soph⋆𐙚

Alcohol often does incredulous things to people.

And right now, you finally understood why.

Waking up with a pounding headache, throat dryer than the Sahara, eyes squinting almost painfully from the bright light that shone through the ajar curtains, and an unsettling bubble of nausea growing in your stomach — all roads led back to alcohol.

What didn’t lead back to alcohol was a noticeable sting between your thighs, and a dull ache from blooming bruises on your hips.

In the shape of fingers..?

And the puzzle piece only started slotting into place when your head turned to the side, eyebrows neatly furrowed into your forehead, as a hand came up to rub your tired eyes—Ouch!

Your hand retracted instanetously when something cold, hard and metallic scraped along your eyelid — your eyes blowing wide open at the jewellery clad on your ring finger.

Your wedding ring.

One you had taken off over a year ago — was now firmly pressed back onto your ring-finger like it hadn’t left at all.

And oh! If that wasn’t enough to remind you of your previous night.

Your stark naked ex-husband, Michael, littered in lovebites and smudged lipstick, sleeping soundly next to you, in his bed, at his house, was more than enough to do so.

Looking down, reality hit you like a ton of bricks — you had evidently had sex with your ex-husband. Plain and simple — and embarrassingly clear. The deep, indented, slowly forming bruises now adorning your hips were, painfully obviously, in the shape of the hands of the man deep in slumber next to you.

Eight years together makes things like that easy to spot.

And that daunting fact, slowly, but surely, let the ever-so-wonderfully reminding thought that you were in fact divorced, creep back up into your pounding brain.

You were divorced. Split up. Not together anymore. Legally binding from February 2003.

But, this didn’t look very divorced right now.

“Oh, God.” You mumbled, voice hoarse and croaked as you sat up, stomach churning and the relentlessly thumping in your head never letting up, as you sighed, running a, wedding ring free, hand over your face.

Your hands fell lazily and defeated into your lap as you shook your head at your heedless actions — vision locking on the diamond-encrusted wedding band that fit like a glove on your finger, and was twinkling in the morning light.

The divorce had been messy, and rushed for that matter. A meticulous, devastatingly, continuous stamp on your heart every time you had to appear in court — bags evident under your eyes, the same ones that were glassed over in constant tears, and hands shaking from adrenaline and sheer emotion over having to recount the same story of your marriage over and over again to the Judge.

It wasn’t as though anything particularly nefarious had happened in your marriage that would cause such a divorce, something horrible like infidelity or abuse, no, far from it, Michael was the perfect husband — until he started slipping.

He slowly, but nevertheless painfully, turned from the doting, present husband — to so brutally consumed in his career that it felt as though you were a single mother. Late nights at the studio, events that stretched long into the night, tours all across the States, even going as far as globally — all of it added up. Pushing you further and further into a lonely pit of despair — begging for the man you once knew.

Michael never did this maliciously, and that was quite possibly worse, he didn’t even realise what he was doing. Nor the damage he was causing. And every time you’d bring it up to him, whenever you finally got a night just to the two of you, cuddled up in bed, a hand on your small, growing bump — he would act none-the-wiser, as if the pain you were feeling didn’t exist. Promising that he would be home soon, be around more, that things would change — but, alas, they never did. If anything, he only got busier.

Having three kids was difficult, especially so when a fourth was on the way, and even more so when you have a career like Michael Jackson does — having to juggle recording, then interviews, then tours, then gala’s, and award shows, then signings, and then coming home to help look after three children and your pregnant wife.

But, none of it phased him — at the start. He was, and is, an excellent father. Spending every last second he could with his children before leaving for an eighteen hour day, or coming home at three-AM and kissing his children on their foreheads as they slept, and then retreating slowly into his bedroom, where his pregnant wife slept, and pulling her close, and holding her all night.

It came naturally to him — he was made to be a lover, and a father. And he adored every minute of it.

But, where the waters got muddied was when he began to blend those two separate aspects of his life — music and family. And when music seemed to become a higher priority than his family.

A house polluted with the noise of three screaming, giggling kids, a children’s television show blasting throughout the living room, or toys screeching out nursery rhymes from a plastic, worn out speaker that was staticky and stuttered pathetically, fighting against the electrics of the old mechanism — was now also filled the noise of demo’s, loud business men laughing, inappropriate jokes and guitar strings, plugged into an obnoxiously loud speaker.

In August 2002, you’d had enough.

It was the hottest summer the 2000’s had seen yet — the sun was beating down relentlessly over California, and the humidity was at its highest. Mixing the warmest weather you’d ever experienced in your lifetime with having a five-year-old, Prince, with the energy of a wild animal, a four-year-old, Paris, who was constantly screaming for her Father, and a clingy six-month-old, Blanket, who daren’t not be on your hip or else he’d wail the place down, all the while being four-months pregnant, wasn’t a good cocktail.

You silently cursed yourself for having such an attractive husband and being so horny only two-months postpartum that now led you to this mess.

And on top of all of that, Michael had so kindly, not, invited some friends, musical and not, round to work on some new demos he’d been cooking up late in the studio recently.

But, it wasn’t the fact that he’d invited people over, that you didn’t care about, you could handle the kids, to an extent, on your own just fine — it was the noise.

Michael was shy, and often quiet anyways, but with his pals round, his infamous loud laughter, mingling in with the loud strums of a guitar and the deep, rumbling voices of men you’d never even met before, was now sounding throughout the house like thunder. All that jovial, unnecessarily high in decibel, laughter blending with the screams and squeals from your children had now manifested itself inside you in a blinding headache.

This headache, now bordering on a migraine, wasn’t just your average Joe — it was a deep, dark thud of pain that stretched from behind your eyelids to the nape of your neck. Any noise was a shrill, blood-curling scream in your head — grating through your bones like nails on a chalkboard.

It had to stop.

And it forced you to reach that extent

Usually, whenever Michael and whoever he had brought round for the umpteenth time this week, would make noise and near enough trash the house with cans of beer, cartons of orange juice (For your Michael) and boxes and bags of devoured KFC, you’d let them be — let the boys have their fun.

But, today, enough was enough.

“I know, baby, but Mama’s feelin’ a little sick right now, okay? We can play outside later when Daddy’s not with his friends, how does that sound?”

“Noooo! ‘Wanna to go outside, now!” Prince, tears now forming in his lower lash-line, demanded, stomping his little foot onto the carpet of his bedroom, now pushing your hands away abruptly as you attempted to change his shirt which was smothered in his lunch.

You sighed, your patience beginning to wear thinner and thinner as you repeated yourself for the thousandth time that day about not going outside as Prince refused to let it go.

You raked a hand over your face, a noise of frustration leaving the back of your throat as you met Prince’s eyes — whose were now streaming with tears as he cried violently, cheeks flushed and stained with the evidence of his upset.

“Baby, please, stop crying for Mama, please? I promise—Mama pinky promises we can go outside later, okay?” You tried one last time, trying to put on the most motherly, comforting voice you could as you forced the irritation down your throat.

Just as Prince began to consider diminishing his resolve and abandoning his tantrum, Paris ran into the room, “I wanna play outside, too, Mommy! Please, please, please!”

The groan that left you was failure of suppression — your eyes fluttering shut as the two small children now teamed up against you, both now chanting in their high-pitched voices to go outside. And if that wasn’t enough to send you over the edge, baby Blanket began wailing at the sudden loud noise of his siblings screaming to do what you distinctively told them not to repeatedly over the past morning — his screeches and cries of displeasure colliding with the sound of Paris and Prince begging loudly.

You scurried to your feet, a lump in your throat forming, as you took Blanket in your arms, rocking him gently in your grasp, cooing softly into his ear as you attempted to nurse him to silence.

No avail.

For once, baby Blanket wanted nothing less than to be in your arms — you tried every rocking sensation you knew he liked, but no luck. He continued to scream — tears staining his cheeks now flushed a dark shade of crimson, as his little fists bawled up tight at his sides.

You had reached your wits end.

You only realised your feet were moving until you reached the stairs — turning on your heel to watch as your two younger children ran after you as you exited Prince’s room. Their relentless chanting to go outside had been, finally, abandoned — but, now replaced with ‘Where are you going, Mommy?’ ‘Why is Blanket crying, Mommy?’ ‘What’s wrong with Blanket, Mama, is he okay?’ ‘Mama get Blanket to stop crying! It’s hurting my ears!’

It was incessant.

You absolutely adored your children — but moments like these you wished you could just run away.

And that’s exactly what you did.

You stormed down the stairs, checking back every so often to make sure Paris and Prince weren’t on the brink of falling, before heading directly towards the loudest area of the house. If that was even remotely possible with the screaming baby in your arms.

You marched into the room — eyes landing on Michael who was sat on the couch, surrounded by at least twelve other men, not that you even had the brain capacity to count in the moment, all laughing and shouting as they recounted former memories.

“Baby.” You spoke, voice trembling.

No answer.

The conversation continued, as if you weren’t even there, the loud laughter only worsening the pain that consumed your brain.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael.”

Laughter.

“Michael!”

For the first time in weeks, the room fell silent.

The sound of your distraught, wrecked shout of his name even sent your wailing baby in silence — for about three seconds, before his screeches of discomfort sounded throughout the room once more. Everyone’s eyes were on you, including your confused husband, whose were now wide with shock at the sight you — eyes now also streaming with tears, lip wobbling, hands shaking with a screaming Blanket in your arms, and Prince and Paris at your feet, now also babbling about the garden and tugging at your clothes.

“I can’t—I can’t take this.”

Michael rose to his feet, “Baby, what’s wrong?”

“Don’t you ‘What’s wrong?’ me!” You exclaimed, “Look at me!”

He was lost, and quite frankly, worried — he had never seen you so wrecked, a silent plea for help as you shook where you stood.

“Ta—Take him.” You extended your still wailing baby out into the air, eyes fluttering as droplets of tears you didn’t even realise had fallen, drooped from your eyelashes.

Michael rushed over to you, instantly taking Blanket into his embrace — rocking him slowly in his arms as the crying slowly fading into soft whimpers as Michael comforted him.

You let out a scoff of a laugh at the irony of the situation — Michael, who got to sit around and play with instruments like toys with his friends all day, soothed your crying baby in three seconds as if you hadn’t been dealing with it all day with no prevail.

“I’ve gotta go. I actually can’t—I can’t do this anymore, Michael.” You started, voice rapid and racing, buzzing with emotion, “You—You can’t sit around all day and do nothing, and expect me to deal with this all day—I can’t, I just can’t.”

“Baby, please, what are you talking about?” Michael questioned, concern and confusion laced in his tone, “What happened?”

“What didn’t happen!” You exclaimed, not caring that thirty pairs of eyes were all on you as you blew up what you’d been holding in for weeks, “Prince threw his lunch everywhere, all over the floor and his clothes, and then refused to change, and then begged and begged and begged to go outside even after I told him no.” You breathed out a laugh, despite finding none of the situation amusing, “And Blanket barely slept last night and neither did I, and he will not stop crying—it’s been on and off all day, and I’ve got a pounding headache and I’m tired, and I just can’t take it anymore.”

Your rant ended with a loud sob, one that echoed throughout the room as your Nanny, one that had failed to be absent while all of the commotion from your children had occurred, took a concerned looking Paris and Prince away from the room by their small hands, as you ignored the way they stared at you worriedly as they exited.

“And don’t even get me started on you.” You spat, pointing an accusatory finger at Michael, “You’ve been at this for weeks! You’re a father too, y’know! I need help, I’m pregnant for fuck’s sake and doing everything while you sit around and fiddle with guitars like children and laugh at a fucking thousand decibels.”

“Honey, wait—calm dow—“

“Don’t you fucking dare tell me to calm down.”

He could tell you were serious. To your core. You had never ever spoke to him that way, ever. You looked absolutely destroyed — like the world had literally come crashing down on you all at once.

“I’ve had enough. Enough, Michael.” You exclaimed, watching as the Nanny returned to pry a now sleeping Blanket from Michael’s arms, before scurrying out of the room once more, “Whether it’s phone calls at three-AM, or late nights at the studio, or events that end you up in the club until early hours, or inviting God knows into our house—you’re not here!” Tears were now streaming down your face with no sign of stopping, every word now a silent sob as you broke down, “I feel like you’re not—sob—not even here anymore! I feel like I’m doing this all alone, and we’ve got another one on the way for fuck’s sake! I can’t—I genuinely cannot do it anymore, Michael, I’ve had it up to here.”

As your hand raised to demonstrate the intensity of how thin your patience has deteriorated — Michael couldn’t help notice the way your hand shook aggressively.

It all finally rained down on him.

Like violent meteorites — all his wrong-doings came crashing down in an abrupt realisation.

Every point you made was correct, and that’s what hurt most. You weren’t exaggerating or overreacting — you were speaking the plain, distasteful truth. A truth that flooded guilt and heartache throughout his system harder than he’d ever felt it. His subconscious absence had pushed you over the edge — without him even realising he was doing it.

You had promised him, the day you started dating, that you would always be there despite his demanding career — but, you, nor him, imagined it would get this bad. So bad to the point you were considering walking away from the family you had built from the ground up. A family you had literally created in utero — and formed from a lousy blind date your friend set you up on, now blossomed into a committed marriage with three, nearly four, children.

In your romantic pledge, you didn’t ever mean this. Never meant that you’d let yourself be humiliated and abandoned so brutally to the point where you were metaphorically, and nearly literally, tugging your hair out.

And Michael’s flabbergasted silence only made things worse.

He couldn’t even find the words to claw himself out of this grave that he’d dug — mouth opening and then closing as he stared at you, eyes still blown wide open as he watched you heave, still sobbing violently.

Instead of waiting for an apology you knew wouldn’t fix things now, you scoffed and turned on your heel, storming out of the room as another sob wracked through you. Michael instantly chased after you, ignoring the tension that had settled from the uncomfortable audience behind him, his longer legs catching up to you as you made it to the front door.

“Hey, hey, stop—baby, wait!” He reached you, hands grabbing your arms and stopping you in your tracks, “Baby, wait, please, don’t do this, please.”

Another loud, distraught gurgle of tears left you, your head shaking as you stared at the ground, “I—I can’t take anymore, Michael”

“I know, I know, I’m so sorry.” He started, “I’m so so sorry, baby. I’ve been the worst husband in the world, I’m so sorry.” His heart clenched as another sob left you, “I should’ve been there, I’m sorry, I know better, I do. Things—Things have been hectic with the new album, and I just—I don’t even have a reasonable explanation, I should have been around, there’s no excuse.”

At the sound of his declaration of wrong-doing and his utmost apologies — your loud cries turned into soft sniffles and hiccups. You finally lifted your head, bloodshot and glossy eyes meeting his worried ones — lip quivering as you settled.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.” Michael whispered, voice breaking ever so slightly, “Please, don’t leave. If it’s not for me, please don’t leave the children. They need you.” He went silent, “I need you.”

“I needed you, Michael. But, where were you when I did?”

The words hit him directly in the chest.

It wasn’t because they were hurtful, or disrespectful, or offensive — it was because they were true.

When they said the truth hurts — he never imagined he’d experience it this way.

Watching as his wife, mother to now four of his children, literally begging for his presence for weeks, and subconsciously taking no notice, had broken his heart — but, not nearly as much as he broke yours, which made things twice as bad.

“Baby..” His voice trailed off, quiet and broken, a beg for you, not that he was even in the place to do so right now.

You shook your head, another silent cry leaving your mouth, tears cascading down your cheeks in a slow, aching reminder to Michael of exactly what he’d done — a twang vibrating through his heartstrings.

“I’m sorry, I just—I need some space.” You spoke, a loud, huff of a shaken breath leaving you as you stepped back, retreating from his embrace.

“Baby, please,” Michael begged, “Please, don’t go. What about the kids?”

“Only for a little while. I’ll be at my Mom’s, just for a few days while I think.”

“Think? Think about what?”

“Whether or not I can take anymore of this.”

Michael didn’t think it was possible to feel anymore heartbroken and scared — but your final sentence before turning your back to him and walking out the door exceeded that. His heart ached, a hand coming up to rest against his chest, as he watched you climb into the back of a car and whizz out the driveway — the last evidence of you being dust and dirt that flew up into the air at your exit.

