Delicate Angel Princess🪽

AUGUST 17, 1978. Hayvenhurst, Encino…

Four weeks had passed since that night in Studio 54, where Michael had finally offered to hear you out on your valid criticisms of his mother's religion, its strict morals ingrained into his psyche after all these years.

Your criticisms were mostly influenced by the strict stance of the Jehovah’s Witnesses on condemning sexual intercourse outside of wedlock. You'd felt a little awkward and over-imposing at the time, but thankfully he eventually grew to understand, and promised you that he would think deeply about what he'd been forcing from himself for so long. Before the two of you had started dating in the spring, he had never before struggled all that much with his refusal to have sex, because even if one was to remove the orthodox religious aspect out of the equation, Michael was inherently somebody who would only make love to a lady he had a true emotional connection with. And so, since he had spent forever yearning for only you—while making a futile effort to distract himself with dates and sweet kisses with other girls because you 'clearly' never felt the same way—it was only now that he actually had a real, viable opportunity to lose his virginity.

He'd been struggling so much with his restrained arousal since you'd began your romantic relationship together, because he was in a constant battle between the needs born of his heart and his lower body, and the rules he was supposed to abide by. It had been that hot summer night in July, under disco lights and smothered in your lipstick kisses, that he had finally declared with true honesty that he would at least try to look at this whole sex thing a little differently. For Michael, it wasn't even only about religion and his treatment of lovemaking as a sacred act—it was also that he faced quite a degree of childhood trauma that he didn't at all understand. Throughout his formative years and into his adolescence, he had seen only the worst of the act—loveless groupie hook-ups, promiscuous women receiving hurls of abuse in the strip clubs he was forced to perform at; and worst of all, the unmistakable, incredibly uncomfortable sounds of his older brothers, and even his own father, giving it rough to a different woman every night.

As a young child, Michael had been deeply disturbed; by not only the sounds and the reality of it happening right beside him, but also by the sheer disgust that he felt at experiencing how his own flesh and blood treated women so thoughtlessly. They would discard one, only to seek out another the following night, and each time, Michael knew very well that the girls weren't as happy as his brothers were after their one night stand. The girls would act cool and pretend that mindless sex with somebody famous was all they wanted, but Michael would notice the sad, passive look in their eyes as they left, having achieved nothing but the sad reality of being used. Most boys could look up to the older male figures in their lives, but young Michael Jackson would found his own morals as he grew.

The aggressive sex that surrounded him from such an early age had a profoundly deep effect on his psyche. It was all happening too often for a boy so empathetic and sensitive to just brush it off and move on, let alone to be able to easily slip into that sexual world once he became of age.

And then, to make matters worse, as he grew older he watched his best friend become one of those girls he'd seen his brothers discard. While the opposite of a groupie in your stardom, it was in your naivety as a young singer turning to adulthood that you found yourself falling into the trap of men who couldn't care less about you. Michael despised viewing such a thing from the sidelines, comforting you as you would cry over their behaviour, or even worse—watching helplessly as you walked off with yet another. But you had been chasing dopamine hit after dopamine hit, unaware of that reasoning at the time, but altogether knowing one thing: that you were deeply afraid of a real, gentle relationship.

Sex with those sort of men was easy. It was a quick rush of oxytocin, adrenaline, all those hormones that could easily become warped into tools of self-harm.

And the most ironic thing was that not a single one of those men had ever made you cum. So what was the point, one might ask?

In your older adulthood, you finally understood the answer. Buried in your core, beneath all the avoidance and tension that kept you away from real love, was a genuine, bone-deep craving for such a love. You messed around with men because there was still physical touch involved, even if it was meaningless. There existed the act of lovemaking—although in reality how they treated you always stripped away that romantic term, and was more appropriately described as 'fucking with no strings attached.' Essentially, with those men you could experience small hits of affection from the opposite sex; you could convince yourself that you were 'dating' normally, like everyone else your age did successfully. And with that, you had led yourself under the illusion that you were right to avoid anything more. Gentleness didn't feel right to you, and as you mingled with all these different men, it became increasingly apparent that most likely, a sweet man didn't even exist to begin with.

You believed you were okay with the no strings circumstances you switched between—but often, when you were all alone at night in your bedroom, you would cry yourself to sleep. Even then, without the maturity to make you understand what you truly needed, the reality was that your body had always known. It would break down, sending you warning signs that you were continually heading in the wrong direction, although you never listened.

And you were so far gone, so beyond distanced from logic, that you weren't paying enough relevant attention to what—or whom—had been beside you the entire time. The gentle lover your unconscious mind dreamed of had laid in wait for so long, in the form of your very best friend, the boy who was always prepared to show you nothing less than the adoration you deserved.

Since your dual love confessions, it had been a whirlwind of a few months. Incredibly difficult though it was in the beginning—where you struggled to adapt to such unfamiliar, attentive affection—over time you'd gradually felt more and more comfortable. Three weeks had gone by since you and Michael had spoken seriously about your future first time together, and the more Michael waited, the more wild the concept seemed—that while you obviously wanted your first night to come quickly, you couldn't fathom the very real fact that sometime soon, you would be making love with your childhood best friend. You’d be taking his virginity.

Every single element of the prospect was incredibly intimate, and you found yourself actually getting quite anxious at the thought of it. They always say that anxiety and excitement are produced as the same feeling, and truly you struggled to discern one from the other in those weeks leading up to the first night.

It also didn't help that Michael wouldn't give any hints as to when this night would be, but you understood how difficult this was for him, and you would by no means wish to rush him. You were to be unlike how you carelessly behaved previously, where while drunk you had more than once ended up practically begging him to give up everything he believed in and take you right then and there.

Indeed there had been no hints from Michael—not until the week before the intimacy would finally occur, when he suddenly approached you with something that was secretly way more anxiety-inducing than it should've been for a suggestion so romantic. Such a suggestion, then, was Michael's request that you might both take a shower together for the first time.

Your mouth had opened slightly in surprise, and Michael had then started speaking quite quickly, evidently shy of his own idea.

"Uh, I just think it would be... y'know, a good way for us to, um," he looked down at his feet, shuffling his weight, "break the ice a lil bit? 'Cause we've never seen each other—uh—well, naked."

He kind of whispered that last word, so crude in Michael's innocent manner, and you giggled. You deliberately maintained an outward feigning of normalcy as you responded, but inside your heart was beating incredibly fast, and suddenly you had slight heartburn. Taking a shower together? In your opinion, that was even more intimate than the lovemaking Michael was building up to. At least he was finally building up to it, but now the closer you got to going all the way with your boyfriend, the more your emotions attacked you. For you, sex had always been erotic escapism, something that was done quickly and, despite its inherent intimacy, actually didn't hold within it anything intimate at all.

But you knew what Michael was like. Even before you'd started dating you could've guessed, and these last few months had shown you just how deeply serious he was when it came to taking care of his girl. He was a hopeless romantic, and in the beginning that was awful for you—it all felt so strange and not something you deserved to experience, until finally you began to fully let him in. He was initially so shy with every new step he took to show you his love, yet shyness never stopped him from performing such displays of deep affection.

But now you had been requested to do the most romantic, the most private and intimate thing of all—and even in your sudden timidity, there was no way you could say no. This was how Michael liked to do things, and the butterflies in your stomach were an explicit sign of just how much you did in fact want to experience an adorable, romantic shower with him—nothing sexual intended, just two young adults approaching what was foreign.

So, a few days later, Michael’s en-suite was where you found yourself, preparing to undress on a sweet summer’s evening, after a long day of bathing in the sun.

"Um, I'm just gonna..." Michael began, as he awkwardly gestured how he was about to face the wall and slip out of his boxers.

"Mhm, I'll, um—yeah," you mumbled back, cringing at yourself as you turned the opposite way and rid yourself of your bra and panties.

And then you were under the running water as quickly as possible, so nervous that you desperately wanted this beginning part to be over and done with. You faced the showerhead as Michael stepped in behind you, and at the mere sound of his feet hitting the tile, your breath hitched.

Now you were both standing there, fully nude, in the most intimate situation you believed there was. You didn't like that you had your back turned—it felt rude and dismissive, because you knew Michael wanted to look at you—but you thought you might faint if you turned around.

"Hi," Michael whispered, slowly coming up right behind you, though with enough distance to ensure that a specific something of his didn't touch a sensitive something of yours.

You felt his long, cosy arms slide around your waist, followed by a soft kiss to your shoulder. You arched your head back, exposing your neck properly to the scalding heat of the water, and you placed a shaky hand over your boyfriend's, where his rested at your hip.

"Hi," you whispered back, smiling with so much fluster that Michael couldn't believe had adorned your face. He could see your side profile from his height and his proximity, and he grinned.

"Why you all shy, huh?" He began to pepper your cheek in kisses, and effortlessly tilted your head by your jaw to bring your lips to his.

All you could do was giggle into his kiss. "’m not shy," you pouted, finally turning your whole body to directly face him, as Michael carefully detached his arms from you. You didn’t want him to know of your anxiety.

As he took you in, Michael's mouth dropped open instantly—and just as quickly did he shut it, in his embarrassment at how visibly he'd folded. "Oh, mama..."

"Mikey," you laughed, running your hand up and down his arm—outwardly as a way to soothe him, but truthfully as a way of using his touch to soothe yourself. You really did feel a little lightheaded now, and you were perfectly hydrated and nourished, perfectly used to a blazing hot shower; so the only perpetrator was your hormones.

You had to be the luckiest girl in the world. This man—this beautiful, smiling, handsome man, in his barest form before you—was the man who would soon make love to you. You would guide him through it, bring him into this world he'd been so scared to enter, and upon crossing that threshold, you would feel the utmost content—not just for the finally having had sex, but for the very truth that you had been the one to make him feel comfortable enough to change his mind. The boy who'd been so traumatised, so careful and so specific about who he gave his heart and his body to... That boy had chosen you.

And the most beautiful, the most emotionally poetic thing of all, lay in the romanticism of how this year would see you both guide each other into unfamiliar, uncomfortable worlds. You had already helped to dissect and unravel Michael's religious guilt and past sex-adjacent experiences, and you would continue to do so—you would continue to reassure him that passion between man and woman was just human nature, that there was no sense in a manmade religion determining the act of out-of-wedlock lovemaking as a sin.

