I didn't run away this time, right?

“C'mon, Mama, come sit on my face." His eyes were full of that lust that seemed to take over him every now and again. His lip tucked tightly in between his teeth, breathing all heavily from what felt like hours of grinding against each other on his bed.

“I don't know, Mike." You bit onto your nails, your legs still on each side of his body, straddling him, your free hand pressed against his chest as you stared into his big round doe eyes. The dim lighting from the moon shines through the gaps in the blinds.

“What if I hurt you or something? I'm just worried, y'know. I've never done anything like this," you spoke, concern dripping from your voice.

"No, you're not gonna to hurt me; I want it so bad. Thinkin' about you sittin' on me makes me all hot." His hands rested on your hips. Eyes silently pleading with you to just sit on him just this once. 

“Please, just this once, gonna to make you feel s'good," he begged, his voice getting all whiny, desperate to have you on his tongue—to have you on his face.

“Okay, but tell me if I'm hurting you," you spoke, watching his face light up, your large hand sliding from your hips to your waist as you lifted yourself, giving him room to lie down fully, your cunt hovering prettily over his face, his mouth damn near salivating at the thought of you as his fingers dug into the fat of your thighs that sat on either side of his head, forcing you to stop hovering and just sit comfortably while his tongue got to work, licking long strides against your folds, a gasp falling from your lips and into the silent emptiness of the room.

Your fingers made their way to his fro, tangled in the messy curls as he sucked on your clit, the suction almost becoming too much and mixed with his tongue flicking repeatedly against the sensitive spot. Your head was instinctively lolling to the side, eyes closed in order to focus on every sensation of pleasure he was giving you.

“Mm, fuck Mikey, right there," you whined, legs squeezing around his head like a python, but Michael didn't seem to mind, his mouth sloppily making out with your clit, his face covered in your arousal, turning him into a complete mess in between your thighs.

Your body moved almost on its own, your body writhing against his tongue, hips bucking as his lips created another suction around your clit as you grinded against his face. 

“Oh… it's s'good, I can't... you're going to make me cum." You attempted to lift yourself off him, only for him to force you back down. 

“Mm, don't run from me, please. Cum f'me," he spoke in between licking at your cunt, the desperation in his voice muffled.

Your body felt too hot, like you could barely control yourself, heavy whines and moans falling from your lips repeatedly as you tried to use your hand to muffle your noise. That hot coil snapping as he coaxed your orgasm out of you, your body feeling exhausted as pleasure hit you in intense waves. You couldn't even form a sentence properly; all your words just became one long run-on sentence as you babbled randomly.

Soon, whines and random words turned into heavy breathing, your high finally washing over you replaced with exhaustion as you ultimately lifted yourself from him.

“Wait, come back, I want to do it again," he begged, hands wrapped around your thighs still.

“Michael!”

©angelfacediary

Taglist :

@blkkbratt @tinydreamerpillar @luvingkiku @animegamerfox @loveposiie @2young4ublog @rlm-11 @applesbby @yourleogf @pixieelixer-24 @michaelssparklysocks @5ecret4rt @swavydadon @tojiswifeforlife @kryka83 @galacticpurpl3 @commaanders @muchluv4mj @mariet-eva @judesboots @sqrixm @cunty000 @ebvnydesires @cherubae111 @gentl3bliss @ladyofmjslife @muchixo @escuzimwa @michaelssugarbby @peritinkers @angelfacednaya @niyahctrl @lifeofkaysai @pvtypyt @imbetterinstereo @pollkadotts @gingerrsnapp @samkerrssecondwife @fivestararii @melodiesmurakamis @dollkozart @pumpkinlover07 @watermielonnn @chrislyssas @smickeyyy @michaelcurls @kissmyglxck @lostinadreamoradaydream @youluvvrii @whimsywizardofoz

You never had the experience of hand-holding, those soft kisses that felt like they lingered, leaving your skin tingling, that love that made you feel like you were living in paradise every time you thought about it, until now.

So there you were, lying awake at night. Eyes flickering constantly from the smooth surface of the ceiling to your sleeping boyfriend laid beside you with his arm comfortably settled around your waist, his breathing even with the soft rhythmic movement of his chest rising and falling, hair a complete mess as a yawn spilled from your lips, your eyes getting heavier by the second before slipping into sleep, the sound of rain pattering against the window fading out completely.

Throughout the day, it sat on your mind, outweighing all the other things that stirred around your head. Your hand held a book that you most definitely weren't reading. In fact, you hadn't even flipped the page yet because you were too deep in your own thoughts, staring at the words that seemed to blend into one big blur, making them unreadable.

“What's wrong? You've been staring at the same page for over ten minutes,” the sound of Michael's sweet voice startled you, snapping you straight out of your daze as you looked over at the seat next to you.

“Huh? No, I’m fine,” you reassured him, your fingers instinctively moving to flip the page like you’d been reading the whole time, hoping to make yourself seem less suspicious.

“No, you’re not. Come on, I know you too well by now. Talk to me.” He scooted closer to you, fingers grasping gently on your wrist like he was pleading with you to just talk to him, tell him whatever was weighing on that mind of yours.

You closed your book with a soft thud, the pages coming together, as your eyes met with his own before looking away. “Look, it’s not you,” you started, your eyes darting around the room, like you were afraid of seeing his facial expressions.

“I just think it’s me, I don’t know.” You weren’t really sure how to put the words together. Maybe it was because you didn’t want to hear what he had to say, or maybe it was because you were too afraid that the thoughts that swam around your head would be true and he really was bored of you.

“Why are you avoiding looking at me? What’s wrong?” A look of genuine concern spread across his face, his heart racing because he was worried that he’d made you uncomfortable in some way and you were too scared to tell him.

“Do you ever get bored of me? I mean, you’ve had all these girlfriends.” The question fell out into the air, leaving a lingering effect afterward.

“Baby, why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know, don’t you ever wish you could be with someone more experienced? Someone who you don’t have to teach all the time?” You spoke quietly, your fingers tracing endless circles around your knuckles out of nervousness.

“What? No? Do you really think I care about someone who knows all the ‘rules’ of dating? Who cares about you being less experienced? It doesn’t make you less of a burden, okay?” The words came tumbling out almost instantly.

“Being with you, I learn new things, I experience new things, you teach me how to love you.” His fingers stopped yours from fidgeting, both of his hands grasped in your own.

“You really don’t mind?”

“I don’t. I love you for you, not how experienced you are.” He shook his head, a laugh falling from his lips, those soft eyes boring into you, giving you pure comfort as you finally let out the breath you had no idea you’d been holding in, and for the first time all day your mind finally settled.

©angelfacediary

Taglist :

@blkkbratt @tinydreamerpillar @luvingkiku @animegamerfox @loveposiie @2young4ublog @rlm-11 @applesbby @yourleogf @pixieelixer-24 @michaelssparklysocks @5ecret4rt @swavydadon @tojiswifeforlife @kryka83 @galacticpurpl3 @commaanders @muchluv4mj @mariet-eva @judesboots @sqrixm @cunty000 @ebvnydesires @cherubae111 @gentl3bliss @ladyofmjslife @muchixo @escuzimwa @michaelssugarbby @peritinkers @angelfacednaya @niyahctrl @lifeofkaysai @pvtypyt @imbetterinstereo @pollkadotts @gingerrsnapp @samkerrssecondwife @fivestararii @melodiesmurakamis @dollkozart @pumpkinlover07 @watermielonnn @chrislyssas @smickeyyy @michaelcurls @kissmyglxck @lostinadreamoradaydream @youluvvrii @whimsywizardofoz

You were sat on the couch, your legs folded underneath you as you watched a movie. Ice cream half way to your mouth when the phone rang.

You weren’t sure who could possibly be calling you this late.

You picked up the phone and wedged it against your shoulder as you ate your dessert.

“Hello?”

“It’s Michael.”

You blinked, the faint sound of ice cream plopping back into the bowl meeting your ears.

Four months.

Four months gone by in a blur of shoving the hurt down until it got so compact you could ignore it a little easier each time you woke up.

Pulling your tongue from the roof of your mouth, you set down your bowl and stared blankly at the tv.

Speak, good Lord.

“Oh.” Is all you could land on, apparently.

For a moment, all you could hear was static and the soft sound of his breathing on the other end.

“I’m sorry—“

“Please, don’t.” You shut your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose.

You knew you didn’t fit into his life anymore and him actually calling you was making the realization worse.

You lived eighteen years without him. You coped. Not letting yourself fall for the relapse he offered in your office or the restaurant.

If he kept doing this, deciding to randomly pop in and out of your life… you weren’t sure if you were built for it.

Despite how important you knew it was to be pragmatic about this, as he started to talk, your grip tightened on the phone.

Knowing damn well you’d never be able to let him go. Greedily taking hold of the small fragments he’d give you. Leaving a sparse trail behind him, crumbs he knew you’d follow and pick up with eager fingers.

That’s how the weeks passed followed into months.

Bursts of frequent phone calls that would last till four in the morning, talking about nothing yet everything at once. The floodgates of Michael’s self restraint opening and slamming into you, suddenly becoming his safe space in a world that never went quiet.

Then there’d be a few weeks of silence or brief calls asking how you were.

It made your head spin, but nothing knocked you quite so off your axis than it did a few days after New Years when there was a knock on your door at eight in the evening.

The last thing you had been expecting to see was Michael standing there in a coat, sunglasses, and a scarf covering the lower half of his face.

Hastily ushering him inside before someone saw and staring at him like he had two heads as he shed off the heavy layers of wool. Snow still caught in his hair and looking painfully romantic as he slid off his glasses.

Michael smiled at you, a little sheepishly.

“Hey Pumpkin.”

“Hey?” You parroted back. “Michael what the hell?”

