♯ KRYSTAL ༉𝄞 .ᐟ★

divider credit to @pixopix

His assistant is the one who recommends hiring a nanny. She notices the little things, and after working together for over a decade she isn’t afraid to tell him upfront how he is clearly running himself ragged between work and fatherly duties. Don’t get things twisted — he loves his kids. He works in the Legal Department at a prestigious accounting firm, and while his position allows him to be flexible if he needs to be, working full time while singlehandedly raising three kids all under ten years old is a lot for anybody to handle. 

It’s a little embarrassing, but he doesn’t know the first thing about how to go about hiring a nanny. So his assistant is the one to contact an agency, hold the interviews with candidates, and when she strongly recommends one person in particular, he trusts her judgement. Enter Michael.

He doesn’t know what to expect the first time Michael shows up on his doorstep. He certainly doesn’t expect him to slot himself so perfectly into their family dynamic. Of course, that’s exactly what happens. He lives with them four days a week, Sunday nights to Thursday mornings, and on the other three days he does whatever a university grad student studying child psychology does. When he isn’t around, the kids are constantly asking when he’ll be back. 

It’s always, “Can Michael come to the park with us?” and “No, Daddy, we have to wait for Michael to watch that movie,” and “Michael packs my lunches way better than you do.” If he were more insecure, he might even be jealous of the guy. Instead, he is just as enraptured as his kids. 

Michael is sweet, and charming, and when they are having a conversation he is genuinely engaged as if there is nothing more important in the world. He is also quite possibly the most handsome man he’s gotten to know in the past decade, and over fifteen years his junior. 

At almost forty-one years old, some would say he is past his prime. Sure, he takes care of himself. He’s in good health, he knows how to dress, and he gets no shortage of moms striking up conversations with him during trips to the grocery store. But these days he can’t help but be hyperaware of his age with the magazines always pushing anti-aging cream and box hair dye and skin tightening procedures. He hasn’t been with a woman (or a man, for that matter) since the turn of the decade, and up until recently he has been completely content with that.  

Michael starts working for the family in January. His feelings of gratitude for Michael’s presence shift into much more complicated, mushy ones sometime in May. He catches himself ogling Michael’s ass like a creep when he’s picking up the kid’s toys in the playroom in June. They celebrate Michael’s twenty-fourth birthday in August, and that’s when he knows he is completely gone for that man. 

When Michael lets it slip that he’s never celebrated his birthday before, the kids decide they have to throw a surprise party. His son declares himself the party coordinator because he is nine and that makes him the oldest and wisest. The “party” in question is nothing extraordinary, just take-out dinner at the house and some crooked streamers taped halfway up the wall, courtesy of his two daughters. When Michael shows up that Sunday night for the start of his weekly shift, the kids meet him at the door and shout in unison, “SURPRISE!” 

Michael tears up and bends down to be eye level with the kids to pull them into a group hug. He doesn’t even fight the fuzzy feelings in his chest at the sight. Things are going better than they have in years. Until they aren’t.

Roxanne from Human Resources asks him out on a date in late September. She’s a witty, ginger-haired woman, and when he asks his assistant he finds out that she is thirty-eight. She’s his type, he thinks, except he doesn’t really know what his type is anymore. There’s no reason for him to reject her proposition, so he accepts. 

On Wednesday evening, while he’s helping Michael with the dishes after dinner, he asks, “Do you have plans tomorrow night?”

Michael fumbles with the frying pan he is washing. It must be the soap suds slicking up his fingers, because he’s never known Michael to be clumsy.

Michael glances up from the corner of his eye. “I don’t,” he responds. “Why?”

“Well, it’s a little awkward…”

Michael props his hip against the sink, smiling at him softly. “I’ve seen you bent over a toilet puking up an entire day’s worth of meals when you had the flu last spring. Nothing is awkward between us anymore.” 

Between us, he says. Like there is an us to begin with. He clears his throat, willing his heartbeat to slow down its pounding rhythm against his ribcage. “Would you mind looking after the kids tomorrow night?” 

“You got something going on at work?” Michael dunks the frying pan into the side of the sink filled with water to rinse it.

“Actually, no. I have a date.” 

The pan hits the water with a splash. It sloshes over the lip of the sink and soaks the front of both their shirts. He curses, dropping the cheese grater he is drying to press the dish towel to his button up. 

“I’m sorry, I just lost my grip—” Michael scrambles for another towel. He kneels down to mop up the puddle on the kitchen tile.

“Michael,” he tries, but it goes unheard over Michael’s rambled apologies. “Michael!” Finally, Michael looks up. It’s a very compromising position to be in, standing upright while Michael kneels in front of him. “It’s okay, it was just an accident. Accidents can be remedied, that’s what you always tell the kids, right?” 

A red hue spreads across Michael’s cheeks. “Right.” He finishes soaking up the water and stands, wringing the towel out over the sink. 

“It’s fine if you can’t cover for me,” he explains, noticing the tension in Michael’s jaw. “I can probably ask my sister if she wouldn’t mind me dropping them off at her place.” 

“No, I can do it. Zeke’s always complaining that she doesn’t have any dessert with ‘real sugar’ whenever they stay over.” 

