michealsapplehead

“bare minimum,” jaafar answered without missing a beat.

“exactly,” you laughed, clapping your hands together.

“okay, paying for my hair and nail appointments.”

“bare minimum,” he stated smoothly, leaning back into his chair. “if i want only the best things for myself, why would i not want them for my wife?”

you gushed toward the cameras, resting your chin in your hand as a wide smile broke across your face. “hello! i’m a fiancée for a reason people,” you joke, and the crew laughs.

“buying me flowers.”

“bare minimum,” he said instantly.

“jaafar actually buys me flowers every two weeks,” you added, turning to give him a sweet look.

“watching greys anatomy with me.”

he hesitated for a beat, an amused smirk playing on his lips as he looked between you and the producer. you immediately shot him a playfully sharp look. “jaafar jackson.”

“princess treatment only because greys anatomy is literally twenty one seasons long? like come on!” he laughed, raising his hands in defense.

“uh, twenty one seasons of bliss. shonda rhimes you’re, best forreal. i’m still a little upset about scandal, but i love you sister,” you said, leaning forward to blow a kiss directly into the camera lens.

“i still don’t agree with you, but i’ll give you a pass,” jaafar shook his head, smiling fondly at your reaction.

“sponsoring my shopping addiction.”

“definitely princess treatment,” he said with zero hesitation, making both you and the crew behind the camera burst out laughing.

“paying for all the food when we go out to dinner.”

“bare minimum,” jaafar said, crossing his legs comfortably. “if we’re going out, it’s on me.”

“oh, i never touch this purse,” you smiled.

“opening the car door every single time.”

“bare minimum,” jaafar answered softly, looking at you with that quiet warmth in his eyes. “that’s just basic manners.”

“doing a full skin care routine with me on sunday nights.”

“princess treatment,” he laughed instantly, shaking his head. “the amount of clay masks and under-eye patches this woman has put on my face… i’m glowing, but it’s definitely princess treatment.”

“you love it though!” you laughed, touching his cheek affectionately. “look at that skin! GQ, you’re welcome.”

the entire room erupted in laughter again, jaafar pulling you closer to press a sweet kiss against the side of your head.

“i do love it,” he conceded with a soft smile, wrapping his arm tight around your waist. “because i love you.”

“massaging my feet after a long day in heels.”

“bare minimum,” jaafar said without a second thought. “you’re out here looking stunning, dealing with heels all day. the least i can do when you get home is take care of your feet.”

“and he’s actually amazing at it,” you added, pointing a finger at the camera.

“giving me a forehead kiss before you leave the house early in the morning.”

“bare minimum,” jaafar said, his voice softening a bit as he looked over at you. “even if you’re fast asleep, i’m not leaving the house without saying goodbye properly.” jaafar said smoothly, turning to kiss the top of your head as the cameras began to wrap up. “that’s all we have for today. thanks for having us, GQ.”

Late Sunday evening had settled over the Hayvenhurst estate and the scent of fried chicken, collard greens, mac & cheese, and cornbread was still wafting through the home. 

Some new variety show played quietly on the television in the background, but it was drowned out by the Jackson brothers’ loud voices overlapping. They were lounging around after dinner and someone had brought out the good whiskey. 

At the edge of the couch sat Michael, halfway listening and picking at a loose string on his sleeve. He was mostly quiet like he always was when this kind of talk came up. 

Whenever his brothers started having locker room conversations he stayed out of it. 

His private life— especially anything in relativity to you— stayed close to the vest.

Tito leaned back in the leather armchair nursing his second glass of the night. He was grinning wide, saying “I’m tellin’ you man, hittin’ it from the back changed the game for me. You get that angle right, put her face down, ass up… she gon’ lose her mind. A whole different kind of cryin’.”

At this, Michael’s head snapped up. 

The word cryin’ had piqued his interest. 

Heat began spreading across the back of his neck as he listened closer. Jermaine jumped in and nudged Tito with his elbow. He looked over his shoulder before speaking to make sure none of the ladies were about to wander into the room. 

The guys’ wives were currently having their own chat, still sat around the dining table drinking wine.

Once the coast was clear, he added “Especially if you know how to find that lil’ spot deep inside that makes her legs shake and her voice get all high and whiny like she can’t talk straight.” He pointed at Tito smirking, “And if you add a pillow under her hips and hit it just right, she gon’ love you forever.”

Michael gulped audibly. His fingers were now frozen in place. Tito heard it and grinned even bigger. 

“What Mike? You and your girl ain’t never tried it?” 

Michael shook his head and rolled his eyes, “You guys can be such pigs”. He mumbled while avoiding eye contact.

Truthfully, no, you guys hadn’t. 

You and Michael had just started being intimate and it was mostly in missionary where Michael stayed pressed chest to chest with you and couldn’t stop kissing you. 

He loved being able to see your pretty face and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

That is— until now.

Tito didn’t let up. “Mike, with the body that girl got, man? You playin’, right? The way her ass sits? You still doin' it missionary like a church boy?” 

The brothers chuckled together in that loud and playful way they always did. 

Michael cut his eyes as Tito. He felt defensiveness bubble to the surface quickly, sharp and protective. 

This wasn’t new. His brothers had been on him for months now ever since you started coming around. You were real thick, and fine as hell. A real brown skin beauty. This was a synonymous agreement amongst them all. 

Every time you came over, he caught them doing low whistles or elbowing each other when they thought he wasn’t looking. 

“Damn Mike… you got all that and you still playin’ it safe? Couldn’t be me.” They’d say once you were out of earshot, shaking their heads. 

They weren’t wrong, you were fine as hell, and he had definitely been playing it safe. But you were his girl, and therefore his business. 

“Don’t talk about her like that.” He said, voice low and firm. “That’s my girl and y’all need to mind your own business, quit sayin’ all that stuff about her body. Keep it to yourself.”

Jermaine and Jackie oooh’d in high pitched voices before sipping their drinks, staying out of it. 

Everyone knew how Michael got when it came to you. 

Out of all the brothers he was the most sensitive, romantic, and emotionally attached when it came to women. And to make things more intense, you were his first. 

First real girlfriend, first girl he’d ever invited over— and more recently, to spend the night. You were the first person he’d ever been intimate with. 

To Michael that was sacred. He was a bit of a late bloomer, and you thought it was adorable.

You loved being able to experience new things with him. Honestly, you had him wrapped right around your finger. If you asked him to pluck the stars out the sky one by one, he would. 

Tito held his hands up in surrender, still laughing. “Aight, aight. We ain’t mean no harm, but for real Mike. You still got a lot to learn, and that’s a good thing. Means you get to figure it out with her, make her feel brand new every time.” Then he winked and took another drink from his glass. 

“Whatever, Tito” he rolled his eyes. 

Michael was mostly quiet for the rest of the night, but the words stuck with him, sparking a lightbulb in his head.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later that same week you stopped by the house to drop off something for Michael. He was upstairs changing and had asked Tito and Jermaine to keep an ear out for the door because he was expecting you. 

You were rounding the corner when you overheard Tito’s voice, real low. 

“Damn, she fine as hell. Hips that’ll make a grown man drool like a baby. Her body is crazy man. And Mike still playin', doin’ it like its 1965.” 

He and Jermaine chuckled together and then Jermaine replied, “Mike don’t know what to do with all that. She probably makin’ that boy forget his own name.”

You stepped into the doorway as if you hadn’t heard anything, smile sweet and eyes soft. “What y’all doin’?” Immediately, the energy changed. Tito sat up straighter and his grin turned warm and respectful.

“Hey sweetheart. You lookin’ pretty today.” Jermaine nodded in agreement with a sweet voice.

“How you doin’ baby girl? Go on up, Mike’s waitin’ on you”

Thanking them you turned and headed up the long winding staircase, smirking to yourself. 

You weren’t visually impaired; you knew exactly what kind of body you had and the effect it had on men.

But as for Michael’s brothers? Out of respect, they would never dare say anything of the sort to your face. 

You had skin-tight bell bottom jeans on that accentuated your curvy figure, and the top you had on revealed a peek-a-boo of cocoa skin at the small of your back. You made sure to roll your hips extra hard as you trailed up the stairs to your man.

Both brothers’ eyes followed the sway of your hips and the full, heart-shaped curve of your ass as you walked away. 

Once you were out of earshot, Jermaine and Tito gave each other a knowing look. Tito let out a low appreciate whistle under his breath. 

Jermaine shook his head and walked away, “I’m tellin’ you man, Mike don’t know what to do with all that.”.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That same day Michael found himself at the library. He asked Bill to drop him off for a while so he could do some research on a new dance style he was trying.

But truthfully? He was trying to figure out what to do with all that.

He walked into the library with his hoodie pulled low over his curls and large sunglasses covering most of his face. When he got to the help desk he asked the librarian for books on female anatomy. Specifically medical ones— the kind with diagrams. 

Once the package was secure Michael made his way to the back of the library to a corner that seemed quiet enough and settled down at a table. His heart was thumping so hard he thought he could feel it in his throat. 

Michael took one more look around before he cracked the book and began scrolling through its pages. His face felt hot when his eyes finally landed on the diagram he’d been looking for. 

The description of the sensitive bundle of nerves made everything his brothers were saying click. He scanned the page slowly to make sure he understood.

How pressure there could make everything clench and flutter and cry. The idea that touching you a certain way and a certain angle could pull that kind of reaction from you felt like a new language to Michael. 

One that he was desperate to speak. 

He flipped the page and when he saw the illustration on it of the anterior vaginal wall he gasped softly and nearly dropped the book. 

His fingers fumbled as he quickly shut it, suddenly embarrassed at the idea that someone might come near. Quickly Michael decided that he needed a private place to study. 

The only thing was, when he went to stand to leave, he finally noticed the not-so subtle tent that had formed in his pants as he was reading. 

So, he sat there for a long minute, fumbling with the book and breathing through it while his ears burned hot with embarrassment. 

Once he had contained himself enough he tucked the book under his arm and checked it out at the front desk with his head down like he was hiding something sacred. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next afternoon Michael thought he was alone. 

He had his book open— and fairly close to his face due to how intrigued he was. 

The house was quiet which was a rarity. He was just getting to the good part about applying rhythmic pressure and circling the spot when he heard footsteps coming toward him.

Immediately he looked up. Tito walked in and locked eyes with Michael. But before he could speak or greet him, he saw the look that flickered across his face.

It was the same look Michael would get as a little boy whenever he got caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. The same look he had seen on his face when Michael was 10 and snatched one of his older brother’s magazines, being nosey of course. 

Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realize he was looking down at a Playboy until Tito called out, “Mike, they filmin’ you”. Instantly he had dropped the magazine like it was on fire. Just like he did the book in his hands now.

Michael felt like he was in one of those old ninja movies. The ones where the screen splits in half and the camera closes in on both their eyes. He knew he was caught. Michael’s fingers tightened around the book on instinct, but it was already too late. He had maybe 5 seconds to react and he knew it.

Tito’s lips curved into a knowing smirk, and before Michael could even move Tito quickly crossed the room in 3 strides and snatched the book from him. “What you got here, Mike?” Michael’s eyes went huge.

“Give it back, man—” But Tito was already teasing and holding the book out of his reach. He started flipping pages and reading aloud in a sultry voice, teasing Michael. 