It’s not that you weren’t happy to see him. But he hadn’t spoken to you in three weeks and to physically drop in with no warning was giving you whiplash.

His eyes danced around your apartment awkwardly, “is this a bad time? I can go—“

“No,” you rushed. Taking a step closer. “I’m just… I didn’t even know you were in New York.”

He shrugged, his cheeks still rosy from the cold. “I wanted to surprise you.”

You felt that always present pit in your stomach roll over at his words. He was a flirt, that much had become painfully obvious.

What also became obvious, was that he was like that with practically everyone and there was no point in letting your head and heart get mixed up in the mess that was being someone in his life.

You were his friend. That was all.

That was safe.

“Well,” you looked around. Wishing you would’ve had some heads up so you could’ve cleaned. Or at least got some groceries. “I’m not really used to having company over. Do you want a drink or anything?”

Michael shook his head, his gaze intent and curious as he looked around. “I’m okay, thank you.”

You still had Christmas decorations strewn everywhere and the Christmas tree in the corner of the living room was casting the entire space in a warm glow, making him look a little fuzzy at the edges.

Not quite knowing what to do with yourself, you went to the kitchen to pour yourself a glass of wine. Freezing mid pour when you heard him let out a light laugh as he bent down slightly to look at your music collection.

You felt blood rush to your cheeks.

You had every single record of his. Spanning from the Jackson 5 to his most recent work.

Michael reached a hand out when something on another shelf caught his eye, his fingers gently taking hold of a polaroid that was leaned against a few cassettes.

He turned around to look at you, but your eyes fell down to the counter, not quite knowing why you felt embarrassed.

“You saw me on tour?” He asked eventually.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nodded and took a sip of wine. Suddenly wishing you had something stronger. “A few times, actually.”

He blinked at you before looking down at the picture.

It was you and friend from undergrad, pointing to the venue sign during the Victory tour. You absolutely loved watching him perform, the longing in your chest nearly feeling carnal. Wishing he’d somehow spot you in a crowd of thousands and wondering if it would be like no time had gone by at all.

Of course that never happened.

“Thank you,” Michael said quietly, pulling you from your thoughts.

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

His fingers traced the picture for another moment before he set it back down, his eyes still lingering on it for a moment before looking at you.

“For showing up. Supporting me when I didn’t even know it.”

You watched him, how surreal it was to have him in your home and how vulnerable he looked as he continued to walk around and poke and prod at things. Asking you about other photos you had up, framed art, movies, or books. Every interest of yours practically spattered over the entire apartment.

You weren’t entirely sure how it happened. Weren’t aware of the baby steps that led to the bedroom, but by two in the morning you were both covered by your blanket and laughing over something stupid until your ribs hurt.

The pain sharp and deep as it sunk towards your heart, your smile softening as you watched the way his lips stretched in a grin and his watery, tried eyes stared lazily up at the ceiling. His dark curly hair fanned out over your pillow and you knew it would smell like him when he left.

Your own head was nestled into the pillows, your knees pulled up to your chest as you laid on your side and watched him for a heartbeat longer.

“Michael?”

He rolled his head to the side, “Hm?”

“Why’d you come to New York?”

His eyes flicked between your own, rolling what words he wanted to use over in his head. Dancing around truths that sometimes aren’t always meant to be said out loud.

Letting out a slow sigh, he rolled onto his side to face you. One of his hands closing the distance and brushing some hair out of your face. His touch warm and grounding.

“I just… needed a friend. Life’s been moving a million miles an hour and I wanted to slow down for a few hours.”

His hand fell from your hair to rest gently against the side of your face, his thumb running lazily back and forth along your cheekbone.

You felt like your heart was rotting out of your chest.

Slowly, your hand came up and took hold of his wrist, your grip firm and feeling his pulse.

“I know this has kind of been a rollercoaster, but I’m here for you. No matter what.”

Michael’s grip on you became tighter for a brief a moment before his next words left him in a whisper.

“Thank you.”

When you woke up the next morning, he was gone.

Surprisingly, only three days passed before he called you again.

Apologizing for leaving without so much as a goodbye and you stood there in the kitchen with the phone held loosely in your hand.

You didn’t really know what to make of it.

You weren’t even sure if there was any point in him saying sorry, knowing that if a night like that ever happened again, he’d do it all over the same.

“So?” You heard him ask.

You blinked, looking around your apartment awkwardly for an answer you know you wouldn’t find.

“So?”

He laughed lightly. “LA, will you come?”

Your brows furrowed. “When?”

Michael was quiet for a moment. “Did you not hear anything I just said?”

“Um…”

He laughed again, though it was more so of an exhale. “I have my final show on the twenty seventh, I’d like you to be there.”

Your mouth opened, your mind trying to wrap itself around the fact he was actually initiating something.

“Wait, this month? Michael, I have work and a last minute flight would be—“

“Don’t worry about that, I’ll send a jet.”

Well, that rendered you momentarily speechless.

The plastic of the phone creaked as your grip tightened. “I have work.”

“Please. You’ve been there for me so many times and I didn’t even know. Let me to this for you.”

You tried not to think too much as you packed.

Tried not to think at all, actually.

Knowing that this didn’t mean anything. That for your sanity, it couldn’t mean anything.

Sure, there were lapses where he was attentive. Present. Hell, he could talk your ear off for hours if he wanted to.

But that didn’t erase the longer bouts of time where he became a ghost again that lingered over your life.

You had always tried to tell yourself to keep your heart open. And for him, you had. Even when it hurt with every beat of the artery.

People like him… it was simply different.

Life was different, and if you wanted to keep up, you’d have to adjust the best way you could without completely breaking and shifting into someone unrecognizable.

So, you kept your heart open for him. But maybe it was best at a distance.

Your knee jumped up and down as the small jet began its descent into LAX.

A slow, lethargic dread was building low in your gut.

It didn’t leave as you walked down the stairs. It burrowed itself deeper and deeper into a pit with greedy claws, making your smile fall a little flat when your eyes landed on him as he stood in front of the blacked out SUV. Sunglasses perched on his nose and his curls being blown wild by the wind.

Your companion of anxiety didn’t leave your side at all as you rode to the hotel. Practically silent on your part the entire time as he listed off the schedule and hardly paying any mind to the way you were mute.

The longer you looked at him, you could tell he was nervous to have you there. Masking his own dread with well crafted excitement as he avoided your eyes.

There was something in the air, you just didn’t know what. Like the smell of rain even when the sky was clear.

An approaching storm you knew both of you would get trapped in.

When the hotel suite door clicked open, you came to an abrupt halt the moment your eyes landed on the interior.

“Jesus.”

Fancy wasn’t the right word. Perhaps lavish, was more fitting.

“Is this okay?” Michael asked as he rolled your suitcase in for you, his smile small and timid at the edges.

You momentarily thought he was joking. Of course this was okay. It was practically a small apartment. A living room, kitchen, and hall that you assumed lead to the bedroom and bathroom.

“It’s perfect.”

He gestured a hand out. “Well, make yourself comfortable. I’m gonna be heading out soon, but Bill arranged a car to pick you up in a few hours.”

And with that he dipped his head and made to leave, but your hand caught his arm as he passed by you. Bringing him to a stop and he looked down at you, his eyes expectant but the rest of his face was unreadable.

“Thank you for inviting me.”

One of his hands came up and brushed some hair away from your face, his touch lingering a moment against your cheek before he let his arm drop.

“Thank you for coming.”

The moment the heavy door shut behind him, you let out a long, slow breath.

Getting ready felt more taxing than it should’ve been.

Each of your bones felt stiff as you moved, a headache pricking at the base of your skull and it got to the point where you had to shut most of the lights off.

Despite the excitement you should’ve felt, it was like you were standing there watching a tsunami approach.

Completely helpless to the incoming catastrophe.

It felt dramatic as hell, but with Michael, that’s just how things were.

Always dialed to eleven.

You’d seen him in concert a handful of times, but always swathed in a crowd of thousands. The presence of him all consuming yet completely untouchable.

Yet there you were, in the shadows off to the side of the stage as you sat on top of one of the equipment boxes. Hardly being able to breathe the entire night as you watched him perform and give the final show of the Bad Tour his all.

You could tell he was relieved it was over, despite dripping gratitude as he continued to bow and thank his supporters and crew. Thanking God and holding a bouquet of roses to his heaving chest as he waved goodbye.

He beelined towards you, his skin glistening and covered in sweat as his damp curls clung to his forehead.

You didn’t fully register what was happening till he was hugging you. The salty smell of his sweat the earthy scent of roses engulfing you and his touch was practically searing.

“Thank you,” he muttered, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head before he pulled away and started talking to his crew, his voice being drowned out by their applause and the still roaring crowd.

It took about three hours to get back to the hotel and the moment you shouldered the door open you wanted to do nothing but shower and collapse into bed.

Hoping you could sleep off the trepidation that was crawling up your spine.

Kicking off your shoes, you were just about to pull your shirt over your head when there was a sharp knock on the door.

Brows furrowing, you padded through the suite and narrowed your gaze through the peephole. Freezing momentarily at the sight of Michael.

His hair was still a mess, but he’d changed into a t-shirt and pajama pants. Apparently just as eager as you were to go to bed.

The moment the door opened, he practically collapsed into you.

Arms wrapped around you and a hand in your hair, his face buried in the side of your neck.

“I’m so fucking tired,” he muttered, his lips dancing along the side of your throat as he spoke and an involuntary shudder wracked your body as your arms slowly wrapped around him.

“Thank you for being here.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Michael leaned back slightly, eyes heavy on yours as his hand slid out of your hair and down to cup your jaw, his thumb lightly dragging beneath your lip.

His gaze followed the movement and your own eyes were caught on his mouth.

Your lips parted to say something, anything—

He was kissing you.