That night Michael called your Mother’s house phone twenty-seven times — each time going straight to answerphone, as you begged your Mother to just ignore it as she held you while you cried into her lap. And each time, Michael would leave a message on her answer machine.

‘Baby? I don’t know if you can hear this but I love you, and the babies love you. I miss you already and I’m so so sorry. Please come home soon.’

Beep!

Riiiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t want to bother, I know you’re upset, and I know it’s ’cuz of me, but I just—I can’t leave you there knowing you’re so broken and it’s all my fault. I wish there was something I could do to turn back time. I love you, baby, please come home.’

Beep!

Riiiing! Riiiiing!

Ignore.

‘Please, call me back, baby. I need you. I’m so sorry I let things get to this. I’m sorry I let things get so bad. I’m sorry for everything. Please, baby, please, I love you so so much, I can’t do this without you. And that quite possibly makes it so much worse, as that’s exactly what you needed from me and I subconsciously denied it from you for so long. I’m such an idiot, a total, complete and utter idiot. I should’ve been better, I’m so sorry. Please, honey, please.’

Each time the answer machine would beep and another message would come through, now late into the night as you curled up on the couch and drifted off to sleep, Michael’s voice grew more and more wrecked, now laced with silent sobs and broken whispers to prevent waking the children. And each time, you would continue to cry — face smushed into the cushion, now soaked with your tears, until the answer machine finally went silent at four-AM.

The next morning, your chest sported a dull, deep ache of emotional distress as you awoke — eyes swollen from the relentless crying. The headache had subsided, thankfully, but now replaced with an intense heartache that you knew would never diminish.

Not after everything that had happened.

After a few days to allow the dust to settle, you decided returning home was a reasonable idea — letting your Mother lecture you about ‘not putting up with anymore shit’ before you left her house, a bag full of dirty over-night clothes and an old toothbrush slung over your shoulder.

The drive back to Neverland was unusual — you weren’t quite sure what the forefront emotion you were feeling was.

Worry? Sadness? Hurt? Confusion? — it wasn’t clear. But, the waves of anticipatory nausea that flooded through you were enough to show that you were definitely concerned about where this left your relationship with Michael.

You had spent the last three days at your Mother’s pondering on what to do. The much needed space, despite calling your children every night to remind them that Mommy still loved them and was coming home soon, allowed you to think about whether or not your marriage was still fulfilling anymore — whether you could continue to live in a house that, despite being full to the brim of people, felt so unbearably lonely.

The walk up to the house felt longer than usual. Like you were moving in slow-motion as you reached the door, hands trembling, not only from the lack of sleep you’d gotten over the past seventy-two hours, but increased anxiety for what you were about to walk into.

And if you’d known what came forth — you never would’ve stepped back into the house at all.

Your heart stopped as you pushed open the door, vision locking on the scene before you — face scrunching into a look of undisguised shock and despair, an array of swirling emotions buzzing round your body in a brutal battle to become the forefront.

But, the one that took the cake was disgust.

There, stood in foyer, laughing, smiling, joking, and holding your baby was Lisa.

Lisa Marie Presley.

Your husband’s ex-wife.

When you described to people after the divorce what really happened, when they pried for answers to their personal, probing questions, you claimed you struggled to find a time where you knew the marriage was over.

But, you knew the truth.

You knew that this very moment before your eyes was that time.

And you knew Michael knew it too.

His eyes instantly shot towards the door, smile still pressed on his face at something she had said — before it fell faster than a brick to the ground. The sheer altitude of how swift the grin wiped itself off his face was almost cartoony — like the main character in a corny, children’s TV show had just had a nanosecond change in expression in the freeze-frame.

Alas, this wasn’t a show nor fictional — this was your life. And the extent of the situation was becoming all too real for the both of you.

“Baby?”

Michael’s voice sounded out first, breaking the atmospherically intense atmosphere that had skyrocketed from thin air — the squeaked sound of his surprised, scared voice filling the room.

At first, words failed you — all of the thousand things you could’ve screamed or yelled or cried lodged themselves in your throat like a hard piece of candy swallowed too quickly. It felt as though you’d been punched by world-class boxer in the stomach — knocking all the air from your lungs in a brutal, nefarious blow.

“I—I swear—I promise it’s not what it looks like.”

The classic one-liner.

You scoffed, the sound almost coming out gurgled as the lump in your throat formed — eyes glassing over in tears.

“What the fuck is going on here?”

He took one slow step forward, hands out in front of him, creeping like a man to a provoked bear, in attempt to keep you where you were. Your eyes darted between them — Michael, who looked as thought he was attempting to save million-dollar porcelain china from falling off a thousand foot drop, and Lisa, who looked like she’d been caught in the act, an expression of bewilderment and shock plastered across her face.

“Honey, please, calm down. I swear there’s an explanation.”

A breathless laugh left you as a single tear slipped down your face — cheeks flushed with exceeding adrenaline as your nervous system went into overdrive.

“Why the fuck is your ex-wife here, Michael?” You snapped, voice a harsh, bitter spit of venom.

Michael sighed, eyes wrecked as he attempted to piece things back together helplessly, “I—I just—I got overwhelmed with the kids, and Blanket was crying and Prince was crying—all for you, they wanted you, and I didn’t know what to do.” He let out a broken breath, “I didn’t know what to do, so, I called the first person I thought of who had children and would know what to do.”

Your heart sank.

No, no, more like violently plummeted — straight to your stomach, mingling with the growing nausea that never let up, concocting together in a ruthless cocktail.

“Are you fucking serious?” Your voice came out shaken and depleted, tears now streaming down your cheeks in a merciless storm, “You—You called your ex-wife for help with our children? You called your fucking ex-wife instead of the Mother of those children?”

You were shouting now — pointing and yelling as your voice hit a higher decibel than you knew it even could, sobs croaking from your throat in wrecked, consuming wails.

“I didn’t know what to do! I was a mess—A total mess, I—I was scared and worried, and you had left, and I—“

“I only left because of you!” You roared, “All of this—this fucking mess—is because of you, Michael! You!”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I—I’m so sorry.” The curse left him before he could even stop himself. In another scenario, if your brain wasn’t total mush, you would’ve realised Michael’s apology was sincere due to his usual lack of using curse words, but you were too far down the rabbit hole of despair to notice.

As Michael began another spout of meaningless explanations behind his reckless decision, your glassy eyes landed on Lisa, who stood awkwardly by the stairs, vision locked on Michael’s apologetic frame and your angered own — eyes refusing to meet your own.

But, upon further inspection, your stomach dropped again — as if on a never-ending rollercoaster that relentlessly dropped you from high heights, toying with your body like a game of cat and mouse.

“Did she fucking sleep here?”

The room fell silent — that was all the answer you needed.

You’d figured that distressing fact out by paying close attention to Lisa’s clothes — her body sporting one of Michael’s pyjama t-shirts, one that you had bought him at Disneyland on one of your anniversary’s.

“Baby, please, I swear, we didn’t sleep in the same bed.”

Michael’s frantic plea for you to listen went on deaf ears as you stumbled back out the door — heart hammering nearly medically worryingly fast as you clutched onto the doorframe for support.

“Oh, my God, I’m gonna be sick.”

And that you did.

Hunching over and vomiting violently into the grass that adorned the front yard of Neverland — stomach churning as you emptied your guts from the sheer panicked and distraught truth that came before you.

Michael rushed to your aid, calling your name in a frenzied, worried manner as he pinned your hair behind your head, making sure none of your aggressive release got into it.

You instantly shoved him away — standing upright, and wiping your mouth, “Don’t fucking touch me, Michael.”

For the first time in his life, Michael truly understood what it was like to not be the heartbroken, depressed, wrecked person, and finally be the one to be inflicting the pain — a feeling he never, ever, in his deepest, darkest nightmares, thought he’d be giving to someone.

Let alone his loving, devoted wife.

A loud wail sounded out through the room, this time not from you, but from Blanket who writhed in Lisa’s arms.

Anger became the fore-front emotion rapidly.

You stormed past Michael, barging past his shoulder harshly as you went, and marched straight up to the woman who was curating this argument. The sound of her comforting Blanket sent shockwaves of coursing fury through you — as if you’d been struck by lightning as you pried the baby from her arms.

“Don’t you fucking dare come near any of my children again, do you hear me?” You yelled, face like thunder as you grit your teeth, not caring how deluded and psychotic you must’ve looked covered in tears, spit and vomit, as you came face to face with her.

“I’m so sorry.” She whispered, breathlessly as a single tear slid down her face.

You laughed a bitter, choked, unamused laugh, “What the fuck are you crying for? Realising you’ve broken up a marriage? Oh, boohoo, poor Lisa, always the victim.”

“Wait, what?”

The room fell silent as Michael’s devastated voice hit your ears.

“Broken up a marriage?” He sounded windless and confused, eyes now brimming with tears as he locked onto your gaze, “So, you—you’re leaving me?—“

“Prince! Paris!”

You ignored him as you shouted your children’s names, refusing to listen as Michael stumbled over his words at your insinuation.

Soon, two pairs of pattering feet came storming through the house, innocent giggles and squeals of excitement masking the sound Michael’s broken stutters. Prince and Paris screeched in excitement as they clung to your legs, exclaiming their adoration for you, as they tugged at your clothes.

“Mama, why are you crying?” Prince asked, a pout forming on his face as he took in your devastated expression.

You knelt down to his eye-level, pressing a kiss to both his and Paris’s cheeks, “Mama’s okay, baby, I’m just a little sad, but Mommy will be okay, I promise.”

“Don’t be sad, Mommy.” Paris chimed in, resting her cheek on your knee as she mimicked her brother’s pout.

“I’m not, baby, don’t worry.” You smiled at her as maternally, and convincingly as possible, “Go get in the car for me, okay? We’re gonna go stay with Grandma for a while.”

“No, baby, please.” Michael’s voice cut through the discussion, “Please don’t do this.”

As Prince and Paris, now in the care of the Nanny, with a baby Blanket in her embrace, taken from your arms, were escorted out of the home, you stood back up to face him.

Anger had been replaced by unadulterated, hopeless anguish.

“Why, Michael?” You whispered, another sob threatening to wrack from your throat, “Why would you do this to me?”

Michael finally let himself break — a miserable, wretched wail escaping from his mouth, streaks of unstoppable tears falling from his eyes.

His hands reached for you as you stepped towards the door, “Please, don’t leave. Don’t leave me, baby, I beg of you. Please let me make things right, I—I swear things will be better, I—“

“I thought you loved me, Michael?”

I thought you loved me.

Those were the last, non-legally binding words you spoke to Michael, one’s that rang in his head every-day since, before you left for good. Turning on your heel in a slow, wobbled movement, and scurried down the driveway, letting yourself cry for a few seconds more, before you hopped into the passenger seat of the black Mercedes, wiping your eyes and putting on a brave face for your children. You blocked out Michael who chased after the car in a screaming, dejecting protest as it sped off, leaving him in a cloud of dust, and a swarm of tears.

He was served the divorce papers the next morning.

From then on, it was everywhere — every news, radio and TV station was covering it, plastering pictures of you and Michael over the front cover with a taunting, exaggerated headline. You tried to block it out, like you always had done, but reading ‘Not even this one could hold Jackson down for even a decade’ definitely had a negative effect on you.

After a long, mentally-depleting five months of court, the divorce was finalised in February, and you were now nine-months pregnant and over it. Your large belly had dropped — signifying you were creeping nearer to labour. You knew the stress of the break-up and the gruelling divorce wasn’t good for the baby, so you took time after court steady.

Back in December, right before Christmas, you moved into your own place. It was a beautiful house, not as large as Neverland, nothing ever could be, but it was home. Unfortunately, or not, the home had been plagued before you even stepped foot into it.

As Michael had paid for it.

You had told him a thousand times that you weren’t together anymore, that you were no longer ‘Mrs Jackson’, so therefore paying for such lavish things like a whole house, wasn’t necessary. But, as he always did, he insisted — and demanded you never attempt to give him even a cent back. Whether it was a sly con to get you back, you didn’t know — but it certainly did work.

In the midst of the divorce, you settled for shared custody — that was a given. Michael was a fantastic father, and you’d never deprive him of his children. You thought just because your relationship broke down, didn’t mean his with your kids had to. So, every week, Bill would turn up outside your front door in the same black Mercedes he always did, with an excitable Michael in the front seat — grinning like a Cheshire cat, opening the door before Bill had even stopped. He’d race out the door and scoop up the children in his arms, kissing their faces all over and letting them ramble on about what they did with you that week. You’d stand in the doorway, watching with a soft smile as Paris would instantly cling to Michael’s clothes like she was scared he was going to disappear while Prince would pinch his cheeks, and a now nearly one-year old Blanket, nestled into the crook of Michael’s neck.

If he couldn’t be a husband, he was definitely going to be a dad. And a good one at that.

But, the damage had been done. And whenever Michael would approach you, letting Bill scurry the children into the backseat, clipping them into their car-seats, the awkward tension would arise. The conversation would be polite and acquainted, as if you’d never met before, with a simple ‘How are you?’ and ‘Were they good?’ or ‘How many weeks left?’

The last question always made your chest ache, not only because you knew you’d soon be a single mother, and having to accommodate your now ex-husband into your routine after the baby was born, but because you knew he already knew — he had kept a strict track of your pregnancy, knew every trimester, how many weeks, your cravings, discomforts, how you liked to sleep, how many kicks you’d had that day, he knew it all. So, every time he’d ask, you knew he was trying to be polite, and come across as nonchalant — like he didn’t know you like the back of his hand.

But, the nonchalance melted into nothingness once the baby came.

It was a cooler day in February, clouds settling over the skies of California, and your back had been aching from the moment you woke up. Luckily, a lazy morning was in order as it was Michael’s week to have the kids — so once eleven-AM rolled around, you forced yourself out of bed.

Unlike at Neverland, where personal chefs were at your beck and call whenever you so pleased, you had to grow to love cooking for yourself. Luckily, you often cooked for your children, even when you lived with Michael, and even more so now you lived alone, so cheffing up a quick breakfast wasn’t too taxing.

But, trying to ignore the dull, relentless ache that settled itself in your lower abdomen was growing harder to do so, gritting your teeth as you scrambled eggs on the stove. This wasn’t a usual cramp or crotch pain like you’d experienced — it was a familiar feeling that you’d felt three times prior.

And your suspicions only came fact when you turned on your heel to fetch salt from the pantry when a flood of liquid gushed through your shorts and onto the floor.

Contractions started simultaneously — growing more and more frequent from the car-ride to when they situated you into a private hospital room. You had been attempting to pace your breathing, the sharp, brutal pains of labour sending you into tachycardia as pain consumed you, the minutes between them decreasing quicker than you remembered they were supposed to, giving you no time to recover.

You were alone in the room, figuratively rather than literally, as dozens of nurses swarmed you, but no loved ones were present. And that was quite possibly worse, your anxiety was sky-rocketing, important people were asking important questions you didnt have the brain power to answer, and hands were all over you, attaching a cannula — it was all too much.

“Mrs Jackson, I’m going to have to ask you again to sit down, you’re bordering on seven centimetres, so baby could come at any time soon, and it’s important you’re in a sensible position.”

You groaned loudly, choosing to ignore the way the nurse referred to you as ‘Mrs Jackson’, as your head hung low, eyes squeezed shut as you hunched over the bed once more, legs wobbling from the sheer intensity of the contraction.

“Ma’am, I going to have to—“ “Enough.”

You breathed a loud sigh of relief, one that your more mentally stable being would’ve kept to yourself, as Michael’s voice sounded throughout the room.

The room fell into hushed silence as he stepped forward, ignoring the eyes on him and shared glances between nurses, and pressed a hand on your back, glistening in tiresome sweat.

“Do you want all these people in here, baby?”

The familiar pet-name fell from his lips before he could even stop himself — an all too welcoming feeling spreading across your chest as you shook your head, mumbling an almost inaudible ‘No’ that mingled into a loud whine of agony.

“You heard my wife, if you’re not going to be delivering our baby, please leave.”