“To stimulate the G-spot, apply firm, rhythmic pressure to the anterior vaginal wall approximately two inches inside… combine with clitoral stimulation for maximum effect…” Tito hooted in amusement. “Aw man, we got Mikey studyin’! Look at this — diagrams and everything. Lil’ man out here doing homework for his girl!”

Jackie and Jermaine heard the commotion from the other room and came in to be nosey. Tito kept going, his voice getting higher as his amusement grew. 

“The tissue may swell and become more sensitive with continued stimulation…” He looked away from the book to his little brother “You really got sticky notes in the margins with notes Mike? I’m proud of you man, finally learnin’ how to handle all that fine ass your girl got”.

Michael’s face was on fire. He reached for the book, voice sharp with embarrassment and a little bit of attitude even though he knew it was just teasing. “Give it back Tito, don’t! I’m serious, that ain’t funny.”

Tito held the book out of reach still chuckling then acted like he was gonna hand it over. He extended the book to Michael, but when he reached for it— he yanked it back at the last second still giggling to himself at Michael’s diligence. 

“You sure you ready for all this knowledge?” He laughed harder when Michael glared at him hard. “Aight, happy studying then.”

Michael snatched the book back, grumbling “You guys are so dumb” under his breath as he stormed off to his room. A chorus of his older brothers’ warm teasing followed him all the way there. 

Yeah they were clowning him, but they were happy he was stepping up.

Later that night when things were actually quiet and it was safe, Michael stayed up late with the book open on his bed. 

He kept re-reading the section on angle and pressure. He felt flustered from how explicit the instructions were, but he was determined to do right by his woman.

At one point, he even grabbed a pillow and slipped it under his hips to practice the slow rolling motion the book described. Of course, with his face buried in his arm because he felt ridiculous—and horny— at the same time.

He kept thinking about you. How pretty you sounded when you came for him, and about how he wanted to make you cry the good kind of tears.

When you came over the next day Michael caught himself watching the way your hips swayed when you walked and how full your ass looked in the jeans you wore. 

His eyes lingered for longer than they usually did, but he quickly looked away when you turned over your shoulder to ask him something. He wasn’t usually like that…vulgar. 

He appreciated your body and loved every inch of it but researching this new information had him feeling bashful, anxious, and eager all at once. 

Still, he simply tucked his hands in his pockets and tried to act normal. The image stayed with him all day though.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That weekend the Jackson family left for New York City to celebrate Janet. She had just landed a guest star role on the show Diff’rent Strokes and was over the moon about it. It was one of the most popular shows on television. 

Katherine had suggested that the family fly out to watch her first few days on set because Jan's nerves were high. If there was one thing the Jacksons were gonna do, it was pull together for one of their own.

Everyone was going, except Michael. He declined claiming that he had some new music he had to get out, so he needed to be near his studio. 

And everyone knew how Michael was when it came to getting his ideas out in a timely manner. “We know, we know Mike” Marlon had said on his way out. “You gotta get it out now or God’s gonna give the idea to Prince.” He rolled his eyes dramatically before closing the door behind him. 

Michael sighed contently, a large smile taking over his features. 

Finally. 

He did have music he wanted to work on, butttt that’s not why he declined to go. 

This was the best time for him to put his knowledge to the test without fear of anyone overhearing or interrupting. Michael headed down to the kitchen immediately. 

He knew exactly whose help he needed. “Hey Ms. Nancy” Michael leaned up against the kitchen counter unsuspectingly, peering over the older women’s shoulder as she stirred something that smelled delicious in a large pot.

Nancy hadn’t heard Michael enter the room but she turned around smiling a smile that reached her eyes. “Hey baby, what you still doin’ here? Not goin’ to celebrate Jan?” Michael shook his head and his curls fell across his forehead as he did so. 

“No ma’am. I had some things I needed to get done back here… Can I ask you a favor?”

She looked over at Michael again and raised an eyebrow. “I’m not making vegan lasagna again, Michael. That cheese is just nasty.” she screwed up her nose at the thought. Michael laughed hard at the memory of the watery lasagana. 

“No, no. I promise I’ll never ask you to do that again. I was just wonderin’… I wanna have my girl come over tonight for a little date. Before you leave for the day, do you think you could whip us up somethin’?” 

She smiled knowingly to herself as she focused on attending to the pot. “Oh you had some extra work to do, huh? You ain’t got to lie to Ms. Nancy, baby. I was young once.” Michael’s face felt hot and his eyes widened. He covered his face and nervous giggles escaped him.

“It’s not like that Ms. Nancy! Just gonna spend some time now that it’s quiet, that’s all.”

“Mhm, alright now.” She gave him a look that clearly said “you can’t fool me honey, you ain’t slick. I’ve known the game longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Whatcha want me to make baby? She loved that honey butter cornbread last time, I ended up sending some home with her.” 

Michael’s stomach rumbled and he nodded in agreement. “That would be perfect. And can you make that one dish with the smothered chicken and rice that she likes?”

“I got you. Want me to leave the stove on low so it can stay warm?”

“Yes please, you’re the best” Michael pressed a sweet kiss to Ms. Nancy’s cheek and thanked her before turning and heading out of the kitchen. “Tell Mr. Greg I said hello” He yelled over his shoulder as he headed off to his next destination. 

“I will baby.” She called back.

Everything was coming together.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later that evening, Michael had asked Bill to pick you up to bring you over. You told him you could drive but he insisted on waiting on you hand and foot. 

You were so confused when you got to the estate and there was no one playing basketball outside. No music drifting through the windows. It looked empty. 

You almost asked Bill if he was sure Michael was home before he stepped out of the front door. 

He stood waiting patiently, a shy sweet smile on his face as he waited for Bill to park. He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet with excitement.

“Mikey?” You looked around suspiciously as he opened your door for you. Instantly, he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you into his chest.

“Hi baby. It’s so good to see you, how was the ride over?” He looked you over as if he hadn’t seen you in days before pressing a soft lingering kiss to your lips.

“It was fine Mikey, where is everybody? Why is it so quiet, is everything okay?” 

You were getting concerned now. Hayvenhurst was never this empty. Michael let out a breathy laugh and nodded.

“They all went to New York. Went to see Jan. She had some stuff she was working on and mother wanted the whole family there.” He paused but his doe eyes stayed on you. “I stayed behind 'cause I wanna be with you.” 

You were flattered but didn’t ask him to elaborate further. No way were you gonna complain about finally getting alone time with your man in his mansion.

He took your hand in his large one and led you toward the house, thanking Bill and saying goodbye. “I asked Ms. Nancy to make dinner” He said looking over at you shyly. “Wanna wash up first? It’s ready whenever you are.”

Now you raised your eyebrows. Not because Michael wasn’t usually thoughtful, he always was. Sometimes too much and to his own detriment. But, this evening suddenly started to feel special in a way you couldn’t pinpoint.

“For meee?” Playfully you raised a hand to your chest in a flattered way. 

“You’re so cute. Yes, silly. Of course, for you. Always for you.” His gaze held yours a little longer now, lips curved in an adorable boyish smile. 

“What she make?” You asked. He scratched the back of his neck bashfully.

“Smothered chicken, yellow rice, cheesy broccoli, and cornbread.” Your whole face lit up before you could hide it. 

“Mike, you know that’s my favorite!” You were already smiling big. Michael’s expression softened and admiration glazed over his features.

He was always enamored by how small things made you so happy. He thought it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. Especially when your eyes got big and you bit your lip trying not to smile too hard.

“I know” He said quietly, thumb massaging your hand that it was holding gently. “That’s why I asked for it.”

Stepping in close, you wrapped your arms around his middle. “You’re so sweet. How’d I get so lucky?”

Michael couldn’t stop the grin he had from getting bigger. He loved feeling chosen by you. He hugged you back and laughed under his breath. Chin resting on your head.

“Go wash up mama, I’ll fix your plate.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Dinner was quiet in the best way. You guys sat at the kitchen table instead of the big formal one since it was just the two of you. Between bites you chatted and caught up, although there wasn’t much to catch up on because Michael made sure he saw you nearly every day. If he didn’t see you, he’d speak to you at least twice on the phone. It was clingy but you loved it.

He asked you what you had been up to for the day. You told him a funny story about your little cousin.

You guys were at the mall and she was talking loudly about how her mama was trippin’ on her about not wanting her to hang out with some guy.

And then, her mom appeared right behind her as she was in the middle of rolling her neck and saying, “I don’t care what she say, I’m still goin’ with him to that party. If I gotta climb out my window, I’m goin.”

Long story short, when she looked and saw your aunt standing behind her, arms crossed and lips pursed, she changed her whole tune. Michael laughed hard and shook his head he loved hearing stories about your life. It was nice. Normal.

Every time you made a happy little sound as you took a bite his eyes flicked up to you like he couldn’t help watching. When you tore a piece of cornbread and dipped it in the gravy, he smiled to himself and looked down at his plate. Things felt easy with you. Comfortable, like home. 

By the time the plates were empty you both were full and lazy.

“C’mon” Michael stretched his hand out to you. “Movie?” You accepted it without thinking.

In the den the lighting was warm and low. Michael put on something but you weren't really paying close attention to it. You were stretched out on the big couch on your back and he was settled between your legs, cheek resting against your tummy and arm draped loosely over your thigh. His weight was warm and familiar and every now and then he’d turn his head and press a soft, slow kiss to the skin right above your navel.

Absentmindedly, you played with his curls. His breathing matched yours and every so often his fingers would stroke lazily along the side of your thigh. After a while, he turned to look up at you with big doe eyes. 

“There’s somethin’ I wanna show you” He said quietly, “In my room… come with me?” You shrugged and said sure, allowing him to pull you up off of the couch.

You followed him down the hall expecting a new demo he’d been working on or one of his quiet little hobbies. But when he opened the bedroom door, the air was warm and sweet with candlelight.

A new Stevie Wonder record was spinning on his turntable. And the bed— the bed was made neatly, pillows fluffed, rose petals scattered over the comforter and everything glowing gold.

Your eyebrows knit in confusion as you stopped in the doorway. “Michael… what is all this?”

He turned to you with a shy smile tugging at his lips, shoulders a little hunched. “Just… just tryin’ somethin’. For you. For us.”

He stepped close and placed gentle hands on your waist to lean in and kiss you. It started slow and soft, the kind that made your stomach flutter. His lips moved against yours like he couldn’t help himself, tongue gently trailing along your bottom lip to request access. His tongue slid warm and careful against yours.

One hand came up to cup your jaw and his thumb stroked your cheek as he kissed you deeper. He pulled back just enough to mumble against your lips, a little out of breath.

“I love kissin’ you so much,” he whispered. “Could do this all night and still not get enough.”

He kissed you slower this time like he was trying to prove it. You melted into it. Your hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his t-shirt. He made a quiet appreciative sound in his throat and kept kissing you, nipping softly at your bottom lip.

Only when both of you were a little dazed did he start walking you backward toward the bed. He eased you down and followed you. Then he started all over again. Kissing your throat and your collarbones, pushing your shirt up inch by inch so he could mouth at the soft skin at your stomach.

He took his time kissing down your tummy before going lower and settling on your thighs. His hands rubbed slow circles on them as he pressed his lips to the inside of your thigh where the skin was softest.

When your muscles twitched against his lips he smiled to himself and did again. Slower and higher this time. He let the anticipation build until your hips were shifting restlessly against the sheets under you.

A hot, open mouthed kiss was pressed over your panties and your breath caught. He looked up at you with dark, soft eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “Every part of you.”