And then, parallel to your patience with him, was Michael's own unwavering patience in his endeavours to break down your hard-built walls. Where his unfamiliarity was with sex, yours was with the non-sexual arena of a relationship—the intimacy of soft words, gentle touch, protective embraces and hand-holding. Everything that Michael did with ease, everything that he insisted you deserved, he didn't force onto you, but he gradually guided you into, attentive to the cognitive dissonance between your mind and your soul.

Your mind had for so long shut out the craving for romantic love that belonged to your traumatised heart. In his tenderness, Michael was slowly stitching up the organ's tears, and bringing you into the territory of soft love.

So lost in your thoughts as you looked up into his gleaming dark doe eyes, his pretty lashes already wet to compliment the shine of the orbs, you almost missed what he was saying to you.

"Y' so beautiful," Michael whispered, overcome with emotion, in disbelief at the sight of you and at how this day had somehow been made true. His everlong dream, second to the one where he would surrender himself to you completely. "So magical, baby..."

You bit your lip, holding the back of your neck anxiously with a flustered smile. "Um... you look really good too."

Months ago you'd been made aware of how long he'd been in love with you, but you could've never imagined the extent of his feelings. As he looked at you now, in your purest form, an embodiment of ethereality, he couldn't believe his eyes. His life was complete.

That evening, Michael's en-suite had consisted of two flustered young adults with hearts that were in competition for beats per minute, and two pairs of eyes that erratically darted around at everything but the most intimate parts that lay before them.

It was very clear to you that Michael was making a seriously difficult effort not to stare at your breasts, and you found it very amusing, so you acknowledged the elephant in the room.

"Mikey. The more you try hard not to look at my boobs, the more you're just gonna wanna stare at 'em. 's fine, seriously." You held his hand, standing closer now, beautiful and entirely bare.

"Oh—yeah, but I feel like 'm objectifyin' y', Minnie."

Since you were kids and had sat down to watch Mickey Mouse together for the first time, you had declared the two of you as Mickey and Minnie—especially because Mikey sounded so much like the name of the cartoon mouse—so from then on the names had stuck, used on and off as playful pet names, now even cuter in your romance.

"You're objectifyin’ me by just lookin' at me?" You smiled in amusement. "You're my boyfriend, Michael—I sure would hope you enjoy lookin' at my naked body."

Michael squinted anxiously, looking to the ceiling and then down again. "I know, it's just... this is all so new to me."

"I know that," you whispered, taking hold of his other hand now too and stepping again closer, looking into the eyes that still continued to dart around. "Don't get me wrong—my heart is beating out of my chest right now. I'm so nervous, baby. I didn't say anythin' before but... I really am."

"Why?" Michael furrowed his brows, a flash of worry crossing his mind that perhaps he'd overstepped the mark and made you uncomfortable. "You're... way more experienced than me. I've never even been naked in front of a girl before. Or… seen a girl naked.”

You raised a brow, knowing he most definitely had seen a girl naked, although not in real life of course.

“Um, except in Playboy,” he corrected quickly. “I have… seen naked girls in Playboy.”

“Oh, I know you have,” you said humorously.

“But only before we started dating,” Michael added. “I would never look at those while with you.”

“Shh, baby,” you chuckled, holding his arm. “I know you wouldn’t.”

He started to loosen up again, taking a long exhale as he looked at you with a small smile. You could see the excitement and content in his reticent expression.

You, on the other hand, had become entirely reticent. Shyness had overcome you, and while you kept trying to keep it together and conceal the ridiculous way you felt through playfully giving the shy title to Michael, that didn't help steady the beat of your heart. He looked so beautiful under the stream, the coils of his afro slick with water, rivulets falling from the tips. And this was your very first time seeing him fully naked, therefore it wasn't just the scary intimacy of the shower that was on your mind, but it was the mere sight of your boyfriend, too. You took in his long limbs, the physique that always made him look so tall despite standing at only 5'9; the wet droplets scattered over his broad shoulders and chest, the way his collarbone peeked just below a hickey you'd given him yesterday. To ensure nobody found out, he'd had to wear a sweater with a high neckline all day—in the ninety degree heat of an LA summer.

You didn't dare look down at his lower half. For a woman who had been so desperate to have sex with her man, and for a woman who had literally just been critiquing said man for being hesitant to look at her own genitals, you couldn't bring yourself to face Michael in that way. While he was shy in regard to sexual encounters and sexual thoughts, you were shy of the opposite—of romantic, soft encounters that asked for nothing more than love and care. Here you were, stood right in front of the man who just wanted to wash the body of the woman he admired, and wouldn't be desperate to hoist you up the shower wall and fuck you like any other man would. Every man besides Michael would take you into his shower for only one thing—and unfortunately, it was only that genre you were prepared for.

As crazy as it sounded, Michael having an erection would've actually made this easier. It would turn the moment into something you could tease him over, something that might steer you away from the very pressing truth that there was a man in your life who truly just wanted to admire you and take good care of you. Because Michael wasn’t looking at your naked body right now to fulfil a sexual desire—he was consuming the image to appreciate you at your most vulnerable, where you had laid your entire soul out bare to him.

In your peripheral, you could see that Michael was indeed soft down there, and while you doubted that it would last, the glimpse made your head spin. He was so big. Surely he couldn't be a grower...

You shook your head quickly, snapping yourself out of the thought as you stared absentmindedly at that dark bite on his neck.

He clicked his fingers in front of you, and cradled your cheek with his warm hand to bring your gaze to his. "Earth to my Tinker Bell."

Long before you'd become a couple, cute pet names had been the norm, but ever since your dynamic had entered the realm of romance, you found your heart fluttering with every usage of those names. Michael honestly hardly ever referred to you by your real name.

"Oh, 'm sorry," you chuckled, clearly looking bashful now. This wasn't like you, and Michael was confused.

"You're not uncomfortable, right?" he asked gently, while turning to take his soap from a shelf. He began to lather his upper half in it while you talked.

God, there was something about such a mundane action that just looked so insanely sexy on him.

Again, you blinked yourself out of the aroused thoughts, remembering that if you really wanted to succeed in a non-avoidant relationship, you would have to accept the circumstances that were merely innocent. Of course, Michael had primal, sexual urges—lots of them, to be clear—but he was also capable of being with you in an exclusively delicate, tender way too, even while you were both completely naked. The inexperienced individual was usually so uncontrollably horny, unable to do much about the appearance of an erection at the slightest touch, but Michael had worked out that thankfully, he could prevent the rigid enlargement between his thighs outside of makeouts. He assumed that the reasoning was probably because of the religious and sexual trauma that had messed around with his arousal and understanding of his own body for so long.

"What?" Your voice was a little high and anxious in response to Michael's question, as he now scrubbed over his shoulders. "No, you never make me uncomfortable. Why would I be uncomfortable?"

"Guess 'm just confused ‘cause you're all shy, y' won't look at me properly, even though it's not your first time like it is mine. You've already been naked in front of someone else before."

Now there was a slightly sad expression on your boyfriend's pretty face, because he could tell that there were lies in your words. You took a deep breath.

"Michael."

"Mhm?" He still looked melancholy as his eyes met yours, silently regretting putting you in this situation. He felt as though he'd forced you—and that was his worst nightmare.

"Yes. I do feel a little uncomfortable. Or... I think anxious is a better word. This isn't about you—I would never feel discomfort in your presence." You began to explain.

Michael nodded slowly, still confused. He turned to face the other way while he continued to wash himself, and your eyes widened at the sudden sight of his back profile, before again you collected yourself.

"So, basically... um, yeah, I'm experienced in sex... but not, y'know... real intimacy like this. With this sort of thing, I'm just as much of an amateur as you are."

He turned back, his sad eyes softening into those of compassion and understanding.

"You know I get anxious with the more romantic stuff—just because I'm not used to it. It's not that I don't want to do these things with you—of course I do... It's just that in order to do them, I have to push myself out of my comfort zone, and something like this is a hard thing to push through."

"Honey, 'm sorry," Michael whispered, setting the soap down and stepping forward. "When you put it like that, I understand. I guess I was just gettin' caught up in makin' myself feel more comfortable before we make love, that I didn't view this as one of those things that would give you anxiety. 'm so sorry."

"Baby, it's okay," you smiled, interlocking both hands with his, and swinging them softly. "I'm not having a panic attack or anythin'—I want to be in here with you, and I love how romantic you are. It's just a lil bit of anxiety, and honestly I'm already feelin' it kinda slippin' away the more we stand here."

"Yeah?" His eyes lit up marginally, and he squeezed your hands to soothe you.

"It's just..." you started to giggle, covering your face. "Oh my god, this is so silly but every time you look at me I feel dizzy. I thought I'd got over this, but right here I feel the same as I did when I kept gettin' all shy after we first started dating."

Michael laughed, cupping your cheek. "I never stopped feelin' that way myself. I just manage it a little better now."

"Ugh, this is so... Wow, I'm here telling you that you should be looking at my boobs without restraint, but I can hardly look at you."

You continued to giggle shyly, while Michael was very amused, and emotionally moved by how wildly flustered he'd made you.

"Exactly, don't be a hypocrite now, baby," he grinned, using one finger to your chin to direct your eyesight up at him. "Look at me."

"Noooo," you laughed, playfully shutting your eyes, but in an instant Michael had you held tightly against his chest, your face mushed against his pectoral muscles. You squealed happily, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Well, now you can't see me," you murmured airily, against his sandalwood-scented skin.

So Michael readjusted your head, cradling your face in a position that now allowed you to both snuggle into him and be seen by his higher view. "There. That's better," he smiled.

You hummed—the vibration hitting Michael's grateful nervous system—and you felt a strange glimpse of real calm now, as if finally experiencing what normal women felt like when their man would cuddle them in the shower. You tightened your arms around his neck, kissed his chest twice, and in turn Michael tightened his hold around your waist, stroking your hair. He rocked you in a slow sway for a period longer than you ever expected to be comfortable with in such silent intimacy, but it grew to be the most beautiful feeling ever, and you found yourself never wanting to leave it. He kept kissing atop your head, and then giving small pecks to your nose because he knew you'd instinctively smile.

After a few minutes, he finally spoke. "Are you just restin' on me because y' don't want me to look at y'?"