The pressure of his mouth against yours nearly brutal as you both stumbled further back into the suite, the back of your legs hitting the edge of the couch and sending both of you toppling over.

The sudden shift of gravity made you yelp and he all but lunged on the opportunity, his tongue sliding into your mouth and then you groaned.

Idiot.

Your back arching up into his as he pressed his hips into yours, your bodies nearly half off the couch, but falling was the least of your concern when his hardened cock slid ride up against you and it made you see stars.

A broken sound left Michael as his lips parted from yours, a messy string of salvia connecting your mouths and his pupils were so blown it looked as though someone had spilled ink into his eyes.

The low mutter of your name against your skin as he left hot and open mouth kisses down your neck, one of his hands dancing under your shirt and his thumb grazed the underside of your breast, making your body erupt in chills.

His teeth sunk gently into your throat, making a sharp moan leave you and he seemed to have a full body reaction to the sound.

Michael lifted his head just enough to hover above you, his expression set as one hand took hold of your jaw and pried your lips open.

You were sure you were dreaming when he spit into your mouth, barely having time to comprehend how hot that was before his lips were on yours again and his hips were rolling into yours.

The early sounds of the city rang in your ears as you unlocked the door to the art gallery, trying to shove away that night from two months ago.

His hands began to slide down your sides, fingers hooking onto the hem of your pants.

You pulled back, eyes shut and resting your head against his. “Michael.”

“What?” One of hands came up to wound in your hair, the other digging into your hip. “What, baby?”

“I can’t do this if you’re just gonna leave again.”

“I’m not gonna leave.”

“Please don’t lie.”

“I… I won’t, I promise—“

You shook your head, looking away from him and wiping a tear away. “Don’t promise me that, that’s just mean.”

He hadn’t talked to you since then. Not that you blamed him. Not that you regretted it.

You knew if you had decided to just give in, that despite his sweet words, they were empty of a promise to stay.

Knew if you went all the way and he left you alone, you weren’t sure how you’d be able to live with yourself.

That didn’t make it hurt any less.

So, in a completely healthy and non avoidant way, you dove headfirst into your work and studies. Working tirelessly on your dissertation and losing sleep over the anxiety of having to defend your thesis.

Barely sleeping as the weeks bled into months, always having some sort of headache and living off of nothing but pathetic sandwiches and coffee.

The air being momentarily robbed from the atmosphere every time you walked by a newspaper stand, eyes catching on a picture of Michael with a new girl every few weeks.

Despite yourself, when the hour ran late, your eyes would linger on the phone.

As if through sheer force of your will, it would make him call.

It never rang. Not from him, at least.

You were falling down a rabbit hole of isolation. Work and school. Barely any rest, and when you did doze off, you’d wake up in a sweat from a nightmare.

Michael always staring at you with nothing in his eyes. Saying the meanest things.

It was pathetic.

Biting the bullet one evening, you forced yourself to get dolled up and slipped into the nearest bar.

Twenty minutes went by before a man approached you, his smile shy and his eyes glittering in the low lights as he held out a hand to introduce himself.

He made you laugh, quite a bit.

The decades of tension bleeding out of you because you were finally ready to accept there was no point in hanging on anymore.

The gallery was doing well, elite clientele filtering in and out. Either buying or donating pieces.

Holidays hovered and the dreaded phone call with your parents approached like clock work. Chastising you for not coming home for Thanksgiving again and asking about Christmas, even though they knew the answer.

You had a work.

Biting your tongue because the truth was you couldn’t physically stomach going back to Gary.

So like the many years before ever since you moved to New York City, you decorated your apartment in lights and tinsel. Trying to mask the heartache that was only just beginning to ease.

Cheering with champagne flutes on New Years and going out for the weekend to celebrate Columbia approving the grant of a doctorate.

Spring had had a delayed start on the city, the blossoms just starting to peek out on the landscape as you sat in your office, going through order catalogues when the phone rang.

You picked it up, mind slipping into professionalism as you began to recite your usual speech of the gallery title but before you got two words out, his voice cut through the speaker with your name.

You went painfully rigid.

It had been a year and half.

You weren’t entirely sure what you had been expecting as he spoke.

But there was no apology. No mention of that night in the hotel. No mention of anything at all.

He simply asked if you could curate some pieces for his new property in the city.

Gave you the gate code and said there’d be a key under the mat if you’d like to go tour it to get a feel for the place.

Said he wouldn’t be there.

You felt almost robotic as you unlocked the door to the townhouse, eyes searching for the light switch in the dark before the front entryway suddenly became bathed in a warm glow. Your heart lurching a bit that this was his home.

Well, one of them, at least.

It was in a different borough than your place, but it still felt too close.

You took your time as you walked the entire place, eyes dancing along each detail. Gaze catching on the books he had and smiling slightly to yourself at the erratic array of genres.

You were just about to leave the office when something on the desk shoved beneath a copy of Peter Pan caught your eye.

Your name.

Your throat tightened as you rounded the expensive oak and your fingers lightly dusted over the few printed copies of academic journals you had written throughout the years.

Having no idea he had read your work.

“Oh, Michael.” You whispered to yourself, wiping away a tear before it fell onto the paper.

Another month passed before you were back on that doorstep, this time knocking and waiting with bated breath as you held the portfolio you had made with pieces he may like to your chest.

The moment the door opened and your eyes met Michael’s, nothing felt real.

But not in a dreamy way that made life a little easier to manage.

The air didn’t feel right.

Muttering quiet hellos to each other as he lead you through the house and into the sitting room.

You bit your cheek as you observed him, the coordination of each movement. His mind a million miles away and not quite seeing you.

The comfortably of childhood nostalgia and familiarity was gone… you felt like strangers.

He gestured for you to sit down and before you did, you handed him the portfolio.

Watching him freeze immediately as if struck by an invisible current, his gaze locked numbly on your hand.

Michael’s lips parted, shut. His eyes going a little distant.

“You’re engaged?”

“Oh,” you pulled your hand away from the folder as he finally took it, your fingers coming up to toy with the diamond.

You blushed slightly, not being able to help it as you smiled a little bit. “Yes.”

He seemed… you weren’t sure you could find the right words to put to his current expression as he stared. His gaze unblinking.

“You didn’t tell me you were engaged.” He said hollowly.

You watched Michael. Openly. Taking note but not dwelling on the slight redness to his eyes.

You bit the inside of your cheek as you considered what to say to him.

“Would there be a point?”

Michael wet his bottom him as he looked down, the muscles in his jaw shifting. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thank you.”

He cleared his throat and flipped open the folder, a numbness to him as he flicked through the art and you explained each and the cost.

The meeting going on in a drone of bated breaths and careful steps. A live wire surrounding him and you tried not to set it off.

Trying to bite back the slight annoyance creeping up your neck. Not seeing how he had any right to be remotely bothered by your relationship given how he had decided to go about things.

His tone a little tight as he told you which ones he would like to purchase and for what part of the house. His smile not meeting his eyes when he walked you to the door.

The moment it shut behind you, Michael leaned against it for a moment. Maybe a minute.

Maybe five.

Staring at nothing till his eyes burned and he squeezed them shut before slamming his head lightly into the wood.

“Fuck.”

michael jackson masterlist

a/n: he “surprised” reader in nyc because he bought the house to be close to you (he breathes self sabotage)

you’re at one of those quiet, late-afternoon rehearsals of his, where the studio is mostly empty except for a handful of dancers stretching in the corner and the faint hum of the sound system cycling through the same ten or so tracks on low volume. you’ve been working together for three months now—brought on as a choreographer for his upcoming tour—and the collaboration has settled into something comfortable and electric all at once. today you haven’t done much performing—mostly observing and taking mental notes as your peers work through their formations and transitions. you settle cross-legged on the floor, back against the mirror, half out of habit and half to cool down once you notice how the loose tank top clings to your skin, damp from the fifteen-minute routine you forced out of yourself before. the top was one of your go-to throw-ons—the type that you reach for on mornings when there’s no time to think, comfortable and forgettable enough that it barely registers how lousy it really is. but it doesn’t matter because it’s just another rehearsal day. nobody’s really watching you specifically anyway.

except michael is watching.

he’s been eyeing you for the better part of ten minutes now, standing near the far wall with his arms crossed, weight shifted onto one leg in that casual way that makes him look like he’s just passing time. but his eyes haven’t left you once. three months of working together means he knows your body in ways that blur the line between professional and something far more dangerous—the way you lean forward when you’re concentrating, elbows on your knees, chin resting in your palm. or the exact angle your shoulders drop and hold into when you’re exhausted from a day’s worth of moving. or how you bite your bottom lip when you’re counting the rhythm of his music in your head. but he has been especially noticing the way your lousy tank tops shift when you move, the fabric draping loose enough that he can see the gentle curve of your collarbone and how it meets the very soft slope of your chest, the complete and total absence of any bra line or strap cutting across your shoulders.

this isn’t the first time he’s catalogued this particular detail about you—the way the fabric falls uninterrupted against your skin and the freedom of movement that comes with the lack of constraint beneath. he’s been collecting these stolen glances for weeks now, tucking them away in that careful corner of his mind where desire lives before it’s given permission to become something more. he was noticing you in a… different way more and more in tiny fragments: the way your shirt drapes differently than other women’s when you demonstrate an arm sequence, or the soft movement beneath the cotton when you laugh too hard at something he’s said during water breaks; the complete absence of any restrictive architecture between your body and the world never leaving his mind. he’s been letting himself see it only in his peripheral, never giving himself the pleasure of looking directly because the moment you acknowledge something like that and let yourself really think about it—it stops being an innocent observation and more like an obsession.