Michael was never rude to workers, but right now he was stern and he wasn’t apologetic about it — he wanted nothing more than your comfort in one of the most important moments in both your lives.

But, even in your pain consumed state, you still managed to pick up on his words, “I’m not your wife anymore, Michael.”

He shushed you gently, rubbing soft circles into your back, before leaning down to press a tender kiss into your hair, “I know, but, just for today, baby.”

You would’ve scolded him if you had the ability, tell him off for acting so husbandly and loving even though only a mere few weeks ago your divorce was finalised — but you hadn’t the energy. And secretly, you needed all the love and support you could get right now.

Luckily, shortly after Michael ordered the dozens of nurses out of the room, your baby was born. You had decided to keep the sex a secret to you both for when it was born, a surprise meant to be then shared and celebrated once the two of you went home together — it was beautiful, but bittersweet, as you knew you would both go off to your respecting homes afterwards instead.

It was a boy — your third boy of the family, and now the littlest. Age and weight, he was, unlike most babies born after their siblings, smaller than your others — weighing seven pounds, three and a half ounces, all of beauty and wonder.

The birth was tiring, but luckily short, not diminishing your energy as much as the others had, and left you unscathed of any tearing. You liked to believe it was the universe giving you a little luck after the heartbreaking few months you’d had to endure.

Once you’d settled in your bed, blanket pushed up to your chest as you held your little boy in your arms, body aching nonetheless, Michael entered the room, pushing the door open quietly.

“Is he asleep?” He whispered, popping his head through the crack in the doorway.

You smiled, “No, come in.”

Michael did so willingly — creaking the door open fully before stepping inside the room, and closing it gently. He walked softly, with a proud smile on his face as he approached you, taking a firm seat in the chair next to the bed with a sigh.

“He’s perfect.” He spoke tenderly, voice cracking ever so slightly as he brushed a delicate finger over his son’s cheeks.

You giggled as you watched your son’s eyes darting around the room, totally entranced by the lights and noises surrounding him, “He is, isn’t he?”

“Have you thought of a name yet?” He asked quietly, eyes still locked on the way his son’s nose twitched and his lips smacked as he became accustomed to life.

“What do you think about Mickey?”

Michael could’ve sworn his heart had grown twice the size already today at the birth of his third son — but this moment was slowly tripling it.

His eyes flicked up to yours — a raw, deep, utterly loving expression crossing his face.

“Y’know, ‘cause you love Disney and Mickey Mouse so much..” You trailed off your explanation, “He can still be Michael Joseph, but, I don’t know, I just thought it was sweet.”

“Baby..”

Your expression softened at him for the first time in nearly a year — he was wrecked. Slow, overwhelming tears trickling down his cheeks that flushed crimson, lip wobbling and eyes full of adoration at your idea of his son’s name — chosen solely from his love for Disney.

“Do you like it?”

“Honey, I love it.” He whispered, sniffling, a hand coming across to rest over your own that cradled the baby’s head, “I love it so much, baby, thank you. Thank you for thinking of me.”

“‘S okay,” You whispered, smiling softly at him, “So, Mickey it is?”

“Mickey it is.” He confirmed, leaning down to press the gentlest kiss known to man-kind to the top of Mickey’s warm head, “Mickey Jackson. Heh, kinda sounds like Michael, huh?”

You chuckled, “Bad or good?”

“Good. Real good.”

You noticed the way his thumb absentmindedly stroked over your knuckles — a romantic display of his utmost adoration and gratitude for you for bringing his fourth baby into this world. And in that moment, your heart had never felt so full — even after the worst pits of hell you’d felt you’d crawled into over the past few months after everything that had occurred, none of it mattered in that room, holding your baby as he drifted off into a slumber, with the father of said baby holding your hand as he did so.

The overwhelming hormones and emotions from birth hit you like a truck as tears began to fall — cascading down your cheeks just as Michael’s did.

“Hey, what’s wrong, honey?” Michael question, a tight knit in his eyebrows as he glanced at your upset expression.

“Nothing, nothing, I’m—I’m okay, I just—I’m just happy.” You sniffled, “Happy you’re here.”

You looked up from peering at Mickey’s sleeping face and meet Michael’s eyes — ones that were full of devotion. His hand left the embrace of your own, and reached up to wipe the tears that slipped from your waterline.

“Me too, baby.” He spoke delicately, his hand coming across to cup your flushed cheek, “Me too.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward or forced like it had been recently since the divorce, no, it was raw — a subtle demonstration of overpowering intimacy that needed no words, only a look of sheer joy at the miracle that had been brought onto this Earth from the love you both shared. The intensity of the soul-baring, vulnerable, cherished sensation that flooded both of your systems became overwhelming — the sound of both of your hearts hammering in your chests blasting in your ears as you remained locked in a sincere gaze.

“Michael.”

He didn’t even need confirmation — he leant forward before he could stop himself and connected your lips in a gentle, warm, deeply devoted kiss that send shockwaves of electricity throughout your body. You gasped into his mouth, hands tightening ever so slightly around Mickey to steady yourself as he moved his mouth slowly against your own. You kissed back immediately — a sound almost like a sob leaving your throat as more tears spilled from your eyes, as your lips collided together in a scared, dreamlike connection.

You pulled away to catch your breath — panting softly as your head lolled forward to rest your forehead against his own, the scent of his cologne becoming intoxicating from the closeness.

No words were spoken about that kiss ever again.

Not when yours and Michael’s family came to see the baby, especially so when your three children came to do the same, and even more so when you returned home and went about your lives. And there was definitely more than enough time to discuss it, even though it never was, especially when Michael was at your house practically every day to come check on you and help out with Mickey.

Some nights he’d even sleep on the couch downstairs, and take the night shifts to let you rest, or he’d take the kids out into the garden or back to Neverland to play, with Mickey, while you showered and cleaned the house, or took everyone out for dinner to save you cooking — he was always there. And instead of feeling uncomfortable and awkward like you assumed it would’ve been while you were still pregnant, it was surpisingly pleasant. And felt like old-times.

But, once Mickey reached the four-five-six month old mark, you didn’t need as much help — and your old routine went back into motion. And with all things considered, everything between you and Michael was jovial.

Until Wednesday.

Today, Friday, thirteenth of February 2004, the day of your son, Prince’s, seventh birthday — you had to battle showing a brave, excitable face for your son, who was buzzing in joy over all the presents laid out in the living room of your home, with the undeniable fury that flamed inside you at what Michael had done.

On Wednesday, Michael had been spotted out at a lavish, fancy restaurant in Manhattan with his ex-ex-wife, Lisa Marie Presley.

Oh, yes! The same woman that helped break up your marriage two years ago — that Lisa!

Why Manhattan? Why that restaurant? Why the secrecy? Why two days before his son’s birthday? Why Lisa?, most importantly — a million questions swirled around your head, and you knew it’d be difficult to keep them there, and not spewing out of your mouth.

Especially when you were seeing him in an hour.

Michael had decided to host a massive gathering for Prince’s birthday at Neverland, inviting all of his family over to celebrate — and obviously, being Prince’s mother, included you. And you definitely weren’t going there looking like you usually did, oh, no, you had to make a statement. Remind him of who gave him four children, who stayed even though the marriage was failing, and carried his baby all through an exhausting divorce — you.

So once Paris was in her prettiest dress, Blanket and Prince in their finest dress shirts, and baby Mickey in an ironic Mickey Mouse t-shirt, you slipped on the most eye-catching, jaw-dropping dress you could find appropriate for the occasion.

It was black, Michael’s favourite colour on you, and figure-hugging — clutching your hips and curves in all the right ways, and showing just enough cleavage to make Michael sweat. It was perfect — and just enough to make him realise what he was missing.

Not that you were intending to make him come back, or so you thought.

The drive was boisterous — nearly one-year old Mickey was, unusually, wide awake, most likely from all the noise his siblings were making as they chatted loudly in the backseat. Paris, now six-years old, and Blanket, two nearly three, were old enough to engage in playful conversations as Prince recounted to you, and Bill who chuckled in the drivers seat, all of his favourite presents, which, surprise surprise, was all of them.

“Thank you, Bill. Nice to see you.” You spoke kindly, offering him a sweet smile as you pulled Mickey onto your hip, as the others clambered out the car.

“And you.” Bill replied, “Tell Michael I said hi.” You smiled thinly, knowing there was nothing you wanted to do less than speak to him, “If he’s still surviving after seeing you in that dress, that is.”

You laughed loudly as Blanket took your hand, now old enough to walk, “Well, if you don’t hear from him, then you know why.”

Bill chuckled softly as he waved goodbye to the children, before driving away. Paris and Prince instantly took off towards the door, squealing as they went. Blanket, although confident and more than capable of running, was still the clingy baby you birthed nearly three years ago, and liked it better by your side, as Mickey nestled his face into your collarbone, sucking his thumb.

You took a long, precise, deep breath as you reached the door, collecting yourself and pushing your anger further down your nervous system before pushing the door open.

The room erupted in excited laughter and shouts of your names as they locked eyes on your presence entering the home. Prince and Paris, of course, had sped off in the direction of where all the noise was — jumping into the arms of their uncles and aunts, and accepting countless kisses from their Grandma Katherine, Michael’s mother.

Blanket’s hand slipped from your own as you shut the door as he jogged towards an all too familiar face that emerged from the crowd.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Applehead!”

The hilarious term of endearment Michael had given all of his children rang in your head as Blanket jumped into Michael’s embrace — instantly wrapping his short little arms around his neck as he cuddled into his shirt.

“You okay, buddy? How was your morning at Mama’s?” Michael asked, smoothing his hair across his forehead.

“Good, Prince got loads of presents.” Blanket revealed, as you fought the urge to laugh.

“Well, that’ll be you in a few weeks, bud.”

Michael was right, Blanket’s birthday was only around two weeks post-Prince’s, thankfully, not, for your bank account. Michael looked up from Blanket’s smiling face to meet your gaze, and he folded instantly. He didn’t even try and hide the expression that spread across his face — jaw slack and eyes blown as his vision trailed along your frame, clad in a gobsmacking dress and heels.

However, your stare was ice-cold, and he noticed — watching as you daren’t smile as you sauntered near him, heels clicking against the floor.

“Hey, you okay?” He spoke, clearing as throat as he attempted to regain some composure.

You hummed in response as you stopped next to him, watching as he gulped thickly.

“Hey, little man, how’s my littlest boy, hm?” Michael turned his attention the smallest son your hip, who now blabbered and kicked violently in your arms at the sight of his daddy — now slobbering all over himself.

Michael reached over and used his free hand, the one not holding up Blanket, to use his bib to wipe his mouth clean, “How was he this morning? Prince didn’t wake him up with all the noise, did he?”

“No, he’s been good. They’ve all been good.” You forced out jovially through gritted teeth, eyes only focusing on Mickey who giggled as Michael squished his cheeks.

“So, Prince had a good morning, then? I’ve been so busy recently, I can’t believe how fast his birthday has rolled around.”

“Busy, huh?” You fired back as Blanket wriggled from Michael’s grasp and ran towards his Auntie Janet who beckoned him over, “You been real busy, Michael?”

You knew you didn’t need to say anymore, as you walked away, from the look on Michael’s face — he knew you knew now and it was obvious in his expression. His jaw twitched as it fell ajar ever so slightly, his eyes squeezing shut as you walked away, muttering under his breath, shaking his head.

“Hey, girl!” Janet called, her voice excitable as she smiled at you, waving you over as she just did Blanket, who was now playing with her hair.

“Hey, Jan.” You smiled, leaning over to kiss her cheek, as she did the same “How ‘you been?”

“Oh, yeah, good, good. What about you?”

The conversation flowed from there as if you saw one another yesterday — laughing wildly and joking playfully about all of her brother’s and sister’s, who fawned over your kids dramatically, while discussing her relationship with American rapper, Jermaine Dupri, who she’d been with for two years at this point.

“Yeah, he’s so good to me, it’s so refreshing.” Janet told you as you settled on the couch, shortly after saying hello to the rest of Michael’s family, “We’re going away to Hawaii in April, I’m convinced he’s gonna propose.”

Although you smiled and gasped in joy, grasping her hands and asking a thousand questions about her possible engagement, you couldn’t help but let your heart ache at the mention of the start of a new beginning — your mind instantly jumping to the memory of Michael proposing, and then your wedding, and into the start of your marriage.

“Girl, I know that look, talk to me.” Janet cut herself off, raising her eyebrows at you as she took a sip from her glass of red-wine.

You groaned, rolling your eyes with a playful smile— Janet knew you nearly as much as Michael did, playing the part of a real sister, even if you weren’t married to her brother anymore.

“It’s just—Please tell me you saw it too.” You started, not even wanting to say it out loud.

Janet instantly knew what you were referring to, “Honey, everyone saw it.” She scoffed, “I think he’s a complete idiot for doing that.”

You laughed, shaking your head, “Well, it’s not like we’re together anymore, so there’s no loyalty there, but, why her, y’know? Out of everyone he could’ve chosen to take out, or even date, it had to be her.”

“She’s a vulture.” Janet spat, “I never forgave her for going on vacation with her ex while they were together. Totally unforgivable. And I will support Michael till the day I die, and I did when he didn’t speak to her for six weeks after that, but this? This is a big no.”

You sighed, “Yeah, me too. He’s the father of four of my children, so, I’ve gotta keep the peace for their sake—but, fuck, Jan, I’m livid. I didn’t think I could even get this angry anymore.”

Janet rest a soft, comforting hand on your knees as you let out another audible breath, “Honey, I don’t blame you. Not after what she did before you broke up. She knows exactly what she’s doing.” Janet leant in, “But, I doubt Michael had such, how do I put this?, devious intentions. Like you said, he is technically single and can date whoever he likes, but I doubt he’d ever do it to hurt you. He’s just too polite for his own good and it ends him up in bad situations. But her? She’s got an ulterior motive — ‘cause she’s a bitch.”

You chuckled again, harder this time, “No, I know. I know he would never intentionally hurt me, but I just get more irritated when it’s her, y’know? Especially after everything that happened between us three.” You let a breathless laugh escape you, “I mean I’d rather it be Diana.”

Janet cackled, “Girl, I reckon that ten times worse.”

The two of you shared more laughs and glasses of wine as you changed the subjects quickly — discussing vacations, work, your children, fashion, family, everything. Janet had always been your favourite, after Michael of course (not that you’d ever admit that to him now), and then Marlon, who was now approaching you from across the room.

“There she is! My favourite baby mama!” He called, arms out wide as he entered your orbit.

You snorted in laughter as you stood up to hug him, “What the hell, Marlon? I’m pretty certain all of my children are Michael’s.”

“Let a man dream, alright?” He quipped, nudging your shoulder with a playful grin, “Hey, later on, all of us are gonna have some drinks once the old fogey’s leave and the kids are asleep — just like old times. Whadda’ say?”

What Marlon referring to was when you and Michael first started dating, you would often go with him to Hayvenhurst when he visited his parents, alongside his siblings. And once Katherine and Joseph went up to sleep, all the siblings and their partners, including you, would all huddle in the living room and drink to your heart’s content — the house getting increasingly more loud as the group of you got more and more intoxicated. Michael never got that drunk at that age, and especially so when he felt a responsibility to take care of you — which he did. More often than not after one of those evenings, carrying you to bed once you returned home, undressing you and taking your makeup off while you babbled and kissed him all over, before passing out, which often amused him.

“Uh, duh.”

Marlon laughed, clapping his hands together in anticipatory excitement to his future drinking, before Katherine’s voice sounded out into the room.

“Cake time!”

Prince practically exploded with excitement as he raced over to you, squealing like a little piglet as he clabbered onto your lab. He sat with his small back facing your chest, legs kicking wildly against your shins as he radiated with joy — little hands grabbing at the material of your dress in anticipation.

Soon, the room fell into silence just as Blanket and Paris climbed next to you, nestling into your sides, as the lights flicked off before Michael arose from the darkness, a large buttercream frosting covered cake with seven ignited candles standing atop — as his melodic, sweet-symphony of a voice sounded out into the room.

