destiny

 Someone from the side called out, "It's right there, Mike!"

 He looked down, blinking slowly at the massive cake sitting on a table on the stage. His name written across the bottom in sparkling letters.

 He stared at it for a long moment. His head tilted. Then straightened. Then tilted again like he was tryin' to see it from a different angle. "...Oh."

 The crowd erupted. You shook your head, still laughing at him. He was making a fool of himself. He squinted at the cake. "Is that... is that my name?" "Yes Michael!" someone from the crowd shouted.

 He nodded slowly, processing. "Yeah. Yeah, that's my name. I remember." Someone in the crowd howled with laughter. The DJ played a sound effect, a record scratch before cutting it off.

 Michael grinned, pleased with himself, and stumbled across stage toward the cake. He moved with the careful deliberation of someone who knew they were drunk but was determined not to show it. It was actually working surprisingly.

 He stood in front of the cake, studying it. He leaned in close, then straightened, then leaned in again. You’d got the cake personally made for him as a surprise so he hadn’t seen it at all before this. 

 "You okay over there?" you called. He turned to you, eyes glassy and warm. "I'm admirin'." "Admire faster. People wanna eat it, I wanna eat it." He waved a dismissive hand. "They can wait."

 Then without warning, he stuck his finger into the icing. Pulling it out, he examined the white frosting and brought it to his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut as he licked it clean.

 "They did good," he mumbled to himself. "Real good."

 Then he noticed you sitting nearby, and a slow drunken grin spread across his face. He lowered his hand, holding his finger out in front of you, still glistening with the remnants of the icing and his spit.

 He looked down at you through fogged, dark eyes, expectant. Waiting. His head swayed slightly as he tried to keep still. The DJ, who'd been providing commentary all night, leaned into his mic. "Ohhh, he wants you to taste it!"

 The crowd hooted. You felt heat creep up your neck, but you didn't look away from him.

 You stood slowly, smoothing your outfit down before stepping toward him. Your hand wrapped around his wrist gently, guiding his hand closer to your face.

 You held his gaze. Then you parted your lips and wrapped them around his finger. Your tongue swirled against the icing, slow and deliberate, licking every bit of sweetness off his skin. 

 His breath hitched. Eyes staying locked on yours hazy and dark, his lips parted slightly. A soft, barely audible sound escaped his throat. You pulled back with a soft pop, still holding his gaze for just a second longer.

 Then you turned toward the crowd, putting both thumbs up and nodding emphatically. "It's good!" The crowd cheered. The DJ laughed, and you swore someone wolf whistled.

 Behind you, Michael stood frozen, his face burned pink. He ducked his head, letting out a breathy little laugh into the mic, and shifted on his feet.

 He adjusted his jeans. Subtly. Or at least, he thought it was subtle. His hand tugged at the waistband, pulling the fabric away from his body, hoping to hide what was becoming very obvious. He glanced down at himself, then quickly looked away, his blush deepening.

 He barely noticed you sneaking up to him. Before anyone could react, you reached forward and grabbed a huge handful of the ice cream cake holding it up. The crowd, sensing what was coming began to chant.

 "Food fight! Food fight! Food fight!" You grinned. And then you smashed it right into Michael's face. He stumbled back, sputtering as the cold cake dripped down his cheeks, his nose, his chin. For a second, he just stood there blinking through the mess.

 Then he laughed. loud and bright, echoing through the venue as he wiped at his face only succeeding in smearing the cake further across his skin. His hands were a mess now, sticky and covered in icing, and he wiped them down his shirt without a second thought.

 "Happy birthday!" you called out, laughing. He was still laughing drunkly at that and still wiping at his face, when you stepped forward again. Before he could react, you cupped his sticky cheeks in your hands and pulled him into a kiss.

 The crowd erupted.

 It was sweet, messy, and tasting of ice cream and icing and him. His hands still sticky found your waist, pulling you closer despite the chaos. He let out a soft, muffled sound against your lips, something between surprise and contentment, and kissed you back like he'd forgotten anyone else was watching.

 When you finally pulled back, you clapped your hands together and smiled bright. "Happy birthday, baby." He stared at you, face covered in cake, eyes soft and dazed and so full of love it made his chest ache.

  He blinked slowly, like he was trying to process what just happened. "...Best birthday kiss ever." He tugged at his jeans again, adjusting himself nd hoping the cake was enough of a distraction.

 It wasn't. But he'd deal with that later. Michael didn't stay long after that. He was a mess of cake and icing, sticky from head to toe, his shirt ruined and his jeans smeared with white frosting. He thanked everyone he passed, shook hands, hugged a few fans who'd gotten close enough, and made sure to blow a kiss toward the crowd before he let you guide him toward the exit.

 "Thank you," he slurred, waving lazily at the people still chanting his name. "Thank you all. Love you. Love you guys."

 You smiled, your arm wrapped around his waist, steadying him as he stumbled toward the waiting limo. The door opened, and you helped him inside, sliding in after him as the door closed and muffled the noise of the party.

 The moment the door shut, he was on you. Not in a rush. His body turned toward yours, his hand finding your thigh almost immediately, his face buried in your neck.

 "You're so pretty." he mumbled against your skin. "So, so pretty. Did I tell you that already?" "A few times tonight, yeah." "I mean it." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "So pretty. Best wife ever. Best birthday ever."

 You laughed, your hands coming up to wipe at the cake still clinging to his cheek. "You're a mess, handsome." "A very happy mess." He caught your wrist, kissing your palm. "'S your fault. You started it."

 "You started it with the finger thing." You played the memory back in your head. He grinned, all teeth and dimples. "Worth it." You shook your head, still laughing and reached for a napkin from the mini bar to try and clean him up. He let you for about two seconds before his hand wrapped around your ankle.

 He tugged. You let out a surprised laugh as he pulled you across the seat, your back sliding against the leather until you were in front of him.  He didn't stop there. He shifted his knees finding the seat cushion as he turned to face you properly, moving until he was on his knees in front of you.