and god, there’s definitely been some sort of tension that has not been helping his case whatsoever. it hung in the space between you when he adjusts your posture during a routine, his hands careful on your hips, lingering just a second too long. or the loaded glances across the studio when you nail a difficult sequence and he grins at you like you’ve just done something miraculous. the way you both maintain a careful, professional distance even tough every accidental touch—your shoulder brushing his, or the soft graze of your fingers when passing a water bottle—it sends electricity crackling through the thick air between you. three months of this particularly careful dance; this unspoken thing that neither of you have been brave enough to name.

but today, something shifts. maybe it’s the way the late afternoon light slants through those high studio windows, turning the air golden and catching on the fine sheen of sweat still cooling on your skin. maybe its how unselfconscious you are in your body, how you stretch your arms overhead without thinking and the fabric of your tank top pulls taut across your chest for just a breath—just long enough for him to see the gentle swell and soft shape of you—then falling loose again, watching the perfect contours disappear beneath the fabric as if that little moment didn’t just leave him nearly hypnotized. maybe it's the cumulative weight of three months worth of peripheral noticing, or of careful distance, or of just his undying want for you finally reaching critical mass. whatever it is, it all clicks into place in his mind with a clarity so sudden and complete it makes his mouth go dry and his pulse kick aggressively against his throat.

you never wear a bra.

the realization spreads through his mind and into his body like lava, pooling low into his stomach and making that pulse in his throat spread into a rhythm that feels excessively quick and obvious. suddenly every moment of the past three months rewrites itself in his memory with this new knowledge: the soft bounce when you demonstrate a jump sequence, the way the cold air conditioning makes your nipples just barely visible through the cotton during early morning rehearsals, the complete freedom of movement that comes from absolutely nothing between your skin and the world except intention and fabric. the thought makes something desperate curl tight behind his ribs, and he realizes with another startling sense of clarity that he’s been half-hard just from staring at you sit against a mirror, and that this careful distance you’ve both been maintaining is about to shatter completely.

when rehearsal breaks and bodies start filtering toward the exit, he’s moving toward you before his brain catches up to his legs. you’re still cross-legged on the floor, reading whatever magazine was left in the break room with an absent focus that makes your bottom lip push out slightly, and when his shadow falls across you, you look up with that polite smile that makes his chest ache—it’s the exact same, gentle smile you’ve been handing over to him for the past three months, but now it feels weighted with everything unspoken between you two.

“hey,” you say, and your whole face softens in an intimate way that’s only meant for him.

“hey yourself.” his voice comes out rougher than intended, and he has to clear his throat as he crouches down to your eye level. “you headin’ out?”

“in a bit. why, wanna grab food or something?” it’s the routine after rehearsals, no matter how short they run—takeout, usually KFC, and an innocent debrief on the day’s progress. you both keep it carefully professional, even though you both know the only reason you keep inviting one another like this is from the pull neither of you have the courage to name.

“yeah, sure. or—” he pauses, and he shifts his weight on the balls of his feet. something in his hesitation makes you tilt your head like a curious puppy. “or we could jus’ go back t’mine?”

you study him with that perceptive look that always makes him feel transparent, like you can see straight through skin and bone to the want underneath. the three months you’ve spent together means you’ve learnt to read his facial expressions, and right now, it’s something different to what you usually see. “you okay, mikey?”

“yeah!” he says a bit too quickly, but his eyes drop to your chest for a fraction of a second—so brief you almost miss it—before he snaps his head right back up to you. “jus’—” he swallows hard, and you notice it. the careful distance has finally cracked. “jus’ wanna be alone with you for a bit.”

his honesty makes you straighten your face into earnestness. you’ve both been so good at pretending this painful tension doesn’t exist—this professional wall that’s felt more like torture than protection is finally crashing down as you stare into his eyes that are loaded with all sorts of emotion. you’ve ignored every sign, and you’ve decided in this moment that you’re done pretending.

“yeah,” you say softly, and watch relief flood his features. “okay. me too.”

then, something breaks in his expression—a feeling that’s been held too tight for too long finally loosening into something more sincere and vulnerable. “yeah?”

“yeah, michael. let’s go to yours.”

────﹒♡﹒────

you don’t even make it out of the studio parking lot.

michael pulls into the far corner—a section that’s always empty at this time of day, shadowed by the building and hidden from the main road—and he kills the engine with hands that are visibly trembling with cracking resistance. for a moment neither of you moves, sitting there in the sudden silence with the months of tension pressing in like the air before a storm breaks. you can hear his fast and shallow breathing, and you’ve become hyper-aware of the way his long fingers are still gripping the steering wheel like it’s the last solid thing left in the confined space.

“michael—”

“can’t wait.” the words spill from his fractured voice like a confession he’s been holding in for centuries, and when he finally turns to face you, it’s like watching someone come undone in real time. his pupils have swallowed the warm chocolate brown of his eyes whole, leaving only a fathomless black. his brows are drawn down into a ferocity that makes your breath catch and you instinctively press your thighs together at the view presented to you, heat aggressively flowing low in your belly.

“i’m sorry, i know we should—i know i should take you home ‘n do this right but i jus’ can’t—” he’s already reaching for you, hands finding your waist with the urgency of someone who’s been starving, pulling you toward him across the center console like you’re the only thing that matters. “been waitin’ too long. please.”

the please breaks you completely.

you’re climbing into his lap before your thoughts can catch up to your instincts, your knees bracketing his hips in the driver's seat, and the steering wheel becomes an afterthought pressing into your spine because his hands are finally sliding up under your soft tank top and it feels like your prayers have finally been answered—his hot and broad palms tracking up your ribs, and the sound he makes when his thumbs brush the underside of your perky breasts is so tender that it feels like you’ve discovered a new religion.

“my god,” he breaths, and his voice is trembling at the seams. “oh my god, baby—”

his hands cup you fully now, and that’s when you both feel it—the way his palms become a sanctuary, his fingers spreading wide to cradle every inch of soft skin, the perfect fit of your body in his hands like you’re something small and precious he’s been entrusted to hold. he makes this wounded sound in the back of his throat—like a moan and a whimper deliciously blended into one—and his face transforms into something like ecstasy, like he’s witnessing the divine made into flesh.

“you’re so—” he can’t seem to find the words adequate enough for whatever revelation is washing over him, but the involuntary buck of his hips beneath you finishes his sentence clearly. his hands squeeze the soft swell of you gently. “fit so perfect in my hands… look—” he squeezes a bit harsher this time and you gasp, the sensation rippling through you like stones dropped into still water. “look at how perfect you fit. how perfect you are.”

“mikey—” your voice comes out breathy and broken, a hidden plea wrapped in his name.

“been thinkin’ ‘bout this,” he’s rambling now, thumbs brushing over your nipples and making you arch into his touch like a flower turning toward sun. “been thinkin’ ‘bout how you’d feel in my hands. dreamed ‘bout it… ‘n you’re so much better than i imagined. so fuckin’ perfect…”

he suddenly pulls your tank up and over your head in one hungry motion, and in a heart beat, you’re bare in front of him in the dim, amber light of the parking garage, and the look on his face makes you feel like the most exquisite thing he’s ever been allowed to witness. his hands are back on you immediately, cupping and tentatively squeezing, thumbs circling your nipples until they’re hard and sensitive, and you’re grinding down against him in its own ancient rhythm you’re not aware of.

“tha’s it,” he breathes, watching your face like he’s memorizing scripture. “tha’s it, baby, take what you gotta.”

the car is getting hot, windows starting to fog from your combined breathing, and you can smell the leather of the seats mixing with the salt of sweat on skin laced with with his notable cologne and the three months of restrained want finally given permission to exist freely. his hands never stop moving, kneading and completely obsessed with the way you fit in his palms like you were designed specifically for this purpose, and every time he presses more into your nipples, you make these soft noises that seem to unravel him thread by thread.

“love how small you are,” he’s murmuring against your collarbone, lips dragging across your skin. “love how i can cover you up completely. feel all of you at once, you’ve no idea—” he squeezes again and you whimper, the sound pulled from a deep, vulnerable place settled in low in your abdomen. “—no idea how crazy this makes me.”

“mikey, please—” you’re not even sure what you’re begging for anymore, just that you need more of whatever this is—more of him looking at you like you’re something holy.

he dips his head and takes your nipple in his mouth, and the sensation makes you cry out his name, fingers tangling in his hair like you’re trying to anchor yourself to earth. his tongue circles and flicks while his hand works the nipple on your other breast, twisting and gently pulling before finally flicking small circles on your bud. the dual sensation is overwhelming, and you hips grind down harder against the very obviously large bulge in his pants. you can feel how hard he is, throbbing even through the layers of fabric between you both, and when you roll your hips just right, he breaks away from your chest with a desperately loud moan that sounds like it’s been torn straight from his lungs.

“f-fuck—baby, you’re gonna make me—” he unlatches from your swollen nipple and his hips buck up to meet yours while his hands tighten on your breasts, squeezing almost too hard, but you can’t deny how much you love the way he’s losing control solely from admiring your breasts. “can’t believe i finally get t’touch you like this.”

“wanted you to,” you gasp out, grinding down harder with every word. “wanted this for so long.”

“yeah?” he switches to your other breast, sucking your nipple into his mouth while his hand flicks the other, swollen one, and you can feel him trembling beneath you like he’s barely holding himself together. “wanted my hands on you? wanted me t’touch these perfect tits?”

the crude word in his gentle voice makes you moan, and you feel him smile against your bud, pleased with the reaction that got out of you. his free hand slides down to grip your hip, guiding your movements, helping you grind against him in a rhythm that has you both panting like rabid dogs. the steering wheel keeps digging into your back but you’re too far gone to care, can’t care about anything except the building heat between you and the way his warm and wet mouth feels on your sensitive skin and how his large hands make you feel so small and completely worshipped, like you’re a treasure he’s been searching for more than his entire life.