It’s an obvious attempt to lighten the mood, and he takes the opportunity for what it is. “Well, she’s a diabetic.” 

“That’s what I keep telling him,” Michael laughs, and it’s a sound that he has made his mission to bring out of Michael more often since first hearing it.  

He goes back to drying the dishes, accepting the rinsed frying pan from Michael when he offers it up. Their fingers brush briefly, and is he imagining it when he thinks Michael’s hand lingers a little longer than necessary? 

“Thank you, really. You have no idea how much you, uh, this means to me.” 

He tries to gauge Michael’s feelings about it, but it’s hard to tell when he won’t look up from the sink as he drains the water. 

“Don’t mention it,” Michael says. “Anything for you guys.” 

And that’s that. 

~

The next day he goes to work before anybody else in the house is awake. When he gets home his three kids all must be in the middle of playing football quarterback with the way they tackle him as soon as he steps through the door. 

“Oh, I missed you, too,” he wheezes out when his son elbows him in the side. 

Michael turns the corner into the foyer at a much more leisurely pace than the kids. He’s wearing the softest looking yellow sweater and low rise jeans, both of which excellently show off his tiny waist. He just wants to slip his fingers under the fabric and feel the way Michael’s stomach muscles jump—

“What time are you leaving?” Michael asks shortly. No greeting, no inquiries about how his work day went. It isn’t their usual routine when he arrives home. He brushes it aside. Michael might just be a little grumpy about losing his night off. 

“We’re meeting at the restaurant at seven.” 

“You’re not picking Rosie up?” 

He straightens up out of the hug and removes his suit jacket. His oldest daughter wraps her limbs around his left leg like a koala, and even though she is getting much too big to get away with it, he limps down the hall with her regardless. “Her name is Roxanne, and no. She told me today she’d prefer to take a cab. I’m going to do the same since we might be drinking.” 

When he gets closer, Michael looks him up and down. Then he shrugs one shoulder. “Alright,” he says simply, turning on his heel to head back into the living room. 

The interaction as a whole is more than a little weird. But then Zeke launches into a tangent about his teacher marking him down for not writing in cursive, so emphatic about it that he doesn’t have the chance to dwell on it.

~

That evening, as he is waiting for the cab to arrive, his youngest waits with him in the foyer. The others are in the kitchen talking Michael’s ear off. The scent of fresh Jiffy Pop wafts through the air. They’re having a movie night, and apparently it’s Zeke’s turn to pick. 

“I wanted to watch Beauty and the Beast again, but Michael says the tape wore out,” Katie tells him. Her two front teeth have just recently fallen out, so all of her ‘s’ sounds come out like a ‘th.’ She stares out the front window while he slips on his shoes.  

“I didn’t know that. I’ll buy you a new copy this weekend, how’s that sound?” 

Instead of reacting to that, she turns to him abruptly and asks, “Who’s Shivery?” 

He pauses. “Who’s what?”

“Shivery. You were upstairs earlier calling the cab and Michael said that Shivery died.”

“Shivery…” he thinks for a moment, and then it clicks. Chivalry. “Michael said that?” 

“Yeah. Was she sick?”

Chivalry is dead. Why would Michael have said that? Was he that upset over the cab thing? He makes a mental note to talk to him about it later, if not just to tell him to be careful what he says around Katie. She’s in that phase all six year olds go through, where she repeats everything she hears. 

“It’s not a person, hun. Just something adults say sometimes.” 

“Like a joke?” 

“Sure.”

Katie considers this, then goes back to watching the window. “It isn’t funny.” 

The cab arrives shortly after that, and he calls out his goodbyes. His kids all scream various versions of their own farewells. Michael’s voice is noticeably absent among the chorus.

~

The date with Roxanne goes very smoothly. There’s little to no awkward pauses in their conversation, and the red wine is delicious. Before he knows it, three hours have passed before they decide to call it a night. He waits until she catches her ride before getting his own, helping her into the backseat with a comment of, “Let’s do this again.”

She smiles up at him coyly, red lipstick a little smeared from their meal earlier. “Yeah,” she tells him. “Soon.”

The whole ride home he wonders if he was supposed to have kissed her or something. It really has been a long time since he’s gone on a date, hasn’t it? The taxi pulls up in front of his house close to midnight. There’s an eerie sense of calm on the street, the only sounds coming from the wind rustling through the trees and the neighbor’s windchime on their front porch. He can see a light on inside, shining through the front window. Maybe Michael left it on so he wouldn’t come home to a dark house. The thought makes him smile to himself. 

He pays the driver and unlocks the front door, being careful not to let the hinges creak as he pushes it open. Quietly, he toes off his dress shoes and puts them on the rack in the foyer, right next to Katie’s sparkly pink sneakers. 

Michael is in the living room when he enters. He’s showered and changed into sleepwear in the time since they last saw each other. The yellow light he saw outside casts him in a soft glow as he reads a book on the couch, his legs tucked criss-cross underneath him. 

He grinds to a stop in the entryway, voice low as he says, “Oh, hey there.” 

