will. I’m sorry that I’ve done such a terrible job at showin’ that. Please let me love you until the world ends,” he practically sang to you. The tone of voice he used on you was unlike anything you’d ever heard. Pure, natural music. He brought his lips to yours and kissed, explored, thanked—all in one movement—before pulling away.

You tried responding, but felt a sob forcing its way into your esophagus, and you tried to cough it up—but he waved it away.

“You don’t needa say, anythin’ pretty thing. Just lemme take care of the mess I made.”

With that, he brought his head down by your thighs and kissed all over, leaving lip-shaped sheens of saliva everywhere. He brought one of your legs up by your ankle and rested it on his broad shoulder, then kissed the entire length of it. Your knee, your shin, your ankle, and even your foot. Then he repeated the same action to your other.

After placing that final kiss to the top of your foot, he hooked his arms under your thighs and bent down to give you a kiss on your forehead. Then, he slid down on the bed some more, and positioned his face above the moistened fabric covering your pussy.

He steadied your legs on his shoulders before he let go of them, reaching between to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and drag them down. You lifted your hips to help, as Michael watched your arousal connect the fabric to your folds by a single, pronounced string of slick. It transfixed him until the distance he had the underwear snapped it, sending it landing on your inner thigh.

Michael licked his lips hungrily, and neatly folded your underwear next to your vibrating body. Then his tongue was carving into your folds and collecting your arousal like the muscle was a spoon and you were a soup dish.

You shrieked, and then bit your lip harshly, forcing the sound down. Pettily, you still wanted him to work for your sounds of pleasure, despite being more aroused and pleasured than you’d ever previously been in your lifetime.

He smiled to himself at the action, and took it as a sign to try harder, so he did.

Michael removed one of his hands from your thighs and teased his middle finger at your entrance, mostly to gather some of your arousal, but he appreciated the sound of you holding your breath as well. He slid his tongue all the way to your clit and then really worked there. His tongue went up, down, left, right, clockwise, and counterclockwise. Somewhere in between, he managed to slide two fingers into your leaking hole, the tips grazing your g-spot in a teasing manner.

Your legs shook and constricted around him as you drew blood in your lip, biting straight into the soft flesh.

But then he moaned when you locked your legs around his neck, and you lost your composure as well.

“Oh, Michael! F-uck! That’s it! Just like that, baby…” you moaned throatily.

You brought a hand down to his shoulders and pulled him against you, his nose brushing against the stubble on your pelvis.

His fingers curled and pumped you so well, your vision danced with colored lights, and your ears started to ring. The familiar coil that was bound so tightly in your lower abdomen was threatening to explode with every expert lick to your clit, and you forced yourself to look down at the devoted man below you. You needed to cum with this image before you.

But he was looking back, and then your body was craving him more.

You locked your legs around him tighter and ground up to meet his movements, fucking his mouth with little care for his breathing.

He tried to free his nose a bit, and you groaned out a, “Lemme have this, Mikey. ‘M sooo close,” and he took it in stride, willing himself to preserve his breath and bring you to your peak faster.

“Mmmnh, yeah baby. You stay r-ight there ‘til I’m done,” you whispered, and he whimpered against you, sending the vibrations all the way up your spine.

And then everything went still.

Every thought.

Every sound.

Every sight.

A comforting…nothingness?

It was unexplainable, but that feeling…It took ahold of your body and you felt nothing and everything at the same time.

All of your worries were swept away as natural instinct took over and allowed you to feel this orgasm as deeply as you did.

It was so beautiful you told yourself to write a song about it.

The feeling could really only be explained by the color white—pure, untouched, so light that it was almost nothing at all, but so bright that it commanded its presence adequately.

Your mouth filled with saliva, and you swore it tasted like the sweetest candy ever as it dribbled through the crook of your mouth.

Your back was arched up in a near-convincing ‘C’, your head buried so deep into the pillows that one of the pillowcase’s edges was dipped into your partially opened mouth.

Those thighs that you had locked so tightly around Michael’s shoulders tensed up, the familiar sensation of a cramp forming sneaking its way through the upper tendons, until your body gave way and you came to again.

Both of you laid trapped in the moment, just taking in what you could. You waited until you could feel your legs again, and Michael waited until you moved first. You did.

You sat up and made eye contact with him. He looked just about as fucked out as you were; his mouth was glistening like he just ate a bucket of oily fried chicken, his lips were bruised and parted as he took in heavy gusts of air, his hair was frizzy and pointed every which way. And he looked at you like you’d just told him you created love just for him to experience.

“C’mere—”

He was already moving before you parted your lips, and he gripped onto your sweaty, naked body in a childlike embrace that deeply contrasted the lewd scene the two lf you were trapped in.

You urged him under the comforter, wrapping your arms around him and tangling your limbs as you held him like he was about to disappear.