He took his time taking off your panties, hooking his fingers in the waistband and easing them down.

For a second he just gazed and admired how puffy and pretty your pussy looked. He still couldn’t believe he got to see you like this. Then, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss right over your clit. You made a quiet sound.

He settled in farther between your legs like he belonged there, shoulders gently spreading your legs wider. His tongue was gentle and he licked you with long careful strokes that made your hips roll against him without you intending to. He watched every little reaction closely and used them as a guide. If your breath caught in your throat, he stayed there. If your thighs shook in his hands, he did it again softer. He moaned quietly into you when you got wetter like the taste of you was something he wanted to savor.

“Mikey…” you gasped, hands gently threading through his curls.

He hummed against you teasingly to answer you which made your hips jolt. His tongue licked you flat and broad then he used the tip of it to gently circle your clit. One of his hands stayed on your thigh rubbing soothing circles while the other slid up to lace his fingers with yours.

When his lips sealed over your clit and sucked your back arched and soft moans fell past your lips. Michael loved it, and he kept that same patient rhythm as he kept you from pulling your hips away from him. He listened closely to the way your breathing changed. Then, he slid two fingers inside you and curled them slow, searching until he found a spot that made your hips jerk.

The way he stayed right there and used his tongue and fingers to stroke you had you seeing stars and tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how good it felt. Michael moaned in appreciation when your thighs started quaking around his shoulders.

“That’s it, good girl baby” he murmured against you. “Let me make you feel good.”

The orgasm rolled through you in long, slow waves. Your fingers tightened in his hair and your hips pushed up against his mouth but he didn’t stop. He kept licking and sucking you through every throb, drawing it out until you were shaking and oversensitive to his touch. Only when you started gently pushing at his shoulders with a breathless little sound did he back away.

His gaze lingered on the pleasure-struck look on your pretty face as he pressed soft kisses to your thighs and made his way back up to your lips. His lips were shiny, eyes bright and soft.

He brushed his lips against yours and his eyes drifted across your features adoringly. He loved the way you got so dazed after he made you cum like that.

“I been thinkin’ bout somethin’,” he said softly. “I wanna try somethin’ new with you. If you trust me.”

“What, Mikey?” you asked, still breathless. He bit his lip nervously but held your gaze steadily.

“I…I want you to turn around for me, baby. On your knees… face down so I can love on you the way I been wantin’ to.”

The way he said it made your tummy flip. He never talked like that. Your eyes fluttered in surprise but you obeyed him immediately without question. Turning away from him, you pressed your chest and cheek to the mattress and arched your back to raise your ass high in the air.

Michael went completely still at your submission. The candle light was flickering against your soft brown skin, highlighting your pretty heart-shaped ass. His eyes trailed over your frame in the provocative position and admired how your waist dipped in at your wide hips that looked way more dramatic in this position.

He couldn’t help but notice the way your cheeks spread just enough to show the glistening lips of your pussy peeking out between them, a single strand of arousal dripping from you. Michael nearly drooled.

“Lord have mercy…” He exhaled. His hands explored you gently as if this was all new, palms sliding over the backs of your thighs to cup the fullness of your ass.

He squeezed gently then trailed his hands to your hips, gently running his thumbs over the dimples at the small of your back. “You look so pretty like this… I don’t even know what to do with myself, mama.”

He kissed your back where his thumbs has just been and then pressed another one to your right cheek.

He stood up straight and raised his t shirt up exposing his belly. Then he pushed his sweats down just enough. He was already hard, tip leaking with pre-cum from him rutting the mattress while he drooled from how good you tasted. 

He dragged the head gently through your folds in a teasing way before letting it catch on your entrance. “You trust me, baby?” he whispered as he slid up to bump your clit. You made a soft surprised sound and he giggled.

“Yes baby, of course I trust you.”

That was all the permission Michael needed to show you everything he had learned for you.

He placed a hand on your hip and pushed in carefully and slowly. You let out a low satisfied sound as he slowly stretched you inch by inch, biting his lip to contain himself.

“Takin’ me so good, princess.” His voice was shaking a little. “So warm and tight… I can feel every little flutter.” He bottomed out, hips flush against you and stayed there for a moment. Once he was sure you were okay, he began moving in slow, deep, searching rolls like he was looking for something. Until oh— he found it.

The second the head of his dick nudged that spot your eyes rolled back and a broken gasp punched out of your chest. Your hips pushed back against him to take him deeper on instinct.

After a few strokes he felt your walls clench around him and suddenly, you got a lot wetter. When he looked down to watch himself stroking you, you were creaming thick and white around the base of his dick.

Michael’s eyes went wide. He had never made you do that before. “Oh… there it is. That’s it, ain’t it?”

He repeated the motion from the same angle with another deep nudge. You pushed back against him harder with a high, whiny moan spilling past your lips. Exactly how his brothers had described it. Your thighs shook slightly and he could feel you creaming more as the obscene sounds filled the room.

He pulled his t-shirt the rest of the way up and brought to his lips so he could hold it with his teeth. He wanted an unfiltered look at the pretty picture he was painting between your legs.

Once free, his hands found their way to your hips and his thumbs pressed into the dimples there. He started fucking you deep and focused on angling every stroke to hit that spot over and over again.

He was still a little unsure, so he asked “Right there? Does that feel good, baby? I… I been readin’ ‘bout this. Wanted to make you feel good. Wanna make you cry for me the way Tito said.”

You nodded hard, pushing back against him for more and biting your lip when the movement made him nudge against your cervix. “Yes— yes, Mikey doin’ so good, don’t stop—”

He let out a shaky breath and kept rolling his hips. “Thank you baby, I learned it all for you. Been studyin’ so hard for you. So I could be perfect, just for you”

Your moans grew higher, completely wrapped in ecstasy and love. You kept pushing back, chasing it, thighs already starting to shake. His praise came in soft pieces between his breaths.

“Your skin looks so pretty in this light mama…” 

“Love how soft you feel… smell so good too, like cocoa butter” 

“These hips, baby…”

You were still pushing back for more, hips rolling to meet every deep stroke until— the intensity started tipping over into something sharper.

The pleasure got so concentrated it almost scared you. Your arms trembled and you tried to stay with it, but the pressure on that spot was becoming so intense that your body started easing forward on the bed without you consciously realizing it.

“Mikey—” you gasped, voice high and shaky. “Wait— it’s… it’s t-too much—”

His hips chased you as he trailed a hand slowly up the length of your back.

“Hand me a pillow, baby” You didn’t compute his request immediately due to being lost in the rhythm of his strokes.

One hand came down in a playful spank against the side of your ass. Not hard, just enough to make you jump a little and moan.

Instantly you obliged. He took the pillow from you and gently tucked it under your tummy under your hips. Instantly your back felt supported— and the pressure in your core increased.

His palm settled between your shoulder blades, gentle but firm, to keep you right where he wanted you. The other hand gripped your hip and pulled you back onto him in one smooth motion so he could keep the angle.

“I know, mama, I know,” he murmured, voice low and coaxing around the shirt in his mouth. “Feels so good, don’t it? Don’t run from me. Be a good girl and let me keep massagin’ that spot just right.”

You could hear how much wetter you were getting, and you could feel it too. Messy, creamy strings of your essence and his pre-cum every time he pulled back and thrust in again. Your arousal was coating his dick thicker, dripping down his balls now onto the sheets.

He watched it happen and his lips parted as the muscles in his stomach clenched and fluttered every time you creamed more around him. Your ass rippled and jiggled slightly with every thrust, back arching deeper because of your curves. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from your heart-shaped ass bouncing soft and pretty against him in the candlelight.

“That’s my good girl…” he cooed, voice hoarse around the fabric in his mouth. “Look at you creamin’ all over me, baby. Your body was made for this, I swear. I love every inch of you. These thighs, this sexy lil’ waist,” he gently squeezed your love handles. “Pretty ass bouncin’ just for me. You smell like home, baby. Feel like home. I love you. I love makin’ you feel this good.”

Your eyes rolled back hard at the praise. “L-love you too Mikey— it feels so good— so— so good—” the words broke apart between high breathless moans as the pressure inside you kept building higher and higher.

It felt like something was about to break. Your thighs trembled violently and drool slipped from the corner of your mouth onto the pillow as your walls fluttered endlessly around him.

 You could feel it. An intense, almost scary pressure right on your spot. Then your eyes fluttered open just enough to notice the towel spread underneath you. Very carefully placed. He planned for this.

Michael leaned forward and gently grabbed your jaw to tilt your head back so he could kiss you. As his mouth met yours he shifted the angle of his hips, gently alternating between nudging the sensitive swollen tissue of your G-spot and pressing just a little deeper so the head of his dick brushed your cervix.  It was pornographic.

The combination of the tender open-mouthed kiss and the dual stimulation made your eyes flutter with submission and roll back. You moaned into his mouth, soft and helpless.

He kissed you like he couldn’t help it, soft and deep as he gave you those slow, alternating strokes before finally letting your head drop back down.

“Your ass looks so pretty like this,” he breathed, almost to himself. Then his cheeks went hot. “Can I say that? Tell me I can say it, baby.”

You looked back at him over your shoulder with glassy eyes.

“You can say whatever you want, Mikey… I love you. And I want you to stay inside. I went and got on the pill. Been thinkin’ about tryin’ somethin’ new with you too.”

His eyes lit up. Something warm and confident sparked behind them. The words his brothers had said echoing in his head. You hit that lil’ spot deep inside her, and she gon’ love you forever. He gripped your hips a little firmer, a soft new certainty in the way he moved.

The pressure kept climbing. Your voice cracked.

“Mikey— wait— I think I gotta— I think I gotta pee—”

His whole face changed. Eyes bright and shining like he’d just unlocked a new level in a video game.

“It’s okay, baby,” he said, voice low and coaxing, a little breathless with excitement. “Don’t hold it. Don’t be scared. Just let it go for me. I read about this… it’s supposed to feel like that when it’s real good. You’re doin’ so good for me. Just let it happen mama. I got you.”

You almost giggled at how earnest he sounded until he nudged that spot again, slow and deliberate. Your eyes rolled back hard. The pressure broke. A sharp, wet rush of fluid gushed out of you around his dick, soaking the towel and splashing against his thighs as you squirted hard, body shaking, high-pitched cries spilling from your throat.

Michael made a sound like he’d just won something. A soft, stunned, almost disbelieving moan left him as he watched and felt you come apart on him.

“Oh my God… baby… look at you…”

The second he felt you squirt, his own orgasm started to crest slow and deep. His eyes fluttered. His stomach muscles clenched. A broken, accidental “F-fuck—” slipped out of him right as the first thick pulse left him.

He immediately looked almost panicked.

“Sorry—! I didn’t mean to say that—” he gasped, still cumming in long, drawn-out waves, hips stuttering as he filled you. “It just— it felt so— oh God, baby, I love you—”

You moaned low and deep when you felt him spill inside you, the warmth of it making your whole body clench around him again. It was y’alls first time like this. Something about the trust of it and the way he stayed buried deep and gave you everything made your eyes sting a little even as another aftershock rolled through you. You pushed back against him weakly, taking every pulse, a soft, satisfied sound leaving your throat.

He stayed inside you until the last tremor passed, arms wrapped tight around your middle, both of you shaking and trying to catch your breath. Stevie Wonder still spun soft in the background.