"No," you hummed into his neck, before pulling back slowly, and taking your hands in his again. Now that you were more relaxed, your clingy side was becoming further apparent. "I feel better now. A lot better."

"Mm?"

"I think I needed that," you admitted, referring to the standing cuddle. "You always know what I need, even when I don't know myself."

Michael's chest ached. Without sounding too egotistical, that was true—he did have some magical superpower that allowed him to help you in the situations in which you felt the most vulnerable. Even while he'd made the mistake of misunderstanding your hesitation tonight, it was upon recognising your feelings that he immediately knew what to do to make you relax.

"I'm glad, baby," he smiled, picking up your interlocked hands to kiss your knuckles. "Always want y' to be comfortable."

You suddenly felt like you were about to cry, but you turned quickly, blinked back the tears hard, and turned back. "Got somethin' in my eye," you laughed.

"An eyelash? Y'want me to get it out for y'?" Michael was already disconnecting one of your hands to reach out to help, but you stopped him.

"No, I don't know what it was but it's gone now. Wait, what are those?"

You quickly changed the subject, because the shelves behind Michael had been brought to your attention a moment ago. On the top were two extra bars of soap, decorated in a wrapper that told how they were most definitely not intended for a man's use, beside two bottles of what appeared to be body oil? Also clearly not for a man, even if your boyfriend did tend to enjoy more feminine notes when it came to cologne.

"Oh," Michael blushed, turning to look at the shelf. "Um, I bought these for you. So y' have 'em whenever you’re at mine and y' wanna shower. I didn't know which scent to get you of both the soap and the oil, so I got two different ones for each."

"Michael... Thank you, baby." You stood on your tiptoes and kissed him softly, before going over to the products and examining them.

There sat two pale French-milled bars of soap by Hermès, unopened in their decorative paper wrappers, in a porcelain dish beside two cut-glass bottles of body oil. One bar was delicately scented with lavender, the other with verbena and rose. Then, the first bottle of body oil was titled as a luxurious blend of gardenia and jasmine by Estée Lauder, while the second carried the fragrance of orange blossom softened with bergamot, by Guerlain.

"Wow, honey, you didn't have to..."

"Y' needed some soap, Minnie. 'm not makin' y' use mine," he answered, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind again, and leaning his chin on the crown of your head as you held the products.

"And the oil?" you questioned in amusement. "You wanna pamper me? Is that what you had planned, baby boy?"

"Maybe..."

"Michael Jackson," you began playfully, while turning around out of his hold with the lavender bar in your hand. "You lured me in here so that you could rub oil all over my naked body?"

"Don't put it like that..." he grinned bashfully, covering his face with one hand.

You instantly moved the hand away, giggling. "Don't worry, 'm not judgin' you, Mickey."

"Okay, then yeah, I wanna... um... do that. But not today, I don't think I'll, uh—be able to handle it without accidentally, y'know..." He gestured his gaze downward to his crotch.

You nodded slowly, a happy grin on your face. But then you squinted, having caught another glimpse of his soft dick in your peripheral, and you decided not to second guess your next question. After all, Michael was your long-time best friend and your boyfriend, no matter how shy you sometimes felt with each other.

"Baby… I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“Are you a grower?"

"Am I a what? What's a grower?"

You rolled your eyes with a sigh, then started laughing awkwardly. "Mikey, don't make me explain. I really can't do this while we're both stood here naked."

"Well, I don't know what y' mean, so I'm askin'. How do I answer the question otherwise?"

You continued to laugh through your words. "Ugh, I'm talkin' about your dick, silly!" You flicked his forehead. "I'm just gonna say it how it is—you're big as hell down there considerin' you're soft, so I'm askin' if it grows much more when you're hard."

"Oh, um..." Michael's eyes widened upon understanding, but he didn't laugh with you. He actually looked quite anxious, because he'd just identified a potential problem. "Yeah, quite a lot more, actually. Is that gonna be an issue? When we..."

You gasped, followed by another giggle. "Just a slight issue. But you're not taking my virginity, so you're not gonna tear me apart, don't worry."

Michael furrowed his brows, looking seriously worried that you were being too naive and that he just might tear you apart with his size.

"Michael, you can't be that big."

"Baby, let's just end this conversation. I don't know how big I am compared to other guys."

"Okay, I guess I'll find out soon," you laughed, squeezing his cheek. You were entirely relaxed now. "Unless you back out because you're scared you're gonna break me?"

Michael rolled his eyes, fighting an adorable smile. "It's just... The last thing I wanna do is hurt y'."

"I know, Mikey, and we're gonna go so slow—I'll teach you all the very important parts of foreplay... We'll be fine."

His eyes lit up at the mention of foreplay—he'd heard his brothers talk a lot about it, notably how satisfying it felt to make a woman cum with just tongue or fingers or both, and he'd been too nervous to ask about the details.

You paused to laugh at his expression, then suggested an additional component. "You can even get some lube for us, if you want?"

"Uh, yeah, okay."

"You're so cute," you giggled, reaching up to pet the wet frizz of his afro and squeezing his cheek again. "It's gonna be fine, baby."

"Stop it," he rolled his eyes with a smile; and then, with a hand on the back of his neck, you pulled your sweetheart down into a sweet, slow kiss.

When Michael pulled away to talk, he had his hands settled at your hips, and he looked a little nervous again.

"Honey, uh... would it be okay if I washed you?"

At his request, your eyes widened, but of course Michael would want a romantic evening shower to involve him doing everything for you, even if it was true that you hadn't even so much as grazed each other's nudity sensually before.

"Um, yeah, of course you can," you whispered, becoming a little shy again but without possession of the anxiety you'd carried in there earlier.

Michael nodded, then hesitated for a moment before taking the bar of soap from your hands, and picking up a fresh cotton washcloth.

Wordlessly, he began rubbing the product up and down your arms, the least anxiety-inducing part of your body to begin with, but all he could think about was how he would very soon be initiating touching the body part that sat just outside of his peripheral. Your breasts, what he'd yearned to touch for so long... And impossibly, he now had his very first opportunity.

You started to laugh again, because he had this adorable concentrated expression on his face, and because his wet fro was adorable enough in itself. The scrubbing also tickled slightly.

"Hm?" Michael looked at you, brows raised.

"I know I said this already, but you're so cute."

"Oh," he smiled bashfully, looking down at your arm again.

"Baby," you whispered, taking hold of his wrist. "Don't y' think you've washed my arms enough already? They're not that long, y'know."

Michael bit his lip, finally pausing, but still looking elsewhere from your face. "Uh, yeah, probably."

Truth be told, he was insanely nervous to touch your breasts for the first time. So much so, that he even began to share your concern from earlier. This was too intimate.

Michael never drank alcohol, but a sudden thought occurred in his mind that perhaps he should've taken a few shots before this shower.

"Mikey."

"Yes."

"Look at me," you laughed, reaching up to drag his jaw.

"I'm lookin'," he muttered, with a pout like a child.

"What's goin' on? Why have you stopped completely?"

No way could he say aloud that he, at the grown age of nineteen (to be twenty in two weeks) was scared to touch his own girlfriend's breasts. 'Scared' was perhaps a silly word to use, because one couldn't be scared of something they desperately craved. Rather, his inexperience was crushing him, overwhelming his free will and thereby rendering him unable to proceed with the next action in a normal, casual way.

And so, indeed unable to admit what was plaguing him, he shook his head and grinned. "Was nothin'. I just thought I heard somebody, 's all."

"Alright," you chuckled, although you felt a hint of a lie on his part.

You brushed it off. It was understandable if he was nervous.

Now he moved your hair out of the way and scrubbed gently over your neck, up to your jaw, making you gasp as he held your nape in place. His heart pounded as he did so, both with the thrill of hearing you gasp that way, and with the anxiety about what he would be doing next.

Finally, he lowered his hands, dragging the cloth over your upper chest, just below your collarbone, before setting it aside. He took a deep breath, shutting his eyes tight for a moment, before relieving his hesitation and opening them.

You looked up at him, wet lashes fluttering, heart racing too. He wouldn't touch you like all the rest—you knew that for certain. He was going to touch you so tenderly; with so much care, so much reverence, and—

"Oh..." you involuntarily moaned, head rolling back slowly. Both of Michael's big hands had met your aching breasts, kneading carefully over the tissue. He eagerly lathered your chest in soap, lip between his teeth as his dilated pupils relished in the sight before him. You were breathtaking, and he couldn't believe he somehow had you like this. If he hadn't been so nervous and hesitant, he could've had you this way all the way back in spring. Or even earlier, if he hadn't taken so long to confess his love.

"This okay, mama?" he whispered, kissing your cheek, and then your lips.

Your eyes rolled back as you took another deep breath, reaching a hand up to his shoulder to steady yourself. How was he real? Michael took so much care, paid so much attention, and then had the nerve to kiss you twice, and ask if he was doing well enough. How quintessentially him. He never had any idea how innately talented he was at absolutely everything.

Because in that moment, as your supposedly 'shy' boyfriend squeezed and kneaded, you had quite literally ascended to cloud nine. Incredibly, Michael knew exactly what to do with what he had zero experience in. He was working the tissue in a way no man had before. All men loved breasts—that was a given—so Michael's infatuation with yours had been expected, but the men of your past did something very different. They would grab roughly, hold onto them tight for their own pleasure, without an ounce of tenderness. While here was Michael, doing something so particular, you wondered how on earth he was a virgin. If you hadn't known him on such a deep level, you would've chastised him for lying.

"Mikey..."

You didn't have to explicitly state a confirmation of how this was very much way more than okay. Your soft whines said enough, and they ran through Michael's body like the first hit of a hard drug.

Repetitively, he would run the palm of his hand along one breast, dragging the smooth skin over your erect nipple, and to the other breast he would provide a very slow massage, squeezing passionately as his thumb rubbed side-to-side and in circles over that nipple too.

You hardly looked down, too lost in one of the most pleasurable sensations you'd ever experienced—and you hadn't even reached the sex yet!—but whenever you did, your head would instinctively roll back again. His hands you knew were huge, except now they looked like the sexiest assets to inhabit the earth, you the lucky lady who had the digits sprawled all over your chest. And how tender he was...