“so good,” he’s whimpering now, and the sound goes straight between your legs, and you can feel your panties becoming useless from the stickiness forming on the fabric. “so, so good, baby. wanna make you feel so good.” he suddenly tugs at your nipple as he looks up at you like you’re a statue to be worshipped, and you gasp, the sensation electric. “jus’ tell me what you need.”

your thoughts are scattered like dandelion seeds, and you can barely form the words: “j-jus’... don’t stop, mikey.”

“never, baby.” he truly promises, and his hands are everywhere—cupping your breasts, gently circling your nipples, kneading like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to memorize the exact weight and feel of you in his palms, committing you to muscle memory. “never gonna stop touchin’ you. gonna worship every inch of you till i die.”

the windows are completely fogged now, the car rocking slightly with both of your movements, and somewhere in the back of your mind you register that anyone could walk by and see the sin taking place, but it only makes everything more intense. michael’s mouth finds yours in a passionate kiss that’s fueled more from ache than technique—his tongue and teeth clashing against yours in a shared breath, and his hands yet to leave your small breasts, constantly caressing like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he stops his devotion to your pleasure.

“mikey, baby—” you break the kiss, gasping for air. “i’m so close, i’m—”

“yeah, baby, c’mon.” his voice is wrecked, shattered into pieces, and you can feel him throbbing against you. you can tell he’s also close from this, from grinding and licking on you like a teenager who's just discovered what bodies can do. “lemme feel you, mama. wanna feel you come apart on me.”

he pinches your nipples gently at that and that’s all it takes—you’re releasing the tight knot in your abdomen with his name on falling from your lips like a prayer, grinding down hard against him while his hands knead your breasts through the waves of pleasure that crash over you like surf against shore. he follows seconds later with a broken moan muffled against the swollen and petite curve of your chest, his hips jerking up as he spills in his pants, hands tightening on you like you’re gravity in of itself.

for a long moment after, you just stay like that—you practically heaving in his lap, his face buried in the soft swell of your tit, both of you inhaling the humid air and energy of the tight car. his hands are wrapped tightly around you waist, and you can feel his lips moving against your sensitive skin in what might be words or might just be reverent sounds, a language that exists only in this moment.

“we—” he finally manages, his voice hoarse and quiet. “we didn’t even make it t’my place…”

you laugh breathlessly, and you can feel him smile against your chest when your fingers meet the nape of his neck, twirling his tangled curls in between your fingers.

“don’t care, anyway.” he continues, his hands squeezing gently but possessively, like he’s officially claiming you.

you pull back enough to look at him, and his face is flushed and his lips are swollen. he’s looking up at you like you hung the moon, the stars, the sun—the entire universe, answering every question he’s ever asked. “we should probably—”

“mhm,” but he doesn’t move or let go just yet. “jus’—gimme a minute. wanna hold you a bit longer.”

so you gladly let him, sitting in his lap in a fogged-up car in an empty parking garage, his large hands trailing up to cradle your breasts again like they’re something precious and fragile—as if they’re spun glass—and you’ve never felt more wanted in your entire life.

eventually you do pull apart—reluctantly, of course, with soft kisses and whispered promises that taste like salt and want to make up for the lack of skin-on-skin contact. you find your tank top crumbled on the passenger seat and pull it back on while he attempts to make himself presentable, both of you grinning at each other like idiots who’ve just discovered a secret the rest of the world doesn’t know. when he finally starts the car up again, his hand immediately finds the soft plush of your thigh.

“still wanna go t’mine?” he asks softly, and your hand lands on top of his, your thumb stroking across his prominent knuckles. you smile and shyly nod.

the drive to his place is quieter now, the desperate edge finally satisfied but the want still lingering gentle in the air, simmering under the surface like embers waiting to be fanned back into flame. he keeps glancing over at you with that intoxicating smile of his, and you know this is just the beginning. know that when you get to his place, he’s going to worship every inch of you properly, going to show you just how perfect he thinks you are with the entirety of his body.

and you can’t wait.

It had been a few short hours since the attack on Neverland. Michael had ushered everyone back inside in a protective manner, as soon as he got the clear from Bill—and just your luck, you and Lisa were on either side of him because you were the "ladies". It felt like a painful metaphor, a rift tide that cut between the two of you, as you fought for your spot in Michael’s life.

There was a tension that was fragile like gasoline, if you put too much friction on it, everything would go up in flames. It tinged your lungs like a cigarette, and burned your throat every time you tried to take a deep breath, as if you had downed an entire bottle of hard liquor. It began to weigh on you emotionally, painful tears pricking your eyes, forcing them to flutter shut. Goosebumps rose on your skin where his hand had laid on the small of your back, as your feet shuffled shamefully towards the front doors of the estate, your head hanging just below your shoulders.

One of the estate’s maids lead you back to your room, while you assumed that Michael had went to go preform his infamous act of the perfect husband, leading Lisa back to their suite. You found yourself on the corner of your bed, stuck in a state of motionless shock. So many thoughts were running through your brain, leaving you metaphorically frozen.

All you could think about was his large hands soothing her body, his fingers tracing back a hair behind her ear—like he had done to you all those weeks ago. You imagined how he’d wipe her tears and kiss just below her eye, whispering protective words to soothe his terrified wife. It made you wonder if he had really even loved you at all. In truth, you knew deep down that it wouldn’t ever work, he could never leave his wife, and that simple fact plagued your mind.

Your head was encased in your anxious, trembling hands that were held up by your knees, as hot tears began their slow trickle down your cheeks. You hadn't even noticed that your face was flushed and stained with tears—until someone else did.

A gentle knock came from the door, and your head sprang up to the origin of the sound. A soft voice resembling that of a well tuned violin covered in sanctified oil waved throughout the room. It severed straight through your melancholic silence.

It was Michael.

"Are you alright? Can I.. come in?" he spoke at such low grade you wondered if it was even him. The loving, superstar husband was long gone, replaced by a man that was pulled taut in every direction. He still didn't know where you stood, if you were still pissed at him (rightfully so), or if he was crossing another boundary by asking if you were okay.

“Yeah—yeah, come in.” You murmured just loud enough for him to hear, as you quickly wiped your teary eyes, attempting to conceal the puffiness in them, and sniffled as much snot as you could while turning your wet, clumpy lashes in the other direction of the door.

"Hey, I was just checking to make sure—" his words caught in his throat as soon as he saw your glossed over eyes. His face had dropped the warm smile he had prepared for you, and at that moment, you knew that your efforts had gone down the drain. He crossed over to you in two long strides, sinking down to your eye level, and captured your shaky hands in his own.

"Hey, hey—what's wrong? Baby, talk to me." Michael asked you with a voice that was softer than anything else you had ever heard. His eyes were big with concern, anxiety, and mostly guilt. He had some idea of what being in this house was doing to you, and the silence that you had let grow since he walked in the room said everything that words couldn't.

"I told you not to call me that." It came out more aggressive than you wanted it to, but you were still so, so cross with him. “I’m fine, Mr. Jackson. Just shaken up a bit, that’s all. I don’t need no baby-sittin’”.

That response wasn't enough to calm his nerves, as he looked at you with pursed lips and furrowed brows that could give him a wrinkle right then and there. He knew something was wrong, and he knew he was the cause of it. That alone made him feel like the worst excuse of a man in the world. He was hurting the only person who had truly understood him. He couldn't bear it.

“I’m—terribly, terribly, sorry.” he stammered out, trying to find the words. He said your name before he began again, "I—I never imagined that.. that this would occur. It was never my intention to wrap you into all of this, the robbery, my marriage—"

You cut him off, “Robbery?”

He continued on like it meant nothing. Michael couldn't care less for any materialistic thing in that house as long as you and prince were safe and unharmed.

"You can go home if you'd like. You’ll still get your full pay and an inconvenience package. I’ll have Bill send a car for you and—"

"Michael."

He stopped in his tracks, his body stilling in front of yours and his tongue tying in a knot. You had only referred to him as ‘Mr. Jackson’ since he’d kissed you in the kitchen.

"I’m not going anywhere. I still have a job to do, and I’m going to finish it. Prince needs me here, and Lord knows your calendar is still a mess."

He was relieved to hear that, as a quiet exhale followed by a soft chuckle escaped his lips. He wanted to keep you around him for as long as he could, but his mind also reveled at the idea of keeping you in a house where he couldn't deem it one-hundred percent safe. He couldn't bear the thought of you having to handle the weight of his infidelities on your shoulders.

But by the look at your face, and the way it hardened with determination that he found painfully attractive, he could tell that there was nothing more than he could say. Your eyebrows were knitted with an expression that told him that you weren't budging.

"Alright, if you would like. I just want to keep you comfortable.. and safe. It would kill me if you ever got hurt. You know that, don’t you?” He looked up at you with those doe eyes that were slowing chipping at your resolve, the little bit of self-respect that you had for yourself was draining with each second that he looked at you with such adoration.

But you remained firm.

“But that night, I-“

“Strictly business, Mr. Jackson. Just doing my job.” You fought back that warmth in your heart that was seeping through the act you had put up. You couldn’t help your rising heart-rate at his protectiveness of you.

“Right, just business.” His eyes narrowed at yours. He paused beforea moment and glanced down at the floor, like an embarrassed kid who had just been rejected at recess. “Of course. If you find it that you've changed your mind, just let me know, okay?" He said with a solemn smile that was far from genuine. A part of him broke to know that he was still meters away from your heart, and you hadn’t shown any signs of letting your walls down, but he hadn’t exactly given up all hope yet.

He began to let up from right in front of your face and rose to his full height, making his way to the door. His large palm gripped the doorknob, he was prepared to exit the room. Then, something in him shifted.

No.

He wasn’t going to keep letting things slip from his grasp, the things he wanted so desperately—and he wanted you. He was finally going to let himself have what he wanted.