Michael looks up from his book and smiles. It isn’t his usual, warm smile. This one is tight across his lips, and doesn’t stretch nearly as far. “Hi,” he replies. 

His fingers fumble with the knot of his tie. “You didn’t have to wait up for me. You’re already doing me a favor taking care of the kids on your night off.” 

Michael shrugs him off, dog-earing the page of his book and setting it on the cushion beside him. “It’s no big deal. They were very good listeners all evening.” He stands, and when he stretches his arms up the shoulder of his oversized sleep shirt slips down. It reveals the rich, brown skin of his shoulder and the dip of his collar bone. He wants to kiss his way along that strip of skin; feel Michael’s racing pulse under his lips. 

Walking over, Michael bats away his uncoordinated fingers to help with the tie. They're so close together like this. His breath smells of mint toothpaste. “So how’d it go? You were out pretty late.” 

There’s a drawn out pause during which his tongue feels heavy in his mouth, his eyes locked on Michael’s focused expression as he loosens the tie. If he was more bold, he’d put his hands on Michael’s hips to hold him steady. Instead, he says, “It was nice.” 

“Just ‘nice?’” 

“I mean, she was nice. We have a good bit in common; hobbies, movies, obviously we work in similar fields.” 

“Uh-huh…”

“But she doesn’t have kids. She says she was never interested in splitting her time up between her career and raising a family.” 

Michael pauses, hands on the lapel of his shirt. “So you aren’t going to see her again, then?” 

“I mean, I didn’t say that.” 

Michael levels him with a flat, scrutinizing look. It is much too heavy to tackle at this hour. “Are you serious?” 

“What do you mean, am I serious?” 

Michael goes back to picking at the knot of the tie, a bit more forceful now as he slips his index finger under a gap and tugs. “Well I mean…you just said she doesn’t like kids. So it’ll never work between you two.” 

There’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there moments ago, and it is thick with Michael’s disapproval. He’s hyperaware of the lack of personal space between them. Michael has never helped him dress before, yet he’d come over so casually and did so tonight. Why did he do that? Better question, why hasn’t he stopped him yet? 

“Probably not, but there’s nothing wrong with going on a few dates. I never said I was gonna get down on one knee—” his tie comes free and Michael snatches it off his neck, so rough with it that it leaves him at a momentary loss for words. “...We’re just having fun.”

“Fun?” Michael asks, words dipped in acid. He balls up the tie in his hand. “You’re forty years old. You have three kids to take care of, and you’re staying out late with some woman for fun?” 

He bristles, defensiveness straightening his shoulders. Michael has become incredibly important to this family. He values his presence in his life, and can’t imagine how much duller it would be without him. But he is also paying him to be here, and he is still Michael’s boss. He isn't about to stand there and let himself be spoken to like this. 

“Excuse me? What the hell has gotten into you tonight, Michael?” 

As if only just now realizing his attitude, Michael’s whole demeanor shifts. His eyes drop to the ground and he backs away several steps, crossing his arms tightly. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I just think it’s a bad idea. What if you end up really liking her, and she asks you to choose between her and the kids?” 

It’s a valid concern. Still, it isn’t something he would have expected from the nanny, of all people. Roxanne is beautiful, and smart, and he can definitely see himself spending more time with her. But if it ever gets to the point where she asks him to draw that line in the sand, it would be a no brainer. 

When he doesn’t respond, Michael says to the ground, “You deserve better.” 

That’s what does it. All the isolated events from the past two days that led up to this moment come together in stark clarity. Michael’s abnormal clumsiness at the first mention of the date, his passive aggressive behavior before he left, staying up late like a worried parent for him to return, the invasion of personal space, and now this out of left field argument. 

The tension melts from his posture.

“Oh, I see what’s going on.” He moves towards Michael with careful, calculated steps. Michael’s shoulders hitch up to his ears, moving backwards as he gets closer. “Are you…jealous?” 

Michael inhales sharply. He still won’t make eye contact. “No, I…I dunno.” 

“I think you do.” 

He keeps closing the distance between them as Michael makes more of it, until he’s backed up so much the backs of his knees bump into the couch. With a gasp, his momentum tips and he sits heavily onto the cushion. The shock of it startles him into looking up. His eyes are big and vulnerable, entire universes shining within them. 

“You don’t want me to go on another date with Roxanne because you don’t want me to go on a date with anyone, hm?” 

He watches Michael’s throat bob as he swallows. “I guess so,” he says, a damning confession if he’s ever heard one. 

Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he reaches down to take his crumpled tie from Michael’s hand. He tucks it into his pocket then leans down in Michael’s space to whisper, “So you don’t want me to go out, and you think I deserve better. What do I deserve, then?” 

Michael lets out a trembling sigh. “Me.” 

He actually said it! 

“You know I have shirts in my dresser that are older than you?” 

A fire alights in Michael's eyes. “Like that matters. It hasn't stopped you from checking me out when we're all out by the pool. You think I didn’t notice?”

He doesn't have a rebuttal to that one. In his defense he thought he was much more subtle, only eyeing Michael when he was busy entertaining the kids. But his sunkissed skin was always so tempting, maybe he stared a little longer than he ought to have.