After a long while he pulled out slowly and kissed the back of your neck. He laid next to you and pulled you on top of him, draping your still shaking thigh across his waist. One hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your lower back.

He was quiet for a while, just breathing you in.

Then, soft and shy he asked, “Did I… did I do okay? Was that good for you?”

You lifted your head enough to kiss him, lazy and sweet.

“More than good, Mikey. You found it. You made me cry just like Tito said you would.”

He buried his face in your neck, cheeks hot, but you could feel him smiling against your skin.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice full of wonder. “I guess I did.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

please respect my work 💌

Everything posted here is written

The drought had settled into the Los Angeles area around nineteen long days ago. The air tasted of hot asphalt and exhaust from passing cars; it clung to the back of your throat. 

Your face felt tight, sun-scoured, a dull throb behind your eyes that the fluorescent lights of the café only sharpened. You were desperate for water. Wildly dehydrated.

The espresso machine at your 2nd job had been shrieking since five a.m. An unwelcome, piercing shrill in your ears.

You tried to focus on the forgotten sociology homework spread beside the register, the words swimming in the steam. 

Social constructs of intimacy in the digital age. 

The irony was so silly to you. 

A line of customers tapped impatient fingers on the counter, their eyes glazed with heat and caffeine-need, waiting for you to notice them. You really were a bad barista.

Outside, the hills were the color of rusted tin, looking so brittle and skeletal. The news droned on the small TV mounted in the corner: Conserve, conserve. Do your part for your city. It felt like a cruel joke that they were asking US to do our part.

The AC in your apartment was a joke too; a wet, rattling gasp that just pushed the soupy heat from one corner to another. And you were paying entirely too much for the shitty space, just so you could walk to work and college comfortably.

Your life was a triptych of exhaustion: college in the bleary morning, the café till you dropped, and then… 

nocturncamz.com

The name alone felt like a secret. 

The site loaded with a plum-colored login page, a carousel of girls on the landing; plump lips wrapped around lollipops, collarbones glittering with sweat or sparkle, eyes heavy-lidded and looking somewhere past the camera. Obscene, but prettily framed. A curated gallery speaking to the lonely modern man.

Saturdays were when you sat at your desk after dark and made rent, one anonymous stranger at a time. It wasn’t what you had in mind for senior year, nor was it glamorous. It was a cheap headset, a webcam angled carefully to exclude most of your sad box bedroom and the peeling Justin Bieber poster left by some previous tenant. 

The setup was crude, sometimes degrading, but it was fifty to a hundred bucks you didn’t have. Sometimes more. The tips were always better later on in the evening, when the loneliness in other time zones grew teeth.

It was late now. The fan on your desk chittered like insect wings, fighting a losing war against the heatwave bleeding through your single window. 

Sweat prickled at the small of your back, your tank top sticking to the faux-leather chair. You took a sip of flat Diet Coke that was sat stale in a take away cup, the fizz long dead, just a chemical sweetness coating your teeth.

A new username blinked in your private chat log: king777tut. Unfamiliar. 

Most men arrived already fired up, demanding the private room link and password, the transaction beginning with heavy breathing and blunt, miserable need. They'd usually be naked when the camera turned on - and that was usually a jumpscare. But this one… his typing was slow. 

Each message appeared with a weight, a pause between sentences you could feel in the silence of your room.

You leaned back, the chair groaning. The ellipsis danced. Disappeared. Danced again.

king777tut: good evening, do you have time to talk?

You almost laughed. Someone being respectful? You started the thirty-minute timer he’d paid for.

SweetViolet: Timer’s on. So talk to me. What do you like? What do you want to do?

A long pause. The fan whirred. Your foot tapped a frantic, nervous rhythm against the desk leg.

king777tut: I like your voice. From your preview. It’s soft. It sounds like… honey.

The breath left your lungs in a quiet, surprised rush. A laugh, mostly air. You pulled your knees to your chest, the chair protesting, your toes curling against the seat’s edge. 

SweetViolet: Honey, huh? That’s new. Most guys say its sultry like whiskey. Or something more… dumb or just crude.

king777tut: Whiskey is for forgetting. Honey is for… savoring. For whispering sweet nothings that stick.

Your stomach flipped. You pressed your forehead to your knees. The stubble on your legs was rough against your skin. Older, you thought. The cadence of his words, the spaces between them….they felt considered. Heavy. You typed before the hesitation could crystallize.

SweetViolet: So whisper to me then, King Tut. Tell me what you need.

Another pause. Longer. You could hear the old analog clock on your wall, its second hand scraping a path around the dial. Then, his message came in two parts.

king777tut: I am in my room. It is very late. The house is quiet. I can hear the coyotes howling in the hills beyond my window.

king777tut: I am thinking about what you might be wearing.

Your breath hitched, a tiny catch in your throat. You uncurled, planted your feet on the cool floor. He wanted to sext rather than request photos? Wow. you thought about how unsexy your clothes were right now. 

Just a pink tank top and old cotton shorts, the hem frayed from too many washes.

SweetViolet: A tank top. Pink. And shorts. They’re soft.

king777tut: Is the tank top… loose?

You looked down. The thin cotton did drape, hanging away from your body in the still heat, away from your bra-less chest. A slow heat began to bloom outward from your core; lazy, languid, inevitable. Your hand drifted over your stomach, fingers tracing the pronounced ridge of your hipbone through the fabric.

SweetViolet: Kinda. It hangs. I dont have a bra on.

king777tut: I am picturing it. The way it would fall if you moved… whether the shift would be revealing, or still so innocent.

king777tut: I am in my bed. I am wearing linen pyjamas. The sheets are silk. They feel cool, but I am growing warm. Warm with want.

You swallowed, your mouth parchment-dry. The Diet Coke was useless; you tried taking a gulp to quench your thirst. Your other hand drifted down, palm resting on your thigh, your thumb making absent, tiny circles on the sensitive skin of your inner leg. Goosebumps rose in its wake.

SweetViolet: What are you doing? Are you touching yourself in your bed?

The ellipsis pulsed. Once. Twice. A slow, tantalizing heartbeat.

king777tut: not right at this moment. My free hand is on my stomach. Just resting. I can feel my heart beating so hard right now It is beating… for you, I think.

The run-on sentence, the odd comma, the raw, unvarnished admission, it unspooled something deep inside you. You let your head fall back against the chair, staring at the water-stain shaped like a ghost ship on your ceiling. you still hadn’t let your landlord know about that. It was getting worse by the day. black mould wasn’t going to do you any good.

your mind drifted back to the situation;

Silk sheets. Still fully dressed. It was a universe away from the grunted demands you usually fielded. This was pure attention. attraction.

SweetViolet: Why is your heart beating so fast?

SweetViolet: You should move your hand lower. Tell me more.

king777tut: I feel… an ache. A good ache in the pit of my stomach. Maybe its want? Ive wanted you for several weeks now. I have… pleasured myself to your content

King777tut: my head feels fuzzy, like im struggling to form sentences from nerves. 

king777tut: and my heart is beating fast because I am talking to a beautiful girl and I cannot quite believe it is real.

Oh. Oh, fuck.

He wasn’t just dirty. He was sweet. He was painting a scene and you were being woven into its canvas. Your hand slid up, under the hem of your tank top, palm flattening against the warm skin of your ribs. Your breathing shallowed. you found the tight peak of your nipple already hardened by the cool draft of the dying fan, and you rolled it slowly between your fingers.

SweetViolet: I moved my hand too. Under my shirt. My skin is hot. I can feel my own heartbeat under my palm. It’s racing. At the thought of you watching me. 

king777tut: Yes. Yes. Do you… do you touch yourself? oftne? Thinking of strangers?

The question was blunt, misspelled, and it sent a jolt straight to your core. Despite him being logged onto this lewd site, there was an innocence to his curiosity, an eloquence laced with hunger. Your back arched slightly off the chair, a silent, delicious answer to you playing with your nipple. There was a sticky wet heat growing in your underwear.

SweetViolet: Sometimes. Not all the time i will admit; i have to fake it, if the person is into something i am just… not into. Right now I am. My hand is in my shorts. Just feeling how wet I already am.

You hit send and closed your eyes. The darkness swam with bursts of color. Now you had to follow through. You braced, then let your fingers slip past the elastic waistband, through the soft thatch of hair on your pubic bone. You were already slick, swollen, the sensation so immediately intense you bit your lower lip hard enough to sting. No lying tonight, you were actually going to touch yourself along with your customer. 

king777tut: I have my hand on my cock now. I pushed my pyjamas down. I am thinking of your hand. How it must look, small and pretty, wrapped around me. Moving for me.

King777tut: it feels so dirty to do this with a stranger but i cant meet people the normal way. And it feels like from your videos before, i already know uoy. And i want you.

His typing deteriorated, and the spelling was getting significantly lazy and it was the most erotic thing you’d ever witnessed. 

This broken, earnest confession from a man whose words were failing but whose intent was crystal clear. You let one finger slide inside yourself, a slow, testing penetration, and a gasp tore from your throat, loud in the silent room.

SweetViolet: I’m touching myself. For you. I’m so wet. Thinking about your hand on yourself. Picturing it. You all alone in your room. Being so dirty telling me about it.

king777tut: Tell me. Tell me how you touch yourself.

So you did. You narrated the slow, circling pressure of your fingertips, the building heat low in your belly, the short, panting breaths that fogged the windowpane beside you. 

You described the ache, the needy, empty feeling you had, and the sharp sound you made when you finally curled two fingers deep inside—a choked, shuddering ah-ah-ah that you typed out letter by trembling letter. To try give him a picture.

He told you about his rhythm, starting slow, then faster, the grip of his own hand, how he was biting his lip to stay silent, how he was picturing your mouth, your eyes, your honey-whisper voice saying a name he hadn’t given you yet. How he was having to stay quiet as he had guests.

It built. A shared, silent symphony conducted through misspelled text and raw desperate need. 

Your thighs began to shake. Your toes curled until they cramped. Your eyes were struggling to stay open as you reached your peak. But you had to look and see what he was saying back to you

Then, his final, fragmented plea:

king777tut: im almost there thinking of you at the edge.  are you there?  please cum with me

And so you did.  You shattered with a silent, violent convulsion, your body seizing in the cheap chair, vision bleaching into white static. Your fingers, slippery, fumbled the keys.

SweetViolet: yes. god. yes. i’m here. i came to the thought of you. what you look like. who you could be.

The fan chose that moment to choke, rattle violently, and die with a pathetic click. You kicked it over with your bare foot. Your brain couldnt even explore how catastrophic that was for your health in the heatwave and a god damn drought - you were too wrapped up in this unreal man.

It didn’t matter though. No machine could cool the furnace now glowing in your chest and belly. 

This hadn’t been a normal transaction on here.. This had been… more real. And on top of that, you’d managed to feel pleasure out of it.

king777tut: I have been lurking on your page for a month. Wondering if I should pay for a session.

SweetViolet: Well? Was it good? Will you come back?

king777tut: If I could have you all the time, I believe I would. You have such angelic features. I want to kiss those lips.

king777tut: In short, you are incredible. And I am… utterly undone by you.

A stupid, wide, giddy smile broke across your face. A post-coital glow with no right to be this potent from pixels and text. 

SweetViolet: You’re pretty incredible yourself. Want to take this to a private cam? I can turn mine on. We still have five minutes.

The ellipsis appeared.

Then vanished.