 "Michael, what are you doin’" He didn't answer. He just reached down and pulled your heels off, one by one dropping them onto the floor of the limo without a second glance.

  Then his hands wrapped around your foot, holding it like it was something precious. "Mikey." "Hold on." He pressed a kiss to the top of your foot, sloppy and warm. "Just..hold on."

 You giggled, trying to pull your foot back. "You look ridiculous. Let me clean you up." He shook his head, still holding your foot. "No." "Michael."

 "No." He looked up at you through his lashes, his eyes glassy and dark, and reached for your hand. He guided it down, pressing your palm flat against the obvious bulge in his jeans. "See what you did earlier, pretty? Hm? You gonna take accountability?"

 Your breath caught. "Michael, we're still in public." "So?" "The driver can hear us." He pouted, his lower lip jutting out in that drunk petulant way that made him look younger. "'S my birthday."

 "I know, baby." "You said I could have whatever I wanted." You raised an eyebrow. "I said you could have whatever cake you wanted." He blinked, processing then shook his head. "Same thing."

 "It's not the same thing." He frowned, his hand sliding up your thigh, slow and deliberate. "Would be a good birthday gift."

 "Michael." "I'm not asking for much." His fingers traced circles on your skin. "Just you. Just a little bit of you."

 You glanced out the tinted window. Police motorcycles trailed the limo. You could see the outline of the driver's head through the partition, focused on the road ahead.

 "There are police outside, Mikey." He followed your gaze, then looked back at you, his pout deepenin'. "They can't see through the windows." "That's not the point."

 "It could be." He tilted his head, his hand squeezing your thigh gently. "Please? For my birthday?" You stared at him. Drunk, messy, pouty, beautiful and very convincing and sighed because you were being convinced.

 Michael's whole face lit up when you agreed.

 His eyes went wide his lips spread into a grin, and he let out a little giggle. His cheeks were flushed, his hair a mess, and there was still a smear of icing on his chin that he hadn't bothered to wipe off.

 "Yeah?" "Yeah, don’t make me take it back." He didn't waste a second. His hands found your ankle, tugging you forward until you were in front of him fully. You could feel the cake beneath you, cold and sticky against your thighs through your outfit, but he didn't seem to care. He just pulled you closer, his face dropping to press a kiss against the top of your foot.

 "Pretty," he murmured against your skin. His lips dragged down slowly from your ankle up to your knee, leaving a trail of warm, wet kisses. He paused at your shin, turning his head to press his cheek against your leg, looking up at you with those glassy eyes. "Look at these nails, mama. French tipped? On your toes? 'S so sexy."

 You laughed, trying to pull your foot back. "You're crazy." "Mhm." He nodded, not bothering to deny it. "M’ crazy for you."

 He held your foot in both hands now, his thumbs tracing slow circles over your arch. He brought your toes to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the tips, then another ,then another, working his way across each one like he was memorizing them. His eyes fluttered shut a little hum escaping his throat.

 "Been thinkin' 'bout these all night," he admitted, his voice low and slurred. "When you had 'em out in them open-toed heels. Couldn't concentrate on nothin' else."

 You felt your face warm. "You were lookin' at my feet during your own party?" "Was lookin' at all of you." He pressed another kiss to your ankle, then your calf. "'S not my fault you're beautiful everywhere."

 He wrapped his hand around your waist and pulled you flush against him, your thighs pressing against his hips. His hands settled on your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your outfit as another giggle fell from his lips.

 "'M gonna be quiet," he promised, nodding seriously. "Real quiet. Promise." He said it with such intensity that you almost believed him. He was lying. The second your lips met his, he let out a moan that was definitely not quiet.

  It rumbled from his chest deep and needy, vibrating against your mouth. His tongue slid against yours immediately, messy and warm and tasting faintly of the drink he'd been drinking earlier. His hands roamed your back, your waist, your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer as if he couldn't get enough.

 You could feel him through his jeans, hard and heavy, pressed right against your core. You rolled your hips experimentally, and he whined into your mouth. "Yeah- fuck— yeah, just like that Tinka.."

 His hands found the inside of your thigh, fingers trailing up slowly, searching. When he reached the damp fabric of your panties, he smiled against your lips.

 "Someone's excited," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. His fingers pressed lightly against the wet spot, rubbing slow circles through the fabric. "That for me, mama? All that juice f'me?"

 Your hips stuttered but you didn't stop moving against him. The friction of his belt against your panties sent little sparks through your core, and you rolled your hips harder chasing the sensation.

 "Keep goin'," he breathed, his head falling back against the seat. His eyes fluttered open, looking up at you through heavy lids. "Don't stop. 'S my birthday, 'n I want you to ride me."

 "Your outfit's getting ruined." You noted, the outfit was worth quite a lot. It was quite literally sparkling. He let out a breathy laugh, his chest rising and falling. "Don't care. 'S worth it. Got money f'more outfits but I only got one of you."

 You kept moving grinding down against his belt and the bulge beneath it. His hand slid down to palm your ass, squeezing once before patting it gently. "That's it. Use me, mama. 'S your fault f'being so pretty."

 He reached up, his hand sliding behind your neck and guiding your lips back to his, swallowing the moan that escaped you as he bit down gently on your bottom lip. You ground down harder, chasing that friction, and he groaned into your mouth.

 "'M not gonna last long," he warned, his voice breaking. "You feel too good." "Then don't hold back." you whispered against his lips.

 His hips bucked up to meet yours, and you both moaned. Michael pulled you closer as if he wanted to consume you all at once. 

 He lifted his head, gazing up at you with those lidded eyes. A smile spread across his lips, slow and drunk and full of love. "'S my best birthday yet."

 Michael was close. You could feel it in the way his hips stuttered, in the way his breath came in shorter, hotter pants against your mouth.

 "So close, tinka," he whimpered, his forehead pressing against yours. His hands were griping your hips, fingers diggin' into your outfit like he was trying to hold on. "Not gonna last with 'y on my lap. It’s too good."