Either way, this night has taken the best kind of turn. He could say this is better than he could have ever imagined, but he’d be lying. He has dreamed about something just like this more than once. In his bedroom at night, or when he is alone in his office zoning out instead of reading the paperwork on his desk. He’s pictured Michael just like this, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes, admitting to him how he feels. Except, in those fantasies Michael is significantly less clothed. 

Roxanne now the furthest thing from his mind, he reaches for his pants. He undoes his belt buckle, then the buttons on his slacks. “How long have you felt this way, sweetheart?” 

Michael bites his bottom lip at the pet name, his eyes dropping lower. Standing over Michael like this, his groin is conspicuously close to his face. The growing tent in his slacks is impossible to hide, not that he intends to do anything of the sort.

“I–I’ve been thinking of you for a while. Months, probably.” Michael sounds so shy, and his ears redden as if he can’t believe he’s admitting it out loud. 

Giddiness rises in his stomach, but he keeps a lid on it. He guides Michael’s hands to his hips, encouraging him to explore. “And what exactly do you think about?” 

“I think about lying next to you in bed, how it would feel to be held by you. I think about this,” Michael places his hand over the bulge in his pants, eliciting a deep rumble from his chest. “How it would feel in my mouth. Or inside me.” 

Michael applies pressure and he rocks up into it, saying, “Keep going.” It isn’t clear if he means Michael’s hand or his words. 

Michael continues speaking anyway. “You sing in the shower. I hear it sometimes through the shared wall when I’m doing the kids’ laundry.” He is fully palming him now, shyness giving way to confidence from the pleasured sounds it earns him. “I’ve always wanted to sneak in there when your back is turned, just to get a glimpse of you.” 

“How naughty.”

This over the clothes stuff is rapidly becoming not nearly enough. They’re so out in the open like this, the kids are just upstairs. But he knows all too well that they sleep like the dead. They took after their mother in that regard, which had done wonders for his own sleep schedule long before Michael entered the picture.  

Michael grows bold and presses his face against the cloth of his boxers, mouthing at his bulge. He flinches back involuntarily, a bolt of pleasure shooting through him that he almost doesn’t know what to do with. He grips the hair on top of Michael’s head to hold him still. 

“Don’t go on that second date. Let me be there for you.” Michael practically begs, pressing up into his hand. 

Well, when he asks so sweetly. Fuck it. He tugs down his underwear just enough to free his erection, sighing when the cool air hits the flushed skin. Michael whines in the back of his throat at the sight of it. He grips himself with one hand, the other still holding Michael’s hair, and presses the tip against the seam of his lips. Michael’s mouth falls open immediately, and he pushes in until he hits the back of Michael’s throat. 

“Yeah, there you go,” he groans, pulling out halfway before thrusting back inside. Michael’s mouth is warm and wet, and his tongue drags against the underside of his dick in a way that already has him feeling dizzy. On the next thrust he pushes in a little deeper and Michael gags, throat constricting around him. Michael grabs onto his thighs for purchase. “Relax, you can take it.” 

And he does. Michael lets him take the lead as he fucks into his mouth, working hard to keep his throat open. Short, sharp breaths hiss through his nostrils, but he doesn’t struggle or try to pull away. One of his hands drops down to the front of his own pants. 

As soon as he notices, he pulls out of Michael's mouth with a slick, popping sound. Michael's lips are swollen and red, and a string of saliva connects the tip to his bottom lip before breaking. He realizes that he's just face fucked the nanny before they've even had their first kiss. 

“Need some relief, do you?” 

Michael nods quickly, pressing his palm down harder into the front of his pinstriped pajama pants. 

“Please,” he says. 

He circles around Michael to the other side of the couch, tracking him with his eyes like one would do with their prey. When he takes a seat, Michael wastes no time in shoving off his pants and climbing into his lap. 

“Whoa, whoa, slow down, tiger,” he says as Michael grips him. “We still gotta prep you.” 

He likes a tight fit just as much as the next guy. But he doesn’t want to hurt Michael, especially since they don't have any lube. In his fantasies, Michael definitely cries when they are fucking, but it’s supposed to be from the overwhelming pleasure more than anything else.

Michael looks at him through his lashes. “I might've fingered myself in the shower earlier while thinking of you.” 

God, that's hot. The image of Michael bracing himself with one hand against the slick tiles of the shower wall, the other reaching around to rock back on his own two fingers, it's almost enough to send him over the edge right here. Did the steam fog up the glass and the mirror? Did he whine and moan because he couldn’t reach a deep enough angle? 

They would definitely have to take a shower together, pronto. But for now, he settled his hands on Michael's hips and swiped his thumbs back and forth along the jut of the bones there. Michael melts at his touch, his hips jumping forward.

“Getting yourself off on the job, that's not very professional.” Michael blushes, but doesn’t refute the statement. “So you're nice and loose for me, then?” 

Michael brings his arms around his neck. “Yes. I'm ready for you, promise.” 

“If you say so.” 