A full minute of dead, empty space. The glowing timer ticked down. The warmth inside you began to curdle into anxiety.

king777tut: I cannot.

SweetViolet: Why not?

king777tut: My face. I cannot show it. For security. It is not safe.

Of course. Married. A father. A catfish. The old, familiar disappointment, sharp and acidic. The connection which was fragile and electric before, totally diminished for you. Of course it had been too good to be true. 

SweetViolet: Right. Security. Okay…

king777tut: No, please. It is not like that. I wish I could. You have no idea how much I wish I could see you. To have your eyes looking into mine. But I am… known. In certain circles. It would cause… problems.

Known. The word sat in the chat box, strange and heavy.. You wiped your damp hand on your shorts, feeling suddenly exposed, foolish for the vulnerability you’d offered.

SweetViolet: Known how?

king777tut: It is better I do not say. It is better for you, this way. You can just be Sweet Violet. And I can just be… me. Talking to you.

The sadness in the text was palpable, a loneliness that seeped through the grammar. The knot in your gut softened. It was dangerous that you were so interested.

SweetViolet: Are you famous or something? A singer?

A pause. Then:

king777tut: Perhaps. Does it matter?

You chewed your thumbnail, thinking. Your survival instinct, usually a shrill alarm, was quiet. There was no screaming danger. Just lingering arousal and a curiosity now grown ravenous.

SweetViolet: I guess not. It’s just… you talk different. This whole interaction is different to my others.

king777tut: I am different. And I want to talk to you more. Not just like this. I mean… really talk.

SweetViolet: How?

king777tut: In person.

You laughed—a short, sharp bark of disbelief that echoed in the hot room. The rule was absolute, scrawled on a neon sticky note beside your monitor: NO MEET-UPS. EVER.

SweetViolet: I don’t do that. That’s not what this is.

king777tut: I know. I know what this is. And this… what we just did… that was not what I usually do. It was my first time.

king777tut: I am obsessed with you. In the best way. I just need more.

king777tut: I feel a connection to you. I would like to explore it.

Hooked. He had you completely. No one had ever been this plain, this disarmingly honest. It was the opposite of 

talk dirty to me, slut. 

This was intimacy, sexually charged yet serene. It felt terrifyingly real.

Your heart pounded with a new, volatile adrenaline. This was insanity. This was ditch-in-the-desert behavior. And yet… your gut wasn’t sounding the alarm. It was a low, thrilling feeling. What if?

SweetViolet: No. Not in person. Not yet.

king777tut: Oh.

The single syllable hung there, weighted with a disappointment that physically tugged at you. You typed quickly, before the silence could solidify.

SweetViolet: Hear me out. I’m not saying no forever. I’m saying let’s do this right. A cam call. You and me, live. I want to hear your voice. Not just read you.

king777tut: But my face. I told you—

SweetViolet: So wear a mask. Cover it. I don’t care about your face, not yet. I want your voice. I want to see if this… this little thing here… works when it’s real. On camera. When it’s live. 

SweetViolet: When you can’t sit there and craft every perfect sentence for five minutes before you send it.

The ellipsis stuttered, hesitant.

SweetViolet: If we’ve got chemistry on cam, then maybe. Maybe I think about the rest. You have to earn my trust. Show me something real. Tell me about yourself in your own voice. What you like. What you don’t. Your age. Anything.

A long pause. You chewed your thumbnail raw.

king777tut: I could wear a mask. I have many.

SweetViolet: Any mask you want. I’ll never see your face until you’re ready. But I’ll hear you. That’s the deal.

The ellipsis again. An eternity in three blinking dots. You wondered if you’d finally spooked him, if he’d vanish into the digital ether, becoming just another ghost—

king777tut: Yes. king777tut: Yes. I can do that. I want to. Tomorrow? This time? I can try to make myself available.

And your heart, that stupid traitorous organ, did a full, soaring flip.

SweetViolet: Tomorrow. This time. Don’t be late, tut.

king777tut: I will not be. Goodbye, Sweet Violet.

king777tut has left the private chat.

The screen reverted to your lobby where another 16 users were waiting for their turn.

You sat for a long time in the suffocating, silent heat, your skin still on fire, every nerve ending alive. Staring at the blank chat window on internet explorer. You couldn’t after that interaction ruin it by speaking to a dumb asshole on here asking to see your feet.

A soft cha-ching notification sounded from your payment portal totally disarming your weird thoughts. You glanced over.

$700.00 deposited from user: king777tut.

A memo line below: For you, honey. Until tomorrow.

Your breath froze. Seven hundred dollars. For half an hour of text. Jesus christ. Thats going to cover half of your rent.

You leaned back, the leather sticking to your skin. The dead fan lay on its side. 

Shit, you thought, a slow smile touching your lips despite the tremor in your hands. You had absolutely no idea what you’d just agreed to. You had no idea who he was.

-

The heat, for the first time all day, relented slightly

There was an orange-y soupy darkness in the sky from the sunset and the city lights looked like supernovas in comparison; that sharp unforgiving LED light against the warmth. It was 9pm on the dot.

Your own room felt like the inside hell—warm, damp, close. 

You’d showered, the water tepid and insufficient, and now sat before your webcam in a simple black lace bralette and matching panties. The fan was dead, so the only sound was the frantic beat of your own pulse in your ears.

Your dashboard showed king777tut was online. Waiting. 

The private room link glowed on your screen. You took a deep breath that did nothing to steady you, clicked it, and your own face appeared in a small preview window—eyes wide, lips parted. 

You hit ‘Start Broadcast.’

For a moment, there was only your image, and the black rectangle where his feed would be. 

Then, with a soft digital blink, his video connected.

The breath caught in your throat.

His camera quality was poor, grainy, washed with a faint greenish tint from low light. But you could see enough. He was propped against a massive, ornate headboard, dark wood carved with intricate, swirling patterns. 

The bed itself seemed enormous, a sea of rumpled white linens around him that stretched into the shadows behind. The room beyond was vast, hints of high ceilings and dark furniture just at the edges of the fuzzy resolution.

And his face… was hidden.

It was a mask, but not some cheap plastic thing. It was elaborate, antique-looking, made of what appeared to be pale porcelain and very finely painted. 

It covered his entire face, a stylized, androgynous visage with faintly rouged cheeks, arched eyebrows, and full, solemn lips. It reminded you of a Venetian carnival mask, or something from a masquerade ball in a gothic novel. Eccentric and beautiful and… deeply, profoundly strange. 

Who the hell has exquisite enough taste that this kind of mask is just laying around?

He wore a simple, loose white t-shirt, the neckline broad, the sleeves covering his shoulders. His hair was dark and long, hitting his collarbones; all curly. It hid his chest, his frame. 

The laptop was propped to his right, on the bed, giving this angled, intimate view. You couldn't see below his waist. The sheets were pulled up, and most of his bottom half out of the frame. You had no idea what he was or wasn't wearing.

“Hello,” a voice said, and your entire body went still.

It was his voice. The one you’d imagined from the delicate words from the chat log. It was airy, almost breathy, but underpinned by a sensual, rustic grain. It was a voice that had known singing, or perhaps shouting and late nights. There was a soft rasp at the edges, like worn velvet. It was shy, hesitant, yet it filled your headphones with an intimate, undeniable presence.

“Hi,” you managed, your own voice a whisper. You shifted, and your cheap office chair let out a loud, protesting squeak. You winced. “Sorry. The chair’s a piece of junk.”

The mask tilted slightly. “Don’t apologize,” he said, his tone softening. “I’m only payin’ attention to you.”

The simple sentence, delivered in that unique, raspy-shy cadence, made your stomach flip again. The nerves were killing you and the awkwardness was there, palpable in the digital space between you, but it was charged, not uncomfortable. 

It was the tension of two people standing at the edge of something unknown.

“Your room is… huge,” you said, glancing at the shadowy expanse behind him.

A slight movement—a shrug? “It can feel too large, sometimes. Empty.” He paused. “Yours seems more homely. better.”

You swallowed during the awkward beat. “What do you want to do tonight? Just… talk?”

“I would like that,” he said. “To talk first. May I… ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“What do you like?” The question was quiet, sincere but very broad. He sensed your awe and then corrected. 

“When you are with someone. What makes you feel good?”

The directness, devoid of the usual crude packaging, threw you. You took a moment, tracing the lace edge of your bralette. 

“I like… anticipation. The build-up. When someone takes their time.” You felt a blush creep up your neck. “I like feeling… overwhelmed. In a good way. Like I’m not completely in control.”

“How so?” His voice was a low murmur, utterly focused.

You took a deeper breath, committing. “Like… being tied up. Gently. With something soft. Or being blindfolded. Not knowing what’s coming next, just… feeling it. It makes every touch louder, you know?”

A long silence. You could see the faint reflection of your own feed in the dark lenses of his mask. Then, a soft, wondering exhale.

“Wow,” he breathed, the word full of genuine surprise. “I didn’t… I didn’t really think a young girl like you would be into all that. That’s… sophisticated.”

There was a note in his voice then, a wistful, almost sad quality. “It makes me feel old,” he confessed, the rasp more pronounced. “And simple. I’ve never tried any of those things. My experiences have been… straightforward. Traditional, I suppose.”

His vulnerability was disarming. “Traditional isn’t bad,” you offered. “How old are you?”

He let go of some breath; “I’m 45. Is that bad?”

You laughed a bit, your eyes twinkling, the computer light was reflecting off of them. “No.. its not. I like older men,”

“hmm,” he agreed softly. 

“well hearing you describe your desires from before… the trust it requires… the artistry of it…” He trailed off. “I think… its beautiful. I think I could make you feel good. Even being my simple self. If you let me.”

The promise, so humbly stated, sent a bolt of pure heat straight to your core. “Oh yeah?” you challenged gently, your voice dropping. “How would you go about that?”

The mask seemed to gaze right through the screen, into you. His voice, when it came, was a low, deliberate whisper, painting pictures in the dark.

“I would start by washing your hair,” he said, and the domestic intimacy of it shocked you. “In a deep, lavish bathtub. I would massage your scalp and then your shoulders, and wherever you needed it for an hour, until every knot in your body was gone. Then I would dry you with the softest towel I own. I would carry you to a bed much softer than that chair you’re on. And I would just… admire you. For a long time. memorise every curve, every freckle, the way your breathing changes when you’re nervous.”

You were motionless, captivated.

“Then,” he continued, the words flowing now, “I would kiss the inside of your wrist.” You instinctively looked at your own wrist. 

“Where your pulse beats. I would kiss my way up your arm, to your shoulder, to your throat. Learning what makes you sigh, what makes you shiver. I would use my mouth… everywhere… but so slowly you’d think you were dreaming. I wouldn’t touch you between your legs until you were begging me for it, until you were arching up off the sheets, offering yourself. And even then… I might just tease you with my breath. To hear the sound you’d make.”

A small, helpless whimper escaped you. Your hand had drifted to your own thigh, squeezing lightly.

On screen, you saw his own hand move. It slid from where it had been resting on his stomach, down, out of the frame. The laptop, perched on the bed, gave a subtle but distinct wobble. A shaky, unstable movement.

A soft, stifled sound; a sharp intake of breath, almost a whimper, came through your headphones. He was touching himself. You were sure of it. 

The laptop jittered on the rumpled silk; one, two, three frantic stutters that mapped perfectly in your mind to the stroke of his fist around his cock

“Would you…” you gasped, your own fingers creeping under the edge of your panties, finding wet heat. “Would you fuck me then?”