He swiveled on his foot back to you, rushing to your side, and planted a possessive, but lingering kiss on your lips. His large hand cupped your cheek, his mouth warm against your lips, taking you completely as his own. Michael pulled away just before he truly began, attempting to keep his composure.

He wasn’t divorced yet.

Your breath caught in your throat and your eyes flicked up to the man hovering just out of your reach. His lips were parted with restraint and his breathing was deep and liquid.

"I've haven’t forgotten about you. I think about you every night—I can’t sleep. It felt like I was suffocatin’ in this house before you walked through those doors. I hate that you’re not talkin’ to me. I miss the notes you used to put on my desk. I miss how you would ask for my coffee even though you’re the one who made my order.” He chuckled to himself, before it was quickly replaced by a blank sadness in his eyes. “I’m going to make this right. I promise you."

You were left speechless, and he gave you a small smile as he left without another word. But what you hadn’t known was how soon he was actually planning to ‘make things right.’ He was heading straight to Lisa.

She was at the foot of their bed, packing for another one of her business trips. Michael wasn't sure why it required the expensive lingerie that he had bought her when they first got married. Or twelve-thousand dollars. Given the fact of the matter, he hadn’t really cared. He only had one job to do.

He stormed into their lifeless master-bedroom, his loathe for Lisa seething of of his body. He didn't wait for her to turn around and notice his presence. He didn't wait for something that would never happen.

“I want a divorce, Lisa.” his voice tore through like a butchers knife. It was rough, intense, like a boss speaking to unqualified employee. Nothing like how he had just spoken to you moments ago.

She turned briefly to meet his gaze. It was unnerving and fierce enough to strike straight through a heart. Lucky for Lisa, she didn’t have one. A grin grew on her face before she turned back around to tend to whatever she was doing that was more important than the wellbeing of their marriage.

She never took michael serious—not once.

"We’ve talked about this, Michael,” she huffed and sighed, like it was exasperating just talking to him. “We aren't getting a divorce. Go blow off steam in the studio or something. Or..” she trailed off, walking closer to his body which was locked tight, trailing her poisoned hand down to his crotch, ever so slowly. “I could.. blow some steam off for you.” she purred, her voice going into that octave that she only used when she wanted something out of a man.

"No. No, Lisa, I’m not doing this with you. God—you make me sick." he tore her hand away from the soft and unaroused tent in his pants. "Come on. We don’t talk. We don’t make love. And as if any of that mattered, I know where you've been, what you've been doing with God knows who, and I know damn well that you aren't going on a business trip, woman. Let’s just do this like civil adults, please. This is getting inhumane."

Michael had finally laid everything flat on the table. Everything that he had let slip by for years. All the lonely nights he had spent up in their room, waiting for someone that was long gone. All the marks on her neck that he had ignored. Every fake smile he had put up for the cameras, the tabloids—everyone. Michael had let bullshit slide for the sake of peace. He was fed up with it.

But Lisa wasn’t going down that easy, not like this.

"Oh, really? Then I suppose you also know that there are cameras installed in the kitchen?"

The room stilled, as if it had collapsed onto itself. Michael’s breath caught in his throat, and his knuckles went white from clutching the bed frame so intensely. His jaw clenched, and his eyes shrunk into slits. He was cornered. He knew exactly what she was talking about, he remembered it perfectly too. He remoistened his lips with his tongue, before looking away from her glare that was burning right through him.

The smirk on her face only grew wider. She cackled—cackled at his reaction.

"That’s right, Michael. You think that just because a young tramp gives you some attention that you're just this big shot who makes the calls, huh?" she mocked him as she grew closer to his stiff body. Her manicured fingers that resembled that of a witch slid up to his unbuttoned shirt, grasping the collar as she propelled herself to the cuff of his ear. "You try to leave, and I will destroy you. Every tabloid in this damn country will be on my side. 'Poor little Lisa betrayed by a cheating bastard.’”

Michael’s face grew hot with rage, and his deep, brown eyes refused to meet her's. He didn't know who she was, he didn't know who he had called his wife for the past four years, and he definitely didn't know who the hell she was talking to.

He grabbed lisa's wrist with a firm grasp, pulling it straight off of his body. Again.

"You get your shit, you take your threats, and you get the fuck out of my god damn house, y'understand me?" his voice had gone raspy, his throat throbbing from tears that he was choking on hard, refusing to let them fall. She could only show him a smile—a terrifying, haunting smile.

“Okay.” she responded, forcibly grabbing the rest of luggage with an angered haste, paying no mind of what could fall out. Then, she turned to face him, one last time.

“I’ll see you in court, Michael. I’m going to drain you dry. You may have your verbal testimony, but I have hard, cold proof. I hope that tramp was worth it.” Lisa turned on her heel, and walked right out of the room, her red-bottom heels clicking like gunfire on the cold tile.

She wasn’t just leaving Neverland, she was making a scene, cursing out everyone in her way.

It wasn’t long before the commotion had reached Prince, his small frame coming out of his bedroom to see what was going on. He was met with a vile woman, who had known she had lost, and blowing up everyone in her path because of it.

“Miss Lisa, where are you going? Why are you yelling at daddy?”

She flat out ignored Prince, and you came behind him trying to gently guide him back into his room. That’s when Lisa caught sight of you. She looked at you like you were a girl not worth the trouble as she tried to wrap her head around why Michael wanted to throw away the empire they had built for a measly assistant. She spared you from her wrath, not finding the juice worth the squeeze, and aggressively turned from you, a small polaroid falling out of her bag.

Then, with a fierce shut that rattled the house, Lisa Marie was out the door.

Without a second thought, you slipped the photo in your pocket, trying to distract Prince from the reality that was unfolding.

“C’mon, Prince, let’s play, yeah? You want to play?”

The boy had no interest in any toy cars at that moment. His eyes were glued to the door of his father’s master suite, as if he could see right through it. Your heart ached for him. As smart as he was, he couldn’t truly grasp the gravity of the situation, of what was unraveling around him at his age. All you think about is how it was all your fault. You had ruined a family.

“You know, I’m glad Miss Lisa is gone.” he finally murmured, coming into his room, as he plopped down and began fiddling with a car.

“Yeah, applehead?”

“Mhm, I just hate that she has to make him cry." He put the car down, "Why does she have to make daddy cry?” His voice was small as he looked up at you with those curious eyes that made your heart valves clench.

You couldn’t find the words, and he was really asking for answers. You clutched him to your body, embracing him, as you smoothed out the ruffles in his blonde hair.

“I.. I don’t know, baby. I don’t know.”

You tried to ignore the suffocating atmosphere in the home, immersing yourself into the imaginary land of Prince's toys, a sorry attempt at forgetting the tragedies that unfolded just a few moments ago. Before you knew it, it was time for bed—for the small child anyway. You kissed him goodnight on his forehead, the moonlight skimping through his curtains, dowsing him in a blue hue. You let the door click behind you with practiced carefulness, slithering out of the doorway without a single noise.

As you entered the hallway, a glum, disconsolate melody wafted throughout the house. You took in a deep breath and your eyes fluttered shut as you came to the realization of where the music was coming from.

Michael.

Your sock adorned feet padded gently on the bare tile, where monstrous heels had made their mark just hours before. The moon glared bright against the giant windows that framed the living room, holding a giant black piano, and before it, a wilted man was sat on the piano's chair, his fingers dancing melancholically against the white tiles. You stepped closer to him, taking in his slumped shoulders, the tears that grasped the moonlight as they ran their course freely on his chiseled jaw.

And with one step too heavy, he noticed your presence before you wanted him to, and it was there—there that you finally saw him, truly broken. He turned to you and unveiled his eyes that were dressed in wet somber. Every facade that he had ever put on for anybody was imminently tore off of his persona. The eyes that he fronted at your feet was just Michael. Not Michael Jackson. Not the man that hired you to be his assistant. Not your boss. Just Michael.

In this moment, you thought he was the most beautiful man you had ever seen.

"Oh.. Michael." You enveloped him in your arms, swooning him in your embrace.

He immediately surrendered, shuddering violently against your frame. He couldn’t hold it in anymore. The world that he knew was soon to be taken from him, millions would turn against him, and he would soon be losing you with the end of your contract. Michael wept for what seemed like hours.

“There’s nothing I can do.”

“Don’t say that.”

“She’s won. I have nothing.” he weakly murmured against your collarbones that were wet with his own tears.

“What do you mean?”

“Lisa has been having an affair for Lord knows how long.” “There was a long pause, full of heavy heartache. The thought of the nights that Michael spent alone without you, how you shut him out when he needed you the most. Tears threatened to fall from your eyes.

“I—I didn’t know that.”

“You’d think that after all this time, I’d have something to show for it. I don’t have anything—I don’t have any proof.” A stale chuckle fell from his lips, “She has that video of us during that night. God—she’ll ruin me. If I hadn’t—if I just—“ he broke down again before he could finish, his nose burying in your chest.

You held him through it, caressing his body and whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Then, your mind traced back to the polaroid that you had absentmindedly picked up as Lisa made her exotic exit out the door.

Bingo.

“Would this count, Mr. Jackson?” you pulled the picture from out of your pocket, and he looked up at you with a fresh glint in his doe eyes. It was like you had shown him a way out the gates of hell. The polaroid depicted Lisa half nude in bed with one of her producers, catching her red handed. It was damming.

It was exactly what he needed.

“You’re brillant! This is perfect! I could just kiss you!” His long arms wrapped tightly against your waist, almost causing you to lose your balance. A faint gasp escaped your lips as he realized the grasp that he had on you. Your faces were inches apart. You wanted to break the rules, shatter the restraint that you had fought so hard to upkeep.

But you knew better.

You gently parted from him, giving him a friendly pat on his chest. His eyes fled from your view, embarrassed and discouraged.