 You hummed against his lips, slowing your movements just slightly. He whined in protest, his hips chasin' yours. "Don't stop! Please —"

 You stopped anyway. He blinked, his glassy eyes focusing on your face with slow, confused realization.

  His bottom lip jutted out, pushin' forward in a pout that made him look like a hurt deer. "That was mean," he mumbled, his voice slurred and wounded. "Why'd you stop? 'M your husband. It’s my birthday. You're bein' mean."

 You smiled, running a hand through his messy hair. "I'm bein' mean?" "Yes." He nodded emphatically, his pout deepening. "Very mean. Meanest wife ever."

 You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "Stay right there." Before he could protest again, you slipped off his lap and sank to your knees on the floor of the limo. The carpet was soft beneath you. 

 He looked down at you, his brows furrowed for a second before you reached for the zipper of his pants. He got it immediately. His legs fell open, manspreading to make room for you between his thighs.

  He watched with heavy-lidded eyes as you pulled his cock out, already hard and leaking, the tip slick with precum. He let out a shuddering breath as your fingers wrapped around him. "Manicured nails." he breathed, watching your french tips wrap around his length. "Look so pretty wrapped 'round me. 'S not fair."

 You smiled up at him, then opened your mouth and took him in. His head fell back against the seat, a loud moan tearing from his throat. His hand flew to your hair, tugging slightly. "Fuck— Tinka…"

 He was already close, his hips twitching as you moved your head, taking him deeper. His breath came in ragged pants, his chest heaving, his grip tightened in your hair.

 "Please," he whimpered. "Please— m'close—'m gonna—“ You pulled off just enough to look up at him, your lips still brushing his tip, your hand still stroking him slowly. "Then let go," you said softly. "Don't hold back, handsome. You've been so good all night."

 His eyes fluttered, his lip catching between his teeth. "Let me see you fall apart, pretty boy." That did it. He came with a broken moan, his hips bucking forward as he spilled into your mouth.

  His hand tightened in your hair, his body shuddering his breath came in short, uneven gasps. He was whispering your name over and over like a prayer, half-coherent and completely gone.

 When he finally stilled he looked down at you with dazed, watery eyes. A lazy, satisfied grin spread across his face. "...Love you," he mumbled. "Mean it. Even if you're mean."

 You laughed softly, wiping the corner of your mouth as you climbed back up to sit beside him. He immediately slumped against you, his head finding your shoulder. "Best birthday ever," he murmured. You pressed a kiss to his hair. "Happy birthday."

 Michael was quiet for a moment after he came down.

 Still slumped against your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your thigh. You thought he'd fallen asleep, his breathing evening out. 

 But then he shifted. Lifted his head. Blinked at you slowly those dark eyes glassy but focused, like he was forcing himself to stay present. "You didn't come."

 You opened your mouth to brush it off to tell him it was fine, that you were okay, but he was already shaking his head, his brow furrowing with genuine concern.

 "No. I felt it. You were close when I…" He gestured vaguely downward, a loose wave of his hand. "Then you stopped. That's not fair to you."

 "It's okay, baby. We're almost at the hotel." It was fine, honestly seeing him come was enough for you. He pouted but he nodded. "Fine. But I'm not forgetting. Soon as we get inside, I'm takin' care of you. Promise."

 You smiled, running your fingers through his sweaty hair. "I know you will." He hummed, content, and pressed a kiss to your collarbone before settling back against your shoulder. His hand never stopped moving, tracing lazy circles on your thigh his thumb occasionally dipping closer to where you needed him just to tease.

 "I'm gonna make you feel so good," he murmured against your skin. "Gonna make you forget your own name." "You're very confident for someone who can barely stand."

 He giggled, a sleepy drunken sound. "Don't need to stand. Got a tongue. Got fingers. Got you."

 The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, Michael's head resting on your shoulder, his hand absently rubbing your thigh. Every few seconds he'd press a kiss to your collarbone, mumbling little nothings against your skin. "Pretty." "Love you." "Best wife." "Gonna marry you again tomorrow."

 When the limo finally pulled up to the hotel, Michael stumbled out with your help, his feet unsteady on the pavement, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline.

  The driver had already circled around to open the door, and Michael turned to him with a look of genuine apology, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "I'm so sorry," he said, his voice sincere and slurred. "For the mess. For everything. I don't usually I promise! The noises. All of it. I'm real sorry."

 The driver laughed, waving a hand. "Don't worry about it, Mr. Jackson. Happens more than you'd think." Michael blinked, his head tilting like a confused puppy. "Really?" "No, not really." The driver grinned wide, his eyes crinkling. "But happy birthday Mr Jackson."

 Michael laughed loudly, leaning heavily into your side as you guided him toward the entrance. "I like him. He's funny. Tip him extra." "I will, baby." "Like a lot extra. Double. Triple maybe."

 "Whatever you want." He pressed a kiss to your cheek, messy and warm. "You're the best."

 The hotel lobby was mostly empty at this hour, just a few staff members behind the counter who nodded respectfully as you passed. A security guard near the elevator gave a small wave, which Michael returned with a lazy, two finger salute. You kept him moving, your arm wrapped around his waist, his hand gripping yours as you guided him toward the elevator.

 The moment the doors slid shut, he was on you again. His hands found your waist, pulling you against him, his face burying in your neck. He breathed in deep, a content hum vibrating against your skin.

 "Almost there," he mumbled against your pulse. "Then I get to take care of you. Properly." "You're very determined about this."  He hummed again, pressing a kiss to your pulse point. "Determined husband. That's me. Cause I love you."

 "And very handsome." He pulled back just enough to look at you, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Yeah? You think so?" "I know so." He kissed you then, soft and warm, his tongue brushing against your lower lip before he pulled away. "Love you."

 "Love you too, Michael." The elevator dinged. You guided him down the hall, fumbling with the key card until the door clicked open.