All your life you'd done everything erratically, switching from one boy to the next in the hope that his pleasure might give you what you needed. But you had been so wrong—so naive and disconnected from what your safety hormone was really begging for. Beneath everything you sought that only harmed you, was a craving for this very touch.

Michael had a tendency to switch between shy and dominant. While you'd had only heated makeouts and dry-humping sessions so far, it excited you that there was a high likelihood he would behave the same way during sex itself. He would be shy during the build-up, but once he was settled, it was like all his inhibitions were hazy, and the only thing he could focus on was you—consuming you, and pleasuring you. That was the reason why you often found yourselves making out in public, because you were equally addicted to each other, and Michael's shyness appeared to dissipate entirely once he became lost in your body.

Under the fierce shower stream, he sure was taking his sweet time. While just previously he had been too nervous to even touch the area, now he was reluctant to pull away from it.

But there was a problem. So lost in his provision of pleasure, so immersed in your sexuality and your angelic hums with each slight alteration of his movements, indeed Michael Jackson was getting a boner. The love he had for you, the arousal coursing through his veins, had rushed to his nether region, the blood flowing rapidly, much more insistent than he would've liked.

Michael knew he could've kept this shower at mere innocent romance, and when he initiated washing you, he hadn't intended to give you a full on massage. Except, that was what had ended up happening—against his will, he believed, because he felt that his body was moving via his arousal and not his logical mind. He was supposed to save everything until the first night—partly because that was just how he had wanted it to be, and also because the last thing he wanted was to get hard in the shower right in front of you, unable to conceal an inch of it in his nudity.

He was surprised you hadn't noticed, but then again you had your eyes closed during ninety percent of the massage. If this had occurred a few minutes ago, however, you would've seen instantly. Where once his cock had hung limp, it was now risen—the tip flushed mauve, thick veins running up and down the erect length. He wasn't fully hard yet, but he really was getting there, and the longer he touched you and stared at your beautiful chest, the worse this situation would become.

Quickly, he came up with an idea. He would guide you to turn around, so that he could wash your back. Perfect.

"Turn, honey. Lemme do your back," he whispered, cupping your cheek to kiss you again, and then he gently spun you 180 degrees, at which you giggled.

You were stunned by what he'd just given you. "Michael, what on earth was that?"

He gathered more soap and began spreading it from the nape of your neck and downward, scrubbing as he spoke. "Um," he chuckled, "I don't know, but it looked like you were enjoyin' it?"

"Quit this gimmick—you know exactly what you're doin', sir. Have you been stealing porn from your brothers?"

Michael laughed louder. "Nothin’ but Playboy, I promise. 's all me—I haven't learned nothin' from nowhere."

"Ugh, you're incredible, baby. No one's ever touched me in that way before. Like, I've never had anythin' close to that, I swear." You sighed in disbelief and leaned back into his chest, wanting him to cradle you in a hold.

Michael was astonished by your reaction. Sure, it was clear you'd been enjoying yourself, but you'd been with several men before. How had he, in all his inexperience, managed to win such an achievement on first try?

When you leaned back into him, he took hold of you as you wished, now done with washing the plane of your back. He kissed your shoulder, but then froze in his place as he remembered his erection, and so gently pushed you forward again.

"What are you doin'? I wanna cuddle," you protested, about to turn around, but he stopped you with a hand on your hip.

"Not done yet, mama."

You sighed in irritation, but then felt the thrill of realising he was about to wash the lower half of your back profile. With a now content sigh, you let him continue.

Past your waist, Michael washed over the curve of your ass, lip bitten tight between his teeth as he stared at the image before him. He squinted in his sexual frustration, and you never would've guessed—to you he felt so entirely in control, those gorgeous hands running over where you so desperately wished he would just stop being such a gentleman and squeeze, but he didn't want you to think that he was like all the others, that he really had lured you in here just to touch you that way.

That was the last thing you would've ever believed of him, but Michael second-guessed a lot of things.

All of a sudden, he found himself speaking with sincerity. "Uh, y'know, baby, I'm sorry that we're waitin' so long to... um, have sex. 'Cause it's been nearly a whole month since I told y' I'd think about it. I guess this is kind of like me warmin' up to doin' it? I promise I won't make y' wait much longer."

"No, honey, don't apologise," you reassured, reaching back to hold his arm. "There's no pressure at all. We do it when you're ready."

Michael smiled to himself, and leaned down to kiss your shoulder again several times.

"And," you added happily, "I'm very impressed with the glimpse you've given me today. Well, in all fairness, it was really a lot more than a glimpse."

He chuckled, crouching down further now to wash over the backs of your legs. He pressed a kiss to your left hip, and to the skin just above your ass, again producing a pleasant gasp from your throat.

But just as he was about to consider what he might do next, about the problem concerning his own lower half, there was a loud, insistent knock at the door.

"Michael!" one of his brothers called. You didn't know which one it was, because the loud downpour of water above your head was quietening outdoor sound.

"Oh God..." Michael groaned under his breath from behind you, standing up from where he'd been crouched.

"Mike, y' in there? I can hear the water runnin'!"

"Is that Marlon?" you whispered in amusement, still facing away, but you were a little anxious that he might walk in and find out you were in there. The glass was fogged, but it was more than clear that two people stood behind it. Michael would lose his mind if anyone saw, because he knew that Katherine would lose her mind.

"Yeah," Michael muttered back, worrying now. Then he called to his brother, because he couldn't ignore him when it was very obvious he was in the shower. "Hey, yeah, 'm in here!"

"Alright man, y' still got my Afro Sheen?"

Oh no. Michael had borrowed the product off of Marlon earlier on—having run out of his own bottle—and now Marlon had a date, and needed it back immediately.

"Yeah, I can give it back to y' when 'm done!" Michael shouted, trying to disguise the unease in his chest. "See if anyone else has any, maybe?"

"Nah, 's cool, man, I can just come in right now and get it myself!"

You both heard the twist of the door handle, still facing away from each other but with expressions that were parallel, a mirror image in their horror.

"No, don't come in!" Michael yelled, much too defensively, but Marlon obliged, because living with so many brothers meant that you really could witness something you would regret if you weren't careful. That was never the case with Michael though, because he was always so innocent, therefore his anxious yell left Marlon now incredibly suspicious.

"Alright man, Jesus! But what the hell are y' doin' in there? Y' jerkin' off or somethin'?"

You tried not to laugh at that, but Michael didn't find it funny, scared that his mother might hear if she happened to be upstairs. She wasn't, but he couldn't be sure.

"Uh, no—no. I would never do that."

"Whatever, bro," Marlon chuckled. "What is it then? You got a girl in there? Oh shit, that's what it is, huh? Lil Mikey's got a lady in his shower..."

It hadn't taken very long for Marlon to work that one out, given the fact that Michael had literally no other excuse for why his brother couldn't quickly come in and out of the bathroom.

"Michael, this is so embarrassing..." you whispered. "What if he walks in?"

"He won't."

"Michael!" Marlon called again, with more frustration in his tone this time.

"What, Marlon?!"

"Tell me—am I right—do y' have a girl in there?"

What followed was more extremely telling silence, with the sound of the shower's persistent cascade. The quiet spoke for itself.

So Marlon continued. He was loving this, because he never thought he'd see the day that his younger brother would begin to break the rules. "If you don't have a girl wit y', then you'll let me in, but y' not lettin' me in, so that proves it!"

Again, more silence, while Michael groaned under the noise of the hot water.

"No way..." Marlon began to laugh again. "It's [♥︎] in there wit y', ain't it?" Then he raised his voice louder. "Jackie! Tito! Get over here!"

"I'm so sorry," Michael whispered from behind you, although you just found it all very amusing. As long as nobody actually saw you naked in the shower, this was some light entertainment to add to the romantic evening.

But Michael was stressed out, and for more reasons than just that he'd been caught. He had wanted to make this evening as romantic as possible, already nervous enough without the intrusion of his stupid brothers. In retrospect, he really should've done this with you at your place instead of the chaos that was Hayvenhurst, but he didn't want to impose, considering he was the man, and therefore the one who was supposed to initiate all these milestones in your relationship.

"What's gon' on, man? We're 'bout to go out." Jackie was now outside the door too, responding to Marlon's call. Michael's blood was boiling.

"Nah, listen to this." Marlon paused, then couldn't help but laugh again in his shock, so excited to deliver the live news. "Mikey's got a girl in his shower."

"Not [♥︎]?!” Tito asked, in disbelief. Surely his brother had to be kidding.

But for once, he wasn't. "Mhm. 'm sure of it. He won't let me in, 'n he keeps goin' all quiet whenever I ask."

Dumbfounded by the revelation, Jackie called into the bathroom. "Michael, y' can't be for real, man? When mother finds out?"

Each one of his brothers were hypocrites, because they all did whatever they liked, no matter what their mother believed in. It was just that Katherine was most protective over Michael, and Michael was the most compliant with her requests. He had vowed with sincerity never to do anything sexual with a woman until he married.

"God, shut up, Jackie!" Michael snapped. "All of y' need to mind y' own business. And don't y' even dare tell mother. She'll kill me. We're not even doin' nothin' in here—we're just takin' a shower. Washin' ourselves, 'n..."

"And each other?" Tito interrupted through laughter, which the others joined in with.

You'd found it funny until you heard how stressed Michael was, because he really was such a sensitive soul who'd wanted an entirely private night with his girl.

Although, unbeknownst to you, the one thing he had to thank his brothers for was a distraction from his erection. His cock was softening now, and as you turned back to face him, it was like nothing had happened down there at all.

Now, Jermaine had walked up to the door. "What's goin' on?"

"Michael's havin' sex in the shower," Marlon announced.

"Not even kiddin' neither," Jackie added.

"What? With [♥︎]?!" Jermaine asked, in the same shock the others had expressed.

"No, 'm not!" Michael yelled again. "Jesus, just—"

"Michael, why else would you be in the shower with your girl?!" Jackie asked.

"None of y' business!"

From down the hall, a twelve-year-old Janet Jackson had peeked her head out of her bedroom door. "Why are y'all shoutin'?"

"Oh, 's nothin', Jan! You go'n!" Tito called back to her.

"Is Michael doin' somethin' bad?"

"No, I just want my Sheen back!" Marlon shouted.