Everyone soon joined in, even your two little ones next to you, for the famous Happy Birthday song, even Katherine. You knew birthdays and Christmas weren’t celebrated amongst their family due to Katherine’s religion — so, you felt an extra splash of gratitude for the Jackson’s when it came to celebrating the day of your son’s birth without their faith in mind. But, you knew Kate would do whatever her grandbabies.

Just as Michael reached you, crouching down to Prince’s level as he giggled, the song came to an end, and the birthday boy blew out his candles, with a slight struggle from his little lungs. And as the room enclosed into darkness and cheers of ‘Hip-Hip Hooray!’ echoed in your head, your eyes landed on Michael’s, whose were already locked on you.

The look in his eye was a familiar one — a glint that he wore four times previously, and on this day seven years ago when his first baby was born, was one of pride and intense adoration. The same look he also sported before the intimate lock of lips you shared in the hospital last year when Mickey was born — the look of love.

It was undeniable — the way his lip wobbled as his eyes glassed over in proud tears, cheeks flushing a sheer shade of burgundy, and the raw shine of adoration in his vision.

You soon adorned the same look, a simple, unspoken expression that said a thousand words, as well as one more plain sentence of ‘That’s our baby boy’.

But, the lights flicked on and you both snapped out of it — clearing your throats and swallowing thickly as you looked away from one another, forcing your attention onto Prince who demanded a slice of cake that had to be bigger than Paris’s. And soon, the night continued as it had done, now with bellies full of cake and, for the adults, wine.

However, as ever, Michael’s intense and noticeable gaze was hard to ignore — every conversation you slotted yourself into was always dragged away by a subtle eye movement behind said person, and catching the locked stare of Michael, who watched you like a hawk, often letting his bottom slip between his teeth before looking away. Every time your stomach would jump — a flare of burning electricity coursing through your veins like wildfire.

And, as it always does, the party began filtering out — offering hugs and kisses to cheeks before heading out the door. Even including Joseph, who grumbled a good-bye, and Kate, who engulfed you in a tight embrace, kissed your cheek and thanked you for bringing her beautiful grandchildren into this world, before leaving with Michael’s eldest sister, Rebbie, who had to send her children off to bed.

You did the same — sending your four babies up the stairs of Neverland, and into their respecting bedrooms, cooing each little one to sleep with a sweet, hushed bedtime story or a recount of their day, before they all succumbed to a much needed slumber. And as Mickey, who fell asleep in your arms, was laid carefully in his crib-like bed in Michael’s room, you shut the door and head back down the stairs to where the party awaited you.

And then, there were nine — You, Janet, La Toya, Jackie, Marlon, Jermaine, Tito, Randy and, of course, Michael.

The dozen of you situated yourselves in the living room adorning three large couches — all spreading across the furniture in equal numbers. Michael, tactically, sat across from you. You knew exactly why — he wanted to keep staring. But, you’d let him — what else was the dress for?

Marlon took a firm seat before letting three bottles of wine clatter onto the small table that sat in the middle of the room — before grabbing one himself and pouring a large glass.

“Let’s get the real party started.” Jermaine laughed as he took the bottle from Marlon, and topped his one glass of.

“Hey, that’s my baby’s birthday party you’re dissin’.” You quipped, chuckling as you thanked La Toya for passing you the bottle after she’d finished with it.

“I’m not dissin’” Jermaine defended with a smile, taking a sip of his wine, “I’m just sayin’, ain’t this way more fun?”

“Love Prince, but absolutely.” Marlon joked, sending the room into laughter.

The room settled into a comfortable buzzed environment — everyone quietly conversed with those nearest to them, occasionally engaging in a large group discussion, as the multiple glasses of consumed wine took over everyone’s blood-streams.

“Oooh, you know what we should play,” La Toya squealed, “‘Never have I ever?’!”

Jackie laughed, “Seriously? Are we fifteen?”

“What? It’s fun!” Toya defended, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I mean,” Marlon started, grinning playfully, a joke clearly pending, “We are in Neverland.”

“You are so corny.” Randy shot with a chuckle, “I’m down.”

“Yeah, me too.” Janet said with a grin, “Why not?”

As everyone, including yourself, agreed, all eyes landed on Michael — who had remained deliberately quiet.

“You in, Mike?” Tito question, placing his nearly empty wine glass on the side table, peering over at his brother next to him.

Michael let out a breathy laugh, eyes flicking up to you before he nodded, “Sure.”

Everyone cheered before putting one hand in the air as La Toya cleared her throat, before stating the first prompt.

“Never have I ever spent more than $50,000 in one day?”

The room chuckled as Jermaine, Michael and Janet put a finger down — but, Michael was a given. He was Michael Jackson after all.

“That’s so tame, sis.” Marlon laughed, “Never have I ever had sex in a pool?”

“Ew, Mar, what the hell?” Janet scrunched her face up, as Marlon cackled with laughter.

La Toya, Tito, Jackie and Jermaine put a finger down, succumbing to the teasing that soon followed from their siblings as the room erupted into laughter once more.

“Alright, alright, if that’s the route we’re going down, Never have I ever had sex more than ten times in one day?”

Well, shit.

Your eyes locked on Michael’s as the room fell into silence as everyone’s visions darted towards everyone’s hands — but, soon chaos ensued as you and Michael’s fingers slotted down.

“Oh, my God, Mike.” Jermaine cried, clutching his stomach, “You dog.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you recounted the memory clearly in your head. It was the night, and more so day, after your wedding — and you spent the whole twenty-four hours after tying the knot making love. So much so, you both slept for at least fourteen hours that night, both covered head to toe in sweat, spit and cum — and completely spent.

“We’d just got married, what did you expect?” You giggled, the deep smile on your face on deepening as Michael dropped his head as he laughed breathlessly, clearly embarrassed from such intimate talk.

A few more intimate, hilarious and interesting rounds followed — memories from the siblings childhood, as well their respecting relationships and embarrassing moments all being revealed with each breath. As well as more wine.

“I can’t believe you peed on Randy, you two.” Janet gasped for breath as she laughed.

Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head, as he recounted the memory of sharing a bed with his brothers, “He’s such a liar.” He spoke, his words slightly slurred as the alcohol took over.

“I am not!” Randy fired back.

“Well, it wasn’t me.” Michael giggled, raising his eyebrows in Marlon’s direction who screamed with laughter.

“When you gotta go, you gotta go, little brother.” He winked, ignoring the way Randy cursed at him, “Alright, if you wanna come for me, Never have I ever got caught having sex by Mom?”

Randy groaned as he put a finger down, just as you gasped, “Oh, fuck’s sake, that includes us!”

“No way! When?” La Toya gasped as the room bustled with questions at your drunken revelation.

“Oh, come on, girl, why’d you tell ‘em?” Michael whined, his voice drawled as his cheeks flushed, as he slotted a third finger down.

The alcohol had clearly hit everyone, including you, as your cheeks flushed pink and your body buzzed with a heavy, noticeable daze of intoxication, as you began retelling the story. It had been a night just like this, five years ago, when Paris was still young, and your Mother had been looking after her and Prince while you had a party-night at Hayvenhurst with all the siblings. But, this time, Michael got equally as drunk as you, and was too under the influence to attempt to get home, so opted for spending the night at his parents. And, as most couple’s do when drunk, you began having sex, albeit much louder than you intended to. But, you hadn’t let Kate know you were staying over — so, when she marched into the room, wondering if there was a burglar, she witnessed you, naked, atop of her son, riding him.

Michael’s hands enclosed around his face as Tito shook his shoulders with a laugh, teasing him, as you added Kate had a stern talk with you the next day, like you were irresponsible teenagers, about safe sex, especially after having a baby.

“That was your fault.” Michael pointed at you, a lazy grin spread across his face, as his eyes drooped slightly.

You giggled, “Me? You came on to me.”

“More like into, but sure.”

“Oh, good, God, Michael!” La Toya squealed, covering her ears as everyone laughed.

“I always forget how he gets when he drinks.” You slurred with a chuckle, “As the story reveals.”

“Oh? You wanna go there?” Michael fired, “Never have I ever broke a mirror during... it?”

You gasped, folding a finger down as the memory of your legs giving way, and falling forward when Michael was fucking you from behind in front of the mirror, and it smashing from the weight of your tumble, hit your brain.

“Alright, Never have I ever fell asleep during sex?”

Marlon cackled as Michael pursed his lips together, “It was after the tour, girl, I was tired!”

“Put that finger down, Michael.”

“Fine, speaking of fingers, Never have I ever broke a finger during sex?”

As you slot a finger down, recounting the way you jumped on Michael from the edge of the bed, in between switching positions, and broke his pinky finger, you shot back, “Never have I ever slipped in the shower during sex?”

Michael cursed with a laugh as he put a finger down — the tension of his previous actions melting into nothingness as your teasing continued.

“Never have I ever been pregnant?”

“Oh, that’s playing dirty.” You gasped, putting a finger down until one was left, “Never have I ever woke the kids up from how loud you were being?”

“Fine, Never have I ever argued with me during sex?”

“Never have I ever been an asshole that it required an argument?”

Michael’s jaw clenched as the room fell into uncomfortable silence, “Never have I ever divorced the one man who actually put up with you?”

Oh, now he was pissed — and so were you.

“Oh, fuck you.” You spat, the tension rising back up as you dropped your hand, now not caring about the game, “Never have I ever ruined my marriage by letting my ex-wife sleep over at my house and take care of my loving wife’s kids while she was crying at her Mom’s house because of what I’d done?”

“You know it wasn’t like that.” Michael spat through gritted teeth, his hand also abandoned.

“Oh, really? So maybe, Never have I ever took my other ex-wife out for dinner who ruined my marriage, two days before my son’s birthday, is more fitting?”

Before Michael could even get another word out, you slammed your wine glass onto the table and stormed out of the room — heels clicking wildly against the floor, covering the sound of your quiet sobs as tears slipped from your eyes.

You soon found one of the many downstairs bathrooms, slotting yourself inside with a stumble due to your intoxication, and locking it shut. You hunched over the sink, letting tears drip onto the cold tiles that surrounded the basin as you choked out a sob.

‘Divorced the one man who put up with you’ rang in your head like a blasting speaker in your mind — circling around in your drunken thoughts. Michael had never been cruel, even when drunk, but his words had been harsh, which allowed your slurred brain to run away with itself, believing that it was true.

After a few minutes, a soft knock sounded onto the wood of the door, “Honey? It’s me.”

Janet’s quietened voice hit your ears from behind the door, as you stood up with a huff and unlocked the wooden barrier, pulling it open. She sighed sadly at the sight of your crying frame, before pulling you into a tight hug, rubbing your back as a few stray tears fell from your waterline.

“I’m sorry, honey, I—I have no idea what happened back there, but, I think you two have a lot to discuss.” She spoke gently as she pulled away, offering a small smile, “We’re all heading home now, do you need a ride?”

You let out another long sigh, “No, I’m okay. And you’re right, we should probably talk. I’m sorry you had to see that.”

“Don’t stress it, sweetie. Call me if you need, okay?”

And with quiet goodbyes with his brothers at the front door, who teased you carefully about your dispute with Michael, letting the tears dry and soft laughter erupt from your chest, the house fell into loud silence — the kind where you could move one step and it would echo.

You breathed out again, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand, before heading back to where the group had once been. Your chest ached at the sight of Michael — head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, body unmoving, now in dim lighting, the main light dialled down to a softer array of light across the room.

Michael’s head lifted at the sound of your heels clicking as they had done all day, your footing still unstable from the lingering alcohol, as you approached him. You took the high road, sitting firmly next to you with a huffed breath, hands settling on your thighs as you got comfortable.

The room, if it was even at all possible, fell into deeper silence, the only sound radiating between you was the sound of your slurred, slow breaths.

“I’m sorry.” Michael finally spoke, voice croaked and quiet as he sighed, “I—I don’t know why I said that.”

“Why did you?” Your voice a near whisper as tears threatened to brew at the reminder of the sentence that was haunting you, “Was I really that bad?”

“Not at all.” He spoke quickly, turning towards you briskly, his eyes meeting your own, “I was just angry and I blurted it out.” He ran a hand across his face, “I don’t know why I did.”

“That really hurt, Michael.” You breathed, “And, when you—sigh—when you, y’know, with Lisa the other day.” You swallowed down the lump in your throat, “Why?”

Michael grew quiet, pursing his lips together as he breathed out once more, “I don’t even know. I was bored, and in Manhattan for a gala, and she called me asking if I was free. I just—I just wanted to catch up.”

“Catch up with your ex-wife? After all that happened?” You questioned, furrowing your eyebrows.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, I hear it, I do. I don’t even know why I agreed really, but, we didn’t go home together, or kiss, or nothin’, if that’s what you’re thinkin’, ‘cause I bet you are.” You let a soft chuckle at his words, which were undeniably true, “It was harmless, to me at least. I definitely see how it looks.”

“Looked real bad, Mike.” You laughed breathlessly, “Jan said you were probably just being polite, and I guess she was right. But, it still hurt, Michael, seeing you with her, it was like opening an old wound that I worked so hard to heal.”

Michael didn’t reply right away, just stayed locked in your gaze, eyes a sunken display of his upset — hurt in the way he’d caused you pain. The look in his eyes was a watered down version of the way he looked at you when you caught him with Lisa the day you split up — the vision sending shockwaves of irrevocable pain coursing through your traumatised veins.

“I’m sorry.” He mumbled again, a hand coming down to rest over yours that crumbled together in your lap, “The last thing I want is for us to fall out when we have kids. It’s not fair to you, as well as them. That’s the last thing I want for us.”

The latter word hung heavy in your head the second it left his lips — a spike of a familiar adoring feeling spreading through you.

“Us.” A smile drifted onto your face, as you glanced down at your connected hands, “Haven’t heard that in a while.”

Michael watched as you toyed with his fingers, rolling the digits between your own, rubbing the soft skin with the pad of your thumb so delicately his heart skipped a beat at the touch.

“We were pretty good together.” He admitted softly, “You made it perfect.”

Your smile deepened, “So I wasn’t hard to put up with?”

Michael chuckled softly as you reciprocated, “No, not at all.” He confirmed, “I wouldn’t be who I am today without you, and that’s a positive thing. I mean I’m a dad of a four now, and I love being a father, and I love our kids, and I love yo—“

He cut himself off, visibly tensing, before he could finish the sentence — but, it was too late. The way you gasped softly revealed you’d heard it — his casual revelation for his love for you, even after all this time.

“Michael.” You whispered, peering up from your entwined hands to meet his gaze, “What did you say?”

You had heard, loud and clear, but you needed confirmation before you let your heart burst, while it hammered violently in your chest.

“I said I love you.” Michael sighed, accepting defeat and owning it, “I do now, as I always have done, even after everything. The break-up, the divorce, the kids, Lisa — everything.”

His voice was lazy and slurred, and strong smelling of alcohol as it drifted over your nose from his breath.

“Michael, I—“

“You don’t need to say anything. I know you left for a reason, and a valid one at that. I know I fucked everything up, before and after we split up, I just—I don’t think I can go another day without you.” He let out a broken, shaken breath as a single tear slipped down his face, “I still love you so much, so much it physically hurts whenever I see you leave when you pick up the kids. I can literally feel my heart breaking in my chest whenever we talk like we didn’t spent eight years together. Eight years learning routines, and favourite dinners, and—and little quirks. Eight years of sleeping next to one another, washing together in the shower, and rubbing each other’s feet after a long day, or taking off your make-up when you’re too drunk to do it.” You laughed softly at his words, “Eight years of marriage, seven of being parents to the most wonderful children on the planet, I just—I can’t bear that they think their Mommy and Daddy don’t love each other anymore, when that’s not the truth.” He finally took a breath after he rambled, “At least it isn’t for me.”

You didn’t even realise you were crying until salt lingered on your tongue from where your tears trickled onto your lips — eyebrows tucked deep into the crease of your forehead, lip wobbling as you let him pour his heart out, a raw, vulnerable display of his adoration.

“I never stopped loving you, Michael.”

The sound that left Michael was a broken choke, half a sob as his hands enclosed tighter around your own.