 The suite was quiet when you finally stepped inside. Dark, save for the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The curtains were drawn open. The bed loomed in the center of the room, massively covered in pillows you knew you'd be shoving off the floor within minutes.

 The door clicked shut behind you, and Michael turned to you immediately, his hands finding your waist. You expected him to stumble toward the bed, to collapse and sleep off the rest of his buzz. 

 Instead, he stood there, looking at you with those dark, glassy eyes, his chest rising and falling. "I didn’t forget." he said, his voice softer now, his earlier bravado fading into something gentler. "In the car. You didn't come at all. Told you I wouldn't forget"

 You shook your head. "It's okay, really. Tonight was about you Michael I told you. "

 "It's not okay." His hands tightened on your waist, guiding you backward toward the bed. "I'm gonna take care of it. Right now. That's what husbands do. That's what I want to do."

 You let him guide you until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. He pushed gently, and you sat. Then laid back, your elbows propping you up as you looked up at him. He stood over you for a moment, looking down at you with heavy lidded eyes, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip.

 "Stay right there," he murmured, his voice low.

 He reached for the hem of your dress, bunching it up slowly, carefully, his fingers brushing against your skin with every inch he revealed until the dress was gathered around your hips, baring you to him completely.

  His breath caught when he saw the damp spot on your panties, the fabric dark and clinging to you evidence of how worked up you'd been all night. "Look at you," he breathed, his voice reverent. "So pretty down here, mama. You've been sittin' in this all night, haven't you? All wet for me, huh?"

 Your face heated up. "Michael."

 "Don't be so shy Tink." His thumbs traced slow circles on your inner thighs. "I'm your husband. I got every right to see what's mine. And this," he pressed a kiss to the damp fabric, "this is mine."

 He dropped to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your thighs and pulling you to the edge of the bed. He shifted, getting comfortable settling in like he planned to be there for a while.

 "I'm gonna take my time with you," he murmured. "Gonna taste every inch of you 'til you're beggin' me to stop."

 He pressed his mouth to the wet spot on your panties, hot and open, his tongue flat against the fabric. A low moan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against you, and you gasped at the sensation.

 "Mmm..—" He pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips slick. "Taste you through the fabric, mama. It's still so good. Sweet and wet. Could drink you up like this all night and die happy." He pressed another damp kiss to your panties.

 But he didn't pull them off yet. Instead, he lifted your foot, bringing it to his lips. He pressed a kiss to the top of your arch, soft and slow. Then another on your ankle. Then he opened his mouth, dragging his tongue lazily along the side of your foot, leaving a trail of warm spit in its wake. "Mikey —"

 "'S pretty," he mumbled against your skin, his voice muffled. "Every part of you is pretty." He pressed wet, sloppy kisses to your toes, his mouth open and warm, drool slicking your skin as he went. He sucked gently on your big toe before pulling off with a soft pop, his chin glistening.

 "Taste good everywhere," he murmured, almost to himself. "Even your feet taste like you." He set your foot down gently and lifted the other, repeating the same ritual kisses, licks, open-mouthed drags of his tongue, leaving you shiny and wet and completely his.

By the time he set that foot down, you were a little breathless, your heart pounding.

 He looked up at you through his lashes, his lips swollen and slick. "Now." he said, his voice rough. "Lemme see what's underneath."

 His fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, watching as they peeled away from your slick skin. He dragged them down your thighs, past your knees, over your ankles, and tossed them somewhere behind him without looking. His eyes were fixed on you, dark and hungry.

 "There she is," he breathed. "There's my pretty girl. All bare for me. You're so beautiful like this, you know that? All spread out, waitin' for me."

 He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. Soft. Warm. Then another, higher. He worked his way up inch by inch, kissing and licking at your skin, leaving a trail of warmth wherever his mouth touched. When he reached the apex of your thighs he paused, his breath hot against your core, making you jump.

 "You good?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "Michael, just kiss me already." He laughed softly, the vibration tickling your skin. "So impatient. I like that about you."

 Then he pressed his lips against you, firmly. He started slow. Gentle. His tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, languid stroke, from your entrance to your clit tasting you like he had all the time in the world. A deep moan rumbled from his chest, his eyes fluttering shut.

 "Fuck," he breathed against you. "Taste better than I remembered. All mine." He had you pulled right to the edge, knees slung over his shoulders, your body pressed to his mouth. It was sloppy and drunk and he groaned with every movement of his jaw. 

 He was using his whole mouth, not just his tongue sucking, kissing, licking like you were a meal he'd been starving for.

 His lips pressed against you as he spoke, his words muffled but clear enough. "Could stay here forever. Just live right here between your thighs. You'd let me, wouldn't you, mama?"

 A low, rumbly growl tore from his throat. He doubled down on his efforts, pulled your thighs forward until his nose was flush against your clit, his tongue fucking into you with rapid, shallow strokes, absolutely sloppy with it. His grip on your hips left marks.

 "You taste," he said between kisses and licks and swirls, "so fucking good, mama. Like you were made for my mouth. Made for me."

 His tongue flicked over your clit again and again. You could feel the vibration of his groans, the way his nose pushed into you, and the way your thighs started to shake and squeeze around his ears.

 "Yeah, that's it. That's my girl. Squeeze my head with those pretty thighs. Love it when you do that."

 His lips closed around your clit and he sucked, gentle at first, then with more pressure, his tongue flicking against it while he did. Your hips bucked against his mouth, and he moaned in approval.

 "That's it, baby. Rut against my face. Use me. I'm yours."

 You came undone, tipped over the edge with the next roll of his tongue, but he didn't stop. He coaxed you through it, gentling his touch, his tongue slowing to soft, soothing laps as you shuddered above him. He pulled back slowly, his mouth glistening, his lips swollen. He pressed a kiss to your thigh with a lazy smile, his chin slick.

 "One more," he said, his voice rough, like he'd gargled gravel.

 "Michael…" "One more." He dove back in without waiting for your answer, his tongue plunging into your core.