"Shut up, mother's gonna hear!" Michael reminded. "Is she downstairs?"

"Yeah, she's outside, we're fine!"

"Alright, I'll get out of the shower quick, 'n give it to y'. Only if y' promise to leave me alone."

"Leave 'us' alone, y' mean!" Jermaine corrected. "You're not exactly alone in there!"

Out of respect, the boys didn't speak to you directly, and you were very appreciative of that. The Jacksons were like your brothers, and this was definitely not the most comfortable situation for you to be in with them.

"’m sorry, we'll be alone again in a minute," Michael whispered to you, kissing your forehead.

Then he grabbed a towel, and at the side dried his body with it quickly, before wrapping the cotton around his waist and stepping out. He picked up the jar that had been requested, handing it to Marlon through the now scarcely opened door.

Jackie, Tito and Jermaine were already walking off, done with their teasing because they too had girls waiting on them.

"Marlon, 'm so serious, don't tell mother about any of this. Or Joseph, 'cause he'll tell her himself and then he'll—"

"Hey, bro, stop worryin'. Y' know 'm only messin' with y'. Have you guys been sleepin' together, though?"

Michael squinted in confusion. "Yeah, obviously. We have sleepovers all the time."

Marlon laughed, shaking his head. "Oh, man. No—sleepin' together as in... y'know, makin' love."

The younger brother's face dropped. "Oh."

"You ain't done it yet, huh? How long y' been together?"

"Uh, 3 months. We're, um—"

"Mikey!" you called, getting bored in there alone. "Is everyone gone?"

Marlon tapped his shoulder, before dapping him up with a supportive smile. "You go back in there 'n enjoy yourself, Mikey."

Michael smiled, but rolled his eyes at how his brother mocked your nickname for him.

After shutting the door again and taking off his towel, he stepped back into the shower, immediately pulling you flush to his chest. "So, where were we?"

You grinned, pulling your head out of his neck to lock your lips onto his. "Um," you started to giggle, "you were giving me a very sensual massage."

"Very sensual, huh?" He pecked your nose and squeezed your hips.

"Mhm. Latherin' me in all this luxury soap." You sighed happily. "Baby, I love how much thought you put into this. 'm sorry they ruined it for you."

"No, 'm sorry for you, not me," Michael stressed.

"Oh, shut up, Bambi. Honestly, it was funny. They didn't actually see us, so I can laugh it off. I mean, I would definitely be feeling much different had your mother found out, but if you know for sure that they're not gonna tell, then... Let's just resume our paradise." You beamed, wrapping your arms around his neck and feeling over his fro. "Y'know, if you really wanted something totally private, you would've been better off with a hotel suite, baby."

Michael's brows furrowed in concern. "Is that what you would've preferred? I should've—"

"Noooo, shut up—no. Honey, this is more than enough. Let's move on now. I've really enjoyed tonight."

"Yeah?"

The beautiful boy smiled so wide, it physically hurt you.

"It's been perfect," you whispered against his lips, between more kisses. "Even in its imperfections."

You both chuckled, and Michael now cradled your head, guiding you to rest against his chest again, nestled in the crook of his neck.

"I love you," he murmured. "I really think 'm ready to give you all of me."

angelcrescent © 2026 ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡🧁₊˚⊹♡ ╱ writing this immediately after my last one shot was a fun twist lol ! what a dichotomy. also… initially i intended to include some light smut at the end but i decided against it bc i felt that it would taint the fluff !! there will be soooo much smut in the third part when they do everything together >u<

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The way Michael's large hands gripped the book, his slender fingers sliding up and down the pages before he turned them. That concentrated look appeared on his face, pretty lashes batting as he blinked, taking in every word that was printed onto the page. 

It started small, your hand placed on his thigh – no big deal! You always did that. Then, it moved to the bottom of his pants, your fingers fiddling around it, eventually unbuttoning it, seemingly absentmindedly as you read the page of your book. His eyes darted your way curiously, but he knew. He knew exactly what you were doing, and he couldn't help it; the tight feeling growing in his pants made him suddenly feel claustrophobic in the tiny corner, and his palms were hot like they could melt through the page.

“Baby?” His voice was shaky as he spoke. “Is it really okay to do this here?” His eyes darted around the library, only praying that no one could see the look on his face, eyes blown wide, pure panic falling over his face like a bomb. 

“Yeah, only if you want, we—” 

“No, no, I want you to please?” He whispered desperately into your ear, his head falling into the perfect spot in the crook of your neck, a small whine falling from his lips that he hoped wouldn't be audible.

“You want it?” 

“Yes, yes, please, Mama, I want it," he quietly whined. His book was long abandoned on the table, split wide open, revealing whatever page he was on, but he didn't care. The thought of reading his book when he was so horny was a no go. He was desperate. Desperate to feel your hands wrapped completely around his cock as you whispered in his ear because, god forbid, others hear the dirty things going on in the back corner. 

Teasingly, your fingers unbuttoned his pants, slowly nudging down the zipper, watching as he leant back in his seat, giving you complete access to his body as you pulled his cock out. Your thumb running over, gently rubbing over his slit, smearing the pre-cum that leaked out, dribbling down onto his shaft, a whine falling from his lips uncontrollably. 

“Mikey, this is the library." One slow stroke against his cock, your hands gliding over each vein that bulged out, watching with that sweet smile on your face as he used his arm to cover his mouth. “You have to be quiet, y'know?” Your fingers wrapped around him firmly, keeping a steady pace, occasionally letting your thumb run over the head. 

“It's s'good I can't." He was already desperately bucking his hips, doing anything he could to get more friction from your hand. He tried to focus on his book. He really did, but every time he looked at the page the words seemed to blur into one, suddenly looking more empty as his brain became more hazy, more dilated with the dirty actions he was participating in. 

“Just like that—oh!" His body instinct lurched forward, nearly bumping into the table as you sped up, your wrists twisting as your hand ran up and down his shaft. The library that was once too cold now felt way too hot as sweat beaded on the top of his forehead, the delicate strands of his fro sticking to his forehead.

Every whine and whimper threatened to rip through his throat, disturbing the quiet atmosphere. It was almost disgusting the way you pulled moans from his parted lips, his breathing increasing with the stroke of your pretty hand, hips sputtering wildly in the fist of your hand.

He didn't care about the people sitting only a few tables away from you. The only thing he could think of was the warmth of your hands. “Shhh, Mike," you cooed, the warmth of your breath fanning over the shell of his ear, sending him nearly over the edge as his cock twitched in your hand. His breathing got heavier as his top row of teeth clamped onto his bottom lip, muffling uncontrollable whimpers falling only to be blocked by his hand as the familiar white substance spilt from his slit, dribbling down your hand as you guided him through his high.

“Oh god, I think that was the dirtiest thing we've done," he whispered, his hips bucking one last time as he finally relaxed again, his mind finally clearing up from his high. “And god, do I hope no one heard that." He let out a nervous laugh, looking around before letting his eyes focus on you. who looked seemingly proud of yourself. 

"Well, if they did, it was definitely your fault, loud mouth." 

Taglist :

You & Michael are approximately 2 hours deep into this unexpected night, tipsy & staggered from the multiple drinks you’ve been bought from various people. Pulsing fluorescent lights reflect off your tanned skin as you move fluidly to the music, a sheen coat of sweat covering your bare arms from the humidity of the room.

Michael hadn’t been on the dance floor yet despite your pleas, he’s still a little shy even when he’s drunk. Instead, he’d prefer to watch you as he sat at the bar, sipping on some mysterious liquor Quincey had brought him. His thick curls stuck to his temples from everyone’s body heat pooling in the room, yet he still kept his flannel shirt buttoned up right to the top.

You’d look over your shoulder at him occasionally, relishing in the way he’d ogle at the lower half of your body with an unconscious bite of his lip. Or when he’d giggle around the rim of his glass when you’d gyrate your hips in his direction intentionally, showing off the curve of your ass in your jeans.

You’d love to tease him like that, testing his endurance. Michael was a faithful, religious man. He believed in the avoidance of sexual & lustful acts before marriage. He grew up around that motive all his life, especially with his family. But he’s an adult now with his own choices, yet he’s still stuck in the mindset of a 15 year old boy who has to follow the rules, or has to abide by what his parents taught him. He doesn’t fully realise he is his own man now, & his natural love for women doesn’t help.

He’d deny himself for months, stopping when things got too intimate with you, or made him feel something he didn’t know how to handle. It’s not like he didn’t want to, you’d feel the stiffness of his cock poke your thigh every time you two were making out, or even simply cuddling. But whenever you were just about to make it to the inside of his pants, he’d stop you politely, taking your hand away.

“Baby, not yet,” he’d always say.

Alas, being Michael’s girl was a positive experience. You got to live the upper-echelon life, such as being invited to private parties in Beverly Hills by people who worked alongside him. At first, Michael didn’t even want to go to this party, said it’s not his thing. You were in the middle, you wanted to get him out of his comfort zone & have fun for the night since you two weren’t up to much. In the end, you had convinced him enough to go, so here you were.

Michael turns his head, his trance broken as he hears a muffled voice call his name. It’s a trendy young man, probably successful or famous. He looks like he has money, though Michael doesn’t seem to know him. But of course, everyone knows Michael. The man’s smiling with all teeth, holding out his hand for a handshake.

Michael takes his hand immediately, smiling back as they share a quick & rough pat on the back.

“Love your music, man!” He shouts over the speakers.

Michael semi-yells a thank you that comes out louder & sloppier than expected. He averts his gaze back to you, already distracted by your femininity. Your hands flay in the air as your hair paints your face, you’re loving every second.

“That y'girl?” He shouts near Michael's ear.

Michael snaps his head at him & nods like he’s proud to say yes.

“Yeah, that’s my girl. Beautiful ain’t she?” He practically says to himself, his voice high and sweet. His half-lidded drunken eyes stay glued on you.

The man throws him a small nod of approval, a playful smirk on his face.

“Damn right she is. Treat her right, man. In both ways if y’know what I mean.” He laughs, nudging him.

Michael lets his words hang in the air for a few seconds before laughing back, not quite sure why he’s laughing. Deep down, he wants you so damn bad. He craves you, he hates that he can’t have you yet. He feels embarrassed that he can’t provide that side of intimacy to his girl as a man. But god, if he could, he knew that embarrassment would vanish in no time.