“I was mad at you—fuck, so mad at you. So mad and distraught and lonely, and you saw none of it. You were just so busy and cooped in your own insanely demanding career that you took me for granted. Assumed I’d always be there, that I’d never leave, that I’d always put up with it.” You sniffled, wiping the tears that dripped from the tip of your nose, “But, I just couldn’t. I let you push me closer and closer to the edge, until I willing jumped off, y’know? I just couldn’t take anymore.” You continued, “But, that never meant I stopped loving you.”

As you finished, you let out a deep, trembling breath that released all of the past two years of stress from your body — your shoulders slumping ever so slightly as more tears slipped from your eyes.

“I could never, ever stop loving you, Michael.”

Michael didn’t waste a beat — hands flying from your enclosure to cup your cheeks, and connect your lips.

You gasped into the kiss, your own instantly taking a hold of his shoulders as he moved quickly against you. He was making up for lost time — his hands moving from your face, to your neck, to your waist, pulling you closer to his body radiating pulsing heat, as he hummed into your mouth. A low, deep grumble left him as you crawled onto his lap, lips still connected, instantly finding a familiar comfortability as your legs settled either side of his. Your tongue swiped his bottom lip, requesting entry, as your hands splayed across his panting chest, as he let you in. The kiss only got frequently more frenzied, hands running across one another’s bodies, as if attempting to remember the shape, as your tongues glided together — the kiss growing warm, wet and messy.

If alcohol wasn’t in the equation, you most likely would’ve left it there — pulling away from the kiss and continuing the conversation about your relationship, maybe even attempting to reconcile or rekindle, but not now. Not when your hips slowly began grounding down on the obvious tent in his slacks, moaning into one another’s mouths as his hands cupped the curve of your behind through your dress. The same one that had ridden up your thighs, now revealing your delicate, lace panties that sported a wet patch from where you drooled from anticipatory arousal — now rolling against Michael’s crotch.

“Oh, God, I missed this.” Michael panted, lips leaving your own, revelling in the way you whined into the air, as his mouth trailed down your jaw, to your exposed neck, as your head lolled back, “Missed you, shit, I missed you so much, baby.”

His mouth licked and sucked the skin of your neck, erupting in red-hot heat from the alcohol, and the ecstasy his mouth was providing — littering your skin in dark, blooming love-bites, ones he soothed with his tongue afterwards.

“Michael, please.”

Michael groaned at the sound of your needy plea — a hand guiding your rocking hips against him as he leaked into his boxers at the sensation, “Tell me what you need, sweet girl.”

“Need—fuck, need you, baby, Oh—“

Your breath caught in your throat as Michael lips reached your breasts — pressing open-mouthed, spit-stricken kisses against your cleavage as a hand crawled up to cup your left breast, kneading one in his palm.

“Yeah?” He breathed, voice panted and wrecked, mouth now covered in your lipstick, “What do you need, baby?”

You whined, loud and desperate, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as he grazed your erect nipple with his teeth, your back arching at the feeling, “Make love to me, please.”

How you ended up in Michael’s bedroom was a blur — a rushed, hushed and stumbled run up the stairs, shedding clothes before you even made it to the room, stealing kisses and subtle touches in the dark, in quietened voices to not wake your sleeping children.

But, once you made it, Michael pounced like a lion on its prey — guiding you backward as he kissed you until your legs hit the bed, before laying you down gently. Michael had always been a tentative, doting lover in the bedroom, making sure you always finished first, and had the most pleasureful, comfortable experience possible — and even after all this time, he was the same.

He had already rid his shirt outside the room, and managed to pull your dress halfway up your legs, so when he fell to his knees in between your bare thighs, he only had to push your dress the other half of the way off, before you were bare before him, aside from your panties.

He shimmied your soaked underwear down your legs and shuffled back on his calves — eyes trailing over your stark naked, trembling frame.

“Wow.” He breathed, “My beautiful lady. God, the things you do to me.”

“I think I have somewhat of an idea.” Your voice was teasing and tantalising as a bare foot, your heels left to rot on the stairs, pressed firmly onto the bulge in his trousers.

Michael cursed under his breath, head falling forward to rest against your knee as his hand gripped your ankle at the sensation — he hadn’t had any sort of physical contact with a woman, besides hugging, since you split up a year ago, and by God, was he desperate now.

As your foot retracted and he gained composure, he pressed swift kisses up from your knee and along your thighs — before two large slowly parted your legs as he slot his face between them.

Before he delved in to where you needed him most, he peered up at your panting frame, eyes blow at the anticipation of his mouth, “Can I taste you, baby?”

“Oh, God, please, ye—Oh, fuck, Michael!”

The cry left you before you stop yourself as his tongue flattened against your sex — a low rumble of a groan leaving his lips, vibrating against your core as he let the taste of you settle on his tongue. You writhed at the vibration, soft gasps and whines leaving your throat as he began slow, practiced figure-eights along your throbbing clit — your hands flying to capture his hands that rest against your thighs in a tight grasp to steady yourself.

“Fuck, you taste even better than I remembered, mama.” Michael mumbled against your sex, licking a long stripe from your weeping hole, to where your clit twitched violently.

He dove back in, but this time, slipping a slender finger inside you — revelling in the way your back arched and you cried his name, the pleasure you yourself too hadn’t felt in a year consumed you entirely. His fingers found that spot instantly — rubbing the part of your drooling cunt that made you cry out in overwhelming pleasure repeatedly as you saw stars.

With the dual sensation of his fingers and relentless mouth now suckling your clit into his mouth, releasing it with a pop! and then swirling his tongue around it — your orgasm approached quicker than you expected. And hit you like a freight train.

“Oh, my, God, I’m gonna—fuck, Michael, I’—“ You sounded awfully desperate and whiny as you panted, legs shaking as your first non-self-inflicted orgasm washed over you.

His name fell from your swollen lips like a chant — hitting his ears as he contained to stimulate you, his tongue and fingers never letting up as you rode the wave of your release.

“That’s it, that’s my girl.” Michael coaxed, his fingers slowing as you slumped against the sheets, “Did so good for me, baby.”

Michael gasped as you sat up and grabbed him by the belt — dragging him to his feet as his crotch became level with your face from where you sat on the bed. Your nimble fingers worked open his belt with practiced ease, an action you’d performed thousands of times over your relationship, as you pushed his slacks and boxers to his ankles.

Your breath hitched in your throat at the sight of him — you’d seen his cock, hard and soft, a million times before, but this time was different. He looked the hardest he’d ever been — twitching cock flushed a deep shade of pink against the mauve-coloured tip, pulsing veins painting the underside of his shaft, and sporting a drool of perfectly white pre-cum from the head that stained his abdomen as it slapped against it.

You pulled him down by his hips as you lay flat against the sheets — back hitting the bed as Michael crawled atop of you. He connected your lips instantly, but, this kiss was gentler than the previous — his mouth moved slowly and delicately against yours, as if savouring the taste of sweet red-wine and buttercream frosting on your tongue, mixing with the familiar taste of your saliva.

His hands moved quicker than his mouth — pulling your legs up into the air by the back of your knees, and slotting them onto his shoulders, as he nestled closer to your chest. With a spare hand that wasn’t cupping the nape of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, Michael took a firm hold of the base of his cock and slot it between your folds with ease only a former husband of eight years would know to do, even in an intoxicated state.

“Please, baby.”

“Patience.” He whispered against your mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips before sitting up on his knees, “Wanna do somethin’ first.”

He leant over to the nightstand next to the bed, ignoring how you whined from the lack of touch, and retrieved a small black box. He lodged himself back between your raised legs, and chuckled, opening the black box, as you gasped.

“Wanna be my wife again for the night, baby?”

There, in the black, velvet box, the same one he opened nine years prior on golden sands in Italy at sunset, held your engagement ring, and nestled neatly above it, your wedding ring, the same one you wore for eight years, and mailed back to him the day after you broke-up. One that he kept all this time in the drawer of his nightstand — a subtle way of holding onto you all this time.

Michael pulled the wedding ring out of the box, saving the engagement ring for safe keeping, and threw the box across the large bed. He slotted your legs over his shoulders once more, slithering his cock between your glistening folds, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth at the sound of your breathy whine — before guiding himself to your clenching hole.

With one swift, beautifully erotic jerk of his hips — Michael sheeted himself inside you, at the same time as he slipped your wedding ring back onto your ring-finger.

The sensation of not only being stuffed to the hilt of the cock you’d missed for two years, the one you touched yourself to the thought of every night since you left, whining as your cunt struggled to stretch around the size of him, but also your finger now snug with your wedding ring around it once more had your pussy gushing and pulsating around the length of him.

Michael didn’t miss it — leaning forward, slotting himself only deeper with a huff, and pressing his mouth against yours, “Oh? You like that, huh?” He teased, lips ghosting against your own, “You like the idea of being my wife again, baby?”

“Mmh—fuck, yeah, baby—” Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the tip of his cock nudged your cervix — a sensation that had you gasping for breath at the fullness.

“That’s right, darling,” Michael breathed, pulling back slowly so only the tip of him remained, “‘Wanna make you mine again so bad.”

And his relentless thrusts began — hips moving at such a pace that you lost your breath, eyes rolled so far into the back of your head you became dizzy, and noises of undeniable pleasure so loud you were certain at least one of your children were to wake. Michael always had insane stamina, especially so after your wedding, but right now it was unstoppable — so pent up for your body for over a year that you didn’t think he’d ever stop.

His hands rest harshly on your hips, grip so hard you were certain it’d leave a mark, and that it did, as he fucked you back down onto his cock — the sound of your squelching cunt filling his ears.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Michael breathed, breath warm against your skin, “Listen to that—y’pussy’s so wet f’me, honey. Missed your husband that much, huh?”

“So—fuck—so much, Mikey—God.”

Your noises were whiny and needier than you’d ever heard them, not that your drunken brain was registering in the moment, as you buried yourself into the crook of his neck — lips instantly finding solace in his warm skin, covered in a sheen of sweat, that danced on your tongue as you sucked marks into the flesh. Michael groaned near the shell of your ear, hands tightening around your hip as you clamped down on him — now rutting impossibly faster at the sensation of your spasming cunt and your lips against his skin.

“Michael!—Holy fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—“

You only got louder, and therefore whinier, when he pressed your legs against your chest in a brutal mating press — now despicably deeper inside you, and relentlessly abusing the sweet spot, the one he previously curled his fingers against, as your second orgasm crept up your abdomen.

“God, baby, you feel—Jesus, just like how I remember.” Michael panted, moving his head to capture your mouth in a fierce kiss once more, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cried out indefinitely into his mouth, hands threading through his soft locks of hair at the nape of his neck, “I love—Mmh!—love you so much, Michael.”

He cursed under his breath, jaw hanging swiftly slack as his eyes squeezed shut — cock now twitching violently inside you as he quickened his thrusts swiftly. Your orgasm was dangerously close — now only a few ruts against your G-spot away as Michael continued to pepper kisses over your lips and face, groaning against your skin.

“Fuck, baby, I—“ He cut himself off with a whine, deep from his chest, “Wanna give you another baby so bad.”

His words sent you over the edge — cunt clenching him so hard his thrusts faltered ever so slightly as he cried out at the sensation. Your orgasm hit you like a ton of bricks — your back arching and mouth falling open for frenzied pants and whines to escape your throat as the sweet, delicious familiarity of an orgasm coaxed out by Michael consumed your body. Irrevocable ecstasy coursed through you like buzzing electricity — setting you alight as you mumbled incoherently into the air.

“Jesus, is that what you want, mama? You wan’ a fifth? Oh, Jesus—“

Speaking the filthy words aloud, Michael threw himself into his own release — hips sputtering as he pushed himself impossibly deeper, spilling inside you with a loud groan, muffled by the safe haven of your collarbone, his teeth sinking into the skin to soften the noises. His pushed his incredibly, obviously, fertile seed further inside you — retracting his teeth and licking the marks in your skin in a soothing manner as his hands tightened around your hips, the jerks of his own slowing with each lazy thrust.

Soon came the silence — now this time not angered, or tense, or awkward, or saddened, but familiar. The ragged pants of breaths as you attempted to catch them, and gentle, loving, soft kisses stolen on necks, jaws, cheeks and lips — whispering heartfelt desires and thoughts into one another’s skin, promising love and devotion.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and crumbled next to you — instantly pulling you to his chest, and situating you under the blankets. His head hit the pillow with a sigh as you nestled onto his skin — both your brains swirling with alcohol and adrenaline-induced intoxication.

Just as your eyes fluttered shut, sleep threatening to take over, Michael pressed an adorably gentle kiss to your forehead. Your eyes squinted open, fighting sleep in a loosing battle, as you met his too sleepy gaze.

“Whatever happens in the morning,” He whispered, “Just know I love you.”

He didn’t expect a reply, especially so when your eyes fell back shut and you drifted off to sleep, as moments later he did the same.

And that’s the reality of the night that had hit you in this very moment — sat upright in Michael’s bed, more hungover than you anticipated, and swarming with dread as you stared down at the wedding ring on your finger.

The night wasn’t unpleasant — it was far from it. If anything, it actually fixed the main problem in your life — being a single mother of four, and having to pretend like you didn’t still have feelings for your ex-husband. But, fucking him drunk wasn’t exactly the route you thought you’d take to reconcile your relationship.

“Baby?”

Michael’s hoarse, croaky, morning voice hit your ears, making you jump as you gasped softly, breaking out of your train of through as you met his sleepy gaze. He mumbled softly as consciousness erupted in his system, rubbing his tired eyes as they settled on you — covered in love-bites, bruises and completely stark naked.

“Oh, Jesus, did we—?”

“I think that’s fairly obvious, Michael.” You forced out a scarce laugh, pursing your lips against one another as Michael slotted the puzzle pieces together, “Do you—Do you remember anything, or..?”

“I—I think so, I don’t—Is that your wedding ring?”

You peered down at the shining jewellery, as a soft chuckle escaped you, “Uh, yeah. I think we kinda got re-engaged last night.”

“Oh, my God.” Michael groaned, covering his face with his hands bashfully, “I’m so sorry, I just know it was me who instigated that.”

Another genuine laugh slipped from your mouth, mingling with Michael’s in the air of the bedroom, “Yeah, seems like it.”

Silence followed shortly — but, as it had been ever since you revealed your unspoken love for one another after everything, it wasn’t tense. Nor unsettling. If anything, the silence was calm and peaceful — like you both had so much to say, yet felt no pressured obligation to do so frantically.

“Well, you, um, you put it on.” Michael spoke shyly, “So, do you want to—do we, uh, shall I—“

You slipped the ring from your finger, and presented it to him, “I think we should have this decision when we’re of more sound mind.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Michael replied quietly, taking the ring from your grasp.

You could tell from the way he spoke that he was disappointed — like you had shattered his heart all over again.

“That’s not to say I don’t want to discuss us, and what was said last night. I’m not closing that off for good, so, don’t worry. I just think getting engaged before we even discuss getting back together is a bit far-fetched.”

Michael chuckled, a real laugh escaping him as a smile danced onto his lips, “Yeah, you’re right, good idea, mama.”

You couldn’t help but let your heart flutter with fondness at the easiness of the nickname — the familiarity of it sending waves of butterflies through your stomach.

The rest of the morning was jovial — you washed and dressed yourself, in a pair of Michael’s old joggers and an old Victory Tour t-shirt, with light banter and easy conversations with him, both of you waking the children up together and curating breakfast for the whole family. You managed to shut down any probing questions Prince and Paris hounded you with, like ‘Mama, why are you here if you don’t live with Daddy anymore?’ or ‘Mama, are you and Daddy back in love?’ and ‘Daddy, are you gonna marry Mommy again soon?’

You diminished them all with a stern warning to stop asking, before exchanging hushed giggles and side-eyed glances to one another at the comedic timing of your two eldest.

But, all good things must come to an end, as Michael helped you with yours and the children’s belongings to Bill’s car, which awaited you out front. As Michael conversed with Bill, you ushered the children into the back seat, clipping them in like you had done the day previously, before turning to Michael.

“Come here.” He smiled, opening up his arms.

You chuckled softly, walking into his embrace as he wrapped his arms around your waist, as yours situated against his chest, the sound of his rhythmical heart beating making your heart flutter. He pressed a swift kiss, while the kids weren’t looking, to your forehead before you pulled away.