Then he lines himself up and pulls Michael down onto him in one go. True to his word, he slides right in, bottoming out in no time. He's still tight, fuck, but it’s good. The slide is made slightly easier from Michael sucking him off earlier. 

Michael's head drops down onto his shoulder, crying out into his dress shirt. But even with his face pressed against him, he is loud. Especially when he starts thrusting up into him, Michael's moans turn high and stay that way. It's incredibly attractive, but also concerning. 

“You gotta be quiet, we don't want to be disturbed, baby.” 

“'m trying!” Michael insists. His whole body shakes with each thrust.

That gives him an idea. He slows his pace so he is grinding up into Michael, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his tie. When Michael lifts his head to see what the hold up is, he gently eases open his mouth and stuffs the crumpled fabric inside. Michael makes a sound of surprise, but it’s successfully muffled. 

He slams up into Michael, and even the sound of skin on skin is muted since he is still wearing his slacks. The teeth of the open zipper scratch against the meat of Michael's ass with each thrust, and he keeps letting out these strangled moans that sound half caught between pain and pleasure.

“You’re so tight,” he groans. Michael rolls down onto him, hips gyrating sinfully. “You sure you prepped?” His voice becomes strained as his climax builds.

Michael doesn't answer, just throws his head back, cheeks bulging as his drool soaks through the tie in his mouth. The line of his throat is exposed and it's so, so tantalizing, he can't help but lean forward and suck a bruise into it. Michael keens, bringing a hand up to the back of his head to keep him there. 

He's so close. He wants Michael to reach his peak at the same time, desperate to see his face screw up in ultimate bliss after all these months of just his imagination to work with. So he wraps a hand around Michael's dick, which is already leaking like a faucet. Michael shudders at the touch, pushing into it and then rocking down onto his lap like he can't decide what feels better. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” he says into Michael’s skin. “Need you to cum for me, can you do that?”

Michael says something unintelligible, but it sounds like it’s in the affirmative. He runs his thumb along the underside of Michael's dick again and again, obsessed with the choked off noises it draws out. He worries for a second that he's not going last, then he feels Michael clench down around him. 

“Fuck!” Michael exclaims, clear as day even with the tie gagging him.

Michael's release bubbles over his hand, getting all over their shirts and his lap, but he doesn’t even care because he tips over the edge right after that. He bites down on Michael's collarbone like he'd wanted to earlier, reveling in Michael's pained-pleasured whine. 

When it's over, they sit there on the couch while they both come down, heavy breaths mingling together. He gently eases the tie out of Michael's mouth. It comes out with a wet squelch. Michael buries his face in his neck. As he softens, still inside, the realization of what they've both done settles over him. This must break every kind of rule in the nanny handbook. Any handbook, really. He just fucked his employee. The irony that just an hour ago he was chatting it up with someone who works in HR isn’t lost on him. 

Despite his own mind racing at the implications, Michael stays totally relaxed in his lap. Carefully, testing the waters, he runs a hand up and down his back. Michael's sleep shirt clings to him with sweat. 

“You okay?” He murmurs.

“‘M good,” Michael says back. 

“You know we're gonna have to talk about this.” 

That gets Michael to tense up. He buries his face harder into the crook of his shoulder. “Can it wait?” 

All that burning jealousy seems to have been snuffed out by this point. He sounds so small, so vulnerable. It is a stark reminder of the years of lived experience between the two of them. 

“Yeah,” he acquiesces. “It can wait.” 

It's very late. They both need to get some rest. He stands, readjusting his grip to brace his arms under Michael’s ass. It feels as if he weighs almost nothing. Michael wraps his arms and legs around him tightly when he crouches down to scoop up his abandoned sleep pants. It wouldn't do to leave any evidence of their misgivings to be discovered in the light of the morning.

He tries his best to avoid any creaky spots on his way up the stairs, but it’s difficult when he's carrying an adult man along with him. His back is going to give him shit for this later. As he makes his way down the hall, he considers taking Michael back to his bedroom. Ultimately, he decides against it. His kids love waking him up by jumping on him on Friday mornings before school, and he doesn't even want to begin thinking about how to explain why their nanny is in his bed with him.

So with a heavy heart, he carries Michael into the room that’s the first door on the left. It used to be a guest room, but since they hired him it’s been converted into his living space. The bed isn’t made, and there’s some laundry piled on the floor in the corner. It’s a stark contrast to how he treats the rest of the house. Michael is always the one reminding the kids to make their beds first thing in the morning. 

When he puts Michael on the mattress he goes willingly, spreading out like a starfish. It’s a very exposing position, and he can see his own release dribbling out between Michael’s legs. If the circumstances were different, he’d reach over and shove it back in with two fingers, making sure Mihcael keeps it all inside. But Michael is blinking sleepily, completely wiped out from their previous activities, and they both really do need to get to sleep. So he retreats to the doorway, his hand on the knob to pull it closed when Michael speaks.

“Are you mad at me?” Michael whispers. 

“No,” he replies instantly, and it’s true. He isn’t mad at Michael. As for himself, that’s a bit more complicated. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for. Goodnight, Michael.”

“...Night.”