A low groan. 

“Yes,” he hissed, the word strained. “But not like you’re thinking. Not fast. I would lay you on your side and curl myself around you, behind you. I’d wrap my arm around your waist, hold you tight against me… and I’d push into you like that, so slowly you’d feel every single inch. And I’d whisper in your ear the whole time. Tell you how beautiful you are. How perfect you feel. I wouldn’t stop until you came around me, crying from how full you were.”

“Fuck,” you moaned, your head falling back. Then you refocused, you had to know more.

“And then what? When I'm crying and full of you, would you fuck me harder? Would you tell me how much you needed this? How long you've been waiting for my body?”

He didn’t even answer, totally undertaken by the sentiment you’d shared.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You hooked your thumbs into your panties and dragged them down, kicking them away. You plunged two fingers inside yourself, already slick and throbbing. The sound was obscene. “I’m touching myself,” you panted. “Thinking about that. About you filling me up.”

“Let me see,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please. Show me.” You moved the webcam so he could see you play with yourself - he was paying for it after all.

You brought your glistening fingers up to the camera, then, holding his gaze, slowly sucked them into your mouth, cleaning them with a long, languid stroke of your tongue.

A raw, guttural sound ripped from him. The laptop shook more violently. “Again. Do it again. For me.”

You were lost in it now, a feedback loop of his whispered, detailed fantasy and your own frantic touch. 

You fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining the slow, inexorable push he described, then brought them, dripping, back to your mouth.

“Mm good girl” he whispered behind the mask. You then grabbed your panties and shook them down to your mid thigh so you had unobstructed access. You fingered yourself with your two middle fingers, imaginingg it was his instead. Despite the weird mask, you could tell that he was attractive, his voice alone could probably bring you over the edge. 

“I’m close… I’m so close,” you chanted, breathlessly.

“You look so good like that, all hungry for it,” he whispered back, his voice unsteady from the repeated strain of stroking his cock.

“Come for me” he commanded, his own breath a ragged series of gasps. “Come for me, Sweet Violet. Let me hear you.”

Then it was serene convulsions. Muscles locking. Air stolen. White static behind your eyes. Then a keening sound, high and thin, tearing itself from your throat as the waves battered you, receding and then battering harder again. You were drowning in the thoughts of him.

Through the haze, you heard his finish. It wasn’t loud. It was a crescendo of those same shaky, whimpering breaths,  followed by a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to hold a lot of loneliness. 

The laptop on his end gave one final, definitive jerk and then was still.

The timer in the corner of the screen glowed: 08:47. The post-climax haze was a physical thing, a warm, heavy blanket of lassitude that made your limbs feel like lead.

On his screen, he hadn't moved. The porcelain mask stared blankly at the ceiling of his cavernous room. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deep rhythm beneath the rumpled white cotton of his shirt. The fabric had ridden up, revealing a tantalizing slice of his lower abdomen;

a taut plane of skin that, even in the grainy resolution, you could see was mottled with patches of darker pigment against a lighter one. The contrast was stark, intimate, laid bare by accident. You wondered what the rest of his chest looked like.

“That was…” you started, voice wrecked.

The mask tilted slowly toward the camera. A soft, almost inaudible sound of affirmation escaped him.  "Mmm-hmm." It was a vulnerable, boyish sound, utterly at odds with the grandeur of his surroundings and the intensity of what had just transpired. 

But then he was moving. Sitting up abruptly, as if electrocuted. The shyness flooded back, laced with panic. “I have to go,” he blurted out.

“Wait—”

“Thank you,” he rushed, his voice small and flustered. “That was… more than I… Thank you.”

And before you could say another word, his video feed winked to black.

king777tut has left the private broadcast.

The sudden disconnect was a physical slap. You sat in the buzzing silence, the afterglow cooling into a confused, hollow ache. You checked your payment portal. Another deposit. $1,500.

An hour passed. You were lying in your own bed, staring at the ceiling, when the chat pinged.

king777tut: I am sorry. I became… overwhelmed. Shy. It was so intense.

SweetViolet: It’s okay. It was for me too.

king777tut: I cannot get the image of you out of my head. The way you tasted your fingers. The sound you made.

SweetViolet: Your voice… I can’t get your voice out of my head.

A long, long pause. The ellipsis blinked for nearly a full minute.

king777tut: I need to see you. Not on line. In real life.

king777tut: 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road, Los Olivos, California 93441.

king777tut: Will you come meet me?

Your heart stopped. Then slammed against your ribs. 

SweetViolet: Who are you? Why are you giving out your address so easily?

king777tut: Come and find out. I will explain everything. I will keep you safe. Please.

You stare at the address in the chat log. 5225 Figueroa Mountain Road.

Every survival instinct you’ve honed in this job screams at you. This is how it happens. This is the first chapter of every true crime documentary about girls like you. You meet a sweet, lonely guy online, he pays well, he seems harmless, and then you get in a car and vanish. 

NO MEET-UPS. The rule is there for a reason.

But… the money. The absurd money. $2,200 in total from him for less than an hours work. That’s next semester’s books. That’s three months of your shitty rent. That’s breathing room and less panicked nights wondering where the fuck youll get the cash from to pay the landlord, or to even buy food.

And the curiosity. It’s an unscratchable itch. The mask. The voice. The way he talked to you like you were a person, not a fantasy dispenser or some ‘slut.’

Who is he? What kind of person shares their address that blazenly if they weren’t desperate?

The fear and the curiosity are having a fistfight in your chest. The fear is logical and well, the curiosity is a deep, hungry pull.

Screw it. You open Google Earth. You type the address.

The satellite view loads and your breath catches. It’s an estate, not just a house on a street. Its a huge, sprawling property in the middle of wine country. 

You zoom in. You see a massive main house, guest cottages, what looks like a… is that a Ferris wheel?

A cold, nervous laugh escapes you. What the actual hell?

You open a new tab. You search the address and “owner.”

The results are a mess of weird articles and reviews.

But one link catches your eye: a gossip blog from years ago. The headline makes your blood run cold for a second, then hot with pure, disbelieving shock.

The headline reads: “Neverland Valley Ranch Listed: Owner Seeking Private Buyer.”

You click it. The article is old. It says the property has been on and off the market for years. That the owner was motivated to sell after a brutal, public trial, but that no buyer had ever been deemed suitable or serious enough to finalise the deal. That the place sat in a kind of purgatory.

That place… it belongs to…. 

The pieces click together with a soundless, chilling thud.

All the fear doesn’t vanish, but it transforms. This isn’t a random creep. This is… something else entirely. The risk is astronomically different. You need to go. You MUST go see this through.

You look back at the chat.

Will you come meet me?

Your fingers are steady but sweaty as you type your reply. 

SweetViolet: Yes. I’ll come. 

pt 2?

back to masterlist

“Well I’ll do the intro, HEY GUYS! It’s your favorite Jackson, Jermajesty here.” You rolled your eyes, pushing Jaafar’s hand off your face.

“Today, we’ll be baking a cake but with a twist, Ran tell them what it is.” You said with a smile.

“While we’re baking, one of us won’t be able to see, another won’t be able hear, and another won’t be able to talk.” Randy explained.

“Wait….there’s four of us.” Jaafar said. “Exactly so Jaafar you’re the judge.” You told him.

“Oh hell no.”

•••

“Can you see?” You asked jermajesty after tying the bandana around his eyes. “Nothing but black.” He stuck his thumbs up.

“Randy, can you hear me?” You asked Randy, who was dancing to whatever song was playing. He continue to dance not even making eye contact with you.

“Well that’s settled. Now finally me.”

“LET ME DO IT!” Jaafar yelled taking the piece of tape from your fingers before quickly placing it on your mouth.

You shot him a middle finger as he went to sit behind the camera to watch the chaos.

•••

“Where’s the egg?” Jermajesty asked feeling around the counter full of ingredients.

Instead of carefully feeling around, he was rapidly swinging his hands.

“MMM.” You tried to warn him but you couldn’t watching him get closer and closer to the eggs.

Randy was too busy bopping his head, pouring dry ingredients to a bowl.

Before you could reach out to Jermajesty, his hand knocked two eggs on the floor making you jump back.

“….I think I found them.” He said.

Jaafar busted out laughing.

•••

“WHAT?!” Randy yelled as you pointed towards the bowl. His eyebrows were pinched in confusion as he picked up the bowl with the dry ingredients.

You shook your head, motioning to pour the wet ingredients in. “POUR IT?!”

You flinched at his volume but nodded. You looked at the camera before lifting and dropping your shoulders indicating a deep sigh.

•••

“MAJ NO!” Randy yelled running to stop Jermajesty from pouring the batter down the sink.

Randy managed to snatch the bowl before anything fell.

“So I’m assuming that wasn’t the pan.” Jermajesty said turning every which of way, thinking he’s facing the camera.

•••

“Wait guys, do the Charlie’s angel pose.” Jaafar suggested. Randy didn’t hear but he saw you and Jermajesty form gun fingers and followed along.

“Maj, you’re facing the wrong way.” Jaafar pointed out and Jermajesty turned his finger guns now having his back towards the camera.

“You know what….that’ll work.”

•••

“Say something if you don’t think we’re meant to be.” Jermajesty joked holding on to your shoulder.

“MMMMM.” You muffled, “She loves me guys.” He told the camera.

“Okay, say something if I’m not your favorite.” Jaafar told you.

“MMMM.”

“As I thought.” He shrugged.

•••

“GOING DOWN!” Randy yelled as he accidentally slipped on the broken egg spill that Jermajesty made earlier.

You attempted to catch him but Randy is a pretty large dude so you ended up falling too.

“What the hell was that?” Jermajesty asked going to walk towards the sound but he tripped on your ankle sending him falling too.

Jaafar literally had tears in his eyes as he watched you all groan on the floor.

•••

You stared at the frosting wanting to taste it so bad but was restricted from the tape on you mouth. “Awww you want some?” Jaafar pouted at you.

He reached over to dip his finger in the frosting, tasting it from his finger.

“Oh that was delicious, too bad, so sad.” He shrugged at you.

•••

As you walked past Jermajesty, you pinched his butt making him gasp and turn around.

“WHO THE FUCKKK WAS THAT?!”

•••

“Finally, it’s time.” Jaafar said. You, Randy, and Jermajesty stood with your hands in front of you, headphones, tape, and bandana off, waiting for Jaafar’s reaction.

“The cake looks a mess but edible.” Jaafar analyzed.

He took a bite and you practically held your breath.

Jaafar tilted his head as he chewed, a shocked on his face.

“Guys…” he said with a smile.

All three of you smiled, feeling accomplished that Jaafar enjoyed.

“This shit is ass.” He said making everyone shoulders drop.

“Angelface,” you giggled, laughter filling the rehearsal room as Michael gave you a piggyback up and down. You were both wearing matching Mickey and Minnie sweaters that you bought at Disneyland last year.

“Honey, every time y’ call me that it’s a disservice to y’self,” he frowned, still skipping around with your legs tucked against his forearms.

“Shut up, Michael, that doesn’t even make any sense.” You’d been playing with his curls, and now you gently smacked the top of his head.

He finally set you down, and dragged you eagerly into his chest by your two hands. Nestled there, you looked up at him, a hand reaching into his pretty hair again. “How does me appreciating your angelic existence have anything to do with reducing the love I have for myself?”