“I suppose I’ll set up a court date for you, Mr. Jackson. Rest well, alright?” you went back into that professional attitude that you hated with a fiery passion, a nuclear fissure burning inside of you each time you had to put it to use, but too much was at stake now. Michael watched you saunter away from his grasp once again—but this time, he had a plan.

MICHAEL JACKSON AND LISA MARIE PRESLEY FILE FOR DIVORCE

LISA MARIE CALLS JACKSON A “DESOLATE , UNFAITHFUL MAN”

The court date had finally arrived, and the tension had built up all to this very moment. It coincidentally happened to be the last day of your contract—the last day that you would have any legal obligation to Michael. But today wasn't about you, it was about him.

“You’re doing great. Just keep your head high and your shoulders straight, you should be just fine, Mr. Jackson”. You said as you straightened out the irregularities in his maroon suit jacket. Despite the situation, you hadn’t noticed how close you had gotten to his face, and how he was directly staring at you.

At this moment, you just had to be careful. You couldn’t risk anything.

You looked at him for a moment longer, before you turned away in your gray knee length skirt. You suddenly felt a warm palm on your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Thank you. For everything.” he spoke, clasping your hand in his.

You were breathless, but you shoved any sentimental feelings that you had in a deep corner of your mind. You gave him a simple nod, before taking your seat behind him in the crowd, ready to defend him whenever you could.

It looked like your words went to no avail, as he looked like an anxious tower ready to crumble, but his appearance was a completely different story.

Michael’s dark curls were pinned into a neat bun, allowing some pieces to flawlessly flow wildly against his face. His temples danced vigorously under his skin and his jaw was clenched tight. He wore a crimson suit that complimented his complexion, the fabric flexing against his muscles, accentuating the plumpness of his thighs. He looked delicious. Your thighs clenched together to relieve the gathering heat at your core.

Keep it together, you thought.

You spotted Lisa Marie at the other end of the courtroom, catching a glimpse of her gaze—poised, and stone-cold. The definition of heartless. In her mind, she thought she had won a battle that was long over, as a grim grin tugged at her lips. But little did she know what Michael’s attorneys had under their sleeves.

“All rise. Presenting case Presley versus Jackson. Please be seated.” A gavel was pressed down firm on the stand.

And so it began.

The court room had been torn in two. The atmosphere was thick with a heavy, suffocating silence that feels entirely transactional. Under the cold glare of fluorescent lights, the profound grief of a post mortem marriage is stripped of all emotion and reduced to the clinical rustle of paperwork. It is a space of tense, exhausted finality, where a devastating betrayal is casually processed as nothing more than a routine business calculation.

The emotional quietude of not even greeting one another pressed down like concrete, forcing Michael to keep his eyes locked straight ahead on the judge’s bench. He had to pretend the woman fifteen feet to his right, was someone that he hadn’t completely ripped from his livelihood.

“Your honor, my client has been nothing but a faithful wife to Mr. Jackson. Which is a task in of itself—I mean, this is a global superstar we’re talking about. It can’t be easy. All she has done is have a few friendships with her colleagues. Is that a crime?” Lisa’s attorney went on, pacing in front of the the judges podium, who was looking starkly unamused.

“But it seems that it’s a different story for Mr. Jackson.” She gave a glaring look to the evidence providers, prompting them to turn on the big projector screen in the corner of the room.

Your heart stopped.

It played the passionate moment between you and Michael, the moment that you let everything slip for just a second, completely surrendering to his touch. You could see yourself visibly melting in his touch, and as expected, Prince came in, effectively ending the kiss.

It was a horror scene.

The court room was full of gasps and audible surprise. Loud murmurs created a devastating cloud of judgement in the courtroom, making it damn near impossible to breathe.

Then, the defence took the stand.

Michael’s attorney came to the podium with no time to waste, aggressively investigating Lisa’s whereabouts—what times she was at her studio, what she was doing, and who she was with. She answered these questions with a distinct innocence, like she was already deemed innocent, having no knowledge of what you—and soon everyone else—had known.

The polaroid had finally been put on the evidence stand. It was just as shocking as the video—maybe even worse. It depicted Lisa completely nude, in a vulgar, contorted position that left nothing to the imagination. Next to her, was none other than a producer that she had allegations of seeing anyway.

Lisa’s face went a stark pale, her eyes searching frantically for an ounce of sympathy.

The was no denying it now—the court, the jury, and the judge had made up their minds. Lisa was in a full blown affair. Way before Michael had laid his lips on yours.

“The verdict is in. In the case of Presley versus Jackson, this court declares and hereby finds Mr. Jackson…”

The was a dramatic pause. Oxygen was caught the in air, unable to be consumed. Your muscles were flexed, your hands stilling in their wake. You could have sworn you saw Michael visibly shuddering, as it was his entire career on the line.

“Acquitted of all charges. Mr. Jackson will keep all of his assets, and Ms. Presley will be excused from all inheritance. Court adjourned.”

Michael flew to you in an instant, not caring what tabloids would make up of it. His slender arms and large palms snaked themselves around your waist, pulling your body flush against him. You had to push away the electrifying warmth that was concocting in between your bodies.

It was like a forty pound whale had been taken off of your chest, but instead, a stalling dread began to creep in. It was over. You had done your job—your duty to Michael was done. There was nothing tethering you to him anymore.

The next four hours were a blur, as you shadowed Michael as he thanked everyone on his team, posed for pictures, and made statements.

"I couldn't have done this without my assistant, I owe her everything,"

The ride home was a anxious car ride, with Bill in the front, and you and Michael in the back. He could tell there was something on your mind, but he convinced himself that it was just the aftershocks of the court hearing.

You were on opposites sides of the limo, the very same limo that had brought you to Neverland in the first place. The nothingness in the limo brought an uncertainty—neither of you knew what to say.

The front doors of Neverland closed, the loud shut ringing throughout the empty walls of the house. Michael had sent all the staff home on holiday, Prince was at his grandmothers—leaving just the two of you.

Alone.

"Thanks again, really. This would've been impossible without you here."

"Michael, you keep saying that. I'm not the lawyer."

"Oh, so it's Michael now?" he playfully bantered.

You let out a soft chuckle as you bent down to take off your heels, "Well, technically—my contract is over."

His smile faded, "Yeah.. I guess it is." he looked down, taking off his suit before pausing for a moment, as if he were about to say something. Something that he absolutely shouldn’t. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth before his big dark eyes leached to yours.

"Michael—" he cut you off.

"No, just listen to me. I—I want you to stay." He bellowed out, putting a palm up.

You stopped taking off your panty hose, still bent over, completely stunned.

"I want you to stay for breakfast, for—for dinner, for Prince's birthday, and every day after that." His voice was wavering with emotion, breaking every few syllables. He was looking straight into your bright eyes, a bright flush covering your cheeks.

"I'm in love with you, alright?" he said your name before continuing again, effortlessly taking the oxygen out of your lungs. "And I—I hated having to pretend that I wasn’t."

"Michael.." He was saying everything that you had waited months to hear, the very thing you wanted to hear ever since he first said your name. It was a forbidden game, and that’s what excited you.

He wasn’t waiting for a response. He was tired of waiting.

He made his way to you with a quickness, shutting the distance between you two closed. His hands found your middle, snaking their way up and down your back.

You looked deep into his eyes, they were filled with desire, a fiery hunger that Michael had been burying for months. He took you in completely, your sculptured face, and your swollen lips. He took your chin right under his hands, lifting it up slightly so that you would meet his gaze. His tongue swiped his lips with a unsatiated starvation.

“Fuck—you make it so hard to be a gentleman.” he swore under his breath, his voice going into that low manner that he only used when he was speaking with you.

“You don’t have to be, Michael.”

That snapped something within him. For the first time in weeks, you felt his warm mouth against yours again. His lips hungered—feasted on yours, swallowing you whole, claiming your gasps and whimpers as his. His hands tangled with yours, intertwining and clasping above your head.

You moaned into his mouth, suddenly feeling every bit of him everywhere. It was like someone had lit you on fire, you couldn’t handle the feeling of his body pressed against yours without your flesh burning, his finger tips leaving a trail of goosebumps wherever they roamed.

“I hated seeing you with her. Every moment I had to pretend that you were my boss, and that I was just your assistant. It hurt me so bad.” you managed to mutter out between kisses. “Every damn time I saw you smile at her, or when I could smell her on you—I wanted to throw up.” You confessed.

“I know baby, I know. She’s not here anymore. It’s just me and you now.” His mouth worked elsewhere, he was like a man on a mission, moving the strap of your dress to the side, and revealing your glistening shoulder. Your head was thrown aback as his warm lips sucked and nibbled on your neck and collarbone, leaving marks that were sure to be visible.

“You in this little thing,” he said in between animalistic kisses, lifting the hem of your dress right above your upper thigh, “Do you know what it did to me in that room?” your body felt electrified under his touch. It was morally wrong to fuck your boss, let alone to fuck Michael Jackson. But you couldn’t help how your body was leaning into his touch, the way your skin melted under his fingertips. You were already his in more ways than one, and you liked it that way.

The question barely registered in your brain, the profound heat in his pants grinding against you. You felt drunk and dizzy off of his tongue gliding against your skin, so much so that the pulse in your pussy became unbearable to ignore.

“Michael, I need—“ you whimpered, shifting against him.

“Shh, baby, I know. Lemme take care of you.” His warm hands plained against your hips as he rode your dress up higher, revealing your drenched arousal. The print of your puffy sex was prominent against the small lace panties that you were wearing. “God—all this for me, mama?”

Michael pulled the small piece of cotton to the side, revealing your puffy, needy pearl. He swirled around it twice, his large textured figures causing a sensation to ripple throughout your nerves. “Oh—fuck.”