 This time he wanted it messy. Wanted to taste you again, now that he had a fresh coat of you on his tongue. He sucked hard on your clit, drawing a broken moan from your throat as he drove his tongue in and out, into the weeping place between your thighs.

 His mouth was on you again, warm and insistent, his tongue dragging through your folds with that same sloppy, drunken rhythm. You were still sensitive from before, every pass of his lips sending sparks through your oversensitive nerves, and when he circled your clit with the flat of his tongue, you gasped your hips sliding up the mattress instinctively.

 Too much. It was too much.

 But his hand came down on your ass with a sharp slap, the sting blooming across your skin, and he pulled you back down against his mouth without missing a beat.

 "Unh uh," he murmured against you, his voice rough and muffled. "Where you goin'?"

 "Mikey— 's too much—"

 "Don't care." His hand gripped your hip, holding you in place, his tongue diving back in. "Stop runnin'. Take it, acting like you can’t."

 He pressed a sloppy kiss to your clit, his chin slick, his eyes half-lidded as he looked up at you from between your thighs.

 "You can take it. You're my good girl, right? My good wife?" You nodded weakly, your fingers tangling in the sheets. "Then lay there and let me love you."

 He moaned against you, his tongue pressing deep inside, then sliding up. "Cum for me again, pretty mama. Let me taste it. Let me drink every drop." His tongue kept working you, keeping you right there, close, until you shattered again. He swallowed every bit of it, moaning like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted.

 The third time because yes there was a third time, he changed the angle.

 He lifted your hips onto his shoulders, your entire body pulled flush to his mouth. He wanted to taste every drop. Licking and drinking as you fluttered against him greedy. He didn't relent until he'd took a third orgasm from you, your trembling thighs locked around his head.

 "You're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured against you, his voice wrecked. "Best thing I've ever seen. Best thing I've ever tasted. I'm never gonna get enough of you."

 You fell back onto the mattress, breathless and shaking, your body humming with the aftershocks of pleasure.

 When he finally pulled away, he rested his cheek on your thigh, still on his knees, blinking up at you with those big, drunk, adoring eyes. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smiled, his lips swollen and slick.

 "You okay?" His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. You nodded weakly, reaching down to brush your fingers through his hair. "Yeah. I'm more than okay." He grinned, proud of himself, and pressed a kiss to your knee.

 "Good." He pushed himself up. "Good. Mission accomplished." "It was your birthday, remember?"

 He gestured down at the mess he'd made of you. "Best gift I could've asked for." You were too spent to even consider a witty comeback.

 He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, his lips pressing soft, lazy kisses to your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth. That was his second language with you slow, featherlight touches after everything.

 "Thank you." he said, quiet but sincere. "For tonight. For everything. I don't say it enough but you're my whole world, mama." You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "Happy birthday, Mikey."

dbf!michael . . . who can feel your eyes on him at all times. you're too stubborn to admit it, but he knows that if he's in your vicinity your eyes will be on him. and eyes tell a story he always reminds you, and yours beg for the attention of the older man. even going out of your way to barge yourself into your father's study, waltzing over and perching yourself on the desk. lazily tracing a finger over the wood pattern as you interject yourself in their conversation . . . it never takes you long to leave just as you came, but not before you look over your shoulder to see if michael is eyeing your exit.

dbf!michael . . . who as easy as he loves to deprive you is quick to seek you out. call it cat and mouse, but michael will always find a way to excuse himself and catch you to play the little game the two of you have been playing.

it's been all afternoon, the glances you and michael have been giving each other. starting from the moment you stepped foot on the bricked concrete of the back patio, flip flops clapping and attitude in your walk as you make your way to the lounge chairs lined against the pool. paying no mind to michael and his shielded gaze from where he and your father are seated in the expensive wicker chairs your mother had insisted on getting years ago when the backyard was getting renovated.

only when you're rubbing tanning oil onto the lengths of your legs do you raise your gaze to be met with the distant view of michael. his lap as inviting as ever as he manspreads, an arm thrown over the hair of the chair and you can already tell his fingers are absently tapping as he nods along to whatever your father is talking about. clearly not paying the most attention to what is being said as the only movement his mouth remotely does is clench and unclench from the gum he's toying with in his mouth.

his attention only gets worse when you flip about an hour into tanning, and his it a dangerous game he's playing as he allows his sunglasses to slight the smallest bit down the bridge of his nose to get a clearer view of you flipping your body over. teeth nearly breaking the skin of his bottom lip when your as recoils as you shift and get comfortable once again.

it takes you taking a dip in the pool and retreating inside for michael to excuse himself to the 'bathroom', following the water droplets from your dripping body to the kitchen where your back is turned, fiddling with the top of a contain full of fruit. body bronzed and glowy from the tanning oil and sun, you're just irritable as he comes up from behind you, large hands on your waist to pull your back flush against him chest, not caring if you get his top wet. hands feeling up all on your torso, even daring to slip beneath the tiny triangles of your bikini top, enveloping the entirety of your breast in his grasp, "we gotta be quiet 'nd quick, baby. know you're achin' for me like i'm achin' for you."

dbf!michael . . . who is only on your side when it comes to your fashion. muttering, "she's a grown woman" when your father disapproves of your scandalous clothes. maybe it's his own perverted selfishness, seeing you prance around in skimpy tank tops which enunciate your pebbled nipples, skirts so short that when your purposely bend down michael can get the perfect view of you puffy cunt confined within your panties, or dresses so tight and low cut that it leaves nothing to the imagination. and boy, would your father hate to learn that he's the one enabling your fashion habits.