Before Michael could fully respond, the man was strutting away, yelling at someone else. What he said made something shift in his brain, giving him a surge of confidence. How can he sit away from something so beautiful? He tips the last drops of his drink down his throat before placing it on the bar table with a clank. You see him walk over to you on the dance floor with an anticipative yet hungry look on his face. Your face lights up in surprise as he gets closer, doing a reeling motion with your hands. He chuckles from slight embarrassment.

As soon as he reaches you he places his hands on the small of your waist, rubbing absentmindedly. He looks at you like you’re the only girl in his world, like you’re a gift from God. He leans down towards your ear, moving the hair away,

“I missed you.” He whispers hoarsely, you can smell the alcohol on his hot breath.

You feel heat pool to your cheeks, a small smile creeping up the edges of your glossy lips.

“I missed you too, finally decided to come over huh?”

You place your hands on his shoulders as you push yourself up to pepper a kiss on his cheek. The second your lips were about to touch his face, he turns his head to meet you in the middle for a messy kiss, stealing the air from your lungs. His breath hitches immediately, his brows furrowing as he pushes his body flush against yours, his hands growing tighter as they grab the fat of your hips.

He wastes no time in opening his mouth & wrapping his tongue around yours. His chest heaves as he tilts his head to the side, making an impossible attempt to deepen the kiss & get closer. You were caught off guard by his forwardness, he never usually initiated makeouts first, it was always you. You weren’t complaining though. You’d been waiting months for this energy, & now that is was finally here you were practically buzzing.

You sling your arms over his shoulders, connecting your hands around the back of his neck as you kiss him back with the same amount of desperation. The tips of your fingers play with his curls at the nape of his neck as you hum pleasantly on his lips.

You feel Michael’s breaths fall shallow, panting in your mouth as the same feeling he’d usually try to avoid starts to crescendo inside of him. That’s when you feel something hard poking on your thigh, you knew it was him.

You break the kiss breathlessly, a thin glistening line of your mixed salvia snapping.

“Michael—“ you mumble. You look down between his legs.

The sight before you has you frozen. His bulge swells beneath his brown courdroy pants as if it wants to escape, almost looking painful. His chest continues to rise & fall as he looks down, instinctively covering it with one hand.

“M’ sorry, just want you so bad. I don’t know why I feel like this tonight,” he says sloppily, his lips puffy & wet.

He can barely stand on two feet, constantly swaying from side to side. You giggle as you put your hands on his chest to steady him, the little circles you trace making him swallow. His eyes are glassy under the light, laced with this lust & neediness that you secretly love. You wanted to put him out of his misery so badly — but he’d never let you.

“How much did you drink tonight?” You tease, your voice as sweet as candy.

“A lot, I think.”

Your hands make your way to the top button of his shirt, attempting to undo it. His hand flies to yours to stop it.

“What are you doin'?” He giggles.

“Relax baby, It’s just so hot in here, are you not burning up in this?” you say smoothly.

You knew that wasn’t the only reason. You just wanted to loosen him up, step by step. He lets his hand down as he watches you undo his top button, then the second, then the third. His exposed chest glows under the fluorescent lights, deep & rich in color.

You run a hand along his bare skin, looking at him for any sign of discomfort. You don’t find any, for once he doesn’t look that nervous at all. His hands find your hips again, pulling you in against his frame as he gnaws on his bottom lip. He leans forward towards your neck, drawing in a deep inhale through his nose. Your sweet feminine scent drives him crazy. The way his warm breath gently grazes your neck gives you goosebumps. You squeeze your thighs as you feel your cunt start to pulsate.

“Do you always smell this lovely?” He whispers against you as he continues smelling your neck area like a feline.

“Baby, what’s gotten into you?” You chuckle.

You just stand there, letting him smother himself all over you. If you’re being honest, his sudden wave of confidence threw you off guard, now you’re the one all nervous.

You gently slide one of your hands in between your glued bodies, making your way to his thighs. Your other hand on his lower back. You caress one gently, the sensation immediately making him wince. He flutters his eyes shut as he leans forward to press his lips against yours, not knowing what to do with himself.

You both end up deepening the kiss, the sides of your mouth growing wet. He whimpers your name into your lips as if he’s physically struggling to contain something. He pulls away a mere inch just enough to murmur,

“God help me.”

You feel him lightly grab your hand, moving it lower & lower until it reaches his bulge. Your eyes shot up at him, twinkling with mischief. That’s the last thing you expected him to do.

His forehead falls onto yours as he presses your palm against his cock, rewarding a low & relieving groan from his throat. He feels like rock in your grasp, making you salivate. Thank god you’re practically in the dark. You can feel his entire shaft as if there's no material on it, that's how erect he is. You give it a singular stroke from bottom to top, causing his mouth to fall agape.

“Mikey—“

“Let’s go home, I’ll call a cab” he plants a kiss on your collarbone, then on your lips, “Please.”

This is the first time Michael’s ever made a move like that. That was the first time you’d ever felt him down there, your heart skipped a beat the second you touched it. You’ve dreamt of that moment for months, him being all needy for your touch.

Michael called a cab the second you agreed to leave, rushing outside as he held your hand tight. You didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to anyone, his first priority was to get you home.

You gave the cab driver a hard time when you got in. You were all over each other on the ride home. You were both already spent, breathless & hot as you rammed your tongues down each other's throats, occasionally missing due to the darkness of the backseat. You could tell Michael was still trying to keep things safe, only making out with you. Not touching your 'lady parts' or anything, as he would call them. His hands would tremble as he held your shoulders tight, pushing his face into yours. You slide your hands under his flannel shirt, running your hands over his taut n’ clammy abdomen.

Kissing was the only thing he knew, the only thing he could do without feeling sinful. So it makes sense why his kisses feel so heated & desperate, his body needs more, yet it’s like he’s only restricted himself for kissing.

The red light at the junction illuminates the back seat, temporarily revealing your faces to each other. Michael looks down at your chest, your breasts almost falling out of your skimpy little top. He gently touches your necklace hanging above your cleavage, swallowing the lump in his throat.

"So beautiful, you're heaven-sent." He says, his voice cracking from being unused for the past 20 minutes of straight kissing.

When the taxi finally pulled up outside the house, Michael was already reaching for the door handle before the engine had fully settled. He shot a look at you, his face full of nerves & anticipation. You couldn’t help the smile that crept up on your face.

“Thank you,” you tell the driver. Michael was already out the car in a hurry, waiting on you.

Neither of you said anything as you scurried onto the front porch, desperate to be alone together. Michael drops the keys as he tries to get the lock open as soon as possible.

You didn’t quite know what it was Michael was rushing for, you had an idea, yet it seemed completely unrealistic given his morals.

Finally, he manages to get the front door open, ushering you in first before shutting it behind him with a slam.

He places the keys on the console table, turning to you. He burries his face into your neck, his hands running down your thighs. You laugh breathlessly, looking down at the floor.

“You’re gonna have to tell me to stop cus’ I can’t keep my hands off you, I’m sorry.” Michael cooes, his pants feeling tighter around his crotch again.

Telling him to stop was the last thing on your mind, that would be absurd. You look up at him through your lashes, puckering your lips a little, toying with him.

“I like it,” you whisper.

You plant a kiss on the sweet spot of his neck. His scent is warm & alluring, notes of fresh soap, vanilla, & a night out. You twist your head more, opening your mouth as you let your tongue glide wetly against his supple skin.

He’s never been kissed on the neck by you before, so the feeling immediately makes him freeze & contract, his eyes threatening to roll back to his head.

“Oh my—“ He whimpers.

He pulls away before you can get into it, grabbing your both your hands.

“Come upstairs with me.” He asks you, his words slurred as he starts to pull you towards the stairs.

You both make it to your bedroom, but it’s pitch black. You hear Michael click the door shut. Neither of you say anything for a second, the tension is thick in the air. You feel your cunt start to dampen due to the anticipation.

You stumble across the floor towards where you think your bedside lamp would be, you find it & flip the switch. The lamp casts a dim amber atmosphere. As soon as Michael sees where you are, he walks towards you, guiding you to the bed by your waist.

He plops himself down on the mattress, keeping his hands on you firmly. You stand between his open legs as you stroke his head, he looked so cute like this. His big brown eyes stay fixed on yours, never faltering. He moves his hands higher up your waist so they’re sitting a little below your breasts.

“What is it you want, Mikey?” You say just below a whisper, tilting your head.

“I want you.”

His voice is laced with confusion, like he feels ashamed to even admit such an obvious thing. He can’t help his boyish urges, it’s only biological & one can only take so much before it cracks.

His hands travel to the bottom of your shirt, lifting it up to reveal your bare stomach. He plays with your belly button piercing first, giving it a little kiss. He continues to drag his face along your skin, his breath hitching as he peppers kisses at the same time, his lips felt burning hot against you.

You drop your head back slightly at the feeling, muttering his name as your hands stay in his hair.

He leans away, starting to pull up your shirt slow & steady. He looks at you as if to earn your approval. You hum in agreement as you help him lift your shirt off, leaving you in your white laced bra, your t-shirt forgotten on the floor.

Michael gawks at your plumpy breasts, his eyes darting back & fourth from them to your face, as if he can’t believe you’re real. The fit was a little too small for you, so the tops were on the verge of falling out which didn’t help him.

You reach around as you begin to unclasp your bra, startling him.

He looked like a deer in headlights, about to freak out or something. You place one hand on his cheek, stroking him with your thumb.

“You wanna see them?” You ask, your voice wooing him deeper.

Michael nods slowly, looking a little ashamed. He can’t even utter the courage to physically say yes, like if he does he’d be struck down.

You return your hand to your clasp, undoing it completely. Your full, perky breasts fall free once the material falls, sitting neatly in-front of his face while your nipples stiffen up from your arousal.

Michael’s gawks at them, his lips slightly parted. He didn’t know what to do with this sweet piece of ass in front of him, he couldn’t handle it. He’s never seen a naked woman in front of him before. Sure, he’d seen them when he’d flip through Playboy magazines in secret before he met you, but never in person. He’d always feel guilty for simply looking, or for the way his cock would twitch.

“They’re so pretty.”

“Thank you, honey. You can feel them if you want.” You reply.