Michael squinted, tightening his arms around your waist, swaying you playfully side-to-side and leaning his head on yours. “Because y’ spend too much time focusin’ on me.”

You rolled your eyes. “Baby, I’m a singer who’s constantly centre stage. I think enough time is spent with me as the focus. Only difference is that I understand my worth, and you don’t, so I need to smother you.”

Michael smiled softly, growing shy as usual.

You pecked over his neck, pressing warm kisses up to his jaw, and he began to giggle, removing his arms from you as a wide grin spread across his face. “No, it tickles!”

“I know, baby, you’re so cute,” you laughed too, pulling him back to you by the nape of his neck and playfully biting the area of bare skin beside his shoulder.

Of course, there was nobody else Michael Jackson would’ve cast as the love interest for his sensational short-film other than his beautiful wife. You had been married for two and a half years now, and you had a twenty-month-old boy, Brandon Jackson, who was staying at home with his grandmother and aunties while his parents worked. The music video was being shot in and around Los Angeles, and you were rehearsing there too, so you weren’t far from your son and loved to greet him at the end of a long day.

When Michael had first called up John Landis to request his involvement in the video, after his acceptance Landis set out to find who would be the leading lady, but Michael quickly shut down his efforts. It was easy for any director working with Michael when it came to the casting process of the woman performing opposite, because not only did his insistence mean they didn’t have to go searching forever for the perfect woman, but his wife was also ideal for what they were looking for—a stunning, majorly talented actress, effortlessly gorgeous in front of the camera. Michael Jackson just happened to have the most intimate access to that perfect woman, the star girl of the moment and of his own private life.

But of course, directors weren’t always too pleased with managing the two of you as coworkers, because after all, you were in fact a married couple—and the most adorably clingy and untameable that most had seen in such a serious industry. No one had ever tried to claim that your relationship was for publicity, because to experience only five minutes in the presence of you both would be enough to suffice if one had any doubts.

You behaved like heart-eyed teenagers together, unable to keep your hands off each other, always teasing, playfighting, tickling. Michael got distracted very easily, wanting to rush off and run around whenever the conversation lacked stimulation of the brain or the body, and when you were with him, that naturally meant he was a million times more distracted than he would’ve been already. You’d been in a relationship for five years now, and married for two and a half of those, but every day you felt just as in love as the first.

And as for the childlike behaviour, you had grown up together in the most anxiety-inducing industry designed for adults, where the only playful freedom you could achieve was in the cosy bedrooms of one another, among board games and plush toys, laughter and comfort. Now you had the privilege of sharing a bedroom, and that day you first moved in together had been a dream come true, now living with your very best friend, your life partner, the man you were so thoroughly safe and content with.

But as previously told, on set that dynamic made for a sometimes difficult managing job on behalf of the director and others involved. One example was in how you'd often rush off during breaks to make out, then lose track of time and end up grinding into each other roughly against a couch, lips smacking and licking into perfect wet kisses, that would soon be halted when John came looking for you both.

One time, you were nestled in your man’s lap, rocking over his crotch as you both lost yourselves in a deep makeout. He was guiding your movements with two hands on your hips, sliding down to meet your ass, and whispering soft words to you that had you melting, as they always did. However, a large group of backstage crew walked in all of a sudden—or was it really all of a sudden when you’d been told the specific time you needed to be back out there with everybody?—and you both froze, giggling shyly.

Michael had laughed into your neck, to which you smacked his face lightly and squeezed his pretty cheeks, rubbing your thumb over where his lupus was beginning to flare. Then you held his jaw, desperate to end the working day and just make out forever.

“I don’t wanna go back out there… just wanna kiss you,” you murmured against his lips, biting the bottom one. “Need to tell ‘em I’m busy kissin’ my baby…”

“Angel girl…” he sighed, gripping your ass before running his hands up and down your arched back. Mwah, mwah, mwah. Kisses beginning at your nose, then on your forehead, and all over, while you laughed and squirmed.

“Oh Mikey…”

“I wanna stay here too, but we’ll have plenty of time for kisses when we get home later. Lots more than just kisses as well.” He grinned, standing up with you still held to him, and instinctively you wrapped your legs around his waist, humming in glee. It wasn't as if you’d be apart from your man for the rest of the night since you were rehearsing together, but in some ways being around him while having to restrain yourself was more difficult than not having him there at all.

He switched to carrying you in bridal style as you both made your way to where John wanted you, and he bounced you playfully in his hold, to the amused knowing eyes of everybody else.

And then there were the times you’d have the most ridiculous arguments, disagreeing on what looked best in certain scenes, what should be said, which slight difference in expression should be decided upon… You’d whack each other and end up in fits of giggles, although then quickly returning to the argument once you still couldn’t come to a compromise.

You were both perfectionists that took your standards to the extreme, never settling for anything you weren’t satisfied by. That was great when you were on board with the same thing together—because how terrible would it be to work with somebody who couldn’t care less about attaining a high standard of art?—but what wasn’t great was when you weren’t in agreement.

Giggling profusely, you strutted down the rehearsal room, working out which sort of walk looked best for the scene.

“Okay, so I’ll walk like this—”

“Nooo, like this,” Michael argued, demonstrating a slower walk, because he was supposed to be a little faster in his.

“Ugh, whatever, Michael, just make up your mind,” you sighed, because he’d been changing things around constantly all morning. “So now show me how you’re gonna walk.”

With an arm around your shoulder, he started to stroll to an imaginary beat, and you laughed as he pulled you in closer. Michael was happy with the image, but you thought he was walking too fast.

“I think that’s too fast, honey.”

“What? No, it’s not. I’m supposed to be circlin’ around y’.”

“Yes, but you’re almost running. It takes away the suspense.”

“I don’t think it does.”

“John!” you both called simultaneously, in frustration.

But John agreed with you—Michael was walking too fast for the dynamic.

“See!” you exclaimed, as the director walked off again. “Just ‘cause it’s your music video, that doesn’t mean you’re right about everything.”

“Shh, whatever, c’mere,” he chuckled, tugging you up into his arms and preparing to swing you upside down while you screamed.

“Baby, stop it, oh my Go—no, put me down!”

Michael only laughed, swinging you around before finally setting you back down on the floor. The few others in the room were bewildered by how giddy and excitable you seemed to always be when together.

John was walking back over now, sighing. "Alright kids, are we gonna get some work done or what?"

"Yes John," Michael chuckled, linking his arm into yours. "'m sorry, 's her fault—she gets a lil carried away."

"Shut up, Michael," you argued, nudging him.

He then nudged you back, so you flicked his forearm.

"Ow!"

"Exactly—that's what you get for defamation of character," you said pointedly, crossing your arms.

"So this is what it's like working with a married couple," John remarked in his amusement.

"Well, it wouldn't be if Michael would stop tryna provoke me!"

When you did officially record the scene where your characters were walking down the street to the opening verse, Michael paused as the cameras started rolling.

“Oh, uh, could you record her from the other side? From… this angle." He moved to demonstrate, and said the next line so casually as if it was a standard, relevant point to make to a camera crew. “She looks beautiful from this angle.”

A few of the guys chuckled; by now so used to Michael’s constant obsession with you, but you squinted in annoyance. “Is that a backhanded compliment?”

“Huh?”

“What, I don’t look good from the other side?”

“Oh, nononono—I didn’t mean it like that, mama. I mean the cameras can’t see y’ eyes this way—y’ eyes light y’ pretty face up.”

“Baby, stop it, there’s so many people around,” you whispered, covering your face.

"You asked me to clarify, honey. And there's nothin' wrong w' me pointin' somethin' out to those guys. We need the best angles."

"I know, but—ugh, whatever," you giggled, smiling wide and bashful.

"Yeah, whatever," Michael grinned mischievously, leaning over to peck your cheek. "There's no time or place where I shouldn't make it known how wonderful y' are."

Another issue on set was in regard to Michael’s eating disorder, which his medical staff believed to be bordering on anorexia, although he always refused to get himself properly assessed. He hated being medically evaluated, especially because in this case he didn't see his disorder as a serious issue, nor something he intended to improve on anytime soon. Michael liked to resort to punishing himself and controlling himself with food restriction, where to him food intake was the only thing he could truly regulate, and you hated that he felt that way. You understood, but hated it all the same.

And there was another component to his starving endeavours, whereby it wouldn't always be in the context of intentional punishment. Sometimes he would simply just forget to eat, so enamoured by whatever he was working on, so determined to attain perfection, that eating a proper meal—or even anything at all—easily slipped his mind.

On all of those days, throughout all the purposefully dry spells of eating and through the unintentional ones too, you were there for him. You couldn’t always tell for certain if Michael had eaten, but your intuition was very skilful at recognising when he hadn’t, and during the days where you spent a lot of time together—like during those day-long Thriller rehearsals and tedious shooting nights—he couldn’t hide the truth from you at all.

Sometimes, tough love was necessary to keep your sweetheart healthy.

“Baby,” you called, entering the rehearsal room with the lunch you’d just bought for him. The other dancers were all sitting around eating theirs, while Michael wandered around and continued to practice some of the moves.

His eyes lit up when he saw you, but they quickly saddened as he saw what you were holding.

“Hey, angel boy,” you greeted, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. He held you to him for a few moments, holding your jaw and kissing you softly. His heart always raced faster whenever you used ‘angel’ as a term of endearment, even though he pretended he didn’t want you to call him such a thing.

“I got you tofu salad and fries,” you announced, presenting him with what you knew he wouldn’t want to eat. He had recently been attempting vegetarianism in the interest of animal welfare, but couldn’t stop resorting back to KFC whenever he’d starve himself for too long and end up succumbing to a binge of processed food. He’d asked you to discipline him regarding that, which was the reason for your decision to bring the salad, but you would’ve preferred to get him the fried chicken just because there was a higher chance he’d actually eat it comfortably.

“Uh, no, mama—’m not hungry.”

You sighed, still refusing to give up. Taking his hand, you led him out of the room and into a desolate hallway. “Michael Jackson,” you said sternly, and he bit his lip with a squint, knowing you meant business.

“Sit your ass down and eat this food. You haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours and you’re burning at least a thousand calories a day with all this dancing. I don’t want you to collapse, baby—you need to nourish yourself. Listen to your wife, please?”

Finally, he nodded slowly. “Okay. Uh—share it with me?”

“No, angel, I have my own. This is the perfect amount for you. I can go back and get you some chicken if you want?”

“No, I’m alright—I’ll eat it.”

Reluctantly, he chose a quiet seat alone with you, and you smiled to yourself with every slow bite he took. He linked his arm into yours unconsciously, and you squeezed and poked his cheek to make him giggle. You always hated having to force him to eat, but it was necessary.

Some days, it was a lot more difficult to get him to nourish himself. You practically had to drag him out of the rehearsal room before he fainted of exhaustion, and having to manage doing so as discreetly as possible so as not to accidentally embarrass him in front of everyone. They just thought you were a clingy wife (which you were, to be honest, but perfectly matched to a clingy husband) and you let them believe that to be the reason why you sometimes took him out of the room in the middle of the afternoon.

“Baby, please eat something or you’re gonna faint in front of all those people.”

“’m not gonna faint!” he protested, but you only rolled your eyes and sat him down on an empty couch, cuddling into his lap with a box of KFC: original recipe breasts with the skin removed, just as he liked it.