ּ❥ : you think this is too much mikey ? ( image ) michael : You look very gorgeous, Baby. I think it's perfect. ּ❥ : you're only saying that because it's showing off my ass  michael : All the more reason it's perfect, I think.

dbf!michael . . . who's eyes widen when you lift your shirt, so baggy it's falling off your shoulder, first his eyes fall on your plump ass, tracing the bedazzled juicy on the signature velour fabric . . . until his eyes catch the cling wrap taped to your lower back. leaning closer from where he's sat on the couch, legs spread to fit you between them. large hands finding their familiar spot on your hips, thumbs tracing over the edge of where the smooth plastic covers the tattoo and your soft skin. he'd always tell you to wait for tattoos, to think hard and long about it, 'cause it's permanent. nothing like the temporary tattoos that come off with water and a little scrubbing. but this? he's choking on his words, a million thoughts popping up in his mind and poofing into thin air before he can process them. the only thing that consumed him is the is the small tramp stamp being none other than a butterfly.

michael is a gentleman, even in bed. he loves⎯thrives off of making his woman experience the best she's ever had when she's with him. which is exactly why he prioritizes making love with you, and he'll give into whatever you ask within the confines of the bedroom walls . . . well that is unless that's asking to do any position where he can't see your face. he finds it intimate to be able to see you and all the ways your face contorts in pleasure. but ever since you've showed him the delicate tattoo on your lower back something has been simmering low within him⎯the want? the need? to see you sat on his dick, backside facing him as his eyes stay trained on the butterfly as your hips roll.

"'m gonna come, mikey," you moan out, all desperate as your movements becomes rigid as you reach your peak. head lulling to the side when michael's tip hits gummy spot that makes your eyes roll to the back of your head. michael hums, hands sliding down from where his fingers pressed into your plush hips. a pair of helping hands for your tiring muscles. "go on, mama," he urges, all while gentle fingers trace around the inked wings of the butterfly, "i've got ya'."

dbf!michael . . . who becomes your makeshift chauffeur. and the man rarely drives, but the moment you say you want to go somewhere, whether that's a strip mall or your favorite overpriced restaurant he's picking up his keys, following the sound of jingling as you waltz after singer. and it's truly sight a see, michael driving. he used to be beyond diligent when driving, seat straight up, both hands on the steering wheel, and no music because it distracted him too much. michael now is far more relaxed, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand resting on your thigh. you spend most of the drives just staring at him inbetween your belts as you sing the latest pop song.

and what better way to repay his acts of kindness than a sloppy blow job in his rolls royce? is it classy? absolutely not, but you never cared about being classy with michael, not when you can be messy and passionate.

"that mouth of yours⎯"  you had managed to butter michael up just enough. and by enough, which is just peppering kisses along his jaw as a manicured hand rubs up and down his chest, stopping just below his belt before your hand makes it way back up. and now with his casual slacks and briefs pushed haphazardly halfway down his thighs, your swollen lips wrapped around his dick, and the same manicured hand stroked whatever length you couldn't take in your mouth. drool escaping your mouth as your head bops, falling down your chin just to dribble onto your fisted hand. michael's chest raised then falls as he watched you past heavy lidded eyes with a hand in your curls. when your you glassy gaze meets his you pull up from off his length with a pop, still pumping at his base. flashing him a love (dick) drunk smile just before you duck back down. except instead of taking him back in your mouth you kiss down the underside of his shaft, licking your way back up, planting a kiss on his leaking tip. only then do you take his tip into your mouth once again, all while maintaining eye contact. "it's dangerous, girl," he rasps out. throwing his head back against the headrest when you take him further down your throat.

dbf!michael . . . who is known by your homegirls. and i mean like it was an eye bulging reaction when a rolls royce pulled up along the curb of the club, and a not so discreetly dressed michael exits the drivers side, jogging over the passenger's side to open the door for you. the cherry on top that left their mouths agape was the kiss planted on your glossy lips, then another, and another, until words are spoken that can't be deciphered from the loud music booming within the club. it's safe to say that wasn't the last time they'd see michael. and it's only fueled their amusement that you have the michael jackson saved in your phone as mikey and they're even more amused that the award winning singer puts up with your antics. giggling and waving off their comments because as much as you never expected how easy and how soon you had the man wrapped around your finger, you never expected how deeply in love you'd be, "he's a good man, a real sweet one at that" ⎯ moving on from the conversation as they berate you further for your mushy comment about the man.

dbf!michael . . . who becomes touchy when he's tipsy at a dinner party. he knows he shouldn't, there's still common somewhere in the back of his mind, especially with eyes around everywhere. but he can't help it, not when you look so pretty ⎯ already having pressed his face into you're coils greeting you when he had first arrived, lips brushing against the shell of your ear, "lookin' so gorgeous t'night, baby" giving your waist one final squeeze before he releases you from his grasp and walk away with your father ⎯ and he's only escalated from there, his presence seemed to follow after you, much like a ghost binded to its prized possession. you didn't mind one bit, you were thankful for it because was the one carrying these conversations he'd follow you to, hand coming up to rest on your shoulder as he joins you and the other guest, only for it to fall lower and lower all while he's nursing another glass of champagne.

dbf!michael . . . who is stern with you. it isn't out of the ordinary for michael to have dinner with your family throughout the week, and it isn't out of the ordinary that he'd always find his spot at the dinning table right in front of where you. diverting your teases about how he just can't not be as close as he can to you by playing it off that the seat he sits at happens to be be the only seat open ⎯ knowing damn well there are at minimum five other open seats he could've chosen to sit at. but michael didn't know that by choosing that seat would give you the best access to mess with him, as you currently have your foot ⎯ removed from your heel, of course ⎯ pressed against his crotch. ignoring the tight grip he has around your ankle, while his free hand remains above the table, knuckles turning pale from his grip on the silverware. or turning your head every time michael tried to get your attention to grit some kind of warning past his teeth, only applying more pressure to his semi as you engage in conversation with your family or cut another piece of food to shove into your mouth.