You take his hands, pulling them up & placing them on your breasts. You let his hands go, allowing him to get used to the feeling. He wastes no time in rubbing & squeezing them, his pupils blown out as he looks at you, completely enamoured.

You watch him come undone every second that passes, his body becoming less stiff, more fluid & relaxed. Finally, his mental restraint snaps. He holds one in his hand as he leans forward, latching his mouth onto your right nipple with a warm, gentle pull & a swirl of his tongue. The sudden shock of pleasure draws a breath from your lungs, making your thighs clench.

“Oh my god Michael—“

His other hand reaches up, rolling your hard nub between his fingers in time with each wet pull of his mouth. He continues this for a few minutes, completely fine with doing it for hours.

He releases you from his mouth with a wet pop as you push him back onto the mattress. His belt buckle rattles as you fiddle to get it open. You manage to slide it off in one motion, throwing it behind you. You undo his button next, inching him to lift his hips up so you can remove his pants.

Michael grows impatient as he scurries to help you push them down to his thighs until you take over & pull them off completely. You feel your mouth start to salivate at the sight of his cock standing tall under his white boxers, the outline & shape clear as day.

Honestly, you didn’t expect him to look as big as he does. You wonder how it will even fit inside of you. The way it swells makes you pout, feeling even more obliged to put him out of his misery by milking him dry.

“You sure you wanna do this baby? We can stop y’know.” You reassure him, running your hands up his prickly thighs.

“Please, I don’t care anymore. I need you, God I need you. It hurts to say no to you.” He practically whimpers the words, dragging a hand over one of your breasts.

You automatically bite your lip at his desperation, moving your hands to the bottom of his shirt, lifting it over his head.

You grab the waistband of his boxers & start pulling them down slowly, his shaft revealing itself more & more the farther down they get. His cock springs free as soon as you get them completely off, slick pre-cum already pooling at the top of his head.

His cock was visibly perfect, his tip a deep mauve tone. Long veins were raised beneath the delicate skin, gently pulsating.

You feel Michael’s hand wrap around your hair, grabbing gently as he anticipates your mouth.

“Please, please—“ he begs.

You wrap your hand around the shaft, giving his tip a small kitten lick, lapping up his juices. The saltiness of his fluids made you hum, the vibrations sending him over the edge.

His body contracts the second your tongue touches him, lengthy groans ripping from his throat as he struggles to stay tame. One of his hands grips the sheets, his knuckles turning white as the other remains tangled in your hair.

You begin lowering your head, attempting to take him all in one go. Your nose grazes his pubic hair, his size causing soft gags to erupt from your throat.

“Ah—y-yes!” He cries, his eyes gradually making their way to the back of his head.

You couldn’t imagine how Michael must’ve been feeling right now, containing all that horniness for months only to get his cock sucked in the most vulgar way possible for the first time.

Trails of your saliva run down the sides of your mouth as you begin bobbing your head with a steady rhythm. You yourself were drunk, so keeping a rhythm & not sucking messily felt hard.

Michael’s hand guides your head up & down as if it has a mind of its own, not aware what he’s doing. He was too far gone, he’s entire body stiffened up from the intense pleasure you were giving him.

He opens his eyes as he rises his head up, looking at you worryingly.

“I feel something happening,” he warns as his abs start to clench. “If you stop now, it won’t count, right?” He barely manages to get the sentence out, his voice cracking.

You release him from your mouth with a pop, stroking him absentmindedly. You chuckle to yourself, he really thinks if you stop before he cums, this sinful act won’t count.

“It’s okay to want want me, Michael” You mewl.

He throws his head back on the sheets, accepting his defeat. His body still twitching as you stroke him.

You stand on your feet as you start to unbutton your jeans, sliding them down & off your feet. He sits up, sliding his hands across the hem of your lace panties before slowly pulling them down, watching the way your pussy reveals itself to him in awe.

Before you could do anything else, Michael presses his face into your glossy folds, holding your ass in place so you don’t fall.

A pornographic moan spills from your lips as you tip your head back, followed by your eyes. He moves his head down for a better angle, lapping & sucking up all your juices. His tongue swirls around your entrance, hitting your clit occasionally making you wince.

“More, please more—“

He flips you around onto the bed, immediately diving between your legs to continue feeding off you. You keep your legs open for him as he holds the backs, pushing them forward. He flattens his tongue against the bottom of your slit, dragging it all the way up with a groan. He continues doing that a few times for his own gain, sending you over the edge.

You pinch your eyes shut as you start to feel your thighs clench around nothing, a familiar sensation starting to grow in your lower belly.

“You’re gonna make me come if you don’t stop.” You moan out.

If anything, he speeds up. You tug at the sheets while the messy slurps from his drunken mouth bring you closer. Your breathing falls shallow, paired with little whimpers as the feeling grows stronger until it finally takes over you.

“Right there, y-yes, coming!”

Black spots cloud your vision, your thighs trembling in his grasp as the cord in your belly snaps. You’ve never came so hard in your life, it was almost painful.

Michael crawls on top of you like a cat as he brings you in for another kiss, addicted to your lips alone. You hold his face, his hands braced next to your head. You exhale as you feel his cock tap against your pussy, wanting to enter.

Michael moves himself up & down, his tip sliding against your slit beautifully. Both of you being so so wet makes the sliding easy, almost slipping in every now & then.

“Want it so bad, ma. Please say yes.” He whispers in your ear, his head resting on your shoulder as he continues dragging it along your slit.

“Take it baby, t’s all yours.”

You push his ass, slowly crowning his tip inside you. A bittersweet sting forms as he plunges himself deeper inside, every inch forcing a moan out of the both of you. You sling your hands around his shoulders, keeping your legs open as wide as possible in hopes he’ll fit completely.

“So—tight, God.” He breathes out, pushing the last inches inside.

Once he’s fully in, he’s already panting, the feeling of your warmth wrapped around him making him weak. He takes a minute to get used to the feeling before starting to move. A few seconds pass & he starts moving, dragging his cock fully out before plunging back in.

Your breasts move beneath him with each gentle thrust, making him latch mouth onto one momentarily, greedy to have every part of you at once. His cock hits your g-spot perfectly with precision every second, you honestly felt like you could cum at any moment if you let yourself.

It doesn’t take much longer before he’s speeding up, the slick plaps of skin meeting skin starting to creep up the harder he goes. A sweet, foamy ring of white starts to form around the base of his cock with each thrust.

Michael would rather keep his eyes open to look at your pretty little face, yet he finds it very hard. His eyes are pressed shut, trying to hide from the sinful reality. His face dug into your neck as he mumbles gibberish to himself, completely pussy whipped.

“Feels—good Mikey, you feel so fucking good.” You say, your voice jumping from his searing thrusts.

You feel his tongue graze your neck as his mouth opens, attempting to respond but to no avail.

He continues snapping his hips into you, his pelvis hitting your clit perfectly every-time. Not one second goes by where you don’t feel pleasure, it’s trapping you.

You feel him swell larger inside of you, knowing he must be close. He lifts himself up, holding your hips to push himself into you impossibly deeper.

“Fuck! Right there!” You cry out, the head of his cock abusing your sweet spot even more than before.

“Yeah? Right there?” He breathes out, forcing his cock to continue plunging into you at the same spot that made you cry out. At this point, he’s getting off on you more than his own pleasure.

You nod furiously, your face screwed up in pleasure as you were unable to form words.

“I feel it, y’ gonna make me come—,” He pants, his eyes practically watering as they stare at you for support.

You manage to reach down to try & grab him, forgetting you weren’t wearing any protection.

“You have to pull out baby, you’ll get me pregnant—”

There’s no sense of urgency in your voice, you were too consumed & wrapped up in the feeling he was giving you. Part of you didn’t even care, all you knew was now.

Michael’s thrusts start to become sloppy & erratic, his release only seconds away as his body begins to stiffen up, his thighs shaking.

The sudden change in his thrusts caused you to cum again suddenly. Your walls strangle him as you cry into your hand. The neighbours never entered your mind once.

The tightness of your unexpected orgasm catches him off guard, tipping him over the edge.

“Fuck, m’ sorry, I’m sorry—“

His hips snap into you one last time before he freezes, his warm seed spilling inside of you, painting your walls. His body falls limp as he flops down onto your chest, drawing out a long singular strangled moan into your cleavage, followed by little high pitch whimpers. The sensation of him filling you up makes you whine, definitely one of your guilty pleasures.

After a few minutes of breaths being caught, he lifts his hips, pulling his flaccid length out of you. His thick white release drips out instantly, pooling between your ass. You watch the colour drain out of his face as he stares between your legs. He reaches forward, rubbing the fluid between his fingers.

“How do you feel about being a daddy?"

a/n: can you guys tell i've been in heat this week?

The air in his Encino bedroom was thick with the scent of orange blossoms from the garden, trapped by the drawn velvet curtains. 

It was past midnight, a rare pocket of stillness in Michael’s cacophonous life. It was almost pitch black in the room, except from one of his old multicolour light up disco toys shining on the opposite side of the bedroom.

The house, a sprawling monument to success, slept around him. Only the faint, persistent squeak of the pool filter from outside breached the silence.

He lay on his back atop the oversized bed, its pale sky blue comforter cool against his skin. 

He wore silk pajamas, a gift from Latoya when he had turned 19.  

His mind, a relentless projector, had been replaying the day’s studio session—the synth beat on “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough,” the way his own voice had soared on the playback, a sound of pure, unleashed joy that felt separate from the boy laying in bed.

That feeling, that electric surge up his spine when the music finally clicked and finally made sense, it was still there, buzzing under his skin like a trapped bug.

But now, alone, the energy had nowhere to go. It pooled low in his stomach, a warm, restless ache. He shifted, and the friction of the silk against his thigh sent a small, shocking jolt through him. He went very still.

It’s just tiredness, he thought, the words forming in the cadence of his mother’s voice. You need to pray and go to sleep.

He tried. 

He folded his hands over his chest, staring at the ceiling above. 

“Oh Jehovah, thank you for this day. Please help me to be a better person tomorrow and watch over my family. I ask this in Jesus' name, amen.” he whispered, quietly.

But the warmth didn’t subside. It pulsed, softly, insistently, in time with his heartbeat. 

He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, exacerbated.