With that he closes the door behind himself, each step towards his own room feeling like he’s walking towards his own execution. Once he’s in his bed, he lies awake staring through the darkness at the ceiling. This isn’t right. He’d been expecting to feel relief, or delight. At the very least he’d expected that unreachable itch to be satiated. He got what he wanted after all this time, didn’t he?And  Michael is so wonderful, that fact hasn’t changed now that they’ve crossed this line. In the moment, with Michael writhing on his lap, begging for his touch, that had been the best feeling in the world. But it doesn't feel nearly as good in the aftermath. 

It’s a while before he is finally able to drop off into sleep. There’s one thought repeating on a loop in his head.

Black male bodies have always been a site of white supremacist control. During the era of chattel slavery, white men asserted dominance over black men’s flesh to dehumanize/emasculate them by violating and owning their bodies. Sexual and physical violence was forced on them, along with their bodies being used as property for labor. Every form of human degradation and domination was enacted to strip them of their autonomy and manhood. Black bodies were treated as a commodity meant only for white consumption.

There is also a caricature created by white supremacy, called the “black brute,” that was forced onto Black men to keep them controlled after the Civil War. Black men were painted to be hypermasculine “animals” with large genitalia who couldn’t control their sexual appetite. Eurocentric standards defined Black men very rigidly, leaving no space for their full range of humanness- physically and emotionally.

Black men have also been lynched throughout American history for white ritualistic entertainment, over made-up offenses and false social “violations.” They were violently mutilated as part of these lynchings. Removing their genitalia symbolized the white fixation on their bodies and the fear of white women becoming their “prey.” There were even medical articles written with ways to "cure" Black men of their “barbaric” sexual urges through castration. This racial violence stems from white supremacist insecurity, wanting control over Black men, while creating terror around their sexuality. These dehumanizing fixations and biased stereotypes are present in many areas of Michael’s life.

Michael’s existence as a Black man under the world’s spotlight made him the target of racist, intrusive attacks. His soft voice and sensitive nature attracted media speculation about his body and masculinity. Rumors about faking his voice, taking hormones, and childhood castration were just some of the speculations around his biology. There was also the intense social pressure for him to remain a cute child, making his puberty experience under white beauty standards (and a self-hating father) exceptionally traumatic.

While white conservative media initially praised him for being a "safe" Black idol, this endearing perception shifted over time. As he aged, Michael was criticized heavily for not conforming to the media’s idea of Black hypermasculinity. This conditional acceptance demanded conformity for white comfort, yet also denied his autonomy as a man outside of entertainment. The infamous New York Post headline, "Peter Pan or Pervert?," shows that the mainstream media would eventually only accept Michael as either a stunted adult or a sex criminal.

Throughout adulthood, he was infantilized by media outlets for not being traditionally masculine or “sexual” enough based on their racial standards. This attitude allowed audiences to consume his talent while denying his maturity, intelligence, and reality as an adult Black man. Interviewers would pry about his sex life and appearance, rather than his art and humanitarian work, framing him as an odd specimen. The public’s failure to understand Michael created room for biased suspicion. This was evident when Bashir weaponized Michael's childhood trauma and emotional vulnerability to portray him as a strange, unstable pedophile.

Once media couldn't paint him as a child prodigy or an untouchable pop god, it became lucrative to market him as eccentric and disturbed. Michael was not given the space to express his quirks, emotions, or inner child freely without biased opinions. Michael was forced to constantly defend his psychological maturity and personal life choices on camera, more than his white peers.

His interests, hobbies, and demeanor were sensationalized and used to portray him as a “weird" spectacle. The media felt entitled to deconstruct every aspect of his private life, turning interviews into interrogations. A well known instance of this is when Michael uncomfortably closed his jacket after Barbara Walters claimed he was eccentric and invited attention...a human reaction to being on display. His existence was pathologized as a strange anomaly. Headlines scrutinized Michael’s clothing, makeup, and hair choices that would be praised as “androgynous” or “groundbreaking” on a white performer.

His skin condition added to the prejudice against him. This phenomenon has historical parallels: Black individuals with vitiligo or albinism were often used as attractions in sideshows or by white scientists for racist theories. The European term “white negro” viewed them as a medical oddity and a different human species. For example, Henry Moss, a 17th century enslaved man with vitiligo, became a paid exhibition for white amusement, and the subject of research experiments. The stigma that treated Michael’s body as bizarre and contaminated with sin was already embedded into our culture.

The social panic around Michael also shows in the hysteria around his dancing. It reflects the colonial white gaze towards Black culture. It treats hip movements as something inherently hypersexual or “vulgar.” Pelvic, bottom, and hip movements are major parts of Afro-diasporic cultures, using the entire body as an instrument rather than confining dance to feet and a rigid, straight spine. Black dance throughout many genres (jazz, blues, soul, modern hip hop, etc.) represents liberation and autonomy. Dance has been an ancestral outlet for the soul throughout centuries of racist oppression.

However, Michael’s dancing was criticized by white media platforms for being too promiscuous and corrupting the youth. While dance does express Black sensuality, Western culture has historically viewed it as abnormally provocative and strange. This racist view traces back to minstrel shows mocking Black dance, as well as when enslaved individuals had to dance for white entertainment. Black dance has socially been seen as lewd and sinful when compared to Eurocentric dance standards.