“I love you so much, Michael,” you whispered as you felt your body give into slumber.

“I love you too.”

When you woke up the next day, a sense of relief swaddled its delicate arms around your soul as you searched for your boyfriend in the dark room. The curtains had been shut and the light was turned off at some point. You didn’t remember doing it, and as your hands met the cold, empty space next to you, you realized Michael did, probably to prevent the light from intruding on your much needed rest.

You found your tanktop and slid it on, taking your soiled panties and placing them with your dirty laundry before sliding on a fresh set under a pair of sleep shorts.

You cradled your feet into a pair of your favorite slippers and shrugged on your silk robe. Then, you did your usual morning tasks—used the restroom, brushed your teeth, and splashed ice cold water on your face until you felt alive.

Michael’s ears were met with the lively sound of humming and soft pads down the stairs as you met him in your living room, where he’d been bent over, placing the day’s papers on the coffee table and setting up the news channel, a glass of orange juice in his hand.

Your nose was greeted with the scent of grilled cheese sandwiches frying on low heat over the stove. You smiled to yourself as you realized he made your favorite lunch because you’d awoken at lunch time.

You hugged him from behind as he began standing up straight again, and he welcomed your arms easily.

“Did you sleep well, baby?” he asked you softly, his own voice sounding heavy with sleep.

“Perfect. You?” you asked.

“Perfect,” he echoed.

He turned around and took your hand in his, swinging your connected arms as he led you to the kitchen with him.

“Let’s eat these in front of the TV? I’m feelin’ a lil’ lazy today,” he said, a raspy chuckle reverberating through his vocal chords.

“Sounds perfect to me. I wanna stretch out on the couch. My legs are achin’,” you complained with a light smile.

Michael plated the sandwiches and sliced them in half sloppily while you stifled a giggle at his attempt. He rolled his eyes while he handed you both plates.

“Lemme pour you some juice as well. I’ll meet you on the couch, pretty,” he said, placing a tender kiss to your temple.

You hummed and walked to the couch, the steam from the hot food fanning underneath your chin.

As you sat them down on the coffee table, you mindlessly reached for the papers.

A furniture catalog.

An ad for carpet cleaners.

A list of February’s greatest love songs, ranked by a survey of elders at a high scale nursing home.

A tabloid trashing a few dangerously thin supermodels for eating at a burger joint.

A tabloid trashing you for what happened at the CBS Awards last night.

The day’s crossword puzzle—

Wait.

“Sorry, I’m makin’ it extra special for my extra special girl! Where’s that fancy glass I bought you two weeks ago?” Michael called from the kitchen.

“Left cabinet above the stove! Rinse it first!” you called back as you read the print:

“POP PRINCESS IS AN EMBARRASSMENT TO HER POP KING? The Pop King seemed utterly uninterested in the presence of his “girlfriend,” both pictured below. Witnesses say they saw him shove her away, and even roll his eyes at her when she wasn’t paying attention! It looks like the fun’s coming to an end for the two. She’s definitely worn him out and he’s tired of putting up with the younger starlet. You know how they say never meet your heroes? Well, never date your superfans either!

An inside source of ours says they heard her yelling at MJ while they went on a “restroom break” during the ceremony. Who wouldn’t get tired of all that nagging? Most embarrassing of all is that he’s clearly out of her league. She’s managed to leach for this long, it’s only a matter of time before she drains Jackson of life, leaving nothing to leach onto in the end.

See page 7 for an audio recording of MJ shutting down her obsessive complaints on the carpet & an in-detail recall of their “restroom break” argument!”

The snark piece sat below an unflattering photo of you and Michael, although it was only unflattering on your end. Michael looked gorgeous, and his gaze was obstructed by those fucking Ray-Bans.

You, on the other hand? Your makeup did exactly as you said it would. The bright light reflected from the glare of Michael’s shades and cast a white flashback onto your makeup, making you appear ghostly. Not only that, but you yet again looked at him like a protégée. Like a fan.

You heard Michael gasp from over your shoulder. He must’ve snuck back in when you were too immersed into the story, and read it over your shoulder—or at the very least caught sight of the ugly ass photo.

Your hand shook as all the shame, embarrassment, and upset from the previous day returned with a vengeance, right to your gut.

He crowded your peripheral vision from above, the orange juice having been placed down somewhere as his cold hands waved franctically, trying to shield your eyes from the page as if you hadn’t already read the whole fucking thing.

“Baby, no put that down! It’s—”

You put a hand in the air to stop him as you dropped the article somewhere onto the floor between the couch and coffee table.

Your eyes glazed over with something distant as you swallowed down the relentless pit in your stomach, and you forced a smile that hurt as it stretched against your teeth. Your voice came out a bit too chipper, but also highly robotic, like every word was being read as you spoke them aloud.

“I told you.”

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