A memory, unbidden, flashed: a dancer from the last tour with his brothers, a girl with a laugh like wind chimes, the way her sequinned hip had brushed against his as they passed in a crowded hallway. 

The memory was hazy, but the phantom sensation was sharp, a brand on his side.

A small, frustrated sound escaped his lips—a quiet “Mmh!” 

He turned onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. The new position pressed him into the mattress, and the ache intensified, transformed from a whisper to a clear, demanding shout. 

His breath hitched. This was the feeling. The one the elders warned about. The “sin that dwells within.” He was supposed to flee from it.

But his body felt heavy, magnetized to the bed. He gave a tentative, almost imperceptible roll of his hips. The pressure was a lightning strike of sensation, so intense it blurred his vision for a second. A gasp was torn from him, sharp and ragged in the quiet room. “Ah—!”

Guilt thundered in immediately, hot and sour. No. No, this is wrong. He was a good son. A Jehovah’s Witness. He sang about love, pure love. This was… this was base. Animal.

Yet, his hips moved again of their own volition, a slow, searching grind into the yielding satin of his pyjama pants. 

The friction was better this way, more complete. A low, shuddering moan vibrated in his throat, “Nnnggh…” He muffled it in the pillow, his fingers clawing at the fabric. He couldn’t let his brothers down the hall hear him, nor his parents.

The conflict was a physical pain in his chest, a vice tightening around his ribs. Every sinful surge of pleasure was answered by a psalm of condemnation in his head.

For the flesh lusteth against the Spirit…

He rocked harder, his legs tightening. The silk of his pajama bottoms was a maddening barrier. 

The pleasure was building now, like a copper wire, pulling tighter and tighter in his core, a sensation so profound it felt like fear.

Like standing at the edge of the stage before the lights hit, that terrifying, exhilarating void.

…and the Spirit against the flesh…

With a sudden, frantic movement, he shoved a hand down, fumbling with the drawstring. 

His breath came in short, wet pants now, “Hah… hah…” The knot gave way. 

He pushed the fabric down just enough, the cool air a shock against his heated skin. The direct contact with the soft material of the comforter made him cry out, a short, sharp “Ungh!” that was too loud. 

He froze, listening for any sign of movement in the hall; a creak, a footstep. Nothing but the annoying pool filter and one of his light up gadgets in his room occasionally creaking from its twisting mechanism.

The pause broke the dam of his hesitation. The need was too urgent, too all-consuming. He surrendered to the rhythm, his hips developing a frantic, jerking cadence against the bed. He wasn’t thinking of the dancer anymore, or of anything concrete. 

The frantic, muffled humping against the satin comforter wasn't enough. The friction was diffuse, maddeningly indirect, building the pressure but refusing to focus it. A sob of pure frustration caught in his throat, a heavy, choked sound.

His left hand, still tangled in the pillowcase, released its clawing grip. It drifted down, trembling violently, as if moving through water against a powerful current. 

His mind was a shattered mirror: one fragment showed the earnest, wide-eyed boy on the Andy Williams Show, another the gangly, hormonal teenager he’d turned into – touch starved and relentless in his want.

His mind was trying to grapple with the young, innocent he used to be and now the sought after heartthrob he had become. Girls throwing themselves to be used at his feet. 

He loathed the thought of them thinking he’d merely have his way with them. He’d be gentle if he could, sensual, ensuring their beautiful bodies get the attention they so deserved – his hands ghosting over their perky breasts and their gorgeous curves. 

The thought of his hand sliding under a tight waistband, of sly little lace panties, soaked through; wanting him. Needing him.

The thoughts were driving him wild now; crazy with desire.

His fingers brushed his own heated skin. The touch was so electric, so alien and yet intimately familiar, that he convulsed, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. A high, thin whine escaped his pressed lips. 

This is the line, a voice, clear and cold, stated in his head. You cross this, you can't go back. He flipped his body over, now on his back.

His body was a runaway train, every nerve screaming for the destination. His fingers, slick with a nervous sweat, curled. The first tentative stroke, from root to tip, was a revelation so profound it bordered on terror. 

His back arched clear off the bed, a silent scream stretching his mouth wide. He was so concentrated and overstimulated, that his throat was dry – his lips cracked.

The sensation was nothing like the grinding. It was tactile, exquisite, a direct and fused line to the storm gathering in his belly. His hand was soft and warm – just like he’d imagined the inside of a woman he had taken to bed.

He began to move his hand, the motion clumsy at first, all jerking wrist and frantic pressure. It was too much, too intense. 

He slowed, experimenting. A softer, slower glide. A twist at the top. A thumb brushing over the slick, weeping crown. Each variation sent new shockwaves through him.

The sounds he made were no longer attempts at words or even moans. They were raw, phonetic expulsions of feeling, lost in the fortress of his pillow.

His right hand fisted in his own hair, pulling sharply at the roots of his afro, the sting a bright counterpoint to the drowning pleasure below. His hips stuttered, still pushing up into his own grip, a desperate, seeking rhythm. 

The sheet beneath him was soaked, a cool patch against the small of his back when it made contact. 

The world telescoped down to this: the slick, rhythmic sound of his hand, the hammering of his heart against his ribs, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat.

He thought of the recording booth, the absolute silence before he opened his mouth to sing. 

That moment of poised potential. This feeling was its dark twin; a silence filled with the roar of his own blood, a potential about to violently, messily become.

His pace became punishing, relentless. He was chasing it now, chasing the echo of that studio high, the feeling of being perfectly, utterly free. His breath came in ragged, hiccuping gasps. 

He’d wound himself to breaking point. Pleasure and terror were fused, indistinguishable. 

The religious imagery crashed over him not as condemnation, but as sensation: it was a falling, a drowning, a being consumed by a holy fire that felt anything but holy.

"I’m— I’m gonna—" The words were a pathetic, broken whisper, lost.

His whole body locked. For a second, he was suspended in a silent, breathless void. Then it detonated.

It wasn't a single wave, but a series of brutal, wracking pulses that tore through him like internal lightning. A guttural, punched-out cry was ripped from his very core, a raw, open-throated yelp that the pillow could not hope to contain. 

His vision whited out, speckled with violent colors, a kaleidoscope of pleasure. His hips jerked erratically, helplessly, as his hand kept working, milking every last, shuddering drop of sensation until it tipped over into a sharp, almost painful sensitivity.

He collapsed.

The stillness that followed was absolute, profound. The only sound was the ragged, torn-up sawing of his breath and the distant, indifferent hum of the filter. The warmth spread across his stomach, a sticky, shameful reality.

The guilt didn't wait. It descended instantly, a heavy, smothering blanket. 

The verses from Galatians completed themselves in his head with cruel clarity: "…so that ye cannot do the things that ye would."

Tears, hot and sudden, welled in his eyes. He didn't move. He lay there, a spent, trembling wreck on the stained, wet sheet, feeling the pleasure evaporate and leave behind the cold, hollow shell of transgression. He had reached for a moment of the divine and clutched only his own weakness.

Slowly, mechanically, he pulled up his silk pajamas. The fabric felt disgusting against his soiled skin. He rolled onto his side, curling into a tight ball, facing the grand, empty expanse of his bedroom. The afterglow was just a physiological ghost; the real residue was a deep, aching loneliness.

He would pray tomorrow. He would pray harder. He would throw himself into the music, into the work, until he was too tired to feel anything at all.

But for now, in the deep California night, Michael lay very still, the ghost of his own ecstasy a sharp, sour taste in his mouth, and the only rhythm left was the slow, beat of his own heart.

fin.

tag list;

However, his jealousy over you choosing someone other than him seeps through his work, stopping the devastating curl of his digits against the spongy spot that was having you see stars, pulling a whine from where you are on his lap.

“W-Why’d you stop?” His fingers stay still inside your cunt, how it aches for just a mere twitch from them. He hums into the side of your head, lips shy from the shell of your ear. “Am I making you feel good?”

Is he serious?

You nod nonetheless, anything to get him to start back up again. “Yes, yes, s-so fucking good..!”

And so he does, but a complete contrast from before. It’s slower now, deliberate. Pausing at the edge, not fully leaving you, only to linger, letting you feel the absence before pushing all the way back inside. Hand gripped to your hip, so you won’t dare to pick up the pace and try to grind down onto them.

“He doesn’t have you moaning like this, does he?” He muses, watching the way you screw up your face from the mention of your shitty boyfriend. Your cheeks by now should be reddening from humiliation, the way you’re seeking dire touches from your best friend rather than the man you’re dating, how he’s asking questions he already knows the answer to.

Michael just wants to hear you admit it. To admit who’s got you shaking like this, to admit that this is really happening, both of you not in a dream. That you’re giving him all the reign to touch you however you want, because you won’t find it better with anyone else but him.

You answer when his fingers halt again, not letting you ignore him. “No, he doesn’t.” You don’t have to pick your head up to know he’s smiling, thumb now pressed barely to your clit, enough to make the friction even more unbearable.

“Will you leave him?”

Your broken sounds are cut short, caught off-guard by his question. It didn’t occur to you, but you think about how the guilt will burn you from the inside out to go back to your boyfriend right after Michael had you unraveling in his hands.

Apparently you waited too long for his liking, fingers dragging out. You shake your head, needing back that overwhelming fullness. “No wait, I will! I want you, not him. He can’t make me feel good like you do.”

You’ll say anything to get him to reward you with your gradually built-up pleasure, but he sees right through it. The circling of his thumb to your clit stops, fingertip lingering at your entrance. “I don’t think you mean that.”

Your voice is wrecked at this point, clinging onto the fabrics of his shirt for god knows how long. “Please, please, I mean it! Just—“

With devastating ease, he presses back in with two fingers this time, babbles dying on your tongue. Your body clenches tight to adjust, but it’s pointless as he pulls out again.

“Tell me again. Who makes you feel good? Me or that punk?”

Your muscles flutter, thighs twitching. “You!” And he’s back to it, this time thrusting his fingers in sharper, firmer, shifting his wrist to reach new depths.

It was all so fast, being so use to his torturous slow strokes. It had your orgasm arriving quickly, feeling it come from all the way down to tip of your toes, pulse stuttering.

Until he stopped himself yet again. “I want to hear you say it one more time, because I’m still not sure if I believe you.”