The judgement Michael received shows the discomfort around Black sexuality, especially as a former child star facing racial double standards. White popstars and rockstars did not face the same systemic anxieties that Michael did, regarding bodily expression. While Oprah wanted to imply a sexually deviant reason for his crotch grabbing, Michael stated it came from the power of the music. Michael’s eroticism was subconsciously intertwined with the rhythm; his sharp pelvic and fluid hip movements became a physical embodiment of the drum itself. His creative, musical energy went hand-in-hand with his sensuality. These movements were always central to his choreography in the 1970s, yet outrage developed as his vitiligo progressed and he drifted from his commercialized “safe” Black superstar image.

His deliberate pelvic touch, zipper closeup, and slow hip grinding in the Black Panther dance was such a powerful way to reject the endless puritanical criticisms against him. The raw emotion in the video was also an animalistic, unfiltered reaction to racism, but was interpreted as promoting mindless public destruction. Consequently, the video faced immediate mainstream backlash and network censorship for alleged sexual and physical “aggression.” The public felt compelled to sanitize Michael’s image, viewing Black sexuality and emotion as dangerous. The objectification of Michael’s body was not exclusive to the stage and music videos; it bled into the dehumanizing legal battles he faced as well.

The world’s most famous and powerful figure being a Black man, loved by women of all races, challenged the racial hierarchies that America is founded on. It was a recipe for racial injustice and a curated enemy for the public. The 2005 trial was a modern-day lynching that degraded his image for the sake of greed and manufactured panic. The 1993 allegations were the calculated result of a vengeful extortionist seeking to humiliate him through the caricature of the sexually dangerous Black man. Tabloid malpractice profited off this moral hysteria, circulating baseless speculations and buying out fictional stories that portrayed Michael as a monster.

The 2005 trial was a dehumanizing witch hunt, at the hands of the white DA Thomas Sneddon who had a vendetta to prosecute Michael, even if it meant falsifying evidence. Michael's incarceration would have been a trophy for Sneddon, making an example of a beloved icon and supporting his professional reputation. That trial violated Michael on every level: subjecting him to an invasive strip search, documenting intrusive images of his private areas, forced court appearances while injured, raiding his safe space, and the destruction of his overall health. This public spectacle and media frenzy created an ignorant stigma around his legacy that still stands. The violent arrest and intrusive body search echo the centuries-old pattern of authorities robbing black bodies of basic human dignity.

I don’t believe it’s a mere coincidence that the first worldwide Black heartthrob was falsely accused of sex crimes, with white men leading the attack. Belittling a Black man through abusive media and mob mentality heavily mirrored the painful past of legal and physical violence inflicted on Black bodies. A racist, narrow cultural framework created the media circus of fascination and fear around Michael’s anatomy.

These themes are obvious in the media slur “Wacko Jacko” (which Michael was very aware of), reducing a complex, brilliant human being to an eccentric animal. Even immediately after passing, that name continued to follow him in the tabloids, alongside invasive images of his body. There was also an instant, hypocritical switch to falsified sympathy and celebrating his legacy once he passed, but it was superficially done just for the nostalgic bandwagon. The media economy exploited Michael to no end, by destroying him and then capitalizing on his memory.

But Michael's spirit and strength always proved to be Invincible, refusing to be victimized by bigoted judgement or compromise his art. This is why I view Threatened as an autobiographical anthem that plays on the narrative of Michael being a savage “monster.” It flips that haunting dynamic to intimidate the biased media systems, while recognizing Michael’s mass appeal and inescapable status. It tells the white patriarchal establishment, “Every time your lady speaks, she speaks of me. Threatened.” It directly targets the fragile egos of Michael’s critics and how institutions felt threatened by his refusal to submit to any boxes. “Half of me you'll never be, so you should feel threatened by me.” The song counterattacks anyone who has tried to take away Michael’s pride and manhood. It reclaims his power, despite the social campaign to label him as a “freak.”

Michael was catapulted into a world eager to shame his body and capitalize on racist, gendered panic. Abusive journalism demonized his sexuality and skin condition, portraying him as a “weird” criminal for tabloid profit. Additionally, Thomas Sneddon relentlessly pursued Michael for over a decade to prosecute him as a sexual predator. Tabloid Junkie strongly exposes how the obsessive press wanted to, “speculate to break the one you hate" and "circulate the lie" they confiscate. Michael was vividly aware of the systemic goal to "assassinate and mutilate" his character and legacy. The media manhunt around Michael mirrored the publicized, coordinated pursuits of black men for public spectacle in American history.