“No, ‘m not supposed to…” Michael stressed.

“It’s better than eating nothin', honey,” you said softly, interlacing your fingers with his.

“Mm." He nodded with absent mind, worrying himself about the concept of failing his dietary plan yet again.

“Baby, it’s not the end of the world if you eat some chicken. I know you feel bad for the animals but you yourself need to eat.”

He always felt awkward having these sorts of discussions, so he didn’t respond, but quietly picked up a leg and began to chew at it. Meanwhile, you snuggled into his chest, caressing up and down his thin arms.

He did keep trying to distract you and pawn his food off on you, but you knew all his tricks and were having none of it.

“Y' don’t want any of this, baby? It’s really good,” he insisted.

“Michael, I know what KFC tastes like and if you enjoy it so much you should be the one eating it.”

“But it’s rude not to share.”

You gave him a stern look, pushing the chicken toward his mouth as if mock-spoonfeeding him, and he laughed as you did.

“Alright, alright, whatever, mama.”

In the cooler evenings, you bundled up under a blanket together and watched the stars, the fur-line of your jacket brushing against Michael’s cold wrists. He often brought a map of the constellations, pointing at each while you nodded sleepily, poking at his pretty curls and trying not to fall asleep.

And sometimes you would almost fall asleep during filming too. Michael always noticed every slight tell-tale sign that you were getting sleepy, and he would take you to the side to check that you were feeling alright.

"Y'tired honey?" he asked one night, smiling down at you as he held both of your hands and swung them gently. Since you were children he'd treated you with so much care, as though you'd built the concrete he walked on.

"A little," you replied with a yawn.

"Just an hour more, an' then we'll be goin' home," Michael reassured, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and leaning down into a kiss. Your lips met each other's so warm and sweet, tongues lightly sliding over each other out of habit, and you hummed in content into his mouth, while he rubbed circles over the sliver of skin at your waist.

Lost in the slow meeting of your lips, you hadn't noticed somebody was standing quite close by, until suddenly you heard a camera flash, and caught the sight of it in your peripheral. You squinted, the light feeling harsh in the dark and in your sleepy haze, and as you both turned in its direction—Michael still holding you to him—you saw one of the camera crew guys. He was now recording a video, as part of the bonus behind the scenes footage that would be released to the public. These cameras had already captured enough of the two of you being ridiculously head over heels, but everybody knew just how much the public enjoyed seeing the two of you together, so with that in mind they continued to memorialise your sweetest moments.

"Oh my—" you laughed, shaking your head and covering your face playfully. Michael did too, looking incredibly shy, but he still wouldn't let go of you.

"And here are two lovebirds in their natural habitat," the man narrated, zooming in on the two of you.

"Nooo," you both cried in unison, through more laughter, and you attempted to bury your face into Michael's chest, but he pushed your head back gently and held your jaw to face you to the camera.

He began to talk into the lens. "This is my beautiful leading lady for Thriller. She's a little sleepy," he kissed your forehead and your nose while you giggled, "but she's lookin' magical tonight under these stars, isn't that right, audience?"

You pulled a bemused expression at him. "Mikey, they can't respond."

"No, but they'll respond to the television when they're watchin' at home. They'll say look how beautiful—" He cut himself off as he began to pepper quick kisses all over your face, smothering you in affection while you squealed.

"Michael!" Your throat exuded the warmest, most genuine giggles, and your baby relished in them, only wanting to fluster you even more to hear the sound in his ears all night.

"No, listen," he chuckled, suddenly picking you up into a bridal hold—his favourite. He'd quickly forgotten about the cameras again, being entirely focused on you.

"Ow!" you squealed again in surprise, letting your arms hang around his neck.

Michael paused his talk for a moment to gaze down into your eyes, and usually it was him who became so full of blushes and overcome with shyness, but tonight he had you in that position. Again, he kissed your nose, and your heart fluttered. As did his.

"Listen..." he whispered.

"I'm listenin', honey."

"The people watchin'... They'll say, 'look how beautiful an' magical Michael's girl is.’”

You giggled. "I don't think they'll be callin' me magical."

"But you are…”

"Baby, I just mean that no one goes around in life callin' everything magical like you do."

"I don't call everythin' magical."

You rolled your eyes. "Last night I complained that I was a little cold, and you told me that I couldn't be cold because it was—according to you—a 'magical night'."

"Because it was. Look on the positive side of things, princess." Michael smiled wide, kissing the top of your head. For some reason he was still just standing there in the middle of a music video set, carrying you as he walked around absentmindedly in a circle.

You took a deep, lightheartedly frustrated sigh. "You asked me if I was cold, Michael. I wouldn't have even said anything if you hadn't asked."

"Oh yeah."

Again you giggled, shaking your head at his silliness as you effortlessly relaxed into his chest. You were very sleepy now, so a few moments passed before your brain caught up with you, and you furrowed your brows, looking up at him with an amused question.

"Angel, why are you just stood here holding me like this? Y'don't wanna sit down anywhere, or...?"

Michael grinned, cradling your cheek as he looked down at you like a mother would to her newborn. "Got lost in y', honey—forgot I was even standin' here."

You squinted, with another bemused laugh. "So you're the sleepier one, clearly."

But truthfully, the real case was that through Michael’s perspective, the world stopped whenever you were in his arms. Whenever he held you, all he felt, saw and heard was you.

“No,” he countered your assumption, bouncing you suddenly in his arms and making you squeal again, to the amused looks of the others gathered around the opposite end of the set. Michael had an insane amount of energy for somebody so nutritionally malnourished, and he proceeded to skip and run up and down the set with you, holding your happy face to his chest as he did; and singing a song that had been stuck in his head.

You laughed gaily into the cold air. “Put me down, baby, we can both sing.”

Finally he did set you down on the ground, and you skipped along hand in hand, harmonising with each other into the night, like two children in a playground. Essentially, recording studios and sets like these had always been your only form of playground. You each had to make your own child-like fun, and the call of the director was like your version of the ring of a school bell to close recess.

Some nights, when Latoya and Janet had been taking care of your baby boy, Latoya would drive over to the set and hand him over before you and Michael set off home. On one particular night, you had yet another ridiculous argument with your husband, just as his sister was pulling into the parking lot.

"Baby. Take that stupid mask off."

"I don't think it's that bad..."

"It is bad for a toddler, Michael."

"No, maybe it's just you who's scared."

He was wearing the multi-stage werewolf mask from the opening scene of the music video, enjoying running around in it so much that he wouldn't take it off, and he also kept insisting that because he loved horror movies as a small child, surely all children did. What logic.

"Michael Jackson, take that shit off right now," you said firmly, but the sincerity of your words were undercut by laughter, because he just looked so incredibly silly.

Michael still continued to refuse, so you ended up chasing him around the set, until finally he took the stupid thing off when Latoya began walking up with Brandon.

"Hi honey, thank you so much," you greeted her, pulling her into an embrace while still semi-breathless from chasing around after your man. Brandon was tucked into his stroller, and Michael wasted no time in picking him up gently to cradle him. He babbled at his daddy and made grabby hands at his collar, while Michael bounced him up and down in his arms, tickling his tummy to make him squeal.

Latoya went back to her car to drive home, and the two of you were left peacefully alone with your sweet baby, sat on a bench under those same stars you'd lived with every night recently. Michael held both you and Brandon to him, and now tried to teach his son of the constellations, even though he knew that in his young age the boy was retaining nothing. It was an adorable sight—two adults with childlike hearts, endeavouring to give their first baby the experience of freedom that they'd never themselves revelled in.

angelcrescent © 2026 i love writing mike fluff so much >u< also the title was inspired by ‘angel of mine’ by monica!

Michael sat writing at his dimly lit desk, quietly humming along to a melody that he’d conjured up in his head. He’d been there for quite some time now, the sheets beside you being significantly colder without his warmth.

You sighed, swinging your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the rug. It had only taken you a few steps to get to him, the satin fabric of your robe flowing elegantly behind you.

“Oh, my brilliant boyfriend,” you cooed quietly, lightly wrapping your arms around him from behind. His body tensed up for a moment before easing into your touches, one arm moving from the notebook to lightly caress your thigh with his thumb. “Does sleep not exist in your world?” You joked.

“I’m sorry for waking you, baby,” he apologized, finally peeling his eyes away from the notebook to look up at you, his doe eyes filled with both warmth and exhaustion. “I just... I can’t seem to get something right," he mutters, his brows furrowing in frustration. “Like, something is missing.”

You sighed again, gently running your fingers through his curls. Michael inhaled at this, closing his eyes to take in the scent of your lavender lotion.

“Mikey, you won’t be able to figure anything out if you’re passed out at your desk.”

“Baby, you don’t understand,” he says, removing his hand away from your thigh and back onto the notebook. “I have to get it right; otherwise God will—"

“Give it to Prince?” You laughed, cutting him off.

Rather than responding, he huffs out a laugh as well, gently pulling you onto his lap. You giggled at this, peppering kisses onto his neck. Michael’s hand made its way back to your thigh, his thumb caressing it in tiny circles.

“Is it okay if I read what you’ve had so far?” You ask, gesturing towards the open notebook on the desk. Michael nods. Which is rare for him; he’d rarely let anybody read his work until it was complete perfection.

Michael’s eyes followed as you slightly readjusted your position on his lap, picking up the notebook to properly read its pages. Your eyes trailed along the sheet, taking note of scribbled-out words and slight creases in the paper. Your eyes eventually settled on lyrics that had yet been completely discarded.

Hey, pretty baby with the high heels on You give me fever like I've never ever known You're just a product of loveliness I like the groove of your walk, your talk, your dress I feel your fever from miles around I'll pick you up in my car and we'll paint the town Just kiss me, baby, and tell me twice That you're the one for me

“Michael, this is really good,” you say, turning to him in genuine confusion. You gently grabbed his jaw, turning his head to look at you. “How could you not like this?”

Michael shrugs, taking the notebook from you to go over what he had written, but not before you took it from him again, gently placing it back on the desk. You found yourself pressing kisses onto his lower jaw, eliciting a soft smile from him.

“Baby, c’mon, you’ve been working for hours,” you murmur, your fingers running through his soft curls once more. “Please, come to bed. If not, at least step away for a moment.”

Michael sighed, accepting defeat. Finally, he shut his notebook, now giving you his full undivided attention, his hands now finding themselves wrapped around your waist.

“Do you think people would like it?”

Your heart swelled at the question. Anyone with eyes and ears could tell you how truly talented Michael was. Even with years of countless accolades and recognition, Michael had never once let the fame get to his head—something you always adored about him. At the same time, you also knew where he was coming from; after all, it had been 3 years since he released Thriller, and the hype had only just now begun to cease.

“Of course they would,” you say earnestly, placing your hand on his cheek. Michael gently took your wrist, placing a quick but affectionate kiss on it; your smile couldn’t help but get wider.

Michael closed his eyes, burying his head in your chest. You found yourself running your fingers through his hair again, placing kisses on the top of his head.

“Y’know that I love you, right, girl?” He mutters against you, his voice coming out muffled. You found yourself smiling at the nickname.

“I love you too,” you say finally, getting up from his lap. You held out your hand for him to accept it, wanting him to finally get some rest. “Now, can you please get some rest?” you ask softly.

Michael couldn’t help but smile at your relentlessness. He gently accepted your hand, finally allowing you to lead him towards the sheets of your shared bed.

“Only for you.”