the heated impact against your wetness causes your body to jolt and your hips to buck. michael's hand is large enough to perfectly cover the entirety of your pussy, applying just enough pressure to have you whining after he's delivered the pleasure filled slap, just as you'd done to him during dinner in your act of teasing. but never enough pressure, keeping you at a frustrating medium of teetering on the edge of release and dissatisfaction. he's still michael though, so a large hand is cupped around your jaw to allow for his thumb to brush away any stray tears that might've fallen out of frustration. and he's still nice enough to give you a break in between each smack, coos that mock your ruined form fall from his lips. eyes darting down for just a moment as he removes his hand, pupils dilating further at the sight your pussy's sticky strings of arousal still connecting you to his hand. and when he delivers another smack, he's already doing damage control, pressing his lips against yours to swallow the moans your cry out. you're a hiccuping mess when he pulls away from the kiss, "this is gonna be a long night, swee'heart," he muses. delivering another blow to your puffy pussy as you attempted to seek further pleasure to ease the ache by grinding against his hand. no amount of sorry's could get you out of this.

dbf!michael . . . who revels in you turning into a babbling mess. whether that's him making you flustered from saying all the right things that causes your body to heat up and your heart to run rampant. stumbling over your words as you try to think of something to combat what he just said ⎯ which you almost never succeed at, and it proudly amuses michael to get of you guarded and wide eyed. or whether it's when he's got you below him, all sweaty and mindless as you babbling nothing else other than his name past your plush lips. and better yet when it's his mouth that's dumbed you down this far already. precise licks against your sopping entrance as his nose nudges against your swollen clit. all that work to witness you gasping for air, thighs clamping his head in place while your hands clench and claw at whatever is closest in your vicinity. it's all worth it for the mess he makes you for the mess you make on his face in return.

dbf!michael . . . who manages learn tech from you, you're twist with your legs sprawled over michael's lap while you're body is pressed as close to his as possible, his phone clad in hand. it's difficult because after you're done showing him something he'll immediately ask "how'd you do that? show me again, baby, please" and it doesn't help that michael's large hands and thick fingers miss click the little buttons on his phone. the same hands to smooth up and down your legs, tracing shapes and patterns onto your skin as you help set up his voicemail, humming along to what you have to say.

"jus' like that, mama," michael purrs, voice slightly staticy from beyond the other side of the screen. his fist lazily stoked his dick as he admired in the sight of your hand between your spread legs, "take your fingers f'me again." you circle your clit a few more times before you sink your fingers back into your warmth, heat creeping up your neck when when the enter with a squelch. you'd be on your back normally, but you want to be able to see michael pleasuring himself at the same time as you from where your laptop is propped open. so you've opted to put all your body weight on the arm that's fisting the wrinkled bedsheets in its hand. through a heavy gaze and a wide mouth you pump your fingers in and out of your slicked pussy, "wish they were your fingers, mikey." michael exhales through his nose, shifting from where he sits in the arm chair in an empty hotel room across the world from you. being able to hear your beautiful noises and pliant body in front of him, but not being able to touch you is something cruel ⎯ torturous, even he thinks. and it's selfish, to want you to by his side wherever he goes, and maybe if it was a normal day, one where he didn't need you as bad as he needs you right now, he'd agree. but today is not that day. "i know, i know, baby. doin' s'well though, jus' keep doin' that. and i'll be home soon t'give you the real thing." at least technology gives him the privilege of seeing your body contort every which way as you please yourself. the phone would confide him just hearing you and his imagination.

dbf!michael . . . who gives in when you've begged enough. just like how he isn't above making you work for what you want, he isn't above making you beg either. but it never comes easy, not when you're as stubborn as you are, it'll take hours of the silent treatment and boredom before you result to the tiniest bit of begging. but once you've started, you don't stop. and michael knows you think you're the one in charge, you've got him all wrapped around you're finger and that it'll only be a matter of time before he gives into you. it's a tortuous game when you have yet to realize that michael is making all the right moves.

"mikey," you huff, "let me move." you shuffled just the smallest bit and michael's hand plants itself on your hip, stilling your movements. "whole lotta demands with no use of please in sight," he murmurs, not bothering to look up from his book. disbelief is what someone would call the face you made. you don't even know how long you've been sitting on michael's dick, but far too long for you liking to not even have moved an inch at all within the span you've been sat on top of him. and that damn book in his hand is getting on your nerves, every time he flips a page, reaches a new chapter, fucking sighs, you think he's finally done reading. yet every time nothing happens, and you're fed up. "could you please put the book down and fuck me know, michael?" your attitude laced tone caused michael to close the book, using his thumb as a bookmark. looking up at you ⎯ face adorned with a pout and squinting eyes ⎯ past his glasses that have now fallen a smidge down the bridge of his nose. his mouth opens and closed as quickly as it opened, watching you for a moment before he opens his mouth once more. "that please didn't sound genuine enough," he concludes. opening his book once more to leave you helpless and begging.

dbf!michael . . . who can't help it when his heart skips a beat when he comes home and sees you lounging in his bed. he had an extra key made for you forever ago, before the two of your entered a relationship, just in case of emergencies and you've been abusing it ever since. always finding a need to come over, so it's no real surprise to see you in this state, milky white satin slip with the little lace trim detail and a silk scarf protecting your curls, clay mask slathered on your face while you lazily flip through a magazine. it's the intimacy of seeing you like this, the way your head lifts and a smile instantly stretches your lips that's got him feeling fluttery. you'd beat him to it and ask out his day, flipping the magazine shut and getting out bed, making a beeline to michael to steal a few pecks before heading to the bathroom, where he'd follow and tell you all about his day as you wash off the mask. this is what he wants, someone to exist with, someone who makes them crack a grin when they look utterly ridiculous attempting to wash off their face while maintaining conversation. you give him a hard time ten times out of ten, but he wouldn't want it any other way. michael wants the long run with you.

© yearlyjams , 2026

"Pissed" wasn't even the word. 

In fact, he was beyond that; he was furious. He was furious at the fact that you wouldn't tell him about something like this, furious at the fact that now the world had seen your naked body.

He sat quietly in the back of the car, arms folded to his chest as his hand grasped the paper, gripping so hard that his fingers began to hurt, and his heart raced as he took a deep breath to get his feelings in check. He didn't want to yell at you. Truth be told, he didn't even want to argue about this, but thinking of you keeping this a secret and now everyone seen it made his blood boil as his fist clenched onto that paper with pure anger. 