“Call me, okay?” He spoke to you, blowing a kiss to Paris as she waved at him through the window, “We can talk about everything, whenever you want.”

“Okay, Michael.”

You returned the smile he offered to you as he pulled the car door open for you, and pushing it gently shut once you’d climbed in. Michael waved theatrically goodbye as the car sped off out the driveway — his frame becoming smaller and smaller in the wing-mirror as Bill drove further away.

“The dress trick worked then, huh?” Bill teased with a playful smile.

You laughed, “Don’t even start.”

From then on, you contacted Michael frequently — calling him, even if it was just to ask him about his day, often, just to hear his voice. You didn’t know when you wanted to discuss that night, as you were the one who ended the relationship, and as dearly as you loved him, you had to be sure that things were going to change. You didn’t want to mess yourself around, as well as your children, by getting back into a relationship out of infatuation and attachment, rather than knowing for sure.

So, Michael would take any opportunity he could to show you just how much he meant what he said. He took you out anywhere and everywhere, just the two of you, dates like the old days when you first got together — dinners, theme parks, movies, bowling, dancing, all child-like and utterly ridiculous, but yet so meaningful. And he never once talked about work, unless you asked, never answered a phone call, or started mentally drifting away from the conversation as his mind slipped back into work mode — he was there. Physically, mentally, emotionally.

He started making a real, true, genuine effort — and one that you never asked him to.

The first time you called him after that night was a few days afterwards — just to check in. And he asked you out — said he would love to take you out to dinner to the restaurant you both used to religiously go to when you were married. Your favourite Mexican restaurant in all of California.

And from that point on, he never stopped — never let up on his effort. He took you everywhere, and treated you like you weren’t his ex-wife whom he was attempting to get back. He was behaving out of pure love and devotion to you — proving himself and making up for lost time. Meanwhile, not once did he ask nor expect sex — your drunken night had been intoxicated led, and as much fun as he had, he strictly told you that the time you were spending together wouldn’t be sexual, as he wanted it to be meaningful. When you teased him that you thought he was saying your sex wasn’t heartfelt, he quickly shut it down — reminding you that although sex between you two is sacred to him, earning your trust and respect back was more so.

At the six week mark of you and Michael beginning to rekindle your relationship — you had never felt so high. Your children were let on to a ‘little secret’ that Mommy and Daddy are close friends now, and can be around one another — so dinners and trips out were spent as family again. Their adolescent brains didn’t question it for very long — but you could tell your eldest were secretly pleased. Especially Paris, who whispered to you one night while you coaxed her to sleep, with Michael stood in the doorway, watching happily, that she was happy you and her Daddy were friends again, and that she loved you both so much, before falling asleep.

That was all the confirmation you were making the right decision that you needed.

Michael had woken at his own house alone, this morning, for once — you had spent the evening out with his sisters last night, and requested a solo night at your house. A choice he respected — which led him to awake in his bed all by himself. He had the kids round, which meant his peaceful morning would probably be disturbed in a matter of minutes, with Prince, Paris and Blanket leaping on bed, before he fetched Mickey from his.

But, the first disruption was the loud sound of the phone ringing.

Michael jumped — body seizing as the sound rattled through him. He cursed under his breath as he reached for the phone, picking it up and bringing it to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Michael?”

The sound of your voice would usually bring a smile straight to his face, and flutters throughout his body — but, you sounded panicked. And he instantly noticed.

“Baby? Are you alright?”

“You better get that wedding ring out again, Mike.” You laughed, but clearly sounded unamused as Michael furrowed his eyebrows.

“Huh? What do you mean, honey?” He replied, confusion swarming his senses.

“I’m pregnant.”

No more cameras, no more excruciating management, no frantic rushing.

Just the two of you in your apartment with the lights low and the sound of soft jazz bouncing off the walls.

Michael had walked in with that shy smile he always tried to hide, his curls beautifully defined as his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. It was like he'd been moving around so much for so long, he forgot how to fully relax yet. You greeted him with a smile as you wrapped your arms around his neck, enveloping him in a tight embrace. You missed him.

"You're being so tense. Relax, baby." You teased him gently, and he just laughed under his breath, leaning into you as you played with the curls on the nape of his neck.

You took the time to bake something earlier — something simple, if you want to call lemon meringue cheesecake something simple — it took you days to learn, hours to perfect, the sweet lemony smell lingering in the kitchen, clear evidence of your hard work. He couldn't help but drift toward it, humming little melodies as he wandered around your counters, half-heartedly listening as you talked about what you've been up to while he's been gone. He kept touching things he didn't need to touch, pretending he wasn't curious about the overwhelming scent in the kitchen.

"Alright, Michael. You're acting suspicious," you cut yourself off, leaning against the island of your kitchen. He turns to look at you with wide eyes, the decorative salt shaker still in his hand like he hasn't seen it a million times already.

"Suspicious? Me? Nah."

"Yes, you," you said, pointing at him. "You've been lurking around the cake like a child."

"I'm just happy to be home," he smiles, but his voice had that soft, guilty lilt he'd do. He felt bad for not attentively listening to you, because he did miss you, and he did want to know what you were doing outside from your letters and phone calls.

You watched him lean closer, hands behind in an effort to prove that he could behave. He lasted maybe five seconds before one hand drifted forward to the beautiful cake on the stand, still chilled from being in the fridge all afternoon. His hand hovered over the icing.

"Michael," you warned.

"What? It's beautiful, I wasn't gonna touch it."

"You were. I literally saw you."

He bit back a smile, a tiny boyish one. "Maybe just a taste. 'Looks so good."

"Use a knife to cut you a piece." He nodded like he agreed, then completely ignored you. And before you could stop him, he dipped his finger right into the meringue topping.

"Michael! The hell is wrong with you?!" you gasped, half laughing, half offended. He laughed as he jerked his pointer finger back and stuck it in his mouth, a playful glint in his eye. He backed away from the cake slightly.

"I just wanted a taste!" He repeated, his finger now clean, and his face now beaming at the sweet taste of the topping alone. If this was good, he couldn't imagine what the rest of the cake tasted like.

"You could've asked for me to cut you a piece! You didn't have to stick your damn finger in my cake!"

"Stay cool, girl." He pretends to walk away from the scene, and for a moment, your shoulders relax, but Michael couldn't resist. He rushed to the cake for another taste, sticking his finger in the topping. Again.

You stared at him — visibly trying to keep your cool. "You just got back, and you already begging to get your ass beat." His hand stills above the cake, the topping on his finger, and before he could bring it to his lips, you grabbed his wrist. "Come here," you said dangerously softly. But nonetheless, he stepped forward without question, eyes flickering between you and his own hand like he was unsure.

You guided his hand toward you, pulling him closer, and his breath caught. It was a tiny sound he probably didn't mean to make.

You leaned in and brushed the topping from his fingertip with your lips — slow and light. You looked up at him with a playful glint in your eye, but there was nothing funny on his end. Michael went completely still, and his eyes widened. A flush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks. The feeling of your warm tongue on the pad of his pointer finger, sucking and applying just the right pressure, sent him into a frenzy.

He hated the lingering wonder of your tongue applying the same amount of pressure in places he usually wouldn't dare think of, especially about a woman of such grace as you are.

"You— you didn't have to do that," he whispered, a soft breathy laugh leaving his lips.

"I know," you said, letting his hand go. "But you don't know how to listen."

He laughed again — still warm and breathy, and his shoulders finally relaxed. "You're somethin else."

"And you're a mess. Next time, just cut you a piece." You nudged him gently.

He nudged you back, just as gentle. "You make a bomb icing, and you know I don't eat sweets like that." You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. He stepped closer, pulling you into another hug, his voice softer.

Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.

It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.

The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.

All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.

Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.

As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.

Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.

Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.

You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.

And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.

Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.

Michael.

He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.

You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.

It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.

But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.

And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.

Literally and figuratively.

You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.

You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.

But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.

In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.

And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.

You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.

And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’

The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’

But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.

And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.

Like I said — always doting.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.

Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.

“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.

Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.

“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.

Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“

“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.

She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.

“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.

You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”

The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”

Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.

“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.

“In what way?”

“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.

In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.

With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.

One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.

Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.

“Beat that, fucker.”

The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”

“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.

Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.

Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”

Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.

“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.

“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.

“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”

“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction

“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.

Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”

You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.

Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.

You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”

The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?

That theory was soon diminished.

An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.

As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.

You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.

The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.

Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.

Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.

Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.

Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.

“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.

“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”

Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.

“Fine, we will.”

You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.

Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.

Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.

You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.

The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.

Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.

“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.

You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.

But, this—this—was different.

His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.

This was the alcohol talking.

But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.

“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”

Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.

“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”

He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.

“Please.”

The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.

His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.

“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.

In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.

In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.

“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.

“Michael, pl—please.”

The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.

You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.

“Oh—Oh, God—“

The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.

Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.

As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.

He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.

Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.

And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.

Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.

He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.

“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”

You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.

“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”

You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.

“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.

Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.

Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.

“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.

Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.

You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.

“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."

You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.

His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.

“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”

Now, that did it for you.

Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.

“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.

He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.

The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.

His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’

It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.

His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.

Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.

“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”

A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.

You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.

“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“

He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.

Then came the silence.

The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.

But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.

Then, it hit you.

Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.

You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.

You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.

Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.

Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.

The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.

You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.

For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.

Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.

“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.

“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”

The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.

“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.

“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”

You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.

You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.

Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.

“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”

You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.

Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.

“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”

Celebrating with the Jackson brother’s wasn’t anything short of lively.

It was a warm summer’s night in July — the air was muggy, manageable, but enough to cast a thin sheen of sweat across your forehead in the main seating area of the black Eagle entertainer coach. One singular window was cracked, letting in a blissful, relieving blast of cold air as the tour-bus whirred down the freeway.

The atmosphere was upbeat — the sound of loud laughter, teasing comments, and playful insults hurled in the air as conversations flowed with ease. For the first time in a while post-concert, every Jackson brother was present — Tito was shuffling a stack of playing cards, Marlon was relentlessly teasing Jermaine for finally being allowed permission back into the group, Jackie was conversing quietly with a fan he’d brought from the bustling crowd of Kansas City, one of the many girls he’d go to pick up after a show, who sat nervously next to him, Randy watched his brother’s shameless flirting with wide eyes, utterly stunned at his boldness for bringing a girl, let alone a fan, back onto the tour bus with the whole family, and Michael, quiet as always, sat comfortably beside you, his lady, with a hand laid lovingly on your clothed thigh.

All seven residents of the tour bus, excluding Jackie’s friend, encircled two large separate foldable tables, both locked into place to allow card games and beverages to splay across the plastic top.

Speaking of beverages, thanks to Jermaine and Marlon, who decided opening night of their Victory Tour in Kansas City couldn’t be a night without a “special somethin’”, had provided more than enough liquor to clean a hospital — and maybe even put them in one after consumption.

As Tito announced that he’d successfully shuffled the cards to his best ability, he began distributing them, calling out Michael’s name to reach over the intersection of the bus to grab ahold of yours and his cards. As your boyfriend rose to his feet, took the cards from his brother’s hands, and then resided back into his seat — you met his eyes as he handed your bunch to you.

Michael shon a gentle, sweet little smile your way, his eyes twinkling with affection as you watched them travel over your grinning face. His hand slipped back onto your thigh, giving it a small squeeze and a light pat. Sifting through your cards, becoming accustomed to your hand, you let your cheeks warm at the subtle display of affection.

Michael was always doting — from the moment you met, when your high-school best-friend, La Toya Jackson, had brought you home for supper, he had been seeing hearts in his vision.

You had been friends with La Toya from school for a few years at that point in ‘73, knowing each since the jovial days of middle-school, often walking home together after a long day of classes, and stopping by at her small, yet comforting, home in Gary, Indiana, for dinner. And from the first day you stepped foot in the Jackson home, you were welcomed with open arms — Katherine Jackson, La Toya’s mother, adored you, always calling you her fourth daughter, and practically begging La Toya to bring you round more often.

And once her older brother’s got whiff of a new female face around the house — the teasing began. Marlon, being close to you and La Toya in age, loved to pick on you childishly — claiming that he was going to tell the guy at school that you had a crush on, that you liked him, or that he saw him kissing another girl behind the Sycamore tree at lunch. And, as your relationship with the family blossomed and strengthened, you teased back — playfully winding him up, saying that when he approached and painfully flirted with the new girl by the lockers, that he had peanut butter on his chin. He didn’t, but the look on his face would send you into fits of laughter.

Tito and Jackie, the eldest of the Jackson siblings, treated you as if you were their little sister — often warning you about what guys really want when they ask a girl to a drive-in movie, or what to say when a guy’s teasing you at school. The rest of the Jackson brother’s, as well as La Toya’s younger sister, Janet, all adored you too — finding it bizarre how La Toya didn’t introduce you sooner.

Even Joseph tolerated you — and that was saying something.

But, no Jackson sibling, or parent, or cousin, or uncle, or niece, that you met, because you had as Katherine had basically adopted you at this point, would ever equate to your favourite.

Michael.

He was different, intriguingly so, different from all his brother’s and sister’s — who were loud, boisterous and lively, who weren’t afraid to quip back a snark response during a playful spat, or chase you round the backyard in an attempt to push you into a large murky, muddy puddle during winter. No, he was definitely different. Shy, softly-spoken, gentle and endearingly polite — it was as if all the extraversion was given to his siblings and left him nothing.

But, you liked him that way.

Oh, boy, did you like him.

La Toya would tease you relentlessly — poking your sides when she caught you staring at him from across the living room, or clutching her stomach in laughter when you revealed you actually might have a crush on him, or deliberately knocking into you to force you to stumble into him in the kitchen, muttering a knowing ‘Oops’ with a smirk on her face as the two of you blushed and apologised profusely.

You were convinced your feelings for Michael were one-sided as after five years of mingling around the Jackson family and falling even harder for the bashful boy, now at the ripe age of seventeen and you eighteen, no obvious, reciprocated romantic emotions were shared. Michael was always sweet and friendly, sharing laughs and stories with you at the dinner table whenever you sat near one another, or bringing you a cold drink on a hot summer’s day when they all moved to Hayvenhurst and you’d stay for weeks at a time during the warmer months — but, his true feelings were never clear.

It was unbeknownst to you that Michael had been utterly infatuated with you from fourteen years-old when you and La Toya trudged through the front door, slinging your back-packs and Mary Jane’s to the floor, and rushing through to the kitchen to formly introduce you to her parents — he was speechless. Even at such a mutual young age, he thought you were beautiful. His boyish heart would thump in his chest at the sight of your plump, adolescent cheeks, soft eyes and toothy grin — but, what got him the most, was the sweet, fruity aroma of your cherry-scented shampoo. The waft of your freshly washed hair flooding his nostrils whenever you’d step foot into the home, running past him with a quick, high-pitched ‘Hi, Michael!’ with a cheesy smile on your face — it sent him spiralling.

But, as all inexperienced, nervous teenagers do, they assume the person they like are unlikely to reciprocate their feelings — so, he kept to himself. Letting his brother’s do all the teasing, and the talking, and the flirting when you turned eighteen — it pained him to keep so quiet, it wasn’t out of character due to his shy nature, but all he wanted to do was reach out and kiss you, and tell you exactly how he felt.

And when La Toya, both of you aged twenty, and Michael nineteen, threw a birthday party for her boyfriend at the time, and you consumed one too many fruit-punches from a three litre plastic container in a red solo cup, now completely plastered beyond recognition, did you decide to finally spill your guts.

Literally and figuratively.

You had approached Michael, stumbling and giggling, who sat on the sidelines of the Hayvenhurst back-yard that swarmed with people from your school and his family, pretending the orange juice in his solo cup was alcohol, and sat promptly next to him on a lounge chair.

You let your mind run away with itself — telling him how nice he is for letting his older sister host a party for her boyfriend, who you revealed you hated as you knew he had slept with her other friend before dating Toya, who you also didn’t like, and ignored him when he reminded you it wasn’t his house, but continued to let you ramble. And when you finally finished praising him, on how nice his shirt was, and his teeth, and his hair, and his eyes, and his lips—you had already said too much. Deciding that now was the perfect time to let slip that you had been hopelessly in love with him from the second you laid eyes on him sat on the couch in the little living room of his Indiana home, that your feelings hadn’t faltered for the past six years, and that you wanted so badly to kiss him right now.