Due to your excessive wetness, he had no problem sliding a finger into you, curling it up into that sweet spot, bursting bright stars behind your eyelids that were screwed shut. Your mouth fell open into a silent ‘O’ as he finger fucked you, propping you up against the hallway wall with his knee.

“Yeah? You like that? Y’so tight for me, girl.” he rasped into your ear, his accent slipping through, as he felt himself bricking up in his trousers.

Michael Jackson was fingering you in the hallway—and not only that, he was coercing the most filthiest sounds from your mouth.

He added another digit and in response, your lewd moans and gasps grew to in impeccable volume, wavering through the empty rooms of the house—a sinful melody. You were no where near Earth, your head circling somewhere off in the clouds. You clasped and gripped the hem of the collar of his button up, trying to find something tangible to hold on to. You couldn’t stop the way your body was responding so eagerly to him.

“I’ve waited so long to hear you like this, mama, y’know. Y’sound so pretty.” Your head fell on his shoulders, your moans landing right in his ears. He was amazed by you, he could’ve sworn he was in heaven. The incoherencies you were making, the way your lips were trying their best to construe a legible sentence. Your brain just wouldn’t work—not when his large fingers were absolutely rutting in and out of you.

His paced quickened into an inhumane speed, your slick running down his hand. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, as just his fingers alone were kissing your g-spot with perfect precision. The textured pads of his slender digits caressing your gummy walls was almost unbearable. The hot coil in your lower abdomen began to arise, your head filling with the filthy things he was grunting in your ear.

“Mike, I’m gonna cu—oh, oh my god!” you wailed, unable to hear yourself in your own throat. Your muscles were locking up and releasing over, and over. You sounded holistic, and if anyone didn’t know any better, it sounded like you were being possessed—and in truth, you were. Nobody had ever made you feel like this before.

“Let it happen, baby. C’mon, let it go for me. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful. I’ve got you.” he whispered against your neck, peppering kisses on the soft bruises he had placed there just moments before.

That was all it took, the sensation of his palm rubbing against your clit, the sound of his seductive voice in your ear, and the feeling of his warm palm kneading your breast, it was all too much to bear. Your orgasm ripped through your body, crashing into you in intense waves. Your body shuddered violently. You thrashed against his palm as your pussy gushed onto his fingers. He slowed his digits to a stop, swearing curses under his breath, as he brought you through the after shocks.

You whined from the loss of the feeling of him being inside of you as he pulled his fingers out, needing more of him. His eyes were low and glazed, as he brought his wet fingers to his mouth, licking them clean. The sight was enough to excite you all over again. He brought his lips to yours, puffy and flushed, devouring you into a hungry kiss. His body pressed against yours as you felt his dick against your thigh, pulsing with desire.

“I want—“ you muttered, still embarrassed to be actually doing this with your boss. Still embarrassed of the fact that you wanted more than just his fingers. You were being greedy. You guessed it was fine since your contract was inactive, but the words of your desire was still lodged into your throat. It was so indescribably dirty and filling at the same time.

“You want what, huh? C’mon what is it?” he noticed your shyness immediately, reading you like an open book—literally—coaxing what it was he wanted you to say right on out of you.

“I want you to fuck me. Michael—please.” You begged, not even sounding like yourself, so cock drunk off of something you have only dreamed about, as you grasped the length of him.

He waisted no time. Michael lifted you by the plump of your ass in his arms, your limp legs wrapping around his sturdy frame. He flew through the halls of the house all the way to his master suite, placing you gently on the bed with a reverence. Your hair strained out onto his white linen sheets, the sheen of your skin glistening under the dim lighting of his bedside lamp. He thought of you as an angel from the heavens.

“Your so precious mama. Let me make you feel good, okay? God y’perfect.” He kept repeating that word—that you were perfect, because to him, you were like a renaissance painting, an artwork being crafted right infront of him. You were like a delicacy that he got to unwrap all for himself. He finished taking off your dress, moving by an inch per second, slowly revealing your perky tits. He quickly took one into his mouth, lolling his tongue around your excited nipple.

Soon enough, you heard the delicious sound of his belt buckle releasing the untamed beast in his burgundy trousers, the leather stretched thin across the heated tent in his pants. It sprang out, and you gasped a little at the length.

He climbed on top of you, his soft, toned arms at either sides of your head, effectively boxing you in. You watched his brows furrow from the concentration of sliding his dick in between your folds—and you also saw the moment when everything in his face released. Inch by inch, you could feel the embodiment of him dancing on every one of your nerves, ultimately devouring your senses. When he bottomed out, you literally screamed. He was at the hilt with ease, his hips barely flat against your own. Instead of stars, an entire galaxy was between your eye lids every time you inherently allowed them to flutter closed .

But Michael wasn’t having that.

“Look at me baby. Eyes up here.” he cooed, bringing a large hand to your chin, gently guiding your gaze to his. His eyes were filled with nothing but adoration, seeing you unraveling at his mercy, but also compelled by how intimate this moment was to him.

Michael hadn’t had sex in nearly two years—and when he did with his wife, he could tell the difference between fucking and making love. Sure, it felt fucking amazing to have something squeeze his dick other than his own palm after twenty-one years. He was a grown man. He had needs.

But this? This was more than that.

It was you seeing him completely in all of his flaws and still wanting more. It was you being there for him in more ways than one. It was the both you surrendering the imperfect pieces of yourselves for a singular moment. It brought him to tears.

Gentle choked out sobs left his throat, which could’ve been easily mistaken for turmoil, but due to the nature of it, you knew it was caused by the unadulterated ecstasy he was feeling. As he began to thrust into you, his face, wet with tears, snuggled instinctively into the crook of your neck, taking in the sweet vanilla scent of your perfume. Your fingers cradled his neck as they tangled their way through his thick, ebony curls.

With every drag of his length, you could feel the intricacies of his hard flesh, the veins that wrapped around his thickness, and the head of his cock meeting your cervix with rough kisses. His large palms that were locked tight on the skin of your hips, leaving soft, Michael-shaped bruises, grounding you to him. It was entrancing.

“Michael! Fuck—y’feel s-so good baby!”

“Look at you, takin’ me so well. You like fuckin’ your boss don’t you mama?” He lifted his head to rest his forehead on yours, allowing to get a true glimpse of him. His face was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, built up by the heat of your breathing on each other’s bodies. His dainty gold chain that usually rested on his chiseled collarbones, was now dangling in your face, the sexiest part of it all. Parts of his curls were sticking to the outer most parts of his forehead, just above his flexed temples that were focused on coaxing the most filthiest sounds of your mouth.

Your walls squeezed his length in what seemed like morse code, your legs trembling. You could practically hear the grin growing across Michael’s face as he felt your pussy grip him. “My baby likes that, huh? You’re so dirty.” He whispered in that deep pitch that only few have heard, eliciting an electric current shoot down your spine.

“I’m so close—oh god, Michael! Don’t stop—“ your breath was stolen by an aggressive yelp that tore through your lungs, as Michael grabbed the back of your knees with a firm, possessive grip, hauling them right above your abdomen. Oh, you could only pray for dear life. The cracks of Michael’s restraint was slipping through, his thrusts getting sloppier, the sound of skin-on-skin filling the room. He let out grunts and shuddered breaths just above your earlobe, nipping on it slightly to ground himself.

“Fuck—y’grippin me so tight, you’re about to cum, aren’t you baby?” He leaned down in your ear, speaking directly to your soul. His hips slapping aggressively against your clit. “Go ‘head, babygirl. That’s it, I’m right there with you.” he managed out in between loud moans.

Your vision went white, your mouth babbling something that was the ghost of the English language. Your nails dug in deep into his shoulders, as your body violently shuddered under his frame, and your walls clenching around his dick. You were unraveling at the seems, a complete mess.

Michael loved it.

He followed you soon after, rutting into you with unadulterated passion, giving the last of himself to you. Michael let out a deep cry that sounded like an unholy ballad, his song to you. He crumbled into pieces, your core milking everything he had in him, filling you entirely.

The next few moments were slow, and warm—completely different than the fiery and hot feeling before. He collapsed onto you, the weight of his body brining you slowly down to earth, as his cock twitched inside of you from the aftershocks.

You both gasped when it slipped out, seeing the two of you combined. It was filthy, but it was love.

He cleaned the both of you speedily, despite his body being completely fucked-out. He laid under you, cradling your body against his as if you always belonged there. Your hand instinctively laid on his chest, his large hand running through your damp hair.

“I love you.” you said out of the randomness of the mutual silence in-between you two.

Michael was caught off guard. “What?”

“I said I love you.” he was quiet for a moment, not believing the words he was hearing. It brought him to tears. You noticed in an instant.

“I’m sorry.” you blurted out.

“No, it’s okay. I’m just.. so happy.”

“I’m sorry.” you repeated yourself.

”For what baby?” he wiped his eye.

“For how I yelled at you. A couple weeks ago. I was hurt. I thought you were just some married jackass. I thought I was protecting Prince by staying away, but I was wrong. I didn’t know.. what you were going through. So—I’m sorry.” you hid in the crook of his neck in embarrassment.

He let out a deep chuckle, surprised to hear an apology from anyone, let alone from you. He held you tighter. “You have nothing to be sorry about. Actually, I was wondering if you’d.. go to dinner with me?” He was so shy asking you to a simple date after he fucked you rabidly into the mattress, saying the boldest things in your ear.

You sat up, “Are you asking me on a date, Mr. Jackson?” you teased with a playful smirk.

“Yes. I am.” He laughed aloud, snuggling you closer under his arms, where it was tender, and loving. Michael had a real smile on his face.

It was warm, it was enough. It was everything you both needed.

ASHLEY’S NOTE ⁀➴ hai guys, my first time writing smut bear with me. it took me so long i had sm going on but i finally got it outtt, so excited for you guys to read. i loved writing this so give me asks of what i should do next!!!! love ya!