The sound of the front door snapped you out of your daze. Your teeth stopped nibbling on your manicured nails, and your stomach did at least three more flips and not in a good way, and your palms seemed to constantly sweat from the uneasiness that settled in your body as you nervously bounced your leg. It felt as though the bedroom was too hot; despite hearing the AC running throughout the house, it never seemed to cool the room. 

His shoes clicked against the smooth marble of the floor as he made his way towards the stairs. It was the calmness in his steps that made everything seem more eerie because deep down you knew he was angry. Michael was never one to raise his voice when he got upset. Instead, his anger seemed to show more through the calmness in his voice, the way his tone carried that hint of anger, or the way his facial expressions told it all. 

The sound of the door creaking against the wooden frame as he pushed it open, revealing his large figure in the doorway.

“Michael—” 

“What is this?” The thick stack of paper slapped against the floor as it slid closer to you, making your eyes snap in the direction of it.

“Look, I forgot about it; it was so long ago. I'm sorry, Mikey." 

He wasn't necessarily upset at the fact that you had done the shoot; well, maybe he was, but more at the fact that it seemed like the whole world had seen it and now all eyes were on you. 

“Do y’know how many people probably have this picture saved, lookin at every inch of your body?” he started, his tone completely fading from the soft tone and signature smile he usually used to a tone that was stern, like he was giving you a good talking to. "Are all the people now looking at me to do something, say anything about this? The filthy guys are probably drooling over this."

“I know, I know, my team is already working on releasing a statement. " You stood up in an attempt to soothe the situation, but Michael wasn't having it. 

"Sit" That one word was enough to make your whole body go cold as you quietly obeyed, your eyes falling over his large frame, the way his fists were clenched in a tight ball, the way there was the slight movement of his jaw because he was pressing his teeth together so tightly. 

“On the floor, on your knees." 

You obeyed. I mean, what else were you supposed to do? You knew exactly what was coming and knew exactly what kind of treatment you’d be getting tonight. You watched as he loosened the belt that had been constricting him all day, finally unbuttoning his pants, the sound of the zipper echoing throughout the room as he tugged them down, finally taking a seat on the edge of the bed in front of you. 

"You know what to do, right? Show me how sorry you are." His hand ran from the top of your head down to the soft skin of your jaw, tilting your head upwards to face him. 

"Mhm, I know, Mikey. Let me show you I'm sorry," you cooed, finally taking the opportunity to let your hand run up and down his cock in a slow, almost soothing motion, earning a sigh that slipped past his lips before you pressed a kiss to his tip, your tongue slipping out to lick the slit that dripped with precum before letting your lips form that familiar “o” shape, taking as much length as possible, using your hand to stroke what you couldn't fit. 

A groan trickled out from his throat as he let his fingers tangle in between your strands, letting his hand gently guide your head. The feeling of your mouth wrapped around him and the suction from your mouth paired with the way you swirled your tongue made his hips instinctively buck upwards, hitting that sweet spot in the back of your throat that created the lewd sound of gagging.

“That’s it, take it." His voice was stern, sending a cold shiver down your body as you let your head dip down again, the spit that pooled at the corners of your mouth dribbling down his length, making him toss his head back as you attempted to take him deeper, your hands stroking the rest, your eyes looking up at his facial expressions, fluttering lashes, and brows knitted tightly. That look when you're too far gone in bliss that the only thing you can think about is the intense feeling you're receiving.

“That’s enough." His words stopped you in your tracks, pulling away with a gentle pop.

He laid you down on your back, clothes scattered in a pile with his own, legs spread so that he could see that perfect core that sat untouched and leaking just for him, and despite the fact that millions of people had seen your bare body, he knew he was the only one who'd get to really feel you, feel your gummy walls flutter against him, and feel the warmth from your body; the thought of it made him groan as he gripped tightly onto your hips like it was the last thing he'd be able to feel, lining his tip with your entrance and sliding it in. 

His pace didn't start off slow; it was brutal, anger leaking out in the form of his thrusts. 

“Mikey, s-slow down, it's too much," you babble, your voice shaking from the sheer force of each thrust that made your tits bounce and your head fly back into the pillows as your teeth bit down on your bottom lip, a sting of pain shooting through it from how hard you were biting down.

“You got it, baby. Take this dick." He was breathless, heavy breathing mixed with the sound of skin slapping and sex filling the room as he leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to your neck that contradicted the way he was thrusting into you. Your whines sounded like sweet music to his ears as the feeling of your walls sucking him in and the warmth made him moan against the damp skin of your neck.

"Fuck—I'm sorry," you cried out, feeling his tip repeatedly hitting that sweet spot as you let your fingernails dig into his back, earning a wince from Michael, but considering the circumstances he was under, he didn't really care; it only seemed to add to the intense feelings that were shooting through his body. 

“I know, baby, it’s okay," he cooed, his thrusts becoming sloppier and a huge contrast from brutal, yet controlled thrusts, a telltale sign that he was on the verge of release, basking in the feeling of your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your fingers that dug into his back, creating that familiar stinging sensation, and your sweet moans that rang out, falling onto what seemed like deaf ears.

"Gonna cum," you whined, back arching off the mattress, the thin layer of sweat that veiled over your body now mixed in with Michael's own as your body convulsed in waves of pure pleasure. His hips bucked into you as his mouth fell open, giving you another sloppy thrust.

"That's it, so good," he whispered, kissing your collarbone, the warmth from his breath only making your skin feel hotter and sticky, and for a moment, the room fell into this kind of rhythmic silence, light sounds of heavy breathing as you tried to collect yourself. 

“Are you still mad at me?” you whispered through heavy breaths. 

“I was never mad at you," he started, his fingers brushing the skin of your cheek. “I was more mad at the fact that so many people had seen it." His eyes darted away. 

“Only one man has me though."

©angelfacediary

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