But, before Michael, who was wide-eyed, slack-jawed and blushing, could have a chance to reveal he felt the same — you were puking into the grass, heaving and crying as he held your hair back.

In the morning, you woke up with a headache and a dry throat on La Toya’s bed — but, no amount of physical pain could amount to the sheer dread and embarrassment that flooded your system at the realisation of what you’d said the night before. Well, a mere few hours earlier, as your body clock had decided a three-AM till seven-AM sleep was sufficient after a night of drinking.

And when you finally decided to crawl out of bed at twelve-PM that same day, bags under your eyes and hair a mess, you faced your fear — diminishing any humiliation by facing the problem head on.

You had knocked on Michael’s bedroom door, swallowing thickly and gnawing at your lip as you awaited permission to enter. And when he did, opening the door with furrowed eyebrows and a confused expression, which instantly melted once he set eyes on you, you rambled once more, now sober with no excuse, tears falling freely from your eyes as you apologised.

And Michael, watching as you word-vomited, thankfully figuratively this time, gained a sliver of confidence and cupped your cheeks with gentleness, before pressing his lips to yours to shut you up. You had frozen, before sliding your hands into his bed-head of hair, and sobbing into the kiss, ignoring the way your spit-stricken lips mixed with your salty tears, only catching your breath as he pulled away, whispering a nearly inaudible, ‘I’m in love with you too.’

The rest was history — Katherine was ecstatic her son and her favourite friend any of her children have ever had, were together, literally jumping for joy and pulling you in for tight hug. Of course, the Jackson brothers teased you shamelessly, never missing a second after you revealed your relationship without picking on Michael with a — ‘Damn, Mike, how’d you get this one to agree to go out with you?’ ‘I didn’t even know you had any game, little brother.’ ‘Whenever you’re done, bring her ‘round to me, yeah?’

But, for once in his life — he paid no mind to his brother’s childishness. He suddenly had all the confidence in the world since he was now officially with the one girl he’d been in love with since he was fourteen.

And six, nearly seven years together, here you were — Michael now at twenty-six, you twenty-seven, accompanying him and his brother’s on their Victory Tour around the United States and Canada. You had accompanied them on many a tours previously, when they became ‘the Jackson’s’, when Jermaine parted from the group to stay with Motown, and always remained an anchor and lifeline for Michael. He hated whenever there was times you weren’t there with him on tour — feeling awfully woeful and lonely laying in an large, empty hotel bed, pouting on the phone to you for hours about how much he missed and needed you, how he couldn’t wait to see you in the next city when you were flying in, and how much he loved you.

Like I said — always doting.

“Let’s get this party started, shall we?” Marlon quipped, pulling you from the memory of your childhood love affair, grinning from ear to ear as he reached over the playing cards that Tito had placed in front of him, and grabbed ahold of a large bottle of Tequila — chuckling darkly to himself as he unscrewed the cap and flicked it across the room, howling as it smacked Randy right between the eyes.

Ignoring his brother’s curses from injury, Marlon brought the glass bottle to his lips, gulping two deep swigs of the hard, straight liquor, cursing as he swallowed.

“Your turn, Mr Big Shot.” Marlon joked, passing the bottle to Jackie, who now had his arm around the blushing fan next to him.

Jackie chuckled, leaning slightly to take the litre bottle from his brother’s hands, and bringing to his lips as he did — wincing after a large swig.

“You want some of this?” Jackie asked, turning to the girl next to him.

Her eyes blew open, clearly unaccustomed to alcohol by the way her mouth parted and closed a few times before speaking, “I, um, I—“

“Sweetie, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, they’re just alcoholics, so pay no mind to their peer pressure.” You spoke up, leaning over to press a reassuring hand to her knee as you smiled.

She turned to you with a thankful grin, before shaking her head at Jackie, mumbling a soft ‘No, thank you’.

“Alcoholics? Girl, I know you’ lyin’.” Marlon exclaimed, titling his head at you.

You laughed loudly, “Am I wrong? You just drank that shit like it was water.”

The room erupted into soft laughter as Marlon shook his head with a chuckle, “That doesn’t make me an alcoholic.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right.” You started, with a playful smirk, “An alcoholic wouldn’t go ‘Ooh, ah, fuck, shit, that’s strong, fuck’!”

Loud roars of laughter, even including your quiet boyfriend who giggled beside you, filled the room as Tito nudged Marlon teasingly.

“Oh, really? Think you can do better?” He shot back.

“In what way?”

“I reckon you can’t take three swigs of that shit without gagging or, or, cursing.” Marlon challenged, raising his eyebrows in contest.

In the true sibling rivalry that you had formed with them, especially so with Marlon, you tongued the inside of your cheek, mentally deciding whether a hangover was worth this childish game.

“Or, you can remain a pussy.”

“Give that here.” You spat, snatched the bottle from the table in front of Jackie, ignoring the way Marlon cackled at the fact his provoking had worked.

With a deep breath, you brought the bottle to your lips — squeezing your eyes shut as the burning liquor trickled down your throat, setting fire to your taste buds as the harsh Tequila settled in your mouth.

One swig, two swigs, three swigs — and you slammed the bottle back down onto the table with a sigh, repressing a gag that threatened to creep up your throat and pressing your lips together to prevent any profanities from falling into the air.

Michael, watching the juvenile scene play out in front of him, squeezed your thigh in support as you finally let out a shaken breath, meeting Marlon’s eyes with your glassy ones, and sticking out your clean tongue.

“Beat that, fucker.”

The taste of Tequila stuck to your tongue as you let the room erupt into applause as Marlon rolled his eyes, “Always the show-off.”

“Y’just a sore loser, brother.” Jermaine piped up, grabbing an unopened bottle and drinking it himself, as Jackie did the same, handing it to Randy once he was finished.

Within fifteen minutes of the bottles being opened, the room had erupted into tipsy giggles and slurred conversations — Jackie’s girl had finally agreed to have a drink, clearly a light-weight as she was snorting with laughter at whatever Jackie had whispered in her ear. The card game had been abandoned before it even really started — Tito had attempted to explain the rules, but was continuously cut off by Jermaine and Marlon who repeated everything he said back at him in a squeaky, high-pitched voice, before finally giving up and telling them to fuck off, sending laughter throughout the room once more.

Luckily, everyone in the bus had failed to realise the quiet man next to you had avoided taking any swigs from the bottle at all — just silently observing the mess that was his drunken girlfriend and brother’s unfold before his eyes as cards were thrown around the bus, and competitions on who can do the best Joseph impression sent everyone into fits of giggles.

When finally, his silent avoidance was shattered,

“Ay, Mike, you haven’t had a drink yet!”

Jermaine’s loud, accusatory voice sounded out into the room, everyone’s head’s snapping towards the bashful boy, whose cheeks flushed burgundy at the exposure.

“I’m alright, ‘Maine, I don’t fancy a drink.” Michael replied coolly, hand still wrapped around the comfort of your thigh.

“Oh come on, everyone’s drinkin’, don’t be a party pooper.” Marlon teased, eyes drooping slightly as he slurred his words.

“Hey, leave my man alone.” You fired back, reaching up to press a defending hand to Michael’s chest, “He can choose to not drink if he doesn’t want to, Marlon.”

“Quit dick-ridin’ and pass him the bottle.” Marlon spat, laughing as he slid the bottle across the table in Michael’s direction

“Ew, why would you say that?” Michael spoke up, grimacing at the lewdness of his brother’s words.

Jackie cackled, “Actin’ like you haven’t been together for, what?, six years? Boy, we’ve all heard ya.”

You gasped, “Oh my God, what? Please tell me you’re joking.”

“Qui—Quit changing the subject and get some liquor down you, little brother.” Marlon exclaimed, smiling widely.

Michael looked from the bottle, to his brothers, to you — searching for an escape as he swallowed thickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t necessarily want to drink — he just knew he’d ultimately regret it in the morning or do, or say, something he’d also regret.

You met his eyes, “‘S alright if you don’t want to, baby, you don’t have to.”

The look on your face, eyes bloodshot and hazy, cheeks flushed and smiling toothily, all drunk and happy, made his heart swoon. He was here, with all his brother’s and the love of his life, touring again with his beloved family on opening night — everyone looked so upbeat and giddy, all desirable qualities after a long first show, surely a drink wouldn’t be so bad, right?

That theory was soon diminished.

An hour later, after forcing six long swigs of Tequila down his throat from his persisting brother’s, who also ended up pouring the liquor straight into your mouth for your seventh swig, everyone was hammered. Jackie and his girl had retreated from the room half-an-hour ago to his bedroom in the back, ignoring Jermaine’s shouts to keep off of his bed. Tito and Randy had fallen asleep on one another, heads resting against each other’s as their snores filled the quieter room. Marlon was nearly spent — sighing deeply as sleep also threatened to taken over his drunken body as he slumped in the chair.

As for you and Michael, you were tucked neatly into the corner of the cushioned benches around the side of the bus, pressed up against one another — his hands caressing the curve of your waist as you pushed your chest against his, letting him whisper sweet-nothings into your ear, warm breath and soft lips grazing the shell as you shuddered.

You’d never seen Michael under the influence before, even when you first confessed your undeniable love to him, he had been consuming orange juice all night, so his behaviour had struck you speechless.

The second the alcohol hit his system — he was a changed man.

Suddenly, he was the loudest and most confident man in the room — laughing and shouting boyishly with his brother’s, shooting insults at Marlon, or letting curses slip past his lips, which erupted gasps in the room at his profanities due to his shy, collected sober nature.

But, that wasn’t all.

He became twice as handsy.

It started after his second swig, it all hitting him at once, as his hand trailed just that little bit higher up your thigh, dangerously close to where you twitched — a movement that had your breath hitching in your throat at the sudden action. He played it off smoothly, just peering down at you with an innocent smile when you glared up at him in shock.

Then, after the third or fourth swig, he pulled you into his lap, hand splayed across the bare of your stomach as he rest his chin on your shoulder, ignoring the way everyone exchanged glances at his sudden public display of affection — something he would never normally do around his brother’s.

Furthermore, after the fifth, he was gone — now kissing your neck openly, running his hands all over your sides in a slow, steady rhythm as he whispered how much he loved you into your ear, and how beautiful you looked, and how happy he was that you were here, and how— he didn’t stop. Just blabbering away, slurring and stuttering, about his utmost gratitude and adoration for you as his breath fanned over the back of your ear.

Finally, he had let you down from his lap after you grew increasingly more bashful at the way his brother’s ogled and teased about Michael’s sudden boldness — but, not letting you off that easy. Not letting a single second pass by, once you left the comfort of his lap, before pulling you against him and cupping your jaw to press soft kisses to the ridge.

“God, you’re so beautiful, Cherry.”

Your heart fluttered at the nickname, a long-standing term of endearment he had given you years ago from the scent of your childhood shampoo, one that he adored, as you braced a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you, Mikey.” You whispered back, head fuzzy and dazed as the alcohol buzzed through your system.

“Y’know how much I love you, right?” He mumbled for the thousandth time that night, the scent of his minty breath filling your nostrils as he pulled back from your jaw to meet your gaze.

“I do, angel,” You hummed, leaning forward slightly to nudge his nose with your own, “I love you more.”

“No, I do.”

“Nope.”

“No. I love you the most, Cherry.”

“Not true. I love you the—“ “Get a room, guys, Jesus.”

Jermaine’s slurred words hit your ears as you turned your head to face him, pulling away from Michael’s face.

“Fine, we will.”

You gasped as Jermaine groaned at the insinuation of Michael’s words as he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help you up from the seat. You did so willingly, still shocked at his confidence at a such lewd revelation in front of Jermaine, who shook his head.

Michael didn’t waste a beat — dragging you swiftly into the back of the tour bus, towards his bedroom, one that was, thankfully, reserved just for him, despite all his brother’s having to share with one another. His feet moved quickly as he guided you through the dark of the hallway, hand still enclosed tightly in your own as an anchor in the low-lighting, especially in your drunken stumbling.

Once you clambered into the room, giggling as you tripped over your own feet and slammed into his back, Michael shut and locked the door and instantly pressed you against it. His lips met yours instantaneously — a low hum of satisfaction leaving his mouth and into yours as he cupped your burning hot cheeks. His hands, nimble and precise, moved and found solace in the curve of your hips, gripping tightly as he pulled you flushed against his body, while his tongue nudged your bottom lip.

You whined into his mouth, feeling awfully needy after his continuous teasing throughout the evening, as he slot a knee between your legs — his clothed thigh now inches away from where you had begun to throb in your panties, now stricken with slick that drooled from your twitching pussy.

The alcohol had hit you straight between the legs — arousal now flooding your veins twice as hard as the liquor had, your head reeling as his eager tongue slipped into your mouth, colliding with your own. The kiss was sloppy and needy, tasting heavily of liquor, tongues and teeth clashing together in a feverish connection as you clung desperately to the fabric of Michael’s shirt, crinkling the material in your tight grasp.

Michael parted from your mouth for a mere second just to guide you — turning you around from the comfort of the door, and towards the bed. He laid you down gently, as he always did before you had sex, cradling your head to soften the collision with the mattress — before instantly attaching himself back to your lips. Your legs instinctively wrapped lazily around his hips as he hovered over you, holding himself up on two elbows as he continued his work on your mouth, groaning down your throat as you shamelessly began rutting your crotch into the painfully obvious bulge in his joggers.

“So needy, my baby, hm? You want me that bad?” He spoke lowly, the gruff, deepness of his voice hitting you full force — a soft gasp ripping from your throat as his mouth attached to the bare of your neck, suckling the skin gently.

You’d never heard him talk like that — even during sex. It was always gentle and loving, coaxing rather than tantalising.

But, this—this—was different.

His voice had a bass in it that you’d never heard before — a dark, seductive growl, a statement of his need.

This was the alcohol talking.

But, as he sucked dark, prominent marks into your skin, now meeting your hips halfway as you humped up into his bulge, mewling as the tip of his stiff cock rocked against your aching clitoris repeatedly — you didn’t care.

“Mich—Mike, God.” Words failed you as you rambled into his ear, hands now threaded through his curls still damp with sweat, “Need you.”

Michael groaned into the warmth of your collarbone, lips detaching, he lifted himself up, to meet your glassy gaze — pupils blown and dancing in burning desire.

“Yeah? Really need me that badly baby, yeah?”

He was slurring, repeating himself, as he rolled a particularly harsh thrust into your clothed cunt — revelling in the way you mewled loudly at the connection, your grip in his hair tightening.

“Please.”

The sound of your meek begging had him dizzy — theoretically drunk on arousal as he fumbled with the button of your denim shorts, swift fingers dragging down the zipper before pulling them down your legs. He moved even quicker to your shirt — yanking at the hem and practically ripping it off of your body and to the floor, atop of your discarded bottoms.

His eyes met your half-naked frame, now clad in just your bra and panties, which now sported an obvious wet patch right were you drooled in anticipating arousal — a groan slipping past Michael’s lips at the sight of it.

Your back arched off the bed as his thumb traced the prominent circle of slick that painted your panties — his thumb catching your clenching hole, as well as the edge of your clit, as you jerked your hips into his touch.

“My baby’s so wet, God, look at you.” Michael whispered, eyes locked on your soaked underwear through the moonlight peeking through the curtains, “What am I gonna do with you, hm?”

You whined, an eager, desperate display of your desire, eyebrows furrowed in need as he slid a tentative thumb along your slit.

In your own drunken boldness, words fell from your swollen lips before you could refrain yourself, “Fuck me, please.”

“Patience, baby.” He whispered, pulling the your panties to the side, “Been waitin’ to touch this pretty pussy all night.”

You didn’t know what had gotten into him, in your intoxicated brain, but you knew sober you would understand that getting Michael Jackson drunk was like dangling a carrot in-front of a pigs face — you couldn’t exist around him while he was drinking without him getting crazed with need.