The historical fixation on Black biology and autonomy laid the foundation for the media attacks and weaponized sexuality used against Michael. His private, complex humanity was treated as a freakish anomaly that the media sought to brutally deconstruct. There was a permanent racialized lens observing his expression of Black masculinity, turning nonconformity and difference into a tabloid minstrel caricature. Deeply rooted social phobias and fabricated narratives stripped Michael of his presumption of innocence from the general public. The historical biases fabricated around Black men and their sexuality were triggered in hopes of his publicized downfall.

michael was absolutely exhausted, much different than when he and his bodyguard arrived to the hotel room after yet another succesful concert and michael seemed like he had enough energy to go on stage and perform for a whole nother 2 hours. he wasn't sure how things advanced from there, but it included lots of teasing. and before the both of them knew it, michael was being stretched out on his dick and riding him with such frequency that his bodyguard almost worried that someone outside might hear them. that concern dissloved immeditely. he had better things to worry about, and by "things", he meant michael.

"oh, please," michael whispered into his neck, voice strained and quiet only because he had been singing not too long ago and then screaming from pleasure right after. "please."

michael's legs trembled with the need to release, his hands gripping the guard tightly. so tightly it almost hurt. he strengthened his grip on michael's dick, his thumb pressing down on the slit so that michael couldn't cum. the last few rounds, he had let michael freely use and ride him and come all he wanted. for the last round, he decided that he desvered the right to be a little mean, no?

he had asked beforehand and got the green light to do so. so, why not?

"not yet, pretty." he huffed, using his other hand to support michael as he bounced up and down. a bit ago, michael's movements were much more rhythmic and fast, but the pure neediness and exhaustion was evidently catching up to him. his movements were now driven by desperation. heavier, sloppier. a whine pierced his ears and michael grinder down, slumping onto the other even more.

michael was, in simple words, a mess. an alluring, sinfully beautiful mess. his skin gleamed in the hotel light with sweat, mouth agape and not able to close, damping the bodyguards shoulder with saliva. he shivered and choked on his own breath almost everytime the other thrusted up to match his hips, and his eyes— when they were open— glistened with unshed tears.

he swept away a loose, curled strand of hair that was sticking to michael's face and pulled him into a wet, sloppy kiss at the same time as he used the hand at michael's waist to halt michael's bouncing. the noise michael let out was downright devastated, practically a sob. unfortunately for michael, it went straight to the other man's dick, causing it to twitch inside of him.

the two were both out of breath when they pulled away from the kiss, sitting there for a moment to steady their breathing just a bit. michael reached one of his hands down in attempt to stroke himself but the bodyguard grabbed his wrist firmly but gently.

"no. no. I— fuck, I can't.." michael cursed, allowing his head to fall onto the other's shoulder once again.

He tried not to smile at michael's state. "what do you want, baby?" the words were coated with fake sympathy.

"..you know what I want." michael pleaded, voice dropping. "please, I wanna- no, I need t'cum. god, I need to so bad. please."

michael's begging was always pretty. majority of the time, he would give in easily just because of how broken michael sounded anytime he begged but, like he said. he deserved to be a bit mean, didn't he?

"patience, love. you'll get what you want, aight?"

carefully, he lifted michael up from under the legs and carried him over to the bed, lowering him gently and towering over him. he pulled his dick out to then flip michael over.

michael gripped the pillow beneath him with both of his arms, holding it close while his body half was hoisted up so that he could be rammed back into.

and he did get rammed back into, letting out a broken moan.

he thrusted in and out of michael with the energy that michael was missing just minutes before, the slap, slap , slap of skin agasint skin echoing throughout the room.

michael buried his head into the mattress, moaning into it. vulnerable and hoarse noises coming from his throat and bouncing off the walls. at this point, neither of them could care less who heard.

michael was slipping and the bodyguard could see it, so he placed a firm smack on michael's ass, relishing in the choked cry that michael emittied from beneath him.

"don't you dare fuckin' cum without me saying so." he demanded, leaning into michael's ear, breath warm and breathing heavy from the frantic thrusting in and out.

"fuck!" michael trembled. "please. please, I can't no more, forreal. 's too much. I wanna-" he cut himself off with a moan. "w-wanna cum. you're bein' mean, please jus'let me.." being fucked into mercilessly was one thing, but his dick rubbing against the mattress, matching the movements of the thrusts was another thing entirely and was throwing michael off the edge, making it impossibly harder to hold it in.

something shifted in him then. sure, he had gotten permission to tease and be a bit mean. and if it truly was too much, michael could tell him to simply 'stop' and all would seize. despite being completely fucked out, michael knew that.

he watched as michael jerked and writhed with every thrust to his sweet spot. he groaned, being brought closer to the edge as well.

"f-fuck," he cursed. "you wanna cum, baby? go on, let go." he rasped, burrowing his head into michael's shoulder. he was seconds away from coming apart as well. he figured he might as well allow michael to get what he wanted.

michael came hard. ropes of white shooting out and painting the sheets. whimpers and whines left the king of pop's mouth as the other continued to relentlessly attack his hole until finally pulling out and emptying his thick, wet load right onto the others back.

for a moment, the two of them stayed completely still, focused on catching their breath.

michael felt the other's weight on him as arms came down to wrap around his torso. he left tender kissed along michael's neck.

"sorry. hope that wasn't too much."

michael let out a breathless chuckle that faded into an exhale. he closed his eyes before responding.

"..it was good. I liked it." he was close to drifting off. the other took it as an opportunity to get up to grab a towel and begin cleaning them up.