In a slow, tantalisingly steady movement, he crouched between your thighs, large palms needing the skin as he came face to face with where you drooled. He pressed his warm face right where you needed him — the sound of your aroused gasp at the sudden contact and his deep, guttural groan of satisfaction at the sweet scent of your cunt as he deeply inhaled your aroma, filled the thick air.

“Shit—so fuckin’ sweet.” He mumbled, soft lips dragging along your folds as he nuzzled into your sex.

“Michael, pl—please.”

The melodic sound of your whining ripped another groan from deep in Michael’s throat — grip tightening around the plush of your thighs as they enclosed around his head the second his mouth started working on you. He lay his tongue flat along your cunt, a slow, teasing drag of the muscle along the ridge — collecting your essence that had coated your lips, as well as your thighs, on his tongue.

You cried out, albeit louder than sober you would’ve wanted, hips jerking up to meet his mouth half-way as he tongue-fucked your cunt — movements sloppy and messy as he lapped at your clit like a man dying of thirst. He, matching your whines of pleasure, hummed and groaned into you — enclosing his lips around your nub, suckling frantically, as a singular finger slipped inside, instantly curling upwards to abuse the spot that had your toes curling.

“Oh—Oh, God—“

The words barely made it past your throat, coming out in a croaked stutter, before your orgasm crashed over you violently. In your pleasured and liquor-induced drunken haze, you failed to register the tightening of your abdomen and the twinkling of ecstasy down your spine that occurred prior to your orgasm before it arrived — instantly rendering you speechless, mouth in a tight ‘O’ shape as your eyes locked into the back of your head.

Michael, still lapping at your cunt, tongue swirling around your clit, and his digit moving at a rapid pace, groaned loudly, the vibration, a statement of satisfaction, only adding to your pleasure, as he began unapologetically rutting into the mattress, attempting to soothe the painfully hard bulge that, drooling pre-cum, rest underneath his uncomfortably tight boxers.

As your release fluttered away into a blissful buzz of post-orgasm glow — Michael took to his knees once more, palm encasing around his stiff cock, now harder than he’d ever been before.

He shuffled closer, a strong hand taking ahold of your hip, dragging you closer to where he throbbed as he continued to jerk himself — utterly bewildered at how hard he had gotten despite his alcohol intake.

Your hand flew to his chest, tangling in the crinkled material of his shirt once more, legs wrapping around his waist, as he decided that tonight he didn’t have time for anymore foreplay, that he just needed to be inside you, that there was no time for games.

And, at the sight of your glistening cunt catching in the light, creaming and clenching around nothing, pussy lips all swollen and doing nothing to hide where you dripped, he managed to form a coherent thought — that the sight was definitely going to leave him hard for days.

Michael cursed under his breath at your vulnerability, all spread out and dripping just for him — he stood, hands flying to his joggers, thumb latching underneath the waistband of them, along with his boxers, and tugged them down his legs. He kicked them off his ankles as he crawled onto the bed with you, knees either side of your raised legs, as a firm hand enclosed around the length of him.

He hissed at the contact as he pumped himself, lip coming between his teeth as a dribble of pre-cum slipped from his mushroom-headed tip, and dropped onto the fat of your pussy lips, trickling down your slit. His hazy, drunken mind instantly ran away with itself — eyes locked on the way you clenched around nothing.

“Gotta give it t’ya, baby, can’t wait.” He mumbled, finally slotting between your thighs, sliding the thick of him through your folds, “Can yo—you take it? Talk to me, pretty.”

You mewled — eyes fluttering shut momentarily at the sensation of the warm, stiff length of him rutting between your folds, gathering your sticky essence along his cock, hips twitching forward, subconsciously begging for more.

“Need words if you want my cock, Cherry.”

You gasped, your throat dry and sore from the harsh Tequila, at the assertiveness — something completely atypical from your man atop of you. As your eyes shot open in surprise, chest heaving, lips agape, the look of raw, dark, devilish thirst for your submission hit you — the moonlight catching the way his hungry eyes bore into your own, sending shivers down your back, sheen in sweat.

“Please—fuck—I can take it, just please.” Your sober self would’ve curled into a ball of embarrassment at the sheer intensity of desperation evident in your voice — the way it cracked and stuttered as you forced the words out, trembling in desire.

Michael hummed, satisfied with your response, as he pulled your soiled panties completely from your legs and angled himself, albeit clumsily in the drunken darkness, towards your clenching hole. You had attempted to sober up before he pushed in, thinking hard about remembering to keep quiet — but, when he slide inside, sheathing himself to the hilt in a singular, harsh roll of his languid hips, cunt stretching deliciously quickly around the size of him, you failed to suppress to pleasured cry of surprise that left your lips.

Your head lunged back into the pillows, back arching into his chest, your clothed breasts pressing against the soft of his t-shirt. Michael took this opportunity to lean down, slipping his hands underneath your curved back and unclasped your laced bra with practiced ease, ripping it off your arms and to the floor.

“Much better.” He mumbled drunkenly, hands finding instant comfort in your bare tits — cupping them and using them as anchors as he began his brutal thrusts.

Your breathless, whiny mewls of pleasure only grew in octave and intensity as Michael set a relentless pace — the fat tip of his cock repeatedly slamming against the gummy, sweet spot inside your weeping cunt that had your eyes rolling deep into your skull and carving lines into his back under his shirt.

You chanted his name like a prayer — like you were begging for forgiveness at his feverish pace, his stamina proving just as strong even in his drunken state. Every ridge and vein of his thick cock was dragging along your tight, gummy walls — only increasing your pleasure.

“Jesus, Cherry.” He panted, grip tightening as it slid down to your hips as he pulled you down onto his cock, “Y’squeezing my cock like you own it."

You took a mental note to get Michael drunk more often as the provocative words slipped from his lips — forcing your eyebrows to curve up your forehead as the dirty sentence hit your ears.

His brutal pace never let up — hips slamming into your own as he rutted into you like he was born to please you, like he was running out of time. His grasp slipped down your hips to your legs, hands curling underneath the backs of your knees, and forcing your legs to your chest. A choked gasp escaped your throat as he pressed his body weight onto your front — now impossibly and deliriously deep, the tip of his cock grazing your G-spot, and kissing your cervix with every thrust.

“Ho—Holy shit—Oh, my fucking God—“

Strings of broken pleas and curses slipped past your lips as he leant over, grunting wildly into your skin as he peppered hurried kisses to your neck — spit glistening on your skin in the light as he continued to force himself deeper.

“That’s it, thaaaaat’s it, baby, you can take it.” He mumbled, voice muffled as he sucked a particularly harsh love bite into your burning hot skin, “Y’sucking me in like you fuckin’ live off my cum.”

Now, that did it for you.

Clenching cunt instantly quivering and fluttering around the thick girth of him, a husky whine ripping from your mouth as your back curved once more, erect nipples grazing his clothed chest, at the sound of his gruff, seductive voice talking dirty to you like he wasn’t the shyest, most sweetest boy in the world.

“Ooh, Mic—Michael.” His name fell from your lips in a shocked, breathless manner, eyebrows still taut into the crease of your forehead.

He ignored your silent, rhetorical questioning for why he was acting so out of character, as in his drunken mind, he saw no difference to his intoxicated self to his usual persona — deciding that instead of replying to your splutters, he’d lift his body from yours, lift your legs into a V-shape in the air and rut into you faster than before. If that was even at all possible.

The scream that ripped from you could’ve been heard by the hundreds of passerby’s in their cars on the freeway — your hands flying to his forearms, nails digging into the soft skin, tracing the veins that bulged from the tensed skin. Your second orgasm, now scarily close, was given a forceful shove to tick over your gyrating body as your eyes flicked up to your boyfriend — who was a sight for sore eyes if you’d ever seen one.

His head was thrown back, a few stray curls cascading over his flushed face, eyes squeezed shut, his t-shirt between his teeth, now soaked in his saliva, as he mumbled almost incoherently into the material — ‘Oh, yeah, oh yeah, oh yeah’ ‘Fuuuuck, yeah, yeah—God, fuck, yeah’ ‘Gonna—Gonna—oh fuck!—Gonna cum—’

It was nonsensical blabber — spit staining his lips, and the softness of his shirt, eyes now half-open as they rolled deep inside the sockets, his grip on your ankles, the ones that held your legs up so perfectly despite his drunken clumsiness, tightened as you fluttered dangerously around him.

His name fell from your lips, paired with strings of incoherent sentences about how good he felt, as your orgasm washed over you twice as intensely as the first — nails leaving indefinite claw marks into his skin at the sheer volume of the release. He didn’t let up though — still slamming into you like it was what he was born to do, not music, not dance — no, just slip inside your warm, squeezing cunt and let you milk him for all he’s worth.

Michael doubled over, t-shirt slipping from his mouth, now messier than you’d made it, his grip on your ankles diminishing as he fell to your chest — flushed face nestling into the crook of your neck once again as his hips faltered ever so slightly.

“Fuck—y’so—so tight.” Michael inhaled sharply, a raw, broken whine slipping past his swollen lips, “Oh my—Fuck, ‘M gonna—Gonna marry you.” He was panting like a dog in heat, still rutting into you as he chased his own release as yours subsided slowly, “My girl. My fuckin’—Aah! Fuck—Gonna fill ya so deep. That what you—what y’want?”

A screech of agreement left your lips at his mindless rambling — cunt spasming violently as the suggestive, pornographic worthy sentences trickled from his lips like syrup, coating your whole body in a thick sheen of arousal.

You almost couldn’t quite believe what you were hearing — Michael was usually shy, nearing submissive, and gentle during sex, which you also adored, but this—this—was something to look back on late at night when he was thousands of miles away on tour with your hands down your pyjama shorts.

“‘M there—Oh, fuck, ‘m there!” He cried, knuckles turning white with how hard he was gripping the sticky bedsheets beside your head, “Take it, take it, take it, tak—“

He cut himself off with a hoarse, raucous groan — so loud it rang throughout the room, near enough echoing with how quiet the bus had gotten without you realising, hips twitching aggressively as he spilled inside you. The warm, blissfully familiar, sensation of his fierce spurts of cum painting your fluttering walls had you whining too — biting your lip so hard the indentation of your teeth was traceable with your tongue, as he, despite being almost painfully overstimulated, rolled his infamous hips deep into you, fucking his seed deeper inside your drooling pussy.

Then came the silence.

The deafening, almost ear-piercing silence that coated each and every corner of the tour bus — no voices, no laughter, no snoring, nothing. Just the uncomfortable knowledge that hung thickly in the air that everyone—oh yes, everyone—had heard you.

Michael pulled out with a wet pop! and rolled next to you with a loud huff — head spinning and eyes fluttering shut as he attempted to catch his breath, chest heaving. You, too, succumbed to the relieving solace that was sleep, your own eyes still squeezed shut as your legs fell to the bed, now sporting a dull ache that matched your sex — now dribbling with his release over the sheets.

But, before your drunken mind could register the severity of what your boyfriend’s brother’s had just heard — sleep took over. Lulling into a relaxed, much needed slumber — still bare and sweaty, pulled against Michael’s chest as he too, for once, slept beside you.

However, all actions have consequences.

Unfortunately for you.

So, when you woke that morning, head pounding, lips dry, eyes squinting from the brightness of the morning sun, and body aching — you enjoyed the few blissful seconds of your waking where you had forgotten what you’d got up to last night. Just turning over and smiling softly at Michael’s sleeping frame, the soft, slow deepness of breathing as he slept calmly warming your heart.

Then, it hit you.

Your eyes shot open — finally registering the hangover and the nakedness you and Michael both sported, mouth hanging open in shock as your vision fluttered towards the locked door to his bedroom, knowing that behind it was a conversation and years worth of teasing you’d never, ever live down.

You knew you couldn’t hide in here forever — their next show was tonight, and you needed Michael to recover from the hangover, one that you were certain he would have, as soon as possible.

You groaned, rubbing a hand across your face, knowing that you’d have to take your pride and reputation and throw it out the window onto the freeway that you were still on, and face his brother’s, just like you had with Michael the morning after your drunkenly confessed your love.

Similarly, you also decided that staying away from alcohol for the foreseeable future was probably a good idea.

Rising from the bed, not without a wince at the dull ache between your legs, solidifying your realisation that everyone had heard how Michael laid it down on you like it was his last day to live, last night — and that there was no way to avoid this.

The bedroom door opened with a creak, impossibly and noticeably loud, as your eyes adjusted to the brightness of the hallway. In the distance, the sound of soft laughter and quiet conversations filled your ears, sighing loudly as it became apparent every member of the Jackson siblings was present in the same room that got you into this mess.

You walked, stealthily slow, head still throbbing wildly, as you finally reached the part of the bus where you knew you would curse yourself for ever entering. Your eyes locked on the five men splayed across the seats, as you did the night before, plates of breakfast and cups of coffee residing in front of them.

For a moment the room stopped — all five siblings rendered themselves silent as their gaze dropped on you, watching as you pursed your lips together, awaiting their next movements.

Your eyes landed on Marlon, whose lips twitched up into a smirk, laughter crawling up his throat as he pointed at you, eyes squinting—

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

The sound of your croaked, stern voice sent the room into screams of uncontrollable laughter — tears falling from their eyes, fists banging on tables, and stomachs clutched as they roared at you. Marlon was practically sobbing — face beat red and cheeks soaked in humorous tears as he gripped Jermaine’s arm for stability, attempting to calm himself down.

“You two caused this.” You snapped, pointing between Jermaine and Marlon, the mastermind’s behind bringing the alcohol to the bus.

“Us?” Marlon managed to force out between giggles, wiping his face with the back of his hand, “I think you should be thankin’ us, girl. Sounds like you had a reaaal good time back there.”

The room burst into fits of laughter once more, only furthering as you threw a pillow at Marlon’s body, arms crossing over your chest.

“Oh, yeah, a real nice time. Remind me, ‘Maine, did it go more like ‘Oooh, Michael!’ or ‘Ohh, Michaeeel!’.” Jackie teased, his voice shifting in octave as he mocked your pleasured moans that had evidently rang loudly throughout the bus.

“Real mature. You never heard people have sex before?” You quipped, trudging to your handbag that lay on the table opposite where the boys sat, and pulling out a packet of Advil, and a grabbing a bottle of water.

“Well, actually, no, I hadn’t.” Randy started, a teasing, toothy grin spread across his face, “But, I sure as hell have now.”

You rolled your eyes as the boys screeched into laughter once more, a snarky remark at the ready to be fired back, when you turned around and your face fell.

“What’s so funny?”

Michael’s tired, hoarse voice rang throughout the now quiet room — all eyes now on him as he rubbed his tired eyes, joggers, once on the floor of his bedroom, now hanging loosely around his hips, as he approached you, back facing his brother’s as he leant down to press a soft kiss to your cheek. Visible to everyone in the room, a fact that had you squeezing your lips together in dread, were the sharp streaks of nails marks that you had dragged down his back, as well as along his forearms, painted across his skin in deep, rose coloured lines.

You knew the laughter was coming before it even started — eyes fluttering shut as Michael’s eyebrows furrowed together in confusion. It was apparent to everyone in the room, apart from him of course, that he still had no recollection of the night before — or even if he did, he sure as hell wasn’t aware of the intensity of the noise.

Michael’s eyes flickered around the room, attempting to piece why his brother’s were in bits from laughter, and why you were knee-deep in embarrassment. But soon, once his vision locked on the three empty Tequila bottles, the opened pack of Advil, bags under everyone’s eyes, the hickey’s on your neck and the scrapes of pleasured marks on his arms — he gasped as the ball dropped.

“Oh, my God.” He breathed, hand coming to clasp over his mouth, eyes darting between you and his brother’s, who were watching the scene unfold in real time, only making it twice as funny, “Did we?—Oh, no, and they—they heard? Oh, God—Oh, my good God.”

You nodded slowly, eyes full of shame as you met his own wide ones — blown into saucers as the dreadful realisation hit him.

Marlon, deciding that laughing in your face wasn’t enough, grabbed a half-drunk bottle of Tequila and raised it into the air, waving it in your faces as a teasing reminder on what got you into this mess to begin with, smiling widely, before speaking.

“What a great start to the tour.” He breathed out a chuckle, “Oh, and you’re welcome, little brother.”